CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The fingerprinting was quick and painless, since all I did was lay my fingers on a sensor and watch an interior light flash beneath my hands a few times. I also consented to a mouth swab as a way to contribute a DNA sample to the lab. I assumed this meant that, for the rest of my life, I could engage in no criminal behavior, since I was well and truly in the police records now. I had no plans to carry on illegal activities in the future, and I knew I was not guilty of this particular crime, and yet the gathering of evidence against me made me a little nervous. As if I had testified against myself, been tricked into a confession. What could I be convicted of now?

“My DNA is probably all over the house,” I told the indifferent technician. “I don’t know exactly what this will prove.” He shrugged and just had me sign a release form.

I was glad to escape the dining room, which had been set up as a police lab, and climb into the elevator, kissing Bram goodbye at the door. “I’ll call you later,” he said, and I nodded.

Upstairs, I hesitated a moment outside Quentin’s room, wondering what I could possibly say. Oh, Quentin, so sorry your dad’s dead. Not remotely true. But I had to say something.

My knock was answered by Bordeaux, who looked more grave and adult than I had ever seen her. She was dressed in a close-fitting navy shirt and trousers of some slinky material, sober by her standards, and her hair was free of ornaments. Her open, happy face looked drawn and tired. Even her jeweled insets could not muster a sparkle. “Taylor,” she said, and hugged me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I crossed the room to kneel beside Quentin and wrap my arms around his lanky body. “Oh, honey,” I said with my cheek next to his, “I simply do not know what to say.”

“Yeah, no one does,” he replied. “And I don’t know what to say or feel. It’s just the strangest thing.”

I released him and found a seat on the couch, Bordeaux plopping down next to me. “Tell me,” I said. “What happened? When did you find out? Just start from the beginning.”

Quentin shook his head. Like Bordeaux, he looked older and more serious than I had ever seen him, but not shattered. Shocked but not sad. Certainly, he would not miss his cruel and careless father—but oh, what a way to lose him.

“I didn’t know anything until Francis and Bram came up here this morning. I guess one of Bram’s security guys saw my dad’s body on the camera sometime in the morning.”

“I thought the cameras were out.”

He nodded. “They were, but nobody knew that until the morning shift came on. Then someone spent an hour fixing them—and then somebody saw the—saw my dad. And told Bram. Who I guess called the cops in.”

I couldn’t bring myself to directly ask the most obvious question. Quentin, was it you who cut the cameras so your girlfriend could sneak in during the night? “Anyone have any idea why the cameras went down?” I said casually.

“The big mean cop says someone tampered with them,” Bordeaux said, her voice betraying her low opinion of Siracusano. “But Bram says they go down all the time without a reason, and that’s what the tech guy said, too. So it could have just been random lucky chance.” She glanced at me, her face and voice completely unrepentant. “Lucky for the killer, that is.”

“Bordeaux,” I chided.

She spread her hands. “Well, we can’t pretend that anybody’s sorry Duncan Phillips is dead. Even Quentin isn’t pretending that. I just wish he’d died a little less—spectacularly.”

“When did you hear about it?” I asked her. Still indirect.

“Around noon, about five minutes after I woke up. I went out with a bunch of girls from my dorm last night and woke up with a headache, so I didn’t go to my first class.” She rolled her eyes to convey a sense of utter disbelief. “The minute I turned on my feeds, that was the first thing that came up. ‘Duncan Phillips found dead at home.’ And I thought, ‘Oh, God. The world has just turned upside-down.’”

Not the carefully thought-out alibi and skillfully manufactured emotional reaction I would have expected from a murderer.

“I don’t even mind that he’s dead,” Quentin said in a low voice. “What I mind is what they’re saying. About who killed him.”

“Siracusano said it could be anybody,” I said quickly. “Some old enemy, a professional killer, even.”

“That’s what he’s saying, maybe,” Quentin said. “But what he thinks is that it’s one of the six of us with access to the house.”

“I heard five,” I said. “You, me, Bram, Francis, Dennis.”

“Me,” Bordeaux added. I looked at her and she shrugged. “I had access, too.”

“They don’t have to know that,” I said quickly.

She shook her head dismissively. “They’ll figure it out.”

“But you—they’ll be more suspicious—”

“This is what I can’t stand,” Quentin said.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Bordeaux said.

I couldn’t imagine another topic of conversation that could hold our attention for more than a minute, but at that moment there was a distraction as my EarFone went off. “Taylor,” I said.

It was Marika. “Taylor! Have you seen the news?”

“I’m at Quentin’s.”

“Then you—then he—Taylor, what’s going on?”

“It’s Marika,” I said to Quentin before answering her question. “Don’t know yet. Cops are here, reporters are here, and everyone’s under suspicion. What are they saying on the news?”

“Just that he’s been murdered and there are a lot of suspects and the police are—wait. Are you a suspect?”

“Yeah.”

I heard her address someone else in the room. “Taylor says she’s a suspect! Can you believe it?” My brother’s voice said, “Put her on speaker.”

“Look, I can’t talk about it right now,” I said before she could transfer to the aux. “Tell Jason I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

“How’s Quentin?” she asked.

I smiled over at him. “Quentin’s doing better than I expected, but he’s got all his friends around him.”

“Well, tell him I’m thinking about him and—I don’t know, tell him to call me if he needs anything. I mean, what could I do, but tell him that anyway.”

“I will. I’ll call you tonight. Bye.” I disconnected and said, “Marika sends her love and says call her if you need anything.”

“How about a Braves shirt?”

“She already gave you one!”

He glanced at Bordeaux. “Mmm. Tell her I gave it to somebody else.”

I started laughing. Shouldn’t have, but I did, and it actually felt good. “Tell her yourself.” I let out a big sigh and momentarily covered my face with my hands. “Oh, kids, what a dreadful day. Let’s do what we can to just get through it.”

*

I stayed with Quentin until about five, long past my usual allotted hour. We needed something to occupy our surface attention, so the three of us played video games as the hours crawled past. We said very little, but conversation was not the point. Solidarity was the point. Comfort was the point. The only real goal was surviving the day.

Dennis arrived just as I was thinking I could not endure the strain much longer. I had never been happier to see him.

“I made it past the gauntlet downstairs,” he said breezily, crossing the room to look out the window. Quentin’s view was of the back part of the lawns, normally not open to the public, but even here a few intrepid reporters had set up cameras and were sending off broadcasts. “Do you think I look all right? I knew I’d be on camera, so I dressed with special care.”

“You look like a shasta queen, but you always do,” Bordeaux said. “I think they’ll be loving you.”

Dennis turned from the window, eyes alight with malice. “Hey, I hadn’t thought of that! ‘Gay therapist kills the father of his boy lover.’ That would make good copy.”

Quentin abruptly jerked his wheelchair across the floor and through the doorway into his bedroom. The three of us looked after him.

“He doesn’t like all the suspicions floating around,” I said in a quiet voice. “He doesn’t even like joking about it.”

“Joking is my way of coping,” Dennis said, his eyes still on the bedroom door. “But I’ll try to restrain myself around Q.”

Bordeaux rubbed her eyes. “I’m so tired,” said the girl who never seemed to be sapped of energy. “I’m gonna say goodbye to Quentin and then take off for a few hours.”

I stood up. “I have to go, too. How long are you staying, Dennis?”

He waved a hand, dismissing us. “As long as he needs me. Go. He won’t be alone.”

We each hugged him, then Bordeaux disappeared into the other room to murmur a few words to Quentin. I wanted to think of something hearty and cheery to say, but no appropriate words occurred to me. I waited in silence until Bordeaux emerged, and we left together, heading for the elevator.

It occurred to me that, with Duncan Phillips dead, I didn’t have to make sure I had an escort every time I walked the halls of this building. It was a strange thought in the middle of an utterly strange day.

“I’m worried about Quentin,” I said.

“Me, too. But I think he’ll be all right. He looks pretty frail, but he’s a tough kid. Lived through the kind of pain you and I can’t even imagine.”

“And no matter what that damn Siracusano says,” I burst out, not meaning to say it, “I don’t believe Quentin could have murdered his own father.”

She shook her head and pushed the elevator button. “Oh, no. He didn’t do it.”

She spoke with such certainty that I could not help thinking she had corroborating evidence. Her own actions, maybe. “I’ve never thought about killing someone,” I said slowly. “I mean, sometimes I’m walking down the street and I hear footsteps behind me, and I wonder what I’d do if someone attacked me. I’m sure I’d fight. If I had a weapon, I’d probably use if it I thought my life was in danger. But to walk into a guy’s house and pick up a gun and shoot him dead? I don’t think I could do it.”

“I could,” she said.

The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside.

“I mean, I could kill someone who was attacking me,” she added, as the car went down. “Or someone who deserved to die. A murderer or a torturer. I could shoot someone like that, no problem.”

“Duncan Phillips was neither of those things.”

She smiled at me, completely at ease. “I know.”

We rode in silence until the car paused on the ground floor and we stepped out. Bordeaux came to a halt in the marbled hallway and said, “Taylor.”

I stopped and looked at her.

“I don’t want any more payments.”

I considered a moment. “For seeing Quentin?” She nodded. I said, “Does that mean you’re going to stop coming by?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m never leaving Quentin. I just don’t want to be paid for it anymore.”

Because she loved him and didn’t want to be his zydeco girl, or because she’d killed his father and felt too much guilt? “What happens if you need money?” I asked as delicately as I could. That would hurt Quentin worse than knowing what she had been to him—knowing she would be the same to another young man.

She shook her head again. “Well, right now I don’t. And if things get tight—I guess I’ll find a job. Can’t be that hard.”

“I’m concerned about you, too, Bordeaux,” I said impulsively.

She gave me a jaunty grin, which, as far as I could tell, was completely genuine. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Nothing much to say after that. We resumed our walk to the portal gate—which apparently could be used to send us away from the house, though it wouldn’t accept our arrival—and were shown out by a uniformed guard who watched us with undisguised suspicion. Francis was nowhere in sight. I let Bordeaux precede me, then allowed the teleport mechanism to fling me home—where, though I arrived as always in one piece, I felt like I had not completely reassembled from the transfer.

*

Jason and Marika were inside my apartment when I arrived, cooking dinner and making themselves at home. “Hey, who gave you the key code?” I asked in mock irritation as I found them consulting over a recipe book.

“Charlotte Bront?’s birthday,” Marika said, not looking up from the page. “Everybody knows that.”

Jason came over to hug me. Something he rarely does. He must have been as worried about me as I was about everybody else. Nice, for a change. “Tell me everything,” he said.

“No,” Marika countermanded. “Wait until we’re eating dinner and we can all hear everything at once.”

I pulled up a chair at the dining room table, since clearly I wasn’t expected to help with meal prep. Jason sat next to me, but Marika stayed in the kitchen. “What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

“I wanted Marika to come see Mom.” He gave me a droll look. “You know, she’s always asking to meet my girlfriends.”

“Oh, this is going to be too weird,” I responded. “What did she say?”

“She doesn’t know yet. I’m bringing Marika over tomorrow for lunch. She’s spending the night with you.”

“Sure, of course.”

“And maybe tomorrow, too. ’Cause I don’t think Mom’s up to having us spend the night together at her place.”

I held up both hands in a stop gesture. “Yeah. Right. Please. I’m not quite up to it yet, either.”

“Better get used to it,” he said.

“I’ve got a lot of other things to think about at the moment.”

He leaned forward, all serious and protective. “Tay. You have to start wearing your WristWatcher.”

It was the last thing I’d expected. The little wristband communicator had been Jason’s Christmas present last year, but I’d barely taken it out of the box. It had a tiny display screen and voice-activated text capability, but its most salient feature was that it was supposed to be untraceable. He had given it to me as a joke, because we had always loved cloak-and-dagger games. I’d used it to send him a few messages and then put it away, because it was too clunky for everyday use. I preferred my EarFone.

“Why?” I asked.

“So I can stay in touch with you.”

I touched the side of my head. “You can always call.”

He shook his head. “EarFone can be tracked and monitored. Even if you’re not using it, anyone who’s looking for you will know where you are.”

I stared at him. I felt unexpectedly cold. “But—so what? Why would I—”

He flung up a hand. “If you’re a suspect in a murder case, maybe the cops shouldn’t always know where to find you.”

I shook my head. “This is crazy.”

“It can’t hurt to wear the WristWatcher. And check it.”

“I don’t even know where it is.”

“Well, let’s look for it.”

We searched the apartment while Marika finished cooking, and we ultimately discovered it on the top of the closet where I stored my Christmas decorations. After we charged the dead battery, we spent a little time testing it, Jason dictating nonsense messages and me replying with equal absurdity. Seemed to work just fine.

Over the meal, which was excellent, I told them everything I knew about the murder. Many details had already made it onto the news sites, so nothing I said surprised them.

“And they clearly already have the murder weapon, because they’re in the process of checking it for fingerprints and DNA residue,” I said.

Marika nodded. “Oh, yeah. It’s a little Trellin-X laser, outlawed a few years back. It was part of Duncan Phillips’ private collection. Which I guess he kept in some room where everyone in the world could just walk in.”

I was staring at her. “Trellin-X? But—I handled that gun.”

Jason’s eyes were on me, lancet-sharp. “And why, exactly? When have you ever touched any gun?”

I twisted my hands in the air—exculpation, explanation. “I was in the gun room one day with Quentin, and he took this laser off the wall and wouldn’t put it away. And it scared me, so I grabbed it from him and hung it back up. I mean, that was weeks ago. I suppose Francis or somebody could have cleaned all the guns by now and my traces would be gone, but—well, the way things are going, I wouldn’t count on it.”

Marika was cleaning her plate with her usual gourmand’s satisfaction. “I don’t see what you’re so worried about. I mean, you were at my house last night. Everybody knows you were there. How could you even be a suspect?”

I bit my lip and looked at Jason. “You two were gone, so you don’t know if I was there all night or not,” I said slowly. “But Sylvia McAllister wanted someone to go to Olympic Terminal with her. She was afraid. So I said I’d go.” I hesitated and then continued, “Not only that, she didn’t have a transit pass, so I paid her way.”

Jason’s mouth formed a silent whistle, but Marika was still unimpressed. “Yeah, but how long were you gone? Thirty or forty minutes? That wouldn’t be enough time to go from Olympic to O’Hare to a local gate and do it all in reverse to get back to my place. I mean, every time I head into Chicago, it takes me more than an hour to get where I want to be and you’d need another hour to get back. If people saw you coming and going—”

I felt like I was digging my own grave, lifting each spadeful of dirt with a swallowed grunt and climbing deeper into the muddy hole. “The Phillips mansion has a private terminal,” I said quietly. “All I’d need would be a direct gate from Olympic. One quick jump there, one quick jump back. Easily could have done it in forty-five minutes.”

Marika stared at me, finally horrified. “You don’t want to be telling anyone that,” she said.

“Oh, I won’t have to. Lieutenant Siracusano is more than capable of figuring that out on his own.”

“You need a lawyer,” Jason said abruptly.

“I don’t know any lawyers,” I snapped. “Do you?”

“I know someone in Atlanta, but I think you want someone local,” Mareek said.

“Domenic might know one,” Jason said. “I’ll call him.”

I glanced around the apartment as if just noticing that someone was missing. “Where is Domenic, now that I think about it?”

“Work,” Jason said. “Picked up extra night shifts at the Evanston hospital for the next week. But I’ll leave him a message.”

I rubbed my forehead with my fingers. “I don’t want a lawyer. I don’t want to be a suspect. I don’t want to think about any of this.”

“Well, you are a suspect and you have to think about this,” Jason said. “And you really do need a lawyer.”

*

After that, conversation stuttered to a halt. A great flood of exhaustion washed over me. Last night I had been up too late, and today I had had too much strain; I would not be able to function much longer. Jason sensed it and got up to leave as soon as the meal was over. He kissed Marika goodbye (I couldn’t watch) and hugged me again before he stepped out the door. Marika and I cleared the table, then I made up the couch into a bed for her.

“Anything else you need, you know where to find it,” I said through a yawn.

“Tu casa es siempre mi casa,” she replied.

“Don’t wake me up in the morning,” I advised, heading toward my bedroom. “Even if it means leaving without saying goodbye.”

“Hey, Taylor?” she called just before I exited.

I turned to face her, absolutely certain of what was coming. That’s how well I know her. “No. I didn’t kill him.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

I considered that for a moment. I tell Marika everything, sooner or later, though sometimes I keep things private until I trust myself to speak about them. She knows that about me and rarely presses for information, even when she can tell I’m not being completely open. But that’s the thing; she can always tell when I’m withholding. “I don’t know,” I said at last. “I guess it would depend on whether or not I thought it would get you in trouble. You know, aiding a murderer and all that.”

“I wouldn’t tell anybody. Even Jason.”

I laughed. “Well, I appreciate your loyalty, but it’s wasted in this instance. I didn’t kill Duncan Phillips.”

She watched me from across the width of the room, her wild hair foaming around her shoulders, her big eyes dark and sad. She said, “But you know who did.”