The Big Fix, page 27
“Thank you,” I said.
“Of course. We also found something else at the Slates’ house,” he went on. The hairs on my neck stood. He pulled a photo from his folder, a blown-up headshot that looked like it had been cropped from a driver’s license and placed it on the table.
The tweed man scowled back at us.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Fear gripped me with a cold hand. I thought back to him pointing a gun at me—twice. My mouth wouldn’t offer up any words, so I simply nodded.
Warner turned the photo around so it faced him. “We found Mr. Doyle laid up in bed on the property, recovering from a stab wound.”
Doyle? It sounded fitting for a henchman, but I preferred tweed man.
Despite everything he’d done to me, a tight knot in my chest unwound. Ever since that night, part of me worried I’d killed him.
“It was self-defense,” I said softly as I fought off the memory of it. I felt Anthony reach out and squeeze my hand beneath the table.
“I’m sure it was,” Warner said with a sincere nod. “His injuries, coupled with finding your personal belongings on the property, and your statement were enough to bring him in on kidnapping charges.” He turned his gaze to Anthony. “And while we’ve got him, we’re looking into the murder accusations as well.”
“Thank you,” Anthony said through a tight jaw.
“It was him,” I chimed in with a sharp nod. “He told us he did it.”
“All right,” Warner said with a gentle raised hand. “I’ll need both of you to come in and give formal statements, now that you’re back.”
“Of course,” I said.
Anthony looked skeptical. I elbowed him. “Of course,” he said reluctantly.
“Good,” Warner said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “A lot of loose ends have come together because of all this, so thank you, Penny, for your tip.”
“Glad to help.”
He stood from the dining chair and straightened his jacket. He gathered the photo back into the folder. “Oh, one more thing. Portia Slate is still missing, and now her husband seems to have disappeared too. Do you happen to know where either of them might be?” His delivery was casual. An easy, harmless question aimed at both of us.
I felt Anthony’s hand tighten on mine at the same time all the air seeped out of my lungs.
We knew where one of them was, and the other had vanished by now into a new identity thousands of miles away.
“No,” Anthony said in a steady voice, betraying nothing.
I thought it best to keep my mouth shut and simply shake my head.
Warner eyed us. I sensed he didn’t fully believe it, but he wasn’t going to push. Not right now at least. “All right. Well, you let me know if you hear anything. About either of them.”
“Sure,” Anthony said.
“Thank you. Now, can I trust you’ll both come into the station tomorrow to give your statements about the day of the funeral?”
“Yes,” I said.
Warner nodded and expectantly looked at Anthony. “You’re not leaving town, are you, Mr. Pierce?”
Anthony paused long enough to dull the glow I’d been feeling since the hotel room in L.A. After everything, it was still true he didn’t live here. He’d never even planned to visit until everything with Portia went haywire. He’d told me in the desert he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the house, but his delay in answering Warner had my heart hiccupping with worry he was going to disappear as well.
He let out a breath and shook his head. “Not tonight.”
Warner nodded and gathered his things. “Good. I’ll see you both at the station tomorrow then.”
He left us alone in the dining room. I heard his voice from around the corner, thanking Libby for her hospitality and promising he’d tell his wife to call her.
Anthony gazed out the back windows toward his house next door. The old Victorian looked regal in the fading sunlight. I traced the outline of his jaw with my eyes, feeling a nervous seed take root in my gut. I could imagine after the past several days, he wanted to go home home, and not back to a big, empty house.
“So,” I quietly said, “when are you leaving town?”
He looked down at me with a softness to his eyes that made my heart hiccup in a whole different way. “No time soon.”
“No?” I said with a smile.
“No. I believe a certain professor still owes me a date.”
EPILOGUE
Three months later
Congratulations, Pe y, the frosting letters on my cake read. My sister had deleted the ns when she cut my slice. She handed the wobbling wedge of chocolate with buttercream filling to me with a smile.
“You did it,” she said.
By some miracle, I had not only survived the summer without acquiring a criminal record, but also managed to make tenure. The papers were written, the grant was submitted, the book chapter done. I’d even managed to graduate a grad student and sit on three committees.
“I did.” I proudly smiled back and then stuffed a bite into my mouth. The frosting squished between my teeth in the sweetest, most victorious burst of sugar.
“Who wants a slice?” Libby asked, wielding an enormous knife smeared in crumbling chocolate and frosting. The small crowd gathered in her backyard raised hands and politely waited.
I turned around from the table and found Anthony standing right behind me. He told me he’d be late, and I hadn’t seen him show up. And now here he was, brooding and tall and wearing sunglasses, which showed me my own dazed reflection at the sight of him.
“Congrats on making tenure, Dr. Collins. You’re a badass.”
I smiled at him, remembering our night on the road when he’d first called me a badass and told me I could conquer making tenure if I could survive what we’d been through. Little did we know then we’d have much more to survive together, but his faith in me only helped. He also helped by using his fixing powers to squelch any media coverage of my involvement in the events after the fact, which blessedly left my tenure committee with nothing to side-eye. Now I leaned in and kissed him with frosting on my lips.
The summer that changed my life was winding down to an end. The new semester was a week away from starting. Libby had thrown a party to celebrate me making tenure, and as an excuse to bring everyone together for one final summer hurrah. Her backyard bustled with neighborhood friends, kids splashing in the pool, laughter, the smell of whatever her husband was barbequing. John had returned from Japan a week ago and had almost recovered from his jet lag.
I’d ended up staying with Libby all summer, but instead of giving her peace of mind over the mysterious new neighbor, I was spending almost every night at the new neighbor’s house. She’d warmed to Anthony—reluctantly, but eventually. She said it was the lovestruck look in my eyes every time I came home from visiting him that did her in. Anyone who could put that look on my face was worth at least a trial period, she’d said. That was two months ago, and I wasn’t sure he’d completely passed her test yet, but at least she invited him over to parties now.
Anthony hadn’t taken any new jobs since Portia, other than helping me out of the pinch with the press, but he did that pro bono. Since we put Portia on a plane in Los Angeles, we hadn’t heard a word from her. Public opinion regarding her disappearance was that her husband had killed her and gotten away with it, which was only compounded by his mysterious vanishing that followed. Anthony had spent the summer sorting out his uncle’s estate and having items in the house appraised. To my relief, he had no plans to sell it anytime soon, and more or less made it his home over the past months. He’d gone to New York a few times, and with every trip, I feared he’d call to say he was staying, but he never did. He always came back.
With the new semester starting, I’d be back in the city teaching. When I’d informed Anthony of this, his response was to study traffic patterns so he knew when best to make the commute to see me. The old green Cadillac had been returned to the house next door, but Anthony left it docked in the driveway. He’d taken a much fonder liking to the Camaro, which I had to agree suited him better anyway.
That night in Vegas lived in a small box deep in my brain. The same box also held that night in the Slates’ basement. I avoided them as best I could, but sometimes woke up trembling and feeling like I’d stabbed or shot someone again. On those nights, Anthony would wrap me in his arms, tell me everything was all right, and hold me until I fell back to sleep, listening to his heartbeat. I hated those nights, but I loved the feel of his arms.
It was safe to say I was stupidly, drunkenly smitten with him, and he with me. And with each passing day, I grew more certain what continued to bloom between us was rooted in something much deeper than simply the circumstances that had brought us together.
I reluctantly pulled away from our kiss right as Libby walked up and presented him with a slice of cake.
“Glad you could make it, Anthony,” she said with a tight smile. “I hope you like chocolate.”
He took the towering slice of perfectly moist layers and smiled at her. “If you made it, Libby, I’m sure I will love it. Thank you.”
“Hmm” was all she gave him before turning to me. “Warner is here,” she said, and nodded her head toward the pool; she knew our complicated relationship with the detective. Then she floated off to entertain her guests.
“You’re trying too hard,” I told Anthony, and stabbed another forkful of cake. I kept an eye on the pool to see Detective Warner pulling one of his kids out of the water to heave him right back in with a playful grunt.
“What? No, I’m not,” Anthony defended. “Your sister’s desserts are in a class of their own. I was simply complimenting her.”
“Yes, and she knows she’s an amazing chef. You layering on the charm will only make her resist harder. You don’t need to grovel.”
“I think I might need to grovel a little bit,” he said with a grimace.
“Okay, maybe a little bit.”
“At least she hasn’t threatened to kill me lately.”
“Progress, surely.”
“This cake is amazing though,” he said around a bite.
“I know.”
“She should open a bakery.”
“Hey, there you go. You could be her investor. It would give you both something to do. Business partners.”
I was only half joking. Libby had her hands plenty full at home with the kids, but I’d take any excuse to keep Anthony from fixing more problems like the one that had brought us together.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, smirking, which meant he wouldn’t.
Max suddenly appeared out of nowhere and adhered himself to my leg in a soaking wet hug. “Aunt Penny, come swim with me!”
“Oof!” I gasped, and mussed his wet hair. He’d sprouted an inch at least this summer. “Max, I would love to swim with you, but I’m eating, and you aren’t supposed to swim for a half hour after you eat.”
He punched his fists into his little hips and frowned. His neon-green water wings only exaggerated his posture. “My mom says that’s not true.”
“Is your mom a scientist?”
“No.”
“Well, who are you going to believe?”
He cast me his most dramatic glare and stomped off to the pool.
“You just manipulated that child,” Anthony said, pretending to be scandalized.
“You don’t know the half of it. Besides, it’s my party and I don’t want to swim right now.”
He stepped closer and slipped his finger beneath the bikini string tied around my neck and sticking out from my dress. He plucked it like a guitar string. “Later?”
I met his gaze with a promise in mine. “Later.”
We’d made excellent use of my sister’s pool when the house was asleep. I bit my lip at the thought of doing it again.
“Huh-uh,” Anthony protested, and pulled it from my teeth with his thumb. “None of this, unless you’re going to ditch this party and come over right now.”
A flush filled my cheeks, and I gave him a coy grin. I glanced over my shoulder, then leaned in to whisper, “I don’t think anyone would notice if I disappeared for a while.”
He flicked a brow and gave me a devilish smile. “Only one way to find out.” He set his cake on the table and then took away my plate before taking my hand.
We stepped off the patio to head for the gate that led to his yard when Detective Warner intercepted us.
“Penny, Mr. Pierce, nice to see you.”
The sound of his voice cooled my speeding blood. I felt Anthony’s hand tighten on mine.
“Hi, Detective,” I said. Anthony simply nodded.
“Congratulations on your accomplishment, Penny.”
“Thank you. Congrats on closing your cases. I’m glad you were able to join the party.”
He let out a big breath and rested his hands on his hips. I was used to seeing him in a suit and tie. The board shorts and dad polo were a refreshing break that reminded me he was a friendly neighbor.
A friendly neighbor who could lock me and my boyfriend up for life for burying Connor Slate in the middle of the desert.
“It’s nice to have a day off,” he said. “Things have finally slowed down after this summer.”
“That’s good to hear!” I said in a too-chipper voice. I was ready to end this conversation.
Warner slightly flinched at my enthusiasm. “Yes, definitely good to hear. A lot of it has to do with Mr. Doyle being behind bars. But also the search for Connor Slate has been called off. His trip to Las Vegas is a dead end. No one seems to have seen him since. After months, the consensus is finally that he skipped town and disappeared.”
My breath suddenly left me, along with my ability to form a sentence. If it hadn’t been for Anthony’s hand in mine, I might have dissolved into a puddle of confession. But I reminded myself Connor would have killed him and Portia if we hadn’t stopped him.
After the tweed man was arrested and, in some fanatic show of loyalty, pled guilty to kidnapping and murder, the search for Connor amplified. Of course he was a person of interest, not only in his wife’s disappearance, but in ties to two murders. Not to mention, the FBI was still interested in his finances. The police traced his trail to Las Vegas, but it ended at the casino where a driver had reported dropping him off around 5 o’clock. They had the record of his private plane landing and report of him taking the private car to the Venetian, but after that, there was no sign of where he’d gone. Anthony called in another favor from Lou’s client, who’d secured us a room at the hotel and had all security footage with signs of Connor or us wiped. We were lucky no one had heard the commotion in the room or stairwell. All anyone could prove was Connor Slate had flown to Vegas on a Thursday, was reportedly driven to the Venetian, and was never seen again.
Only four people on the planet knew he had never left the desert.
“Makes sense he would skip town,” Anthony said. “All things considered.”
Warner gave him an unsettling stare. “Yes, it’s awfully convenient to have such resources.” His cryptic statement left me wondering exactly whose resources he was talking about. “It’s also convenient that the hour of public surveillance footage from before and after his driver reported dropping him off at the casino is missing. Some kind of system glitch with the CCTV. So not only is there no evidence of him in the casino where he was reportedly taken, but none from the surrounding public area at the time either.”
Too convenient, I thought, and felt like I had GUILTY tattooed on my forehead.
It turned out Anthony had another resource to call on for help erasing footage of that night.
Me.
After things got out of hand and we realized we had left a desperate trail in one of the most heavily recorded cities on the planet, we needed someone to take care of it. The fix with the Venetian was easy enough, but the public security footage from outside in the street was another question. In a do-or-die moment once we were home and knew it was only a matter of time before an investigation into Connor’s disappearance began, I’d confessed to Anthony I’d previously undersold my hacking skills and could in fact get us out of that pickle. He’d been resistant to allowing me to help until our backs were completely against the wall. As a lifelong rule-follower, it was oddly liberating to hack into the City of Las Vegas public surveillance system and remove what we didn’t want seen. It made me feel way more badass than firing a gun ever could.
I didn’t feel very badass now, however, what with Warner squinting at me like he knew the truth.
“That’s interesting,” Anthony said to Warner with a reassuring squeeze of my hand that had helped hack us to safety.
“Indeed,” Warner said and mercifully left it at that. “And have you heard from . . . ?”
The implication was obvious. I felt Anthony’s hand tighten on mine once more. My heart began to flutter nervously again. I fought to keep my face neutral so he couldn’t see the truth written there.
“From whom, Detective?” Anthony asked, his voice steady.
Warner studied us, and I knew he knew there was more to the story. That what we’d told him after Vegas wasn’t the whole truth. He knew Portia was somehow involved—why else would her bodyguard have wound up in Anthony’s closet? But by some stroke of luck, Portia had not gone missing in his jurisdiction; she wasn’t his investigation. His focus was on closing two murder cases, and that’s what he’d done. With our help. And if the truth about our involvement somehow ever did come out, Anthony had the honest cover story of trying to help a friend get out of a dangerous marriage. It wasn’t his fault his friend’s vindictive husband went on a murderous revenge rampage and sucked me up in the chaos too. Warner eventually exhaled and gave us a nod. “No one. Enjoy the party.”
He left us alone, and I felt like we’d escaped death.
Anthony hooked his arm around my shoulders and let out a relieved sigh. “I’m still proud of you, by the way.”
