Justin watched as all types of workers scurried around the outside of the Chez Laurent restaurant. He admired the building's façade as Comisar's limo pulled up in front. The front of the building had been remodeled to resemble a French inn, complete with wrought iron railings on the 2nd story and window boxes ablaze with spring flowers. The double entrance doors were also adorned with the same scrolling, delicate wrought-iron design as the balcony. The artist admired how the restaurant was strategically placed in a scenic rise overlooking the Susquehanna River; he could see several expensive-looking craft docked at the adjacent marina. Justin thought it was the perfect setting for his painting, which was lying face up on the floor of the vehicle, carefully packaged in protective bubble wrap for transport to its new, permanent home.
As he and Comisar emerged from the limo, two of the workers approached to take careful possession of the painting. For a brief moment, Justin looked at the building again as if it were familiar somehow. He knew he couldn't have seen it before, though, because he had never been to Lancaster. Furrowing his brow, he tried to think why in the world he thought it looked familiar to him.
"Shall we go in?" Comisar interrupted his thoughts as he motioned toward the front of the establishment. "I can't wait to show you the inside and find out where you think the painting should go," he added, smiling encouragingly. Smiling politely in return, Justin allowed Comisar to lead him into the property.
Brian's mind was racing. He had already called Ted on the way to the loft to get Prescott's phone number at his corporate headquarters, and of course discovered the fucker wasn't there, nor would anyone offer any hint as to where he was. Well, we'll just see about that.
While continuing to try Justin's cell number repeatedly to no avail, he had phoned Horvath and asked if he could meet him at the loft, explaining in cryptic detail that he had finally discovered who Justin's secret admirer was. Fuck! I mean STALKER. Brian's mind was in turmoil and his heart beat wildly as his now-white hands continued to tightly grasp the steering wheel. For a few seconds, he tormented himself with the thought of what Prescott might be doing to his lover. If you have so much as harmed one hair on his head, so help me, you won't be taking another fucking breath when I get my hands around your neck. Sunshine, where are you? Justin, help me here.
Two police cars were parked in front of the loft when Brian came screeching to a halt by the front door; he had already given Carl the security alarm code and the keypad entrance code to access the loft. Flinging open the door, he took the steps two at a time, reaching the detective in record time.
"Anything?" he asked breathlessly as he saw Carl coming out of the bedroom area.
The man shook his head sympathetically. "Nothing looks out of place to me, and there's no sign of a struggle or anything." Holding out his hand, he asked the brunet, "Is this Justin's cell phone?"
Brian groaned. Oh, No. He didn't have to answer Carl for the man to know he was right. "Well, that explains why he's not answering his phone," the detective observed somewhat obviously. He turned back toward Brian as he asked, "You told me when you called that you had met this man before. If he IS responsible for Justin's disappearance, any idea where he might have taken him?"
Brian shook his head helplessly. "I only had a business relationship with him. Apart from knowing his corporate office is located in New York City, and that he's an arrogant, smug, obscenely rich S.O.B., I don't really know anything about him. What about the private jet I told you about?" Brian asked hopefully. He knew that Prescott had intended to whisk Justin away to New York City on his jet the last time he had been here.
"I checked that out already," Carl informed him. "My contact at LaGuardia informed me his jet is parked right where it normally is when he's not using it. It appears if he IS responsible, he didn't use the jet to do it."
Venting his frustration, he angrily demanded, "We're fucking wasting our time here! We need to find Justin, Carl! Surely there's SOMETHING you can suggest! I can't just sit here hoping Justin's going to show up on his own! I KNOW that asshole is responsible for his disappearance!"
"Calm down, Brian," the older man said in an attempt to placate him. "I know how worried you are. I'M worried, too, and I know Debbie's going to go out of her mind when she finds out. Look, I'll try calling Prescott's headquarters myself and see if I can make any headway. Why don't you call around to some of Justin's friends and see if they've seen him lately? Maybe one of them can give us a clue where he is."
Brian fucking HATED feeling so helpless, not knowing where the man he loved was, or what was happening to him. He felt like he was going to go out of his mind; he never knew he could feel so deeply for someone, or be as worried as he was right now. Sighing loudly in frustration, he nodded curtly at Carl as he flipped open his phone to start calling Justin's friends. At least he knew for the time being he wouldn't have to call Jennifer, because he remembered she and Tucker were in Florida on vacation with Justin's sister, Molly. He dreaded the call he might have to make to her if they didn't find Justin soon. But the dread he felt at possibly having to call her didn't nearly match the cold fear he felt in his heart over his missing lover, or the absolute deep, abiding hatred he kept bottled up toward the man he felt sure had Justin with him. You don't know what you're doing, Prescott. And when I get done with you, you won't have a fucking brain left to care.
Justin walked slowly through the restaurant, admiring all the intricate details Comisar had insisted on including in the remodeling of his establishment. The restaurateur excitedly pointed out all the changes he had made, gesturing animatedly as he explained all the specific revisions he had made to help insure greater success for his venture.
"I'm really impressed, Vince," Justin exclaimed. "This is extremely chic. And I'm sure the painting you commissioned will go perfectly with the décor. In fact, I think I know the exact place for it."
"No, wait, let me guess," the man asked. "I'm hoping it's the same place I have in mind. Because if you ask me, there's only one place where it rightfully belongs." Calling over the two workers who were carefully holding the now-unwrapped painting, he motioned for them to follow him and Justin as he walked them out to the opulent lobby and stood right next to the valet station. "I think this is the wall, don't you?" he asked Justin, pointing to a large, unadorned area alongside an elaborate archway built adjacent to the banquet area.
Justin smiled broadly. "You read my mind, Vince. You must have been an artist yourself in a prior life. I agree totally."
The other man nodded and returned his smile. "Wonderful! I'm glad we agree. I can't think of a better place to do your fabulous piece justice. And there's a perfect spot right next to it where we can place the biographical plaque as I promised I would do for each of your paintings."
"Thank you," Justin replied. "I'm very glad you're pleased and that we agree on where it needs to be placed." Justin was also pleased, too, because it meant he would be able to return soon to Pittsburgh. He was eager to get back in time to meet Brian when he returned; he had missed his partner terribly.
"Well, I'm glad we have concluded the business portion, because now we can proceed to more pleasant activities. I hope you're hungry, because my chef assures me has concocted some outstanding dishes for lunch."
"I AM getting a little hungry," Justin admitted. He hadn't been very hungry this morning at breakfast, having been worried about the trip and not telling Brian about it, so he found himself suddenly feeling quite famished.
"Good. I hope you will thoroughly enjoy your lunch. However, I'm very sorry to tell you that due to some unexpected issues that have come up here at the restaurant, I'm not going to be able to join you. I hope you understand. But please, DO let my staff wait on you. My chef definitely needs to practice, and I want to repay you for your willingness to accompany me here. I have to stay in Lancaster for a few more days until the restaurant is up and running, but don't worry. I'll have my driver wait for you so he can take you back to my jet when you're done eating. The pilot has already been instructed to be ready for takeoff at your convenience."
Justin was anxious to get back to Brian; but truthfully, he WAS hungry and he knew it wouldn't take long to fly back to Pittsburgh. Besides, he felt it would make a better impression on Comisar if he was receptive to his wishes. "Of course I understand, Vince," Justin assured him. "And I will be more than willing to be one of your guinea pigs," he said smiling.
"Great. I will have my concierge, Henri, escort you to your table. We don't have all the eating areas completely ready yet, so I set up a table for you in the private dining room in the back. I didn't get a chance to show you that part of the restaurant, by the way." A tall, dark-haired man approached him and Justin as Vince motioned to get his attention. "Justin, this is Henri. I will place you in his most capable hands. I will also be in touch shortly to check on the status of my next painting. I can't wait to see what you come up with next! I hope you have an enjoyable lunch and a safe flight back." Waving to the blond, he turned back toward the front of the restaurant.
"If you would come with me, please, Mr. Taylor, I will show you to your table," the concierge instructed him in a smooth, slightly-accented tone, indicating with his arm that Justin should follow him toward the rear of the restaurant.
Justin continued to study the interior of the eatery, again feeling a certain and inexplicable familiarity somehow. Shaking his head slightly in confusion, he noticed Henri had stopped at a set of double, glass-paned doors that apparently led to the smaller dining room Vince had spoken about. The inside was hidden, however, by two louvered, fabric blinds, apparently placed there to help insure privacy for its diners.
As Justin waited for the concierge to open the doors, he was again abruptly accosted by an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu. The reason why he felt that way, and why the restaurant seemed so familiar somehow, immediately came rushing back to him as Henri opened the doors and he recognized the elegant, smiling man sitting at an intimate table set for two, a champagne bottle chilling in a silver bucket nearby. "Hello, Angel."