Chapter 35
Helena left Austen at home with a babysitter and drove to C. J. Vandermeer’s waterfront estate on Miami Beach.
It was time for a showdown.
North of the famous South Beach area, a line of towering Australian palm trees stretched for about forty blocks, dividing
north-south traffic on a street known, appropriately enough, as Pine Tree Drive. CJ’s modern two-story mansion was on the
east side, facing the Intracoastal Waterway, though the massive house and lush landscaping made it impossible to gather even
a glimpse of the waterway from the street. His driveway was packed with vehicles when Helena pulled up, so she parked on the
median beneath a pine tree and walked across the street.
CJ lived alone, but he was rarely without company. Owen had told her that every night was a party at CJ’s. Helena had never
witnessed anything firsthand, but CJ had told her on multiple occasions that she was always welcome—so long as she didn’t
bring Owen. She’d never taken him up on the offer. Never needed to. Until tonight.
Helena climbed the grand staircase to the glass entrance doors on the second level, which was the main floor. The doors were
fourteen feet high, and the back of the house was completely glass, so Helena could see all the way through to the infinity
pool and, beyond that, a drop-dead view of the waterway and twinkling skyline of Miami Beach. Helena counted far too many
partiers for the number of cars in the driveway, which probably meant that most had arrived by ride service—a wise move in
a neighborhood where not even Justin Bieber could talk his way out of an arrest for drag racing past the pine trees in his
yellow Lamborghini.
Helena rang the doorbell. A server answered, and the moment the door opened, it was as if someone had suddenly cranked the stereo to maximum volume.
“Can I help you?” the server asked. She was just three feet away from Helena, but she practically had to shout to be heard
over the music.
“I’m here to see CJ,” said Helena.
“Name?”
Helena gave it, and the server checked the guest list on her phone. “You’re not on the list,” she said. “I can let you in,
but only if you go straight to the swimming pool.”
Helena took another look. As far as she could tell, everyone in the pool was younger than her and completely naked. A few
looked even younger than her dance students.
“I just need five minutes with CJ,” said Helena.
“That’s a little quick. Even for CJ.”
It sounded like a joke, but Helena was starting to think the gatekeeper was just stupid. “Not that kind of ‘five minutes.’
I need to talk—”
Helena stopped midsentence, as she spotted CJ coming up the stairs. He had a young woman on each arm, and it was a tossup
as to who looked the most stoned.
“CJ!” Helena shouted.
He stopped, smiled, and said something to his girlfriends du jour. They seemed disappointed to be given the “buzz off,” until
CJ handed them a packet of something—fentanyl-free, Helena hoped—and they were happy again. They headed back downstairs to
the party, and CJ went to Helena.
“Finally, you accepted my standing invitation,” he said with a grin. “Come inside. Join the party. Would you like to go for
a swim?”
Helena noted that he didn’t ask if she’d brought a bathing suit. “I’m good,” she said.
CJ took her by the elbow and tried to lead her toward the staircase, but she shook free and stopped.
“I’m not here to party, CJ.”
“Everybody comes here to party.”
Helena gazed through the glass wall to the bacchanalia on the lawn. Two more naked bodies splashed into the swimming pool.
The dance floor, too, had suddenly become “clothing optional.” The night was starting to look less like a “party” and more
like a brothel scene from Game of Thrones, but Helena kept her focus.
“I came to talk about the gun my dog dug up in the yard this morning.”
CJ fell silent. He seemed to appreciate the seriousness of the matter. “Let’s talk in there,” he said, pointing with a glance
toward the door at the end of the hallway.
Helena went with him. CJ opened the door. Helena froze, but the oiled-up threesome on the mattress kept at it, unfazed by
the audience.
“Out!” CJ shouted.
A woman and two men ran naked across the room, out the door, and into the hallway. CJ closed the door.
“Remind me to burn those bedsheets,” he said.
“Can you please be serious for thirty seconds?”
“Yes, of course. Go ahead.”
Helena took a breath. “Boo found my Beretta in the yard.”
“Interesting,” he said dryly.
“The police say it has no serial number.”
“Very interesting.”
“Is that all you can say, CJ? Interesting?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to explain why the gun you gave me has no serial number on it.”
His expression turned very serious. He almost looked sober. “Here’s the thing, Helena: I never gave you a gun.”
Her mouth fell open. “What do you mean you never gave me a gun? You gave me that Beretta when—”
Helena stopped herself. Her blood was about to boil, as the realization set in. “I’ve been set up,” she said in disbelief.
“Excuse me?”
“You bastard,” she said sharply. “You set this up to make it look like Owen’s death was my fault.”
“That’s not possible.”
“How is it not possible?”
“The way I understand the term, a ‘setup’ would mean you didn’t shoot Owen.”
Helena had always considered CJ dangerous. Even so, she was beginning to think she’d underestimated him.
There was a knock on the door. CJ answered. It was the woman they’d chased from the room. She was wrapped in what appeared
to be a curtain or drapery from one of the other bedrooms.
“Uh, can we get our clothes, CJ? Please?”
Helena had seen and heard enough. “Hope you get an STD, you pig,” she told CJ on her way out. Then she stopped short in the
hallway. The lighting was dim, but there was something familiar about the woman wrapped in the drapery.
“Aren’t you Elliott Stafford’s girlfriend?” she asked.
“Me? No. Who’s Elliott?”
Helena detected some nervousness in her response, and she was almost certain that she’d seen the young woman around the courthouse
for the hearing. But she let it drop.
“Never mind.”
Helena hurried down the hallway, never looking back on her way to the front door, down the steps, and across the street to
her car.