by Sharon Potts
Then he felt her small warm hand slide deep into his pants.
Chapter 15
Jeremy wondered if it would start. It had been over a month since his dad had driven it. He turned the key in the ignition and listened to the weak sputter, as though the old car were gasping for breath. He tried again. The engine made a valiant effort, like a dying dog staggering the last few inches to its master’s feet. Then it was silent and Jeremy knew the battery was dead.
His father’s car— the red 1966 Corvair he’d owned since he was a teenager and had maintained lovingly ever since.
Jeremy lifted open the trunk. “Rear-engine, air-cooled,” he could hear his father say. The only other cars made like this were the old Porsche and original Volkswagen. And now, even Porsche had sold out. It was liquid cooled and that didn’t count. Jeremy hooked up the battery charger cables to the battery, then plugged it in. If he was lucky, he’d be able to jump-start it.
He was already wearing a dress shirt and his suit pants. Stupid. He should have checked first thing this morning before he showered. Now, he’d not only arrive late for his first day at Castillo Enterprises, but he’d smell like a garage mechanic. But the truth was, when he woke up this morning, the last thing he was thinking about was how he’d get to work or get his car out of the tow yard.
Marina had driven him home last night after they’d discovered his mother’s Lexus had been towed. It was after midnight. She had kissed him lightly on the cheek as though there had been nothing between them. Good, he had told himself. It had been nothing. And it wouldn’t happen again. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
He had found Elise sitting on the floor of their mother’s office, scribbling in her gibberish writing on a yellow pad. She didn’t seem to be aware of him. He had taken her back to her room and tucked her in under her white comforter.
He didn’t understand what had happened to him last night with Marina. It was as though he’d been in a trance. And it made him angry. He wasn’t some impulsive animal. He had responsibilities— to his sister, to his parents.
He disconnected the charger, remembering a day he’d helped his father work on the engine. How his father had explained each component, every tool. So focused on sharing the experience with Jeremy that he had thrust his pointing finger into the spinning fan, slicing it open. Blood had dripped over the engine compartment, but his father hadn’t seemed to care. He’d wrapped his hand in a rag and said to Jeremy, “Well, are you ready to take her for a spin?”
Now Jeremy slid into his father’s car, pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and turned the key in the ignition. This time the engine started right up. He patted the dashboard. “Good girl,” he said, just like his father used to.
The car felt familiar to him. The vague smell of gasoline, the harshness of the engine, the way you felt all the bumps in the road, reminded Jeremy of riding with his father. Jeremy’s hands settled naturally into certain grooves on the steering wheel. And whether it was his imagination or not, Jeremy was almost positive his hands held the wheel exactly where his father’s had.
Castillo Enterprises was housed in a recently built glass office tower overlooking the yacht basin in Coconut Grove. It was perched on the Silver Bluff, the largest geological formation in South Florida, and was visible from all directions, the name Castillo shining in blue like a futuristic lighthouse. Everything about the building said money: the lobby’s granite floors, the windowed elevators with a view of the bay, and the conference room Jeremy had been directed to with its long, glass table, cushioned chairs, and ceiling-to-floor windows from which he could make out the Miami skyline in the distance.
Jeremy had been told to report to Robbie Ivy, the supervisor on the audit. Robbie had his back to Jeremy. He was hunched over his laptop at the conference table facing the wall of windows. He was a small-boned guy with shiny, straight, black hair, a bit long for a professional, and was wearing a navy suit. Was he working or discreetly admiring the view?
Jeremy let the door close behind him and the auditor spun around. Jeremy did a double-take. Robbie was a female. Jeremy recognized the blue eyes and pale skin of the young woman he’d bumped into coming out of his mother’s office two weeks ago. But instead of surprise, she wore an annoyed expression.
“You were supposed to be here at eight thirty.” She’d be pretty if she wasn’t trying so hard to look pissed.
“I know. I’m sorry. I had car trouble.” “Car trouble.” She pronounced ‘car’ with a flat Boston accent.
“I can tell from the smell. Have you worked on fixed assets before?”
“Actually, I’m only—”
“Never mind. You can follow last year’s schedules and the audit program.”
“Sure. No problem.”
She returned to her own laptop. She was definitely irritated by his presence. Was she embarrassed about the incident at his mother’s office? He decided to steer clear of it.
“So you’re from Boston, aren’t you?”
Her head didn’t move, but her blue eyes shifted in his direction.
“I can tell from the accent. I had some friends at BU and Tufts.
I understand they’ve got some snow up there now.”
She looked back down at her laptop.
He was undeterred. “Since this is my first time involved with Castillo Enterprises— my first audit, in fact— would you mind giving me a little orientation?”
Robbie checked her watch. He was guessing she was only a year or two older than he, but she had the impatient, edgy mannerisms of a grownup. Or maybe it was a remnant of some uptight northeastern prep school. “If you want to come early some morning, say around seven, I can fill you in. But right now we’re on billable time and we’re wasting it.”
So much for fraternizing with the audit staff. Jeremy glanced around the conference room. There were framed photos of properties in amazing settings arranged on one of the walls, evidently the holdings of Castillo Enterprises. He remembered the audit binder he’d found in his mother’s handwriting— Site visits. Maybe he should mention his mother’s office. Clear the air.
“You know,” he said, “we’ve met before. Twice actually. At the Castillos’ house, then in the office. Do you remember?”
She picked her head up slowly. “Look, I realize you’re just here to pass the time or whatever, but I’m on a deadline and I really don’t have time for chitchat.”
“Sure,” he said. “And thanks. I appreciate the friendly reception.”
At noon, after Robbie had closed her laptop and left the room, Jeremy decided to take his own lunch break. His grandfather lived less than a mile from Castillo Enterprises. Jeremy called ahead to let him know he’d be stopping by. If Robbie was going to be a bitch, at least there was some benefit to working here.
His grandfather was waiting just outside the front door. Jeremy held him tightly. They’d talked a few times over the last couple of weeks on the phone, but suddenly that seemed inadequate. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by more often, Grandpa.”
“You’re a busy young man. Work. School. I want to hear all about it. But come in. You must be hungry.”
The bridge table on the enclosed porch was set with plates and silverware and a casserole dish. “I made franks and beans. Is that all right? I’m not much of a chef.”
“That’s great, Grandpa.”
“How about a beer, Jeremy?” His grandfather’s cotton shirt hung loosely on his frame, but he seemed a little more solid than when Jeremy had seen him over two weeks ago.
“A beer would be great.”
His grandfather shuffled into the house, carefully closing the sliding door behind him. He returned with two open bottles, no glasses, and set them on the table.
“So, you’re at Castillo Enterprises. Is that better than the file room?” His grandfather ladled franks and beans onto Jeremy’s plate, then onto his own.
“I guess it’s better.” Actually, another few days with Robbie and he might be begging Irv
to let him back into the file room.
His grandfather put a forkful of beans in his mouth and wrinkled his nose. “Cold. I guess I didn’t heat them long enough. I’ll recook them.” He pushed his chair back.
“They’re fine, Grandpa.”
His grandfather sat back down. “If you say so.” He took a swig of beer. “Castillo Enterprises. Funny how things come around. Did you know Carlos Castillo was a client of mine?”
“Carlos? He’s seventeen years old.”
“His grandfather. Enrique Castillo’s father. The man who came to America with little more than the clothes on his back and built an empire.”
“And you were his accountant? I didn’t know that.”
“Over thirty years ago,” his grandfather said. “Carlos had saved up and bought some land near Clewiston to grow sugar cane. I did his books. He worked hard, he expanded his business, he started buying real estate. By then, his business was too complex for me to handle. I was just a sole practitioner. So I said, ‘Carlos, you need to hire a bigger CPA firm.’ And he refused. For two more years he insisted I be his accountant. But finally he realized it wasn’t possible.”
“So he hired PCM?”
His grandfather took a sip of beer. “He hired PCM, let his son get more involved with running things, and in a few years Castillo Enterprises became one of the most successful businesses in South Florida.”
“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“You can judge for yourself. I’ve collected all of Castillo Enterprises’s annual reports since the company went public a few years ago. It should make interesting reading for you, a future accountant.”
Funny what his grandfather considered interesting. “And Mr. Castillo’s dead, isn’t he?” Jeremy asked.
“If he were still alive, do you think he’d permit such a grandiose monstrosity to be built in the name of Castillo Enterprises? That new office building is an outrage. All that money spent and for what? Gold fixtures and an impressive view? Carlos Castillo was a humble man. A hardworking man who believed in an honest dollar for an honest day’s work.”
“Do you think Enrique is dishonest?”
His grandfather studied him for a moment. “You have chocolate on your chin, Jeremy.”
Jeremy brought his napkin to his chin.
“I meant that figuratively.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You still think you can fool me? Remember when you were five and said you hadn’t eaten the brownies your grandmother had baked? But I knew. You had chocolate on your chin. Just like now. You took that job to find out what happened to your mother. Am I right?”
Jeremy stared at the plants on the wheelbarrow carts. Most of them were dead. “I’m sorry, Grandpa, but I just can’t sit back and wait for the police.”
“I know, Jeremy. I know.” His grandfather took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “If I were a younger man.” His voice was softer now, practically whispering. “If I were a younger man, I would find the bastard who did that to my little girl.” He removed his glasses and covered his eyes.
“I know you would, Grandpa.”
His grandfather took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, then he put his glasses back on. Even behind the thick, filmy lenses, Jeremy could see his eyes were red. “What you’re doing would have worried your grandmother. For once, I’m grateful she isn’t alive.” He looked off in the distance. “That she isn’t alive to have witnessed any of this.”
Jeremy’s chest tightened.
“Promise me, for your grandmother, you’ll watch out for yourself.”
“Of course I will.”
“I know, I know. You young people all believe you’re invulnerable. But Jeremy, have you thought ahead? Have you considered what could happen to you?”
And as though the sand churned up by the last wave had settled and he could see clear down to his feet, Jeremy finally understood exactly what Detective Lieber had been trying to warn him about. That if Jeremy got remotely close to figuring out who had killed his parents, the murderer would try to kill Jeremy as well.
Chapter 16
Marina had dozed off. Jeremy watched her pale eyelids flutter and her chest lightly rise and fall. The candles she’d lit were almost burned down and they sputtered an irregular light over the small bedroom. The worn Indian blanket had slipped beneath Marina’s breast and her tiny hand opened and closed as though she were trying to reach something.
She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her copper hair spread out over the pillow like wild vines. Her round red lips were moving now, pursed like a fish gasping for air. He wanted to kiss her. To feel her darting tongue against his own. But that would only start the cycle again. And he knew it was time for him to leave. That he shouldn’t have come here in the first place.
How had that happened? She had called him when he left work after a frustrating, non communicative day with Robbie, and asked him to stop by her house before class. To look over his father’s papers. She really wanted to talk to him about the papers. And she was sorry about last night. She got carried away, she said. The emotional stress of everything. Surely he understood.
And so he had driven to her house, understanding perfectly.
“Mmmm,” Marina said now, stretching. She touched Jeremy’s face. “So serious, mon amour.” She kissed him. He should leave, but he felt as though he’d fallen into quicksand.
She slipped out of bed before he could say anything. Her naked body was white and perfect. It glowed in the vacillating light. She pulled a stretched-out, ratty tee shirt over her head, combed her fingers through her hair, and walked barefoot across the gritty terrazzo floor toward the other room. “I’m famished. Come, I’ll make us something to eat.”
Jeremy fumbled for his watch on the wooden crate that served as a night table. He’d missed class— the second night in a row. He had called Elise earlier in the evening, but had gotten only her voice-mail. “Sorry,” he’d said to the phone. “I’ll be home late. I’m … I’m studying.”
And the papers Marina had promised to show him— his father’s papers. Somehow they’d never gotten around to them. Did they even exist?
There was a cracked ceramic lamp with an unraveling straw hat for its shade. Most of the furnishings in Marina’s apartment looked as though she’d picked them out of someone’s garbage. Jeremy squinted at his watch in the poor light. It was almost two a.m. He needed to be at PCM’s main office at eight in the morning for a training meeting. He got dressed quickly.
Marina was leaning over a pot on the small stove. Something smelled amazing. He hadn’t imagined Marina being much of a chef.
But he had to go home.
She smiled up at him. “Coq au vin. I’m reheating it. Should only take another minute.”
She didn’t seem to notice he was in his suit. She handed him two mismatched plates, two knives, and two forks. The knives had dried crud on them. “Just clear the papers off the kitchen table and pull up the desk chair.”
Jeremy’s stomach was grumbling in response to the rich aroma in the air.
“And there should be a couple of cold beers,” Marina said. “We finished the wine.” She held the spoon up to his mouth for him to taste. “Good, no?”
It was great. The broth reminded him of his grandmother’s chicken soup after he’d had a sip of sweet Manischewitz wine.
“I learned to cook when I lived with my father. And he was very particular.” She brought the pot over from the stove and ladled the chicken onto their plates. The meat was so well cooked, it was falling off the bones.
He would eat, then go home.
Marina ignored the silverware and picked up a chicken leg with her fingers. “I moved to France when I was twelve.” She sucked on the bone. “When my mother decided I was becoming a threat.”
“I thought you were from France.”
“Peru. I was born in Peru. In Lima. My parents met in the States—both exc
hange students. Then my mother got pregnant and returned to be near her family. My father was too busy to settle down.”
“So you grew up in Peru?”
“Mainly my grandmother raised me. But then the men who came to see my mother became more interested in me than in her. So my mother sent my father a letter, bought me an airline ticket, and I became an international bastard. I never expected my father to show up at the airport. I had no idea what would become of me. I spoke only Spanish.”
“But he showed up.”
She’d finished everything on her plate and pushed back her chair. It was corroded aluminum from someone’s old dinette set. “I was so happy to see him. Such a handsome man. I knew the story of Cinderella and I thought, perhaps he was my prince.” She rested her feet on Jeremy’s lap. The soles were blackened with dirt and her toenails looked as though she’d torn rather than cut them. In Miami, all the girls Jeremy knew had pedicures.
“And was he your prince?”
“Is life ever a fairy tale?” She ran her index finger over the gravy on her plate. “He treated me like I was his maid. He had me cook and clean for him.” She licked her finger. “I wouldn’t have minded if only he would have said something kind.” She lit a cigarette and rested her head on the back of her chair. “What’s wrong, mon amour? You look like— how do you say— like someone made your boxers into a wad.”
“I need to go.”
“Of course you do.” She pulled her feet off his lap. They brushed against his crotch. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have class until eleven, but you have to go to work, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But you can come back tomorrow, after work, no?” Her tee shirt had risen up on her thigh and a curl of copper hair was visible. The candles in the bedroom were casting pulsing shadows against the wall.
“I can’t. I have class after work. And I really need to spend time with my sister.”
