War (12 page)

              It’s been a few weeks since the fight and of course, Winnie and Jacob mended their marriage after she changed the locks on him. Seems like she bought the story that Jasmine was looking for me at her and Jake’s condo. When I asked Jacob what in the hell got into Jasmine, he said he didn’t know; before that day, he hadn’t seen her since Nicky’s Christmas play.

I’m not entirely sure why Jasmine went to Jacob’s condo; but I’m also not entirely sure I believe her excuse that she was looking for me. Even when I asked her and she said she was. But of course, I can’t disprove it. But since that night, things have been fine. Jacob hasn’t mentioned problems with Winnie, Red hasn’t mentioned problems with Jacob and Winnie, Jasmine hasn’t mentioned Jacob. I still see Jasmine at the condo when she visits Red. She seems fine. She still secretly requests a once-a-week truck ride with the windows down, heat blasting and music turned up. She says she needs it to clear her mind. When she meets me outside my condo building, we have small talk about her new cookbook that Red’s planning on publishing and then we ride. Everyone’s happy.

              So why the hell is Demetrius Westlake here?

              After following Demetrius from the airport, Nat and I arrived at his hotel and then went the bar. We had sandwiches, sparkling water and friendly chitchat as we waited for Demetrius to reemerge:

              “I told them I wanted my pickle on the side,” Nat said as he placed his pickle on a napkin.

              “What are you talking about?” I took a bite out of my Reuben. “It
was
on the side. On your plate, on the side of your sandwich.”

              “No. ‘On the side’ means on another plate.”

              “Nat, who the hell asks for their pickle to be carried out on a separate plate?”

              “Someone who asked for their pickle to be put on the side. According to the menu, the pickle didn’t come
on
the sandwich. So legally, it was already considered ‘on the side.’”

“Are you serious?”

“So if I
further
specified that I wanted my pickle on the side, though I already
knew
it didn’t come on my sandwich, that meant not only do I
not
want it on the side of my sandwich, I don’t want it on my sandwich’s plate.”

              “I have no idea what you just said.”

              “Now the juice has touched my bread.”

              An hour later, Demetrius walked into the lobby and out of the front doors. Nat and I watched and waited for him to enter his limo and then leave. Nat then said he’d be back. Five minutes later, as I was finishing up my Reuben sandwich, Nat came back with a room key.

              “Ready?” he said.

              “Sure.”

              We headed through the lobby, up the elevators and towards Demetrius’ room. Nat used his key and we stood by the door and looked around. Only thing of interest was a photo propped against a lamp:

              “Demetrius, Samantha and their kids,” I said as I pointed to the family photo taken on a beach.

              “Beautiful family.”

              Nat took two pair of surgical gloves out of an inside coat pocket. We both put a pair on and went to work. We scanned suitcases, a toiletry bag, a carry-on bag, a garment bag, a briefcase and a laptop bag.

              “Obsessed with his family,” Nat said as he looked through the briefcase. “Carries a photo album of pictures…only Samantha and the kids.”

              “He’s an army brat and former JAG.”

              “Oh, that’s right.” That explains it all. Military men, especially people like Demetrius who were
born
into a military family, obsess over their families. They know families who were destroyed because of war. One day a family would be on base, a week later, they’d have to move. Dad died in war. If you’re a military man, your greatest possession becomes your family. Your family’s greatest enemy is war.

              You don’t want war.

              “I’ve got nothing,” Nat said.

              “Yeah, me neither.”

              So we had no choice but to look Demetrius up and follow him. Where was he going? Who was he in Boston to meet? And why? Nat went back to Limo Limited’s back server and checked to see where the limo was.

“California Pizza Kitchen in Harbortown,” Nat said, barely glancing at the screen.

              “That reminds me, I’ve gotta pick up some avocado egg rolls up for Red after I leave the office. Cravings.” I said to him as I headed back to our office.

              “I’ll keep checking up on him throughout the day. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know.”

And he did.

Nat eventually located the limo at the Starbucks on Tremont Street. Why pass by a dozen Starbucks in Harbortown, just to go to the one on Tremont Street, in the Theater District? Who was he meeting there? Nat and I went to find out—and bingo. Who happened to be parking his Benz down the street as Nat and I were making our way down the street? Marlon.

“Follow him,” I told Nat as I bit into my eggroll.

“No shit, Mac.”

We watched Marlon get out his car and walk into Starbucks. Nat went to go find a parking space. Five minutes later, Demetrius and Marlon were in a window, sitting at a table talking.

              Right now, Demetrius is sitting back in his chair, his eyes squinting as he concentrates on what Marlon’s saying. Marlon’s hands are moving as he speaks
.
His facial expressions reveal he’s bothered by something. Jacob? But Jake and Jasmine are over. Right?

              “How do these two know each other?” I ask Nat.

              “No idea. I’ve never picked up a Marlon and Demetrius connection before.”

              “But they’re both from Philly.” I take another bite of my eggroll.

              “Yeah, but I never picked up a connection.”

              “But their families are a part of Philly’s elite so they
had
to know each other.”

              “It sounds like you’re implying that I didn’t cross my T’s and dot my I’s.”

“I’m just saying, how did you miss the connection? It’s a question, not an accusation. Why are you so sensitive today?”

“Shut the hell up. And Winnie’s family is a part of Boston’s inner circle and we never met her before she met Jacob. Am I right?”

              “True.”

“Alright, then.”

“Do you need a back rub later on tonight?”

“Fuck you.”

That’s the thing with East Coast families who belong to old families, we all seem to be one family removed from each other: Winnie knew Demetrius, Demetrius knew Marlon, Marlon knew Jasmine, Jasmine knew Red, Red knew me and I knew Jacob, Winnie’s future husband. All of us are just one degree apart.

Nat and I sit in silence as we continue to watch Marlon talk and Demetrius listen.

“Alright, we’ll stay here ten more minutes,” I say. “This may last all night and I’ve gotta get those avocado eggrolls home. I told Red I was having a late night at the office but I can’t stay out all night.”

“Whipped, are you?”

“Listen, Red and I have a completely equal partnership and she’s more than alright with me working late at the office once a week…as long as when I come home, I follow instructions from then on.”

“Pathetic.”

“Plus, I told Nicky I’d sneak him a few donut holes when I got home tonight.” I gesture towards the backseat of the truck where I put the bag of donut holes.

“Yeah, Dena should be calling me soon.” Nat starts up his truck to give us some heat. “I’ll keep an eye on Westlake. But I gotta tell you, I think this is about Jasmine. Marlon’s looking too emotional for that conversation to be about real estate.”

              “Agreed.” But what
about
Jasmine?

DEMETRIUS

              “We shouldn’t be sitting in the window,” I say as I look around for another table. But of course, the Starbucks on Tremont Street is filled to capacity, especially since it’s snowing today in Boston. There must be dozens of kids in here with their parents drinking hot chocolate.

              “We’re fine,” Marlon says, his voice sounding tired and defeated. He takes a deep breath. He’s been running his mouth a mile a minute, talking to me about some picture his wife was in last year, and the journalist he had Malcolm blackmail so that it wouldn’t get released. And now, as he says, he can’t for the life of him understand why Jasmine would still go out and cheat on him, after all he’s done to protect her from herself. And I can’t argue with the man. Let’s just think about it, Marlon forked over a quarter of a million dollars to Rossi’s daughter during that whole blackmail incident a few years back. And then he goes and works with the devil’s army, or as I call them, the Blairs, to get her out of her most recent scandal, that involved, yet again, that infamous picture. Rightfully so, he’s angry but…

“I don’t get it,” I say to Marlon. “If you don’t have any proof that he’s sleeping with your wife then why am I here?”

He leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his face. “What other reason is there for her to go out one night a week, every week? Where is she going? Why is her hair a windblown mess when she comes back? Like she’s sweat it out from a night of fucking? Why is she coming back singing songs, rapping and carrying on? Was that the music they were playing when they were in bed?”

              “Circumstantial.”

              “What?”

              “That’s circumstantial evidence.”

              “Here you go with your lawyer lingo.”

              “Marlon,” I move into the table so no one will hear me. “You’re concerned that your wife leaves the house once a week and doesn’t come back until late. She could be doing
anything
. She’s writing a cookbook, right? She could be at Barnes and Noble doing research. She could be at a cooking class learning new recipes. Needing weekly time alone is not enough information to validate an affair. You say her hair looks a mess when she gets back. Marlon, it’s February in Boston. It’s cold. It’s snowing. It’s windy. You live in the Waterfront district. The wind’s always stronger near a body of water. How do you know it doesn’t get windblown between her car and your front door? She comes in singing. So what? She’s just had time away from a house with two kids and a man who keeps looking out of the corner of his eye at her. She probably can’t
wait
to get away from you.”

              “So now
I’m
stressing
her
out?”

              “Well, are you hounding her?”

              “I’ve asked her if there was anything on her mind and of course she said no. She claims she’s perfect. Her life is perfect. She’s happy to be writing a cookbook. She’s happy that she and Danielle are on speaking terms again. She’s happy to be alive.” He rolls his eyes. “Something doesn’t sound right about that.”

              “Marlon,” I sit back in my chair and smile at him. “You’re paranoid. And as your attorney, I have to tell you, if you keep harassing Jasmine, she’s bound to leave you. And if her divorce attorney is as good as me, and let’s face it, she’ll get one of the Blairs to bleed you dry and they know exactly how to do it, then you’re up shit creek without a paddle. More than likely, since you’re accusing her of having an affair with Jacob, she’ll get Malcolm to represent her and believe me, you don’t want that. Malcolm’s dirty. He has connections
all over
the East Coast. He’s the goddamn lawyer to the President of the United States of America.”

Marlon’s eyes narrow in on me as I say that. Good. I’m glad he’s listening to me now. I continue: “Malcolm finds shit: papers, pictures, keys, files. Whatever he wants, he gets. He taps into your email accounts. Your bank statements. Your flight schedules. He enters your home. Your office. Your hotel room. Your mother’s home. Your life. He cleans up his trail; you’ll never know he was there. He goes for the jugular. Every civilian lawyer out here knows that. They
cringe
when they have to go up against him in court, which is why most of them settle. I’m even willing to bet that he knows I’m here. I’m willing to bet that he knows we’re sitting right here in this window, in Starbucks, on Tremont Street, right now. So you keep pushing your wife for a confession and she’s bound to run to Malcolm, once again, to help clean up the mess that she’s found herself in. And please believe me, you won’t have
shit
left fucking around with him. Everybody knows that he took his wife’s ex-husband, your friend Jon, to the
bank
. And
then
he married his woman.” I let out a laugh but Marlon’s eyes are still narrowed in on me. “Malcolm’s dirty as hell. I suggest you stop harassing his client.”

Marlon sits back in his chair, looking defeated. He thought he was marrying a good girl. He thought he was marrying someone without connections. He thought
he
was the man in his relationship.