Page 18 of Bad Blood
“He won’t,” Dean cut in. “He cares about appearances.” He paused. “If I’m Thatcher Townsend, if I did have something to do with the disappearance of Celine Delacroix? I’d put on an even better show than usual.”
“And if Michael does his best to push his father over the edge?” Agent Sterling shot back. “If he goes on the offensive and his father snaps?”
Something dark and dangerous flashed in Dean’s eyes. “Then Thatcher Townsend will have to go through me.”
“If either of you question him,” I said to the FBI agents before they could respond to the threat inherent in Dean’s words, “the chances that Michael’s father will snap are very small.” Lia gave me a look that saidYou are not helping, but I plowed on. “Thatcher is grandiose and capable of enormous levels of self-deception. If hedoessnap, so long as there aren’t any other adults there, he might actually give us the information we need.”
Sloane cleared her throat and then made an attempt at helping my argument. “I would estimate that Michael’s father is seventy-one inches tall, one-hundred and sixty-one pounds.” When it became clear that none of us saw the relevance of that number, Sloane expanded: “I think we can take him.”
Lia turned and batted her eyelashes at Judd, who’d approached the discussion midway through.
“Fine,” Judd said after a long moment’s deliberation. “But this time, you’ll be the ones wearing cameras.”
I reached out to ring the Townsends’ front door, but Lia tested the knob and, finding it unlocked, let herself in. Eventually, she’d make Michael pay for the stunt he’d pulled back in Celine’s room, but she’d come riding to his rescue first.
“Drink?”
The moment I heard Michael’s voice, I crossed the threshold after Lia. I heard a faint clinking—glass on glass—and quickly surmised that Michael was pouring himself a drink and offering one to someone else.
I followed Lia through the house. Sloane and Dean did the same. In the living room—the same one where Briggs and Sterling had interviewed Celine’s parents—we found Michael with his father.
Thatcher Townsend accepted the drink Michael had made him, then raised the glass, a devil-handsome smile playing around the edges of his lips. “You should have answered when I called,” he told Michael, saying the words like a toast, like an inside joke that he and Michael shared. Just looking at Thatcher, I knew that this man was everyone’s best friend. He was the perfect salesman, one who specialized in selling himself.
Michael raised his glass and offered his father a charming smile of his own. “I’ve never really excelled atshould.”
Once upon a time, Michael had almost certainly feared the moments when his father’s charming mask slipped. Now he took power from his ability tomakeit slip.
But Thatcher Townsend proceeded as if he hadn’t heard the mocking undertone in Michael’s voice. “How are you, Michael?”
“Handsome, prone to bouts of melancholy and questionable decision-making. And you?”
“Always so glib,” Thatcher said with a shake of his head, smiling softly, as if he and his son were reminiscing. He caught a glimpse of the rest of us out of the corner of his eye. “It appears we have company,” he told Michael. The older Townsend turned his attention to us. “You must be Michael’s friends. I’m Thatcher. Please, come in. Help yourself to a drink if and only if you can resist the urge to report me to the FBI for contributing to the delinquency of minors.”
Michael’s father was magnetic. Charming, friendly, larger-than-life.
You live to be adored, I thought,and no matter how often you hurt Michael, you never stop turning on the charm.
“Michael, darling…” Lia strolled over to join father and son, winding her hand through Michael’s. “Introduce us.”
In the span of a heartbeat, Lia had donned a persona I’d never seen before. It was present in the way she held her head, the way she glided across the floor, the musical lilt in her voice. Michael narrowed his eyes at her, but must have been able to tell from the look on her face that he was lucky she hadn’t chosen to make a more memorable entrance.
“This is Sadie,” he told his father, tucking a hand around Lia’s waist as he introduced her by her alias of choice. “And by the door, we have Esmerelda, Erma, and Barf.”
For the first time, I saw a flicker of annoyance cross Townsend Senior’s face. “Barf?” He eyed Dean.
“It’s short for Bartholomew,” Lia lied smoothly. “Our Barf had a speech impediment as a child.”
Like me, Dean must have suspected that there was a method to Michael and Lia’s madness, because he didn’t say a word.
“Question,” Sloane said, raising her hand. “Am I Erma or Esmerelda?”
Thatcher Townsend gave every sign of being amused. “I see my son has found a place where he fits right in. I’m sorry my wife couldn’t be here to meet you all. I’m sure Michael has told you she has an adventurous streak. She runs a free clinic here in town, but travels with Doctors Without Borders whenever she gets the chance.”
It was hard to picture Thatcher Townsend with anything but a society wife. My gut said that he’d mentioned his wife’s adventurous streak for the sole purpose of punishing his son for refusing him our real names.Fists aren’t your only weapon. You are a man of intellect—unless the boy forces you to become something else.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Celine Delacroix.” Dean was the one who cut to the chase.
“Now, Barf,” Michael chided, “let the man finish his drink.”
