“I got a—”
“Spiderman, get Mike fucking Roman a drink.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Michel—”
Michelson yanked Mike back toward the pool. “Fucking Spiderman, am I right?”
“Pretty cool.”
“I wanted Wolverine, but you know what they told me?”
“The claws?”
“The fucking claws. Badass as they are, can’t make a cocktail with claws. But Spiderman’s the man.” He turned back to the bar. “Hey, Peter Parker, get Mike Roman a rock-tail.”
Spiderman held out Mike’s whiskey ginger.
Kieran grabbed the drink, spilled half the goods on the way to Mike’s hand. “Hells yes, Spiderman. High-five.”
Spiderman left him hanging, but only for enough time to leap up to the overhang’s ledge, flip up onto the roof, then reach down and finish the high five upside down.
“Bet Wolverine couldn’t do that,” Mike said.
“Fucking Spiderman,” Michelson said again, oblivious. He put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “You’re seriously jacked, bro. We gotta talk workouts.”
Mike watched Spiderman crawl across the roof and hide behind an air conditioner. “Does he just stay there until you call him?”
“Who knows? Grab a bathing suit in the room behind the DJ, then get your ass comfortable so we can talk business.”
Mike found the stack of bathing suits, all bright red except for the words “Rep Repair” in white across the ass, changed, and rejoined the party.
Kieran came and went, sometimes alone, more often arm in arm with a female. The DJ and Spiderman left around six, the ladies at seven.
In the third-floor kitchen, Kieran ordered steaks from an app on his phone, then cut four giant lines of coke on a marble countertop. “Bro, you ready for the party or what?”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “As in the thing that just ended?”
Michelson filled his sinuses, wiped the powder from his nose. “That’s nothing, man. I’ve got more ladies coming at nine. You want to hit this?”
“I’ve got a drug test tomorrow, K.”
Kieran took rail number two down like a Dyson. “A what test?”
“As we discussed on the phone, my brand will be security for the elite, which means my people have to stay professional, even at the party of the year. That discipline’s got to start at the top.”
Mike’s cover story was based in a truth, or at least the truth of a dream. As a felon, he couldn’t legally work as a private investigator in California, but he could start a security firm, and Hollywood didn’t seem to mind the shade of his past, given that it was accompanied by notoriety.
Kieran raised a hand to high-five position. “I get it, man. That’s sick.”
Mike knew he had to accept the offer but wondered if Nazis had the same overdeveloped shoulder muscles as Michelson. He slapped that fascist salute and got to the point. “Of course, discretion will be our thing—the kind of loyalty that comes from nondisclosure agreements and large sums of money.”
Kieran wiggled the tip of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Man, that sounds like something I might need.”
“Maybe we can work out an exchange. You’re living the life, K. People will try to find holes they can exploit. Your past, your finances, whether or not your stairs are nonslip in case some low-paid Spiderman wants to slip and fall four stories and sue the trunks off of you.”
“Oh, I take care of Spiderman. That guy got blown today.”
“Seriously. From my perspective, it looks like you’re burning through your investors’ cash. Makes you an easy target.”
“No way. Rep Repair isn’t just a business, it’s my dream, bro. Two years ago, I get out of college and people think I’m a drug dealer and a murderer, all because some girl I’m banging gets drunk and disappears. I mean, it was awful. This was my friend, right? But nobody gave a shit. I had people tweeting I should get life in prison. I decided right then I wasn’t gonna let those asshats call me a murderer for the rest of my life. I made this thing, raised two million, hired the developers. Every bit of cash I blow is mine, clean and everything.”
Mike knew nobody used the word clean unless they were dirty.
“Then they’re gonna ask the obvious. How can a kid two years out of college afford to run the Playboy mansion?”
“Better than the Playboy mansion. No old balls.”
Mike stayed on point. “I know you’re familiar with my background. What I used to do?”
“Yeah, bro. Ex-cop, right?”
“That’s right. LAPD, narcotics.”
“And then you went to prison for corruption. I ripped off a copy of that reporter’s book.”
Mike wasn’t about to get into the whole story. “So I know what I see when I look at this house.”
Kieran sobered a bit. “Hey, I lease this place, the cars. Six months of entertaining big-money a-holes in a house like this pays off stacks of cash for what it costs. Got to spend it to make it, man.”
“I get it,” Mike said. “Who am I kidding? I don’t know shit about finance, but like you said, everyone thinks you used to deal. Now you’ve got a buttload of cash.”
Kieran nodded more times than he needed to. “Yeah, I get it, I get it.”
He took a few steps toward the balcony, came right back. “Let’s say I did hook some people up in college. I’m not saying I did, Mike, but if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be stupid enough to risk my future by getting caught. Shit, if I was, they would have locked me up two years ago, whether I knew what happened to Angela or not. Here’s the answer I give anyone who asks: I saw a niche in the market and filled it. Me and my bros started a farm that grows organic vegetables, certified and everything, then supplies places that don’t mind paying way too much for the label. Fraternities, sororities? Shit, colleges are full of people who don’t know the value of a greenhouse and some topsoil. Plus they’ll pay extra for that hydroponic shit.”
Mike smiled. “That’s great.”
“Yeah, I’m a farmer, bro.”
Mike beat Michelson to it, raised his hand. “Up top, K.”
A greenhouse, topsoil, and hydroponics—necessary elements for both an organic farm and a marijuana growhouse. Organic veggies might cost an extra buck or two at the store, but no way they added up to a Lexus, Range Rover, and house full of topless women. Mike had everything Caitlin needed. He’d eat the man’s steak, then leave before the second wave of strippers washed up.
CHAPTER
21
MARY EXCUSED HERSELF after an hour of celebratory post–press conference darts and beer, leaving Caitlin and Lakshmi on the sidewalk a block from Kilroy’s Sports.
“Well, kid,” Caitlin said, breathing in the night air. “First you called out an FBI agent in front of a room full of pros, then you kicked both Mary and my asses at darts. How do you feel?”
Lakshmi laughed. “You were the one who told me to bring up Foreman. It’s not like he said anything useful.”
“Maybe not, but think of what’s not being said.” Caitlin checked her phone. Five past eleven. “No hot dog cart tonight.”
“Not enough traffic on a Tuesday. What’s not being said, Caitlin?”
Caitlin thought about Lakshmi and Angela’s last text exchange.
F’d up. Going to Sports. Gonna eat some SAUSAGE first.
“It’s your body,” she said aloud.
Lakshmi looked at her like she’d spoken in tongues. “Sorry?”
“The night Angela disappeared—”
“Of course, our texts. Angela’s end of that happened somewhere on this block. The cart was across the street under that light.”
“Were you fighting? It seemed like Angela was teasing you.”
Lakshmi bit a nail. “We were teasing each other. It was girl’s night and she chose to go out with them.”
“Dave Amireau and Kieran Michelson?”
“Yes. Apparently she’d made the plans earlier but didn’t tell me until
they showed up. I didn’t want to hang out with a bunch of frat boys and was hurt that she did.”
A sensible answer, almost practiced.
“Angela typed the word sausage in all caps,” Caitlin said.
“I know. The detectives made a big deal about that too. Can you imagine having people analyzing your text messages, even the emojis or typos?”
“Words are my thing,” Caitlin said. “I divine a great deal from their usage.”
“So do I, but Angela? Not so much.” She shrugged.
“Do they still have bands at Sports?”
“Depends on the night. Could be a band, could be a DJ. The place is humongous. According to them, it’s the biggest college bar in America.”
Caitlin started walking. “Let’s find out what happens on a Tuesday.”
* * *
The bouncer looked up from Caitlin’s ID. “You don’t look—”
She grabbed her driver’s license. “Thanks, but don’t.”
Lakshmi took her into the fray. The downstairs felt familiar: a long bar and two rooms full of booths, a mix of people chowing down on chicken wings and pounding shots. Everywhere Caitlin turned, her eyes adjusted to TV screens showing sports highlights.
“Want to go upstairs?” Lakshmi said, her voice fighting the sounds of dance music.
Caitlin read the sign on the wall. “Sure, let’s check out the Jungle.”
A wall of humidity hit her as they edged near the crowded dance floor and its mélange of lithe, gyrating women and dudes struggling to keep their tongues in their mouths.
Caitlin pointed toward a patio. “Let’s go there.”
Plastic chairs circled outdoor tables with closed umbrellas. People puffed on e-cigarettes and spoke at drunk volume.
“It’s nicer in the beer garden,” Lakshmi said.
“Good God, there’s a beer garden too?”
They made their way to a high-ceilinged, glass-walled patio big enough for two hundred. Maybe thirty people Lakshmi’s age occupied various parts of the atrium and bar.
Caitlin took a stool.
A male bartender let them know he’d be right with them.
Lakshmi pointed to a raised platform at the far end. “The karaoke scene is big here. Not as big as Bear’s Place, but—” Her eyes caught on a table. “Bugger.”
“What’s going on? An ex or something?” Caitlin saw four guys with two pitchers, four cups, and a board game.
Lakshmi whipped her head back toward the beer taps. “I don’t know why he’s here. I didn’t even know he was in town.”
“Who?”
“It’s David Amireau and some of his old frat brothers. I have to leave.”
“Because you’re afraid?”
“Because of the restraining order. I have to stay one hundred yards away, so I have to go right now.”
“Interesting.” Caitlin pushed away from the bar. “You can tell me all about that on our way home.”
“No. You stay. Watch him.”
“Why?”
Lakshmi walked toward the door. “You’ll see. Text me later.”
Caitlin watched her go. Amireau had a restraining order against her, not the other way around. Weird that neither Lakshmi nor the BPD had mentioned that tidbit.
She ordered a beer and then took her drink to a table ten feet from Amireau and company. David Amireau had grown a dark, thick beard, the kind the Special Forces guys wore in Afghanistan. Otherwise, Caitlin didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The narrow bridge between his eyes read “dickhead,” and the contrast between his pasty skin and full eyebrows didn’t help, but Angela Chapman had called Amireau her friend. She’d texted him, not Michelson, on a regular basis. The guys with him looked sincere enough, laughing when he joked, and bumping fists when points were scored in their game.
Caitlin nursed her beer for fifteen minutes, then walked to the bar for another.
The first group of women appeared before she got back to her seat. College-aged, maybe six, gathered near the doorway. Five minutes later, they numbered fifteen, all shapes, sizes, and races. Five minutes after that, easily two dozen.
Caitlin heard one of the girls say, “Now.”
A chant echoed in the patio. “Murderer, murderer.”
They started walking. Amireau didn’t notice until one of his friends tapped him. The women continued, growing louder. By twenty feet away, they were yelling.
“Murderer, murderer!”
Amireau’s friend yelled back. “Dave didn’t do anything.”
Another of his boys called to the bartender. “Get security in here.”
The mob walled in the foursome. Several men in security T-shirts worked their way in, forming a path Amireau could take through the fe-maelstrom, his hands covering his face to keep from being photographed by multiple camera phones. The mob followed him out into the main bar, still chanting. Caitlin went too.
She saw heads turn with recognition and whispers, heard someone behind the bar say, “Hey, it’s the guy that killed Angela Chapman.”
The remaining stools and chairs pushed back, and the nightclub emptied onto the street, a drunken and angry mass. Their chant continued long after Caitlin lost sight of Amireau, and didn’t stop until the wail of sirens replaced words.
CHAPTER
22
TWENTY MINUTES AND three police cruisers later, the bar had nearly emptied of students. Jerry Greenwood leaned against the railing of the rooftop patio. “Where’d your young journalist friend go?”
“Not quite sure.” Caitlin pointed down to the crowd-less sidewalk. “How did the march of the Chapman Chapter end?”
Greenwood laughed. “Most scurried when the lights came on.”
“Kind of a weak protest for a college town.”
“Well, it’s Tuesday.” He looked at his watch. “Correction, Wednesday morning. How’d the shenanigans start?”
Caitlin walked him through to Lakshmi’s exit. “Because apparently Amireau has a restraining order against her?”
“First time she mentioned it?”
“News to me, and I’m a journalist.” Caitlin turned in time to catch a server. “Miss?” She held up her plastic cup, empty except ice cubes. The server nodded.
“Wait a sec,” Greenwood said. “Can I have a vodka soda, splash of cran?”
The server took their orders back toward the bar.
They sat. Caitlin picked a plastic votive candle off the table, flicked the tiny switch off and on. “How did Amireau get a restraining order against Lakshmi?”
“How did she behave tonight?”
“She calmly told me she had to leave and that she’d talk to me later.”
“Then she’s grown. After we released Dave and Kieran without any charges, she followed them everywhere, screamed at them in public, trolled them on social media. Michelson moved to California three weeks after graduation, but Amireau stayed. That summer, someone keyed his car, spray-painted Murderer on his front door.”
“You think Lakshmi did that?”
Greenwood shrugged. “She didn’t go home for the summer, so she had access, but it didn’t really matter. Guilty or not, no one proved those boys did anything wrong. Amireau’s attorney filed harassment paperwork. Lakshmi showed up in court, tried to present the people’s case against Amireau and Michelson without an attorney. Judge not only granted the order, he made her pay their attorney’s fees.”
Again, Caitlin revisited Lakshmi’s age. As professional as she seemed, two years earlier would have made her nineteen. Caitlin hadn’t keyed any cars in her youth, but she remembered how out of her mind she’d been the first time she’d switched birth controls. Throw in a best friend’s disappearance, and who knows what she could have destroyed? Still, she’d only known Lakshmi for five days. “Do I have to worry about her?”
The waitress returned with their drinks. Greenwood waited until she’d gone.
“From what I can tell, Lakshmi came back that fall, hit the books, and has kept her dist
ance since.” He took a sip. “Granted, she bugs the hell out of me, but what would I do if someone killed a woman I loved?”
“Didn’t she violate the order by calling the Chapman Chapter out tonight?”
“Technically, Doris Chapman started it all with a tweet, so there’s no direct line between Lakshmi and Amireau. I don’t see a reason to draw one. This was a fluke. Dave barely comes into town anymore.”
“But he stayed close, as in he still lives near Bloomington?”
“Moved to a place near Nashville. Runs a farm that sells organic produce, mostly to sororities or frats.”
“So you’ve kept your eye on him?”
Greenwood took another sip. “Kid knows what happened to Chapman. He’ll snap. Only a matter of time.”
“And pressure,” Caitlin said. “Like a city of women calling you a murderer any time you turn up in public.” She tilted her cup back, hit only ice a second time. “Lakshmi and Chapman were lovers.”
“You asking or telling?”
“ ‘A woman she loved,’ you said. And how about the Friday girl’s nights with only two girls, the visits to Chapman’s apartment, and the complete lack of love life?”
Greenwood finished his drink. “We never made her say it out loud. I’ve spoken to her father, and I get it. This might be the town that invented the Kinsey scale, but everybody has lives back home, and that’s their personal journey. But don’t go thinking that conservatism is restricted to the Indian doctor. Chapman’s parents dwell on the high school version of Angela rather than the college one.”
“Then on the Kinsey scale?”
“Lakshmi leans far to one side, but Chapman straddled the divide.”
Caitlin crunched an ice cube. “Talk about your college stereotypes.”
“Nineteen years old? I didn’t know I wanted to be a cop until I was twenty-two, and even then, I probably did it for the wrong reason.”
“Which was?”
He laughed. “Ladies love men in uniform. When did you know who Caitlin Bergman was, or were you one of those people who were set at sixteen?”
“I thought I knew before I got to school,” she said, then caught herself in a memory, flagging down a mini-van, her torn shorts covered in blood and limestone chalk. “But you’re right. Things change us. So you looked at Lakshmi?”
Come and Get Me Page 9
