Bad Blood
Page 15
“If either of you question him,” I said to the FBI agents before they could respond to the threat inherent in Dean’s words, “the chances that Michael’s father will snap are very small.” Lia gave me a look that said You are not helping, but I plowed on. “Thatcher is grandiose and capable of enormous levels of self-deception. If he does snap, so long as there aren’t any other adults there, he might actually give us the information we need.”
Sloane cleared her throat and then made an attempt at helping my argument. “I would estimate that Michael’s father is seventy-one inches tall, one-hundred and sixty-one pounds.” When it became clear that none of us saw the relevance of that number, Sloane expanded: “I think we can take him.”
Lia turned and batted her eyelashes at Judd, who’d approached the discussion midway through.
“Fine,” Judd said after a long moment’s deliberation. “But this time, you’ll be the ones wearing cameras.”
I reached out to ring the Townsends’ front door, but Lia tested the knob and, finding it unlocked, let herself in. Eventually, she’d make Michael pay for the stunt he’d pulled back in Celine’s room, but she’d come riding to his rescue first. “Drink?”
The moment I heard Michael’s voice, I crossed the threshold after Lia. I heard a faint clinking—glass on glass—and quickly surmised that Michael was pouring himself a drink and offering one to someone else.
I followed Lia through the house. Sloane and Dean did the same. In the living room—the same one where Briggs and Sterling had interviewed Celine’s parents—we found Michael with his father.
Thatcher Townsend accepted the drink Michael had made him, then raised the glass, a devil-handsome smile playing around the edges of his lips. “You should have answered when I called,” he told Michael, saying the words like a toast, like an inside joke that he and Michael shared. Just looking at Thatcher, I knew that this man was everyone’s best friend. He was the perfect salesman, one who specialized in selling himself.
Michael raised his glass and offered his father a charming smile of his own. “I’ve never really excelled at should.”
Once upon a time, Michael had almost certainly feared the moments when his father’s charming mask slipped. Now he took power from his ability to make it slip.
But Thatcher Townsend proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the mocking undertone in Michael’s voice. “How are you, Michael?”
“Handsome, prone to bouts of melancholy and questionable decision-making. And you?”
“Always so glib,” Thatcher said with a shake of his head, smiling softly, as if he and his son were reminiscing. He caught a glimpse of the rest of us out of the corner of his eye. “It appears we have company,” he told Michael. The older Townsend turned his attention to us. “You must be Michael’s friends. I’m Thatcher. Please, come in. Help yourself to a drink if and only if you can resist the urge to report me to the FBI for contributing to the delinquency of minors.”
Michael’s father was magnetic. Charming, friendly, larger-than-life.
You live to be adored, I thought, and no matter how often you hurt Michael, you never stop turning on the charm.
“Michael, darling…” Lia strolled over to join father and son, winding her hand through Michael’s. “Introduce us.”
In the span of a heartbeat, Lia had donned a persona I’d never seen before. It was present in the way she held her head, the way she glided across the floor, the musical lilt in her voice. Michael narrowed his eyes at her, but must have been able to tell from the look on her face that he was lucky she hadn’t chosen to make a more memorable entrance.
“This is Sadie,” he told his father, tucking a hand around Lia’s waist as he introduced her by her alias of choice. “And by the door, we have Esmerelda, Erma, and Barf.”
For the first time, I saw a flicker of annoyance cross Townsend Senior’s face. “Barf?” He eyed Dean.
“It’s short for Bartholomew,” Lia lied smoothly. “Our Barf had a speech impediment as a child.”
Like me, Dean must have suspected that there was a method to Michael and Lia’s madness, because he didn’t say a word.
“Question,” Sloane said, raising her hand. “Am I Erma or Esmerelda?”
Thatcher Townsend gave every sign of being amused. “I see my son has found a place where he fits right in. I’m sorry my wife couldn’t be here to meet you all. I’m sure Michael has told you she has an adventurous streak. She runs a free clinic here in town, but travels with Doctors Without Borders whenever she gets the chance.”
It was hard to picture Thatcher Townsend with anything but a society wife. My gut said that he’d mentioned his wife’s adventurous streak for the sole purpose of punishing his son for refusing him our real names. Fists aren’t your only weapon. You are a man of intellect—unless the boy forces you to become something else.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Celine Delacroix.” Dean was the one who cut to the chase.
“Now, Barf,” Michael chided, “let the man finish his drink.”
Thatcher ignored his son and focused his performance on Dean. “Feel free to ask any questions you would like. Despite my son’s insistence on treating everything like a joke, I can assure you that both Celine’s family and I are taking this very seriously.”
“Why?” Sloane asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Thatcher said.
“Why are you taking this so seriously?” Sloane tilted her head to the side, trying to make this whole situation compute. “Why were you the one to call in the FBI?”
“I’ve known Celine since the day she was born,” Thatcher replied. “Her father is one of my closest friends. Why wouldn’t I help?”
A flicker of movement caught my eye as Lia held her index finger against the side of her thigh, a subtle, downward-pointing number one.
That’s the first lie he’s told. Given that we knew that Thatcher and Remy had been in business together before either of their children were born, I doubted Thatcher was lying about how long he’d known Celine, and that meant that he was lying about his relationship with Celine’s father. Maybe you don’t consider him your friend. Maybe he crossed you. Maybe you’re the type to keep your enemies close.
Sloane cleared her throat and then made an attempt at helping my argument. “I would estimate that Michael’s father is seventy-one inches tall, one-hundred and sixty-one pounds.” When it became clear that none of us saw the relevance of that number, Sloane expanded: “I think we can take him.”
Lia turned and batted her eyelashes at Judd, who’d approached the discussion midway through.
“Fine,” Judd said after a long moment’s deliberation. “But this time, you’ll be the ones wearing cameras.”
I reached out to ring the Townsends’ front door, but Lia tested the knob and, finding it unlocked, let herself in. Eventually, she’d make Michael pay for the stunt he’d pulled back in Celine’s room, but she’d come riding to his rescue first. “Drink?”
The moment I heard Michael’s voice, I crossed the threshold after Lia. I heard a faint clinking—glass on glass—and quickly surmised that Michael was pouring himself a drink and offering one to someone else.
I followed Lia through the house. Sloane and Dean did the same. In the living room—the same one where Briggs and Sterling had interviewed Celine’s parents—we found Michael with his father.
Thatcher Townsend accepted the drink Michael had made him, then raised the glass, a devil-handsome smile playing around the edges of his lips. “You should have answered when I called,” he told Michael, saying the words like a toast, like an inside joke that he and Michael shared. Just looking at Thatcher, I knew that this man was everyone’s best friend. He was the perfect salesman, one who specialized in selling himself.
Michael raised his glass and offered his father a charming smile of his own. “I’ve never really excelled at should.”
Once upon a time, Michael had almost certainly feared the moments when his father’s charming mask slipped. Now he took power from his ability to make it slip.
But Thatcher Townsend proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the mocking undertone in Michael’s voice. “How are you, Michael?”
“Handsome, prone to bouts of melancholy and questionable decision-making. And you?”
“Always so glib,” Thatcher said with a shake of his head, smiling softly, as if he and his son were reminiscing. He caught a glimpse of the rest of us out of the corner of his eye. “It appears we have company,” he told Michael. The older Townsend turned his attention to us. “You must be Michael’s friends. I’m Thatcher. Please, come in. Help yourself to a drink if and only if you can resist the urge to report me to the FBI for contributing to the delinquency of minors.”
Michael’s father was magnetic. Charming, friendly, larger-than-life.
You live to be adored, I thought, and no matter how often you hurt Michael, you never stop turning on the charm.
“Michael, darling…” Lia strolled over to join father and son, winding her hand through Michael’s. “Introduce us.”
In the span of a heartbeat, Lia had donned a persona I’d never seen before. It was present in the way she held her head, the way she glided across the floor, the musical lilt in her voice. Michael narrowed his eyes at her, but must have been able to tell from the look on her face that he was lucky she hadn’t chosen to make a more memorable entrance.
“This is Sadie,” he told his father, tucking a hand around Lia’s waist as he introduced her by her alias of choice. “And by the door, we have Esmerelda, Erma, and Barf.”
For the first time, I saw a flicker of annoyance cross Townsend Senior’s face. “Barf?” He eyed Dean.
“It’s short for Bartholomew,” Lia lied smoothly. “Our Barf had a speech impediment as a child.”
Like me, Dean must have suspected that there was a method to Michael and Lia’s madness, because he didn’t say a word.
“Question,” Sloane said, raising her hand. “Am I Erma or Esmerelda?”
Thatcher Townsend gave every sign of being amused. “I see my son has found a place where he fits right in. I’m sorry my wife couldn’t be here to meet you all. I’m sure Michael has told you she has an adventurous streak. She runs a free clinic here in town, but travels with Doctors Without Borders whenever she gets the chance.”
It was hard to picture Thatcher Townsend with anything but a society wife. My gut said that he’d mentioned his wife’s adventurous streak for the sole purpose of punishing his son for refusing him our real names. Fists aren’t your only weapon. You are a man of intellect—unless the boy forces you to become something else.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Celine Delacroix.” Dean was the one who cut to the chase.
“Now, Barf,” Michael chided, “let the man finish his drink.”
Thatcher ignored his son and focused his performance on Dean. “Feel free to ask any questions you would like. Despite my son’s insistence on treating everything like a joke, I can assure you that both Celine’s family and I are taking this very seriously.”
“Why?” Sloane asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Thatcher said.
“Why are you taking this so seriously?” Sloane tilted her head to the side, trying to make this whole situation compute. “Why were you the one to call in the FBI?”
“I’ve known Celine since the day she was born,” Thatcher replied. “Her father is one of my closest friends. Why wouldn’t I help?”
A flicker of movement caught my eye as Lia held her index finger against the side of her thigh, a subtle, downward-pointing number one.
That’s the first lie he’s told. Given that we knew that Thatcher and Remy had been in business together before either of their children were born, I doubted Thatcher was lying about how long he’d known Celine, and that meant that he was lying about his relationship with Celine’s father. Maybe you don’t consider him your friend. Maybe he crossed you. Maybe you’re the type to keep your enemies close.
