Dangerously Dark, page 26
Apparently, my burly longtime friend felt the same way, because he chose that moment to peruse my laptop screen rather than continue our discussion of wealth and its drawbacks.
“What’s that about Common Grounds?” Danny pointed to the itemized list of Tomasz’s financial holdings. “Don’t tell me Berk lucked into all that cash with a fancy-coffee dynasty.”
Common Grounds. It did sound like a Starbucks-style enterprise—one that was too upmarket to serve ordinary java.
Then I remembered. “Common Grounds is Cartorama’s landlord. They own the property that all the food carts are parked on.”
“You mean Tomasz Berk is Cartorama’s landlord?”
“I guess so,” I said, feeling taken aback.
Danny was, too. We both sat there in the bustling coffee shop, watching the rain hit the windows, inhaling the delicious aromatic roasted coffee scents and listening to the muted thumps that sounded as the baristas struck spent espresso grounds from their portafilters. I looked at my security expert. He looked at me.
“I didn’t see that one coming,” I told Danny.
“Me either.” He frowned. It was evident that he was mentally reviewing everything I’d told him about the cart pod’s fight against development. So was I. “Berk isn’t the entirety of the Common Grounds consortium, but for our purposes, he might as well be,” Danny reflected. “He’s the one who’s here.”
I pondered that for a minute but turned up nothing. It seemed as though Tomasz being Cartorama’s landlord ought to be a more meaningful revelation. After all, it was a big secret.
“This means that Tomasz was the one who refused to sell to developers,” I told Danny, realizing it even as I scanned Travis’s dossier for more surprises. “He was the one who refused to let the property become an apartment complex. Without him, all the food cart vendors would have needed to find new homes. Affordable parking spaces are getting scarce around here, too. But Tomasz saved them all.” I shook my head, marveling at what he’d done. “He didn’t want any credit for doing it, either.”
That was admirable, partly because I had no doubt Tomasz could have realized a big profit if he’d sold the Cartorama property. I knew the vendors’ rents were (relatively) cheap.
At the rate the Cartoramians paid, he wasn’t getting any wealthier, that was for sure. “That is remarkable,” I said.
“Hold on. Back it up.” Danny held up his palms. “Before you get all starry-eyed, remember we’re not talking about Robin Hood here. It’s not heroic for Berk to continue business as usual.”
“It’s heroic to turn down a humongous profit in order to continue business as usual.” That’s exactly what Tomasz had done when he’d refused to sell the Cartorama property. “Amazing.”
Danny shook his head. “He’s not a saint, Hayden.”
“I’m going on a date with a saint!” I grinned, needling him on purpose. Just a little. “How’s that for a going-away-from-Portland party? Never mind about Tommy’s antique cacao roaster,” I said, referring to my plans to see it in action with Tomasz later. “I’m going to go for the gusto.”
“Humph.” Danny grumbled. “If that’s a euphemism—”
Ha. I’d known he’d make that racy joke eventually. “I guess we’ll probably sit around comparing portfolios,” I gibed with a nonchalant air. “We’ll debate stocks versus bonds, and trustees versus butlers, then figure out who’s richer, me or him.”
Danny made a face. “Sounds like a real rager.”
I laughed, then gave him a consoling pat. “Don’t worry. At the end of the day, I’ll always want to come home to your dirty jokes and unholy love of Antiques Roadshow marathons.”
Confidentially, I thought Danny’s binge-watching of that show was just a cover. Probably, he was doing research on things he could lift for profit. Or revisiting items he’d already stolen during his former mad-and-bad days as a criminal.
“I know you will,” Danny told me, confident of the appeal of his dangerous ways and lovable heart. “I’m counting on it.”
“Yeah, well—don’t get too sure of me. I might surprise you one of these days.” I finished the rest of my (perfect) cappuccino, then stood and slung on my (new/old) crossbody bag. Ah. Now everything was just as it was supposed to be. “I’m off to the police station. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
I was provoking him again. Danny has a well-known desire to avoid law-enforcement agencies. Even though he’s clean now, he likes to steer clear. I couldn’t say I blamed him. If I had a rap sheet like Danny does, I’d probably do the same thing.
I don’t like being hassled, either—or feeling under pressure . . . both of which probably play into my longtime procrastination habit. Danny and I had that much in common, even if his avoidance tactic was chronic lateness, instead. It was one of his rare flaws.
His steely gaze met mine. “I’ll let you have all the glory this time. Let me know how it goes. I’m there if you need me.”
It said a lot about our friendship that Danny was willing to set foot in the police station if I wanted him to. “Thanks, but it should be pretty standard-issue stuff.”
I’d made an appointment to speak with a detective about what we’d uncovered while talking with Carissa—and to turn over that scrap of plastic wrap. If I was right, the authorities would lift Janel’s fingerprints from it. (And mine, of course, which I wasn’t looking forward to explaining. I’m not exactly licensed to poke into suspicious “accidents.”) That proof, taken together with what I’d recorded while at Carissa’s last night, ought to be enough to get Janel arrested for Declan’s murder.
She wouldn’t be difficult to find; she was still in Providence Portland. I’d texted Austin earlier. He hadn’t had any details—only that Janel’s injuries were still considered critical. No one expected her to leave the hospital anytime soon.
I felt sorry for Janel, but I couldn’t deny feeling relieved, too. At least now she wouldn’t hurt anyone else.
“Where can I drop you?” I asked Danny, jangling the keys to my rented Honda. “The local men’s shoe emporium, maybe?”
He laughed and almost choked on his Americano. Whoops.
I helpfully patted him on the back. Geez, he was muscular.
Shrugging off my attentive touch, Danny slung on his jacket. “If you’re hoping I’ll get a pair of those ‘take care of a house and kids’ shoes, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
I widened my eyes. “Not even if they’re nice monk straps?”
“Especially if they’re nice monk straps.”
I waited a beat, studying him. He’d grown his dark hair a little longer than his usual military-style cut, I noticed.
“You know that’s a real style of men’s shoes, right?”
“Of course.” Danny cleared his throat. “I think Travis wears those monk shoes, especially when he’s walking his dog.”
Dog? I almost squealed out loud. “Travis has a dog? Since when? He never said anything to me about having a dog.” My imagination ran wild. I couldn’t help it. I pictured Travis walking his dog, throwing a Frisbee to his dog, teaching an adorable toddler how to pet his (harmless and lovable) dog. “What kind of dog is it?” I asked eagerly. “I’ve always pinned him for a golden retriever type, but you know accountants.”
My dependable financial advisor was probably starting his pet-companion life with “affenpinscher” and ending it with “Yorkshire terrier,” in perfect alphabetical order.
“It’s a dog.” Danny shrugged. “I don’t know what kind.”
I gawked at him. “What do you mean, you ‘don’t know’? Didn’t you see it? Describe it to me. Do you have pictures?”
“I was interested in getting down to business, not making chitchat,” my security expert complained. “What’s the big deal?”
The big deal was that Danny had been up close and personal with my extremely private financial advisor and he hadn’t even had the foresight to spy on him for me. Sadly, I shook my head.
“You’re hopeless. You know I’m dying to know everything there is to know about Travis! It’s been driving me crazy ever since he took over for old Mr. Whatshisname, my former trustee.” I flung my hands in the air with frustration, feeling helpless. “You know how secretive Travis is. So why wouldn’t you—”
“I’m not going to spy on Travis for you.” Danny squared his shoulders, then headed for the coffee shop’s door. I trailed him in a cloud of disbelief. “Maybe he’s secretive for a reason.”
“Maybe you just don’t want us to get together.”
“Get together?” Danny arched his eyebrows. “Really?”
I ignored his suggestive tone. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I do.” He squinted against the rain. We were secure under the coffee shop’s diminutive awning, but its protection wouldn’t last. “That’s why I’m not helping you. See you later.”
I stamped my foot, still irked. Was Danny saying that he didn’t want me to get together with Travis romantically? Or was he saying that he didn’t want me to get together with Travis in a completely innocent, getting-to-know-you way? Or at all?
Were he and Travis in cahoots again or something?
Danny had known me long enough to understand that all I wanted was to be on equal footing with Travis. I didn’t like that my (younger) financial advisor knew everything there was to know about me—my background, my finances, my whereabouts, my plans, the identities of all my friends—while I knew (almost) nothing about him. Unless, I guess, being aware that Travis liked to swim and run marathons counted as full disclosure.
I was here to tell anyone who’d listen: it didn’t.
Not that those tidbits didn’t provide me with a few entertaining fantasies now and then. I’ll confess, they did. If you’d ever heard Travis break down an itinerary in that husky, supersmart, tell-me-everything voice of his, you’d spin a few daydreams yourself. You simply wouldn’t be able to help it.
Just like me.
There on the coffee shop’s stoop, Danny studied me with a distinctly perceptive glimmer in his eye. I noticed it when I finally snapped to again, surfacing from my thoughts.
“What fantasy is Harvard up to now? Doing your taxes?”
He waggled his eyebrows, suggesting that was a euphemism.
Hmmph. Danny didn’t know everything about me.
“If that’s what you want to call it. Sure,” I told him.
Then I gave him a shove and breezed away toward my car. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to visiting the police station, but it was the next step in putting Portland—and everything that had happened there—behind me. I might not love reporting in to Travis, but I do love being on the move. So I was ready to go.
Besides, anything was better than listening to Danny guffaw as he swaggered away, off to a destination that I belatedly realized I didn’t know and now couldn’t find out. He’d cleverly sidestepped my attempt to ask him—because I’d succumbed to making a dopey shoe joke, then forgotten to follow through.
Some detective I was, I thought as I hurried through the raindrops and got into my car. I couldn’t even interrogate my own best friend. It was a good thing I was heading out for a new chocolate-whisperer–consulting job soon. Because even though I’d gotten lucky this time (and found a way to nab Janel), I had a long way to go before I could consider myself ready to deal with murder and mayhem on anywhere close to a full-time basis.
My penultimate day in Bridgetown was a busy one.
First I went to the police station, where I met with a very professional and attentive detective to turn in my evidence.
He asked me a lot of questions, had a good long perusal of my passport, conferred with his boss and some other police officers, copied the conversation off my phone, then returned.
“Thanks for your help, Ms. Moore.” He offered his hand to me. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
I’d already given him all my contact details—my name, permanent address (Travis’s office), Social Security number, passport, phone number, and more. So I accepted his handshake.
“Then you’re going to get Janel? I mean, Ms. White?” This situation probably called for formality, I decided.
“We’ll take care of everything from here.” The detective skillfully maneuvered me toward the station’s hectic reception area. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’ve been very helpful.”
Hmm. “I get the sense you’re not taking this seriously,” I pressed. “Is there something else you need as proof?”
“We’ll examine the evidence you left. Thanks again.”
His brush-off felt routine. “There might be fingerprints.”
“We’ll know that soon enough. Have a nice day, Ms. Moore.”
I didn’t bother correcting him about my name. (Clue: it always has three parts.) Afterward, I certainly didn’t feel all warm and protected, though. Not to malign the brave people who protect and serve, but I felt I’d gotten the bum’s rush.
Maybe that was part of the reason Danny avoided the police, I reasoned as I dashed outside and called Austin. So far, the authorities hadn’t been very receptive to my (amateur) efforts.
In my mind, I was Sherlock Holmes. In theirs, I . . . wasn’t.
I had to leave a voice mail message for Austin. It felt weird. But while texting is efficient, it’s too limited. It doesn’t fit the bill for every situation—say, apologizing for thinking someone was a coldhearted killer, when they were really just a nerd.
“Hi, Austin! Yes, it’s Hayden. Yes, I’m actually calling you on your cell phone. Yes, I know it’s disconcerting to get an actual phone call, but—” I broke off, realizing too late that Austin might not even bother listening to his voice mail messages. Most of my friends didn’t. “I wanted to apologize,” I moved on anyway needing to have this said. “I’m sorry for”—thinking you were a murderer—”everything you’ve been going through. I hope I didn’t make the situation worse for you.”
I drew in a deep breath, pacing down the slick sidewalks of the Plaza Blocks. Here, tall old elms and ginkgo trees blocked some of the drizzly rainfall. Around me, city residents walked by with shopping bags or strollers, briefcases or backpacks. I passed a big bronze statue of an elk and smiled to myself. Even after everything that had happened, I still liked Portland. I might not miss it immediately, but I would miss it eventually.
“How’s Janel doing?” I asked Austin in a deliberately chipper tone, continuing my voice mail. “I know you two were getting pretty close. I mean, you are getting close.” Yikes. There was no point writing her eulogy already—although I knew the police would be closing in on her soon. “But even if Janel turns out not to be the one for you, hang in there, okay?” I felt compelled to say. “You’ll find the right woman. And she’ll love coffee and Nintendocore and vinyl music, just like you.”
I suddenly started to feel overwhelmed. Catching a killer was big. But dealing with the aftermath—even in a small way—was brutal. Austin would be better off without a murderer for a girlfriend, of course, but he’d still be upset for a while.
Thinking of men and girlfriends made me think of Danny and Lauren. I didn’t know why Cartorama’s burlesque queen appeared to be sneaking around behind Danny’s back, but Lauren had never done anything except be kind to me. So I called her, too.
I was starting to see the (admittedly cowardly but undeniably time-efficient) benefits of voice mail by the time I’d left Lauren a similar “nice to know you, sorry for all the sadness” message. I figured Danny might have gone to visit her, in which case she’d be too busy to listen right away (if ever). But I’d done my part to help create some closure. That mattered.
I called Carissa, too, and delicately suggested she see someone. I thought a therapist could really help her. My old college friend would probably be too busy taking over the L.A. ice-cream world to deal with her mental health, but I hoped Carissa got some help, anyway. It was sad that we’d gotten back in touch, only to have tragedy (and change) pull us apart again.
Feeling lighter afterward, I walked past the green spaces of Lownsdale Square and Chapman Square, back to the street where I’d parked my car. I wanted to call Travis. Maybe I’d tell him about the Benson Bubblers, I thought. He’d appreciate the history of the iconic, old-timey bronze drinking fountains that a famous Portlander had installed throughout the city in the early twentieth century. Or maybe I’d tell Travis about the cocoa-balsamic drinking vinegar I’d sampled during the Chocolate After Dark tour. I liked razzing my financial advisor about “weird” foods he’d never try. He was ludicrously squeamish.
Maybe, I mused as I pulled out my car keys and spied the spare Muddle + Spade key that Tomasz had given me, I’d tell Travis about the unique shop I’d found in PDX, which served the best chocolate-dipped profiteroles (choux à la crème) that I’d ever had outside of the sep-tième arrondissement in Paris. Mmm.
In case you’re not familiar with them, choux à la crème are usually filled with crème pâtissière. Then they’re stacked as a pyramid, bound with threads of caramelized sugar, and served up as a croquembouche to “crunch in the mouth” (to paraphrase the French) for dessert at weddings, Christmastime, and parties. In Portland, though, the shop I’d found filled their choux à la crème with chocolate ice cream and topped them with two layers of chocolate, making them choux à la glace à double chocolat.
And making thinking about them (plus drinking vinegar and drinking fountains) my latest vehicle for procrastination.
Aha. My old (non)friend (procrastination) had reared its ugly head again. That explained why I was suddenly experiencing an urge to craft the perfect trivia-filled phone call for my financial advisor.
I recognized my impulse to tune out by phoning Travis for what it was and deliberately started my rented Civic’s engine instead. Travis would have listened politely, of course, but he wasn’t a foodie (another thing I didn’t understand about him). He wouldn’t appreciate the difference between croquembouche—my scrumptious pastry find—and charcuterie—basically, meat. Plus, he’d be annoyed about all the French . . . even though he understood it. I’d once sneaked in some frisky phrases during one of our phone calls, and I know Travis had gotten tongue-tied.
