Damage: A Ghost Squad Novel, page 3
Which could have been a lie, or could mean Klemp had warned this cowboy Vincent wasn’t a dumbass jarhead on his first off-the-books stint, perfectly legal as long as it didn’t interfere with actual military duties. Either way, it worked. “Thanks.”
“The other entrance is around the side, but come on in this way.” The black hat bobbed as Alan headed up the stairs, one half of the massive front door opening on silent hinges when he applied light, proprietary pressure to the latch. “It’s a light assignment. There’s a party coming up, and after that, the señor is away for a few weeks on a business trip. Babysitting two packages, the kid and the nanny.”
Getting right down to it. Well, Vince didn’t like to waste time either. “Nanny?” Klemp hadn’t said anything about that. And the “other entrance” was undoubtedly for employees.
He was nastily glad he’d parked by the front, at least this time.
“Yeah.” Alan didn’t remove his hat inside the cool dark foyer, either. Strike one, but it wasn’t like Vince cared. Busting a civilian’s chops was a fool’s game. “Take ’em shopping, to the playground. Keep an eye on them.”
Goddammit. Klemp had said businessman, not women and kids. Maybe it was Paul’s idea of a joke, in which case he’d tag the motherfucker next time he saw him. “Sounds like a vacation.” Vince scanned the foyer once. The sudden air-conditioning was a frigid relief, and there were pots of decorative silk plant matter. Nothing living, but then again, what would survive in this heavy shade?
“Yeah, well, there’s never been a problem.” Alan chose a hall and set off; the easy grin didn’t match his tense, stiff strides. Either he was ready for anything, or he didn’t like a newcomer in what he plainly considered his space. “We generally bring in extra help when el señor throws parties.”
Parties. Which meant working a room or two. Boring, but still better than sitting at home. “Okay.”
“This way. I’ll introduce you to the big man.”
It was all cool air and dimness, hardwood floors and a few good pieces of pre-Columbian art under recessed spotlights. Either the guy had bought the place furnished or he had a wife with some taste; it looked like a goddamn Architectural Digest spread in here. A security nightmare despite the unobtrusive cameras—all sorts of blind spots and corners, the furniture arranged for aesthetics instead of to channel attackers. Wine-red leather, spotless glass, decorative iron grilles over some windows, framed prints matching the furniture instead the other way ’round; it all added up to a man who had laid hands on some initial money and just maybe had the intellectual horsepower to turn it into something more durable.
Vincent was distinctly underdressed. A suit would have done better here, but at least his own jacket was high-quality and subtly different than Alan’s. And this de la Cruz had passed enough of Klemp’s sniff test to get out of a professional’s way.
The king of this semi-castle was a broad man in his fifties and a very good gray suit, his wingtips mirror-polished, his tie subtly patterned, and his thick gold pinkie ring just on the edge of vulgar. The señor—it was impossible to guess what he made his money from, and Vince wasn’t enough of a racist to assume the obvious—sat behind a beached whale of a cherrywood desk, a broad, unbarred bay window behind him full of sunshine and a wide expanse of golf-green lawn. “This is the new security?” A pleasant, firm tenor, and Vincent stood to attention.
It never hurt, and most men too cowardly to go into the service liked to think you were honoring them when you did it.
“Yessir.” Alan’s grin looked habitual. “Vincent Desmarais, Mr. Roderigo Marquez.”
“Well, welcome.” A slow nod, well-manicured fingertips pressing each other as the king measured Vince’s duty-boots to his canvas jacket, all the way up to his fresh-shaved cheeks. The minute, unhurried appraisal stopped at all the right spots, which meant Marquez was more than he appeared. “Alan tells me you’re a military man.”
“Yessir.” Vince’s throat was dry. If the ubiquitous thank you for your service came up he’d have to nod, but thankfully the man chose a less banal option.
“I have a lot of respect for that.” Marquez had a nice, fruity voice, used to smooth deals; he stood and offered his hand over the desk. Like his cowboy butler, he had a good firm grip, even if it was too soft for real work. “We’ll be paying you in cash, of course.”
“Yessir.” Vincent fought the urge to duck his head like a kid in front of the teacher. Who brought out cash on the first date, for God’s sake? He might just kick Klemp’s ass for this one.
Too late to back out now, though. And he wasn’t at home watching something forgettable on television or doing pushups, so he’d gotten exactly what he asked for.
“Well, then.” Señor’s bright, interested gaze clouded as he settled behind his paper-strewn desk again. A sleek black computer hummed, its screen at a precise angle to deny anyone but Marquez a view of its secrets, and a similarly expensive cell phone sat in a small leather-covered tray next to a black landline that looked complex enough to make a cappuccino. Expensive fountain pens in a case, an actual inkwell, and a desk blotter completed the picture of a man serious about his business, whatever that was. “Alan will show you around, get you settled.”
“Thank you, sir.” It cost nothing to be polite, and maybe he’d even get a good story out of this. Grey would want to hear about the house, Tax about the cameras, and Jackson would get a good laugh out of Alan’s shiny boot-toes.
But the señor nodded, turning back to his computer, and just like that, Vince and the cowboy were dismissed.
HE MOVED THE Rover to the employee lot—a dusty strip tucked out of sight around the corner of the house—and brought in his bags. His temporary quarters were a cramped closet near the wide white kitchen, and Vincent dropped everything on the too-small bed, unopened. No need for Alan, or anyone else for that matter, to see his supplies.
The tour of the house was irritating as all fuck, blind spots everywhere scratching and scraping at his nerves. He had the basic layout from guesswork; it was faintly comforting that there were few surprises. Looked like the kid was a boy, from the toy vehicles and blue all over his bedroom. On the other side of a vast playroom was a white-painted door, and Alan’s eyebrows twitched twice as he pointed it out, the watch on his wrist glittering even though the face was turned to the inside of his wrist. “That’s the nanny’s room. Miss Halperin. She’s . . .” A low whistle, another eyebrow-raise.
Vincent remembered a comedy show about a nanny with a high, broad accent a long time ago, but that probably wasn’t what the man was referring to. “Trouble?”
“Only to your fuckin’ pants, man.” Alan laughed, the sound falling dead against carpet patterned with roads for toy cars to zoom along. “But the kid likes her. She’s lasted six months, and el señor pays through the nose. She’s good.”
Vincent nodded to show he’d heard. He wasn’t here to be friendly, just to loom in the background. Halperin. He filed the name away. Probably a no-nonsense battle-axe who could give drill sergeants a run for their money. Wasn’t there also a reality show about a British nanny? “What’s the kid’s name?”
“Eduardo.” Alan’s face didn’t change. The kid was probably a nonentity to him.
Interesting. Vincent nodded again. “Okay.” There was no reason to peek in the nanny’s room, especially if she was the battle-axe type. Marquez wouldn’t let anyone who couldn’t pass a background check near his son; to that kind of guy, male offspring were ego reflections and consequently smother-guarded.
“It’s the girl’s day off, so the kid’s with Emilia—that’s the cook.” Alan’s good humor stayed solid, and he beckoned Vince back out into the hall. “You’ll see her tomorrow at the party. It starts at six, social affair, keeping up with the neighbors, that sort of shit. You got anything you need to get?”
Please. I’m not an amateur. “Nope.” Vincent kept his expression nice and bland, the wall you gave an officer just looking to hand out a disagreeable duty. “I brought everything.”
“All right. I’ll get back to work.” The other man gave one last lingering glance in the direction of the nanny’s room before sweeping the playroom’s door mostly closed. “You just do what you gotta to set up. Stay out of el señor’s office and the west hall, okay? He don’t like anyone near his bedroom.”
Who did? “Ten-four.”
“Good deal, man.” Another handshake, firm but not overcompensating, and Alan was gone.
Vincent made his way back to the empty kitchen, and from there it was easy to find his room, everything right where he left it. The window was tiny, and barred—maybe a cat could wriggle through, but he wouldn’t bet on it. The bathroom was nothing fancy either—just washstand, mirror, and shitter. He could sponge-bathe, or use the employee locker room. Maybe the señor let the help use the pool, if they asked with cap in hand and toes digging into the floor.
After checking the walls, more out of habit than any real desire to find out if they were going to watch him piss, he folded himself down on the bed. A thin mattress. Not the worst he’d slept on. It all looked pretty standard.
A party full of rich fucks worried about keeping up with the Joneses, then babysitting a woman and a kid. It would keep him occupied for a little while, then he’d go back to Klemp and ask for something a little more active. Just to keep himself in shape, take the edge off—and Klemperer’s commission for finding good help wasn’t an apology for getting the man shot in the leg, but it could stand in for one.
It was a ricochet, nobody’s fault, but when you were in command the buck didn’t just stop with you, it rabbit-punched you in the balls.
Vince stared at the white popcorn ceiling for a half-hour or so, his nerves twitching every once in a while. Then it was time to get up and go over the house again, just to keep himself occupied.
Brooding about whether he was going to be permanently out to pasture wasn’t going to do him any good.
The Wrong Thought
DINNER WAS ROAST beef, herbed new potatoes, salad, fresh bread, and tension. A faint breeze packed with the flat iron tang of sprinkler water slipped between the columns; despite late-evening heat, the short, covered gallery was a nicer place to eat than the vast, chilly dining room. The chairs were old, heavy wood glowing with beeswax, and citronella candles burned in blown-glass holders. Spiny yucca plants marched along the lawn side of the colonnade, and the two carafes—red wine, white wine—were somber jewels in the dusk.
As usual, all the benefits of getting a massage on her day off evaporated when Eddie went pale, staring at his plate, and his father speared another strip of tender, medium-rare cow corpse.
“Eat it.” Holding his fork and steak knife Continental-style, wide-shouldered Mr. Marquez studied his son, and the glob of green-white paste he’d just put on the boy’s square cobalt-blue plate.
Cara inhaled, deep and soft, trying to find her calm again and curling her toes in the strappy sandals she’d picked up at Carzano’s Shoes for a song. Dressing for dinner was not part of the deal, but the wide-legged linen trousers and sleeveless top were slightly formal in honor of her day off. “Horseradish isn’t good for him.” She reached for her wineglass, took a decorous sip. Usually, she and Eddie ate with Emilia in the kitchen. Every once in a while, though, Dear Old Dad got yet another burr in his saddle about turning Eddie into a miniature version of himself, and Cara was invited to the show.
Maybe it didn’t feel like a victory unless he had another adult there to witness it.
Mr. Marquez’s square, poreless cheeks glistened; Cara had no idea what his ‘business’ entailed and didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, it not only covered her own pay as well as the agency fee, but also his gray suit jacket—worth more than a month of said take-home pay—too. Even his shirts were flown in from a tailor in Hong Kong. “When I was his age, I was eating habañeros whole.”
“Well, you didn’t know any better.” She could probably email the agency and get them to ask for yet another raise. That was covered in the contract. Maybe he’d fire her this time, and she could be done with the whole thing. It wouldn’t even be her fault.
Except her stupid conscience would bite her if she left Eddie to his father’s not-so-tender unmercies.
Mr. Marquez laughed, but his hazel eyes had turned cold; he dabbed at his sculpted lips with a snow-white napkin. “You gonna tell me what to do with my own son?”
“That’s my job, sir.” Cara met his gaze squarely. So far, working retail had prepared her better for this profession than any college courses. She should have gone for an associate’s in psychology instead of her BFA. Unscented massage oil lingered on her skin, and the whole blessed hour of silence while she was under the therapist’s hands had been the high point of the week. “The one you hired me for.”
“Look at that.” Mr. Marquez’s grin, full of pearly, expensively reworked teeth, glittered. He picked up his silverware again, and Eddie glanced at Cara, the whites of his eyes like a frightened horse’s. “You think you’re his mama, huh?”
Eddie’s mother had apparently died in a car accident; every time she was mentioned, Eddie’s eyes got round. He wasn’t squirming yet, just staring miserably at his plate and the glob of horseradish he could already tell he wouldn’t like but might be forced to sample.
Unless she could do something about it.
“Sir.” Cara set her own silverware down, gently. If this is dick-measuring, amigo, mine’s still bigger. The right tone was firm but not combative, demure but not submissive, just like dealing with a fishbone-thin debutante who insisted she didn’t need a receipt to exchange an expensive handbag. “When I took this position, you specifically requested that I be truthful with you about your son. Has that changed?”
“No.” Her employer leaned back in his chair a little, ceding at least part of the battlefield. “Fine, fine. Don’t eat it, Eddie. La Chacha thinks it’s bad for you.”
At least it was only a faintly pejorative term, the way he said it. Cara considered reaching for her wineglass again. It probably wasn’t a good idea, but good Lord, was it ever tempting. Especially if she dumped it all over this jackass and his expensive shirts.
Would that be enough to get her fired? Possibly. It would certainly give the little boy a good memory to hang onto. Eddie sawed at his own roast beef, his shoulders hunching. He didn’t look at her, since any grateful glance might set his father off again.
“Sit up straight,” Mr. Marquez snapped. “Listen, señorita Cara. Alan told you about the party?”
“He mentioned you’d be having another one, yes.” She knew better than to think the man had forgotten her small victory. He might make Eddie pay for it later, but at least the kid could eat in peace for a few minutes. “He also said you’re going on a trip right after.”
“Business.” Thank God he didn’t invite her along this time. That had been uncomfortable, but at least she’d had an iron-clad out. They covered it in the agency materials—a list of do’s and don’ts, straight from the fifties. Penalties for what they called improper behavior, blaming the woman like any good misogynist institution. “We’ll be gone a couple weeks. There’s new security for you, so be nice.”
“Thank you for letting me know.” I’ll try not to be a screaming harpy. God, the wine looked good. The longing thought of bringing home a bottle of something to keep in her room just wouldn’t go away during these dinners. “I’ll keep Eddie up for your phone calls.”
Mr. Marquez nodded, expansive now that she’d acknowledged his control of bedtimes, at least. “You got a pretty dress for the party?” He didn’t outright leer, thank God, but often treated her like a vapid teenage daughter on babysitting duty instead of an adult woman paid very well to look after his kid.
Hopefully when he was finished eating and picked out a cigar, she and Eddie could escape. Getting the kid into the bathtub was a chore, but when his father had been at him, he didn’t kick too hard.
Eddie was old enough to consider her an ally. And Marquez was at least interested in his son. Neglect could wreak an entirely different sort of havoc on a kid.
The yucca rustled, and the good green smell of afternoon-clipped grass mixed with the beef and the wine’s acid tang. “Nothing designer.” A diplomatic answer—her grandmother would be proud of Cara not letting her mouth run, for once. Gemma Halperin had despaired of her daughter’s only child ever learning to refrain from smarting off. “I think Eddie and I will have dinner early that night, and stay out of the way. Unless you want him to greet your guests.” In other words, she was offering him another victory, to make up for the horseradish.
Sometimes she thought her real job was managing the father, not the kid. Jeanie said that was par for the course; she was on her third rotation. At least the twins’ parents were actively involved with their spawn too, instead of alternately neglectful and smothering.
“If he’s a good boy.” Mr. Marquez dipped half a tiny potato into melted, herb-flecked butter, chewed with relish. His pinky ring glittered. “Eat up, Eduardo. Get strong.”
The boy hunched even further, but he managed to get down a respectable portion of his dinner. Cara restrained herself from reaching for her wineglass again, and decided she’d lost her appetite. At least the man didn’t badger her into eating.
Although it might also be temporarily and deeply satisfying to stab him with a fork. Contemplating that made her smile, and she nursed her waterglass until Emilia brought out the humidor for the señor to choose his after-dinner cigar.
Finally free, Cara ushered Eddie away for his bath.
