by Lee Hanson
Wait…
She picked up the hotel phone and recorded some misdirection:
“Sorry I missed you! I’ll be back later.”
One more stop and I’m out of here!
* * * * *
Chapter 26
The traffic in Boston was chaotic, the city a maze of one-way streets. When at last Julie neared Solomon Chrysler’s original store, the area began to look familiar, if more cramped. The dealership, in particular, seemed much smaller than when she had worked there…a common trick of memory. She pulled into the crowded car lot, recalling Joan’s words, “The Lynn and Waltham stores are much larger”.
Julie didn’t recognize any of the salesmen jockeying for position. One of them, a slick-looking young man, came out to greet her.
“Hi! Welcome to Solomon Chrysler. How can I help you today?”
“Sorry, but you can’t. I’m not looking for a car. I’m here to see Avram Solomon. Is he in?”
“Yes, he is. Go on in.”
“Is he still in the front office?” she asked, figuring Avram must have moved into Milton’s private office with the big one-way mirrored wall that looked out on the sales action.
“Yep, right over there,” he said, opening the door and pointing.
Julie thanked him and quickly crossed the showroom floor, hoping Avram hadn’t seen her. She turned down the hallway and knocked on the first door on the right.
“Yes, what is it?” said Avram.
“A visitor,” said Julie, opening the door and sticking her head in, all smiles.
His shock was obvious.
“Julie…good to see you!” he said, quickly regaining his composure.
Avram looked like a stock broker, not a car dealer. His dark hair was combed smoothly back. He wore leather suspenders over a crisp white shirt, and his silk tie sported an elegant Windsor knot.
Julie had interrupted him while he was discussing something with one of the service managers. He dismissed the man. “Go ahead and do the job for them, Richard. Got to keep the customers happy,” he said, ushering him out.
The man left, shaking his head.
Julie noticed that Avram’s office was designed to reflect the stature of its occupant. It looked like the chamber of a pompous judge. His desk was grand, with an equally imposing chair behind it, larger and higher than the two in front of the desk. There were pictures of him with dignitaries, but no family pictures were in sight.
“So, Julie,” he said, assuming his throne and directing her to a chair opposite him, “this is an unexpected pleasure.”
Julie noted his posture. He sought to give her an impression of relaxation. He leaned back in his chair and smiled but, at the same time, he made a high steeple with his hands. Just the fingertips were touching. It was a smug gesture, creating a wall between them. Further, there was controlled aggression in his eyes.
“Yes, I wanted to spend an extra night in town,” she said.” So many memories here in Boston, especially at Solomon Chrysler. I just thought I’d drop in and say hello, for old times’ sake.”
“Well, that’s wonderful! Perhaps we could have dinner,” he said, smiling and leaning forward. “Where are you staying?”
From an expert’s point of view, Julie appreciated Avram’s smooth transition. He actually looks and sounds genuine now. He’s fascinating, she thought. And reminded herself… like a cobra.
“I’m at the Marriott Long Wharf, but I’m planning to do a little shopping and turn in early,” she said apologetically.
“You and I didn’t get much time to talk about Marc at the wake, Avram. I was so stunned by his death. He was a very good friend of mine, as you know. Of course, I’m not a family member, but I thought…if I could find out just a few more details…it would give me closure, you know?”
“Of course,” said Avram, visibly relieved.
The steeple is lower. Good. We’re playing nice now.
“How can I help?” he said.
“I was wondering, Avram; you went down to see Marc just before I did. Did he seem depressed to you?” asked Julie, assuming the visit.
“Yes, he did, I’m sorry to say.”
“Even though his career was going so well and he’d just been offered $40 million for Castle Cay?”
Avram’s dark eyes were riveted, burning through her. He picked up a Mont Blanc pen from the desk and began turning it, end over end, in his right hand. Sardonically, the bottom half of his face kept smiling.
“Yes,” he said. “Even so.”
I can’t believe it; he’s displaying superiority. Like this is some kind of game. We’ll see about that.
“It’s quite a coincidence - after so many years of owning Castle Cay - that Marc gets a multi-million dollar offer to buy the island and suddenly ends up dead, don’t you think?”
That did it.
“Listen to me, Merlin,” he said, standing, signaling that their meeting was over. He jabbed the Mont Blanc at her like a bayonet with each point he was making. “Not that it’s any of your business, but that sale is done. And further, Marc’s estate goes to my uncle, Matthew Castle, and not to me. I am merely the trustee. So, unless you have a legitimate question regarding my brother’s suicide, I think I’ve helped you all I can with your…closure.”
“I’m sorry, Avram,” said Julie, rising and feigning apology. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. I just found the timing curious. I know, of course, that you were here in Boston when Marc died; I’m sure it was a terrible shock. By the way, do you happen to know Roland Archer or Susan Dwyer?”
“Yes, it was a shock,” said Avram, holding the door open, glaring at her. “And certainly, I know Marc’s agent. I don’t know the other person. Now, if you don’t mind, I really am busy.”
Julie said goodbye and walked out to the Camry.
You were shocked, all right, Avram.
When you saw ME.
* * * * *
Chapter 27
“What the hell did you expect me to do? Run her off the road like they do in the movies? Make her car go up in flames on Route One? I’m a mechanic, not a fucking stunt man! You wanted ‘an accident’. That’s what you got.”
“What I got was nothing!”
Avram slammed the phone down. He fell back into his chair. A furious scowl twisted his face as he obsessively turned the pen in his hand.
Why can’t she mind her own business?
He took a deep breath, and exhaled.
She doesn’t matter. She’s not going to affect the deal with Holiday.
Avram slipped on his tailored jacket, carefully tucking the pen into the inside pocket. He stepped out of his office, locking the door behind him.
“I’m leaving now, Barbara. I’ll be in tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mr. Solomon,” said the office manager.
He ignored the sales activity as he crossed the showroom floor. He was headed for his Jaguar, blatantly parked front and center outside, much to the consternation of his own salesmen.
Sliding in behind the wheel for the short drive to his Beacon Hill townhouse, thoughts of Julie O’Hara intermingled with Avram’s plans for the evening. He had a call girl coming to his house and he was looking forward to it. She wasn’t going to enjoy it, but that was the point, wasn’t it? Otherwise, he wouldn’t have to pay her. Too bad it wasn’t O’Hara.
Avram was a dangerous man. And he was fully aware of it. The epiphany had taken place when he was eleven. It began with a fight. He chuckled, remembering it.
I beat up the fag. I caught him in my bedroom.
Marc, who was eight, had to be taken to the hospital. They had recommended that Avram get some help with “anger management”.
After several visits and tests, the psychiatrist had telephoned his mother. Avram had picked up the bedroom extension as soon as he’d heard his mother say, “Oh, hello, Dr. Weissman…”
The doctor proceeded to tell her that, in his opinion, Avram was a sociopath and not likely to change. The doctor apologized a
bout having to give her such an “unwelcome diagnosis”. He suggested that she might want to get a second opinion. Oddly - to Avram - his mother never took him to another shrink and never mentioned Dr. Weissman’s call to his father.
The very next day, he had looked up the word sociopath in the school library. It was enlightening. Simply put, Avram didn’t care about other people. He could hurt them without “caring” about it, and they sensed it. It was just a confirmation, really. Avram had always noticed the fear in their eyes, how they moved out of his way. But now he knew why. He was wired differently, and he was glad. But he was also smart. This was an advantage that had to be handled carefully. Although he enjoyed thinking of himself as a lone wolf, he saw the advantage of pretending to be like the sheep and deliberately set about deceiving his parents, particularly his mother. He controlled himself with Marc thereafter, too.
He smiled, disdain etched on his face.
The psychiatric literature said that people like him had no “moral compass”.
He laughed out loud.
They didn’t realize that he was North on their stupid compass and they were all simply relative to that.
Or not.
Life had evolved into a sophisticated game for Avram. Moving among the sheep and manipulating them.
Of course, the money was important. The player with the biggest pile was the winner. And so far, Avram had over $6 million in the Caymans.
He chuckled.
I win.
* * * * *
Chapter 28
After a fitful night at the airport hotel in Miami, Julie sat on the edge of the bed in her underwear. She had called Luz, who had told her everything was cool with Sol. Julie had explained that she needed to go to the Keys, and that she’d be staying with David. However, as a precaution, she had instructed Luz to tell anyone that called that she was in Chicago at a conference.
She had also asked her to look up something.
Luz called back a couple minutes later. She had pulled up the Island World Realty listing Julie had requested. The agent’s name was Frank Martino. Julie had already called and made a morning appointment with the man, saying simply that she “wanted to talk about an island”.
Now she sat there, literally on edge, her cell phone in her left hand, her chin in her right and her bare feet drumming away on the carpet.
I need him. I really do.
She took a calming breath and keyed in the number. It rang.
Once.
Twice.
“Hello?”
“Joe? It’s Julie. I need your help.”
* * * * *
Chapter 29
Three years ago, Joe Garrett didn’t know he was in love with Julie O’Hara.
And then she walked through his office door.
Joe had seen Julie bite her lower lip that certain way, seen that elusive smile before. Her hair was tied back, but he knew at once what it looked like loose. And there was more…
He had tried to analyze it. Did Julie O’Hara just happen to fit some unconscious image he’d constructed? In the end, it didn’t matter.
Joe was bowled over by the déjà vu.
After a reasonable period, he had tried to let Julie know how he felt. But every attempt backfired. He flirted…and she ran for the shrubs like a feral cat. While it was true that Joe wasn’t used to being rebuffed, the deal with Julie was particularly confusing.
There was something between them, and he was sure she felt it, too. The more this odd push/pull magnetism continued, the more caught he was, like a moon circling a planet…unable to get closer but unable to get free.
Joe thought about their odd relationship once again, as he gulped down his morning coffee and set the empty mug on the kitchen bar. The door beside it was open to allow the morning air to come in through the screen.
He had been remodeling the second floor by himself, a little at a time, the operative word being little. So far, he’d opened up two interior walls and re-laid the oak flooring, but there was still that unfinished, unfurnished look about the place and a smell of raw wood and paint.
The kitchen Joe stood in had been installed first, so that he could live up there while he completed the two first-floor offices. The irony struck him.
So Merlin and I could have separate spaces.
Joe could hardly believe that she had finally called him.
Now, worried and occupied with her case, he couldn’t move fast enough. He closed and locked the back door and strode down the hall.
Joe stepped into the shower, shivering as the cold spray hit his body. Facing the round mirror stuck on the tile, he quickly brushed his teeth. He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and decided to pass on shaving, since he’d probably be out of there before the water even warmed up.
Soon, he was out of the apartment and headed downstairs. He needed to talk to his secretary and make a couple calls before he left for the airport.
He found her in the office, standing on a chair, reaching for a chain attached to the ceiling fan. Janet Hawkins was a wise-cracking, petite and busty blonde on the sunny side of fifty. She was wearing slacks, for which Joe was very grateful, considering her position. “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he said…his usual greeting.
“Good. Hang on to this chair before I kill myself. Really, Joe, a woman my age needs this thing on High! Why do you keep turning it down?”
“Because, dear, it blows my papers all around.”
“You’re hardly ever here, and I’m always here. How about if you just shut it off on the wall switch when you’re working in the office?”
“I can do that. Here, let me help you down.”
“Thanks. So what’s up?”
“I’m not going to be around for the next few days,” said Joe, sitting down at the big oak desk that once belonged to his father. He grabbed his card file. “You know that friend of Merlin’s who died in Key West? Marc Solomon, the artist?”
“Yeah?” said Janet, peering at him over her glasses.
“She called me. She thinks he was murdered. I’m going to help her. I’m going to Miami and then I’m meeting her in Key West, but I’ll keep in touch.”
Joe knew from Janet’s expression of wide-eyed innocence that she couldn’t wait to discuss this development with Julie’s assistant, Luz.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Joe. “Have we heard from Johnson & Cummings?”
“Yup. The check came in yesterday,” she said. “I deposited it. $8,600.00.”
“Hallelujah!”
Joe had been waiting for that case to settle.
“What else?”
“Angela called a couple of times,” said Janet, offering the information like a glass of sour milk.
Angela D’Amato was Joe’s ex-girlfriend. He broke up with Angie two years ago when he became hopelessly attracted to his new tenant. He told her he thought they should “see other people”. Of course, the only person Joe wanted to see was Julie.
But that didn’t happen. Joe really tried to avoid Angie…but sometimes he didn’t try too hard. Janet didn’t approve.
“I’ll call her later,” he said, flipping through the card file.
He found the one he was looking for:
Sawyer Aerial Photography
Will Sawyer was a pilot that Joe had met when he was in the service. He was a few years older than Joe, but they were both Florida boys away from home, and they had become good friends.
Joe punched in the number.
Will’s wife, Carolyn, answered the phone. Joe talked to her politely for a minute or so, before asking for Will.
“Hey, Buddy!” said Will, “How’s it going?”
“I’m good,” said Joe. “How’s everything down in Miami?”
“Great! When are you coming down? We’ll pull up some bugs!”
Will had a boat; Joe went down every so often to help him with lobster traps.
Joe told him about Julie’s case, particularly about the growing signific
ance of the island, Castle Cay.
“So, I was hoping I could hire you to take me there, get some photos?”
“When?” asked Will.
“As soon as you can.”
Will paused. Joe waited.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday and I’m open,” he said at last. “There’s a tropical depression southeast of Haiti. That’s far enough away, but you never know in hurricane season. It may ground me pretty soon. How fast can you get here?”
“I can be there this afternoon,” said Joe.
“Yeah, okay. And Joe, I’ll only charge you for my costs.”
Joe closed his eyes and pumped his fist.
All right!
“Thanks, Will. I’ll grab a cab to your house from the airport. See you later.”
Joe hung up and reached for his card file again to look up Sherman Dixon’s number. He located the card and rang the number.
Long time since I talked to Sherman…
Sherman and Joe had gone to Florida State University together. What a time that was! They were campus heroes. It was all about babes, booze and football. Their senior year of college was a continuous party. Sherman graduated and went into the FBI.
Joe graduated and went into rehab.
Joe remembered his mother going nuts over his decision to join the navy after getting out of there. He would never forget his father’s sharp rebuke: “Let him go, Dot! It’ll make a man out of him.” How he had hated Big Joe for saying that. Of course, his father had been right on the money.
“Dixon, here.”
“Hi, Sherm. It’s Joe Garrett.”
“Joe! Good to hear from you! Did you see the game last Saturday?”
Joe knew he was talking about FSU. Sherm was still a huge Seminole fan, even though he didn’t live in Florida anymore.
Joe could picture the big black man standing in front of the TV in the den, yelling, “GO! GO!” at the FSU quarterback while his wife and two little girls looked on, mystified.
