Lucas Drake’s house wasn’t exactly a mansion, but it was close enough for Vivian's tastes. It had the look of a palace as they drove forward up the long, paved driveway. An enormous porch was showcased by pillars that stood at least twenty feet high, holding a roof to cover the front door and several large vases containing tropical plants. Even the windows along the porch were larger than life, a side-by-side pair standing roughly ten feet tall.
“It’s a bit much if you ask me,” Sterling muttered as they walked to the stairs. There were only three of them, made of maroon-colored brick.
“I’ve met a lot of wealthy collectors in my time,” Vivian said. “This is sort of a common theme. All that money, nothing to spend it on…just sink it into your home.”
Sterling rolled his eyes as he came to the door and used the large, antique handle to knock. It created a booming sound that echoed lightly across the well-manicured lawn. Within a few seconds, they could just barely hear the sound of muddled footfalls on the other side. There was the clicking sound of a lock being disengaged, and then the door was opened.
A small woman who looked to be in her forties answered the door. Vivian did a doubletake when she saw that the woman was wearing an honest-to-God maid’s uniform—the sort often found in Halloween stores. Thankfully, this was not a slutty maid costume; the skirt stopped just above her knees. If this was Lucas Drake’s housekeeper, Vivian felt sorry for the poor woman.
“Bonjour?”
Sterling showed his badge right away. “We’re Agents Sterling and Fox, with INTERPOL. We need to speak with Mr. Drake. Is he home?”
The woman nodded and stepped back as she opened the door wider. “He is. He’s out by the pool. Come in.”
Vivian wasn’t sure, but it looked like the woman was almost happy that someone from law enforcement was here to speak with the man Vivian assumed was her employer. As the woman led them through the enormous foyer, Vivian saw that the floor was almost completely marble. They were led to what was more a corridor than a hallway that ran along the side of what she assumed was the central living area. She saw an enormous couch, a built-in fireplace, and a large television that had been built into the wall—a screen of which she guessed to be at least four feet tall.
Further down this corridor, they came to a set of French doors made almost entirely of glass. A gorgeous pool area sat outside. Vivian took it all in as the maid opened the doors for them. As they passed by her, Vivian heard the woman whisper, “Good luck.”
The scent of chlorine and freshly cut grass greeted them right away, growing stronger as they stepped out onto the leveled stone walkway. The poolside tableau was like stepping in to a page from a hedonistic luxury magazine. The pool wasn’t overly large, but the landscaping and design surrounding it was beyond elegant. A short rise in the stone at the back of the pool created a small waterfall. Several lounge chairs were set out along the stone. On one of them, Vivian spotted Lucas Drake. He was sprawled on a chaise lounge like a king in his domain. A scantily clad woman, all curves, and coy smiles, draped herself over the armrest, her presence merely an accent to his ostentatious display.
Vivian had to make a concerted effort to not shake her head in disbelief. She wasn’t sure if the woman’s ample breasts were natural or not, but the bikini top she wore did very little to hide them.
"Lucas Drake?" Sterling asked. Vivian noted in an almost proud way that he was doing everything he could to keep his eyes away from the nearly naked woman.
Drake's salt-and-pepper hair gleamed in the light, his rugged charm undiminished by the interruption. He raised an eyebrow, appraising them with an insolence that set Vivian’s teeth on edge. The woman looked their way, too. She smiled as she ran a hand over Drake’s well-defined abdomen.
"And who might you be?" Drake asked, more curious than anything else. He spoke in rapid French, the words nearly all combining into one. Vivian thought interacting with him would be good practice for her language skills.
"INTERPOL," Vivian answered, stepping forward with her badge in hand. It was a dance she knew well—assert authority, gauge reaction, look for the crack in the armor. "We need to talk to you about a situation you were recently involved in.”
“Sorry, love. You’re going to need to be more specific.”
“It’s about Cassandra Holt."
“Ah, Christ.” He sighed and gently slapped his lady-friend on the backside. “Can you give us a minute?”
The woman nodded and stood up from the chair. She then slowly slid into the water, giving Vivian and Sterling a playful look, as if letting them know she was going to do her very best to be a distraction.
“So,” Drake said, still sitting in his chair, reclined slightly. “Cassandra Holt. Spirited girl. What's she done now?" His voice was a purr of disinterest, the question rhetorical.
Rather than answer, Sterling stepped forward and pressed the issue. “We understand you and Cassandra recently had an argument at an auction.”
“Yes, that would be accurate,” Drake said.
“Care to elaborate?”
Drake’s indifference was palpable; he had perfected the art of detachment, wielding it like a shield against accusation. Yet Vivian could sense the undercurrent of annoyance, the slight tensing of his jaw that betrayed him.
"Business disagreements happen," Drake waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting away a bothersome fly. “Especially in the art world.”
Vivian watched Sterling closely, studying how he handled the situation. How should a well-trained INTERPOL agent deal with a rich, spoiled man who was accustomed to always getting his way?
"Except this is not just business, Mr. Drake,” Sterling countered. “Cassandra Holt is dead, and we believe your argument may not have been so inconsequential after all.”
Drake didn’t seem too bothered by this. In fact, he remained as still as the elegant columns that stood upright on his front porch. Vivian watched as he let the revelation hang suspended in the chlorine-scented air, his face betraying no more than a flicker of annoyance. Meanwhile, the scantily clad woman swam slow laps around the pool as if she didn’t have a care in the world; looking the way she did and being a plaything of Lucas Drake, Vivian assumed she probably didn’t have a care in the world.
“How’d she die?” Drake finally asked.
“She was murdered,” Vivian answered.
He looked shocked for a moment but then managed to draw it in. "Murdered, you say?" His voice was devoid of warmth, the word rolling off his tongue like a cube of ice. "Tragic, but hardly surprising in our line of work."
"Hardly surprising?" Sterling's tone sharpened, echoing against the mosaic tiles. "A woman is dead, Drake."
"Art is passion, agent," Drake said, locking eyes with Vivian. "Passion breeds conflict." He leaned back, stretching languidly, the sun casting a golden hue on his well-toned body. She could almost admire him, had he not been such a prick.
“That’s really philosophical,” Sterling said. “Good for you. Now, I want to focus on this argument.” Vivian was a bit surprised when Sterling took a seat on the lounge chair beside Drake. "What exactly sparked the conflict?"
"Price inflation," Drake admitted, brushing a hand through his hair. "Cassandra had a penchant for manipulating evaluations. Ensuring certain pieces remained with certain esteemed collectors." His lips curled into a smirk, a shadow of his usual rugged charm surfacing for a fleeting second. “She was sneaky about it. Had she not been screwing me over so badly, I might have even admired it.”
"Are you suggesting Cassandra Holt was corrupt?" Sterling interjected, skepticism lacing his words.
"Perhaps not overtly so," Drake conceded, "but lines blur easily in our circles. Art and greed often go hand in hand once consumers and museums are involved."
Vivian wondered if this might be true. She hated to believe a man like Drake, but she’d also been around enough art snobs and so-called experts to know that there was a lot of dishonesty and deviousness in the art world. If Cassandra had been inflating prices, then the list of motives for a killer stretched farther than they thought. But it was Lucas Drake, with his casual display of superiority, who remained under the spotlight right now. And his agitation at losing auctions was an irregularity they couldn't ignore.
"How long ago was this argument?” Vivian asked.
“I’m not sure. Three weeks ago, maybe?”
“Did you see Cassandra again after your little disagreement?"
Drake waved a dismissive hand, the sunlight glinting off his expensive watch. "I haven't laid eyes on her since that spat, and truthfully, I had no desire to."
"And where were you on the night of her death, a week ago?" Sterling asked. He leaned forward on his chair, closing the space between him and Drake.
Drake chuckled. “Ah, I see what you’re getting at. And with all due respect, I'm done talking for now. You've spoiled my leisure and my afternoon company."
"Mr. Drake," Vivian pressed, "a woman's life has ended. Your name is tied directly to her in a very negative way. You understand we’re viewing you as a potential suspect, right?”
“Well, that’s foolish.”
“What’s foolish is your flippant attitude toward it,” Sterling said, his blood beginning to boil.
The air thickened, heavy with tension. Lucas Drake stood abruptly, suddenly towering over Sterling, his chest puffed out like a peacock's display. "I said—"
"Enough," Sterling insisted, matching his posture and getting to his feet.
Vivian saw what was about to happen and readied herself to act if she had to. Drake's temper flared, and he shoved Sterling squarely in the chest with both hands. The very moment he did it, Vivian could see the regret on the rich man’s face. The unexpected force caused Sterling to stagger back, his shoe scraping against the stone tiles.
Vivian stepped between them, aware of the delicate balance she needed to maintain—not just for the investigation but for the dangerous way in which the next few moments might go down. She knew they now had the right to properly arrest him for putting his hands on Sterling, but she also feared that crossing that line would quickly deteriorate the conversation.
“That was also foolish,” Vivian said.
Drake legitimately looked frightened about how the situation had gone down. “Shit. I know. I’m sorry. I lost my temper and I…”
She could feel the undercurrents of desperation under his veneer of control, the hint of something darker lurking beneath the surface of his arrogance.
"Mr. Drake," she said coolly while also watching Sterling to make sure he wasn’t going to lose his professional composure. He looked confused for a second, perhaps not sure why she wasn’t more upset about what had happened—why she hadn’t retaliated and was postponing the arrest that was sure to come. “You just shoved an INTERPOL official. So can either cooperate here, or we can continue this conversation in an interrogation room. Your choice."
Drake’s jaw clenched, the muscles working beneath the stubble that lined his face. For a moment, the mask slipped, revealing a glimpse of the storm raging behind his eyes before he regained his composure, hiding once more behind the facade of indifference.
“Me? In an interrogation room?” He laughed…actually laughed at the idea of it. “Fine. But I'll have my lawyer present. And you’ll regret ever coming to my house with this nonsense."
“Already there,” Sterling said.
As the stand-off dissolved, Vivian knew they'd rattled Drake’s cage, forced him to reveal a crack in his armor. It was small, but it was there without a doubt. And she also knew her attempt to keep things cool and simple had backfired. She should have retaliated and slapped the cuffs on the smug bastard as soon as he’d shoved Sterling.
Vivian watched as the woman in the pool—clad in little more than a whisper of silk and sun-kissed skin—suddenly stilled, eyes widening. Reflections from the water danced across her face, illuminating the dawning shock in her eyes.
"Lucas Drake," Vivian said, her voice slicing through the stillness, "you are under arrest for further questioning regarding the murders of Cassandra Holt and Elena Rivera." Her words, though spoken with precision, carried the weight of an unspoken threat, echoed by Sterling's firm stance beside her.
With deliberate steps, Vivian closed the distance, her hand resting on the cuffs at her belt—a silent promise of what was to come. She could feel the heat radiating off the sun-warmed tiles.
"Agents, this is absurd," Drake began, his usual bravado faltering, the swagger in his voice giving way to a tremor of doubt. "I've done nothing wrong."
"Your cooperation is not optional," Sterling chimed in, his British accent lending an edge of formality to the proceedings. “It was before you shoved me, though.”
Drake's shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the fortress of his arrogance beginning to crumble as he glanced around the pool. He looked down to the woman and shook his head. “Stay as long as you like. I’ll be home within a few hours.”
"Turn around and put your hands behind your back," Vivian instructed, making sure to let him know he wasn’t going to just have his wrist slapped. She felt a bit immature for wanting to prove her point, to put the spoiled rich man in handcuffs.
As she cuffed him, securing the metal around his wrists with a satisfying click, Sterling stepped forward. He took hold of Drake's arm, guiding him away from the poolside and over to the French doors that led back inside. Vivian noticed that with each step, the reality of his circumstance was bearing down on him. She could see the subtle shifts in his face, making her wonder if maybe she should have greater suspicion of Drake. Behind them, the woman remained in the pool, still shocked by the sudden turn of events and clearly not sure how to respond.
Vivian felt a cold satisfaction settle in her chest as they marched Lucas Drake into his house and down the corridor to the front door. Along the way, they passed by the housekeeper again.
“Chloe!” Drake yelled in the woman’s direction. “Call Mr. Anders, my lawyer. Tell him INTERPOL has me and I’ll be needing his services!’
“Yes…of course, Mr. Drake!”
But as soon as they passed by her, Vivian looked back and saw Chloe smiling.