The Big Fix, page 17
“I don’t know, but I would guess Portia’s bodyguard. He knew the plan. We had to have him in on it, or it would have been impossible, given he never left Portia’s side. She swore we could trust him, and I believed her. But it turned out his loyalties remained with Connor after all. I mean, he didn’t protect her from her own husband abusing her, so, clearly, he had priorities.”
I thought back to the man I’d seen on campus that day with Portia, and in all the photos online. He was so stoic and faithful. Given what Anthony had told me about her life, I’d imagine Portia had trust issues, and if she trusted her bodyguard, she must have had reason to.
“Maybe he regretted never protecting her at home, so he was loyal now, and they killed him because he wouldn’t talk,” I offered.
“Maybe. Or maybe he talked, and they killed him for even considering helping her escape.”
I shivered again, unsure which theory was true, and not really wanting to think about the body in the closet anymore. “Why weren’t you there?” I asked, and almost immediately regretted it by the way his shoulders slumped.
“I should have been for something this important. But we moved too fast. Uncle Lou knew all the intricacies of making things happen on the ground and was better at it anyway, so he put it in motion before I could get there. I was still in the city tying up all the logistics of it. I thought we’d been careful enough. I should have listened to him. It was too risky from the start, but we were desperate.” He shook his head and briefly gazed out the side window. His disappointment and his guilt were thick enough to taste.
He went quiet, and I let the silence linger so I could organize all the new information and let it sink in. I’d been right about a few things, but mostly wrong. Anthony was not a bad guy. Sure, perhaps he was tangentially connected to some uncouth activities, but at least this situation with Portia was a rescue mission and not the murder conspiracy I’d believed it to be. I studied his profile against the window’s midnight backdrop. A divider with bushy oleander plants separated us from any oncoming traffic, so the only light came from the moon and the dim glow of the car’s dash. It bathed his skin in a deep golden hue. I’d been right about how enigmatic he was. I’d learned so much in the past few hours and felt like I’d still only scratched the surface. Part of me still couldn’t believe I’d ever crossed paths with him.
“How does the estate sale fit into all this?” I asked. “Seems like a strange event to throw into the mix.”
He scoffed like the frustration was fresh. “Yes, it was. It’s Uncle Lou’s Realtor’s fault. I was listed on everything as next of kin, so I was getting a million phone calls when he died. His Realtor called about the house, suggested an estate sale so we could get it on the market ASAP, and I said yes without even thinking about it. Next thing I know, she’s asking if I’m available that Saturday to run it—and, by the way, it’s already been advertised. It was a moving train. I couldn’t stop it. So I fly out, and I’m dealing with the mortuary, funeral services; keeping the murder out of the news, because I didn’t need that added heat; Googling how to run an estate sale; trying to pick up where Lou left off to get Portia the hell out of Dodge; and a goddamned body shows up on my back porch.”
I blew out a breath, trying to lighten the mood. His anxiety over what must have been hell to deal with hung on him like a tangy cologne. “That’s quite the to-do list. Is Detective Warner on Lou’s case too? How did you convince him to keep it under wraps?”
“He is on the case, but he’s not the one who kept it under wraps. Uncle Lou had connections in the press, and I called in a favor.”
I had a sudden moment of realization. “Wait. That night in your kitchen when you told me someone didn’t want news about Portia’s bodyguard getting out, you were talking about yourself, weren’t you? You kept it out of the news.”
He nodded. “Yes. Until Portia is someplace safe, I don’t want word getting out that someone is picking off people in her inner circle. It will be too messy. People just know Lou died, not how. And thankfully, her bodyguard doesn’t have a family that is going to come around asking questions anyway.”
A pang of sadness hit me at thought I’d been right about nobody mourning the bodyguard. “What was his name?”
“Tyler.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a first or last name, or perhaps he was mononymous, like a celebrity, but I paused in a moment of silence for Tyler.
“So, does Warner know all this? That both deaths are tied to Portia?”
“I’m sure he has suspicions by now, but I certainly didn’t tell him. After I pulled strings to keep Uncle Lou’s murder quiet, and then Tyler showed up in my closet, Warner was ready to arrest me. Mr. Mitchell, the lawyer you met at the station, used every trick in the book short of bribery to get him to let me off.”
I thought back to the day of the estate sale and how quickly the crime scene tape had come down. “I wondered how you managed to clean that up so quickly that day. Little did I know. And sorry if I added to the stress. I had no idea what was going on.”
He glanced sideways at me, and his frown tugged up on one side. “Yeah, I was already losing it, and then this feisty professor shows up and starts yelling at me about candlesticks.”
“Yelling at you?” I said with a gasp, completely scandalized. “For the tenth time, I was only trying to prevent a rip-off in progress.”
“Well, you got a lot more than you bargained for.”
“Good one.”
A yawn suddenly hit me like a rogue wave. I shielded it with my hand and felt my eyes swim with moisture. “Was it the same case with the funeral? It was already in motion, so you had to see it through, even though you were in a rush to help Portia?”
“Yes and no. It was partly to keep up appearances. I didn’t want Connor to think he’d rattled me—and I knew all of Uncle Lou’s clients would want to pay their respects. But also”—he shrugged his bulky shoulders—“I wanted to. For Lou. So I planned it.”
I reached over and squeezed his arm in sympathy. “What are you going to do with the house now? Or, well, I mean, after all this is sorted out.”
He tilted his head and looked at me from under his lashes with a grin. “I admire your optimism that this is going to get sorted out.”
“Uh, it better get sorted out. Otherwise, you can turn around and take me home right now, because I still have to make tenure before summer is over.”
His laugh was tight and laced with uncertainty. “And what exactly does making tenure involve?” He shot my earlier question about his job back at me.
“Chaining myself to my desk to crank out research papers, serving on committees, teaching courses, earning awards, getting grant funding, presenting at conferences, and mostly sucking up to the old white men who run my department and university until they decide I have jumped through enough hoops to be unfireable.”
“You have to do all that this summer?”
“No. I’ve been doing all that for the past five years. I still have to finish some of it, but if I don’t submit my case—basically, a portfolio documenting all that—by the end of this summer, my clock is up and I’m no longer eligible.”
“And then what would happen?”
I turned sideways and gave him a serious look, not liking what he was implying. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, and thank you for voicing my biggest fear, but I would lose my job and have a hard time finding another one.”
“I see. So it is very important not to mess this up.”
“Correct.”
He thoughtfully stroked his chin, like he was realizing the full weight of my situation. “Have you always wanted to be a professor?”
“Pretty much. Both my parents are professors. Though sometimes I wonder if I’m really cut out for it.”
“What makes you say that?”
I shifted, feeling the familiar wave of insecurity wash over me. “Well, for starters, I’m constantly fighting an uphill battle in a male-dominated field. Many of my peers are particularly skilled at questioning my qualifications and overlooking my work. It’s mostly just exhausting, but when it happens enough, you start to wonder.”
“Fuck them,” he said sharply.
I jumped in surprise and laughed as heat splashed my cheeks.
“Sorry,” he said with a soft grin. “But seriously, fuck them. As far as I can tell, you’re brilliant.”
I was thankful for the cover of darkness shielding my deep blush. “Well, that’s kind of you to say, but you don’t have much to go off of.”
“Sure, I do. You got us out of the Slates’ house, didn’t you? And you put the pieces together about Portia on your own. And on top of being smart, I think you’re pretty brave. I can’t imagine being a professor prepares you for being kidnapped and chased, and you’ve handled tonight like a pro.”
I snorted. “That’s generous. I was mostly just reacting to the situation.”
“Are you capable of taking a compliment? Or did those insecure cavemen you work with train it out of you? Stop downplaying what a badass you are.”
“I—” I snapped my mouth shut when his words landed like a little epiphany.
Did I downplay my abilities? My competence? When I paused to consider, I felt the reflex to deflect praise coiled under my tongue like a spring. Had that always been there? I frowned and mentally spit it out.
I looked over at him and caught his eye. Even in the dim light, I felt like he could see right through me. He gave me a nod, like he knew his words had penetrated. Perhaps he was right. I’d thought the scariest thing I had to face down was my tenure committee, but I’d escaped a kidnapper tonight.
I chewed away the shy smile bending my lips. “I am not a badass.”
“I beg to differ. The move with the chair in the basement was one of the most badass things I’ve ever seen. Give yourself some credit.”
My traitorous lips betrayed me and fully bent upward. “Okay, fine. I guess that was a little badass.”
“Mmm-hmm. And if you can survive all this, then I have no doubt you can survive whatever a bunch of stuffy old professors are making you do to make tenure.” He said it with enough conviction to boost my confidence and flutter my heart.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Glad to see you’re already making progress on the compliment front.”
I sat back against my seat and smiled.
We cruised along in a comfortable silence for several moments. When he spoke again, his voice came out warm and soft. “To answer your earlier question, I don’t know about the house. I did plan on selling it, but then . . .” Even in the dark, I noticed the shy flush in his cheeks. His eyes said but then you showed up. It sent my belly loose with tiny flapping wings.
“But then some feisty professor’s nephew opened your closet, and a body fell out, and now you’re on the lam with said professor, who everyone thinks is your girlfriend, heading to some undisclosed location to finish the very dangerous job of rescuing your childhood friend, who is married to a megalomaniac billionaire, who wants to kill both of you?”
He cast me a look like he wanted to laugh, but knew he shouldn’t. “That about sums it up.”
“Hmm. Well, I, for one, am rooting for you. You seem like a solid guy. And I’d rather you didn’t die.”
He snorted. “Thanks. I’ll do my best.”
I yawned again and repositioned my sweater pillow, taking comfort in his words even if we were joking around. “Tell me your favorite childhood memories. What were Portia and her brother like as kids? What were you like?”
A warm, slightly surprised sound popped from his mouth. Almost like he didn’t believe I was interested in knowing. “Sure. I’ve got a few stories.”
I listened to the soft hum of his voice, a velvety blanket over the car’s purr, and eventually gave up trying to keep my eyes open.
CHAPTER 11
“Penny.”
I woke to the sound of Anthony’s voice softly murmuring beside my ear. For a second, I imagined I was lying next to him in a cocoon of warmth, but quickly remembered I was smashed up against a car window, with a pilly, old-man sweater as a pillow.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The neon glow of a VACANCY sign smeared the pitch-black night with pink outside the windshield. “Where are we?” I asked. My voice croaked out thick and dry. I reached around for my bottle of water.
“Nevada,” Anthony said as he unbuckled. “I need to rest. I’m not safe to drive anymore.”
“I can dr—IVE,” I said through a roar of a yawn. Tears leaked from my eyes.
“You don’t even know where we’re going, and you’ve been asleep for two hours.”
I stretched my arms and felt my back pop. “Exactly, I’m fresh as a daisy. And—I know this might come as a shock to you—you could tell me where we’re going.”
He opened his door without acknowledging my umpteenth request for the information. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said, wanting to stretch my legs and get some fresh air.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He leaned back in the door, with his hand on the roof. “Because. Don’t you remember Sadie back in Woodside? If you go in there with bruises on your face, they’re going to think I put them there. If I go in there beat up, they’ll think I got in a bar fight. We don’t need anyone calling the cops and reporting we’re here. Connor’s resources are limitless, remember?”
I peered out the windshield at the row of yellowed doors lined in the crumbling green building like a set of rotten teeth. They had plaques with numbers beside them and actual doorknobs with keyholes. An air-conditioning unit protruded from each room’s window like a boxy tumor. Enough of them were wheezing to suggest they might have to flick on the NO on the VACANCY sign soon.
“You really think they care about who’s hitting who at this place?” I asked.
“I would hope so,” Anthony said. “I’ll be right back.” He shut his door and left me in the parking lot.
I sat in the silence as I watched him stalk off toward the front office. The motel had maybe twenty rooms total. Two by ten stacked on top of each other, with an iron-railed staircase leading up to the second floor. It looked like the type of place people rented by the hour, used for shady crimes, or, as in our case, stopped for the night out of desperation.
Anthony had only said we were in Nevada. He didn’t name a city, and judging by my sweep out the rear window, revealing a diner and a gas station flanked by darkness across the street, I would guess this little oasis wasn’t even on a map.
The mini-mart sign, blazing in white and blue above the gas station, caught my eye as I yawned again. I assumed there’d be a functioning shower in the motel, but it didn’t look like the type of place where I could call the front desk and request a toothbrush. Anthony was still in the office, and I decided to try my luck with the mini-mart’s toiletries selection while I waited.
Before I crossed the street, I popped the trunk and borrowed a few bills from the suitcase. The desert night air hung paper dry and still hot from the day. I felt it warm and heavy in my lungs with every breath. The parking lot was half full, and I noticed a single pickup truck over at the gas station. Otherwise, there were no signs of life.
Across the street, the gas station’s fluorescent lights sizzled overhead and turned me a sickly shade of blue. The mini-mart’s door bing-bonged when I opened it, and the smell of bleach and refrigerated cardboard immediately greeted me. The employee behind the register, a twentysomething kid with a hoodie and patchy goatee, didn’t even look up from his phone when I entered. His lack of interest suited me fine while I shopped.
The door bing-bonged again as I found the aisle containing the store’s meager selection of travel-sized products. The man who’d been pumping gas outside entered, looking as gaunt and tired as I felt. He wore a baseball hat and a denim jacket and headed straight for the refrigerator while I scanned the shelves.
“Yes!” I quietly cheered at the sight of toothbrushes dangling from a hook, alongside little boxes of toothpaste. I grabbed some toothpaste, toothbrushes for Anthony and me, along with a miniature stick of deodorant for each of us, and a bottle of Tylenol, because my head was still throbbing, and I wasn’t about to pop one of those mystery trunk pills. New underwear was too much to ask for, but I did find a first aid kit that wasn’t thirty years old, a little bottle of superglue to try a trick I’d seen on TV, lip balm, a tube of vanilla-citrus-scented body lotion, and some cheap concealer, which would probably make my skin break out, but would at least help cover bruises.
For good measure, I also grabbed a pack of powdered doughnuts, some Red Vines, two bags of Doritos, and a trucker hat with The Silver State scrawled on it.
The cashier looked bored by our transaction and, thankfully, didn’t ask questions about my strange outfit, though I felt him eye it with curiosity. He placed my price-gouged middle-of-nowhere purchases into a plastic bag and bid me a good night right as the man pumping gas stepped to the register behind me.
“You from out of town?” he asked in a grumbly voice.
I flashed a look over my shoulder at his absurd question. Why else would I have been buying travel products and junk food in the middle of the night at a gas station? I gave him a tight smile and nodded, wondering if he was a local making a midnight run for the beer in his hand. He was large, with dusty boots and what looked like dried blood caking the knuckles on his right hand. He snapped open the beer and took a swig before he’d even paid for it.
“Just passing through,” I said neutrally as I turned to leave. And then for good measure, I added, “My boyfriend is getting us a room across the street. He’s a cop.” My face hardly flushed at the lies, but I’d already been kidnapped once today. Bending the truth to deter interest from this stranger felt reasonable, if not necessary.
He gave me a thin-lipped grin and set his beer on the counter. “Have a good night.”
Back across the street, I found Anthony pacing the parking lot and tugging on his hair.
