White Hot
Page 20
“Mom, I have to talk to these people,” Jeremy said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She nodded.
“Hi,” the kids chorused.
“Hi.” I waved.
Jeremy forced a smile. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be right back.”
He walked us to the office off the living room and closed the French doors behind us.
“I haven’t told them yet,” he said. His voice caught. “I don’t know how.”
“Have you spoken with anybody? A grief counselor?”
He shook his head. An overwhelming pain reflected in his face, the kind of pain that smashed into you like a car moving at full speed and left you broken and dazed. I wished there was something I could do for him.
I pulled out another one of my cards, checked the contacts on my phone, and wrote my therapist’s name and phone number on it.
“When my father died, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I blamed myself and I dragged my guilt and grief with me like a rock for weeks until I went to see Dr. Martinez. She’s very good at what she does. It will still be terrible, but she’ll help you take the edge off the worst of it. And if she has no openings in her schedule, she’ll be able to refer you to someone who does.”
Jeremy stared at me. “Does it get better?”
“There is no such thing as closure,” I told him. “It never goes away. But it gets duller with treatment and time. Talking about it helps.”
Jeremy took the card and slid it into his wallet.
I took out my digital recorder, pushed the on switch, and said, “Thursday, December 15th. Interview with Jeremy Nather.”
Jeremy leaned against the wall, his arms crossed.
“Mr. Nather, do you know why Marcos was in that hotel room?”
“According to House Forsberg, he was there to have an affair with Nari Harrison. Or Elena de Trevino. Or Fenley. Maybe all of them were going to have an orgy.” His voice was bitter.
“That’s what they told Cornelius as well. With promises of evidence of embezzlement and drug use if the questions continued.”
“It’s absurd.” Jeremy leaned over the table, planting both palms on it. “Marcos was loyal. It was the core of his character. He was loyal and honest.”
“House Forsberg doesn’t have the best reputation,” Rogan said. “Did he have conflicts at work?”
Thanks. Please do destroy the rapport I’m trying to build.
“He was planning to leave the firm,” Jeremy said.
True. “Who else knew about it?”
“Just me and him. Marcos is . . . was a very private man. We were both working too much and missing time with the kids. He wanted to quit and take a year or two at home, but he wanted to pay off the house first. We moved here for the school district, and he wanted to make sure we’d be okay on one income. We’re twenty-eight thousand away from owning this house.” Jeremy rocked back. “I knew it was making him miserable. Three weeks ago I tried to get him to quit. He promised to put in his notice just before the Christmas break. I should’ve pushed harder.”
“Do you think he was in the hotel room because of his work?”
“Yes.”
True. “Do you have any idea what he was working on?”
“No. He didn’t bring that home. I’m the one who usually ranted about work. Marcos compartmentalized. He left work at work. When he came home, he was just Marcos.”
He dropped into a chair, slumped, and put his hand over his eyes. I wouldn’t get anything else out of him.
“Did he have any enemies?” I asked. “Anyone who might . . .”
“Who might murder him in a hail of gunfire?” Jeremy said, his voice dull and flat. “No.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” I said. “If you think of something, please call me. We’ll show ourselves out.”
It had started raining. I stood by my car for a moment and let the drizzle wet my hair. The grief was thick in that house, and I wanted to wash it off.
“Did he lie?” Rogan asked.
“No. He truly doesn’t know anything. Neither Nari nor Marcos shared anything with their families, which probably means it was something dangerous.”
We had to try Elena’s family. She was our last obvious lead.
The De Trevinos lived on a lake next to the Southwyck Golf Club, a good fifty minutes away from Westheimer Lakes. I steered the car down TX-99 South, watching the fields bordered by strips of trees roll by. It looked like we were in the middle of nowhere, someplace in the Texas country. You would never know that just beyond the trees brand-new subdivisions carved the land into orderly rows of nearly identical houses.
I took Alt-90 and we cut our way through Sugar Land and Missouri City, tiny municipalities within the greater Houston sprawl. The traffic was light, the road open.
For a few minutes Rogan had flipped through my book and written a couple of notes in it. It still lay open in his hand, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. His jaw was set. He stared straight ahead, his eyes again iced over. This new crystalized rage chilled me to the bone. Whatever was going on in his head was dark—so, so dark. It grabbed hold of him and pulled him under into the black water. I wanted to reach in there and drag him out into the light, so he’d thaw.
“Connor?”
He turned and looked at me, as if waking up.
“What happened to Gavin?”
Gavin was Rogan’s nephew. Adam Pierce, with his motorcycle jacket, tattoos, and deep hatred of any authority, had embodied the image of a cool rebel. Like many teenagers, Gavin had worshipped him, and Adam had preyed on that devotion.
“Gavin made a deal.”
I took an exit onto the Sam Houston Tollway. The road repair crews were working on the shoulder again and I had to drive next to the temporary concrete barriers. Never my favorite. At least I could see. Somehow I always ended up on these roads at night, when it was raining and another concrete barrier boxed me in on the other side.
“What kind of deal?”
“A year in a juvenile boot-camp facility, until he turns eighteen, followed by a ten-year commitment to the military in exchange for his testimony against Adam Pierce. If he fails, he’ll serve ten years in prison.”
“That’s a good deal.”
“Under the circumstances. He happened to have talent, so we used it as a bargaining chip.”
“And you’re sure he isn’t involved in what his mother was doing?”
“He isn’t,” Rogan said.
“I didn’t know you cared about your nephew. You made it seem like you were estranged.”
“Not by my choice.”
He looked out the window, slipping away again. I wasn’t even sure why it was so important to keep him here with me, but it was.
“Have you been practicing with a gun since our last encounter?” I kept my voice light.
He just looked at me.
“No? Rogan, you said yourself, you’re a terrible shot.”
Okay, so this wasn’t the best way to bring him out, but that’s all I could think about.
“You’re riding shotgun,” I continued. “If bandits attack this pony express, how are you going to hold them off without a gun? Are you planning on rolling down the window, announcing yourself, and glaring at them until they faint from fear?”
She nodded.
“Hi,” the kids chorused.
“Hi.” I waved.
Jeremy forced a smile. “Sorry, guys, I’ll be right back.”
He walked us to the office off the living room and closed the French doors behind us.
“I haven’t told them yet,” he said. His voice caught. “I don’t know how.”
“Have you spoken with anybody? A grief counselor?”
He shook his head. An overwhelming pain reflected in his face, the kind of pain that smashed into you like a car moving at full speed and left you broken and dazed. I wished there was something I could do for him.
I pulled out another one of my cards, checked the contacts on my phone, and wrote my therapist’s name and phone number on it.
“When my father died, I didn’t know how to deal with it. I blamed myself and I dragged my guilt and grief with me like a rock for weeks until I went to see Dr. Martinez. She’s very good at what she does. It will still be terrible, but she’ll help you take the edge off the worst of it. And if she has no openings in her schedule, she’ll be able to refer you to someone who does.”
Jeremy stared at me. “Does it get better?”
“There is no such thing as closure,” I told him. “It never goes away. But it gets duller with treatment and time. Talking about it helps.”
Jeremy took the card and slid it into his wallet.
I took out my digital recorder, pushed the on switch, and said, “Thursday, December 15th. Interview with Jeremy Nather.”
Jeremy leaned against the wall, his arms crossed.
“Mr. Nather, do you know why Marcos was in that hotel room?”
“According to House Forsberg, he was there to have an affair with Nari Harrison. Or Elena de Trevino. Or Fenley. Maybe all of them were going to have an orgy.” His voice was bitter.
“That’s what they told Cornelius as well. With promises of evidence of embezzlement and drug use if the questions continued.”
“It’s absurd.” Jeremy leaned over the table, planting both palms on it. “Marcos was loyal. It was the core of his character. He was loyal and honest.”
“House Forsberg doesn’t have the best reputation,” Rogan said. “Did he have conflicts at work?”
Thanks. Please do destroy the rapport I’m trying to build.
“He was planning to leave the firm,” Jeremy said.
True. “Who else knew about it?”
“Just me and him. Marcos is . . . was a very private man. We were both working too much and missing time with the kids. He wanted to quit and take a year or two at home, but he wanted to pay off the house first. We moved here for the school district, and he wanted to make sure we’d be okay on one income. We’re twenty-eight thousand away from owning this house.” Jeremy rocked back. “I knew it was making him miserable. Three weeks ago I tried to get him to quit. He promised to put in his notice just before the Christmas break. I should’ve pushed harder.”
“Do you think he was in the hotel room because of his work?”
“Yes.”
True. “Do you have any idea what he was working on?”
“No. He didn’t bring that home. I’m the one who usually ranted about work. Marcos compartmentalized. He left work at work. When he came home, he was just Marcos.”
He dropped into a chair, slumped, and put his hand over his eyes. I wouldn’t get anything else out of him.
“Did he have any enemies?” I asked. “Anyone who might . . .”
“Who might murder him in a hail of gunfire?” Jeremy said, his voice dull and flat. “No.”
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” I said. “If you think of something, please call me. We’ll show ourselves out.”
It had started raining. I stood by my car for a moment and let the drizzle wet my hair. The grief was thick in that house, and I wanted to wash it off.
“Did he lie?” Rogan asked.
“No. He truly doesn’t know anything. Neither Nari nor Marcos shared anything with their families, which probably means it was something dangerous.”
We had to try Elena’s family. She was our last obvious lead.
The De Trevinos lived on a lake next to the Southwyck Golf Club, a good fifty minutes away from Westheimer Lakes. I steered the car down TX-99 South, watching the fields bordered by strips of trees roll by. It looked like we were in the middle of nowhere, someplace in the Texas country. You would never know that just beyond the trees brand-new subdivisions carved the land into orderly rows of nearly identical houses.
I took Alt-90 and we cut our way through Sugar Land and Missouri City, tiny municipalities within the greater Houston sprawl. The traffic was light, the road open.
For a few minutes Rogan had flipped through my book and written a couple of notes in it. It still lay open in his hand, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. His jaw was set. He stared straight ahead, his eyes again iced over. This new crystalized rage chilled me to the bone. Whatever was going on in his head was dark—so, so dark. It grabbed hold of him and pulled him under into the black water. I wanted to reach in there and drag him out into the light, so he’d thaw.
“Connor?”
He turned and looked at me, as if waking up.
“What happened to Gavin?”
Gavin was Rogan’s nephew. Adam Pierce, with his motorcycle jacket, tattoos, and deep hatred of any authority, had embodied the image of a cool rebel. Like many teenagers, Gavin had worshipped him, and Adam had preyed on that devotion.
“Gavin made a deal.”
I took an exit onto the Sam Houston Tollway. The road repair crews were working on the shoulder again and I had to drive next to the temporary concrete barriers. Never my favorite. At least I could see. Somehow I always ended up on these roads at night, when it was raining and another concrete barrier boxed me in on the other side.
“What kind of deal?”
“A year in a juvenile boot-camp facility, until he turns eighteen, followed by a ten-year commitment to the military in exchange for his testimony against Adam Pierce. If he fails, he’ll serve ten years in prison.”
“That’s a good deal.”
“Under the circumstances. He happened to have talent, so we used it as a bargaining chip.”
“And you’re sure he isn’t involved in what his mother was doing?”
“He isn’t,” Rogan said.
“I didn’t know you cared about your nephew. You made it seem like you were estranged.”
“Not by my choice.”
He looked out the window, slipping away again. I wasn’t even sure why it was so important to keep him here with me, but it was.
“Have you been practicing with a gun since our last encounter?” I kept my voice light.
He just looked at me.
“No? Rogan, you said yourself, you’re a terrible shot.”
Okay, so this wasn’t the best way to bring him out, but that’s all I could think about.
“You’re riding shotgun,” I continued. “If bandits attack this pony express, how are you going to hold them off without a gun? Are you planning on rolling down the window, announcing yourself, and glaring at them until they faint from fear?”
