“You look fresh,” I said.
He lowered his hands from his eyes and stared at me. “Where’s Gabriela Ramos?
“Before I bring her in, I want you to know she’s innocent,” I said. “I was there last night.”
“So was I,” Collat said. “If she’s innocent, she’s got a lot to answer for.”
“My partner and I saw a boat fleeing the scene. The house that burnt down belonged to a doctor. A guy named Markel. She says she was going there to talk about a drug trial for her daughter. But I’m not sure he’s as legit as Gabriela thought. Another contact told me Dr. Markel had been pushing some kind of phony cancer cure. I have strong suspicions there is a connection between Dr. Markel and Luc.”
“Do you?” He seemed less enthusiastic than I hoped. “Before we go there, let’s talk about Gabriela first. Do you have any evidence to back up her innocence? Because what I’ve seen makes her look guilty as sin.”
“She’s not a killer,” I said. “I’ve seen killers.”
“You saw this mystery man set the house on fire and kill the Markels?”
“No, I—”
“What’s your alternate theory? The doctor saw her coming, and rather than talk to her, he set his place on fire, shot his wife in the head, and then shot himself in the gut? Do you know how long it takes a man to die of a gunshot wound to the abdomen?”
“Has an artery been struck?” I was already tired of Collat’s attitude. “She’s innocent. Her daughter is sick, she wanted to talk to Markel about a drug trial.”
“I don’t know much about drug trials, but I don’t imagine you go to a doctor’s house to participate in one,” he said.
A marina employee turned a corner behind Collat and came in our direction. I shut my mouth and watched him while he went past, waiting until he was out of ear shot.
“I know how it looks, but the fact is Gabriela is innocent. Do you think she killed Luc too?” I asked, scooting forward in my chair.
“Frankly, I’m not sure of a connection between Luc and Dr. Markel. The things I am sure of point to me taking Gabriela into custody.”
“Wait a minute, I’m telling you someone else was there. A man.”
The muscles below his temples bulged and flattened, and on the tips of his fingers, his dark brown skin turned almost as white as mine as he gripped his coffee cup. “Did this man have a face?”
I tried to think of that actor Gabriela said he resembled. His name wasn’t coming to me.
“Did he have a body?” Collat asked.
“She said he looked like some Hollywood guy.”
“Who said? Gabriela? Funny that she’d come up with someone else to blame.”
“If she’s lying, let me keep her with me so I can find out.”
Collat rolled his eyes.
“This is all connected to Luc, Detective. The only reason DJ and I were there at all was because we think Luc had a meeting with the doctor before he wound up dead. He was—”
Collat’s hands went up, cutting me off. He seemed to consider something, his hands now clasped, and his eyes skimming from place to place.
“You were a detective in Newport Beach, were you not?”
I nodded.
“Then you’re aware that it is best not to entangle ourselves with speculation, which I’ve let you do far too long already.”
“Detective, this isn’t speculation. I spoke to a man who Luc interviewed about Dr. Markel. Gabriela Ramos is a witness to Markel’s murder, and she was able to give me a precise description of a man at the scene. She saw him do it.”
“But she’s also the most convincing suspect we have. And until you or I produce another suspect, letting Gabriela out of my custody is the biggest mistake I could make.”
“You can’t.”
“Find me a more compelling suspect, and you can take Gabriela.”
The game became clearer. Gabriela was a bargaining chip for Collat. He wanted me to do the work of finding the man on the boat, either because he couldn’t or he didn’t care to.
“Tell me about the boat used to flee the scene. Were you able to gather any information about it?”
“My partner is following that up.”
“DJ?” Collat smirked. “You couldn’t have let him do this while you looked into the boat?”
“He’s what I’ve got.”
“He seems to have an agenda.”
“Just an attitude problem. We aren’t marrying each other any time soon; all we have to do is work together.”
Collat laughed. “Yes, that sounds strikingly familiar.”
“Things aren’t so great at your department?”
“Sometimes,” Collat squared himself in his chair, crossing his thin legs at the knees, “I don’t find myself buying as deeply into the culture as my superiors would like. Maybe that’s my problem, maybe that’s their problem, but either way, a job remains.”
My reading of Collat’s political answer was that he wasn’t into all the thin-blue-line, us-versus-the-world machismo that seemed to have poisoned the minds of too many good cops.
“Mr. Snyder, are you ready to bring her up to me?” Collat steepled his fingers.
I looked to Wayward. I didn’t imagine Gabriela and Flor had left each other’s sides, and they would never be ready to separate from each other, even if it were only for a short while.
“I need you to promise me you’ll watch after her. I don’t know if the man she saw is working alone, on his own behalf, or on the behalf of someone else, but you said yourself that your department didn’t put its full effort behind solving Luc’s murder.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you positing that someone in the Puerto Rican Police Force is working with the man who killed the Markels?”
I had my suspicions. Nick Garner looked like a guy who could pull some strings with the cops if he had to. I wasn’t sure if he was connected to the Markel murders or not, but his connection to Luc Baptiste was undeniable. In any case, I was sure Gabriela had done nothing wrong.
“All I’m saying is Gabriela Ramos is a good woman—a mother with a very sick little girl—and God help all of us if we forget that.”
The emailed announcement of an emergency meeting came at 6:14 a.m., addressed to all board members. When Tamara Price walked into Hildon’s principal board room, six minutes before the meeting’s scheduled start time of 10:30, the place was already crowded with gray-haired, balding, suited men, burning caffeine to stay on their feet.
Tamara found a narrow gap between Tom Hall and Nick Fields—two members who held a combined four percent ownership share of Hildon. The men whispered to each other. Sounded like they had to cancel an early tee time in Miami to fly down.
Across the room, in front of windows overlooking the Atlantic, Arlen Burkhart joked with the men gathered near him. They hung on his every word. Having him there turned out to be better timing than Tamara had anticipated, because even in times of crisis, Mr. Burkhart radiated strength and confidence into the room. Given the news about to hit them—news Tamara Price was already clued into—Hildon needed every ray of confidence they could find.
Burkhart was an asset. He’d been ranked among Forbes’ top business minds for years, and it was clear why.
The doors on the opposite end of the room opened. Rachel Little marched in, flanked by her assistant, Grace, clutching a stack of papers close to her chest. Everyone went quiet. All eyes turned to Rachel, who now stood at the head of the long, glass table, with her hands planted on it, her head bowed.
“Gentlemen, I know rumors are already starting to fly, so I won’t waste your time with a preamble. One of our contractors has been murdered, and a Hildon employee is suspected of having done it.”
A scandalized murmur bubbled through the room. Even these old masters of the universe chittered like a barbershop parlor.
“Order,” Rachel said. “Order, please. I didn’t call this meeting to gossip.”
They didn’t listen well. The talk turned to groans and muttering
s about earning calls, derailed stock buybacks, and bank executives knocking on the door. Until one man’s voice cut above the rest.
“Who was killed?” Mr. Burkhart asked in a way that didn’t suggest he was worried, more than he was running numbers through his head. “And by whom?”
Rachel straightened up at the end of the table, one hand holding onto the other’s fist. She didn’t want to say it but holding too much back from the men in this room would send Hildon into financial freefall.
“An employee named Gabriela Ramos is suspected of murdering a long-time contractor,” she said, clearing her throat to give her a moment to gauge the room. “Dr. James Markel.”
The room almost burst at the seams.
“Jesus!” Tom Hall called out from Tamara’s left. “It’s actually true!”
Dr. Markel was known to most of the men in the room. Their outburst was not because the doctor was a top mind in his field; they only worried about the loss of his productivity and Hildon’s potentially tarnished reputation affecting their bottom line.
Rachel waved her hands and said something at the front of the room, lost in all the noise.
“The police found—” Rachel shouted, her body pushing to get the words above the rest. “The police visited Dr. Markel’s home—and I shouldn’t have to say this, but this information is privileged and doesn’t leave this room—they found a car at the scene yesterday, registered to Gabriela Ramos. I’m told by a contact that they’ll have her in custody by lunch time.”
“She was at his house?” a man shouted.
“Why would she kill him?” Jack Tremble, a round, red-faced Midwesterner, who kept a hideaway from his wife and teenage daughters on a private cay near St. Maarten, asked.
“Once the police talk to her, they’ll find out.”
“Are we sure he didn’t leak internal documents?” somebody shouted. “Didn’t he try to do that once before?”
The tenor in the room was approaching unhinged. The men were acting as if they were ready to start gnawing each other’s windpipes if it got any worse.
“There’s no sign that Dr. Markel’s murder is connected to his past behavior,” Rachel responded. “But if he slipped out anything damaging, we’ll know, and we’ll sue his estate for breach of contract.”
Reminding them of the NDA Markel signed didn’t seem to ease any minds. A non-disclosure agreement only gave Hildon recourse once the cat was out of the bag. It couldn’t physically prevent someone talking, though Dr. Markel wouldn’t physically speak to anyone else now.
“I’m not losing my shirt over this!” someone shouted.
The meeting was almost beyond salvaging. Tamara saw panic gathering behind members’ eyes, calculating acceptable losses, which vacation house to sell first, and which mistress to dump if Hildon went under. Thank God the board room was on the second floor, or these panicky babies might try opening a window and taking the short way out.
“Sit down and shut up!” Rachel screamed back. Her tone was like that of a lioness chasing a pesky male off a gazelle carcass. “Nobody’s losing their shirt. Nobody’s even going to lose their lunch money. Markel is dead. And dead men don’t talk.” Her eyes stalked the room, daring challengers to step up.
“I don’t know about some of you, but I’m not going to chicken out because a squealer like Markel is dead. Good riddance.” She mimed clapping dirt off her hands. “We need to keep our eyes on the prize, gentlemen. We need to look forward. We should be concerned about Gabriela Ramos. She’s twenty-eight, and she’s been an employee here for six years. Whether he told her anything or not, we need to remind her that Hildon is the hand that feeds her. Give her a reason to stay in line.”
No one said anything as Rachel looked through the room, meeting eyes. Goosebumps prickled on Tamara’s neck when she looked her way.
“That’s a sound strategy, Ms. Little,” Arlen Burkhart spoke up. “Remind your employee that a loyal hand is repaid in kind. But the girl is out of hand—she’s being held by the state. How, then, do we reward her virtue?”
Rachel nodded at Tamara. Her signal to step up.
“Mr. Burkhart, she worked under me,” Tamara said. “Gabriela Ramos has a sick daughter. The cost of her medical care is an extreme burden. Frankly, she needs money. We’ll take care of that and get her daughter the best care she could ever ask for. And, more directly to Ms. Ramos’s current problem, we can hire the best defense team money can buy. With Dr. Markel gone, I suggest we send Ms. Ramos a bouquet to show her our appreciation.”
That got a few laughs from the room. Neckties and three-piece suits loosened up. Red faces returned a more natural color, and the men exchanged congratulatory glances, as if Tamara’s ideas had spilled from their mouths.
“We will handle this, gentlemen,” Rachel said. “Give it time. I’ve seen Hildon through eight of its most profitable years, and I promise, despite my planned exit, I will lay the groundwork for eight more.” Rachel looked directly at Tamara, then dismissed the room with a quick nod. The board members began filtering toward the exit, their delicate nerves soothed.
“And gentlemen,” Rachel’s voice had shed every trace of fury. “We do not talk about any of this outside this room. Not Markel’s death, not Gabriela Ramos, and certainly not the doctor’s NDA. If I see an article citing anonymous sources in The Wall Street Journal this week, I will find out who leaked, and I’ll do everything in my power to ensure your grandchildren are left picking scraps from a gutter by the time they graduate high school.”
A tickle spread across Tamara’s stomach. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling while she watched those miserable old men turn their backs, trying hard not to react. They’d practically left their balls in Rachel Little’s desk drawer.
Except one. An amused look played in Arlen Burkhart’s eyes. He cracked a smile at Tamara. She returned the gesture.
Back in her office, Tamara sank into the couch opposite her desk, gin and tonic in her hand. Her neck went limp, her head on the back of the couch. Her brain replayed the highlights of the meeting as she sipped her drink and watched clouds roll through the Puerto Rican sky.
There was a knock at her door. She hopped up, went to her desk, and pushed the intercom button.
“Collin,” she said to her secretary, “why didn’t you buzz me?”
“Sorry, Ms. Price,” he said. “Mr. Burkhart knocked before I had the chance.”
Rachel looked at her door, seeing two narrow shadows through the gap at the bottom. Her pulse quickened in her belly. She stashed the drink in a desk drawer, swiped down her hair, jerked the collar of her blouse, and, snapping her shoulders back and her chin up, went for the door.
“Mr. Burkhart? What a pleasant surprise.”
He returned her smile with one of his own. God, his teeth were flawless. The first step he took into her office felt like the star quarterback strutting into his girlfriend’s bedroom after a homecoming victory. His perfectly trimmed black hair shone under the crystalline light coming from the windows behind her.
“I hope I’m not imposing,” he said, as if she’d want to turn him away. The man was a power player. The closer she got to him, the better for her career.
“I would never be bothered by you. How can I help?”
For a moment, he stopped and eyeballed the bottle of gin sitting on the table in the corner. She’d forgotten to put it away.
“We’ve all had a morning, haven’t we?” he asked. “Rachel Little seemed especially fired up.”
“I don’t normally indulge during work hours.”
He laughed. “You should, dear. After what’s happened, the next few days are going to be hell. You’re going to need something stronger than gin.”
Arlen closed the door behind him and hooked a left for her couch. Then, he bent forward, opened the small door beneath the corner table, and took out a glass for himself.
“You don’t terribly mind if I have a sip, do you?” He motioned toward the bottle.
“Of
course not, Mr. Burkhart.” Tamara slid behind her desk, then brought her glass out of the drawer, marched over to the table, and grabbed the bottle.
Standing in front of him, she held it at her waist while she worked the cap off. A bemused smile crossed his lips. His eyes danced over the pearl silk blouse covering her chest, then down to her merlot skirt, which clutched tightly to her wine-bottle hips. She felt the heat of his eyes slipping southward, skimming across the skin above her Louboutin pumps.
He was welcome to stare—she worked for this body seven days a week, and it wasn’t all for her health. Power was power, however given, however taken, and the power her body gave her over some men and women was as effective as the power granted her by diplomas and C-suite titles.
When she took his glass from him, she let his fingertips caress the back of her hand. Skin-to-skin contact, whether a handshake, knuckles to a jaw, or something much more intimate, was a powerful driver of human emotion. She wanted him imprinted by her touch, her smell, her emotions. Keeping her hand wrapped in his, she poured the gin into his glass slowly, commanding his eyes to linger on her.
A corner of his mouth turned upward, and beneath his lips, he licked his teeth.
“Did you come here for a quick drink?” She took her hand out of his, then stepped back.
He laughed, then drank.
“Mmm.” He held the glass up and looked through it, at Tamara. “I didn’t think it was possible to find such a bold, full-bodied drink down here. I take pity on the folks who’ve had this under their nose the whole time. These people don’t know what they’re missing.”
“The gin doesn’t come out for just anyone. Only for the people I think deserve a taste.”
“I’m humbled to be held among an elite few,” he said with a roguish grin. He leaned back against the couch and took another sip. “I have to come clean with you, Tamara—I’m not here for the drinks. Truth is, I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, ever since I read about this intelligent, ambitious girl from Atlanta, I knew she was something special. When I saw your picture, I knew you’d be unstoppable. And now, you’re next in line when Rachel is gone. You’re an extremely impressive woman.”
Wayward Sons Page 24