I clinked the bottle with a fingernail, and it sounded unnaturally high-pitched, as in half-full. My eyes stopped moving, wondering if anyone noticed.
I think the girl’s eyebrows crinkled for a moment, then I was rescued.
Ding.
“Tell the Fergusons that Donny said hello.” The elevator operator tipped his hat.
“Will do,” I said, stepping into the hallway, a crystal chandelier dangling overhead.
Twisting my face, I reached into my pocket. “Oh, it’s Janette, my realtor. I gotta take this. I’ve been waiting to hear back on an offer,” I said, palming the cell phone like it would disintegrate.
Two head nods.
“Tell Donna and Matt I’ll be right in,” I said, overtly tapping the phone with my thumb.
“Oh, what did you say your name was?” the girl asked.
I nodded with my whole body. “Hi Janette, thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Wait a second. What are you trying to tell me?”
I mouthed, “Sorry” and flipped my back to the couple.
I waited a few minutes for the hallway to clear and walked in the opposite direction the couple had gone, finding twelve fifteen at the end of the corridor. Silver sconces lined taupe walls, the curves a vintage look, while contemporary jewels dangled off each candleholder. The carpet cushioned each step like I was floating on air.
I’d yet to step foot into an actual condo, but I was already eager to share my million-dollar experience with Britney.
Still clutching the half-empty bottle of wine, I punched the doorbell and heard an echo of the modern chime. Footsteps clipped tiled floor, drawing closer, and then all sound ceased. I paused, waiting for a lock to unlatch. Nothing happened. I knew I was being watched.
“David, if you don’t open this door…” I lifted the bottle of wine, burgundy red, right in front of the peephole. “I’m going to remove the cork and pour it all over the carpet just outside your door. I’ll give you to the count of three.”
“One.”
Not a sound.
“Two.”
Still no movement or sound on the other side of the dark wood door. Keeping the bottle in his line of vision, I removed the cork and slowly tipped the bottle.
“Three.”
“Dammit!” I heard, then the door flew open. “Okay, you made your point. Don’t ruin that carpet. They’ll charge me a fortune.” David, wearing khakis, penny loafers, and a button-down shirt in a teal and blue leopard print, flipped his head, his idea of inviting me in.
Nodding, I took three steps and stopped in an octagonal foyer, travertine tile rimmed with some type of metallic wood inlay. But it was the center point that attracted my eyes. A vignette of what looked like handmade colored vases were displayed on a round, beveled glass table—ocean blue, aqua, sea green, each a unique shape and size. One looked like it could have held a genie. Hanging from the twelve-foot ceiling was a contemporary chandelier made of similar material, matching the ocean blue vase.
As I took in a waft of what smelled like chicken soup, I noticed a main living area straight ahead, but my eyes couldn’t ignore the plethora of paintings outlining the walls, each illuminated with a wall-mounted picture light. Shuffling right, my eyes shifted, and my mind started adding up all the zeroes.
“I can see you and Dax are really roughing it.”
I glanced over my shoulder, and the usually confident, borderline-cocky David—the man who usually bore a strong resemblance to the Harvey Specter character on the lawyer TV show Suits—had an arm crossed, a hand massaging his temples.
I wasn’t even sure he heard me. “David, are you with me?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. Didn’t quite catch that.”
Staring off into a swirl of colors, I realized that I, and probably every other person who’d interacted with David, had been duped on multiple occasions. While he appeared distracted, disheveled, and stressed like I’d never before witnessed, he knew why I was there. Who knew what the master manipulator would cook up to avoid the repayment topic?
“I was talking about your art collection, this array of vases.”
“Handmade glass, by the way. And the paintings, all one of a kind, were purchased from each country Dax and I have visited. The one you’re standing in front of, that’s from Norway.”
I nodded, taking in the blustery piece that appeared to be a snowstorm bearing down on an open swath of prairie. I squinted, reaching a hand toward the painting. Barely visible was a single tree, leafless, alone, clinging to life, but at the same time resolute. That was my take anyway.
David stuffed his hands in his pockets, and I noticed red-rimmed eyes. “That tree, Dax and I always thought it symbolized the two of us. Even in the worst of times, we’d be able to stand strong against all who wanted to take us down, defeat us.” He raised a hand to the corner of his eye, then he cleared his throat.
If this was one of his acts, it might be considered Oscar-worthy. Still, the money contained in this foyer alone could have paid my old cop salary ten times over.
“So how’d you come up with the money for all of this…” I splayed my arms wide, ensuring I avoided knocking over the vase display, “…when you can’t afford to pay back the money you stole from my client and the others like her?”
Lifting his chest, he released an audible breath. “It’s not as simple as you might think.”
“Nothing is with you.”
He shut his eyes, setting a foot forward. “You’ve got to understand that—”
Ding-a-ling.
David held up a finger and marched through the art gallery serving as a foyer and into the living area in front of us.
“I know you’ll do it anyway, but feel free to come on in. I need to tend to Dax,” David said over his shoulder while waving a hand over his head. The sound of his hardsole loafers changed to a lower pitch as he crossed the living room threshold, wide-plank dark wood covering the floors.
Ambling along, taking in the remaining art pieces, another number came to mind. “Eighteen?” My voice bounced off the hollow surrounding, as I questioned the plausibility of David and Dax visiting that many countries. David was thirty-nine years old, but Dax didn’t look a day over twenty-six. Damn, these guys had been living a jet-setting lifestyle. I’d never asked how long they’d officially been a couple.
Just as my Doc Martens set foot in the living room, my phone buzzed inside my pocket. It was a text from Justin.
Just spoke to Robert Van Winkle. Runnin with large posse. Should be a huge night at The Jewel!!
A friend since thirteen years old, my high school football teammate turned entrepreneur was in bar heaven right now. I just hoped the large posse and associated crowd that would invade Justin’s place in the next couple of hours avoided any altercations. I was working security as part of my so-called lease terms, and the last thing I wanted to deal with was drunk, unruly punks who only wanted to ruin the night for everyone else. I punched in a quick reply.
Hope he rocks the house and your wallet. Later
I clicked my phone dark, allowing my eyes to take in the scene. David entered the room from the left side.
“I need to get Dax some more soup. It will be just a minute. Can I get you something?” he asked, already walking toward a kitchen through another side hallway.
I paused for a moment, my palate curious enough about David’s chef skills to wonder what he could do with a simple bowl of chicken soup. A while back, I’d questioned the bold claims of having a top five Asian fusion restaurant, until I read the reviews. Unless they were all bogus, David had created a menu that was a destination for those who could afford such a five-star luxury. Now claiming the number-one ranking, if there was a six-star price, I’m sure David was hitting it.
Then again, he had to. He didn’t own the restaurant, since all of the proceeds were funneled into the REIT owned by “the man.”
“I’ll pass for now, thanks.”
I moved a few steps, taking in the full vision of the living room. Whi
te chaise lounges bordered a stone fireplace, centered on the exterior wall. Six-foot brass lamps hovered over each chair, just in front of framed windows. Resting a hand on the white couch in front of me, I realized the symmetrical features of the entire condo. Two single chairs flanked the couch, a brass and glass coffee table in front. Most of the furniture rested on a ten-by-twenty rug, muted burgundy, taupe, and light blue.
“I’m sure they didn’t run down to Pottery Barn for this.” I touched the toe of my Doc Marten to the rug, then shook my head.
David swung through the living room, tray in hand, then off toward a bedroom. I decided to follow and arrived just as Dax slurped in a mouthful of soup.
Standing at the door, I hardly recognized the normally dapper-dressed man with model looks. Propped against a stack of pillows, Dax adjusted his position ever so slightly, yet his face contorted into a dozen pockets of stress. It wasn’t hard to understand why.
Shades of purple and blue clung to bags under his eyes, both outlined in black—a result of blunt force trauma of some kind. A square of gauze pad taped to his forehead disheveled his usually ultra-cool blond hair. A hump protruded off the bridge of his nose and three other bandages were affixed to his face.
Since he was wearing a robe, I couldn’t detect any other bruising or abrasions, but a cast covered his forearm and a good portion of his hand, puffy fingers extending like Italian sausages.
“Cat got your tongue?” Dax said. His left hand quivered, spilling his spoonful of chicken soup on his robe. “Dammit all to hell!”
David flipped back toward me and immediately raised his arm. “Booker, Dax is on strict orders from the doctors to take it easy. He’s still recovering.”
I nodded and decided to save my questions for David out in the living room.
“Hope you heal up quickly,” I said.
Dax paused mid-slurp, apparently shocked my comment sounded sincere, minus sarcasm.
Ambling back out to the living room, I shook my head, curious about Dax’s mugging, but hoping I could steer David’s focus back to the catering business and ensure the installments to Jenna would restart, back payments included.
Glancing right off from the living room, two round columns bordered the entry into a formal dining space, anchored in the corner of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. Drawn to that space, I noticed a door out to a terrace, green-cushioned furniture set just so—like everything else in this model home.
A quick clip of loafer heels, and I flipped my head.
“Would you like a drink?” David asked, making a beeline to the bar on the far side of the dining room.
“Tonic water if you have it.” I needed to keep my head clear for this conversation and my work later at The Jewel.
“I’m going straight for the hard stuff.” Removing the top from a crystal decanter, David poured a translucent brown substance into bar glass. I guessed it was whiskey, neat. He arched his head and downed half of it in no time. His lips smacked a couple of times, then he prepared my drink and walked it over.
“It’s a hell of a view,” he said, opening the door.
I leaned on a wrought iron railing, which was painted white, feeling a light breeze against my face, absorbing the view. The terrace faced south into downtown, a stunning view if there ever was one. I first noticed the pebbled ball of lights encircling Reunion Tower, formerly one of the most recognizable structures in Dallas, now just one of many unique buildings.
I glanced left and saw David staring at his glass while he swirled the liquid.
“Why did you stop the payments to Jenna?”
Sticking out his jaw, he bounced a closed hand off the railing, and I wondered if anger was lurking beneath his calm exterior.
“Did you see Dax in there?”
As a manipulating machine, David was adept at answering a question with another question, sometimes unrelated, at least in my mind.
“He looks pretty messed up. I’m sure he’s in a lot of pain. Do you know who did it?”
A light chuckle escaped David’s lips, then he arched his neck and chugged his drink, the remnants spilling down his chin. He swiped his arm across his face, took a step back from the railing, then turned, and threw his glass with everything he had.
I think it smashed somewhere across the street, near the new Wolfgang Puck restaurant. A shot at the competition?
“What the hell’s going on?” Shuffling a step toward him, I extended a hand, my mind unsure if he was going to follow the glass over the railing.
He gripped the railing with both hands, his head hanging between his arms, but he didn’t respond.
“I know you’re not used to taking care of anyone, David. It’s usually the opposite, right?”
His torso moved up and down. “Did you see what they did to him?” His voice cracking, he stared in my eyes, a stiff hand pointed back inside.
I glanced away, replaying his question, the cool air brushing against my hand that held the glass of tonic water. “I’ve seen a lot of assaults, and when it happens to someone you care about, it’s difficult, I know.”
His lips drew a straight line.
“Where did it happen?”
“He offered to fill up my Cadillac while I helped the staff clean up after dinner. He took it to a gas station over off Cole.”
“I think it’s highly likely that cameras might have caught the perps on tape. If so, it’s only a matter of time before we…I mean the cops catch them. Once they’re off the street and serving time, you’ll at least feel vindicated.”
Strangely, I felt empathy for David, even Dax, despite their excessive lifestyle and selfish business practices.
David murmured something under his breath.
“I didn’t catch that, if you meant to share it.”
His mental equilibrium seemed shaky at best, a version of the anti-Harvey Specter, which sprouted a knot of uncertainty in my gut. And it wasn’t a normal type of ambiguous doubt, where I questioned every word leaving his mouth. He appeared vulnerable, shaken at his core, and I considered leaving the discussion about his catering business and Jenna’s payment schedule for another day.
Moments clocked by without a word from either of us, only a smattering of car horns and an occasional siren interrupting the silence twelve stories above the bustling city.
Finally, he lifted from his stance and pulled in a wheezy breath.
“The cops can’t arrest the thugs who did this to Dax.”
I could feel the area between my eyes crinkle, wondering if David’s dark side only saw the negative possibilities in life. And this was as dark as I’d seen.
“I understand you may not be thinking rationally right now, but I’ve worked enough cases like this to believe there is a realistic chance, a strong possibility even, that—”
“It’s not fucking possible!” He pounded a fist on the guardrail, and I could feel the vibration six feet away.
I didn’t know whether to press further, or just let him sulk in his own self-pity. Setting my empty glass on a square wooden table, I took a step to the half-open door. I assumed he’d left the door open in case Dax rung the bell.
“Do you think you’ll be back at Marvel in the next three or four days? I can drop by then, and we can pick up our discussion on the other topic?” I’d taken the high road, although a small part of me knew sympathy alone wouldn’t produce the stolen money from my client.
“Booker, stop.”
I did as he said, and he held out a hand, maybe a desperate one at that.
I looked into his eyes, and they appeared to be heavy with shame, grief, mixed in with fear.
“The cops can’t catch the assholes who assaulted Dax because we didn’t file a report or even talk to the cops. Well, they tried talking to us at the hospital, but we stayed silent.”
My pulse thumped against my neck and I inhaled a slow breath.
“Why?” I twisted my head.
“The man in Chicago, that’s why.” David had us
ed air quotes, and I sensed much more to this story than a cut-and-dry assault.
I didn’t say a word. The dam of information was about to flood the terrace.
“His name is Vincent Sciafini, and he’s not tied to organized crime, he is organized crime.” David pinched the corner of his eyes. “He owns the privately held REIT; you know about that. It’s his own feeble attempt to turn some of his businesses legit.”
My chest matched the cadence set in my neck, sounding off like a bass drum, but on the outside I remained calm and nodded slightly to keep the information flowing.
“One of the ways he funds investments into the REIT is through his Vegas casino connections. They feed him losers like me who’ve racked up a crazy amount of debt, and he has certain ways of collecting on that debt. When he and I met, he had a complete dossier on me, what I could do with numbers, how I interacted with people. I think he saw dollar signs, another opportunity to enhance his return on the investment.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I held my questions in check.
“I know you think I’m giving everybody the con, living high on the hog with money that’s not mine.”
Glancing back at the condo, I said, “Who wouldn’t think that? Look at this place.”
“It’s not even mine. It’s owned by Vincent, or one of his corporations, I’m not even sure. The paintings, a few of the sculptures, are ones that Dax and I have collected in the last few years. But most everything else is owned by Vincent.”
“Why?”
“He does it to buy me off, and to remind me that my life is in his hands.”
“What about Dax’s life?”
Shaking his head, he smirked.
“You’re right.”
I hadn’t connected all the dots, so I pried a bit more. “You know who mugged Dax, don’t you?”
“Not specifically, but it was Vincent’s guys. He was sending us a message. Well, it was really more directed at me.”
He shot me a look, and I nodded again.
“Vincent found out about Double D Catering. He got pissed, thinking I was hiding revenue from him. I’m his bitch, and anything I make has to go through him. Or else. And they had to make a statement, to show us what that really means.”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 28
