Chapter 2
Maxwell Trenton's house could more accurately be called a mansion, and it befitted his status as a billionaire, although the architectural emphasis seemed to be more on the protection of privacy than on reckless ostentation. Albeit more a chemist by trade than a businessman, he'd taken over the small, independent pharmaceutical company his family had started in 1903 and dragged it to financial glory with the discovery and subsequent manufacturing of monoclonal antibodies in the 70's.
He still controlled all the company's business dealings with an iron fist, usually bereft of a velvet glove or any form of compromise, but his daughter was an up and coming star in the research department and widely slated to be his successor.
The Sloans were greeted in hushed accents by Trenton's personal assistant, her eyes wide with the magnitude of disaster confronting her employer's family. She introduced herself as Judy Carrera and led them through plush halls that swallowed up the sound of their passage, to the magnate's office. Amidst the rich, musty smell of leather and similar trappings of privilege, Trenton was standing, ramrod straight, staring out of a window, but even from behind he was surrounded by a palpable aura of grief. His large frame was still well-muscled, although his hair was more salt than pepper, and, as he turned, Steve got the impression of fires only temporarily banked, red-rimmed eyes his sole concession to heartache.
"Dr. Trenton, I'm so sorry for your loss. I'm Lieutenant Steve Sloan and this is my father, Dr. Mark Sloan, who is a consultant with the police department."
Formidable steel-gray eyes switched abruptly to Mark as the detective completed the introductions. "I've heard of you." Trenton's voice was as commanding as his appearance. "You solve murders."
The intensity of the tycoon's gaze on Mark disturbed Steve, perhaps all the more because his father seemed to both absorb and return it, forging a sense of connection. That silent communication snaked unease down Steve's back, stirring his protective instincts, and he moved forward casually breaking their eye contact. He steered his father bodily towards a chair, hoping the civilised act of sitting would help to diminish the turbulence of emotion swirling around the room.
"Dr. Trenton, I hope you understand that, while we are investigating all aspects of your daughter's death, there's nothing at present to indicate your daughter was murdered. The autopsy results might well confirm it was suicide." Dealing with bereaved families was not Steve's forte, but he knew the words had come out rougher than he'd intended. It had the desired effect of refocusing Trenton's focus back on himself, but he also felt the impact of Mark's reproachful gaze, and with an deep and unobtrusive breath he struggled to regain a sense of professional detachment.
"Rena didn't kill herself." Trenton's voice was harsh, and he thumped the desk with a clenched fist for emphasis. "She...I.." He stopped, clearly attempting to marshal logical arguments to bolster his instinctive emotional reaction.
"I talked to her just last night." Disbelief cracked his voice painfully, and Steve was agonizingly aware of his father shifting uncomfortably beside him. "We talked about the latest trial results, and she was excited about her most recent project. I would have known if anything was wrong, if she was ready to go straight home to end her life. That's not what happened."
Steve knew from experience that no parent believed that his child was on the brink of self-destruction, but he didn't express this skepticism, merely nodding in response.
"Yes, sir, I understand and, for now, we are treating this as a murder investigation. Can you tell me if you know of any reason someone might have to kill her?"
It was clear from Trenton's expression that imagining the brutality of such an attack on his daughter was as impossible as imagining the despair that would have led her to suicide. Steve wasn't surprised when Mark cut in. His father had sat silent for longer than Steve had expected.
"It could be personal or professional. Let's start at work." His voice was gentle and helped strip some of the immediacy from the other man's pain as he led him through the situation logically. "Has anyone ever threatened her?"
"Not specifically. We get the usual threats from animal right's groups," the magnate offered doubtfully. "We keep animal testing to a minimum, but it's necessary and we've attracted attention from some of the more radical groups."
"OK," Mark nodded encouragingly, although he knew the answer didn't lie there. If Serena's death were indeed murder, it was no random act of violence but a carefully orchestrated crime, and there was nothing a protest group would gain from murdering in such a fashion. It had been committed by someone close to her, he would bet on that. However, it was important to keep Trenton focused on the external factors concerning his daughter's death rather than the agonising details of the act itself. "Is that documented anywhere?"
"We file any such correspondence. I'll get my assistant to pull it up for you."
Steve could see how this line of questioning had steadied Trenton, pulling him back into his familiar role as company director. With a sigh of resignation, he caught his father's eye, silently relinquishing control of the interview to him, then he watched with a mixture of trepidation and admiration as Mark effortlessly took over, his gentle sympathy and dignified bearing instilling an automatic trust. Steve could see Trenton relax into the intimate bubble of security that Mark established between them, allowing him to concentrate on the problem that Mark posed.
"Who in the company might benefit from this situation?" Mark phrased it as tactfully as he could.
"There are no obvious successors to her position. I'll have to find someone to promote, but I've no idea who at the moment. She's truly irreplaceable. She is brilliant, you know." His lips tightened as he fought back a fresh wave of grief, finding comfort in Mark's steady eyes. "She was brilliant," he corrected himself in quiet tones. "She was everything I could have hoped for in a daughter. When her mother and I divorced, the kids went to live with her for several years, but Elizabeth couldn't cope with Rena as a teenager so she came to live with me. All she really needed was encouragement. She was bored in her high school."
"Like father, like daughter, huh?" Mark encouraged the other man's need to reminisce for a while about his daughter, realising he made the perfect audience. It was not wasted time since it gave him the opportunity to learn more about the murdered woman.
As the conversation veered off the specifics of the case, Steve felt not only superfluous, but also uncomfortable as if he were eavesdropping on something intensely personal between the two fathers. He was about as useful as the dust motes he watched dancing in a shaft of sunlight, and he didn't think the older men would notice his presence even if he got up and performed a jig on the exquisitely carved coffee table to his right.
However, he had rarely felt less like dancing as he surreptitiously observed his father. He could only see Mark's profile but, although the doctor's expression showed nothing except calm support, Steve could almost feel the unnatural tension that gripped him, and awareness of his father's pain crawled tightly across Steve's skin like a spreading blight. It hurt on a visceral level to see Mark subsuming his own grief in the other man's fresher anguish.
He was belatedly pulled back into the interview by Mark's next comment of, "Carol was like that too," and his eyes snapped up abruptly, staring at his father in disbelief, but Mark seemed oblivious to his scrutiny. Steve realised it was an innocuous response to Trenton's comment about his daughter's economic self-sufficiency, but he was staggered that Mark had introduced her into the conversation at all. He tried to ignore the slight edge of hurt he couldn't explain, but the sharpness of that emotion pricked the protective bubble he placed around his own grief and, for a moment, he was swamped by the strength of conflicting feelings he'd successfully suppressed for months.
With the ease of long practice, he enclosed his grief back into its shielded coating and focused on his father. He could rationalise that it was easier for Mark to talk to a stranger, especially with one who shared this bond of loss. He even allowed himself to hope that the experience might be cathartic for Mark, a necessary step in coming to terms with Carol's death. However, he doubted it, given the circumstances. Just as he was considering stepping back into the conversation, it proved unnecessary as Mark deftly steered the meeting back into more professional channels.
"Did she have a boyfriend?" It was a natural sequitur to the personal reminiscing, and didn't disturb Trenton's more composed state.
"She was engaged 'till six weeks or so ago and then she broke it off."
Steve pricked up his ears at the sounds of a promising lead at last. He gave himself a mental shake like a labrador shedding excess water after a swim, the final flick of the tail an admonition that this wasn't the time to indulge in his own emotions.
"Why did they break it off?" Mark prodded gently.
"I'm not really sure. You know, we work...worked together and I tried to stay out of her private life. My impression was, she just got cold feet. I was a little relieved to be honest; I never felt that Owen was good enough for her, but now..." His voice trailed off, but Mark nodded in understanding, comprehending only too well the regret of missed opportunities, of grandchildren that would never be.
A spurned boyfriend would normally constitute an excellent lead in a murder case, but this was no crime of passion, it was too cold-blooded and meticulous. If it were indeed murder, there had to be more to it than met the eye. If it were a murder. Steve began to consider whether his crime scene intuition could not be dismissed as a fanciful reaction to the gloomy atmosphere of the death scene. He'd wanted a neat little puzzle to distract Mark from his grief, but that plan had clearly backfired in the worst possible way. The best thing now would be for Serena's death to be proved a suicide.
"Dr. Trenton," Mark continued carefully. "I know this is a hard question to consider, but the most common motive for murder is greed, and obviously your family has a lot of money. Who would benefit financially from Serena's death?"
The industrialist clearly floundered on that question, the implications too close to home, so Mark made the question easier and more specific. "Who was the beneficiary of Serena's will?"
"To the best of my knowledge, she doesn't have one. She's only twenty-eight." The unfairness of her youth momentarily stripped him of control, but he rallied quickly. "Who at that age thinks about death? She didn't have anyone to support, so I don't think she ever gave it any thought. It's not like she had a lot of money, anyway. She paid her own way through grad school, and I don't play favourites with salary. She's not poor, but there's nothing to kill over."
"What about your money? She would have inherited a considerable amount from you."
"Eventually, I suppose, it will all go to my son, Neal." Trenton didn't look thrilled at the prospect. "He's twenty-four, and not the slightest bit interested in the company, not the slightest bit interested in anything, actually. I agreed to support both the kids until they graduated, so he's determined to drag the experience out as long as he can - the perpetual student."
Since Neal Trenton was now the sole heir to his father's fortune, he benefited from his sister's death to the tune of hundreds of millions, so he had to be considered a suspect even if the possibility had clearly not occurred to the executive.
It was a theory that Steve himself would like to have discounted since the very thought made him slightly queasy.
Rather than dwell on the ramifications of that issue, Mark moved on. "I have one last question for you. Do you yourself have any enemies?"
Trenton paled slightly, and it was clear that the implication were not lost on him. "You mean someone who might try to get revenge on me through my children?"
Mark didn't think it was worth mentioning even less palatable possibilities such as it might have been intended merely as a distraction at a pivotal point in a business deal.
"Dr. Sloan, a man doesn't make it to my position without making enemies, but I can't think of one that would commit such a horrendous..." Words failed him, but after a moment's pause he continued grimly.
"Since I took control of this company, I have been responsible for several competing firms going under. I am currently involved in a hostile takeover of Devlin Pharmaceuticals, and I'm sure there are several rivals who would happily see me dead." He rubbed his head wearily with his hand. "There are also many labor leaders who don't like me very much, and last month I fired Peter Langton, my accountant, when I suspected him of doctoring the books."
"Did you bring him up on charges?" Mark queried, pleased to have unearthed another promising lead.
Trenton shook his head wearily. "I didn't want the negative publicity for the company, but he was furious anyway."
This recitation seemed to exhaust him; the possibility that his own behaviour could have impacted so lethally on his daughter was obviously devastating. "Look, the list is extensive, but I'll give it some thought and contact you later. Now, I just need some time alone." The dismissal was abrupt, but it was obvious that the trauma of his daughter's death was catching up with the businessman.
Steve got to his feet, surprising to find every muscle heavy and aching as if he had pushed too hard in the weight room. He was drained; speaking with bereaved relatives was never easy, but this had been tortuous. His awareness of Mark's presence had undermined all efforts to maintain a professional equanimity. His father was always so empathic in his communication with others, and the interview must have forced him to relive the agony of his daughter's death in detail, an emotional flaying he didn't deserve.
Mark wavered as he rose to his feet, the transition from emotional and mental focus to physical exertion too abrupt. Steve stepped forward quickly, one strong arm supporting his father and steadying him. The rigidity of the muscles under Steve's hand spoke volumes to him of the stress Mark was experiencing.
Steve's sense of frustration burnt higher, as he blamed himself for not only failing to protect his father from this ordeal, but also for actually leading him into it. He stood there for a long moment trying to convey some sense of comfort through the physical contact. However, the delay, while giving Mark a chance to recover, also gave Trenton the opportunity to advance around his desk.
The tycoon's eyes were curiously bright, not with a healthy glow, but with an unnatural fever of intensity, and Steve again felt the impulse to step in front of his father to shield him.
"Your daughter was murdered recently."
The media coverage surrounding Carol's death had been extensive, engendered both by the political relevance of the motivation behind the murder and by Mark's own reputation. For someone who preferred to deal with his grief privately, such publicity had been painfully intrusive, and obviously the depths of its negative repercussions had not been plumbed.
Steve stiffened in outrage, his sympathy for the other man rapidly disintegrating. He was shocked as much by the tone as the words. There was no compassion or affinity expressed in the blunt comment, it was merely a statement needing confirmation. If Steve hadn't known the other man was grieving too, he would have been tempted to deck him, but, as it was, there was nothing he could do to stave off the inevitable as Mark nodded.
"Find the man who killed my daughter." It was a strange combination of command and poignant plea, and Mark met it not as a subordinate, but as an equal accepting a sacred trust.
"I will," he replied softly, but there was an implacable vow underneath those quiet words.
Steve ushered his father out of the room and out of the house, helpless rage, all the more destructive both for its impotence and scope, stealing the oxygen from his muscles. He was furious at himself as the instigator of the whole disaster, at Trenton for his lack of sensitivity and even, most pathetically, at Carol for dying.
There was also a portion of his anger that was reserved for Mark, although he didn't care to examine that too closely. He knew that, in large part, it was actuated by fear. Despite his boundless amiability, Mark was stubborn to the core. Even in regular circumstances, he was unlikely to relinquish his hold once he'd sunk his teeth into the meat of a case. However, this was a commitment beyond the commonplace, and one that could destroy him.
Steve would usually throw himself wholeheartedly behind his father's endeavors but, this time, concern for the older man's welfare prevented him. This unaccustomed rift between his loyalty towards his father and his desire to protect him, exacerbated his already foul mood, and the silence in the car was heavy and oppressive as they drove to Community General.
Mark sat very still, staring blankly out of the window and, for once, Steve was unsure what was going through his father's head, whether he was ruminating on the facts of the case or reliving the aftermath of Carol's murder. Either way, what Steve could see of his expression was grim. Afraid that any attempt at conversation on his part would end in words he'd regret, Steve made no attempt to break into his father's reverie, concentrating instead on the comfortingly familiar act of driving on the steep and twisting roads, and allowing the car's lulling motion to seep into his aching body. He was startled when Mark spoke.
"I should have asked for a list of her friends, people she might have talked to about her personal life."
Somehow the confirmation that Mark was still concentrating on the case grated on Steve's already raw nerves, and he had to work to keep the irritation out of his voice as he replied reassuringly. "It doesn't matter. We can get that later if we need it."
Evidently, Steve was not as successful in concealing his aggravation from his father as he'd hoped since, despite his preoccupation, Mark responded to a stiffness in the words by peering across at him, puzzled.
"What's wrong?"
For a moment, Steve was tempted to prevaricate, to deflect the query with a casual response, but a lifetimes's habit of openness and trust between them was hard to break. Feeling inadequate to the challenge of carrying on a serious discussion while driving on the narrow roads, he checked in the rearview mirror and pulled off abruptly into a conveniently located layout.
Impatient at the feeling of restraint, he also undid his safety belt, turning in his seat to regard Mark squarely. His father watched him with a strange mixture of guileless bemusement and watchful concern, and for once Steve suspected that Mark was oblivious to the turmoil rampaging within his son. This realisation twisted his insides with the sickening lurch of a rock climber who unexpectedly feels his surest hold give way, leaving nothing but the heart-stopping void of air beneath him. He cleared his throat uneasily, unsure where to start. "It's just that I think... well... that this case has become too personal for you."
Mark smiled deprecatingly, trying to keep the tone of the conversation light. "I don't know anyone involved in the case, so it could scarcely be called personal."
It was an opportunity to let the topic die a natural death, but although Steve had little desire to confront the issue, he felt it was too important to dismiss, and he persevered grimly. "You know what I mean. I just think a case of this nature will take too much of a toll on you right now."
"You invited me in on it, remember?" Mark commented quietly. He sounded too reasonable, and the calm statement did nothing to soothe Steve's frayed nerves. He also remembered why he hated having this type of conversation with his father -- he plodded along ponderously while Mark effortlessly tap-danced merry rings around him.
Steve's own emotions were snarled up in a Gordian knot so tangled he wouldn't know where to start unraveling them, and his muscles were coiled tighter than a drawn bow. Wisdom would dictate a period to cool down, but Steve pushed on stubbornly, wanting the matter settled to his satisfaction.
"I know, but I think it would be best if I took it from here."
Mark shook his head resolutely. "It's too late now; I'm committed. I made that man a promise, and I have no intention of breaking it."
"I don't think you can be objective about this case," Steve insisted.
Mark regarded him steadily. "Are you sure this is about me? You were already mad when you started talking to Trenton, and you've been steaming ever since."
With an effort, Steve swallowed back the retort that rose to his lips, partly because it would have confirmed his father's accusation, but also because sniping was foreign to their relationship. They indulged in good-natured teasing all the time, but this exchange contained an sting that burnt deep, especially since neither had any protection against the other. Mark's face was expressionless, but his stance and rigid spine, told Steve that his father was on the edge, a brittle tension replacing his usual equanimity.
As he wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead, Steve realised for the first time how hot it had become in the car. The windows were steaming up with the heat. He turned the key enough to enable the windows to open, hoping that some fresh air and an interruption in the argument would cool his temper which was sliding from his grasp like a greased rope with a ton weight at the end.
They sat quietly for a moment, listening as the whisper of tires announced someone was driving by. Steve's back was damp with sweat, yet ice trickled down his spine as the hard obsession in his father's eyes -- a match to the intense preoccupation in Trenton's -- momentarily blurred his usually genial features into unfathomable unfamiliarity.
It reminded Steve that he couldn't imagine the devastation of losing a child. His certainty that he knew the right solution for his father dissolved as he noticed the fatigue settling on Mark's features, the line deepening between his brows. Steve's fingers worked nervously on the steering wheel and he cleared his throat.
"Look, Dad. Let's just drop it."
"Do you mean this case or this conversation." There was no compromise in Mark's tone.
"Both... either." Steve took a deep breath to try to steady his unsettled temper. "At least wait until we've got the results of the autopsy. There's a good chance it was really suicide."
"No, it was murder," Mark asserted confidently.
"Because you want it to be?" Another thread of patience snapped. "This fixation isn't doing anyone any good."
"That's not true," Mark refuted hotly. "Her family deserve to know that justice has been done, and the killer should not be allowed to go free."
"Finding her killer is not going to bring Carol back!"
The words were out before he could bite them back and, for a second, he stared as his father, truly horrified by the irresponsible cruelty of his remark. Mark flinched as if he'd been stuck, the words as lethal as bullets Steve fired from his gun.
"Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."
All the anger had bleached from Steve's face, leaving only white anxiety and an aching heart as he took in the pain in his father's vulnerable eyes.
Emotions took him by storm; an overwhelming need to protect was pursued by a strange fear of loss that slammed into him. All his feelings felt too large for his chest and Steve could hardly breathe in the suffocating, claustrophobic heat of the car. He scrambled for the door handle, throwing himself out into the fresh air, needing to move or explode.
The sudden burst of energy dissipated as quickly as it had arrived, and he sat down abruptly on the curb looking over the hillside towards the ocean, scrabbling for control of his wayward feelings.
He was not used to navigating solo through the murky waters of emotional turmoil, since normally in such circumstances Mark was there to steady him and guide him, his humour, compassion and love a beacon in the maelstrom. This time, Mark was as lost as he was and Steve felt rudderless, without a compass, and he didn't know where to go or how to get there.
He wasn't sure how the situation had deteriorated so fast. When Carol was alive, she had always known how to push his buttons, possessing a sibling's ability to shred his temper in record time. He still remembered with shame her final visit home, and he could hear the echoes of his sarcastic responses -- "What I am supposed to do -- applaud?" He'd known at the time that his surly attitude was hurting Mark but he'd been unable to control it, choosing retreat over apology.
He didn't turn around as the car door opened behind him, but he was preternaturally aware of his father's movements -- a speculative stillness followed by the rustling of clothes as he approached, then Mark joined him on the curb, the warmth of his long legs touching his son's as he seated himself.
"I'm sorry," Steve repeated remorsefully.
"I know. Me too."
As Steve glanced at his father, Mark offered him a strained but sincere smile.
Forgiveness had been extended and accepted in both directions, but Steve knew that it was merely a band aid, a temporary patch on grief too acute for either of them to handle alone. He was reminded of the stressful period after his mother had died when each member of the family had withdrawn into a separate sphere of grief. It seemed that now the shock and violence of Carol's death had forced them back into old, destructive patterns of behaviour. Steve had learnt his lesson and wanted to reach out and help his father, but he was just too tired and too emotionally defenseless to explain what he needed or to figure out how make Mark talk. Everything seemed cosmically wrong and imbalanced somehow, as if the planets were slipping out of alignment.
As if reading his thoughts, Mark murmured softly, "We'll figure it out...I promise." Then even quieter, almost a whisper, "You need to give me more time."
Steve had to grant him what he needed, unable to ignore that subdued plea and afraid that any attempt to force Mark to open up would merely increase the distance between them. For now, he had to trust his father and acknowledge that he was merely along for the ride, bobbing with the current, trying to ignore the sound of the waterfall getting louder and louder.
"I can do that." His voice felt scratchy in his throat. He reached out and squeezed his father's knee, needing the simple touch to complete the sense of connection.
Silence settled back over them, heavy as a shroud.