Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 03 - Saving Sasha Brown

by Rob Cornell

  I double checked my search online, but the results remained the same.

  I would not be in the least surprised to find Peter had run from his wife to his rich twin if they were having marital issues. Especially if they were as close as Collin made them sound.

  I did a little more magic with the computer and tracked down a phone number for Matt. When I scribbled the number down on my notebook I noticed a pattern. I had written both of the Brown brothers’ names one above the other:

  Peter John Brown.

  Matthew Luke Brown.

  Each brother had both first and middle names taken from books of the Bible. A religious thread wound long and strong through this family tree. I felt like that was important information, but I couldn’t find a use for it. At least, not yet.

  I wrote this observation in my notebook, then let it go for my subconscious to work on.

  From below, I heard Holly’s sound check turn into a full-on song, with her at the mic. Business at the High Note had officially begun. I gathered my notes and my map together and exited out the second door in the office. This one let into a storage room behind the actual bar. Boxes and crates were stacked tightly, with only a narrow gap allowing a path from the stairs to the storage room exit.

  I slipped through and entered a small office space with a matching desk to the one I had upstairs, a standard metal desk like a school teacher might have. On a corkboard above the desk, a dozen or so reminders were hung by thumbtacks. A calendar still showing November also hung from the board.

  Paul DiMicco, my head bartender had a standard-sized spiral notebook open on the desk and was sitting in what his large physique made look like a miniature desk chair. One of the wheels had cracked so it wouldn’t roll. One of the reminders on the tack board was for me to purchase a replacement.

  Paul looked up from his notebook—what he used to track our supplies—and glanced at the notebook and papers in my hand. “Taking the night off?”

  I looked at the stuff in my hand as if embarrassed to be caught with it. “Yeah. I got a detective thing I want to follow up on, could be time-sensitive.”

  “Anything to do with that dead girl in the park?”

  Paul never, ever, ever showed any interest in my detective work. “Why do you ask?”

  “You can’t answer a simple question? Never mind, now I know it does.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t. Really. But it’s close.”

  He narrowed his eyes. His prominent brow seemed to bulge over those eyes like a furry awning. “That don’t make sense.”

  “What in this life does, Paul?”

  He shrugged, as if conceding the point.

  I figured we were done, so I headed for the doorway leading into the bar proper.

  As I passed him, Paul grabbed my arm. He had a light touch for a guy with such big hands. “We know anything new about Sheila?”

  “I told you, Paul. I’m done chasing after her. After that crap she pulled with the con man, I don’t really have much desire to see her. She’s still a damn drunk. And she still betrayed me.”

  Paul let go of my arm. “You could find her pretty easy, I bet.”

  “Only if I wanted to.” I hoped my words sounded final enough. The last person I wanted to talk about was the woman my family trusted for years and who then betrayed me twice—once by stealing from the bar in an effort to hide her alcoholism and the next giving information to a an old friend-turned-enemy who used it to shake up my whole life.

  Paul looked me in the eye, saw I was serious, and nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry I brought it up.”

  “Trust me, Paul. The Sheila you knew and cared for doesn’t exist anymore.”

  * * *

  Dark had taken full residence over Hawthorne. Fortunately, most of the roads between the High Note and the lakeside properties were plowed. The steady but light snowfall of the day had ceased. Couldn’t say the same for the blustering wind. Good thing there was no ice on the roads, because I had enough of a fight staying in my lane from that wind.

  On a normal night, I’d probably make it to Matt’s house from the High Note in about twenty minutes. This night it took me forty. I never once made it up to the speed limit. With the wind’s new strength, I couldn’t imagine what would happen if the snow kicked on again. Bad combo.

  Of course, the residents of Lakeside Park put a pretty green gate around their community with only one entrance in and out. Seeing as the “park” catered to a mere seven properties, it seemed less like a gated community and more like a gated rich-folks club. Although, if I had to guess, I bet these people hardly knew each other. Why bother with a neighbor hidden behind your tree line a few acres away?

  I pulled up to the gate and watched as the woman in the small booth tried to straighten her green and gold uniform—it made her look more like a girl scout than a security guard—and blink the sleep out of her eyes. I could only imagine being the gatekeeper for a measly seven families, most of whom probably had property down in Florida where they could escape the snowy weather and weren’t even home. Not a lot of traffic coming though the gate, I bet.

  As I reached the gate, I buzzed down my window. The wind came from the east, so buffeted the passenger side of the car, but I was kept reasonably sheltered from it.

  The guard peered out at me with the stern face of a border guard, which was fair enough. Even compared to someone of my wealth, Lakeside Park might as well have been a foreign country. She slid open her window and the wind attacked her instantly, whisking into the guard box, tugging at her blonde hair in its pony tail. She wrapped her arms across her chest and leaned out the window. “Can I help you?” she asked in a nasal tone.

  It’s not like I check out every woman I see, but being a man, I noticed her pretty face. Alas, the baggy uniform hid any indication of her figure. The glimpse I got of her slim hands, however, suggested a slim body.

  I tucked these kinds of thoughts away.

  A few years ago, I learned I didn’t have the best taste in woman.

  “I’m here to see Matt Brown,” I said.

  She held up a finger. “Let me ring him. Your name?”

  “Brone. Ridley Brone. Tell him his brother Peter sent me.” That ought to get some kind of reaction, especially if Peter were staying with him.

  She nodded and slid her window shut again. She picked up an old-fashioned-looking green phone that matched the green parts of her uniform.

  I watched her as she listened to it ring, then when she started to talk, relaying my name and message. Her expression remained bland, bored even. She nodded once, firmly, then hung up the phone. She slid the window open and squinted at the gust of wind that struck her like a slap in the face. “Go on in.”

  “Really?” I asked, my mouth not collaborating with my brain at that moment.

  She nodded, said, “Really,” and slammed her window shut.

  * * *

  The shock of how easy it was get past the gate still rang as I pulled past the guard box and onto the brightly lit streets of Lakeside Park. Seemed like someone had planted a blazing streetlight on every corner and bend. I probably could have navigated just fine without my headlights on.

  The wind rocked my car as I drove past breaks in the rows of pines stuffing this cordoned-off community like packing paper between fragile ornaments in a box. Thinking of ornaments reminded me Christmas was right around the corner and I still hadn’t purchased anything for Paul or Holly. I also thought about sending an anonymous gift to my daughter, but thought that might complicate things more than necessary. I had all this money, and no one to spend it on during the holidays. I bought for Paul and Holly. I donated to various charities. And that’s all I had.

  Made me feel like a sad, old hermit.

  Anyway, I ditched the paper map for the GPS built into my smartphone, and followed the winding curves and angled corners until I reached a driveway with a mailbox bearing Matt Brown’s address. The mailbox was fortified in a brick pillar just at car
window height. The address shone in golden numerals attached to the side of the pillar.

  For the fun of it, I pulled up to the box, buzzed my window down, and checked for anything inside. Nothing. But you never know what you might find. Not that I would have opened anything. I wasn’t into breaking small-time federal laws for the fun of it.

  I pulled into the driveway, which ran at least a half mile before I reached the house. The driveway was black asphalt the whole way until I reached a loop at the end done in cobblestone. The loop allowed for circling around and heading back out. In the center of this loop stood an electric version of an old gaslight. I started to feel like Sherlock Holmes already.

  The house… My, God, the house. Could have swallowed mine. But it wasn’t just the size of the place. It was the presence. I don’t know much about architecture, so I’ll go with layman’s terms. It looked like the kind of place you’d see on one of those TV shows where a bunch of spoiled, rich Victorians would complain about their servants not bringing their second course exactly on time. White pillars glowed in the light cast from porch lights that matched the faux gaslight in the driveway’s loop. The front door looked like a portal into another time. The light coming from within the house carried a warmth that seemed to advertise no room in this structure had anything so low-class as a draft.

  It killed me to wonder what this man did for a living. I wondered if I shouldn’t have done a better background workup on this guy before paying him a visit. The ultra-rich sometimes had very skewed ideas about reality that could make it near-impossible to interview them with any success, let alone cop to holding his brother in secret—though he certainly had the room to do it.

  I knew a guy who worked as a servant in a place about as big. He lived in an onsite servants’ building. This place, if it had servants, probably kept them below, just like in those TV shows and books.

  I parked my car on the edge of the loop closest to the front of the house. I noticed a spoke of blacktop jutting from the loop about a quarter around from where I parked. This additional driveway curled around to the back of the property. I guessed a garage sat on the far side of the house.

  I tried not to walk up the three steps to the long stone porch with my mouth hanging open or my eyes bulging. I have millions in the bank, but I felt like a pauper begging for alms as I approached the door.

  The door opened even before I reached it.

  A gentleman in a suit and tie stood to one side, holding the door open. He bowed when I arrived at the threshold. “Mister Brone, I presume?”

  I smiled, but damn if it didn’t feel cheesy. “That’s me.”

  “The Master will see you. This way please.”

  He led me down a long, narrow foyer lit by a crystal chandelier. He didn’t offer to take my coat, which told me no one expected this visit to run long. I was still shocked I got in so easily, so I would take what I could get. But the coat, in the heated house, started me sweating not long after I entered the house.

  We turned one corner, then another, then stopped at an open door. The doorman or butler—or whatever he was called—gave another short bow and gestured into the doorway. “The Master’s study, sir. He shall meet with you shortly.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and a small, mischievous part of me wanted to tip him like a hotel valet. I resisted the urge and entered…

  …an honest to Betsy, real life cliché.

  I entered the study.

  Unlike the outside of the house and some of the indoor touches, this room was more modern. The U-shaped desk in the center of the space barely swallowed a fraction of the large room. It had a glass top and was equipped with all the modern gadgets necessary for conducting business—phone, fax, printer, and computer, of course.

  Away from the desk, closer to the door and where I stood, a pair of comfortable, leather recliners stood sentry on either side of a round glass table with an ashtray and a crystal decanter with matching glasses. The liquid in the decanter was clear, so I could only guess at the contents. Could have been moonshine for all I know, which would have put a nice twist on Matt Brown’s character as I understood it from everything I’d seen so far. I could summarized him like this:

  Motherfucker was rich, and liked it.

  Seeing all this, and thinking about how my own wealth often made me feel uncomfortable, this actually made me feel a little better. I decided to do some extra donating this holiday season.

  I hadn’t moved far from the door, so Matt Brown nearly ran into me as he rushed into the room, panting as if he had sprinted from the far end of the house.

  He shouted.

  I jumped.

  An awkward second or two of silence followed.

  Then we both laughed it off.

  He offered his hand. “You must be the PI.”

  I shook his hand. “You must be filthy rich.”

  Chapter 8

  It slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it. I blame this direct from the subconscious to mouth thing on the singing training my mother gave me. Sing straight from the soul, Ridley. Leave thought out of it. That last part I was especially good at.

  Brown laughed in spite of my comment. “You’re wondering why I even let you in, let alone how I know who you are and what you do for a living.”

  “Not at all,” I said. I tried to end the shake, but Brown clung hard. “I’m very charismatic and easy on the eyes. I’m sure the gate guard put in a good word for me.”

  He still wouldn’t let go of my hand. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then young Collin must have warned you about me.”

  Brown’s eyebrows rose and he finally release my hand. “Bravo.”

  “Doesn’t take a genius. Sorry about the hour. I would have been here sooner if Collin had just told me where you lived.”

  Brown had dark, longish hair parted in the middle, that hung over his ears. It shone in the light from the small—compared to the foyer’s—chandelier and the couple of floor lamps in the room. He wore his facial hair in that stubbled middle-ground that looked rugged, yet stylish. His black eyes shone like his hair. But he had thin lips that ruined his chances for movie star handsome. His mouth, especially when he smiled, looked like a cut in his face’s flesh.

  Brown clapped my shoulder. “Collin’s a good kid.” He pointed to the recliners. “Want to have a seat.”

  I still had my heavy coat on. I glanced around for a place to hang it or set it, but nothing really presented itself. The bookshelves lining the walls were all built-ins, so I didn’t even have a corner to hang it from.

  I left it on and pretended I wasn’t overheated and uncomfortable. I went ahead and took a recliner. I supposed I could have hung my coat over the back of the chair, but it would have come across as rude, and I felt certain that leaving me with my coat on was a signal that I shouldn’t anticipate staying long.

  I think Brown was actually surprised I took a seat. But he didn’t let it show.

  His mistake. If he didn’t want me to ask all the questions I needed to, he should have never let me in in the first place.

  He came to the meeting in business casual—a pair of slacks and a sweater vest, but no tie like Holden had when he and his friends came to hire me earlier. He looked cozy, but not feverish like I’m sure I did sitting in a heated room wearing a down parka.

  Brown slid onto the other recliner, his movements precise, like a dancer’s. In fact, I would have bet he danced at least semi-professionally at one point in his life. He had the lithe body and slick maneuvering of a dancer.

  While Brown leaned forward to grab for the decanter, I decided to throw him off a bit with my new knowledge. “Local company or do you dance abroad?”

  The decanter nearly slipped from his grip. He recovered quickly, removed the crystal stopper, and looked at me with his head slightly cocked. A good performance of confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You’re a dancer,” I pressed. “When I was a boy and I sang in my parents’ shows, I spent a lot of time w
ith dancers. I can spot one from a mile away just by how they move.”

  He smiled and poured himself a drink. From where I sat, the stuff smelled like turpentine. He didn’t offer me any, either because I made a face when he opened the decanter or as an insult. Probably the latter. Just another signal, like the whole coat thing.

  Once he had his glass filled, he took a sip, shrugged. “I haven’t danced in a long time.”

  “You must still,” I said.

  “I have a private trainer who comes to the house.” He tossed back the remainder of his drink, squinted hard, then sighed and relaxed. “I don’t perform any longer.”

  “What is it you do now, Mr. Brown?”

  He waved a dismissive hand and poured himself another. “Why don’t we get to the point of your visit instead?”

  I sat back and let him tell me why he thought I was here.

  “You like to…meddle. Best word I can come up with. As you know, my family’s been hit with a few bouts of bad news.”

  “I was very sorry to hear about your niece. She sang at my bar the night before she was found.”

  He peered into his drink as if unsure he really wanted another swig of the stuff. “The High Note. Lot of history in that place. At least before it burned down.”

  “Well, it’s back up now.”

  He did that little wave of his again, like I should just shut up and listen. “It’s not the same anymore. All that history down in flames. The autographed photos. The rings in the tables. The grooves in the seats. All hints of what the place was, who had been there. That’s all gone.”

  This dude knew how to hit below the belt with a mouthful of words. I leaned my elbows on my knees. Sweat trickled down my sides and along by back. My armpits felt like pools of fiery lava. My voice, I kept cool. “I like to think the spirit of the place remains.”

  The wave again. A condescending nod. “Sure, sure. Of course. I was just talking about the visceral history. That’s what’s lost forever.”

  I could give him something visceral.