Chapter 5
The line for drop-off at Sunset Elementary School was four blocks long, stretching all the way to Austen’s favorite ice cream
shop. Flecks of sunlight danced across the windshield of Helena’s SUV, the morning rays shredded by the canopy of sprawling
oaks and leafy banyan trees that lined historic Sunset Drive.
“Mom, can we go to Whip ’n Dip?”
“Not for breakfast,” said Helena.
“They have apple pie flavor. Apples are fruit. Fruit is a good breakfast.”
The sedan in front her inched forward, finally. Helena advanced another car length, then stopped. “Apple-pie ice cream is
like double dessert. You can have it after dance class.”
Austen groaned. “Mom, winter classes just started. Nobody has after-school stuff yet. Why do I have to go to dance?”
Helena made eye contact in the rearview mirror. “Because you are a dancer,” she said.
Austen had been “dancing” at the conservatory since he was three, starting with “Mommy and me” and basic movement classes.
All in-studio instruction was on an age-appropriate basis, so first graders were strictly limited to one pre-ballet class
a week, and formal introduction to ballet didn’t start until the second grade—which was fine, in Helena’s mind, if you were
like every other boy and your grandmother never danced with the Kirov. Helena had been supplementing Austen’s training at
home, and at the age of six he was better than any of the seven- and eight-year-old boys who danced four days a week.
Helena pulled up to the school entrance, and one of the attendants opened the rear door.
“Pick you up at three,” said Helena. “Love you.”
“Apple pie ice cream,” Austen said, as he climbed out.
The door slammed shut, and Helena pulled away. Her cell phone rang as she was waiting at the traffic light. She let it go
to voicemail but listened to the message in real time over the speaker system.
“Mrs. Pollard, this is Jack Swyteck. I left a message yesterday about the grand jury investigation into your husband’s death.
I’m sorry to impose, but I would appreciate it if you could call me back. Thank you.”
The call ended.
Helena had received Swyteck’s first message. She hadn’t felt like talking then, and she felt even less like talking now. She
had too much to do, and Owen was already top of mind.
It was a thirty-minute drive to VanPoll Enterprises in the Wynwood area, Miami’s version of midtown. She wasn’t looking forward
to it. This would be her first visit since her husband’s death. She parked in Owen’s reserved space in the parking garage
and took the elevator to the tenth floor of the office tower. The receptionist was respectful and greeted her in the overly
gentle tone that virtually everyone seemed to think was appropriate for a recent widow.
“Good morning to you, Mrs. Pollard. Let me know if you need anything.”
Helena thanked her, but she knew her way around the building and continued on her own to her late husband’s office at the
end of the hallway. She stopped outside the closed door, took a deep breath, and then entered.
Her gaze swept the room. It was a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered views of downtown Miami to the south and the Port of Miami to the east. The wall behind Owen’s desk was like an overstuffed scrapbook, a collection of too many framed newspaper articles and photographs from two decades of service to Violent Gang Safe Streets Task Force and the Transnational Anti-Gang Task Forces.
It was in no way a random display of achievements.
Gun confiscations were featured prominently, everything from “Trinidad Fentanyl Trafficking Arrests Shut Down Illegal Firearms Pipeline” to “Task Force Semiautomatic Weapon Seizures Top 2,000.” Some said Owen had been feathering his future nest. Helena knew how much that had angered him.
So many things angered him.
She stepped behind his desk. Their wedding photograph was still in the silver frame she’d picked out for him. Beside it was
a photograph of Austen when he was five. He was wearing a tee-ball uniform and holding a plastic bat. Austen hated that photograph.
It was the one and only time in his life that he’d played sports. He was terrible. Like most kids, Austen liked what he was
good at. And he was exceptional at dance.
Helena breathed in and out. She remembered the last time she and Austen had visited Owen in his office. It was December. They
had tickets to see the Miami City Ballet perform The Nutcracker. Owen needed ten minutes to finish a project, and then they would go. Helena and Austen waited on the couch. Owen needed quiet,
so Austen borrowed his mother’s phone and used her earbuds to listen to music. He was the only one in the room who could hear
it, but Helena knew it was Tchaikovsky, and not just because the album cover was displayed on her iPhone. More important,
she could see how it was making Austen move. He wanted to dance. So, she let him. It was enough to push Owen over the edge.
“Stop that, Austen,” he said sharply.
His arms were so long and beautiful as he breezed across the room to the music only he was feeling. “I’m dancing.”
“Stop it. Please.”
Austen turned on the ball of his foot and continued gracefully in the other direction.
“Austen,” his father said firmly, “knock it off.”
“But I—”
“Someone is going to see you.”
“I want everyone to see me.”
“Austen! Stop flittering around the room like a fucking—”
Owen caught himself, as if suddenly mortified by his own words.
Austen stood frozen, unable to move.
Helena took him by the hand. “Let’s go, Austen.”
“Wait,” said Owen, rising.
Helena started toward the door, nearly dragging Austen along with her.
“Helena! You know I didn’t mean that.”
“Leave us alone,” she said, and she hurried out.
A quick knock roused Helena from her memories. She opened the door. It was C. J. Vandermeer.
“Is there anything you need, Helena?”
She was still flustered from that unpleasant slice of the past. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He stood in the open doorway and waited, but she didn’t invite him in. “Do you have a minute?” he asked, inviting himself.
“Of course.”
He entered and closed the door. “My lawyer tells me it’s unwise to put myself alone with a woman behind a closed office door.
But you and I are friends now, right?”
Helena could only imagine the workplace complaints that had informed that legal advice. “Is there something you’d like to
discuss, CJ?”
He walked around the desk and took a seat in Owen’s chair. “Sit, please,” he said, pointing to the wing chair.
Helena obliged. They were on opposite sides of Owen’s desk.
“I’m glad you finally decided to come to the office,” he said.
“Finally?”
“It’s been more than a month since Owen passed. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but this office can’t become a shrine.”
“I’ll clear it out in due time,” she said.
“I’m afraid the time is now. We need the space.”
“It’s not really your decision, CJ.”
“Everything in this company is my decision.”
“I don’t want to fight you on this, but Owen’s stock passed to me when he died. I own half this company.”
CJ laughed so hard he snorted.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
He brought his laughter under control. “You don’t own half of anything. You own forty-nine percent of VanPoll Enterprises, and VanPoll Enterprises is a pimple on the ass of a corporate
conglomerate owned by me.”
“I deserve some say in the company.”
“Now you sound like Owen. ‘Oh, CJ, I’m a half owner, I need a raise, pay me more money.’ Your husband was lucky I paid him
as much as I did.”
“What you paid him was barely minimum wage, considering the hours he put in.”
“That’s a slight exaggeration,” he said with a disingenuous smile. “But I paid him enough.”
“Maybe I’ll just sell my shares and cash out,” said Helena.
CJ snorted again, nearly laughing in her face. “You really have no clue what it means to be a minority shareholder in a privately
held company, do you? If you think Owen’s death is payday for you, think again. Your forty-nine percent is sellable only when
I decide it’s time for me to buy it, and it’s worth whatever I decide to pay for it.”
“You make things so easy to understand,” she said without a hint of sincerity. “Things like why Owen couldn’t stand you.”
“It was never about liking each other. I owned the licenses to operate a firearms destruction business, and your husband had contacts at over two thousand local, state, and federal law enforcement agencies with truckloads of confiscated guns to destroy. It was a match made in heaven.”
“Hell, you mean. If you’d been honest about who you were from the beginning, Owen never would have gone into business with
you. He certainly never would have agreed to be a forty-nine percent minority shareholder with you in control.”
“You know how I got the all-important one percent, Helena. Don’t play dumb with me.”
She didn’t know, and she hated to give CJ the satisfaction of knowing how little Owen had told her about the business, but
this felt like her last opportunity to find out. “I’m not playing dumb, CJ.”
He smiled, seeming to realize she was being truthful. “How thoughtful of Owen to keep this secret from you—and to let me be
the one to tell you.”
“Just say what you need to say.”
“I don’t have all the details, since I wasn’t at the hospital six years ago.”
“Do you mean when Austen was born?”
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “No. I mean when he was bought.”
Helena was silent.
“As I understand it, you told Owen to come up with two hundred fifty thousand dollars on the spot. This company was barely
profitable back then. Where did you expect Owen to get that kind of cash? The ATM? Lucky for him, I was willing to pay a quarter
million dollars for a one percent interest that, at the time, had virtually no value at all. Lucky for me—not so lucky for
you—it’s worth much, much more today.”
Helena could no longer hold her tongue. “You are such an ass,” she said, glowering.
“Actually, I’m an extremely fair and reasonable man. Owen may never have liked me, but he was very loyal. I reward that kind of loyalty.”
“I don’t want your reward.”
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “All of us need to be smart. A grand jury is investigating your husband’s death.”
“I’m aware,” said Helena.
“Are you? So much for grand jury secrecy. Did the state attorney tell you?”
“I found out when I was served with a subpoena.”
CJ seemed surprised. “They subpoenaed Owen’s widow without so much as a courtesy call and a heads-up? How tacky.”
“I can deal with it.”
“No, Helena. This is no time to channel Rachel Platten and ‘This Is My Fight Song.’ You need a lawyer. I’ll hire you the best there is.”
“Would that be Jack Swyteck?”
“Swyteck? No. Why do you ask?”
“He called me yesterday and left a message. Said he wanted to talk to me about the grand jury investigation into Owen’s death.
He left another message this morning.”
“Hmm. Strange coincidence.”
CJ didn’t say another word, but Helena sensed there was more to this “coincidence” than he was letting on.
“I googled Mr. Swyteck after the first call,” said Helena.
“Have you called him back yet?”
“No. But from what I saw online, if he’s not the best, he’s up there.”
“Forget about Swyteck. I’m going to do you one better. You can use the company’s outside general counsel at no cost to you.
And she’s not cheap.”
“Who’s that?”
CJ picked up the phone, dialed, and spoke to his assistant on speaker. “Susan, I’m in Owen’s old office with Helena. Get Patricia
Dubrow on the phone for us. It’s very important.”
“Right away, sir.”
He hit the mute button. “I hate lawyers. But you’re going to love Patricia.”
“I’m sure I will,” said Helena.
Then she discreetly checked her cell phone, making sure she still had the message from Jack Swyteck—and his number.