Tremblay turned and studied Aloa. “I’m thinking energy with a dash of immunity plus balance. I can see a lot of stress.”
Did she look as bad as he made it sound?
“Water is fine,” she said.
“Please,” Tremblay said, opening a cupboard filled with containers of powders and pills. “I like to help people.”
“He does,” Hannah affirmed.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Tremblay gestured toward a timbered table with heavy benches on either side of it.
Aloa sat and watched him create three concoctions that included handfuls of kale, slices of pineapple and mango, and powders she couldn’t identify. His hands shook slightly and his movements had a forced quality to them. Nerves or some neurological problem?
Finally, he loaded a bamboo tray with three glasses that brimmed with a neon-green sludge and brought them to the table.
“Sorry, Mr. Tremblay. I need to meet with Chef for your client dinner,” Hannah said. She took her drink and excused herself. Aloa wished for some pretext to leave and dump the brew into the bushes outside.
“Try it,” Tremblay said, sliding in across from Aloa. “It’s really tasty.”
She took a sip and found, to her surprise, he was only slightly off the mark.
“Good taste, good health,” he said, saluting her with his glass.
“Mrs. Poole said you took out an annuity for Ethan. Like life insurance,” Aloa said, wanting to tether him to the reason she was here or risk leaving without a single question answered.
“I did. He was like a brother to me. I felt a responsibility for him and for Hayley too. I never married and both my parents are gone. We were family.” His eyes grew damp. “The guilt over Ethan’s death is something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life. It was my idea, my plan to explore the Tibesti. The evidence of climate change there is remarkable. There were great meadows, giraffes, elephants, lions. I had such high hopes.”
Aloa interrupted. “You planned the expedition?”
“I did.”
“Did anybody tell you how dangerous it was? That there were terrorists in the area?”
“Of course. There are bandits and wild animals and sandstorms and dry wells. The whole thing was dangerous, but we took precautions.”
“But not enough.”
“That’s correct.” Tremblay closed his eyes for a moment. “There are . . .” He swallowed. “There are always things beyond our control. Things we can’t anticipate. That’s life, right? All we can do is learn from our mistakes.”
Unless a mistake ends in your death, Aloa thought. Then, learning is not an option.
“I told Hayley I would take care of her. I had to fight, but I got the annuity put in force. It was too late by then, though. Our relationship was strained and I wasn’t the only one. She was lashing out at everyone. Poor girl.”
“So you got the death certificate in order to claim the annuity?”
“Of course.”
“I’m just curious. Where did you get the photo? The one that showed Ethan’s throat cut?”
Tremblay’s gaze darted toward the kitchen windows then back to Aloa. “Well, I didn’t personally get it. It was my lawyers. I let them handle things like that. You would have to ask them.”
“May I have their number?”
He licked his lips. “Of course. Let me just check with them first. There might be privacy issues.”
“For whom?”
“You sound like you don’t trust me.”
“I’m just asking questions.”
Tremblay took a glug of his drink. “Just like a journalist. Always thinking the worst of people.” He stood. “Come on. Let me show you what we’re doing. Maybe you’ll realize I’m not the enemy.”
Aloa followed him down a long hallway, discreetly setting her glass of green sludge on a shelf behind a tall vase. Her lips buzzed and her fingertips tingled, which did not connote health to her way of thinking.
“Did Hayley seem depressed to you before she died?” she asked.
Tremblay stopped and considered the question. “I think she was,” he said. “Things had gotten better, but then she started having issues with her shins and that bothered her a lot. I tried to be encouraging. I sent her a canister of Performance-3, that’s our protein powder, which is super important for healing, and I had my nutritionist talk to her. I even offered her a place here to regroup, but she insisted on living in her truck. She said she needed her independence; that everyone was trying to control her. She withdrew from everybody, so I was happy about the Nevada trip. I thought it would be good for her. Instead . . .” He bit his bottom lip. “Instead, it all ended there.”
“By her going into the desert?”
“Hayley liked grand statements.”
He pushed open a set of heavy double doors, which revealed a large conference room paneled in dark walnut and festooned with banners that urged guests to BE YOUR BEST SELF and LIVE HARD. LIVE LONG.
“So now it’s Jordan who’s the focus of the movie?”
Tremblay glanced at her. “Hayley’s mother can be a bit overwrought, as you may have noticed.”
Aloa didn’t respond.
“Let me tell you this, Ms. Snow. Jordan is many things—competitive, tough, determined—but she loved Hayley. They were friends.”
“She gave Hayley drugs.”
Tremblay sighed. “Jordan is an individualist. She wanted to have a good time; she was trying to help Hayley relax.”
“By offering drugs to an addict?”
“Our perfection is not a guarantee that we will accept it.”
Aloa had no idea what he was talking about.
“Did Hayley ever tell you about her friend Calvin? The mechanic.”
“She mentioned him, yes.”
“If he said Hayley had warned him about someone called the High Priest, would that mean anything to you?”
Tremblay flicked a hand in the air. “I would think a reporter like yourself would know better than to listen to a man as damaged as he is.”
Aloa pushed down a flush of irritation. “I’m just trying to rule out the possibility that Hayley was murdered.”
Tremblay’s eyes narrowed but he held her gaze. “Let me tell you this about Hayley,” he said. “She was not as sunny and bright as people on the outside might think. She could slip into melancholy, and after Ethan died, that melancholy shifted into paranoia. Her counselor at the Palms—you know about that, right?”
Aloa nodded.
“Her counselor said Hayley talked about conspiracies, about corporations using athletes to hide their corruption. That hurt me deeply.”
“Ethan wrote the same thing on his blog,” Aloa said.
“The truth is, Aloa, athletes like Ethan and Hayley are like racehorses. They are things of beauty, born with extraordinary bodies, but they can also be temperamental and single-minded, living outside the normal world. They didn’t understand that kind of talk would ruin their careers, that without sponsors they could not do what they loved. Hayley was a very troubled girl.”
“You were trying to help her, then?”
“In any way I could. I understood what Ethan was saying, but I also know how the world works. It’s not black-and-white. Companies aren’t necessarily evil. They often do good. I’ve tried to keep that at the forefront at RedHawk: serve the world and profit will follow. Hayley couldn’t see that, the big picture. But I forgave her.” He turned. “Come on, let me show you the heartbeat of our company.”
Aloa trailed him into an open office where twenty people toiled over their computers. A snack station was in one corner, its refrigerated shelves filled with energy drinks and colas. Next to it was an espresso machine and shelves of power and protein bars. There was so much energy-inducing nourishment, Aloa wondered how any of the workers managed to stay in their chairs.
“This is where it all happens. This is our team. Scientists, innovators, communicators. From Stanford, MIT. Robert over t
here is from Yale.”
The man named Robert glanced up.
“It looks like your company has lost a few employees.” Aloa tilted her head toward a section of ten empty workstations.
“Or, perhaps, we are readying for a great expansion.” Tremblay lifted a finger into the air. “Optimism, Aloa.”
“That photo doesn’t exactly suggest optimism to me.” Aloa pointed to a framed photograph on the wall showing the same office bursting with employees.
“There you go again, Aloa.” Tremblay wagged a finger at her. “Where you see negativity, I see that we are shifting company focus and are in the process of hiring new people to reflect that. It won’t be long before every one of these stations will be filled.”
“What’s your new focus?” Aloa asked.
“I thought you were looking into Hayley’s death.”
“I am.”
“Then why are you asking questions about my company?” He frowned.
“You invited me for a tour. Questions are what journalists do when reality doesn’t match up with what’s being said.”
A shadow crossed Tremblay’s face. “I’m not sure your interest in RedHawk’s finances is appropriate, Ms. Snow.”
“Why not?”
“Because it has nothing to do with Hayley’s death.”
“So things aren’t tight right now?” Aloa waved her hand to indicate the empty desks.
Tremblay shook his head and opened his mouth, but before he could answer, the same employee who had greeted Aloa in the parking lot came up and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, Mr. Tremblay,” the man said, “but you’re needed upstairs. They said it’s important.”
And maybe it was the fact that Aloa was still cataloging the half-filled office, or reading a sign on the wall that advised LOOSE LIPS SINK THE REDHAWK SHIP, but before she could react, she sensed Tremblay turning and then his arms wrapped her in an embrace.
Aloa felt the dampness of his shirt against her cheek, the press of his pelvis against hers. She tried to pull away, but Tremblay held her tight.
“That’s enough,” she said into his shirt.
“Relax, Aloa.” One hand pressed against the back of her head, pushing her into him.
“Let go,” Aloa said, this time more strongly.
“Oh, Aloa, just let yourself be,” Tremblay crooned. “Feel the energy, the moment.”
But Aloa did not want to feel the moment a second longer. She moved her hand and placed the pad of her thumb at a spot between two of Tremblay’s ribs—a maneuver she’d learned from a female cop she’d known in LA—and then she pressed and twisted. Hard.
“Ow. Shit,” Tremblay said, stumbling backward. “What the hell was that?” He held a hand to his side. His face was flushed red.
“That,” said Aloa, straightening her shirt, “was a reminder that when a woman says ‘that’s enough’ she means that’s enough. And that if someone doesn’t want to be touched, you shouldn’t touch them.”
Tremblay looked down at his shirt as if expecting to see blood or some mark to account for his pain. “It was just a hug,” he said.
“And that was just another way to say ‘let go,’” Aloa said.
CHAPTER 22
Aloa let herself into her house, sorting through her conversation with Tremblay and wondering what it was inside some men that made them unable to hear the word “no.” She thought she would finish her notes, then reward herself with an extra-dry martini at Justus before coming home and making herself an omelet. Dust motes danced on the light coming through the front window.
She put away the keys to the car she’d rented—it was parked four blocks away in the only legal spot she could find—and was just checking her messages when there was a knock at the door.
She opened it to find a man in a gray suit who looked like he spent a little too much time at the gym. His white shirt pulled tight across his chest, and above his bullish neck, his head was shaved. He sported a ridiculous little soul patch, plus the kind of mirrored sunglasses cops in B movies wore.
“Can I help you?” Aloa asked.
“Yes, hi. I’m a licensed real estate broker with one of the city’s best firms and, well, I have a client who’s interested in buying in this neighborhood.” He took off his sunglasses and gestured outward toward the street. His eyes were chocolate brown. “As you know, there aren’t a lot of homes available right now and the market is going completely insane. Houses here are going for twice their worth. Anyway, I saw your place and thought, ‘Now there’s somebody who looks like they could use a windfall right about now.’” He gave a grin that showed a piano-row of white teeth. “Am I right?”
“No, actually, you’re wrong,” Aloa said.
The man leaned in. Aloa could smell his spicy aftershave. “My client is prepared to offer one and a half million dollars cash. One-week close.”
This wasn’t the first time a realtor had showed up on Aloa’s doorstep. San Francisco’s real estate market was like a pirate convention: everybody competing for the same treasure with throats being cut, ethics slashed, and truth embellished into lies.
“Not interested,” Aloa said.
The man leaned backward as if inspecting the house. “How can you not be interested? Look at this place. Wood rot, termites. I’ll bet every appliance in there is at least fifteen years old.”
Actually, the stove was forty years old, but Aloa didn’t tell him that. “Really, I’m not interested,” she said, and began to close the door.
The man stepped into the doorway so Aloa would either have to shove him backward onto the porch or risk hitting him in the nose if she shut the door.
“You should be interested,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, you should be thinking about selling. I looked up your records, and you were thirty days late paying your last property taxes, and your fire insurance is delinquent. The bank’s not too happy.”
Aloa’s eyes narrowed. “Get off my porch,” she said.
“Look, you sell this place, move somewhere where houses are cheaper, and you’ll be set. You could travel, buy yourself a great car, get some nice clothes.” His eyes ran down her frame: the white T-shirt, the faded jeans.
“Listen, Baldy, I’ll tell you what: you get off my porch, and I won’t burn your ass by sending a video of our conversation to the Bureau of Real Estate and/or the Department of Justice.” Aloa gestured to a small security camera mounted in a corner of the porch. No need to mention it hadn’t worked in four years.
The man raised his hands and took a step backward. “I’m just saying that this is a great deal for you, but if you don’t want to listen, I can’t force you.” He slid on his sunglasses. “But, you know, life has a way of throwing curveballs, and there might be a day when you’ll wish you’d taken my offer.”
He waited just long enough for Aloa to tell him to get off her porch again; then he turned and stomped down her front steps.
Aloa watched him stride down the sidewalk until he disappeared from view.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
Now she really wanted a drink.
“Thank god you’re here,” Erik said as Aloa pushed her way through Justus’s front door. “Those Groucho Marxists of yours are out of control.”
“How are they mine now?” Aloa asked, her head pounding. Talk about a day that had pushed all her buttons.
“That case of yours has them all riled up. I swear to god they’re in rut.” Erik pointed to a corner of the bar where the Brain Farm occupied two tables. Papers were spread, wineglasses filled, and the men were in full anarchist mode, pointing fingers and arguing loudly with three other patrons, with the consequence that a fistfight seemed not only likely but also imminent.
“Can I use your basement?” Aloa asked. All she wanted was a drink.
“Is Cher fabulous? Of course you can.” Erik pointed. “Just get them out of here before one of them has a stroke.”
“Will do,�
� Aloa said, wading through the tables toward the voluble gray-hairs. “And could I get a martini, please? Extra dry?”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll have Gully bring down today’s special. I think you might need it.” Erik raised his eyebrows at the gray-hairs, who were stabbing the air with their fingers and gesturing their arms in propellerlike motions.
As Aloa neared the Brain Farm, she could hear Tick loudly proclaim, “You’ll be measuring freedom by the number of drones outside your window, baby.”
“Are you denying technology?” asked a bespectacled young man the next table over.
“We’re denying the brain-dead robots who use safety as an excuse to accept the taking of our freedom,” Doc said, equally loudly.
“Guys, guys,” said Aloa as she reached the area the Brain Farm had commandeered. She looked at the tables the men had shoved together. “What the hell?” she said.
The surface was spread with copies of the police reports on Hayley’s death, maps, and printed copies of the crime scene photos Michael had emailed to her.
“Ink! You’re finally here,” cried Tick, standing up with a stagger that indicated more than a few glasses of wine had already been consumed.
“What are you doing with my stuff?” Aloa demanded. “Those things are private.”
The Brain Farm looked at the mess of papers as if seeing them for the first time.
“We thought we could help,” Tick said, chastened.
P-Mac and Doc nodded their heads solemnly.
“We might have found something too,” P-Mac said.
“Yeah, something we didn’t see before,” Doc said.
“You guys can’t be stealing police reports and hauling them around for anybody to see. That information is intended for me. Not for half of North Beach,” Aloa said.
“We didn’t think . . . ,” Tick started.
“That’s right. You didn’t think,” Aloa said.
“But we did find something,” P-Mac said. “Something that nobody else noticed.”
“Yeah,” Doc said. “Another thing that casts doubt on your girl just walking into the desert.”
Aloa put her hands on her hips. “What did you find?” she demanded.
See Her Run Page 12
