by Sharon Potts
She cocked her head. “Thank you. That was nice of you, Jeremy.”
He pushed the packets of sugar and Sweet’N Low toward her.
“I don’t need any, thanks.” She removed the lid and took a sip.
A truck went by making a thunderous noise.
“My dad used to take me to this McDonald’s when I was a kid,” he said. “I remember when they put the play area in. I even had a birthday party here once.”
Lieber put her coffee down. “What’s up, Jeremy? You said you wanted to see me.”
“Right.” So she wasn’t interested in his reminiscences. He held out the French fries. “Want one?”
She shook her head.
“Well, you already know I’m taking classes at MIU,” he said. “I wanted to tell you, I also got a job at PCM— my mom’s firm.”
Jeremy was surprised by the lack of reaction on her part. Disappointed even. What had he been expecting her to say? Very good, Jeremy. Your parents would be proud of you. I’m proud of you.
“I figured,” Jeremy said, “like we were talking the other day. It could be helpful to have someone on the inside.”
“Jesus. I hope you didn’t think I was encouraging you to be a mole.”
“Why not?” The restaurant door opened. Children rushed into the enclosed play area, shrieking. “It’s easy for me,” he continued. “I told the partners and registrar I wanted to work and go to school so that I can be a better guardian to Elise. No one suspects I have an ulterior motive.”
“How can they not suspect that? Working and studying in your murdered parents’ old stomping grounds?”
“I’m not planning on directly asking people if they know who killed my parents.”
“But think about it. The average person might not be tuned in to your game plan, but the killer would be hypersensitive to your sudden appearance. He’ll be watching you to see if you’re getting close. And when you do. Well, let me just say I’m not interested in investigating a third murder.”
So much for the pat on the back. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. I know how to handle myself.”
Lieber shook her head ever so slightly like his mother used to do when she disapproved of something Jeremy was doing but had decided to let him learn from his mistakes.
“I just want to find whoever did this to them,” Jeremy said.
A child let out a scream, then began to cry. His mother rushed forward and picked him up— the birthday boy, judging from his hat. “It isn’t fair,” the little boy sobbed.
“We all want to find whoever killed your parents, Jeremy,” Lieber said.
He watched the mother comforting the boy, smoothing his hair, kissing his pink cheek.
“You said you’re Elise’s guardian,” Lieber said. “I thought your uncle was.”
“Dwight was just named backup in case I didn’t want to do it.”
“How does he feel about that?”
“Not happy. I think moving to Lotus Island would have been good for his career.”
“I’m sure your sister is relieved you’re staying.”
He looked away from the play area. “Elise and I have been going through our parents’ papers, computer CDs, stuff like that. We figured since the murderer took the laptops, there may have been something important on one of them.”
“We looked for computer backups,” Lieber said, “but couldn’t find anything recent.”
“What about the key? If the murderer used a key, then it was most likely someone who knew my mom or dad. You said you checked the security guard’s records; did any of my parents’ colleagues come on the island that night?”
She shook her head.
“But you do realize it’s easy to get on and off the island avoiding both the security cameras and the guards? Joggers, bikers, someone in a small boat.”
“We’re very aware of that. It’s a problem.”
“And you’ve interviewed all the neighbors? Did anyone see anything unusual?”
She half-smiled. Her front teeth overlapped. “Still checking up to make sure I’m doing my job?”
“I don’t mean to sound like I’m second-guessing you.”
“Jeremy, I appreciate your efforts. But this is a murder investigation. Why don’t you concentrate on taking care of your sister and leave it to us to find your parents’ killer?”
The clown was carrying a big white square with flickering lights. “Happy birthday to you,” he sang. “Happy birthday to you.” Everyone stopped and joined in. “Happy birthday, dear Jamie, happy birthday to you.”
Jamie clapped and blew out the candles.
Jeremy remembered his own parents smiling at him. His mother kissing him.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Happy birthday, Jeremy.
“Thanks for your time, Detective Lieber.” Jeremy stood up. “But I need to get to class.”
The professor was talking about mergers and acquisitions. Jeremy had missed the first two lectures and was struggling to follow along. As he listened, Jeremy was reminded of how he’d felt over a year ago sitting in class at NYU. The lack of connection between his future and what he was learning in school. The sense he had of being lost. So he had dropped out before finishing his senior year and left for Europe, hoping that a change of environment would clear the confusion in his mind.
And now he was back, once again sitting in a classroom. How ironic that his future seemed more uncertain than ever.
He was disappointed by Lieber’s reaction to his involvement in his parents’ investigation. She had to realize there were things he could do that the police couldn’t. And he wasn’t putting himself at risk. Maybe he was not quite twenty-three, but he had always been an observer of human behavior, and he certainly wasn’t about to let himself get caught in anyone’s web.
Jeremy’s classmates had begun gathering their notebooks and laptops and getting up to leave. Class was over. Most were older students. Some, like Jeremy, were wearing suit pants and dress shirts and had removed their ties. Jeremy’s dad had taught during the day, so it was unlikely Jeremy would run into any of his students here, he realized with some discouragement.
The campus was lit by modern overhead lights— anachronistic beside the quaint buildings. Jeremy wondered if Dr. Winter came in at night. Probably not. It seemed like an ideal time to sneak into his father’s office and go through his papers.
Jeremy veered in the direction of his father’s building, passing a bench where a small figure was stooping to tie the laces on her clunky boot. He doubled back. “Marina?”
Her hair was down in her face, a tangle of shimmering baby copperheads. She pushed it away from her eyes and behind her ear. “Jeremy.” She didn’t seem surprised to see him, but then she knew he was taking classes here. She gestured toward the notebook under his arm. “Coming or going?”
“Going,” he said. “Just finished a class in mergers and acquisitions. I almost forgot what I’ve been missing.”
She didn’t smile. She was dressed differently from the day before in a white low-necked sweater that showed a smattering of freckles on her chest. The sweater was loose, but he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. He tried to keep his eyes from drifting downward.
“You’ve missed a couple of classes, no? But the son of the brilliant D. C. Stroeb should have no difficulty catching up.”
Jeremy felt a jab of annoyance. Even though his father was dead, the references and comparisons were inevitable.
“Of course, academics isn’t for everyone,” she said as though reading his mind. She took her foot off the bench and hoisted a large canvas satchel filled with papers over her shoulder. It looked like the weight of it might topple her.
“Let me help you with that.”
“I got it, thanks. I’m just going to my car.”
“I’ll walk you.” He took the satchel from her. “Damn. Are you grading papers of the entire student body?”
“I’m teaching a lecture, two sessions. Intro to Microeconomics
. A hundred and three students in one class, ninety-four in the other. The survey I gave them was five pages. It adds up to a lot of paper.”
“My father enjoyed teaching the intro classes,” Jeremy said. “He’d say he liked to get the virgin minds. Then they’d be his forever.”
Even in the semidarkness, Jeremy could see Marina’s cheeks had flushed. Had he said something to offend her?
“I’m covering your father’s intro classes. There was a big scramble for people to take over his schedule at the last minute. None of the other economics professors or instructors had time, so they asked me.”
She stopped beside a small yellow car, an old Toyota. It was dirty and when she unlocked the door, Jeremy noticed scattered clothes and crumpled fast-food bags.
“I’m not a very good housekeeper.” She took the satchel from Jeremy and threw it in the backseat. “Well, thank you Jeremy, mon chevalier.”
“Sure,” Jeremy said, wanting to say more, but feeling awkward.
Her lips twitched. A guarded smile as though she was unwilling to give up too much. “Would you like to go for coffee or something to eat?” she asked.
“I guess. If you don’t have other plans.”
“My laundry and dirty dishes are my other plans. Come. Get in. There’s a place not too far from here where I usually have my dinner.”
It looked more like a dive than a restaurant, but Jeremy didn’t complain as Marina pulled the car into a spot near the Dumpster. A red neon sign flashed “Cerbie’s.” Inside was a smoky bar with people in collared shirts and loosened ties standing three deep. TVs hanging over either end of the bar were showing boxing matches.
“A lot of business people come here,” she shouted over the din. “They like to pretend they’re grungy. Like the Sunday Harley-Davidson riders.”
He followed her through the crowd, trying not to knock into anyone’s beer. The floor was covered with peanut shells that crunched beneath his feet. Even in her heavy boots, Marina moved through the throng with the grace of a dancer. Jeremy’s progress was slower. “Excuse me. Pardon me,” he said. Coming here was a perfect opportunity for him. He could ask Marina questions about his father. Maybe even, in a roundabout way, ask if his father had any enemies. Lieber was wrong to believe Jeremy might attract the killer’s attention this way. And if he did— well, maybe that was what he really wanted.
Marina disappeared through a doorway. It took Jeremy a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was even darker and smokier back here, but at least it was quiet. High wooden booths lined both sides of the room and there were a dozen or so small wooden tables and chairs in the center. Only the booths were occupied. Marina was waving to him from one in the corner.
He slid across the red Naugahyde bench seat opposite her. The fake leather was torn and sticky.
Marina was talking to the waiter, a pimpled young man with spiked hair and a lip ring. He wore a black tee shirt with a three-headed dog and the name of the bar written on it.
“I’ve ordered cheeseburgers for both of us,” Marina said. “Their specialty.”
“What are you drinking?” the waiter asked him.
“A beer, I guess.”
The waiter looked impatient. We have Corona, Heineken, Bud—”
“Whatever you have on tap is fine.”
The waiter disappeared. He’d left behind a basket of peanuts. Marina delicately popped open a shell, examined the nut between her fingers, then placed it on her tongue.
“How old are you?” Jeremy said.
“Pardon?”
“I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s just you look about sixteen, and you’re a graduate assistant.”
“Twenty-eight,” she said. “Perhaps you think that old for a graduate assistant? But I just seem to have the hardest time with my dissertation.” She took a cigarette out of a pack in her satchel— some unfiltered French brand— and lit it with a match from the Cerbie’s matchbook in the ashtray. “So today was your first day of work, no?” Marina said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Jeremy must have looked surprised.
“I can tell from the shirt. It still has the wrinkles. A virgin shirt, as your father might say.” She gave him her muted smile. “So where are you working?”
“My mother’s CPA firm.”
“That’s right. You were studying accounting before you left on your European sojourn, no?”
“That’s right.” It was cold in this back room, and he had a difficult time keeping his eyes from roaming to her chest.
The waiter put a large martini glass in front of Marina and placed the foaming beer mug down on a coaster with the three-headed dog.
“Cheers,” Marina said, raising her glass. Six or eight olives were floating in it.
Jeremy lifted his mug. “Cheers.”
They both sipped their drinks. Marina stuck her fingers into her glass and pulled out an olive. She sucked on it, pushed it into her mouth, then licked her fingers. “I love olives. I always order extra.”
Jeremy scooped up some peanuts and cracked them open. “So I imagine you worked very closely with my father.”
“Merde! What happened to your hands?” Marina rested her cigarette in the ashtray, then reached across the table and took his hand in hers.
“It’s nothing. Just paper cuts.”
“So many? What kind of accounting work makes so many cuts?”
“I was sorting through old papers and boxing them up.” He tried to pull his hand away from her, but she held fast.
“You can get infections.” She dipped her napkin into her martini glass, then started dabbing each cut with the cold liquid. It stung like hell and his eyes watered, but he no longer tried to take his hand away. She was holding it in her own small one. As she pressed the napkin against his cuts, the sting subsided, and he felt only pressure and the cleansing of his wounds.
“Your hands are like your father’s,” she said without looking up.
He pulled away.
“I’m sorry. Did I do something to upset you?”
“No.” Jeremy wondered himself at his reaction. But perhaps it was shame at feeling something quite the opposite of pain.
The waiter set the cheeseburgers on the table. Jeremy watched her eat— tiny bites, like a mouse. He noticed the way her ears stood away from her head when she pushed her hair behind them and how she licked her fingers when they dripped with grease from her hamburger. He hardly paid attention to what they talked about.
She dropped him off by his car and kissed each of his cheeks, barely touching, but close enough that he could smell the scent of almonds and smoke in her hair. Only then, after she’d driven away, did he realize he hadn’t asked her anything more about his father.
Chapter 12
Dwight had chosen a barstool in the elegant lounge at Don Shula’s Steakhouse, from which he had a clear view of everyone who came and went. A pianist was playing tunes he recognized from Chicago. Classy place. Perfect for making a good impression.
It was a few minutes before eight; Dwight liked to be early. Selma sat beside him sipping a glass of Chardonnay. Her cream-colored suit had long sleeves and a full skirt, so she didn’t look as painfully skinny as she often did. She was a good wife. Not the most beautiful maybe, but at least she was no righteous snow queen like his brother’s wife.
His brother’s wife. She was dead, he reminded himself. They were both dead. A wave of melancholy passed over him— the memory of a time long ago when he was just a scrawny kid and Danny was the big brother he worshipped. Danny, who could ride a bike with no hands, jump off the roof of the house, and had all the best-looking girls hanging around after school hoping for a kiss. And all Dwight lived for was his brother’s approval, a ride in his old Corvair. But Danny was always too busy for his kid brother. And when Danny would complain to their mom about Dwight sneaking around after him, whose side did she take? Her firstborn’s, naturally. Her golden boy who could do no wrong. Right up until the day she died, she said, “Why can’t you be mor
e like your brother, Dwight?”
Well, the competition was over and Dwight was the one left standing. And while on some level Dwight couldn’t help but feel redeemed, there was still a deep sadness. After all, his brother had once been his hero. And heroes are tough to forget.
Dwight sipped his Johnny Walker Black and studied the engraving on his thick college ring. Veritas, Familia, Sapientia— truth, family, wisdom. How surprised he’d been last year when Danny had asked him if he’d be backup guardian for Elise. And at first, Dwight had adamantly refused. If he’d wanted kids, he told his brother, he would have had his own. But then he thought about it. The house on Lotus Island, the nice stipend. And it wasn’t like Elise was a baby. If she turned out to be a pain in the ass, he could always send her to boarding school. So he’d called Danny back and said sure, he and Selma would be happy to help him out. Not that there was any reason to think the contingency would ever become a reality.
But it had. A most advantageous reality. And any guilt Dwight felt over profiting from this terrible event, he justified by reminding himself that this had been Danny’s idea— not his.
Several couples came into the restaurant and were taken to their tables by the maître d’.
“You’re sure you told Liliam eight?” Dwight said.
Selma was reapplying her red lipstick. “That’s what time you told me and that’s what I told her.” She blotted her lips on a cocktail napkin.
“Maybe Shula’s was a bad idea,” Dwight said. “Liliam said Shula’s was fine.”
Dwight took another sip of his drink. He hated making mistakes. He’d been pretty pleased with himself, coming up with the idea of Selma inviting the Castillos to dinner to thank them for all they’d done. Of course, that was only after he’d left several messages for Enrique and hadn’t received any return call. Dwight didn’t understand it. He’d thought he and Enrique had gotten on very well at the funeral. “You told her the Shula’s in the Alexander Hotel, right? You know there are other Shula’s Steakhouses.”
“I told her, Dwight. I said eight at Shula’s in the Alexander Hotel, just like you told me to.”
