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Lee
Itookasmallbite of the protein bar I found in my desk drawer. It might be old, but it tasted better than last night’s turkey sandwich at the police station.
I made it to Oleander, an hour late. It was impressive how much I’d done since dawn when I left the police station. I’d broken into my house, walked the dog, fed him breakfast, and used the spare key to retrieve the Bentley. It all would have been easier if I could have gotten my purse and cell phone back from the cops, but I managed. I’d email Franklin about that next.
I looked out into the showroom; it was a quiet morning, the sales staff spending the time polishing the cases. They were whispering and glancing toward my office. I was undoubtedly the topic of gossip. Their normally unruffled boss showing up late looking a hot mess.
Oh well.
I took my burner cell connected to the number Tony used out of the drawer and plugged it in. No way I’d chance missing his call after everything that happened last night. I checked the signal strength—full bars. As much as I wasn’t a fan of Tony, a call from him would be for the best. The other options were a call from Uncle Jimmy or a visit from some goon with a gun.
Or even worse, silence.
Silence would give me an ulcer. I took another tentative bite of the cardboard-flavored protein bar.
I woke up my computer and typed Charles De Wispelaere into a search engine. Only a few stories about his murder had made it online. TheMiami Heraldhadn’t even picked it up yet. But they would. The neighborhood was too nice for murder to be overlooked for long.
I read a few of the articles. The details on the crime blogs were sparse, and most of the biography info was pulled from De Wispelaere’s gallery website. I searched deeper and found hundreds of items Charles had listed for sale on the internet. Most at rock-bottom prices. My guess, Mr. De Wispelaere had a cash-flow problem.
The items were a mix of good stuff, crap, and some fakes. I didn’t see anything valuable enough to get De Wispelaere’s throat slit for selling forgeries. But money problems would account for why he took on the watches. He needed the cash but realized too late he couldn’t move the merchandise.
I’d come full circle. The only reason Charles was dead was because of the fucking watches.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. Sara’s soft knock at my door interrupted my depressing musings.
“Come in,” I called.
“Is there anything special I can do for you today?” She folded and unfolded her hands, waiting for my reply. Her tone was reminiscent of a mother talking to a sick child.
“Why do you ask?” I reached up and touched the wet bun at the back of my neck. How bad did it look? I suppressed the urge to check my quickly applied makeup, too.
“You were late. You’ve never been late in all the years I’ve worked for you. Never.” She moved from the doorway and perched in the visitor chair. “Are you okay?”
The earnest concern on her face took me aback. Sara cared. It was a revelation. During our years of working together, I’d kept her and the other employees at arm’s length. It was part of my rules that kept me safe and out of jail. The honest employees weren’t my friends.
I’d missed an opportunity. She and I spent over forty hours a week in close quarters, yet beyond her schedule and the amount I contributed to her 401K, I didn’t know much about Sara.
I mentally added this travesty to the endless list of reasons I had to go legit. A list that had Derek’s name at the top in fifty-point font.
“It was some…family stuff. I had a very long night. Nothing to worry about.” I waved away her concern and took another bite of the power bar so I wouldn’t have to say more.
“You know we can handle things here if you’d like to go home and have a nap or head to the spa. Self-care is important.”
I nodded, chewing the wad of protein bar. It was truly awful, but not eating hadn’t gone well.
The burner cell on my desk rang. Sara’s eyes landed on the cheap phone, her curiosity obvious. I gulped down some water and thanked her for her concern while ushering her out as quickly as possible.
I grabbed the phone and answered.
“What the fuck happened last night, Amber Lee?” Tony sounded livid.
“I have no clue.”
“We’re not talking about this shit on a phone.”
“Agreed. There’s a dog park on Northeast 213th. Meet you there?”
“Yeah, give me an hour.”
