Dial Em for Murder (9 page)

I'm only a phone call away.

“Don't do anything stupid.”

Too late.

Either the enormous driver was under orders to be taciturn or he preferred keeping to himself, but the ride was a quiet one. He didn't ask if I wanted to make any stops before heading to Emptor Academy. He didn't recommend any detours or pry into my personal life, and I found myself wishing that he would provide a distraction. My imagination was spinning through worse-case scenarios and his silence wasn't exactly helping.

“So how long have you worked for the school?”

No answer.

“Do you like your job?”

He grunted. It wasn't much, but I chose to see it as progress.

“I've always wondered what it would be like to be a chauffeur,” I lied. It wasn't a sexy profession for a hero. At least not when compared with a billionaire Brazilian corporate tycoon, for example. “I suppose the hours can be pretty unpredictable. Do you get to pick and choose your clients or—”

“I'm not a chauffeur.”

Four whole words. I could hardly believe that I'd gotten so much out of him, although I was willing to bet that he'd only spoken to make me shut up.

Ben could've warned him against trying that technique with me.

“So, um . . . are you a butler? Wait, that isn't right. Butlers open doors and stuff. You're a bodyguard, right?” Now
that
was a job fit for a romance novel. “Do you usually work for moguls and, y'know, oil tycoon types?”

He snorted but otherwise didn't bother with a response. Still, I thought I caught a smile lurking on his craggy face. My mom told me once to never underestimate the power of asking someone else about their life experiences. She said it was the fastest way to make a friend and break an enemy, so I decided to press on.

“Do you have a favorite tough guy phrase?”

That one actually got him to briefly meet my gaze with a glance in the rearview mirror. “A what?”

“A tough guy phrase.
Go ahead, make my day
,” I said with all the menace I could muster. “Or maybe,
I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork
.”

He shook his head. “The president of Chile. And it wasn't with a fork.”

“No, I'm pretty sure I got the line right. My mom is a big John Cusack fan so I was practically raised on
Grosse Pointe Blank
.”

His smile widened and I caught a white flash of teeth. “I'm not talking about a movie.”

That
did the trick. I didn't say another word as he maneuvered skillfully through traffic and headed toward upstate New York. I was no longer sure I was much safer sitting in that car than I had been in that stupid coffee shop, but short of yanking open the door and taking a flying leap I wasn't going to be making a getaway.

Watching the scenery change outside the window was my only distraction, so I rolled down the window to feel the wind rush across the back of my hand as we merged onto the Bronx River Parkway. I tried not to be creeped out by the way the bare branches of trees loomed overhead with their lengthening shadows.

“Nearly there,” the driver-who-might-also-be-a-murderer said needlessly. I knew we weren't far from Emptor Academy. I'd been distracted by Audrey the night of Sebastian's party, but I still recognized the enormous metal gates. Funny how being fingerprinted at a security checkpoint tends to stay with a girl.

“Are you ever scared?” I blurted out in what must have sounded like a crazy non sequitur.

“Of Emptor Academy? No.”

“No, I meant . . .” I couldn't find the right words so I decided to wing it. “You're obviously strong and, y'know, tough. No one-liners required. So I was just wondering if anything scares you.”

He didn't reply immediately, but he didn't seem annoyed with me for asking. His silence felt thoughtful, as if he had no intention of giving a statement that he didn't fully support. As if anything he said should be worth repeating at his funeral.

“Fear is a matter of control.”

That told me nothing. “You seem pretty athletic. Actually, you look like you could bench press a mountain. So is that a no?”

He smiled as he pulled up to the gatehouse. “Only a fool believes that physical strength equals control.”

“That's a yes then?”

“I'll get back to you on that one.”

That's what I got for letting my curiosity get the best of me; a menacing hulk of a man with a well-trimmed goatee now intended to keep me updated on his philosophy of fear.

“You're going to be fingerprinted here, Miss Danvers.”

“Emmy.” I leaned out of the window so that I could do whatever the security guys at the gate needed. “My friends call me Emmy.”

If he wanted to get back to me about, well, anything, really, it meant we were already more than passing acquaintances. That's the way I saw it anyway.

He grunted. “My associates call me Force.”

“Force? As in, force equals mass times acceleration?” I asked, as a guard held out a Slate, indicating where he wanted me to place my fingers.

“Thumb here,” the stranger ordered. “Now your left hand.”

“Force as in force,” he said calmly as I pressed my fingers against the smooth cool surface of the Slate. The machine beeped and I braced myself for an interrogation.

“It appears you're already in our system, Miss Danvers. You came here a few months ago with a guest pass.”

I wouldn't have been surprised to hear him rattle off details about my one previous visit.

Apparently the security guard hadn't gotten that memo because he snapped a photo with the Slate, temporarily blinding me with the flash, and then reentered the guard shack so he could return with an ID card made from a hard, durable plastic material, which he handed me. I half expected Force to inform me that it was the latest in military technology. Instead, he remained silent. Introducing himself must have been more than enough verbal stimulation for my not-a-chauffeur, since he didn't say a word as the gate opened and the car approached the elaborate mansion standing before us.

Unfortunately for him, my nerves hadn't settled.

“Do a lot of people try to make puns out of your name?”

“No.”

Oh good, we were back to one word answers.

“Nobody ever called you Isaac Newton?”

He parked right in front of the austere brick building with its dark crimson shutters and opened my passenger side door before removing my suitcase. “Do I look like a Newton to you?”

“Not really,” I admitted, honestly. “A Newton probably wears horn-rimmed glasses and enjoys, I dunno, stamp collecting or something.”

“There you have it.”

“Maybe he could be your alter-ego, though?” I suggested. “Your version of Clark Kent? You can be Force half the time and then Newton when you're in the mood to watch reality TV or something.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

I shouldered my backpack. “Will you really?”

“No.”

I nearly laughed, but I wasn't entirely certain Force was joking with me and he didn't look like he'd appreciate people snickering at his expense. In fact, he looked fully capable of removing any offender's tongue with a pair of pliers.

The thought made me shiver. I quickly zipped up my sweatshirt to ward off the bitter chill of my own paranoia.

“Good, you're here. Thanks for babysitting her, Force.”

I swiveled around so quickly I nearly face-planted on the gravel driveway. Sebastian was standing outside the manor house with the confidence of a guy who thought he owned the place. I bit my bottom lip as I remembered that he probably
did
own it now that his grandfather was dead.

I wasn't even remotely ready to bring up that topic yet, so instead I went on the defensive.

“He wasn't babysitting me.”

“Sure, he wasn't,” Sebastian said too easily for his agreement to be genuine. “Are you ready for the tour? I don't have all day.”

“Yes, sir.” I snapped an ironic salute. “Right away, sir.”

“I like the sound of that.”

He would.

“Let's move. Now.”

I took the suitcase handle from Force and tried my best to smile up at the large man as I pulled it toward the fancy wrought iron archway. “Thanks for the ride, Newton.”

Force's laugh sounded more like a rough bark as he climbed back into the Town Car and drove off, leaving me with just my suitcase and Sebastian for company.

Between the two, I suspected Sebastian's personal baggage was a whole lot heavier than my luggage.

“Newton?” Sebastian asked.

“We bonded.”

Sebastian looked skeptical, but didn't come right out and call me a liar. Instead, he swiped his keycard next to the entrance and waited for the green light to flash before tugging it open. I noticed that his chivalry didn't extend to offering to help me lug my belongings inside. His etiquette instructor really needed to teach a refresher course on the basics of polite behavior.

“That door is to President Gilcrest's office. You'll want to see him tomorrow and make the transfer official.” I nodded, but Sebastian didn't appear to notice since he was already moving down the hallway. I had to scurry to keep up with him. “Straight down this hallway is the lounge for visiting lecturers. There's a bathroom to the left.”

“Great.” I headed toward the restroom, but he kept walking straight out the back door, apparently unable to linger any longer in the stately building.

Somebody wasn't going to be winning any awards as the world's greatest tour guide.

“The sports complex is over there,” he pointed across a small green lawn at a building that looked way too formal to house an Olympic-sized pool. “Dance classes are mandatory, but you'll have the option of taking rock climbing or fencing for your other credit.”

I already knew that I wanted to be as far away as humanly possible from anyone whose idea of a good time was to poke and prod at an opponent with a long piece of metal.

“I heard there was a pool.”

Sebastian smiled. “That swim class is already full, but you're welcome to use it in your free time. Although I'm not sure we have water wings.”

I glared at him. “I'm not three, thanks.”

“Yeah, but you look so sinkable.”

I pointed at a different, yet equally formidable-looking building to change the subject. “What's that?”

“The boys' dorm. Curfew is set for midnight. It's taken very seriously here.”

I snorted. “Yeah, like
you
care about making curfew. I bet it has never stopped you once.”

Sebastian smiled. “You're right, I don't care. You probably will, though. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a goody two-shoes healthy, not-so-wealthy, and boring. I think I got that right.”

My suitcase hit a crack in the cobblestones and went lurching forward. “Look, I get it. You can barely tolerate me. Message received. The feeling is mutual. Why don't you point me in the direction of my dorm and we'll call it a night?”

Sebastian didn't slow his pace, and I had to yank hard at my suitcase in order to catch up. “I can tolerate you. Besides if I leave now, you won't get to ask me that question of yours.”

“Whether or not you were dropped on your head as a baby? Yeah, I was willing to leave that unasked. I think the answer is fairly obvious.”

If anything, my insult only amused him even more. “And here I thought you wanted to know more about my grandpa. Y'know, the guy who allegedly
died
for you.”

That brought me up short. I stared at Sebastian, but I couldn't break through his poker face. If he was upset or angry or grief-stricken, then he concealed it masterfully. Although there was something about the way he said the word
died
that sounded too dismissive. As if he thought it warranted air quotes so that it couldn't be taken too seriously.

“I'm, uh, sorry for your loss?” If he'd seemed broken up about it, I would have tried to be a bit more sympathetic. Understanding, maybe?

Instead, I just felt confused.

He shrugged. “That's a little premature, don't you think?”

I'm pretty sure there isn't a required time lapse after someone dies before you should offer your condolences. So no, I don't see anything premature about it.
I swallowed hard and tried to find a more tactful response.

“I don't follow. Premature
how
exactly?”

“Well,” Sebastian said as if the answer should be obvious. As if I were asking,
What's two plus two, Sebastian?
“We both know that he's not dead.”

“Are you sure?”

The question felt ridiculous even as I asked it. Still, I didn't think there was all that much ambiguity when it came to life and death. You were either breathing, or you weren't. And last time I had checked (aka when he was lying right on top of me) the coffee thief didn't have a
pulse
.

“The, uh, medical examiner told you he was alive?” I continued, unable to believe that Detective Dumbass had so blatantly lied when he confirmed the old man was deceased. “Is he in a coma or something?”

I wanted Sebastian to say yes for so many reasons, some of which were purely selfish. If he woke up from a coma, he'd be able to explain himself. To tell me why anyone would want me dead—why he had handed me his Slate—what my dad had to do with any of it. If he was still alive, maybe the memory of that last shuddering breath wouldn't haunt me forever. There was also a stupidly sentimental part of me that wondered if I owed the coffee thief my life.