Dead to the Last Drop (24 page)

Though he looked no older than twenty-five, the newcomer projected self-assurance worthy of a junior senator—with a wardrobe to match. The blue blazer was custom cut, the gray slacks beautifully tailored.

I recalled seeing him in the audience tonight, sitting with the White House staff, and it was clear the Secret Service detail knew him well. Calling many agents by their first names, he traded lively banter. But it was a facile confidence, a smooth, traveling-salesman sort of charm.

Finally, he broke from the pack. Following Agent Sharpe, he moved behind Abby, who was still preoccupied in her interview chair.

“Look who came to see you on your big night!” Sharpe interrupted.

When Abby glanced up, the young man flashed a dazzling smile, and all the euphoric joy, which had radiated in Abby’s face since her performance, melted away.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” she said.

Her voice had changed, the tone no longer full of life and certainty. It was the voice she’d used in the presence of her mother, the Stepford Abby voice.

“I came back early so I wouldn’t miss the show!” Bending down, he pecked her cheek. She accepted the gesture with less ease than a cornered cat.

“You were surprisingly good,” the young man went on, sweeping back his golden hair. “And you only froze up a few times—I don’t think that many people noticed. Anyway, the way you played your instrument was great.”

“Preston . . .” she said quietly. “We don’t play our
instruments
.”

“Is that so? What do you play, then?”

“We play
music
!” Gardner, Jackson, and Theo all answered with her.

The members of Four on the Floor all laughed and bumped fists.

Everyone but Stan.

Preston smirked at the band. “The truth is, I’m not really into
that
kind of music—”

“Oh?” Gardner said. “What kind of music do you like?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged the question off. “I came to support Abigail. And from all the applause she got, I’d say she made a fifty-yard touchdown in the last quarter of her final game!” He patted her shoulder. “Nice job. It’s great that you got that out of your system, isn’t it? Think of the story you can tell our children one day.”

Stan stood watching this exchange in a state of profound confusion.

Then Preston noticed Abby’s hands. “Why aren’t you wearing my ring?”

The words made the situation clear enough. But Stan looked to his bandmates, unable to believe his own ears.

“What did that guy say?”

My stomach clenched at the question, because now I knew. Abby had never shared the truth about her engagement. And I knew one more thing—

The best night of Stanley McGuire’s life was about to become the worst.

S
ixty-four

“T
ELL me you didn’t lose my diamond,” Preston teased with a smile.

“I don’t wear your ring when I perform,” Abby quietly told him. Then she dared to meet Stan’s shocked gaze. Her next words were louder. “It restricts my ability to play.”

We all watched Stan go stiller than stone. With his one good eye, he cast a long, hard look at the golden-haired boy in the blue blazer. Then he shifted his gaze to Abby.

“Do you want to explain to me
who
this guy is?”

“Preston Emory,” the stranger cut in, offering Stan his hand. As they clasped, he jerked the musician close, careful to keep the tight smile in place for the onlookers. “Abigail and I are engaged to be married. No public announcement yet, but that’s mere days away.”

Then he invaded Stan’s space further, hissing into his ear. “That was a cute scene between you two on that piano bench. Stuff happens onstage, I know, so we’ll call it a stage kiss. But if it happens again, I won’t be happy.”

Preston released Stan and he stumbled backward on his game leg. Still wobbly, he faced Abby.

“You’re not serious about this clown!”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, eyes pleading. “I tried to tell you a few times. I did say my life was complicated. That it’s not a normal life—”

“We really should
go
, Abigail,” Preston loudly cut in. “I spoke with your mother and she and the President are waiting up at the White House to congratulate you. The staff has champagne on ice and everything!”

“But I don’t want to go!” She stood up from her interview chair, the fight in her finally rallying. “My friends are
here
.”

Preston gently took Abby by the shoulders and gazed into her eyes.

“Honey-bunny, don’t be selfish. You should consider all these Secret Service people. They’ve been here, guarding you, since morning. Now it’s nearly one in the
AM
. Don’t you want to be fair to them?”

Abby’s bolstered expression melted to confusion, then completely crumbled. “I guess you’re right,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking . . .”

I glanced at Agent Cage. Though she continued to hold her posture stiff as a statue, her expression was no longer stone. Preston’s ploy angered her. But she held her tongue.

Stanley McGuire didn’t.

“Don’t let this guy guilt-trip you!” he cried. “You don’t have to leave!”

Preston turned on him. “Stay out of this, Cyclops.”

That did it.

Stan wasn’t a tall guy, but his drummer’s physique was lean and tough. As he balled one of his powerful hands into a fist and drew back his strong arm, Jackson put aside his drink and Gardner stepped forward.

But it was Abby who intervened, jumping between the two young men.

Cupping Stan’s cheek, she whispered, “Calm down. You and I are still friends. And I’ll see you soon.”

One touch from Abby and Stan’s whole body relaxed.

“Remember the TV appearance on Monday?” she said hopefully. “We’ll have to rehearse, right?”

“So we’ll see each other tomorrow?”

“I’m sure we will,” she said, but anyone could see she wasn’t so sure.

“Time to
go
, Abigail.”

Stan’s wiry form tensed again, but he kept his gaze locked on Abby’s. “This clown will
never
trade fours with you. You know that, don’t you?”

Abby’s lips moved, but before any sound could come out, Preston wrapped a possessive arm around her and propelled her toward the exit.

Shaking with emotion, poor Stan watched Abby being swept away, a small army of Secret Service agents blocking his last view of her.

“He’ll never trade fours with her,” he repeated to his bandmates, his gaze lost in the empty space where she had been. “He’ll never trade fours . . .”

S
ixty-five

M
IKE Quinn rubbed the back of his neck. “Trading fours? What does that mean exactly?”

“Trading fours is something that happens in jazz. Each member takes four bars to play a short solo. They can trade two or eight or sixteen, or as many as they like. It’s a back-and-forth thing.”

“So why did Stan say that about Preston Emory?”

“Trading fours is about cooperation and chemistry within the band. That night in our greenroom, Stan was trying to warn Abby that Preston was not the kind of guy who’d step back and let her play her own solo, express her own voice. Abby’s fiancé was condescending, self-satisfied, and controlling. We all saw it!”

Emotional now, I pounded the SUV’s dashboard to make my point—a mistake. For the first time since we’d pulled the vehicle into this dank garage in “not the nicest part” of Baltimore, the gangbanger watching from a folding chair put aside his smartphone game.

From across the empty space, he fired off an unfriendly stare. I returned his gaze with a
friendly
smile, and he returned to the animated action on his tiny screen.

Behind the steering wheel, Mike completely ignored the punk. “You sound very sure that the relationship between Abby and Stan went beyond friendship, beyond a shared love of music.”

“When I first found them alone in our Jazz Space, after hours, I suspected something was going on beyond practicing. When I saw them onstage together that night, I knew they were in love. Now that I’m
considering all the details of their story, I have to say—I believe Abby is a runaway bride.”

“Okay, I get it. But I don’t know if I agree.”

“Why not?”

“Because your story makes it sound like the President’s daughter was trapped in some sort of arranged engagement—”

“You think she wasn’t?”

“I think that’s how
you
see it.”

“What about Stan? He saw it that way, too.”

Now he gave me that Quinn look—the one I’m sure he uses on unreliable perps. “Stan is not exactly an impartial observer.”

“I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

“Look, you’ve painted a vivid picture of an emotionally fragile young woman with behavioral issues—”

“But—”

“Add it up. Abby attempted suicide in her past. She even took you on a high-speed chase through crowded streets, running from the very people who are supposed to protect her. Does that sound
rational
?”

“She’s a young woman, Mike. In case you hadn’t noticed, young women aren’t always rational.”

“By your own description she showed Jekyll and Hyde dissonance. Face it. Abigail Parker has issues. It sounds to me like her parents and fiancé were just trying to help her deal with them, keep her on track, help her cope. Wasn’t Preston showing mature judgment in making Abby see that her parents deserved time with her, and her security detail should have time off?”

“I was there, Mike. I saw that boy’s slick transitions, working Abby until he got what he wanted. She was a star, feeling worthy and powerful. And Preston didn’t like it, so he dragged her back down to earth. What I witnessed was not an act of maturity, it was an exercise in manipulation and control. Preston knew how to press Abby’s buttons, just like her mother. He guilt-tripped the girl into leaving her friends on the happiest night of her life. It was wrong.”

Quinn fell silent a moment. “What do you know about this guy?”

“Plenty . . .”

After that display in the greenroom, I’d made it my business to find out more about Preston Emory.

S
ixty-six

“A
BBY’S fiancé came from a family like hers.”

“They’re politicians?” Quinn assumed.

“His mother is. She’s a congresswoman from the President’s home state. They’re political allies. And Preston has political ambitions. He went to American University because of its strong tradition in educating students for public service. In his case, his goal is to follow his mother’s footsteps into elected office . . .”

From what I’d learned, Preston socialized wisely and well during his freshman and sophomore years. He dated a governor’s daughter and joined the same fraternity as Abby’s famously popular older brother, Kent, aka “Kip” Parker. That friendship with Kip was how Preston was introduced to the soon-to-be First Family. He became a fixture at holiday gatherings and at their vacation home.

When Abby enrolled at American, Preston was at her side to help her through orientation—and keep other potential suitors away. At that point he’d broken up with the governor’s daughter, to focus on a bigger prize.

Step one was to join Parker’s presidential campaign, another smart move because Preston and Abby saw a lot of each other on the campaign trail, and it was Preston who escorted Abby to President Parker’s inaugural ball.

After his graduation, Preston became a junior member of the White House staff, where he continued to see Abby. It helped that the First Lady seated him with her daughter at every White House function.

“Preston may have grown to care for Abby,” I finally admitted to Quinn. “But from what I’ve learned, his engagement to her is more of an
arrangement than a true romance. I mean, ask yourself: Would a boy like Preston really fall passionately in love with a girl like Abby—without a strong motive? To put it another way, the guy’s got big plans for himself; and if Abby had been some anonymous, slightly odd wallflower at AU, instead of the President’s only daughter, would he have given her the time of day?

“Anyway, the plans were set. Right after Abby’s graduation in May, she was scheduled to get married to Preston in June and leave for a monthlong European honeymoon. Then the ‘happy couple’ was supposed to move out of Washington and back to Preston’s home state. He already bought a McMansion in some tony area, where Abby was expected to join the Junior League and start a family while he started his bid for political office.”

Quinn stared at me a moment, a little dumbfounded. “How in the world do you know all this?”

“After that night in the greenroom, Abby knew Stan was wrecked. When she called him the next day to apologize, she told him
everything
about her relationship with Preston. And when I saw Stan the next day, I grilled him—and not only about Preston Emory. He and Abby kept on talking, not face-to-face, only over the phone, but they spoke every night, sometimes for hours. Given what we know about Abby’s disappearance, aren’t you convinced yet that she’d want to be a runaway bride?”

“The only thing I’m convinced of is
why
Abby was in that park. And the reason I’m convinced is because she herself told you. It was clever, using that park to evade her security detail.”

“Like I said, the park runs all the way down to the Potomac River so it could get her to Georgetown without using any streets.”

“I’m sure the FBI used dogs to trace her movements from her girlfriend’s home. And that’s what led them to the blood—which does
not
support your runaway bride theory, I’m sorry to say.”

“It does if she ran away to meet Stan and something went wrong. Maybe someone was watching her, waiting for her, and they took that opportunity to snatch her. Or maybe she simply tripped on a rock and fell! We need more information. We need to know if Stan is missing, too!”

Quinn nodded. “I’ll ask Danica if she can find a way to help us with that.”

“Danica?”

“The detective we’re here to meet. That’s her name, Danica Hatch.”

“I see.”