by J. Conrad
The last traces of burnt orange touch the cityscape to the west, and the sky above it rapidly darkens to dusty blue. My pulse quickens. I sidestep, edging my way to the car.
“I wouldn’t mind if it were earlier, but I don’t think it’s safe to stand out here at night.” I glance over at the shabby convenience store in the adjacent lot, hoping he’ll get the idea. “If you give us a call tomorrow, we’d be happy to arrange something.”
Nick Pearlman does that pompous eye-flutter thing again. Like he’s a distinguished captain of industry, and I’m a waitress who got his order wrong.
“Which is why I suggested we meet somewhere for coffee. You can pick the place. This won’t take long. Please. I really need your help.” He follows me, stepping closer—too close. He places his body about a foot from mine.
He’s blocking the way to my car. I wonder if I have enough nerve to run around him in hopes he doesn’t grab me. I’m not sure that I do. I can tell by how overtly he plants himself that he isn’t sure I do either. His positioning seems intentional.
Nick scowls and says, “I would have bought the property a long time ago had I known what I know now, but there’s still time. Selling to Epstein is a big mistake. And it might be a good idea to investigate your clients more thoroughly before doing business with them.” He presses his lips into a thin line.
With my heart slamming against my chest, I look him straight in the eyes and smile stiffly. “All right, then. Definitely give us a call tomorrow. Thanks.”
I dart past him, brushing against his arm with my shoulder. I run around to the driver’s side of my car. After unlocking it with my remote, I yank open the door. I steal a glance back. Nick hasn’t followed. He hasn’t moved and watches me with the same aloof expression from earlier.
“I know what you did,” he calls after me as I start lowering myself to the car seat.
I freeze in place with my hand on the door.
As I hesitate, he says, “Yes, that’s right. I can see the question you’re not asking. Well, here’s your answer. I know what you did in the shed when you thought no one was looking. Are we clear now?”
9
Nick Pearlman’s message couldn’t be any clearer if he handed me Ayden’s bloody ring in a gift-wrapped box. A frigid chill dashes up my spine and radiates down my arms. It’s like being punched in the soul. He’s the caller. Without a doubt, it has to be him.
I slam the door, start the engine, and back up into the street. The headlights make Nick’s pale face even whiter, his pallor and his straight line of a mouth the last things I see before I peel out. Burnt rubber smell invades the car as I fly down Bluebonnet Lane. There’s no traffic at this hour. The rearview shows no car following.
My pulse increases to a frantic fluttering, and my hands start to sweat. There’s no question now that he knows. He told me he did. As I work my way toward Barton Springs Road to get on the Mopac Expressway, I shake my head. Maybe Nick is related to Korey, an extended family member set on vengeance. Or he might have been friends with Ayden. Maybe asking about the Lamar property was just an excuse to speak to me, but why choose that place? And why doesn’t he want us to sell to Mr. Epstein?
But he said something else, too. Please. I really need your help. What if he wasn’t trying to threaten me? What if he has a legitimate concern and truly needs to fill me in? But if so, his way of going about it was too off-putting. He could have called or stopped by the office and sat down with Kyle and me during the day. Neither of us would have objected. In fact, we would have been happy to. We talk to people who have questions and concerns all day long. But his last statements blow that idea all to hell.
…when you thought no one was looking. He saw. He knows.
It doesn’t make a bit of sense why Nick Pearlman, my stalker, gave me his card. Before starting business this morning, Kyle faces me across his desk as I sit and explain. Trees shiver in the morning breeze outside the window behind him as he leans forward, digesting my paraphrased account of what happened. Naturally, I gave him the short, sterilized version. But it’s important that he know someone threatened me right here at work.
“I’m sorry trouble seems to follow wherever I go,” I say. “I never meant to bring this to your door. What happened with Korey’s brother was years ago, and I don’t understand why it’s suddenly rearing its ugly head. Why now?”
“Nonsense,” Kyle says. “You haven’t done anything. The guy was being a creep, and we don’t need to do business with him. I don’t care what he was saying. If he has some problem with Median or with you, he can get a lawyer. Otherwise, we’re not touching this.”
He makes a copy of Nick’s business card and hands it back to me. The card lists a name and number only, with no address or company. Not very helpful, but maybe it’s something.
Kyle is twenty-eight, but he doesn’t really look it. With his short, blond hair and a babyface, he almost seems too young to be so successful. At times I envy his life, one that’s gone according to his plans. But it’s hard to be sour when he always extends me such kindness.
I nod, drawing a breath. “Thank you.”
“When are you planning on going to the Austin Police Department?” Kyle asks.
“I spoke to Victims Services earlier, and I was told to check in with Mr. Jeffrey Spade. I gave him a call, and he said I can send him an email or go in and file something in writing. I could take a long lunch today and do it then if it’s all right. I don’t know if I have enough to report, or maybe what I do have isn’t enough to link anything to Nick Pearlman. But I don’t want to wait around and see what happens.”
“Yes, absolutely go today. And you do have enough, Aria. After what you’ve been through, if you see a shadow out of place, the police should investigate it,” Kyle says.
I smile. “It means a lot that you believe me.”
“Of course. You’re an honest person, and those are hard to come by these days. Besides, why wouldn’t I believe you?” he asks.
Maybe because I’m not so honest. And because Trent doesn’t believe me. I scream in the night, and once, he caught me standing over him while he was sleeping. What he doesn’t know was that I woke up from a nightmare, and I just wanted to make sure he was there. Seeing him reassured me, something even amnesiac murderers need. But I keep all of this to myself.
“Well, I really appreciate it. I wonder if Nick will have the nerve to come here today after last night,” I reply.
Kyle lifts a corner of his mouth. He shakes his head, barely. “I seriously doubt it. He was probably just trying to scare you, and now he’s too embarrassed to show up. Also, if he was really going to do something, it’s doubtful he would have given you his card. But if I see this guy, I’m going to forbid him from the office. So, you have nothing to worry about. We’ll just keep our eyes open.”
I don’t mention it to my concerned boss, but the methods of control-hungry men happen to be an area of knowledge in which I’m intimately familiar. If Nick decides to make another appearance, it will probably be when I least expect it—and when I’m alone.
The nearest police department on 8th Street is only about fifteen minutes from Median Realty. Ironically, it’s also not far from Chupacabra, where that shady person—perhaps Nick—was snooping around my Toyota. Cranking up my A/C to combat the morning sun baking the car interior, I drive along South Lamar. My gaze flicks over to the property of interest as the buildings pass outside the window.
As usual, there are no cars outside. The two adjoining warehouses in front are most visible, baring their rusted, corrugated aluminum exteriors and dark, broken windows. In most places, the metal siding looks redder than silver. The slightly newer portion, the annex building toward the back of the parking lot, has spots of bare wood exposed through the peeling, white paint. Weather and time beat it to hell. However, I know from the inspection report that the structure itself is mostly sound.
The lot outside isn’t even paved but covered in white gravel. With but a few patch
es of dry, withered grass on the entire property, the piece of real estate reminds me of an old aircraft hangar in the desert.
When I push open the glass door at the station, I restrain a smile. That crisp, papery smell that all offices have intermingles with scents of coffee and donuts. Cops need their caffeine and sugar like everyone else, right? I banish my impending giggle. My black high heels click across the white floor tile as I step up to the front desk.
After the receptionist directs me where to go, I head down a hallway and poke around the third door on the right. A man types at the keyboard at his desk. I knock on the door frame. “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Mr. Jeffrey Spade.”
“That’s me,” says the imposing man who glances up. He gets to his feet and grins.
“Aria Owen,” I say.
We exchange a hearty handshake. Although I’ve spoken to him over the phone before, I’ve not met him until now. Spade has dark brown skin, buzzed black hair, and stands probably six foot five. The guy is solid muscle. With that physique, it’s a wonder he’s working on my case instead of patrolling the streets and busting criminals. Glancing down at his desk, I find the reason. Looks like Spade made detective.
“Thank you for fitting me in,” I say.
“You bet. I’m glad you came to see me, Ms. Owen,” he replies as he sits back down. “You seem surprised, but I want you to know we take this very seriously. Since the first time we spoke two weeks ago, I’ve been doing some reading on the run-in you had with Ayden Nemeth a year back. I’ve also been doing some checking in our database and elsewhere on Nick Pearlman.”
My belly flutters as I take a seat. “Were you able to find anything?”
“Yes, and no. I found many entries for the name he gave you, but the only Nick Pearlman who meets an early sixties age description died over a year ago. We might assume that that isn’t his real name, but that’s only an assumption, not a fact. I have to do more digging. Having a cell number for him, though, that’s good. Since we have probable cause, I should be able to obtain a warrant to track and tap the phone he’s using. He may not keep the same number for long, but we can still monitor what he says if he calls you.”
I nod. “So, based on everything I’ve told you so far, you do believe Nick wants some sort of revenge for Ayden’s death?”
He pushes a stack of papers aside. “I can only tell you that’s what it looks like. Like I said, because you were the victim of violent crimes by both Ayden Nemeth and his brother Korey, we’re taking this very seriously. Not doing so would only be committing another crime, and we’re not about to do that. We’re on your side.”
I exhale and hope he’s right about the Ayden part. Maybe I was a victim. Maybe I didn’t find his bloody trinket in my cotton ball dish later—I imagined it. I try to smile. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that.”
We discuss what I should do if confronted by Nick again and how I should behave if he calls me. After speaking with Detective Spade for about half an hour, I fill out the paperwork he needs. Most of the butterflies in my stomach have stilled.
“I do have one last question,” the detective says. He holds an open manilla folder in his hands.
“Yes?” I set my purse on my lap.
“If we want to get a lock on this guy as soon as possible, and we do, we need to think like he thinks. Is there anything else you can tell me about the incident with Ayden Nemeth? Any other details—something that only someone who was there would know?”
After work, Detective Spade’s words nip at my ears as I stop at Los Potrillos Restaurant on the interstate. When he stared at me intently in the fluorescent lighting, he may as well have been peering into my soul. My answer was “no.” I then told myself I wasn’t lying because there’s no way to know if the bloody ring was real or not since I’ve never found it again. There’s that unwavering honesty Kyle mentioned.
I’m wolf hungry and want to get home, so I devour my dinner at one of the honey-colored tables underneath a longhorn skull on the wall. The tastes of cilantro and grilled shrimp linger on my tongue as I finish up. I toss my crumpled napkin on the empty plate. As I make my way to the door, my gaze keeps flicking to a couple at a booth. They weren’t there when I came in, so they must have arrived after.
I walk a few more paces. Now I can see the man clearly. Trent. Only the back of the woman’s head is visible from here—a thick, blonde ponytail. My stomach clenches like an iron vise, and I increase my pace. I’ll slip by unnoticed.
“Aria?” Trent calls.
Disbelief flows heavily through his voice. It’s ripe with everything he’s not saying. Like, “Did you know I was here?” And almost, “Are you following me?” Trent and his companion are about fifteen feet away in the booth closest to the door. The decorations on the knee wall must have obscured my view earlier, especially the wooden keg holding a western saddle with a plastic palm tree beside it. The woman turns around in her seat to have a look at me.
My feet slide to a halt against my will, and I stand awkwardly with my fingers laced. “Hey. I was just grabbing a bite. And… heading out.”
I smile with my mouth closed and take a few more steps toward the door, bringing myself nearer to the booth in the process. I have to pass by it to leave. No choice.
Trent nods. “Oh. Well, great, I—”
The woman cuts him off. She asks quietly, “Is that her?”
She’s a twenty-something and attractive, with a thin nose and blue eyes. As she glances between Trent and me, her gaze lights up with curiosity.
“Yeah,” Trent answers. “Naomi, I’d like you to meet my… really good friend, Aria. Aria, this is Naomi. She’s a fellow cadet at the academy.”
My gut sinks when he refers to me as his “really good friend.” But were I in his position, I don’t know if I would do any better. I stride up to their table and force a smile.
“Hi, Naomi. It’s nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, and she wiggles out of the booth to stand as per proper introduction protocol.
“Likewise,” she says, returning my handshake with a firm grip.
Slim and muscular from her police training, Naomi smiles warmly. She smells faintly of gun oil, leather, and something sweet like herbal tea. Her eyes are about level with mine. The locks of her ponytail fall beside her neck as she grins at me.
“Trent has told me so much about you,” Naomi adds.
“I bet,” I say. I glance at Trent with mock sarcasm, but all I can think of is how he likes me, sort of, but I creep him out.
“All good things, of course,” Trent says. He chuckles.
Naomi laughs. “Yes, definitely all good things. It’s an honor to meet you. After what you’ve been through, you’re an inspiration to a lot of people. You’re certainly an inspiration to me. Not only did you survive, but you found the strength to keep going. I was following your story in the Statesmen. So many people were praying for you.”
I pause, puzzled as to how I did anything inspirational. “Well, thank you. A person’s gotta keep going, right?”
“Aria,” Trent says. “Would you like to join us? Sit and chat for a while?”
I frown at him. Wasn’t he the one who told me he wanted a break? Although recalling the conversation at Chupacabra, perhaps Kyle got Trent to change his mind. This might be his chance to remedy his “pushing me away” without it seeming contradictory.
“Yes,” Naomi says. She extends a hand toward the booth. “Please join us.”
A lead ball drops into my stomach. I shift my feet and fiddle with my purse strap while I stall for an answer. It might be nice to run into Trent under other circumstances, but I find it hard to believe he isn’t interested in this woman. They may already be engaged in some torrid, whirlwind romance for all I know. My chest aches. All I want is to bolt for the door.
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m beat after work today, and I just want to get home.”
“We understand. Well, it was great meeting you,” Naomi says.
�
��You too. Catch you guys later.” I begin walking away as we call out our goodbyes.
Trent gawks after me with his mouth open like he wants to ask a question, but I’m already moving off at a good clip. If he has something to say, he can call. My high heels plink in crisp notes across the floor, and I push open the heavy door of the restaurant. Not the most graceful exit, maybe, but I have to get out of here. I emerge in the stuffy heat of late afternoon, squinting in the bright sun of the parking lot.
When I slide into the car, my cell rings. My muscles twitch. I curse as I dig my phone out of my purse. Silly ideas about Trent calling to apologize spring to mind. Silly and unreal. When I see the caller, I draw a loud breath.
It’s Nick. I entered his number yesterday, not wanting to be caught unawares if this happened. I also installed an app to record phone calls. After all, Spade hasn’t tapped the line yet. He needs a warrant first. I sigh, answer the call, quickly open the app, and press “record.”
“This is Aria,” I say.
“This is Nick Pearlman,” he says. “Don’t hang up. I need you to—”
“I know who this is, and I’m not taking orders from you,” I say through clenched teeth. Just took his head right off. I’m so rattled at Trent that I’m directing my anger at my stalker now. Nice.
“Now look,” Nick says, his voice dropping in pitch. “I told you I needed your help. Just stop and listen for a minute. Whether you like it or not, the Lamar property is your problem now, and so am I.”
“Not true. We won’t be doing business with you at all. I just came from the police department, and I told them everything. The property is as good as sold, and I’m not obligated to do anything with you,” I say.
“There’s more to this than the acquisition of real estate. I already told you that I know the buyer. There are other things I need to tell you—important things. But I’m not going to do it over the phone.”