by J. Conrad
“If you have something to say, then you can send us an email with the information. And if you needed my help, you should have thought of that before you threatened me. That isn’t the best way to get someone’s cooperation. I did what I had to do to protect myself,” I say.
“I didn’t threaten you,” Nick says.
“What would you call it then?” I ask.
Nick snorts. “You should have thought of the consequences of your actions. I guess it’s easy not to give a shit when it’s not your life. But you can redeem yourself. Meet with me alone, and we’ll get this sorted out.”
I shake my head, gripping the steering wheel with my left hand to try and make myself stop trembling. Redeem myself, indeed. My heart races, and I’m lightheaded, but I’ve secured a minor victory by recording the call.
I ask, “And what if I don’t meet with you?”
“If you don’t, things are going to get ugly, Ms. Owen. Don’t force me to play the bad guy. It’s a role I don’t want to assume, but I will if I have to. Meet me at Maudie’s Too on South Lamar tomorrow at noon. It’s in your best interest to come alone.”
I huff. I wonder if he would dare order Kyle like that. Well, my answer is the fact that he hasn’t contacted Kyle at all—even though Nick supposedly has an interest in the Lamar warehouse property, and Kyle is the agent.
Ignoring his instruction, I ask, “How the hell do you know about what happened in the shed?”
“I was there. I saw everything. And I’ve had my eye on your activities for longer than you know.”
My hand clutching the mobile goes rigid, and I nearly drop the phone. I don’t reply, but it doesn’t matter because Nick hangs up. As I sit here quivering, running my fingers through my hair and trying to gain my composure, I replay his words.
I was there. I saw everything.
Nick reaffirmed what he said outside the office last night. He was there. The creep was there when Korey’s brother burned to death. If that be the case, then he must have seen what I did to Ayden—the horrible thing I can’t remember.
10
Standing Nick Pearlman up for lunch is the nice, big middle finger he deserves. I forward the recording of the phone conversation to Detective Spade in Austin. I buy a small, easy-to-use switchblade knife and a can of pepper spray, both of which I keep on me at all times. I reflect that had I hidden them on my person before Korey knocked me out, my time as his prisoner in the County Road 140 house might have played out quite differently. I can’t go back in time, but it’s nice to have weapons now.
Additionally, I’m sick of being afraid all the time, so I’ve also started taking shooting lessons at a range not far from my house. I practice with a small handgun I rent, deciding that I’ll buy my own soon.
A week has passed without incident. I worried Nick would punish me for not showing up, but he didn’t call, didn’t come by the office—and no surprise, he didn’t contact Kyle. That would have taken actual balls.
It’s Friday, and Kyle and I are meeting with Rance Epstein in our small conference room. This was once the dining area, as evidenced by the chair rail running horizontally along the middle of the wall, with chestnut-stained wainscoting underneath. Above that, the walls are painted a warm parchment color. The floor is still the original, varnished hardwood floor. It’s been kept immaculately well over the years, and we always get compliments on it. Next to the door sits a large fiddle leaf fig plant in a blue pot. Since I’ve pulled the heavy fabric of the ivory curtains back to reveal the window, the morning sunlight illuminates the room without making a glare. It’s a downright cozy place to do business.
I laid out the contract and all the paperwork beforehand. I sit on one side of the long table and wait for Kyle and our clients to arrive. Fidgeting with my pen, I think of Nick Pearlman’s words, among them his caution about Rance Epstein. As though someone’s dirty laundry is any of our concern. I listen to the tick of our copper-rimmed wall clock. After turning and glancing out the window, I see a boy ride by on his bike—hopefully, that will be me later today. The minivan in the driveway across the street starts backing out, and its white brake lights flash. I’ve always liked the fact that I work in a suburban neighborhood. Green grass, pedestrians, and kids are more hospitable than being trapped inside some sterile high-rise building all day.
It’s almost 9:00 a.m. Footsteps thud against the floorboards, and the front door closes, followed by Kyle’s voice. He says something like, “All right, if you’re ready, we’ll go ahead.”
I strain to hear the reply, my stomach twinging and doing a little dip. A man clears his throat. “Yeah, sounds good.”
That was Rance.
Another voice answers, “Great.”
That has to be the seller, Martin Thomas. So, everyone is here.
I stand up as Kyle, Rance, and Martin come in through the wide doorway to the conference room. Kyle wears his usual facial expression of pleasant optimism and extends his hand for our clients to enter. “You’ve both met Aria.”
I smile. “Good to see you. This is an exciting day.”
“Hell yes, it is,” Martin says. “And good morning to you too!”
A heavyset, fortyish man in a red polo shirt, he looks at me and laughs. His grin lingers like he’s just made out in the stock market. I laugh back and glance at Rance, but he says nothing. His aspect reminds me of a funeral-goer. As he steps inside behind the seller, with him comes a strong, spicy fragrance. I take him in with a new pair of eyes. Probably in his early sixties like Nick, Rance has light brown hair clipped very short. It’s neatly trimmed at the sideburns and edges. Narrow glasses rest over an aquiline nose. Wearing a light blue button-down shirt under a black blazer, he carries a briefcase of dark brown leather. He’s clean-shaven. If I had to pick one word to describe him, it would be “meticulous.”
“How do you do, Ms. Owen?” Mr. Epstein says at last. His eyes sweep over my body briefly.
I have on my usual business attire for work—a gray pants suit with a high-necked, white blouse and heels. Nothing to see here. “Very well, thank you. Please make yourself comfortable.”
I motion toward the seat opposite me. Kyle will sit at the head of the table, with me on one side and Martin and Rance on the other. That way, we’ll each be able to speak easily with the clients while they’re looking through documents.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask. The coffee maker, accessories, and glass mugs bearing our logo rest on a small, mahogany table in the corner behind me.
“I’m good,” Martin says, plopping down in a chair and rubbing his hands together. He smiles at Kyle and glances down at the papers I laid on the table.
“No, thank you,” Rance says. His face hasn’t broken its plaster cast once yet.
Giving me a genial grin, my boss Kyle takes a seat and reaches for the first set of papers to review.
I take my seat and fold my hands on the table. When needed, I assist, producing a document, an addendum, or mentioning an extra detail that Kyle may have omitted. Martin sits up straight and never lets go of his pen. He doesn’t say much unless he’s asked a question. Besides Rance’s rigid posture and emotionless face, everything goes the way it always does.
“I did want to check back on the information I requested yesterday,” Mr. Epstein says after about twenty minutes. “Were you able to find out about any renovations I hadn’t been aware of?”
“Yes,” I say. “A new roof was put on in 2001. There was also some electrical work done in the early eighties and a walk-in closet installed. I have copies of those permits here. That’s all the city had, and I also checked with Mr. Thomas.” I nod at Martin. “He said there’s been no work done at the property since the roof.”
Martin chuckles. “And I only did it because I had to. The old one was damn near ready to cave in.”
Epstein glares at me, shifting in his chair. “All right. But are you absolutely certain there was no additional work done in the smaller building? I’m still concerned ab
out the annex area in back.”
“I’m certain of it,” Martin says. “The annex only has some basic electrical and was mostly used for storage. It got a new roof when we did the rest, but nothing else.”
“May I see the permits?” Rance asks.
“Of course.” I tug them out of a tabbed stack of papers and pass them across the table.
We watch Rance study the pages and switch back and forth between them. He tilts his head as he scans each sheet. He coughs. He flips pages again, allowing his gaze to linger on one of the electrical permits the longest.
I wonder what he’s worried about since he saw every inch of the add-on during the walk-through. I recall he was interested in that area then, too. When Kyle and I first viewed the real estate, the annex area was the most unremarkable part of the entire property. Still, Nick’s criticism must have colored my thoughts because there’s really nothing strange about Rance’s questions. Buyers always want to know as much as possible.
Mr. Epstein glances between Kyle, Mr. Thomas, and me. He frowns and opens his mouth, then shuts it again.
“I’m happy to answer any questions,” says Martin. “I know with all the work the buildings already need, you don’t want any surprises. I can tell you with certainty that 1984, the year listed on that permit there,” he says, pointing toward the paper in front of Rance, “was the last time we did any major work in that area. I know it was a long time ago, but I remember because we’d installed a walk-in closet and needed some lights in there. We also converted that main room to a locker room for our guys, and I got a few recessed lights put in. So, don’t worry. I hope that puts your mind at ease.” He grins and folds his chubby hands on the table.
For the first time since he came in, Mr. Epstein tips up the corners of his mouth. He barely moves, and he still focuses his eyes on the city documents, but it occurs to me he’s making an effort to smile. He glances at Mr. Thomas before gathering the permits into a stack and setting them aside. “Fair enough. Thank you.”
Kyle smiles. “Very good. Mr. Epstein, do you have any more questions, or are we good to proceed?”
“No further questions,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Yes, let’s continue.”
Mr. Thomas’s face lights up, and he exhales slowly and leans back in his chair. Restraining a further display of happiness, he keeps his expression to that of polite regard. He rests his crossed arms on his ample belly.
We proceed to wade through documents, and two and a half hours later, everything’s signed. The property is sold.
“Well, I certainly thank you,” Mr. Thomas says. Now he grins and extends his hand to Mr. Epstein. “Been a pleasure doing business.”
“Likewise,” says Rance. He stands up briskly, returning Martin’s grip with his manicured hand. He addresses Kyle and me. “Thank you all for your time.”
“You bet,” Kyle says. “We’re glad to do it. Give us a call if you need anything.”
Mr. Epstein takes the keys to his new property and grasps the handle of his briefcase. He departs, moving through the wide conference room door swiftly. Mr. Thomas leaves less quickly, saying a few more words of thanks and how thrilled he is “to have finally sold that place.”
To me, it was a closing like any other closing. Nothing odd about it. But after observing Rance for these couple of hours, a tense uneasiness clings to me. As I gather papers and pens off the table, my gaze flicks sideways to Kyle. “Maybe it’s just me, but did you find anything about Rance’s behavior odd?”
Kyle turns down the corners of his mouth and considers. “Nah. He has a conservative personality, so he’s cautious. He did wait until the day before closing to look into permits and renovations, but he probably hadn’t thought of it sooner since he’s a first-time commercial buyer. I guess I’ve been at this so long and heard so many questions that Rance couldn’t have been more normal if he tried.” He laughs.
I nod. At twenty-five, I’m only three years younger than my boss, so it’s hard for me to believe Kyle has “been at this so long.” But he’s probably right. I hate to admit it, but I know my perception of Rance Epstein was tainted before this last meeting. It’s only natural that someone buying old warehouse buildings would want to know about previous remodeling or electrical work. I need to get out more. I’ll put my new bike to use today.
After grabbing a quick dinner alone at the nearby Chipotle, I drive back to the office. I retrieve my mountain bike from the back porch, where I chained it beneath the awning. It’s still strange not to be darting off to Trent’s house as soon as I get off work. It hurts. If not for making myself exercise every day, the loneliness would probably kill me.
I head northeast toward Zilker Park, peddling in the bicycle lane along Bluebonnet. The day is still bright and hot, and some of the lawns are beginning to brown. Water restrictions have probably gone into effect. I try to look around and take in the suburban scenery when I smell something burning. The farther I go, the stronger the burnt carbon odor. Trying to place its direction, I turn right at the corner on Collier Street, which heads away from the park.
The first thing I notice is the smoke. Opaque gray and black, the thick mass reaches up to the late afternoon sky. I can’t see the buildings, not yet, but the first thing I think of is the Lamar property. My mind races with “what if.” I pedal harder.
11
Smoke billows from Lamar Boulevard in charcoal and slate gray clouds. My legs pump the bike’s pedals faster, and I keep to the right of the street as much as possible to avoid parked cars. Keeping my eyes on the road just enough to make sure I don’t run into anything, I strain to find the source of the smoke. I increase speed again, and as I follow the turn onto Lamar, I make out part of an Austin fire truck. Traffic is backing up. People are starting to get out of their cars. A group of pedestrians walks along the sidewalk where bystanders cluster to see the show, whatever it is.
My stomach cartwheels and I press the hand brakes to slow down. Police cars form a line, the red and blue lights from multiple vehicles dancing erratically. I watch the towers of smoke, denser and blacker now as they pour from the source. I draw closer. When I finally figure out what’s happening, my core clenches. Is this a joke? It’s not funny. 1515 South Lamar—the property we closed on a matter of hours ago—is burning. I pedal more slowly but don’t stop yet. I want to get close enough to see how bad it is.
My nerve wavers in anticipation. My arms and legs tremble as I steer the mountain bike, but with so many cops and other emergency professionals around, the fear is bearable. For now. The police created a barricade with their cruisers perpendicular to the yellow and white road lines. Behind it, personnel shout. The firemen give one another instructions I can’t make out. But I recognize their bulky, tan bunker gear with neon green safety stripes and yellow helmets. Several of them move steadily in a line, their work boots grinding into the white gravel as they carry a thick, mustard-colored hose from its attachment to the fire hydrant outside the new condos across the street.
I press my brakes completely, and the tires skid to a halt. I swing off my bike and walk it the remaining way to the group of onlookers. The smell of burning wood and smoke hangs heavy in the stuffy summer air. Behind that, I catch the faint scent of chlorinated water. As the firemen spray the building with the high-pressure hose, steam plumes out from the roof. I still can’t find a flame. Not one. But then, during a gap in the vapor, I see fire. It licks venomously at the sky, and am I imagining it, or can I feel its brutal heat all the way back here?
One of the firemen yells something. The team adjusts the angle of the hose, arcing the stream upward. I glance across the street near the other curb where they’re running a second hose from Engine Number 4. My mind goes wild with scenes of Nick Pearlman holding a can of gasoline, dowsing the ugly, metal buildings before tossing an incendiary. That scenario is too obvious to be true. It sure fits, though.
A blue Ford Taurus with a dent behind the rear fender noses past the line of cars, driving in t
he wrong lane until it can’t go any farther due to the barricade. It jerks to a stop with a brief squeak of tires. The driver’s side door flies open. A man wearing a black jacket and tan slacks launches out. He has short-cropped hair, glasses, and a hard-set face. Rance Epstein.
But his face doesn’t stay set for long. He grimaces, shakes his head, and pounds his palm on the hood of the car. He stalks forward, putting his back to me.
“Fuck!” The word sounds strange coming from his prim mouth, just as the well-used, modest car he drives doesn’t suit him. Rance grips something in his left hand. I can’t tell what it is. He turns before raising his right fist as he restrains the urge to slam it on the sedan. Instead, Epstein runs his hand over the top of his semi-shaved head.
Part of me wants to go to him and say something. Anything. His property catching fire is the last thing I wanted to happen. But as I listen to him swear, I scan the crowd for Nick Pearlman. My pulse increases. The moths in my stomach knock themselves senseless. Coming here wasn’t a good idea—but how could I have known?
Taking the handlebars and swinging my leg over the seat of my bike, I turn the front wheel to head back to the office.
“Hey,” Rance calls over my right shoulder.
Great. I look up, pretending I’ve only now seen him. “Mr. Epstein.”
“What happened? Did you know about this?” he asks. His forehead is all knotted up, his mouth twisted in disgust. He might lose his dinner on the white line.
Did I know about this? Is he serious?
“No. I saw the smoke and rode over to see what it was. I’m so sorry, and I still can’t believe it.” But I know the last part isn’t entirely true. I was mildly if only half-sarcastically, expecting it from the first moment I saw the black clouds rising over the city, but I attributed those thoughts to my cynicism.
“How long have you been there?” he asks. He glares at me with his free hand on his hip.
