Chapter Twenty-Four. The Body in The Corner Office
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE BODY IN THE CORNER OFFICE
Our cover story is simple: We are high school students who want to do an informational interview with Mr. Odell due to our burning interest in property development.
Technically it’s the truth, though not in the career-day sense I imply while talking to his executive assistant, a sweet woman named Carlie who calls me “hon.” Right now, Felix and I are fascinated by the process of buying land and knocking down buildings in order to replace them with newer, more expensive buildings, at least in this specific patch of Florida.
It’s also true that we are—or were—acquainted with Bradley, a fact I unintentionally blurt out when Carlie asks how we heard about Mr. Odell. I mumble something about guest speakers and a fictional Intro to Business class.
“I tell you what, hon. Let me see what I can do. Mr. Odell’s schedule is light the rest of this week, since we weren’t sure he’d be in at all. Sometimes keeping busy is the best thing for a broken heart.”
I make a noise that sounds like agreement, drawing on the deep well of life experience gained during my sixteen years on the planet.
“Hold on a sec.” There’s a click and then the hold music starts. Felix widens his eyes in a silent question. I hold up crossed fingers.
“Katie?” Carlie says, since that’s the name I gave her. “He can see you at two o’clock. I told him you were friends of Bradley’s,” she reports, dropping her voice like that part is our little secret.
Mr. Odell doesn’t look like his son. I don’t realize I’ve been expecting a salt-and-pepper version of Bradley until his father stands up from behind his desk to shake our hands. At least we won’t be interviewing the older model of a person I last saw dead.
It’s not only that Bradley’s dad is shorter and less muscular. His face has a completely different shape, his features broader and sort of mushy, though his eyes are sharp. I’m guessing Bradley must have taken after his mother, until Mr. Odell says, “Carlie tells me you knew my stepson.”
“We’re sorry for your loss.” It comes out in a single rushed breath. Felix nods as if to say, Ditto. I suspect we’re both working through the same chain of thought: stepson, but they have the same last name. He must have adopted Bradley.
Mr. Odell lowers his chin, a manly acknowledgement of our condolences. “That’s why I agreed to see you. This one’s for Bradley.” He points an index finger at the ceiling.
At first I think he’s telling us we get one question and then we’re out on our asses, but then I realize he’s indicating the heavenly realm, where perhaps he imagines Bradley looking down on us with a fond smile.
“Thank you.” My throat is bone dry. I should have taken Carlie up on her offer of bottled water.
“That’s big of you,” Felix adds.
Mr. Odell spins his chair to face him. “What are your interests?”
“Besides property development, of course,” I interject.
“Art—” Felix catches himself. “—chitecture. Artchitecture,” he repeats, adding the “t” again, like that’s his unique pronunciation. I’m a guy who likes a nice hard consonant. Nothing to see here.
At least he didn’t mention musicals.
“That can be useful. As long as you don’t get too up in your head about these things. It’s a business first. You have to operate in the real world.” Mr. Odell pauses in case we want to write that down. I pretend to make a note on my phone.
“You’ve been doing some fascinating projects around here,” Felix says, throwing in a little flattery with the segue.
“A few,” Mr. Odell agrees. “But I don’t turn my nose up at a run-of-the-mill job. Work isn’t supposed to be entertaining. A lot of kids today think life is all about fun and personal fulfillment. Good luck building a career on that.”
I wonder if he’s including Bradley in that assessment.
“What would you say your greatest challenge has been, as a developer?” I put in, before he can expound on the problems with my generation. “Are there ever times when people are not on board with a project? Or maybe you have trouble securing the piece of land you want?”
“Are you talking about quote-unquote environmentalists?” He shoots Felix a look I interpret as Tell me you didn’t bring a tree-hugger in here with you.
“I was thinking more like those stories you see on the news about the one homeowner who doesn’t want to sell their farm, holding up a railroad or something.”
Mr. Odell leans forward, elbows on his desk. “That’s where salesmanship comes in. You have to make your vision too compelling to ignore.” He pauses, putting on his tough guy voice. “And if that fails, you find a different lever. Either sweeten the pot or turn up the heat.”
I steal a glance at Felix, in case he has a better grasp of this cooking metaphor, but he’s focused on Bradley’s dad.
“And … Bradley worked with you on some of these projects?” I hint, after what feels like a long enough silence to seem impressed.
“I’ve been showing him the ropes since he was a kid. That was how we first bonded, you know. When I married his mama.”
“Over business?” To Felix’s credit, he makes it sound like a reasonable stepfather-son activity. Who needs baseball?
Mr. Odell settles back in his chair, resting his hands on his stomach. “I wanted to get him a dog, but he had all those allergies. So I started taking him on job sites with me.”
“He liked that?” Felix guesses.
From the set of his jaw, I expect Mr. Odell to fudge the truth, but his answer is matter-of-fact. “He liked wearing the hard hat. And going out to lunch.”
I’m no business expert, but it doesn’t sound like a job description. Maybe in management.
“He was a handsome kid,” Mr. Odell allows, like that makes up for Bradley’s shortcomings in other areas. “Talked about going into TV for a while there. I told him he could be the face of Odell Property Development instead. Personable, like his mama. Maybe too friendly at times.”
Luckily my face is already frozen in a mask of wide-eyed fascination, because Bradley’s dad shoots me a considering look.
“He was more on the marketing side?” Felix translates, drawing Mr. Odell’s attention to him. “Public relations?”
“Until recently. That’s the tragedy of it.
” He picks up a neon-green golf ball from a wooden dish, rolling it between his hands.
“If Bradley had buckled down sooner, he could have left a permanent legacy behind.” From a desk drawer he removes a manila file folder.
The sticker on the tab reads brAD’S PAD.
“This was something he cooked up this last month.” He slides a crumpled sheet of paper across the desk. I start to reach for it when he adds, “He had this copy in his pocket, when they … found him.”
I snatch my hand back. What the hell? That thing is covered in death cooties.
Mr. Odell doesn’t appear to notice my reaction.
He’s too busy studying what I recognize as a drawing of Castle Claude.
Unlike the blueprint we found in the Queen B’s apartment, this one shows the familiar outline of the current building, turrets and all.
There’s a note printed in careful block letters above an arrow pointing at the wall:
PAINT OUTSIDE GRAY OR BLACK (NOT PINK).
Was he a secret goth? That’s my first thought, before I take in the other details.
GAME ROOM
WEIGHT ROOM 1
WEIGHT ROOM 2
HOME THEATER
PUB
MAIN HOT TUB
SMALL HOT TUB(S)
It’s the opposite of his aunt’s Kingdom of Beige.
“Almost like a fraternity house for grown-ups,” Felix observes.
“See that?” Mr. Odell points a triumphant finger at Felix.
“I knew the concept had legs, as soon as Bradley came to me with it. A real communal environment, for people who appreciate a certain lifestyle, with none of that weird West Coast shit, pardon my French. You could eat meat and wear normal clothes. Get a haircut. There was even going to be a barber shop on-site.” He taps one of the smaller annotations, at the approximate location of Castle Claude’s kitchen.
Which they probably wouldn’t need, what with ordering pizza every night.
“I hadn’t pegged Bradley as a Big Ideas person, but I guess I underestimated him,” Mr. Odell muses, filling the speechless silence. “I wouldn’t have minded a place like that myself, for the occasional weekend.”
I hide my real thoughts behind a forced smile. The concept is lifted directly from the community my grandmother and her friends have built at Castle Claude, only with basic dude trimmings. Not that lack of originality is the worst of it.
“He was all fired up,” Bradley’s stepfather continues. “This was going to be his first project as a lead developer. But he was already talking about expanding from there. Maybe setting up his own shingle. brO Builds.”
“And you were on board with that?” Felix asks.
“There were a lot of upsides. Bradley could have lived there, which would have gotten him out of the house. And with his buddies paying rent, most of his expenses would be covered. Cheaper to reno than rebuild anyway. Slap on a coat of paint, buy some big TVs, we could have been in business.”
“This was a change of plans, then? The frat house for grown-ups?” I’m using the term “grown-ups” extremely loosely.
“Oh yeah. We had a different project in mind for that parcel, until Bradley made his pitch. I figured, why not? Let him shoot his shot. At least on a trial basis.”
“And now?” Felix asks. “Probably no point without Bradley.”
I’m holding my breath, wondering if Mr. Odell can feel the tension radiating from the random teenagers camped out in his office.
“No, that put an end to brO Town.” He delivers this earth-shaking news so casually it takes a beat for the meaning to compute.
“Really?” Oops. That was too eager. You’d think this was my first time playing a role. “I mean, that’s understandable,” I course-correct, like the junior business type I’m pretending to be. “Under the circumstances.”
“You have to roll with the punches,” Mr. Odell agrees. “The good news is that we already had another option in the works. Something that was pitched to me a while back. There were a few speed bumps in the way, but I think we’ve got those sorted.”
“What kind of … bumps were they?” Felix asks.
Bradley’s dad waves this off. “Nothing our legal department couldn’t handle. Plan B should be good to go any day now.”
“Could you give us a hint?” I make a pinching motion with my fingers, like all I’m asking for is an itty-bitty sliver of information.
“Let’s just say we’re going with broad market appeal. Major customer base. Think about the type of buyers we have around here, and you’ll get close.”
The phone on his desk buzzes. He snatches the receiver. “Talk to me.”
While Mr. Odell listens, I replay his answer. It’s not much of a leap to guess it’s the same project Bernie is trying to get off the ground. They already have the plans; all they need now is permission to knock down Castle Claude.
Felix is raising his eyebrows at me, trying to get my attention. He tips his head at Bradley’s father, and I tune back into the conversation.
“I can see you now,” he tells the caller. “Have Carlie send you straight back. That’s fine. Thank you, Detective.”
I shoot Felix a panicked look. There can’t be more than one detective working on a case for the Odell family, which means Detective Ortiz is on his way here, and that man is too sharp not to recognize us.
We need to book it out of this building, preferably without looking like we’re running from the law.
Mr. Odell hangs up the landline, frowning when he sees we’re still in his office. “Looks like we’re out of time,” he says, unsmiling. “You kids have a good day, now.”
He doesn’t have to tell us twice. “Thank you so much,” we say, talking over each other as we back toward the door.
“How did it go?” Carlie asks as we pass her desk.
“Great,” I chirp, without slowing down. “Thanks again!”
Felix salutes her as we hustle around the corner to the main exit.
“What does his car look like?” I ask, peering through the glass doors to the parking lot.
“I don’t know! We only ever talked to him inside.”
My gut says he won’t be driving a police cruiser with flashing lights. Detective Ortiz is too subtle for that. It could be any type of vehicle, including that gray sedan slowing down like it’s about to turn into the lot—I jerk out of sight, flattening myself against the wall.
“Where’s a broom closet when you need one?” Felix jokes from behind me.
I’m tempted to elbow him in the gut, but one of us has to stay on task. “Should we make a break for it?”
He looks around the foyer, frowning. Unless we want to stand behind a fake plant and hope for the best, there are no good hiding places. “On three?”
“Why?” I say, shoving the door open.
There’s a dumpster in the far corner of the lot. That’s my target. I don’t want to full-on sprint, so I do a hunching speed walk, bending low every time I pass a window and then ducking behind an empty car.
Felix drops down beside me. “Slick moves, ninja.”
I put a finger to my lips. A car is turning into the lot. As soon as the engine cuts off, I grab Felix’s hand, and we dash across the few remaining feet of asphalt to the dumpster.
The car door closes with a metallic crunch. Footsteps approach the building, followed by the faint whoosh of the glass entry door swinging shut. And then there’s silence, apart from our rasping breaths.
“That was intense.” Felix inhales deeply, then winces. “It had to be a dumpster.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. Dumpsters are iconic for chase scenes. But you never have to smell them in the movies.
“Let’s text Sofia,” I say, creeping around the dumpster before straightening from my crouch.
We decide to walk a few blocks to a 7-Eleven to wait for pickup. Neither of us can tell if the dumpster smell is in our noses or on our clothes, so we sit on the curb out front instead of going inside.
“Are we going to talk about it now?” Felix asks.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Did you see that Odell guy’s face?” His jaw tightens in what is either an impression of Bradley’s dad or the most serious I’ve ever seen Felix. “What do you think the detective is coming to tell him?”
I shake my head. For once in my life, I don’t even want to speculate.