I think about what that would be like, having to live with the knowledge that my mistake cost me my family. Even if the cops came in quietly, even if they snuck through the trees in the neighbors’ yards and managed a surprise attack, they’d have to get inside the house somehow. They could probably get the alarm company to disarm the house, but he’d hear them coming from a mile away. Plenty of time to kill everyone including himself before the cops stormed up the stairs. What if they blow it? That kind of mistake is forever. You can’t put the pin back in that grenade.
No. I can’t risk it. It’s a potential death sentence. Involving the cops has got to be the absolute last resort.
So then...what? Call the house and explain? Beg him to hold off until the banks open in the morning? That would give me the rest of the night to pull together another four hundred thousand and think through my defenses. An automatic weapon. A Kevlar vest so I can take the bullets meant for Jade and the Bees. If I can hold him off until tomorrow, I’ll have time to come up with a plan.
Still, I imagine Jade, sleeping on that blue chair with a gun pointed at her head, sharing fifteen extra hours of oxygen with a psycho kidnapper. One wrong move, one moment of impatience and his trigger finger could get twitchy. The kids would be witnesses, so they’d die, too. Boom boom boom. My whole family, lying in a sticky pool of their own blood. Wiped out in an instant because I couldn’t come up with the ransom.
Which means there’s only one answer, only one possible recourse: get the money and bring it to the house by seven. It’s the only way to keep Jade and the kids alive. Failure is not an option.
And then I remember the fire.
The one that licked my Bolling Way kitchen to death and took out my best source of income. The one that sparked in an outlet next to the cooking oil, exploding into a fireball when it hit the ceiling’s flammable noise panels.
Now it’s like pulling a crumpled lottery ticket from your pocket and seeing the winning numbers, like ripping open the candy bar to uncover the golden ticket. All this time, I’ve been sitting on a pot of money I didn’t even think about. A flicker of hope sparks in my chest, and my lungs swell with gulped air. I yank on the wheel and swerve onto the dirt shoulder, tires kicking up rocks and garbage as the truck skids to a sloppy stop.
Flavio picks up on the first ring. “Finally. I’ve been leaving you messages all afternoon. Where are you?”
I look around, blinking through my windshield at the run-down terrain. Boarded-up buildings and chop shops behind chain-link fences, an occasional fast-food joint—the cheap and dirty kind. Scaryville, as Jade would call this place. Bankhead, I’m guessing.
“Running a couple of errands. What’s the word from the insurance adjustor?”
There are still all sorts of obstacles, I know, but if I could somehow manage to get my hands on a check, I could take it to one of those check-cashing places—Western Union or one of the sketchy ones that stay open late for suckers like me, desperate people willing to pay an obscene rate for quick cash. But even then, even if I had to forfeit what? Ten percent? Twenty? The payout will still be more than what I need. I’d walk away with plenty of cash for Jade and the kids.
“That’s what I’ve been calling you about,” Flavio says. “He wants to know about the building on Pharr.”
I frown. “What about it?”
“Actually, he’s standing right here. Why don’t I let you talk to him.” Not so much a question as it is a statement, and one that ticks a warning beat in my chest.
There’s a shuffling on the line, the cell phone exchanging hands, followed by a new voice, deep and heavy on the syrup.
“Hey, Cam, Matt Brady here. I’m sorry you and I haven’t had a chance to chitchat before today, though I surely regret what’s got us on the phone now. I want you to know, however, that you and I will get to the bottom of this fire. I assure you, I’m here for the duration.”
My restaurants are filled with men who talk like this, in flowery sentences delivered in dignified twangs that echo of cotton fields and weekend hunting lodges. They pull up to the valet stand like they just arrived from the country club, in custom shoes and neck scarves doused in designer cologne, and they buy buckets of Screaming Eagles for them and all their friends. They run big companies and sign big checks.
What they do not do is take a job as an insurance adjustor.
“Thank you for that, Matt. I appreciate your dedication to the cause, but as I’m sure you can understand, I have lots of people counting on me for their livelihoods. How soon do you think we can get them some compensation?”
I may not have grown up in the South, but I can play good ol’ boy like the best of them.
“Well, I suppose that depends in large part on the conversation you and I have here today. What can you tell me about the Pharr Road establishment?”
“I can tell you the building on Pharr does not belong to me. I haven’t taken ownership yet, and just between you and me, whether or not I move forward on the purchase is kind of up in the air.”
He makes a humming noise. “Still. I find it a little interesting you put down that kind of earnest money on a building just around the corner from your existing restaurant on Bolling Way. Less than a quarter of a mile to be precise, and featuring a rear lot that’ll fit fifty-plus cars. I checked the zoning, and what do you know? The City of Atlanta has earmarked it for restaurant use.”
The rubber band around my chest wraps tighter. I don’t like where this line of questioning is headed.
My laugh tries for casual but misses by a mile. “All that’s true, but have you seen the place? It’s a real dump. One I no longer have the time or the funds to renovate. Looks like Lasky will be staying put.”
“How much do you think it’ll cost to fix it up? You’re a businessman, Cam. I’m assuming you’ve done the math.”
Hell yeah I’ve done the math. Four thousand square feet of prime real estate smack in the second wave of the Buckhead development, easily accessible from both Buckhead and Midtown, and an owner who’s beyond desperate to sell. A no-brainer, assuming I could cough up the money—which I can’t. Not without another investor with deep, deep pockets.
“I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“How much, Cam?”
I fight the urge to scream. The clock on my dash ticks to 5:30, and we still haven’t gotten to the payout or talked about the possibility of him writing a check for the money I need to save my family. I white-knuckle the steering wheel, my body a sizzling bundle of reflexes and raw nerves.
“A million, give or take, for the reno plus furnishings. And then there’s the cost of the building—which again, isn’t mine.”
“But it’s under contract. You put down a significant chunk of earnest money.”
“Money I’m fully prepared to walk away from. Recent developments have changed my investment strategy somewhat.”
“Are you referring to the fire?”
“I’m referring to the hole in my bank account!”
I wince at his stretch of silence.
“Look, I’m sorry. My nerves are shredded. The truth is, Bolling Way is the only shop keeping me afloat, which means I need that insurance money as soon as humanly possible. I needed it yesterday.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how this works. What do you think, that I just drive around town with a trunk full of money? I don’t even own a checkbook. There’s a process for these things, which starts first and foremost with you filing a claim. Then, once that’s approved, we have up to thirty days to process the payment. Now, I’m not saying it will take that long, but you see where I’m going with this? It’s going to take some time.”
“Okay. Well, what about an advance?”
“You could request an advance, but that’s only meant to tide you over for the first few days. Advances are typically a very small portion of the total estimate
d amount, and even then, it’ll be tomorrow before I can work through the paperwork.”
The reality hits me like a fist in the face—no insurance money today, no way of plugging that $700,000 hole—along with a more urgent problem: a man coming at me on the other side of the windshield. A crackhead, that much is obvious from the slant of his mouth, his vacant expression, the way his limbs flop around in a sloppy gait.
My hand reaches into the space below my seat, my fingers closing around the handle of the Smith & Wesson. I flip the safety and drag the weapon onto my lap, holding it steady.
“Flavio can handle the claim,” I say while looking the crackhead straight in the eye, holding his gaze, daring him with mine. He peers through the side window, sizing me up, too. I see his eyes settle on the logo on my shirt, then wander on to the truck’s rims, the oversize tires and custom grill.
Not today, dude. You do not want to fuck with me today.
“Whatever information you need, Flavio can provide.” I watch the crackhead in the side mirror, his gait slowing at the back bumper. My body is on high alert, but my heartbeat finally eases up, settling into a deliberate, steady rhythm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m kind of in the middle of some—”
“Just one more thing.” Matt’s genteel twang is gone now, replaced with something flat and razor-sharp.
“Yeah, what?” I clock the guy’s slouchy stride, the way he ducks his head under that hoodie, how his hands swing long and free.
“Earlier this afternoon, I had a very enlightening discussion with a Mr. Spivey at the Abernathy leasing offices. He says you’re scheduled to start paying rent at the end of the year.”
Abernathy, the landlord. My gut twists with unease because yet again, I know where this conversation is headed.
“Was scheduled. Was. Obviously, this fire changes things. Mr. Spivey already told Flavio they’d work with us on the lease.”
“That’s not what Mr. Spivey related to me. He said the two of you have been involved in a bit of a tiff. He accused you of trying to wriggle your way out of what’s supposed to be a five-year lease.”
“That’s all true,” I say, because there’s really no use in denying it. Tim Spivey has probably fifty emails from me and my attorney throwing every excuse at the wall to see if one would stick. The Bolling Way shop was making a killing, not just for me but for the entire development. More diners meant more shoppers, hordes of happy, tipsy folks with plenty of money to spend. I was willing to stay, but only if they dropped the monthly payments on the last two years of the lease. Preferably, to zero.
“Next time you talk to Mr. Spivey you can tell him a move to Pharr Road is off the table. Lasky Steak is going nowhere.”
“I’ll do that, Cam, but just so we’re clear. You do understand how it looks, right? A catastrophic fire smack in the middle of a lease dispute. The timing is beyond convenient.” His accent is back, the words delivered slowly, precisely, like a doctor reporting bad news.
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must not be making myself clear. I’m not insinuating anything. What I’m doing is making an accusation, and I’m not the only one. The investigator agrees the fire looks suspicious. He even threw around the word arson, and multiple times. If that’s the case, if the fire was intentionally set by you or someone directed by you, then that would qualify as insurance fraud. A felony.”
The words are like an ambush, prickling my skin with alarm. “Check the security footage.”
“I have. Seems the camera was turned on, but the wire from the unit to the monitor had come loose. The last recording from your security company was taken just before midnight last night, a good ten hours before the fire. The footage from today showed a blank screen.”
In other words, no way to prove who set the fire—and more importantly for this particular conversation—no insurance money from Matt today. Maybe ever.
He’s still talking, something about next steps and legal matters, but I’m not listening because a shadow has fallen across my side window. The crackhead, going for my door handle.
I press the gun to the window, the muzzle flush to the glass.
There’s a sluggish delay, a full couple of seconds before his eyes have focused on the weapon aimed at his chest, and then they widen in shock. He stumbles backward, almost stepping into traffic, missing a passing bus by a foot before he takes off in a dead run.
Matt’s voice fills the cab: “Did you hear me, Cam? I said I’m sending your case to the Special Investigations Unit for potential insurance fraud. That’s the first step into an investigation as to the origin and cause of this fire.”
I toss the gun onto the passenger’s seat and shift into gear. “That’s great, Matt. It’s just really fucking fantastic.”
I hang up and hit the gas, pulling out with a growl of motor and clattering of kicked-up gravel, my mind stuck on two facts. I have no idea where to go next, and I’m just so royally screwed.
T H E I N T E R V I E W
Juanita: In the months since the home invasion, there have been rumors of you stiffing contractors and suppliers—
Cam: [scoffs]
Juanita: —that you created a namesake charity and used those funds to pay off your children’s private school and business liabilities—
Cam: [rolls eyes]
Juanita: —and that what you claimed was the best dry-aged specialty beef was really just meat you purchased in bulk at Costco.
Cam: Would you like the number for my distributor? I’m sure he’d be more than willing to give you a couple of choice sound bites. I still owe him more than fifty grand.
Juanita: The point is, these stories are such a far cry from your reputation as Atlanta’s Steak King that it’s jarring. Would you like to hear a few of the words used to describe you on social media and in the news?
Cam: Not really.
Juanita: Slimy. Shameless. Selfish. Self-centered and self-dealing. A crook like your father. A con artist and a villain. People sure love to hate on Cam Lasky, don’t they?
Cam: What can I say? I’m a despicable guy.
Juanita: Don’t you want to at least try to defend yourself?
Cam: No.
Juanita: Why not? I thought you were here to tell the truth. To look into the camera and set the record straight.
Cam: Do you honestly think after everything that happened that I give the first shit about my reputation? Come on, Juanita. I mean, look at me. See how I’ve paid. So no, I’m not going to try to defend myself because what I did is indefensible. That’s the truth I want people to hear, that I am a sorry, stupid man. That I carry a truckload of guilt and regret and shame. I’m sure your viewers will be beyond thrilled to hear how miserable I am.
Juanita: And Jade?
Cam: What about her?
Juanita: If she were here right now, what would she say? Would she say she still loved you despite what you did, that she forgave you?
Cam: [lengthy pause] Knowing Jade? Sure. But your question should be whether or not I’d believe her.
J A D E
5:32 p.m.
We are back up on the main level, Baxter, the masked man and me, parked in the hallway between the master bedroom and the stairs. He orders me to stand against the wall, and my shoulders brush against the series of family portraits in matching black frames, stern-faced grandfathers and great-great-aunts I’ve never met and history has long forgotten, hanging from brass hooks on the wall. I wonder what they would think of the screwdriver up my sleeve, if they would see it as brave-hearted or reckless.
“What do you think?” he says, flipping off the basement light just inside the door. “Should we leave it open or lock her down there?”
I don’t respond, mostly because he doesn’t seem to expect an answer.
He leans his head into the stairwell and shouts,
“Congrats, Beatrix. You’re locked in the dungeon with a million cockroaches,” then slams the door and twists the dead bolts with a snide grin. “If she’s down there, we’ll know it pretty darn soon.”
Baxter lays a clammy hand on my cheek and turns my face to his. “Mommy, Beatrix is not in the basement.” His voice is a shout-whisper, the kind he uses to tell his deepest, darkest secrets—like what I’m getting for Mother’s Day weeks before he and Beatrix present me with a package. Baxter thinks if he whispers something, he’s not spoiling the surprise.
But I wish he’d keep quiet, especially if he happens to know where his sister is hiding.
And even if he doesn’t, every word Baxter utters, every move he makes, puts him square in the spotlight, when it’s so much safer for him to fade into the background. I need him to keep quiet because I want this man to deal with me, not my children.
He stares at Baxter like he’s stuffed with gold. “Do you know where your big sister is?”
The screwdriver is like plutonium, tingling against my skin. If I slid it out of my sleeve right now, I could hold him off of Baxter for a second or two, but I only get one chance. The worst thing would be to waste it.
He steps closer, and Baxter and I lean back, knocking one of the frames from the wall. Great-Great-Grandpa Wally, who played shortstop in the army baseball league. His picture crashes to the floor with a sickening crunch, scattering glass shards across the hallway.
“No.” I shake my head. “Of course Baxter doesn’t know.”
Baxter might know. The kids play hide-and-seek often enough, and he knows all the best spots, places our captor didn’t think to look. Squeezed into the dead space between the laundry hamper and the long dresses in my closet, for example, or curled up inside the covered ottoman in the study. Bax can probably even rattle off a couple I don’t know about.
My Darling Husband Page 15
