“Hello again, Anna,” he said. “I’ll take you to see him.”
He showed no interest in Sarah or Serena, probably because he figured he wouldn’t know them for long. We followed him inside. The rest of his crew stayed behind as if maybe their owner hadn’t gotten around to house-training them yet.
“It’s been a while,” Nigel said.
He said it with a smile, but really he was rubbing salt in the wound. I’d been unofficially barred on account of the fact that Vincent couldn’t stand me. I’d almost forgotten how tacky it all was. A sea of marble and gold. Gold chairs, gold hope chests, gold picture frames. Gold side tables and vases and lamps and light fixtures. Vincent would have gilded his children if he had any. I wondered what Sarah and Serena thought of the place but didn’t dare ask. Probably they were too anxious to notice much of anything.
“Here we are,” Nigel said.
He pulled up short in front of a pair of thick mahogany doors. I knew what was on the other side: Vincent’s lair. The room he prized above all others. A room that reminded me of banquet halls in old movies about English kings and the knights who betrayed them. Stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls. Candelabra chandeliers. Bloodred curtains to block out the light by day and prying eyes by night. This was where he conducted business, where he received guests, where he ate his three squares. He treated the rest of the house like an extension he regretted having built.
Nigel swung the doors open and I found myself staring across a long and elegant oak table at the man I knew wanted me dead, the man who’d tried to kill me once already and would no doubt try again. His smile was warm and gracious and inviting, and that scared me more than anything. Vincent was always at his most ruthless when he had a smile on his face.
Chapter 46Sarah Roberts-Walsh
HE HAD three glasses of pinot noir waiting for us.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the empty chairs on either side of him, “join me. I’m having a bit of a late-night snack. Or maybe I should say an early-morning snack.”
His snack was a heaping bowl of coq au vin. I could smell the red burgundy wine simmering off the top. Under different circumstances I’d have asked to meet his chef.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” he said, “but this is a lovely surprise. It’s lucky for me that I’ve always been a night owl.”
I have to hand it to him: Vincent was damn robust for a man north of eighty. His merino sweater clung to pecs and biceps that would have been at home on a much younger man. Still, I didn’t look at him and see the legend who once beat the head of a rival family to death with his bare hands. That Vincent had faded away. Now he let his offshore accounts do the talking, kept his bare hands clean.
Anna shot me a glance that said, Don’t be fooled. I wasn’t. I wouldn’t be, ever again.
I sat to Vincent’s left, Serena to his right, Anna to Serena’s right. I guessed she wanted a body between her and her onetime uncle. The muscleheads stationed at either end of the room stood so still they blended in with the decor.
“Happy as I am to see you all,” Vincent said, “I was anticipating a larger party. Tell me: what happened to your escorts?”
Serena pulled out her phone, clicked to the photo of Broch, and held it up for our host to see. Vincent made a show of squinting.
“Well, he seems a bit worse for wear.”
“He’ll be fine,” Anna said. “We left him in the care of a very capable nurse. I’m afraid there’s not much she can do for Defoe.”
Vincent set down his fork and knife, appeared suddenly peevish. I thought he’d snap his fingers and have the twin henchmen open fire. Instead, he burst out laughing. His long, rolling guffaws hurt my ears.
“Well played, ladies,” he said. “Very well played. Maybe I’ll put you on the payroll. First, though, there’s a more pressing matter we must attend to. You’ll find I have a few surprises of my own.”
He picked up a little bell I hadn’t noticed before and rang it three times. The sound reminded me of the Diner Things in Life.
“I imagine you’ll enjoy this most of all,” Vincent said, staring straight at me. Just then I’d have given anything to be back in Doris’s kitchen.
The double doors swung open and Nigel came striding in. At his heels was the man I’d hoped I’d never see again outside of a courtroom: my husband, Detective Sean Walsh. Vincent looked around at our slack jaws, nodded approvingly.
“No need for introductions, I see. Please do have a seat, Detective. Or should I say ‘Former detective’?”
Nigel guided Sean to the throne-like chair opposite Vincent, then turned and left the room. Sean sat down. He glared at me with pure hatred but didn’t say a word. Neither did I. His hair was slicked back and he wore an all-black tracksuit. Classic thug attire. No one who didn’t know better would have guessed he was the cop in the room. To my surprise, I felt more repulsed than afraid. The features I once thought of as chiseled now only looked hard. The eyes I thought of as piercing had turned ice-cold.
“Sean, I believe there’s a burden you’d like to get off your chest,” Vincent said. “A rumor you’d like to set straight involving you and my departed nephew.”
“Yes, sir, there is. But before I begin, I want to thank you again for posting bail. Five million is more than—”
“Don’t mention it, son. A man of your caliber has no place behind bars.”
Vincent’s manner was
