“Mal really misses him,” Nicole said.
“They were the perfect partners. They balanced each other. Ty was contemplative and deliberate. Mal is impetuous. Ty was cautious. Mal takes risks. Mal has a tendency to push a project as far as he can, but Ty would make sure Mal didn't push it too far. They called it taking considered risks. Sort of like the risk they took when they contacted you.”
Nicole stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Joyce paused. “I know you and Mal used to be married. Ty told me.”
Nicole felt her cheeks begin to burn. How many other people knew? Her imagination ran back to those cocktail parties and the crowd of investors. Did they all know she and Malcolm were divorced?
“Don't worry,” Joyce continued as though reading Nicole's mind. “Ty asked me not to tell anyone else. He was concerned that you would be uncomfortable if other people knew about your former relationship.”
Nicole sighed, grateful for Tyrone's consideration. Then she frowned, remembering the rest of what Joyce had said. “How was contacting me a risk?”
“Mal was afraid that, if you found out he co-owned Celestial Productions, you wouldn't even consider their offer,” Joyce explained. “Ty suggested a couple of ways they could submit offers for the
InterDimensions
movie rights without revealing Mal's name. But Mal didn't want to do anything to mislead you.”
Nicole dropped her gaze to stare absently at the thick, rose carpet. Joyce's explanation had painted such a clear picture of the man she had fallen in love with in her past life. A man of integrity. Malcolm had never played games. He didn't believe in subterfuge. If he wanted something, he asked for it.
I want another chance, Nicky. I want to try again with you.
The memory of his words caused her to soften. If only it was that easy for her. Nicole thrust that thought aside. She was here for Joyce, who was staring quizzically at her.
“How is Ty's family?”
“I spoke with them this morning before the police arrived. They're doing as well as can be expected.” Joyce stared at her empty teacup.
“May I pour you some more tea?” Nicole asked, already stepping forward to take Joyce's cup.
“Thank you.”
Nicole returned Joyce's cup to her before refilling her own. She slipped back into the chair.
“The police told Ty's parents they don't have any new information on âthe case.'” Joyce emphasized the impersonal term. “They're not very forthcoming with the information they do have. I understand that they don't want to compromise their investigation, but can't they give us something?”
Joyce's voice broke. Nicole set her cup on the table and hurried over to sit beside the other woman. She covered Joyce's trembling fingers with one hand and curved her arm around Joyce's shoulders. Nicole's mind searched for comforting words, but what could she say?
Don't cry?
Why not?
Everything will be okay?
How did she know? Nothing suitable came to mind. Instead, Nicole pulled Joyce closer into her embrace, as though comforting Lynnette, and said nothing.
Â
Shortly after one in the afternoon, Malcolm led two homicide detectives back to his office. He was anxious to speak with the police directly about the investigation rather than hearing about it second- or thirdhand.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk.
Malcolm felt too anxious to use the conversation table in the corner of his office. The solid oak executive desk would offer him more support. As he settled behind the desk, he noticed the detectives taking in the knickknacks and memorabilia decorating his office: photos of him and Tyrone on shoots and celebrating company milestones, civic certificates, and movie props. He wondered what message his office conveyed to these trained observers.
“We appreciate your taking the time to meet with us on such short notice, Mr. Bryant,” said the detective who had introduced himself as Jim Miller.
He had a friendly, if fleshy, face under dark, unkempt hair. His flushed complexion tagged him as a heart attack waiting to happen. Under his ill-fitting clothes, he appeared to be carrying an extra thirty or forty pounds on his average frame.
Malcolm folded his hands on the desktop and leaned forward. “It's not a problem. I'm anxious to find the person who killed my partner. Were there any witnesses to the crash? Someone who could identify the car?”
“No one has come forward yet,” Miller answered. “How long were you and Mr. Austin partners?”
“About three years,” Malcolm answered. “We shared all of the responsibilities for running the company, but technically, he handled the business end and I handled the creative end.” Malcolm switched gears again. “Have you heard reports of any similar attacks anywhere else in the city or the county?”
“No, we haven't heard of other attacks,” Miller answered.
Detective Ethan Fairway shifted in his chair. He was taller and slimmer than his partner. “Mr. Bryant, if you don't mind, we'd like to get through our questions first. Afterward, you can ask us your questions, and if it doesn't compromise the investigation, we'll be happy to answer them for you.”
“Of course. I apologize,” Malcolm murmured. He tamped down his impatience and prepared to ride out the interview.
“Don't worry about it,” Miller said, giving him an absent-minded smile. “You and Mr. Austin were partners for three years, you said. How did you two meet?”
“We were production assistants at Leo DeCaprio's company. We worked together there for about five years before deciding to strike out on our own.” Malcolm leaned back into his chair, trying to get more comfortable.
“What can you tell us about Mr. Austinâas a business partner?” Fairway asked. “Did he work hard? Was he dedicated to the company?”
“Definitely.” Malcolm didn't hesitate. “Very dedicated. The business takes up every spare moment we have.”
“You spent a lot of time together, then?” Fairway continued his line of questioning.
“Yes. We were business partners. We were also roommates for a while to help save on expenses when we started the company,” Malcolm elaborated.
“You worked together and you lived together? Didn't all that time together drive you guys nuts?” Miller interrupted.
Malcolm smiled. “I can understand why you would think so, but it didn't. Ty and I are”âMalcolm hesitatedâ“were very good friends. We were like brothers.”
“Did you have a good working relationship?” Fairway asked.
“Yes.” Malcolm wondered whether he imagined the detective's hostility. “We wouldn't have gotten as far as we have without one.”
“I suppose that's true,” Fairway acknowledged. “How's your company doing?”
“Very well,” Malcolm answered, hoping his growing defensiveness wasn't reflected in his voice.
“Were you both satisfied with the company's performance?”
Malcolm hesitated, not certain he was comfortable with the direction the questions were taking. “The company is on the track we plotted for our five-year plan. We agreed we were ready to take on bigger projects.”
Miller stepped in, seeking clarification. “So you're saying you both agreed to change the company's direction?”
Malcolm began to suspect Miller was either hiding a tape recorder or he was hard of hearing. Either would explain why the detective repeated everything Malcolm said.
“This isn't a new direction,” Malcolm corrected. “We cut our teeth on commercials, music videos, and smaller movies. We're now ready for the bigger projects.”
“I see,” Miller murmured with an absent nod.
“What happens to Mr. Austin's share of the partnership now?” Fairway asked.
“The partnership agreement provides that, on the death of a partner, his share of the company would go to his immediate family members,” Malcolm explained.
“So you're saying you would have to buy out his family in order to gain sole ownership of Celestial Productions?” Miller asked.
“Yes.” Malcolm would have been amused by Miller's constant repetition if the conversation wasn't a police interrogation.
“And how much is Mr. Austin's share of the business worth?” Fairway's close scrutiny belied his casual pose.
Malcolm named the figure and Fairway whistled.
“I don't suppose you have that sort of cash handy?” he asked.
Malcolm cocked a brow. “No, I don't.” He returned the detectives' somber stare, waiting for their next question.
“Where were you that morning?” Fairway asked.
The tension in Malcolm's shoulders eased. Apparently the detectives had tired of the cat-and-mouse game, much to his relief. He preferred the direct approach to dealing with accusations.
“I was at home asleep,” he answered.
“Were you with anyone?” Fairway followed up.
“No.” Malcolm returned Fairway's steady stare. “Am I under suspicion, detectives?”
Miller looked up from his notepad. “At this point, Mr. Bryant, everyone is under suspicion.”
C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN
Night never really fell in Los Angeles. Neon lights cast a near midday brightness until dawn. Malcolm stared down at the street through his office window, fighting the melancholy that allowed such thoughts to take root. It was hard to cope with a friend's death. But being suspected of his murder ripped open wounds before they'd even had a chance to heal. Disgusted with his self-pity, Malcolm turned away from the window.
Since the detectives' interrogation that morning, he hadn't been able to get much work done. Between his concern for Nicole's safety, which was compromised by a stalker who'd found access into her security building, and the news he was suspected of his friend's murder, Malcolm had found it hard to focus on work. He felt overwhelmed by the emotions churning in his soul, of which anger, sorrow, and fear were the most recognizable.
Someone had killed his best friend. Who? Why? Was it a random act of violence? Was it road rage?
Someone was stalking the woman he loved. Was it a secret admirer? Could it be a case of mistaken identity?
These questions had plagued him all day, driving him insane. Yet all he'd been able to accomplish was wasting time. He glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was after eight o'clock. He might as well call it a day.
Malcolm wandered to the door, pausing to take his jacket from the coat tree. Then he glanced at the phone.
Should I call Nicky?
He'd already called her several times during the day. Each time, she'd been a bit less tolerant of his concern. She said he was making her more tense than the stalker was. Still, maybe he should check in with her one more time before heading home.
“No. You should go see her.”
Tyrone's voice ran across his mind.
No,
Malcolm thought, feeling unsure of himself.
I don't want her to see me like this again.
“She's already seen you cry.”
Tyrone's reminder was not appreciated.
“As a matter of fact, I think you could say she made you cry. And that didn't seem to disgust her.”
“She didn't make me cry,” Malcolm snapped aloud, rising to the bait as readily as he would have when Tyrone was alive. He imagined the suppressed laughter in his partner's voice as snippets of remembered conversations merged to make him feel as though he were actually talking to his friend.
“Yes, she did. But don't worry about it. Go see her. You know you want to.”
Malcolm made the restless trip down the four flights of stairs to the lobby.
“No, Ty,”
Malcolm replied. “
I don't want her to see me upset again. That's not the image of me I want her to have.
”
“Why not? Don't you want someone who can accept you in good times and in bad?”
Malcolm deactivated his car alarm as he approached the driver's side door. “
Of course. I just wish she didn't always have to see the bad. It kind of undermines the image of success I was trying to cultivate.
”
“Forget the image, player,”
Tyrone's voice teased.
“I think she wants to know the real you this time.”
Malcolm slid behind the wheel and started his car. “What do you mean, âthis time'?” Alone in his car, he felt comfortable enough to talk out loud.
“You didn't really let her get to know the whole you last time, did you?”
“Of course, I did,” Malcolm argued. “We were together for five years.”
“Time is relative,”
Tyrone noted.
“What are you afraid of?”
Malcolm pondered the question. “My company is in trouble, and I'm a suspect in your murder. My life is spinning out of control. I feel as incompetent as I did six years ago when our baby died and I couldn't reach Nicky emotionally.”
“Go see her. You know you want to,”
Tyrone repeated.
But his friend's words weren't necessary. Malcolm realized his car was traveling the road his heart had already taken.
Â
The phone rang just as the heroine was fighting for her life against the villain.
Nicole slipped the bookmark into the romantic suspense novel to save her place.
“Drat. Right at the good part,” she muttered as she tossed aside the afghan and swung her bare legs over the side of the sofa. She crossed the room and picked up the wall phone on the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Nicole,” a formal voice responded. “This is Frank DeCaprio.”
“Hi, Frank,” she greeted.
“I hope I'm not disturbing you?” he asked.
“Not at all.” She dropped cross-legged onto the carpet. “I was just reading.”
“What were you reading?”
“A romantic suspense.” Nicole knew that with that response she'd gone down another notch in his estimation.
“How can you read those things?” Frank sounded more curious than condemning.
“A good story is a good story,” Nicole said mildly. She could almost feel him considering her words. “So, what are you up to?”
“I was hoping you'd changed your mind about going to Christopher Gilliard's presentation with me tomorrow night.”
The hopeful lilt to Frank's voice reminded Nicole of Malcolm's warning. Was the young sci-fi enthusiast developing a crush on her? No, she discounted. That was ridiculous. Wasn't it? Nicole remembered Frank's mother's reaction to her conversation with her son. She mentally shook her head. The thought was too absurd for consideration.
“No, I haven't changed my mind. Thank you for asking, but as I mentioned, I've already heard that particular presentation. It's very good, though. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.”
“Are you sure you don't want to hear it again?” Frank's chuckle sounded awkward and forced.
Nicole knew she'd made the right decision. She'd have to be careful around Frank in the future. She didn't want to do anything to inadvertently encourage him.
“I'm sure.” She stared at the view from the window across the room. “Besides, I have a feeling I'm going to need Saturday afternoon to get through a difficult plot point in my manuscript.”
“Oh?” Frank's curiosity was apparently piqued. “What plot point is that? Perhaps I can help you.”
Nicole's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The idea of brainstorming, with a reader, the plot of her unfinished manuscript seemed strange to her. “I appreciate your offer, Frank, but I'd hate to give away anything at this stage of the manuscript.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm sure. Besides, it would ruin the suspense for you.”
“I don't mind, and I'm sure I can help,” Frank insisted. “I know the characters.”
Nicole was amused by his persistence. “Frank, I appreciate your offer, but I'll work it out.” She shifted to find a more comfortable position on the carpet.
“All right.” Frank hesitated before continuing. “I've written a couple of stories based on the
InterDimensions
characters.”
“You have?” The revelation startled Nicole. Although many fans had written to her with suggested story lines, the idea of her characters living other lives without input from her didn't sit well. “Tell me about them,” she invited.
“Well, they're not nearly as good as what you've done,” Frank qualified before launching into a description of some of his story lines. Although unpolished, they hinted at a talent waiting to be developed.
“Those are good ideas, Frank. What are you going to do with them?”
“Just keep working at them.”
“Good. I think you should. You have talent,” Nicole encouraged. “But perhaps you'll want to create your own characters.”
“Perhaps.” Frank paused. “What are you going to do about the captain and the lieutenant commander?” he asked, referring to two of the
InterDimensions
heroes. “Some people on your fan loop are guessing that you're going to make them fall in love. At first, I was sure they were wrong. Commander Albright and Captain Mallory are too career-focused to fall in love. But now that I know you read romances, I'm not too sure what you'll have them do.”
Nicole rubbed her forehead, wondering at the censor coloring the edges of Frank's tone. Was she being hypersensitive, or was Frank rather obsessive about her series? “Readers have sent me letters asking about a possible romance between Albright and Mallory as well. I'm on book four of the series. I don't know if a relationship between those characters will develop. I've always let the characters guide me as to what they might want to do.”
“Fair enough, since it is their lives.” Frank sounded satisfied.
Nicole frowned. “I'm glad you approve,” she said dryly. The security phone buzzed, claiming her attention. “Hold on a second. Someone's at my door.”
Nicole glanced at the clock on the wall as she set the phone down. It was shortly before 9:00
P.M.
She uncrossed her bare legs and walked to the security phone.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“It's Mal. May I come up?”
She frowned at the tension in his voice. “Of course.”
Nicole pressed the security button to let Malcolm into the building. She then hurried back to the phone. “Frank, I have company. I'm afraid I have to go now. But thank you for calling.”
“Who is it?” Frank asked.
“It's Mal,” Nicole answered, distracted. She glanced toward the door, knowing the phone cord wouldn't stretch the distance. She was anxious to get off the phone to greet Malcolm.
What put that tone in his voice?
Nicole realized she still held the phone. “I'm sorry, Frank. I have to go now.”
“I understand,” he said. “I'll talk to you again.”
“Yes. Good-bye, Frank.” She recradled the phone, then opened the door seconds after Malcolm knocked. She grew wary at the look in his eyes.
“What's happened?” She led him into the room.
Malcolm shook his head. “Did the stalker contact you today?”
Nicole sighed. “For the umpteenth time, no. I didn't receive any strange calls or threatening notes. Nothing. Now tell me what's wrong.”
Malcolm dropped onto her sofa. “The police came to see me today.”
“What did they say?” She sat beside him, their knees inches apart.
Malcolm rested his head on the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “They asked questions about Ty. About the company. About Ty and the company. And about Ty, the company, and me.”
Nicole stiffened. “What did they want to know?”
“Whether Ty and I got along personally and professionally. How well the company is doing. What happens to Ty's share of the company now. In other words, did I kill him?”
Nicole gasped as though someone had thrown ice-cold water in her face. “You're a suspect?”
Malcolm looked at her. “According to the police, everyone's a suspect.” He turned away and closed his eyes again.
Nicole heard the pain in his voice. She knew he said the words not because he believed them, but rather to make them both feel better. She looked at his hand lying beside his thigh. Her gaze continued up his arm where the once-crisp sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Her gaze curved over his shoulder.
Malcolm's tension telegraphed itself in the taut lines of his neck. His eyes were closed, allowing her to study him without his knowing. Nicole hurt for him, anxious to find a way to provide comfort. But, in the past, he'd pushed her away whenever she'd offered support. She didn't want him to turn from her today. She had to find a way to be with him while he grieved.
“It bothers me that they think I was involved in Ty's death.” Malcolm seemed to force the words past his lips.
Nicole's fingers itched to grasp his hand. “I understand. It would bother me, too. But I'm certain it was routine questioning. They talked to Joyce today also.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I called her. She really didn't need to go through something like that.” Malcolm opened his eyes and caught her staring at him. “She told me you visited her this morning. That was nice of you.”
Nicole shrugged a shoulder. “I'm concerned about her.”
Malcolm gave her a faint smile, then turned away and closed his eyes again. Nicole searched her mind for something encouraging to say.
Malcolm could feel Nicole's scrutiny. It seemed to test his emotional barrier, trying to weaken his ability to remain detached and controlled. He didn't know how to handle this trauma. But he did know that after Nicole had made him face his grief, then wrapped her arms around him to share his pain, he'd gained a measure of peace, at least temporarily. It shamed him how much he wanted to experience that peace again. Even as he fought against the need, he could feel his subconscious reaching for her.