In Their Blood (10 page)

The clown was carrying a big white square with flickering
lights. “Happy birthday to you,” he sang. “Happy birthday to you.” Everyone stopped and joined in. “Happy birthday, dear Jamie, happy birthday to you.”

Jamie clapped and blew out the candles.

Jeremy remembered his own parents smiling at him. His mother kissing him.

He squeezed his eyes shut.
Happy birthday, Jeremy
.

“Thanks for your time, Detective Lieber.” Jeremy stood up. “But I need to get to class.”

The professor was talking about mergers and acquisitions. Jeremy had missed the first two lectures and was struggling to follow along. As he listened, Jeremy was reminded of how he’d felt over a year ago sitting in class at NYU. The lack of connection between his future and what he was learning in school. The sense he had of being lost. So he had dropped out before finishing his senior year and left for Europe, hoping that a change of environment would clear the confusion in his mind.

And now he was back, once again sitting in a classroom. How ironic that his future seemed more uncertain than ever.

He was disappointed by Lieber’s reaction to his involvement in his parents’ investigation. She had to realize there were things he could do that the police couldn’t. And he wasn’t putting himself at risk. Maybe he was not quite twenty-three, but he had always been an observer of human behavior, and he certainly wasn’t about to let himself get caught in anyone’s web.

Jeremy’s classmates had begun gathering their notebooks and laptops and getting up to leave. Class was over. Most were older students. Some, like Jeremy, were wearing suit pants and dress shirts and had removed their ties. Jeremy’s dad had taught during the day, so it was unlikely Jeremy would run into any of his students here, he realized with some discouragement.

The campus was lit by modern overhead lights— anachronistic beside the quaint buildings. Jeremy wondered if Dr. Winter came in at night. Probably not. It seemed like an ideal time to sneak into his father’s office and go through his papers.

Jeremy veered in the direction of his father’s building, passing a bench where a small figure was stooping to tie the laces on her clunky boot. He doubled back. “Marina?”

Her hair was down in her face, a tangle of shimmering baby copperheads. She pushed it away from her eyes and behind her ear. “Jeremy.” She didn’t seem surprised to see him, but then she knew he was taking classes here. She gestured toward the notebook under his arm. “Coming or going?”

“Going,” he said. “Just finished a class in mergers and acquisitions. I almost forgot what I’ve been missing.”

She didn’t smile. She was dressed differently from the day before in a white low-necked sweater that showed a smattering of freckles on her chest. The sweater was loose, but he could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. He tried to keep his eyes from drifting downward.

“You’ve missed a couple of classes, no? But the son of the brilliant D. C. Stroeb should have no difficulty catching up.”

Jeremy felt a jab of annoyance. Even though his father was dead, the references and comparisons were inevitable.

“Of course, academics isn’t for everyone,” she said as though reading his mind. She took her foot off the bench and hoisted a large canvas satchel filled with papers over her shoulder. It looked like the weight of it might topple her.

“Let me help you with that.”

“I got it, thanks. I’m just going to my car.”

“I’ll walk you.” He took the satchel from her. “Damn. Are you grading papers of the entire student body?”

“I’m teaching a lecture, two sessions. Intro to Microeconomics.
A hundred and three students in one class, ninety-four in the other. The survey I gave them was five pages. It adds up to a lot of paper.”

“My father enjoyed teaching the intro classes,” Jeremy said. “He’d say he liked to get the virgin minds. Then they’d be his forever.”

Even in the semidarkness, Jeremy could see Marina’s cheeks had flushed. Had he said something to offend her?

“I’m covering your father’s intro classes. There was a big scramble for people to take over his schedule at the last minute. None of the other economics professors or instructors had time, so they asked me.”

She stopped beside a small yellow car, an old Toyota. It was dirty and when she unlocked the door, Jeremy noticed scattered clothes and crumpled fast-food bags.

“I’m not a very good housekeeper.” She took the satchel from Jeremy and threw it in the backseat. “Well, thank you Jeremy,
mon chevalier
.”

“Sure,” Jeremy said, wanting to say more, but feeling awkward.

Her lips twitched. A guarded smile as though she was unwilling to give up too much. “Would you like to go for coffee or something to eat?” she asked.

“I guess. If you don’t have other plans.”

“My laundry and dirty dishes are my other plans. Come. Get in. There’s a place not too far from here where I usually have my dinner.”

It looked more like a dive than a restaurant, but Jeremy didn’t complain as Marina pulled the car into a spot near the Dumpster. A red neon sign flashed “Cerbie’s.” Inside was a smoky bar with people in collared shirts and loosened ties standing three deep. TVs hanging over either end of the bar were showing boxing matches.

“A lot of business people come here,” she shouted over the din. “They like to pretend they’re grungy. Like the Sunday Harley-Davidson riders.”

He followed her through the crowd, trying not to knock into anyone’s beer. The floor was covered with peanut shells that crunched beneath his feet. Even in her heavy boots, Marina moved through the throng with the grace of a dancer. Jeremy’s progress was slower. “Excuse me. Pardon me,” he said. Coming here was a perfect opportunity for him. He could ask Marina questions about his father. Maybe even, in a roundabout way, ask if his father had any enemies. Lieber was wrong to believe Jeremy might attract the killer’s attention this way. And if he did— well, maybe that was what he really wanted.

Marina disappeared through a doorway. It took Jeremy a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was even darker and smokier back here, but at least it was quiet. High wooden booths lined both sides of the room and there were a dozen or so small wooden tables and chairs in the center. Only the booths were occupied. Marina was waving to him from one in the corner.

He slid across the red Naugahyde bench seat opposite her. The fake leather was torn and sticky.

Marina was talking to the waiter, a pimpled young man with spiked hair and a lip ring. He wore a black tee shirt with a three-headed dog and the name of the bar written on it.

“I’ve ordered cheeseburgers for both of us,” Marina said. “Their specialty.”

“What are you drinking?” the waiter asked him.

“A beer, I guess.”

The waiter looked impatient. We have Corona, Heineken, Bud—”

“Whatever you have on tap is fine.”

The waiter disappeared. He’d left behind a basket of peanuts. Marina delicately popped open a shell, examined the nut between her fingers, then placed it on her tongue.

“How old are you?” Jeremy said.

“
Pardon?
”

“I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s just you look about sixteen, and you’re a graduate assistant.”

“Twenty-eight,” she said. “Perhaps you think that old for a graduate assistant? But I just seem to have the hardest time with my dissertation.” She took a cigarette out of a pack in her satchel— some unfiltered French brand— and lit it with a match from the Cerbie’s matchbook in the ashtray. “So today was your first day of work, no?” Marina said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Jeremy must have looked surprised.

“I can tell from the shirt. It still has the wrinkles. A virgin shirt, as your father might say.” She gave him her muted smile. “So where are you working?”

“My mother’s CPA firm.”

“That’s right. You were studying accounting before you left on your European sojourn, no?”

“That’s right.” It was cold in this back room, and he had a difficult time keeping his eyes from roaming to her chest.

The waiter put a large martini glass in front of Marina and placed the foaming beer mug down on a coaster with the three-headed dog.

“Cheers,” Marina said, raising her glass. Six or eight olives were floating in it.

Jeremy lifted his mug. “Cheers.”

They both sipped their drinks. Marina stuck her fingers into her glass and pulled out an olive. She sucked on it, pushed it into her mouth, then licked her fingers. “I love olives. I always order extra.”

Jeremy scooped up some peanuts and cracked them open. “So I imagine you worked very closely with my father.”

“
Merde!
What happened to your hands?” Marina rested her cigarette in the ashtray, then reached across the table and took his hand in hers.

“It’s nothing. Just paper cuts.”

“So many? What kind of accounting work makes so many cuts?”

“I was sorting through old papers and boxing them up.” He tried to pull his hand away from her, but she held fast.

“You can get infections.” She dipped her napkin into her martini glass, then started dabbing each cut with the cold liquid. It stung like hell and his eyes watered, but he no longer tried to take his hand away. She was holding it in her own small one. As she pressed the napkin against his cuts, the sting subsided, and he felt only pressure and the cleansing of his wounds.

“Your hands are like your father’s,” she said without looking up.

He pulled away.

“I’m sorry. Did I do something to upset you?”

“No.” Jeremy wondered himself at his reaction. But perhaps it was shame at feeling something quite the opposite of pain.

The waiter set the cheeseburgers on the table. Jeremy watched her eat— tiny bites, like a mouse. He noticed the way her ears stood away from her head when she pushed her hair behind them and how she licked her fingers when they dripped with grease from her hamburger. He hardly paid attention to what they talked about.

She dropped him off by his car and kissed each of his cheeks, barely touching, but close enough that he could smell the scent of almonds and smoke in her hair. Only then, after she’d driven away, did he realize he hadn’t asked her anything more about his father.

Chapter 12

Dwight had chosen a barstool in the elegant lounge at Don Shula’s Steakhouse, from which he had a clear view of everyone who came and went. A pianist was playing tunes he recognized from
Chicago
. Classy place. Perfect for making a good impression.

It was a few minutes before eight; Dwight liked to be early. Selma sat beside him sipping a glass of Chardonnay. Her cream-colored suit had long sleeves and a full skirt, so she didn’t look as painfully skinny as she often did. She was a good wife. Not the most beautiful maybe, but at least she was no righteous snow queen like his brother’s wife.

His brother’s wife. She was dead, he reminded himself. They were both dead. A wave of melancholy passed over him— the memory of a time long ago when he was just a scrawny kid and Danny was the big brother he worshipped. Danny, who could ride a bike with no hands, jump off the roof of the house, and had all the best-looking girls hanging around after school hoping for a kiss. And all Dwight lived for was his brother’s approval, a ride in his old Corvair. But Danny was always too busy for his kid brother. And when Danny would complain to their mom about Dwight sneaking around after him, whose side did she take? Her firstborn’s, naturally. Her golden boy who could do no wrong. Right up until the day she died, she said, “Why can’t you be more like your brother, Dwight?”

Well, the competition was over and Dwight was the one left standing. And while on some level Dwight couldn’t help but feel redeemed, there was still a deep sadness. After all, his brother had once been his hero. And heroes are tough to forget.

Dwight sipped his Johnny Walker Black and studied the engraving on his thick college ring.
Veritas, Familia, Sapientia
— truth, family, wisdom. How surprised he’d been last year when Danny had asked him if he’d be backup guardian for Elise. And at first, Dwight had adamantly refused. If he’d wanted kids, he told his brother, he would have had his own. But then he thought about it. The house on Lotus Island, the nice stipend. And it wasn’t like Elise was a baby. If she turned out to be a pain in the ass, he could always send her to boarding school. So he’d called Danny back and said sure, he and Selma would be happy to help him out. Not that there was any reason to think the contingency would ever become a reality.

But it had. A most advantageous reality. And any guilt Dwight felt over profiting from this terrible event, he justified by reminding himself that this had been Danny’s idea— not his.

Several couples came into the restaurant and were taken to their tables by the maître d’.

“You’re sure you told Liliam eight?” Dwight said.

Selma was reapplying her red lipstick. “That’s what time you told me and that’s what I told her.” She blotted her lips on a cocktail napkin.

“Maybe Shula’s was a bad idea,” Dwight said. “Liliam said Shula’s was fine.”

Dwight took another sip of his drink. He hated making mistakes. He’d been pretty pleased with himself, coming up with the idea of Selma inviting the Castillos to dinner to thank them for all they’d done. Of course, that was only after he’d left several messages for Enrique and hadn’t received any return call. Dwight didn’t
understand it. He’d thought he and Enrique had gotten on very well at the funeral. “You told her the Shula’s in the Alexander Hotel, right? You know there are other Shula’s Steakhouses.”

“I told her, Dwight. I said eight at Shula’s in the Alexander Hotel, just like you told me to.”

At precisely eight o’clock, Dwight’s dinner guests entered the vestibule. Dwight waved. Enrique gave him an acknowledging nod, then took Liliam’s arm and led her into the lounge. What a glamorous couple they made. Funny how you could tell money even from across a room. Enrique was wearing a soft, blue sweater that looked like cashmere, and Dwight immediately felt overdressed in his best navy suit. He had assumed Enrique would be coming straight from work and would still be in business attire.