CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Ma’am? Your name and your reason for coming here?”

The voice jarred me back to reality. “Taylor Kendall. I’m Quentin’s tutor.” I looked at her, focusing on her young face, willing myself to seem sane and sincere. “Bram Cortez will vouch for me.”

The name registered with her, but she merely nodded. “Were you expected here today at this time?”

“Yes, three o’clock every Friday. What happened?”

“You have your own door code for the house?”

I gestured. “Yes, usually I go straight there, but today—” And for a moment I thought, Oh, no. Bordeaux’s already at the house on my code. That’s why I was rerouted. But Bordeaux was much more scrupulous than that; she knew better than to appropriate my code on my assigned days. “I don’t know why I ended up here,” I finished lamely.

“All visitors are being sent to the security gate,” she said. “A precautionary measure.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She practically gaped at me. “Haven’t you seen the news?”

I’d never bothered to turn my EarFone back on after disabling it for the night. It was more astonishing that Marika had also failed to do so, since she practically lived on the digital plane, but she had clearly been too involved in her own messy life to check the chaos in the outside world. I could scarcely suck in enough air to breathe out a single syllable. “No.”

“Duncan Phillips has been murdered.”

I stared at her; for a moment, my surroundings seemed to dissolve into an unreality not unlike teleport transmission. Not just Duncan Phillips is dead. But Duncan Phillips has been murdered. You don’t toss out pronouncements like that unless you’re awfully sure. Unless it’s official.

“Murdered,” I repeated. “But who—but how—why did—when did—”

“We don’t know most of the details. But since you’ve got your own door code, I’m sure the police will want to talk to you.”

“Since I’ve—why would that—”

“Let me just call out to the house.”

I stood there and shivered while she spoke into a phone implant, got instructions, and nodded sharply. She waved over a policeman who was driving something that looked like a golf cart.

“Take her to the house. She needs to talk to Siracusano.”

As the cop drove me down the crowded drive between police cars and journalists, I imagined my face being transmitted out onto all the live video feeds and internet news sites. Would reporters be speculating about the “mysterious dark-haired woman being escorted to the grand house by police authorities”? I hoped my mother wasn’t watching the news. Though Marika probably was.

The cop took me inside, where we were met, thank God, by Francis. I couldn’t help myself; I threw myself into his arms. “What happened?” I cried as I pulled back. “Quentin’s dad has been murdered? Do they know who did it?”

Francis looked straight at me. “Someone who had access to the house.”

“Come this way,” the young cop said, pushing between us and edging me down the hall.”

I moved along with him, but I was still staring back at Francis. “One of us?” I demanded. He nodded.

“This way, please, ma’am. They should be waiting in the library.”

“They” turned out to be Bram Cortez, whom I was mortally glad to see, and a large man in an expensive business suit. He had gray hair still edged with black, features as bluff as a boxer’s, huge hands, a bulky body under his Italian jacket, and a firearm strapped to his belt. I saw his intent brown eyes assess me quickly, once, and file away all visible information.

I wanted to fling myself into Bram’s arms, too, but I knew that this wasn’t the forum. Actually, I wasn’t sure we were supposed to know each other; I wasn’t sure exactly what the setup was here. So I nodded at him, my face very serious, and held my hand out to the big man.

“I’m Taylor Kendall. Quentin’s English tutor.”

“Tony Siracusano,” he said. His grip was warm and completely enveloping. I would have bet he was strong enough to crack my fingers without even trying, though he did not, at this moment, appear to be trying. “Homicide detective with the Chicago PD. Let’s sit down.”

We took our places at a table in front of an impromptu high-tech control room the cops had set up in the middle of the library. Banks of monitors showed video feeds from several views of the house, while a couple of other screens were tuned to television stations and internet sites. All the sound was down, so people spoke and gestured and reacted like ill-taught mimes, unable to convey their points. There was also an array of other equipment completely unfamiliar to me, as well as an untidy pile of papers and pens and photographs. One of the photos featured me.

I was sure I was supposed to wait for Siracusano to open the investigation, but I spoke first anyway. “Please tell me what’s going on,” I said. “I was out late last night, and I never heard the news this morning, and until I arrived here, I had no idea—what had happened.”

Detective Siracusano glanced at Bram, as if checking whether anyone could really be that stupid, then spoke in a calm, dispassionate voice. “Someone teleported into this house around one a.m. this morning, went into Duncan Phillips’ study, and shot Mr. Phillips dead. From what we can tell, this individual came to the house with a specific agenda—to commit murder.”

I tried to keep my voice as cool as his. “Who are you considering suspects?”

“People with access to the house. Specifically, those who live and work at the Phillips mansion, and those who have their own door codes.”

“That includes me.”

“It does.” Siracusano gestured at his notes. “The last time you were here—the last time anyone knows that you were here,” he corrected himself, “you had a nasty argument with Mr. Phillips. Which was witnessed by five other people and caught on security monitors. We have had an opportunity to view the recording. It looks like an unpleasant encounter.” His hard brown eyes watched for any flicker of emotion on my face. “Is that the last time you saw Duncan Phillips?”

“Yes, it was,” I said sharply. “No, I didn’t come back to the house in the middle of the night and kill him. I don’t even know how to use a gun.”

“There are a lot of fingerprints and DNA traces on this particular weapon. Possibly some of those are yours. You’ll need to be printed and scanned before you leave today.”

“But I—” I put my hands to my head. I was confused and shaking and completely disoriented. Was this the place where I was supposed to say, “I won’t talk to you without my lawyer present”? I had a terrible feeling it was. “I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t even in Chicago last night. I was at a party in Atlanta. There must be fifty people who can give me an alibi.”

“Atlanta’s not so far away,” said Siracusano, “by teleport.”

I opened my mouth to reply—and then I froze. No doubt my face drained of color. If it had been possible to look a fraction more guilty, I’m sure I would have managed it.

Because I’d been at an international teleport terminal last night, probably just around the time Duncan Phillips was meeting his death. How hard would it be for Siracusano and his team of detectives to figure that out for themselves?

“Well,” I said, in a voice that sounded feeble even to me, “I never left Atlanta last night.”

Siracusano was watching me unsympathetically. “I’m sure you understand that we’ll be checking into that.”

“Of course.” I tried to pull myself together, and I allowed myself a quick look at Bram. “I still don’t entirely understand. Why don’t you know who did it? Don’t you have security monitors on all the time?”

“Monitors were off,” Bram said briefly. “Not too hard to jam the system if you know what you’re doing.”

I had a sudden brief memory of an afternoon expedition with Quentin and Dennis as we snuck off to take an unauthorized tour of Duncan Phillips’ holographic gallery of mistresses. Quentin had dismantled the system under Dennis’ supervision and I had watched. I wouldn’t have been able to replicate that trick to save my life—though possibly no one would believe that—

And surely Bram Cortez knew how to jam his own monitors, and Francis knew literally everything about this house—

“Oh, my God,” I said as the implications became clearer. “Oh, my God.”

Bram nodded. “Exactly.”

“Who else do you suspect?” I demanded.

“A lot of people.”

“What about his new fiancée?”

“She was at a publicly broadcast charity event last night,” Siracusano said. “She’s not on the list.”

I spoke a little too eagerly. “Wait—don’t you keep a record of the door codes that have been used? Won’t that tell you who was here last night?”

“They were temporarily wiped out when the monitors went down,” Bram said in a careful voice, “but we believe the information is still in the system.”

“That will solve everything then, won’t it?”

Siracusano still watched me with that level, unwavering regard. “It might,” he said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

I nodded, trying to appear casual, trying not to reveal just how alarmed I was. I turned to Bram and attempted to change the subject. “How’s Quentin taking all this? Is he okay? What’s going to happen to him? He’s an orphan now. Does he have a guardian?”

“He’s nineteen, Ms. Kendall,” the cop reminded me. “In two years, he’ll have attained his legal majority. He might be able to convince the court that he doesn’t need a guardian.”

“Quentin does,” I said. “Is he all right? Where is he? Can I see him?”

“Quentin Phillips will remain in this household, which will be run just as it has been, until we sort everything out,” Siracusano said.

Bram gave him a glance that I interpreted as dislike. I wondered if they’d known each other back in Bram’s cop days, and whether that would work for or against me—and the rest of our friends. “Quentin’s a suspect, too,” Bram told me.

Siracusano looked irritated, but I had already figured that out for myself. Nonetheless, I said, “Not Quentin! He couldn’t possibly have done something like that.”

“He saw your fight with his dad,” Bram said. “And his dad said some pretty harsh things—about Quentin. Motive enough, if that’s what you’re looking for. So he’s basically under house arrest.”

“I don’t think we need to give Ms. Kendall a list of suspects and their possible motives,” Siracusano said icily.

Bram shrugged. “I’m sure she’s already guessed. There are five primary suspects, and we all had access to the house, and we all witnessed the fight with Duncan Phillips. Which gives each of us the same motive for killing the bastard.”

I pretended to be shocked. “Does that mean you’re under suspicion, too?”

“Ms. Kendall, until we’re able to reconstruct the security systems, everyone on the planet is under suspicion,” Siracusano said. “It’s true we think it was someone who had access to the house, which means someone who had a personal door code and a good idea of the layout of the place. But in my experience, there are a lot of ways for people to get information that you would much prefer they did not have. Duncan Phillips was a powerful guy with a lot of money and a lot of enemies. And someone we may not even have thought of yet could very well have wanted to kill him. You and your friends are all on the list—but it’s not a short list.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“I want you to be printed and scanned before you leave. I want you to stay in the Chicago area until further notice.”

“Taylor’s job is in Houston,” Bram said quietly. “Financial hardship to restrict her movement.”

Siracusano looked at me. “Ms. Kendall?”

I shook my head. “Summer break. I should be fine for a few weeks. And if a meeting comes up, I can always videoconference in.”

Siracusano was taking notes. “All right. If you need to go to Houston, or anywhere else, contact my department and someone will escort you.” He fixed me with his intent eyes. “Other than that, you’re not to leave the city. Do you understand?”

I nodded wordlessly. I was all out of words anyway. “Where do I go for the scan?”

Bram was on his feet. “I’ll take you.” He glanced at Siracusano as if expecting a challenge, but the big man merely shrugged. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I followed him out of the room and down the hall toward the elevator. When we were relatively clear of the possibility of spying eyes, he did a sudden pivot and took me in his arms. I hugged him back somewhat convulsively. My eyes were shut and my shoulders were locked in a permanent hunch and I felt completely battered.

“Oh, Bram,” I said into his shoulder. “What in the world happens now?”

I felt him shake his head above mine. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine what Siracusano’s investigation will turn up. I don’t even know what I should hope for. But I can’t even think about that as clearly as I should. I keep wondering—what about Quentin? What happens to him?”

I nodded into his shirt. “He can’t live by himself, even if he gets legal emancipation. And, anyway, we couldn’t possibly leave him alone after this.”

“I’m moving in. For a while. Francis has rooms here. Dennis will still come by, and I assume you will, but I don’t think they’ll let anyone else camp out here. So for the moment he’s taken care of, but—”

“What about his aunt?” I asked. “Does she know? Maybe she’s his legal guardian now, has anyone checked?”

“Francis talked to her this morning. But she’s in Australia and she just had back surgery, so she says it’ll be a month before she can travel. And I don’t think Quentin can just pack up and move to the Outback. Anyway, he has to stay here while he’s still a suspect. So I think it will be a while before everything’s sorted out. We’ll just have to hold tight.”

“I’m so afraid,” I whispered against his chest.

His arms tightened; I felt him drop a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m not afraid yet,” he said. “But once they start pointing fingers, I have a feeling I’ll be terrified. I can’t imagine who would have done this. I mean, I know the possibilities, but I just can’t believe—” He shook his head again.

I lay still against him and didn’t answer. But I already had a strong suspicion of who the killer was. There were five of us on the list. Five of us with the exact same motives, the same means, and pretty much the same opportunities—and some of those five, at least, had wanted Duncan Phillips dead for a long time. But no one had made a move to destroy him until this week, after my little fight with him. Nothing Duncan Phillips had said then had been new, nothing that Bram and Francis and Dennis and Quentin had not heard before. Nothing that would have made them lose their cool enough to seek him out in the dead of night and kill the man they had already hated for so long.

But Bordeaux had heard this diatribe for the first time, and Bordeaux had had reason to come calling late at night when no one else was awake. And Bordeaux had access to the house, keying in a code she only used when she knew I would not be present—a code that only I knew she possessed. And Bordeaux, I was very sure, could take care of herself—and anyone else she cared about.

I would die before I offered this speculation aloud.

“So what do we do now?” I said, still speaking to his chest.

“We get you scanned. And then, if you’re up to it, you go upstairs and say hello to Quentin. And we carry on the best we can, until we find out something that we can’t endure. And then we fight.”

I lifted my head and attempted to smile. “Sounds good.”

He kissed me, his mouth hard and swift on mine. “I know we had plans tomorrow night,” he said. “And I want to be with you more than I can say. But—”

“I know,” I said. “We can’t.”

He kissed me again. “Soon. When things are all better.”

“Soon,” I echoed. But I imagined it would be a very long time before things were all better .