Glass was everywhere. No, not glass. Crystal. Broken crystal, scattered all over the ground. A wide swath of floor, from the liquor cabinet to the wall across from it, was coated in broken tumblers and bottles and decanters. It all came back to Jameson. He had broken every piece of glassware in the room, after Sanders had left.
After she had left.
The pounding wasn't going away, and now that he knew why Sanders wasn't answering the door – because he wasn't there – Jameson made his way to the front of the house. Someone was knocking, over and over. Jameson stomped up and yanked open the door.
“What?” he barked.
A police officer blinked at him. Jameson was surprised, but he didn't show it. He kept his glare in place. The officer was young and tall. Taller than Jameson. He looked gangly and nervous, like it was his first day at basketball camp. Jameson raised his eyebrows, glancing between the cop and the police cruiser that was parked in the driveway.
“Um, is this the residence of ...,” the cop checked a notepad. “Jameson Kane? Or Sanders Dash ..., Dashke ...,”
“Yes,” Jameson cut him off.
“Are you -,”
“I'm Jameson. This is my home. What do you want?” he demanded. The cop swallowed nervously.
“Uh, we wanted to let you know, we found your car,” he answered. Jameson's eyebrows went back up.
“My car?” he asked, not having a clue what was going on. The cop looked down at the notepad he was holding.
“Uh, a Bentley, registered to a Jameson Kane and a Sanders Dashke ..., uh, yeah. License plate WXC1-,” the cop started to prattle off. Jameson held up a hand.
“Yes, I know my own license plate. What about the car?” he pressed. Now the cop looked surprised.
“Um, it was reported stolen,” the cop explained.
“Stolen?”
“Yes. Mr. ..., Mr. Sanders reported it stolen, last night. It's being towed here, right now. I just had some questions,” the cop told him.
“Sanders reported our car stolen?” Jameson clarified.
Someone had stolen the Bentley? He hadn't even known it was gone, and if he had, he would've just assumed Sanders had taken it. He was practically the only one who ever drove it; it was more his than Jameson's.
Who would want to steal the Bentley? After Sanders had put in his “notice”, Jameson had kicked everyone out. Just walked into the main lounge and yelled at everyone to get the hell out of his house. Petrushka Ivanovic, his ex girlfriend, had argued to stay, but he had practically thrown her out onto the porch and then slammed the door in her face.
Then Jameson had locked himself in the library and drank himself stupid, cursing both Tate and Sanders while he destroyed all his crystal. Was it possible that one of his disgruntled party guests had stolen his car? Most of them were wealthy in their own right; they could buy their own Bentleys.
“Yes, last evening,” the cop continued. “We found it soon afterwards. There's some minor damage to the vehicle, but it was like that when we found it. We took pictures, but you'll want to contact your insurance company.”
At that moment, a tow truck started rumbling up the drive. Jameson stared in shock as his car was pulled around, right in front of the porch. The entire passenger side of the Bentley was scratched up, as if it had side swiped something and then dragged along it. The sideview had been ripped clean off.
“What the fuck happened? Did you find the person who stole it?” Jameson demanded, stepping out onto the porch. The cop flipped through some paperwork.
“Yes. Actually, that's how we found the car. An officer who had responded to a 9-1-1 call noticed the car idling in the middle of the road, he called in the plates,” the cop read off the notes.
“Did you arrest the thief?” Jameson asked.
“Not yet. From what I understand, it was a woman. She was found unconscious in a pool in the Beacon Hill Athletic Club,” the officer explained.
Tatum.
“Unconscious?” Jameson repeated, his voice soft. More pages flipped in the notepad.
“Um, that's how she was found, that's what the officer at the scene reported. Uhhh, let's see ..., okay, the report says that when paramedics arrived, she was having generalized seizures. A man on the scene said she had vomited prior to -,”
Jameson didn't hear any more. He turned around and walked back into the house without saying a word. Walked straight back in to his kitchen and opened a cupboard next to the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Twisted off the wrapper and cap, chugging as much as he could before he had to breathe again. There was a creaking noise behind him and he became aware that the cop had followed him. Jameson took one more drink before leaning against the counter.
“Is she okay?”
“Do you know the -,”
“Is she okay?”
“Uh, um,” the cop stuttered, and Jameson heard notepaper rustling. “I-I don't know. The last report I received was that she was checked in to an emergency room, still having seizures, and with an irregular, slow, heart beat and low oxygen levels. I haven't heard anything else, Mr. Kane.”
Mr. Kane. Someone should've told him my real name is Satan.
“Leave,” Jameson whispered, staring at his granite counter tops.
“Excuse me?”
“I said leave. Get out of my house,” Jameson snapped, finally turning around. The cop looked stunned.
“We have some paperwork, I need you to -,” he started to stammer. Jameson strode forward and pushed past the officer.
“The car belongs to Sanders, track him down,” he grumbled.
“But you -, sir! Sir, did you know you're bleeding!?” the cop exclaimed, hurrying after Jameson and pointing out the bloody footprints he was leaving behind him.
“Yes,” Jameson snapped back. A large man in coveralls was hovering in the open doorway, holding a piece of paper.
“Hey! Who gunnah pay for dis tow job? I need fiddy bucks,” the guy drawled in a thick Boston accent. Jameson growled again and stomped up to an end table that flanked the front door. He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a stack of money. Both the cop and the tow truck driver gaped at him.
“All of this is yours, just be off my property within the next five minutes,” Jameson said as he led them out onto the porch, all the while flinging hundred dollar bills to the ground.
“Ay, ay, no problem, buddy,” the guy said, quickly dipping down and picking up what had to be $800. He was a large guy, but he ran back to the car and had the Bentley unloaded and was driving off in his tow truck, well under the five minute time limit.
“We still have to -,” the cop started. Jameson glared at him and stepped back into his doorway.
“Call Sanders. He reported it stolen, not me. He can deal with this mess,” he snapped, then slammed the door shut.
The cop banged on the door for a while, but Jameson was very good at ignoring things. He took his stairs two at a time, his heart thumping louder than his footsteps pounding down the hall. He felt like he was going to explode. Like his heart was going to pound right out of his chest. Or rather, whatever organ it was he had in place of a heart.
Tatum.
He didn't know why he thought he'd find answers there, but Jameson went straight into Sanders' bedroom. A large walk-in closet stood open, all clothing gone from it. Sanders didn't mess around. Something had been left behind, though, and Jameson sighed as he walked up to the foot of the bed. Sitting there, stacked neatly and packed in even bundles, was $32,000 in cash. Jameson knew it was exactly $32,000 because the night before, he had taken the cash out of a safe in his own room and brought it in to Sanders' room. Brought it to her.