Chapter 25 Silas
SILAS
I’m making coffee when Nigella lets herself in late in the afternoon the following day.
“You know you might want to knock,” I say as she walks into the kitchen and sets her briefcase down.
“It’s my house.”
“Just saying it for your sake. Don’t want to make you uncomfortable seeing something you won’t be able to unsee. We are newlyweds.” I wink.
“What makes you think I’d want to unsee it?” She slips off her coat and smiles wide.
“Well, then by all means. Come and go as you please. Coffee?” I hold up the pot.
“I’d kill for a cup.” She pulls out her laptop and sets it on the counter.
“What’s up?”
“Got the security footage and thought you’d want to see it,” she says as I walk around to set her coffee down and watch over her shoulder.
“Have you seen it yet?” I ask as she boots up her laptop. “Or let me guess, it broke down right after I left, which I call bullshit on if that’s the case.”
“Nope, working just fine.” She turns it so I can watch. “It’s pretty grainy but based on time of death, this is the guy. Sadly, only one half of him is visible and even that is a partial view and he’s facing away from the camera, of course. Whoever it was knew where the camera would be angled.”
I take the laptop and replay it to watch a man of similar build to me walking out of the parking garage. I can’t make out much of anything else though. He’s wearing a huge coat with the hood pulled up.
“That’s useless.”
“Yep.”
“Anything missing from the office?”
“Nope, nothing was taken. Not anything valuable of which there was plenty so rules out robbery. But hell, it’d be hard to get into the building and to Fox’s office to rob the man.”
“Robbery wasn’t the motive.”
“You said you left the contract on the desk?” she asks as she peers at the screen.
I nod. “He signed it then poured himself a drink.” I look at the screen over her shoulder as she scrolls through to the photo of his desk.
I see the bottle of whiskey he was drinking.
It’s almost empty. The fountain pen and the pad of paper I’d used to write our impromptu contract on are right there, but the sheet is gone.
“He might have put it away,” I say.
“Maybe.”
“What are you looking at?” Ophelia asks and we turn to find her in the entrance of the kitchen. She’s dressed in a charcoal sweater dress with knee-length suede boots and her hair falls in loose, wild curls down her back. She’s wearing mascara and lip gloss and holding her phone in her hand.
Nigella puts the lid down and waits for me to answer.
“Not much,” I say. “They sent over the security footage from Fox’s office and although it shows someone leaving the scene, it’s pretty grainy. Anyway, it doesn’t matter for us. Not right now. Time for the cops to do their job.”
Ophelia nods.
“Coffee?” I ask her.
“My father called.”
“Did he?”
“He’s at The Sinistral. He just met with my grandfather.”
“Well, that’s unexpected.”
“Exactly. I want to go.”
“Yeah, of course.” I turn to Nigella. “If you hear any developments, call me. And email me those photos, will you?”
“Will do,” Nigella says.
“All right. Let’s go.” I set a hand at Ophelia’s lower back to walk her down the hall.
“What’s this?” she asks, noticing the duffel at the door.
I pick it up. “Just packed a few things for us for a couple of nights. We’re going to stay at the brownstone.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like that Ethan knows where we are.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s fine.”
We grab our coats and head out. I toss the duffel into the back of the SUV while Ophelia climbs into the passenger seat. Tires crunch on gravel, and soon we’re on the road back to Sinistral.
Ophelia is quiet and I reach over to squeeze her knee. “It’ll be fine.”
She smiles at me. “I know. It’s just weird, all of it.”
“How so?”
“Sly dead and I don’t know, Ethan showing up like he did and looking like he did.” She shudders.
“Tell me about the visit.”
“You sure you want to hear?”
I nod although I’m not thrilled about her having been alone with him.
“He was wearing these clothes I don’t think he’d ever have worn before, and his shoes were so dirty.
I don’t know, it was just, the Ethan I know, he was always very aware of how he looked, what he put out there for people to see, you know?
And I’d certainly never seen him cry. Not once.
Not in all those years. I think his father’s murder took it out of him. I mean, he hated Sly. He said as much.”
I glance at her. “When did he say that?”
“At the hotel, after the night of the gala. I just saw them together and it was like neither of them were putting on a show for once, you know? Neither was trying to hide their real self from me, and I saw it. I asked him outright if he hated his father. I’ll never forget that moment he took to answer me.
The feeling in the room. It was so cold.
And his eyes,” she shudders. “I knew his answer before he gave it, and then when he said it out loud, it was just so cold.”
“You said Sly admitted to beating him?” I already know the answer but am surprised Sly would admit it.
“He suggested as much and considering what Ethan hinted at, I think so. But still, I think his father’s murder… well, he was just off, Silas. Almost manic at some point. Anyway, I want to forget about it.” She takes a deep breath in as we pass the sign welcoming us to Sinistral.
“That’s a good idea.”
When we pull into the parking lot, we both notice the reporters standing outside the lobby doors, probably freezing their asses off. Several men, security guards from the looks of them, are blocking the front doors.
“Ugh. Press,” Ophelia says.
I park the car. “Wonder why they’re not inside. Do you want to go around back?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m not hiding from them.”
We climb out, and I take her hand in mine as we head to the imposing glass doors.
The bellman opens them, and Ophelia ignores the press like a pro, not missing a step as cameras flash and questions are hurled at her.
I guess she’s had some experience. I’m glad to see her composure and proud of her.
I wrap my hand around the back of her neck and give her a little squeeze.
“Well done,” I whisper in her ear once we’re inside.
“Thanks,” she says. I notice how the lobby, which usually has guests milling around, is empty except for the staff.
We walk up to the front desk, but before we have to ask which one is Horatio’s room, one of Carlisle-Bent’s nurses walks up to us.
It’s the woman. I recognize her from our last meeting.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cruz, if you’ll come with me. Mr. Carlisle-Bent is expecting you.”
“Oh, we’re here to see my father, actually,” Ophelia says.
“Yes, they’re both upstairs.”
Ophelia and I glance at each other but follow the nurse into the elevator and up to the penthouse where, upon entering, we see Gordon in his wheelchair at the table, and Horatio sitting across from him. No one else is present in the room.
“Dad,” Ophelia says. Horatio stands and it’s good to see them together, to see how they look at each other and, finally, to see them hug.
“Sweetheart.” Horatio’s eyes are squeezed shut and he holds Ophelia tightly. “God. It is so good to hug you.”
When they draw back, I watch Ophelia. “You too, Dad. I missed you so much.”
Neither can stop smiling but those smiles aren’t easy.
“We should talk about everything,” Horatio says.
Ophelia nods. He keeps hold of her hand as they turn to Gordon, who looks Ophelia over with a smile. “Good morning, Ophelia.”
“Good morning,” she says, and I get the sense she’s unsure what to call him.
I clear my throat. “Horatio, Gordon.” I nod in greeting.
“Silas, good to see you,” Horatio says.
“You look better than the last time,” I tell him.
“Understatement.”
“I’m hungry,” Gordon says. “It’s a rarity these days. Who’s hungry? If we don’t get out of this place, that one will have me drinking a green juice.” He points to his nurse.
“I guess I could eat something,” Ophelia says.
“Do you remember the French toast? It was your favorite,” Horatio says.
“It’s probably too late for breakfast.”
“They’ll make anything you want. Let’s go eat. We’re both too skinny to pass up sugary bread drenched in butter and syrup,” Gordon says with a smile I don’t expect.
“But the press is down there,” Ophelia says. “We can do room service. That’s fine.”
“We’ll eat in the restaurant like civilized people,” Gordon says. “Besides, any one of them sets foot inside the hotel and they’ll be arrested,” the old man says as he wheels himself to the elevator.
“Ah. That’s why they’re outside.”
“I’ve rented out the whole damn place. The kind of money I’m dropping, they’ll do as I say.”
Ophelia and I exchange a look as the elevator doors open and we all climb on, Gordon’s nurse pushing his chair. It is eerily silent as we enter the large, empty restaurant where too many waiters stand around trying to look busy.
“Mr. Carlisle-Bent, right this way,” the head waiter says and leads us to the best table. It’s the one that stands at the very back by the French doors that overlook the gardens which are currently under a layer of slushy snow. Just beyond is the swimming pool, which is covered this time of year.
We’re seated around the table, Ophelia between Horatio and Gordon. She looks at me and I smile.
“French toast all around with juice and coffee,” Gordon tells the waiter.
“Right away, sir.”
The man hurries off and Gordon turns to Ophelia.
She looks at him, then at Horatio. “I have to say, I did not expect to see you two together.”
Horatio draws a deep breath in. Gordon glances at him then at Ophelia before commenting. “I lured your father in. I think it was the last thing he expected. Isn’t that right, Horatio?”
Horatio forces a tight smile. I watch them both closely. “Lure is a kind way of saying it. The old man doesn’t leave much room for no.”
“Old man. Hah. Watch your mouth.” Gordon turns to Ophelia. “I faulted Horatio for things he was not at fault for for a very long time. I wanted to be sure he knew that I knew I was wrong.”
I raise my eyebrows, and Ophelia looks as surprised as I feel.
“I’m dying. When you’re dying, clarity comes easier, and you no longer mince words. Don’t have the luxury of time,” he says.
The waiter comes with coffee, juice and water, interrupting the moment. Once he’s gone, Gordon pours about a liter of cream into his coffee before picking it up.
“Besides, we had a common goal concerning Chandler,” he says, then sips loudly from his mug.
I look to Horatio, who seems to be taking special care with preparing his coffee and avoiding eye contact with any of us.
“Speaking of Chandler?” I ask. “Where is he?”
“He won’t bother Ophelia again,” Gordon says with a small smile.
“Because of your contract? I’m not sure he’s going to hold up his end of the bargain,” I say, because the other night at The Grande is evidence of that.
“No, you’re right.” He smiles. “He had the opportunity, but that boy will cut off his nose to spite his face. I was wrong about his greed being the overwhelming driver.”
I notice his use of the past tense.
He watches me in silence as two waiters come with plates of French toast layered with fresh berries and what looks like a blizzard of powdered sugar.
“Ah,” he says, his nurse helping to secure his napkin around his neck as he picks up his knife and fork and digs in.
He smothers the first bite of toast in syrup before bringing it to his mouth and closing his eyes as he smiles with pleasure.
“Sugar. One of my many vices. Although, at my nurse’s suggestion, I did cut it out of my coffee.
” He gives her a look and she just folds her arms and shakes her head.
Ophelia takes a bite and Horatio does the same.
I keep watching Gordon as he sets his fork down and wipes his mouth. “Chandler won’t trouble Ophelia again. You can rest assured. Now, on to more important matters. I have a proposition for you, young lady.”
“Oh?”
“I’d like you to come home with me.”
“Home?”
“Texas. I’ll be leaving in the morning. I plan to die in my bed.”
“You’re not—”
“Hush now. My death is imminent. Let’s not pretend otherwise. I’d like to spend what time I have left getting to know Claire’s daughter. My granddaughter. And you’d better start calling me Grandfather.”
“We discussed this,” Horatio says before Ophelia can do more than smile.
“And I changed my mind,” Gordon tells him.
“You discussed whether or not I’d go to Texas? Without me being present?” Ophelia asks.
I sit back and grin, take a bite of my French toast and watch, happy not to be the one who has earned Ophelia’s annoyance for a change. I mean, she does have a point.
“Well, yes,” Gordon says, both he and Horatio looking at her like they don’t understand the problem.
“First, before I decide anything, I want you to explain how you two are sitting here at the table together eating breakfast. Because as far as I know, you hate each other.”
The two men look at one another. “We misunderstood each other,” Horatio says.
“I told you the last time I saw you, Phee, that everything I did, wait, let me amend, everything I did after Claire died, I did for you. I would do it all over again for you. I see now that Gordon and I, well, our goals are aligned. We both want the best for you. We just don’t quite agree what that best is, do we? ”
Ophelia opens her mouth to answer but before she can, a cell phone rings. I recognize the ring tone. It’s the phone I gave to Ophelia once I got mine back.
“Sorry, I’ll silence it,” she says, opening her purse to dig out the phone which stops ringing by the time she gets to it. She sets the phone on silent as it buzzes to alert her of a text. When she reads it, her eyebrows furrow, and she glances at me across the table.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Sullivan Fox’s funeral. It’ll be later this week.”
My teeth clench. “Was that Ethan calling you?” I ask, feeling that familiar burn of anger and, if I admit it, jealousy, at the thought of Ethan ever having been with her. “You’re not going,” I say, but she ignores me and turns back to Gordon.
“After that, I’ll come,” she says.
“You’re not going to his funeral,” I repeat, leaning in to make sure she hears me.
“Fair enough,” the old man says to her, as if I haven’t spoken at all.