Chapter Text
“Ms. Robinson, the engagement is incredible. You’ve done a fantastic job curating this show for Aundrea,”
“Well, talent like hers makes it easy.” Trina responded humbly.
“No, Trina! Mr. Haag is right! As talented as Aundrea is, none of us would have gotten to know her or experience her work up close and personal without your stewardship,” Trina’s mentor and owner of The Jerome Gallery, Ava Jerome interjected.
Ava’s words meant a lot to Trina; she was such a strong, accomplished and an elegant woman whom Trina had always admired.
“Thank you, Ava.” Trina blushed. “ And thank you, Mr. Haag. I know the Aristo piece will be a great addition to your collection.”
“It will. If I could just wrestle its sister piece from the mitts of that wretched family…” Mr. Haag said with consternation.
Ava and Trina shared a knowing glance before Ava changed the subject.
“Have you gotten a chance to speak with Aundrea tonight, Mr. Haag?” Ava asked, glancing around the room for Aundrea Walton, a solidly established young artist whose work Ava had become acquainted with on an unplanned weekend in New York City a few months past. What she had been doing there and with whom was of no concern to anyone, but, bottom line, the trip had become expensable and Ava had a new artist on which to dote.
“Why, no. I have not. Where is she?” Mr. Haag strained his neck looking through the crowd fruitlessly.
Trina scanned the faces in the room as well, to no avail. “I’m not sure. Maybe she just needed a quiet space,” she reassured. “I’ll go and find her,”
Trina excused herself and, after checking the restrooms, made her way through the crowd towards the back office which, though off limits to non-employees, seemed the perfect hiding spot for every introvert artist who ever set foot in the Jerome Gallery. Ava generally didn’t mind. There was nothing of importance stored there. Packing materials, mostly.
The music and crowd noise faded from her conscience as Trina reached for the door knob to the office. As she twisted, she felt a hand over her mouth and a force pushing her into the darkness of the room. Inside, she heard the door close behind her and as her eyes began adjusting to the darkness, the hand held her released, and she turned around to see Spencer standing behind her, a big grin across his face.
“You scared the hell out of me!” She yelled, clutching her chest.
“I’m sorry!” Spencer laughed guiltily before turning more serious. “I just wanted a minute alone with you.”
“Spencer—“ Trina started.
Spencer closed the distance between them. “I’ve been watching you all night. The way you’ve worked the crowd, the artist, and even that surly gentleman—"
“Mr. Haag?”
“Mr. Haag,” Spencer nodded. “He opened his wallet?
“He did. Ava called him a tight wad, but there’s something about Ms. Walton’s work that speaks to him, I guess—“
“You managed to squeeze a laugh out of him, too.” Spencer looked at her proudly, taking her hands and pulling her into an embrace. “Everyone seems happy…Ava, Mr. Haag… artist—“
“Wherever she is, because clearly she’s not back here,” Trina sighed looking around the still darkened space.
Spencer reached out and softly pinched her chin between his fingers, clearly ignoring her concern. “Are you?”
“Back here?” she joked. “Clearly–”
“Happy?” He looked down at her earnestly, then began to nuzzle her neck with his nose. “You’ve worked so hard in this show..just like you work…so hard…on every show.” He kissed her neck in between the words.
She didn’t want to, but she let out a soft moan, the tension that had filled her body that day and the many days leading up to it releasing slowly with each landing of his lips on her skin.
“Spencer, stop. We can’t.” She pushed herself away from him and headed towards the door.
“Why not?”
“There’s a gallery full of people out there.”
“So? There’s no one here but us.” He smiled, sheepishly. “Although…I wouldn’t care. Let them watch. Let them see the way I love you. Let them see how much I love you.”
Trina’s resolve softened, the hand that had reached for the doorknob having fallen to her side, but she did not turn to look at him. Instead, she waited in the darkness and in that moment of quiet between what he had said and what he would say. She waited for him to close the distance between them, to fill that empty space with the presence she had come to long for–his frame towering over hers, enveloping her even.
“Trina,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair.
Trina exhaled sharply the breath she had been holding in in anticipation of this. “Yes?” she mustered.
But he did not say words. He steeled his breath and let his hands explore her body, tracing their way from her stomach to cup her breasts, her neck, her chin. She turned into his grasp, lifting her lips to his and it was just so easy how they synced. How they move against each other, into each other, as if one was the wave and the other the shore.
Spencer took a step forward, pressing Trina’s back against the door.
“Spencer,” she whispered breathlessly. “We can’t.”
His hands followed the seams of her dress down until he reached the skirt, which he lifted over her hips, revealing the baby blue lace-trimmed panties she was wearing underneath. He knelt before her, grabbing at the hips of her underwear with both hands and sliding them down. He kissed the crease of her thigh. “Do you want me to stop?”
Trina took in a breath that filled her entire core and held it. Her brain whirred with the murmur of voices and music and clinking champagne glasses on the other side of the door surely awaiting her return. But she wanted this–the scent of him, the sound of his voice filling her; the curvature of his skull as she ran her fingers through his hair. She pulled him in and melted her back against the wall, writhing as his tongue explored her.
Spencer’s moans were stifled by virtue of his position, but there was nothing that stopped Trina’s, which seemed amplified by the relative emptiness of the room and the fact that, just maybe, they should not have been there.
There was a knock at the door, but Spencer did not stop.
“Yes?” Trina called out with much effort.
“Trina, is everything OK in there?” It was Ava.
“Yes, yes,” Trina muttered. “I’m fine. I’m good. Everything is good…in here.”
There was a pause and Trina could sense Ava’s presence still on the other side of the door. She tried to hold Spencer’s head still so she could answer without sounding so spent. “I’ll be out…in a minute…”
“Ok…” Ava replied and Trina heard her footsteps grow more distant.
“Spencer!”
He looked up at her, a huge smile painted across his glistening lips. “What?”
Trina looked into his eyes, which would sprout wings if they could. She didn’t answer him and instead pulled him to her to finish what he had started. Even with her eyes closed and in the dark- filled room, she could know him. Could trace the silhouette of him on bent knees doing whatever he thought would please her. How this moment magnified her sense of him; filled her mouth, her belly with air that tasted of him and him alone. She moved with him. She moved against him. And he moaned his understanding each time. She pulled him to her so tightly that he could barely breathe, but he didn’t care. There was no place he would rather be. No way he would rather die than having spent his last moments in the worship of her.
And when she was done, Spencer pulled up her panties, stood up, straightened his jacket and ran his hand through his tousled hair. He took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his mouth before clearing his throat and announcing his departure with a grin. “I’ll leave you to…handle your business, Ms. Robinson.”
Spencer reached around her to open the door. Trina stood quietly, trying to catch her breath and slow down the moment in her head. She smoothed her dress and her hair and took a deep exhale before following Spencer out of the storage room.
Back on the gallery floor, Trina was relieved that everyone looked to be having a good time and that she hadn’t been missed. She scanned the room for Ava so that she might explain away the storage room commotion. As she scanned, Trina noticed Spencer leaned against a wall talking with Mr. Haag. He had been pointing to a painting until he noticed her noticing him. He smiled and slyly wiped the corners of his mouth before returning his attention to the painting.
Trina blushed, dropping her head and turning away from him. Just then, Ava approached.
“Did you find Aundrea?”
“Uh, no.” Trina was flustered. “She wasn’t in the restrooms when I checked and she wasn’t in the storage room either.”
“Then what was that…” Ava’s eyes widened.
“It was nothing, I just…tripped over some boxes.”
Ava nodded her head in mock belief. “Alright, well, we need to try and find her so we can close this thing out.”
“Alright, well, I’ll go check outside. Maybe she needed a breath of fresh air.”
“Yeah, and I’ll redouble here. Artists, Trina!” she added with a scoff before walking off.
Trina approached Spencer and Mr. Haag cautiously. “Mr. Haag, I’m sorry to interrupt. Mr. Cassadine, may I speak to you a moment?”
Her formality caught Spencer off guard. He excused himself from Mr. Haag and followed Trina towards the gallery door.
“What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, rising with panic.
“Oh, Aundrea, the artist that we’re all here celebrating tonight? She’s MIA.”
“Do you want me to help you look for her in the back again?” Spencer joked, but Trina wasn’t having it.
“Spencer!”
“She’s an artist Trina. Isn’t that par for the course for them?”
“Yeah, but…Ava’s trying to close out the show and Aundrea really should be here for that. I haven’t seen her since right after the show started. I told Ava I’d go check on the docks in case she wanted some fresh air. Come with me?”
“Of course.”
*
As Spencer and Trina walked back from the pier after a fruitless–if cursory–search for Aundrea, they noticed a line of emergency vehicles outside of Jerome Gallery. Trina rushed to the entrance, which had been blocked off with police tape. She saw Ava standing by talking with Detective Dante Falconeri.
“Ava, what happened?” Trina asked, her eyes wild with worry.
Ava turned slowly to face Trina, unsure of what she should say. “We found Aundrea,” she said.
“What? Where? What happened?”
“She’s…dead, Trina. She was found lying behind shipment containers in the back room.”
***
Trina raised her hand to her mouth. The shock in her eyes gave way to grief gave way terror at the realization that an up-and-coming artist, a flesh and blood human being had been found dead a breath from where Trina had stood less than an hour before. “Do we know how she died?” Trina was barely audible.
“It looks like she was murdered,” Dante offered matter-of-factly.
“Murdered?” Trina shot a quick glance at Spencer and then a stoic Ava, who was stroking the collar of her red silk blouse. Ava was old hat when it came to crimes and crime scenes, having grown up part of a mobster family and, if you were inclined to believe the stories, contributed to a few on her own. Trina didn’t know what to make of her mentor’s demeanor, but wished she could exhibit even a quarter of her collection. Trina could feel her body amping up and she started to tremble. Spencer placed his hand on her back to help steel her.
“We’re going to need statements from everyone at the exhibit, Trina,” Dante said before turning to Spencer. “You were there, too?”
Spencer nodded.
“Ok, then would y’all mind heading down to the station?” Dante’s tone of voice was gruff, his manner of speaking curt. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit he’d had his fill of this town. More than once, he’d contemplated packing up his partner Sam and their collective children, setting off for the Mediterranean and leaving the rapturous citizens of Port Charles to murder each other one by one. But, his mother had raised him better than that. It was duty over everything. He would crawl out of bed, kiss Sam on the head and make his way across town to the Jerome Gallery to investigate the latest in a long list of crimes that—hopefully—had nothing to do with his own crime boss father, but he didn’t have to like it.
“Honestly Dante, it’s late. And Trina is obviously traumatized. Can this wait ‘til the morning?” Spencer asked. The formality between the two men belied their familial relationship.
“It’s okay, Spencer,” Trina interjected. “Aundrea was a really nice person and a gifted artist, and she didn’t deserve this. The sooner everyone talks to the police, the sooner her killer can be caught—“ Trina stopped suddenly, a horrifying realization piercing through her thought. “Oh, my God! A killer who in all likelihood was here among us tonight.”
Ava, Spencer and Dante simultaneously panned from Trina to the crowd that was gathered around. Most of these people were known to them—artists, art patrons, influencers, the glamorously wealthy, all on the lookout for opportunities to exchange money, ideas and snide remarks, not murder anybody. Trina was sure she had done a thorough enough job researching Aundrea before offering her the show. There was nothing that seemed to indicate this outcome. Maybe she wasn’t the intended target? But if she wasn’t, who was?
Spencer led Trina away to her car, opening the passenger door so her rattled body could enter. Absently, she handed him the keys. As they drove, Trina scrolled through her memory trying to recall the events of the evening. The first and last times she saw Aundrea; who she had interacted with; who she seemed to be avoiding. The guest list was all invitees. There were the service crew and security , but no one with whom Trina or Ava were unfamiliar.
“Hey…you OK?” Spencer asked softly, squeezing her hand.
“Yeah…just trying to make sense of the night. Trying to remember the last time I saw Aundrea. She said she needed some air and she excused herself. I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t see where she went—I only assumed…” Trina let her voice fall off as she turned to look out the window. The streetlights of Port Charles were flying by at alarming speeds. She looked at the speedometer, which was approaching 70 miles per hour.
“Spencer, please slow down!”
Spencer had not meant to speed. He only wanted to get the unpleasantness of the night over with. Police stations bugged him and he didn’t want to spend another second inside one, fielding questions for which he had no good answers. He could only hope his cousin Dante and the rest of the PCPD didn’t think murder had become part of his repertoire, despite who his past and who his family was. Spencer knew the justice system as a joke—could be bought and sold by people with the right “breeding” or wielded like a hatchet to the lives and livelihoods of people without it. Regardless, it was a disruptive force and he wanted no parts.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” Spencer ran his hands through his hair the way he often did when he was flummoxed. A mechanism designed to center and refocus. “I just want to get this over with and get you home. It’s…a lot.”
“Yeah, I know.” Trina leaned her head against his arm and breathed a heavy sigh. The radio played only as a backdrop to their thoughts, and they rode the rest of the way to the police station in silence, hand in hand.
When they arrived at the station, Trina was relieved to see her father’s face in the sea of faces milling about. She rushed over and collapsed into his arms. Newly appointed commissioner Marcus Taggert was built for this. He was a hulk of a man who almost never smiled, who had a deep sense of duty and justice even if he had been known to bend the rules in service to both. But, what his size and sense of duty and justice allowed him to do better than anything–at least in Trina’s mind–was to be a wall of support.
“Daddy,” she sang quietly into his chest.
“Baby girl, are you alright?”
“I’m fine. I’m just…in shock.”
“That’s understandable, but look,” Taggert peeled apart from her to look into her eyes. “You’re safe right? You’re not hurt?”
“No, daddy. I wasn’t even there when they found her. I don’t even know what happened. I just–”
Taggert took her back into an embrace and turned his attention to Spencer, who was standing off to the side, doing his best not to raise Taggert’s ire with his mere presence.
“Cassadine? What about you?”
So much for that, Spencer thought. “Sir?”
“Where were you when all this was going down?”
“With Trina.”
“Of course.” Taggert had yet to accept–maybe would never accept–that Trina was a grown woman who made grown woman decisions. He and her mother had always prided themselves on having raised such an accomplished, level-headed, conscientious human being whose judgment was sound. Except in the case of Spencer Cassadine. Taggert’s history with Spencer’s father and uncle, and Trina’s own more recent history with Spencer himself colored any and every thought Taggert had about that family. His own eyes had only ever witnessed Spencer treat Trina with the same comfort and care that he did. But DNA left its mark, and somewhere soon he just knew he would need to be there to patch up the pieces of his daughter when Cassadine–or his family–finally broke her down.
Just then, Dante entered the station. He tipped his head in acknowledgement of Taggert. “Commissioner,” he greeted. “Do you mind if I take Trina into the interview room?”
Taggert and Trina stepped apart and Trina followed after Dante, leaving her father and her boyfriend alone in a building bustling with people.
“I guess that means it’s you and me?” Taggert’s tone was intentionally menacing. Spencer knew it was meant to rattle him, but he had no reason to be rattled. He respected Taggert, but he didn’t fear him: he was a Cassadine.
“I’ll follow you,” Spencer offered bluntly, stepping aside to allow Taggert to lead him to a separate interview room.
Inside the small dark room with its cinder block walls and one two-way window, Taggert pushed a chair out from under the table–an indication for Spencer to be seated, which he did. Taggert took the seat across from him. And despite it being an “interview” room, the vibe emanating from Taggert felt more like interrogation. Spencer reminded himself to breathe, speak the truth, and, above all else, temper his usual snarkiness.
“Tell me what happened tonight.” As a seasoned investigator, Taggert liked to start off with the broader strokes. People telling a story were generally more detailed than people answering a question.
“I was at the Jerome Gallery to support Trina at this very important art exhibit that she curated for a burgeoning artist, Aundrea Orr, out of New York. The night was going really well until it was time to close out. No one could find the artist in the gallery. Trina asked for my help searching the surrounding area for her. We got as far as Pier 55, didn’t see her, turned back. As we were approaching the gallery, we could see the police activity, saw Ava and Dante outside talking and were informed that Aundrea had been found dead. Murdered.”
Taggert had been listening intently as Spencer spoke, but had recorded nothing, his derisive eyes trained on Spencer long after he had finished speaking.
“That’s it?”
“That’s all there is.”
Taggert leaned back into his chair and ran his thumb across his bottom lip. His bald head gleamed under the room’s one light, which hung low above the table between them. “This is serious business,” Taggert admonished.
“I understand that, sir. A woman is dead. Trina is devastated.” Spencer’s words were measured.
“And you didn’t see anything suspicious tonight?”
“No, sir. Not until we noticed no one had seen Aundrea in a while. Trina had gone to look for her because a buyer wanted a chat. Trina looked for her in the gallery, didn’t find her but didn’t think anything wrong until the end of the night when she still had not emerged.”
“Do you know where Trina looked for her?”
“The bathrooms. The back room. Sometimes artists like to get away for a breather and Ava allows them to…decompress in the back room-er, the storage room.”
“What does that mean? Decompress?” Taggert leaned in closer.
“I don’t know. Whatever the artist wants it to mean. They’re all different, but pretty much the same—they want to make art. The exhibition of it can be…overwhelming. They look to escape, if only momentarily.”
“So the back room is…”
“Just a storage room, I think. Shipping containers, styrofoam peanuts, office supplies. Things like that. A toddler’s dream.”
“Does anybody have access to it?”
“Not really. No. I don’t know. It’s right next to the restrooms. I mean, I don’t know if they keep it locked. There’s a sign on the door that reads “Staff Only”, but nobody reads these days.”
“But you’ve had access?”
“What?” Spencer was becoming nonplussed, though he should not have been. He should have known it was coming. Even from a detective whose daughter he wasn’t currently dating. “I’ve not had access–”
“But you’ve been back there? I mean, you know the location. You know what they keep in there…”
“Yes, and on one of the biggest nights of my girlfriend’s career, I wandered to the unlocked, unguarded backroom where I find an unsuspecting artist wading in the muck of her anxiety and I’m so bored with the awesomeness of my life that I decide to what? Strangle her?”
The speed with which Spencer transformed from Martin to Malcolm took Taggert aback, but he tried not to let it show. He didn’t truly think Spencer was a murderous monster, but he didn’t like him and relished humbling the young man whenever he could. But right now, Taggert was just doing his job.
“Is that a confession?” Taggert sniggered.
“It is not. You know I had nothing to do with this.”
Taggert inched as close to Spencer as he could with the table still between them, speaking through gritted teeth. “What I know is that you were present at the scene of a homicide and instead of answering questions that might lead us to who did this, you’re being a smug prick as per usual.”
Spencer tittered, running his fingers through his hair and relaxing back down into his seat, lengthening the distance between the two men. This is not the time, he told himself. The last thing Trina needed this night or any was the added weight of a seemingly unyielding beef between Spencer and her father.
“What else would you like to know?” he asked, resigned that his unfettered cooperation was the only thing that could bring this interaction to its quickest conclusion.
*
“I’m sorry to see you back here, Trina.” Dante said, pulling out a chair for her to take a seat.
“Thanks for not falsely arresting me this time,” Trina quipped with a terse smile.
Dante lowered his head and situated himself on the corner of the table, next to her. “Yeah, sorry about that, too. Can I get you anything?”
Trina shook her head.
“Ok, so tell me: how were you acquainted with the victim, Aundrea Orr?”
Trina shrugged. “A few months ago, I came across a painting of hers in a restaurant on a recent trip to Long Island. I reached out to see if she had more and if she would be interested in showing her work at Ava’s gallery. She was a little reticent at first, but I was persistent. I thought her work was really good and I was anxious to put on an exhibition for a new artist–we’ve got some clients who have been clamoring for avant garde works. It seemed like a win-win for everybody.”
“So, the negotiations? They were between the two of you?”
“And Ava, since it’s her gallery. Aundrea was a very new artist. She didn’t have an agent or even a lawyer–she said she couldn’t really afford them–but she was a very astute business woman.”
“And the exhibition? What time did Ms. Orr arrive?”
“Around seven.”
“And how was her mood?”
Trina was pensive, searching for the most appropriate word to describe Aundrea, who, for much of the night before she disappeared, was glued to her phone.
“She was pleasant enough. Engaged with some of the patrons. But, she did seem distracted.”
Dante furrowed his brow, probing further. “How so?”
“Well, when she wasn’t checking her phone, she was looking around, like she was waiting for someone specific to show.”
“But, you don’t know who that person might have been?”
Trina shook her head.
“So, you don’t know if that person might have shown up?”
“No,” Trina shrugged. She was exhausted and silently prayed that the interview would be over soon. She wanted to help the investigation in any way she could, but her brain was soup. “Detective Falconeri,” she asked hazily, “how much longer?”
Dante tossed his notepad on the table and took the seat across the table from Trina. “Just take me through the evening, from the last time you saw her until you realized she was missing. And, I’ll also need a copy of the guest list and the list of vendors.”
Trina walked Dante through the evening as best as she could recall, watching as he jotted down notes in his pad. He flipped back and forth between some pages, ensuring he had clarified any sticking points he had before, mercifully, all the questions he had for now were exhausted.
Exiting the room with Dante right behind her, Trina saw Spencer standing at the front desk waiting for her.
“Where’s my dad?” She asked, taking a cursory look around the station.
“He had other interviews to conduct,” Spencer said, reaching out for her hand. “ Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired. How’d it go for you?”
A soft smile formed on Spencer’s face, and he pulled her into his arms, resting his chin on top of her head. “Oh, I had loads of fun,” he said sardonically.
“You ready to go?”
“Very.” Trina responded.
Spencer nodded a goodbye to Dante, turned on his heels and he and Trina began walking towards the door. “Let’s go home.”