Since it was Monday, he tried her at work, too, only to be told that she’d taken the day off. “Dammit, Jo. Where are you?”
He tried once more, this time sending only a text. The whoosh sound of the send notification still lingered when the front door of the tasting room opened and the authorities stepped in. A medical examiner, a uniformed cop, and a woman he assumed was a plain-clothes detective.
Red drew in one more lungful of fresh air, then entered from the garden to greet them, even though all he really wanted was for them to go away. He wanted time to mourn his friend. Time he didn’t have, not when he’d been tasked with finding a mysterious missing package. And certainly not when the caller had specifically said that any punishment for failure would be meted out on Jo.
He just had to hold it together until they left. Then he could track Jo down and find out if she knew anything about the MacGuffin.
He could do that. He drew in a breath, released it slowly, then marched into the tasting room to meet them.
“Thank you for getting here so fast,” he said to the woman who was flashing her badge.
“Detective Amaro. We’re sorry for your loss. You told the 911 operator your partner committed suicide?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He indicated the door to the distillery. “I can take you back.”
She followed with her crew, saying nothing, but with her sharp eyes taking it all in. He showed her the CO2 scrubbers that had been turned off, the vents that had been closed. He pointed out how the alarm system had been bypassed.
He explained the purpose of the mash tubs and how the fermentation process worked. He showed her the tub in which he’d found Mel’s body and explained that he’d left it as he’d found it to aid the investigation.
“And a note?”
He drew a breath, then pointed to the scrawled message written with a Sharpie on the side of the tub.
“Just ‘sorry’?” Detective Amaro cocked her head.
He swallowed. “That was it.”
“And his behavior recently?”
“He’d been more distant than usual. Closed off. Quiet.”
“You weren’t concerned?”
“A bit, but when I asked, he just said he had a lot on his mind. He’d been negotiating a hotel contract for us. I think he was putting too much pressure on himself. I should have realized. I should have done something.”
The emotion in his voice was real, even if it was murder and not suicide that was causing the thickness in his throat.
“I see,” she said, and he wondered if she truly did, especially as she started to walk the area, peering under the tubs, then checking the alarm panel and the lock on the fermentation room door. Red kept his expression bland. The face of a man who simply wanted to put the procedures behind him so that he could mourn his friend.
Entirely true, just not for the reasons he’d shared with Detective Amaro.
Red’s phone buzzed. “My brother and a friend just arrived in the tasting room. Do you need me in here?”
“No. But please don’t leave. Officer Franklin is in the tasting area. He’ll let you know if we need anything further.”
“Thanks.”
“Mr. Cooper?”
He turned back.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
He’d been holding it together, but something about those words from a cop got to him. His throat thickened, and his vision became watery. He managed a nod, then hurried out of the room, wanting nothing more than to disappear into his office for a few moments alone with the memory of his friend.
It didn’t happen. Renly and Damien Stark were waiting for him when he reached the tasting room. He and Renly weren’t identical, but people often thought they were. Red’s hair was brighter, something that had irritated him in school, and he was a few inches taller. Other than that, they might as well have been identical. Now, of course, Red sported a close-trimmed beard and a veritable art collection of tattoos. Renly was clean-shaven, and had only one tat from his time in Special Forces.
Still, they must have looked like a mirror when Renly pulled him into a bear hug. “I’m so sorry, bro. I didn’t even know Mel was hurting.”
“I know,” Red said, breaking away from his brother to take Damien’s outstretched hand.
“Whatever you need.” Tall and lean, with an athlete’s build, the billionaire exuded power and control. And, right now, compassion.
“Appreciate it.”
“Did he leave a note? Say anything to you?” Renly exhaled. “I can’t wrap my head around it.”
“Honestly, I need some air. Let’s talk at one of the tables in the garden.” He pointed to the bar and the array of whiskey bottles lining the shelves behind it. “Help yourselves. Wouldn’t blame you if you needed it.”
Renly met his eyes. “Want me to bring you a water?”
“Thanks.”
He headed out and the other men soon followed him. For a moment, they just sat silently, Red sipping water as the others sipped whiskey.
He sighed, then lifted his water bottle. “Here’s to Mel,” he said, and they toasted their friend. “We’ll miss you.”
As soon as Damien and Renly put down their glasses, Red lowered the boom, his voice pitched low, so it was almost lost in the ambient sounds from nearby Santa Monica Boulevard. Plus, he’d deliberately seated them at the middle table, far enough away from any listening devices or cameras mounted on the walls. “His death makes even less sense than you think.”
“What—”
Red leaned in before Renly could finish the questions. “He didn’t kill himself,” he said, the words barely a whisper. “I’ll tell you the rest later, away from here. But it was murder.”
“Fuck,” Renly said. “That explains why you wanted Damien here, too.”
“Because it won’t be the police who will be investigating,” Damien said. “It will be Stark Security.”
Red met his eyes. “I’m calling in that favor.”
“I already told you. Whatever you need,” Damien assured him. “I owe you everything. Tell us how he died.”
“Woozy from carbon dioxide, then drowned in one of the fermentation tubs.”
“Oh, God,” Renly said. He focused on Red. “You sure you’re handling it?”
Red had never told his brother about what had happened in Romania, but Renly wasn’t an idiot, and Red had left a hell of a lot of signposts.
After he left the service and came to California, Red had turned down dates to go diving with his brother, something they’d done for most of their lives in both California and Texas. He even avoided swimming pools. Anything submersive. Or that had the potential to be.
Maybe he’d be fine. But a panic attack in the ocean? Yeah, no thank you.
But Renly didn’t know any of that. Not the reason, anyway. But he knew. Somehow, his twin always knew.
“How do you know it wasn’t suicide?” Damien asked.
Red glanced purposefully around the courtyard. “For now, you’re just going to have to believe me.” He may have picked a silent location, but the more he talked, the more he risked being heard.
Technically, he hadn’t broken any rules by telling these men it was murder. The voice had said only to keep the truth away from the cops. But Red doubted that his nemesis would care about technicalities.