Retirement Can Be Murder

CHAPTER 24

When he left to interview Simeon Rothschild that afternoon, Kaylie was waiting outside his door. She sat in front of her own, her shorts sliding up her legs. The tan didn’t stop. He didn’t have time to banter with her now, but she didn’t want to banter. She wanted to make plans.

“We’re supposed to go out.” She was still sitting down, chewing on a piece of grass. He looked down and closed his door.

“I’m sorry, I just made an appointment for tonight.”

“When?”

“Around eight.”

“What’s your appointment? Are you ditching us? You agreed to have drinks.”

“I’m not ditching.” He put his keys back in his pocket. “I’m just saying that I have plans.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going for a long walk on the beach.”

“Romantic,” she said and tilted her head. “We’ll go out when you get back.”

“Will your friends wait?”

“They can handle it.” She reached up for him to help her stand. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. Close to him. Then she turned and opened the door to her apartment. It was unlocked.

He didn’t like going out with big groups and playing the memory game with names and faces. He hated trying to get in a word before splitting up the check. But he was still looking forward to it. After meeting with Simeon Rothschild and Abram Samuels in one day, he guessed he was going to need a drink.

Rothschild’s secretary made Jake wait ten minutes. She didn’t bother smiling. He sat in a chair and settled in. Not that the waiting room wasn’t impressive. The building was small, but even the fourth floor had an unobstructed water view. From the couch it looked like a painting on the wall. Jake was staring at it when the secretary said he could go in and see Rothschild.

He was sitting at a perfectly clean desk, wearing a white shirt with the top two buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled up. He might have cleaned the desk, but he was staying loose. He thrust up his chin and stared at Jake. His light clothes made his black eyes look even darker.

“Let’s start things off right. How do you like your steak?”

Jake sat down in front of the desk and got out his notebook. Leather-bound books in back. Another view of the beach to the side. And abstract art posing on every wall. The man knew how to make an office, and probably a lunch, too. But he couldn’t start eating steak again.

“I’d love a salad.”

“A salad? For a guy like you?”

“I had a big breakfast.”

“Understood.”

Rothschild pressed a button on the desk and started speaking.

“Tell Jean-Gil to bring us two steaks, medium. And a salad. I’ll have water. Mr. Russo?”

“Actually, just a salad is fine-”

“What will you have to drink?”

“I really don’t need the steak.”

“To drink?”

“Water.”

“Two waters,” Rothschild said and tapped the button again. “If you don’t want our steak, we can let it sit. It’s very good.”

“I see.”

“Jean-Gil studied in France. I keep him here and cycle him through some of our communities. He’s got a great touch. A real sense of food.”

“I see.” He looked at his notebook and Rothschild laughed.

“You use a notebook. How quaint. Do you need me to spell Jean-Gil’s name? If not, then shoot.”

He didn’t want to. He had two sets of questions written in. The real ones and “Handling Handle’s” gossip inquisition. He decided to start with his own.

“So, Mr. Rothschild-”

“Simeon.”

“Simeon,” he said. “Thanks again for your time. Are you sure you want to photograph on a separate day? You seem fine now.”

“Absolutely. I only do photographs in suits. Our residents expect a professional, not a casual supervisor. You can quote me on that. I’m merely dressed like this today due to a prior engagement.”

“What’s that?”

“I have kite-sailing later.”

“I see.” He wrote it down. His readers wouldn’t know what kite-sailing was. But whatever they imagined would probably be as glamorous.

“Simeon, I wanted to start with the environmentalists I saw at your banquet. Has that type of protest happened before?”

“I’m glad you asked.” He glanced down at his desk and pressed another button. “They are true radicals. Have you seen this?”

Jake looked right as a projector screen descended in front of a well-stocked bar. Rothschild shook his head.

“I had my secretary record this for me. It’s simply absurd.”

He pressed another button and a bearded man appeared on the screen. It was the man from the banquet. He was flanked by a woman wearing overalls. Images of trees moved in the background, and the woman shouted while the man shook his head in silence.

“Vote No on the Development Proposition! We cannot allow development on our wetlands.”

Jake wrote it down.

“Keep watching.”

“Our wetlands have been here for centuries,” the woman cried. “But man has not! We must respect the native environment. We never should have come here. And we never should have interfered with nature. You all have blood on your hands.”

The bearded man showed his hands, painted red. The woman seemed to do the talking.

“We hope you are all destroyed if the wetlands are.” Rothschild raised his eyebrows. “It’s only fair. Someone will do to you what you have done to our environment. Don’t let this Development Proposition hasten nature’s revenge.”

The bearded man clapped his red hands together. The screen flashed a screaming face and a fallen tree, and then showed “Paid for by the Saving Tomorrow Initiative” before turning black. Rothschild rested his hands on his perfectly clean desk.

“Do you know where they aired that advertisement, Mr. Russo?”

“No.”

“Everywhere. They showed it on all the morning shows locally. On the talk shows. On some of the soaps. Every channel that most local residents watch.”

“It’s very…dogmatic.”

Rothschild laughed.

“That’s one word for it. I have a few more.”

“What?”

“Insane,” he said sharply. “Outrageous. Threatening. Cruel. They are willing to do anything for their cause. And you saw it. I’d say that the entire thing is, frankly, anti-human. It doesn’t even give people an opportunity to weigh the issues involved.”

Jake wrote and underlined the group’s name: Saving Tomorrow Initiative. He’d check on them later. He looked at the next line in his notebook-all “Handling Handle” questions. Rothschild’s face was red with anger-it wasn’t the right time. It would never be the right time.

“Has this been going on long?”

“They’ve ramped up for the Development Proposition. The vote is coming soon, and they know they have to resort to this kind of fear mongering. Forgive me, but I believe that people don’t have to apologize for building homes. And you can quote me.”

He was quoting him when someone knocked at the door. A man wheeled in a cart with their food on it. He set a steak and salad in front of Jake, the white plate tinged pink with juice. He could smell the smoke and steam mingling. He imagined how it would feel, the knife slicing through with just a touch. Like the old days. He blinked and looked at Rothschild.

“How did it get here so quickly? That took less than ten minutes.”

“Simple.” Rothschild started cutting. “I ordered before you got here.”

“But how did you know what I’d order?”

“What you ordered didn’t stop me.” He stabbed a large chunk of beef. “Did it?”

Jake picked up a fork and looked at the salad. He pushed the steak aside, only touching the plate with his pinky finger.

“Mr. Rothschild, I’m sorry, but-”

“Simeon. Please.”

“Simeon, I have to ask you another question.”

Rothschild stopped chewing.

“Is it about the recent tax code changes? I think you’ll find that we have an interesting position. Some of my critics-Jerry Rubenstein-might tell you differently, but it’s really a more nuanced issue than that.”

“No, I wish it were something like that.”

“Well, spit it out.”

He had to ask the question. After all, this is what he’d come to do. Whether Rothschild liked it or not.