Finding Harmony (Katie & Annalise Book 3) (5 page)

Nick and I swung by the Petro-Mex compound straight from grabbing a quick bite of lunch at the BBQ Hut, a ramshackle building across from the boarded-up shell of Fortuna’s, which was once a popular restaurant run by an ex-boyfriend of mine who now lived in a maximum security prison in Puerto Rico. I hadn’t always made the best of choices in my personal life, but I’d changed all that with Nick. Or I had changed a lot of it, anyway. Oh, hell’s bells, I was still an occasional mess and I knew it, but I was trying, and I was proud of him and how Stingray Investigations was growing. I relished working our first official case together.

In order to speak to Elena Monroe, we had to clear the security gauntlet again. Would I feel more or less safe living behind this type of protection? I suspected it would make me paranoid. Certainly it explained some of the us-them division between the refinery’s residents and the rest of the islanders.

The houses inside the gates stood in perfect rows, like little toy soldiers with green berets. Each one wore the occupant’s name like a lapel insignia, although the only thing indicating rank was architecture. Privates lived in modular homes, captains in concrete, and the superior officers boasted individualized concrete and stucco dwellings.

Elena Monroe lived in a modular home on the far side of the compound. As we drove through the neighborhood, I gaped at my surroundings. I had lived on-island for two years and had never seen the interior of the Petro-Mex community. On St. Marcos, people lived indoor/outdoor. Most of our homes did not have air conditioning, and heaters were unnecessary. We all spent as much time on our patios, decks, and balconies as we did inside. Not so, at Petro-Mex. Not a soul entered my field of vision.

When we parked in front of Elena’s house and got out of the car, industrial noise pummeled our ears. Although the refinery was almost a mile away, it sounded like we were in the middle of an avalanche. They should hand out earplugs at the guard gate. We walked to the door together and I almost reached out to hold Nick’s hand, but it didn’t seem professional. Patting his butt, then, was out of the question. Rats.

A tiny woman opened the door before Nick could ring the doorbell, the scent of Calvin Klein Obsession preceding her. She looked twenty-one, maybe twenty-three years old, tops. Her lustrous hair hung in a sheet of black steel to her waist, which was tiny between a double-D rack and a bootylicious bana. Whoa.

But it was her eyes that arrested me. She had the sultriest brown eyes I had ever seen. I’d expected puffy flesh, dark circles, spiderwebs of redness, but if I didn’t know she’d lost her husband a few days before, I would never have believed it.

I decided to hold Nick’s hand after all.

“Meester Kovaucks?” she asked.

Was it just me, or did the two of them exchange a “let’s pretend we don’t already know each other” look? My eyes turned greener.

“Hello, Mrs. Monroe. Yes, I’m Nick Kovacs and this is Katie.”

“I’m his wife,” I interjected.
Oh criminy, where did that come from?
And then it hit me: I was being a jealous bitch, and this woman was a grieving widow. My husband loved me, even if I still had leftover bulges from the twins. I resolved to control myself and forced a toothy smile.

Mrs. Monroe said, “Sí, yes, hello, very nice to meet you. Call me Elena. Please come into our living room and find a chair,” she said. Her accent was heavy on the “eeeeez” and rolled R’s. Sexy talk.

We entered a darkened room full of Mexican women. Sisters? Friends? Neighbors?

“Mamá, por favor vas a la cocina?” Elena said to an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to the Charo of “cuchi cuchi” fame in the 1970s.

Elena’s mother rounded up the other women and herded them reluctantly into the kitchen, where they hovered by the door closest to us.

A knock sounded at the front door. Elena walked to it, her steps a slink slink slink motion, and greeted a man who spoke to her in rapid Spanish.

I put my lips on Nick’s ear to whisper, “I feel completely out of my element.” I hoped not only to get my message across to him, but also to tear his eyes away from Elena as she raised her arms to rake her hands through her mane of hair, exposing her concave brown midriff and about a quarter inch of the underside of her unrestrained breasts. I was pretty sure I might vomit at any moment.

Elena began her shimmy back toward us and the visitor followed her. I recognized him immediately. He had attended our meeting earlier and had really pissed off Ramirez during the heated interchange en español about Eddy Monroe’s computer. What was he doing here? I looked at Nick and saw fury on his face.

“Mr. Kovacs,” said the visitor, “we met earlier today, no? I am Antonio Jiménez, the manager of Human Resources for the refinery. I will be sitting in on your interview with Mrs. Monroe.” His smile did not reach his eyes.

“I wasn’t informed that you would be present, Mr. Jiménez. This is very irregular,” Nick replied. His tone lowered the temperature in the room by five degrees.

“Pero, it won’t be a problem, no? Petro-Mex cares so much about Mrs. Monroe, and I think she would like for me to be here.” Another five-degree chill.

Nick looked at Elena. “Is it your wish that Mr. Jiménez be present, Elena?”

She looked at Mr. Jiménez, and then at the floor. “Ahhh, sí, sí, yes, it is OK,” she said. She put one hand over the other.

We took a seat, but Mr. Jiménez chose to remain standing behind Elena. So we began our interview, sandwiched between the whispering females and the glowering Petro-Mex HR manager. Nick and I had planned that I would interview Elena, one woman to another, so I took the lead now. He would add any questions he thought I missed. I had conducted countless depositions and questioned hundreds of witnesses in court, but this strange scenario flummoxed me a bit. I cleared my throat and pulled out a yellow pad.

“Elena, we are going to record our meeting. Will that be OK?” I asked. Nick set his iPhone on the arm of the chair and pulled up the audio recording app.

Elena turned around 180 degrees to seek permission from Mr. Jiménez. Not a good sign. He nodded.

“Sí,” she said to me.

I started softly with her. “I am very, very sorry about your husband.”

“Gracias,” she said.

“Tell me, how long had you and Mr. Monroe been married?”

“Six months.”

Shorter than I’d imagined. “How did the two of you meet?”

Once again, her head rotated back to Mr. Jiménez, whose face this time was impassive. She turned back to me and fumbled over her words. “Eddy, my husband, well, I met Eddy through friends. Friends here at Petro-Mex on St. Marcos.” Her eyes remained dry, but her face looked tight enough to crack.

Everything about her answer said it was not
the
answer. Should I push her on the question? I decided to let Nick be the hammer if he wanted to.

“Elena, the police said Mr. Monroe may have killed himself. What do you think happened? Do you think he killed himself?” I cringed as I said it; I had never had to ask such painful questions as an employment attorney. Embarrassing, à la “did you grab the plaintiff’s ass,” but not painful. At least I knew the answer to this question, as Ramirez had told us she’d requested the investigation precisely
because
she didn’t believe her husband had killed himself.

Before, her answers had puzzled me. This time, her reply astonished me.

“Yes, I think he did. I think he killed himself. He was very depressed.”

Mr. Jiménez all but lunged forward at her. “But Mrs. Monroe, you told us you did not believe he killed himself. And how could he? You are so beautiful, and he was a newlywed. You are mistaken. All of his co-workers know how happy he was—with you, with his job, with everything. You are grieving and confused, and that is why you say this terrible thing, no?”

Elena gave no explanation for changing her story. She didn’t cry. She simply sat with her hands gripped together and her knuckles white. Her mother appeared and sat beside her, stroking her anxious daughter’s hair and speaking to her in words I could not understand, not for lack of trying. I sat stock still, taking it all in, the two women, the large silver and bronze crucifixes hanging behind them, the heavy wooden furniture, the black leather upholstery. Jiménez shoved in next to them on the couch and the conversation grew animated.

Nick whispered to me, “This is a clusterfuck, Katie. We’re not getting anywhere with Lurch standing behind her. We should get the hell out of here, and come back at her later with a different approach. I have some ideas.”

“Yes,” I said, “Let’s get out of here.”

I stood up. “Elena? We know this is a very upsetting time for you. Thank you for talking to us. If you have anything else you want to tell us, here’s Nick’s card.” He handed it to her. “But for now, we will leave you with your family and friends. So sorry to intrude.”

Elena rose. She turned toward Nick and extended her delicate hand. He took it. She did not shake, simply stood with her hand in his, and looked up at him from below her lowered lashes. “Thank you, Nick.” Neeeeeeek. “On your card, it says you are a pilot?”

Nothing about her demeanor said grief. Yet she was radiating an emotion so strongly that it permeated the air around her: fear.

“Yes, I am also a pilot.”

“Bueno. I have your card, so I may call you, no?”

“That would be great,” he said, her hand still in his. “Oh, and could we trouble you to let us look at the files on your computers, to look for people who might have wished Mr. Monroe harm?”

Mr. Jiménez stood up beside Nick and faced Elena. “Mrs. Monroe, you do not have to give him anything you do not want to,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said to him. Then, “I am sorry, Nick, but there is nothing on our computer that will help bring Eddy back.”

Nick and Mr. Jiménez locked eyes. Neither looked away, but Mr. Jiménez spoke.

“So that’s it, then. Buenos días, Mr. and Mrs. Kovacs,” he said.

His squinty-eyed expression of distrust was getting old.

“Nice to see you again, sir. Good day to you,” I said, and I grabbed his hand and shook it harder than I should have. If he noticed, he didn’t show it.

We bolted out the front door from the dark interior of the house, away from the dark meeting. The brilliant light burned my eyes. I’d turn into a vampire if I lived in there.

I was rattled. Elena’s weird come-on to my husband, if that’s what it was, had knocked me back a step. I didn’t get it. And try as I might to sympathize with her, I didn’t like it.

We walked briskly to the Montero without a word. Nick sucked his top lip into his bottom one. Then he ran his hand through his hair, a sure sign of consternation.

I spoke first. “That was a freak show. I want to get as far away from this place as possible.”

He said, “Let’s just head straight back up to Annalise then, and we can talk about this on the way, OK?”

“Fine by me. But don’t forget, we promised Taylor we would take him to the Agricultural Fair this afternoon.” I looked down at my iPhone. “Your mom texted me about an hour ago that she has the kids ready to go, and she said Taylor has been asking when he gets to go see Wilburn approximately every forty-five seconds.”

Nick pursed his lips and exhaled at length. “All right.”

He looked down at his phone and scrolled through a text. He muttered and I caught the word “Elena.”
Elena?
As he typed a quick response he said, “You know, it probably wasn’t such a great idea after all to bring you in on this case. I’m worried about your safety. I think you’re going to have to sit this one out, after all. I’m sorry, Katie.”

I saw flashing strobe lights and a siren went off in my head.

Breathe, Katie, breathe.

My emotions were still in such a tangle that I decided to hold it in for now—an act of monumental will. Because what I wanted to tell Nick was that he was a patronizing boob and could kiss my ass. It’s possible that my sudden personal growth and maturity might have had something to do with our proximity to Playboy’s Playmate of the Year, the one who had held Nick’s hand and refused to let go.

Or maybe it was because I was scared, too.

Two hours later, Nick was pushing the twins in our all-terrain double stroller beside me as I walked hand in hand with Taylor through the crowds at the Ag Fair, carefully avoiding the eyes of my recently former boss. Taylor coughed. We hadn’t had a good rain in weeks and the throng had kicked up quite a dust cloud. The girls slept peacefully, despite the noise and smells.

“Mama, I want cotton candy,” Taylor said.

“Soon, but first let’s eat dinner. Cotton candy on an empty tummy will make you sick.”

“Daddy, I want to go see the pigs. I want to see Wilburn.”

“We’re headed there now, champ. Walk faster and we’ll see them sooner.”

I preferred the smell of fry chicken and johnnycakes to the odor of the barnyard, so I chimed in. “We have to eat some dinner first, though.”

The food smelled great. St. Marcos residents love their parties, and Carnival in January, monthly Jump Up festivals, and the annual Ag Fair were the big events of the year. The Ag Fair featured an exposition of plants and animals, but it also boasted a carnival and the best food the island had to offer. I knew what I wanted to eat: sizzling hot beef patés—spicy ground beef inside fried pastry, doubly greased up. Heaven.

We stopped at the food tents and I got in line for the fried things with Taylor while Nick stood in a separate queue for roti, a tortilla-like wrap made from ground lentils wrapped around curried chicken. And I was the one trying to lose the baby weight. Bad Katie.

I kept Nick in my line of vision. I was still flustered. Everything from the surreal interview with Elena and the lurking presence of Mr. Jiménez, to the weird exchange between the grieving widow and my husband, to getting fired on the way out the door—all of it unsettled me.

“What do you want to eat, Taylor?” I asked.

“I want to go see Wilburn,” he insisted.

“Sure, but before we go see Wilburn, what food do you want?” Taylor had turned toward the barns and was shifting from foot to foot as he swung my arm and heaved toward the pigs. “If you don’t answer me, I’m getting you dirt and bugs, OK?”

“Noooooo, Mama. No dirt and bugs. I wanna see Wilburn.”

“You can, after you eat your dirt and bugs.” I looked around for Nick and saw him and the girls. Good.

Taylor started to giggle. “I’m not s’posed to eat dirt. Daddy said so. And bugs are yucky. I want rice and peas.”

There’s my little island boy.
“Rice and peas? Are you sure? Because they have dirt and bugs if you want it.”

“I want rice and peas.”

“Oh, good. I thought it was weird that you wanted dirt and bugs,” I teased. Maybe I could keep his brain occupied with silliness long enough to feed him.

Just at that moment, the local man ahead of us in line turned around with his food in hand and our eyes met. His, black and unnerving, drilled into mine, startled and green. I knew him. And he certainly acted like he knew me. He walked toward me and my pulse thumped in my ears like a bass drum. His strides ate the ground between us in giant gulps, then he broke eye contact,  stepped around me, and walked past.

The timpani drum kept beating until my ears burned. I heard something else now, too.

“Mama, Mama, MAMA.”

Pull it together, crazy lady. “Yes, honey,” I said with the appearance of complete sanity.

He pointed at the food server. Oops.

I gave my order, I think. Or I gave
an
order. And I paid and took the food. But my mind was whirring like a messed-up hard drive. Missing sector alert, data corruption error, total system failure imminent. Who was that man? Why did he stare at me like that?

When Nick and the girls returned, I realized I had lost sight of them for a while.

“Honey?” Nick peered into my vacant eyes. “Are you OK?”

“Mama’s quiet,” Taylor said. “She wouldn’t talk to the lady.”

“Oh, Taylor, you silly. I’m fine. Mama got distracted. That’s all.”

Nick lifted his chin and looked down his considerable nose at me. I tried with some success not to like him.

“I’m serious! I’m fine,” I lied. “Let’s grab a table and eat.”

We sat at a picnic table that only took five Clorox wipes for me to render usable and ate our meal. “Take You There” blared from giant speakers at the corners of the tented area, and the local youth danced; the songwriters hailed from the neighboring island of St. Thomas. I didn’t enjoy my paté as much as usual. Taylor ate one tenth of his rice and pigeon peas and announced himself full and in need of a bathroom.

“Let’s go, buddy, I need to use the loo, too,” Nick said. “We can leave the ladies here to eat the rest of our food while we’re gone.”

Off they went. Lanky dark Nick and squatty dark Taylor. Taylor was bound to be olive-skinned like Nick, since Nick’s sister bore the same genes, and Taylor’s father—his nasty drug-dealing father, from whom we’d won custody after Teresa died—also had brown skin, hair, and eyes.

As I watched, Nick stopped to talk to a Latino man that had stood up to intercept him. His neck bling flashed gold from between the sides of his shirt, which was unbuttoned too far down his chest. And he had a mustache. Open shirts, gold medallions, and mustaches travel in threes. The man motioned to his left, and Nick and Taylor followed him until they disappeared from my view.

That was perplexing. The closest bathrooms had been right in front of them. It agitated me to lose sight of them, but Liv woke up and whimpered.

“Little red, come to Mama,” I crooned. It turned out she needed a stealth diaper change and a quick bottle of formula. I cradled her in my arms to feed her. Every time I held one of the girls, they felt heavier. They were growing so fast. Jess timed her wake-up to coincide with Liv polishing off her bottle, so I propped Liv up in the stroller behind her bar of squeaky toys and started on Jess.

A name popped into my head. George. George something or other.

That was it. George Tutein. The cop who investigated the dead guy in the driveway. The one who had barged into our kitchen. The one who had given a ride to the wacko babbling about dead people under Annalise. The one who had signed his name to the crap police investigation into my parents’ deaths. He was the man I had seen in the patés line. Well, damn. He remembered me, too. And he didn’t flash me a winning smile. Great, just great.

A mop of tousled hair entered my vision and pulled me away from my thoughts.

“We’re back, Mama,” Taylor said.

I bounced Jess on my knee to burp her. “I thought you guys must have fallen in. What took you so long?”

“We weren’t gone that long,” Nick said.

“Pretty long. I lost you there for a while. Who was that guy you were talking to?”

“What? No one. We went straight there and back. There was a line.”

You’re lying to me. Nick’s lying to me.

“Really?” I asked in a voice that said I knew he was acting dodgy. “Whatever, Nick.” Difficult as it was, I decided to drop it until we weren’t in front of the kids. I knew he’d gotten my meaning. I changed the subject. “Well, who’s ready to go see some pigs?”

“MEEEEEEE!” This, from Taylor. Of course. Off we trundled toward the livestock barn. I pasted on a smile and forced Nick’s lie out of my head.

In the barn, Taylor begged and begged for a piglet. Nick and I remained stalwart in our no’s. When he didn’t win the pig war, Taylor sulked and suddenly wanted every small creature we saw. As in, “If I can’t have Wilburn, can I have a bunny? A chickie? A duck? A calf?” We repeated “no” one thousand times until he threw a tantrum, snuffling and wailing. The joys of parenthood.

When Taylor had finally worn himself out, we left the Ag Fair. This time I pushed the stroller and Nick draped our sleeping boy over his shoulder. Taylor’s body stretched half the length of Nick’s, his pudgy legs dangling to Nick’s waist.

Nick must have checked his text messages twice for every one time Taylor asked for an animal friend. The joys of marriage. He checked them again now.

“What’s up, Nick? You’ve had your eyes glued to that screen the whole time we’ve been here,” I said.

“Work. Sorry.”

“Work?”

“Yeah, work.”

“Was the guy you walked off with earlier ‘work,’ too?”

“What?”

“You know. When you took Taylor to the potty? And you guys walked off with some guy, all cloak and daggerish?”
And then told me you didn’t?

Nick kept walking, but he didn’t look at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We went to the bathroom, that’s all.”

Only the sleeping babies stopped me from yelling “Liar, liar pants on fire” at the top of my lungs. As it was, I muttered it just loud enough for him to hear. Who was this man, and what had he done with my perfect husband?

I ignored him and strapped the babies into their car seats for the ride home.