Mr. CEO (29 page)

I
'm
unsure of how to approach Nathan as I get back home. The sun went down hours ago, and Peter is probably gone. Growing up, he almost never spent evenings at home, usually going to see “friends,” as he would put it. So there's a chance that Nathan might be with him if he's actually conducting business.

On the other hand, if Peter's out with any of his current mistresses, he'd leave Nathan behind. Now that I've admitted to myself and to Katrina that he’s a philandering, lying son of a bitch, I'm able to recall little details about the way he does things, things that I'd overlooked or never really cared to think about before. Like dyeing his hair, or the fact that he changes secretaries on a roughly yearly basis. Or the fact that when he's going out to fuck around, he leaves Nathan behind.

I'm encouraged when I see that Peter's Porsche is gone. That thing only has two seats, and unless Nathan’s riding shotgun, he’ll be home. Of course, Peter never lets anyone else drive that German showpiece. I park my Audi and go inside. And here I thought my car was pretentious...

The first person I find is Andrea, sitting in the dining room with her textbooks in front of her. She's stripped out of her power suit and looks more like the twenty-year-old that she is. Shows me how fifteen hours can change someone, I guess. “Hey, Andrea.”

“Whatcha want, Jack?” Andrea asks, grumpy. Studying must be going bad for her. She's always been moody, but normally she's never outwardly hostile to me unless I'm being a jerk to her. “Don't tell me you finished
Rich Dad
.”

“No, I got to chapter four before everything sort of kicked off this morning. Since then, I've been... well, busy. How was your day?”

“Sucked. Got my midterms back.” Oh yeah, she said something a while back about preparing for her summer midterms.

“Andrea, you go three semesters a year, you've been doing that since junior high school. Don't you think, well, maybe you can let go of a test or two? Nobody can throw perfect games each time out. I've had bad lift days, shit like that. Besides, what'd you score?” It is one of the things that I've never grasped about Andrea until meeting Katrina again. Her drive is superhuman, and she's getting her MBA at twenty because of it. Still, it can't be healthy, having graduated high school at sixteen, getting her bachelor's at nineteen and now being more than halfway through her MBA. I've never worried about it before, mainly because I've been too much of a self-absorbed manchild to give a damn. Well, that's going to change. “Come on, Andrea. What'd you score?”

“Only 83 and 87,” she grumps, slamming her book closed. “Happy now?”

“Whoa, whoa, Andrea. I wasn't trying to piss you off,” I hurriedly apologize. I want to snap at her in return, but something, maybe something that rubbed off from Katrina's talk with me, holds me back. “Okay, so you didn't get As in them. And I know, the shitstorm I've raised this past week and a half or so hasn't helped much.”

Andrea takes a deep breath, then nods. “Thank you,
oniichan
. Sorry, too. Margaret was bitchy when Peter left tonight. We had an argument, which is why I'm out here instead of in my room. She's insisted that she hold court over the entire family wing of the house, and threw me out. It was either study here or in the kitchen, and the kitchen's too hot.”

I smile and pat her shoulder. “I understand, thanks for the heads-up. I'm sorry you had to deal with that.” She looks started at first, then nods gratefully. Mom's always treated her like shit, but I've never really bothered to empathize before, I guess because I was always too wrapped up in my own bullshit. That's going to change. “Quick favor. Have you seen Nathan?”

Andrea nods. “After Peter left and Margaret's blow-up, I heard him say something about getting a workout in. You'll probably find him out there, or maybe in his workshop.”

“Thanks. And I owe you a hot chocolate later or something, something to help you stay awake while you study.”

“Sounds good. And Jackson...”

“Yeah, Andrea?” I ask, already heading out the door. I pause, and look back.

She looks like she's going to say something, then shakes her head. “Just... when you get back, if you'd like to talk about what you read, I'll make some time.”

“Thanks. We'll see.”

I leave the dining room and run up to my room, changing clothes quickly. I didn't get a second workout in today yet, and I could use a sweat myself. It only takes me three minutes, and I jog outside. I can hear Mom drunkenly singing to herself in her room, so slurred I can't even make it out, but it sounds like blues. I leave the drunken singing and the main house behind, heading out to the gym. Andrea's right, I find Nathan inside, stripped down to just some compression shorts and pounding on a heavy bag. He puts a lot of thirty-year-old athletes to shame. He’s still pretty ripped, and I can only hope to be in that kind of shape at his age.

A timer goes off, and Nathan stops, stepping away and seeing me for the first time. “How goes your warnings?” he asks, surprised when I don't answer. “What?”

“Did you?” I ask, surprised at how calm I say it, despite my anger. “Did you set the bomb?”

The timer goes off, and Nathan turns back to the bag. His first punch is a jab, but still, the hundred and fifty-pound bag jumps like it's just been shot, only to be followed up almost immediately by a thunderous right hand that shakes the beam the bag is attached to. The foot-thick wooden beam groans and I see dust shake down around him as Nathan continues with his assault on the bag, driving fists, elbows, knees and his bare feet into the leather sides. When the timer goes off again, he looks surprised that I'm still standing there watching him.

“I'm going to repeat myself, Nathan. Did you set the bomb that blew up the Grammercys’ car? No matter how much you want to try and scare the shit outta me by beating up the bag, I'm going to get an answer.”

“You sure about that?” Nathan asks. The timer goes off again, but he ignores it, still looking at me. “You think you can beat an answer out of me?”

“I'll do what I have to, succeed or not. I thought you were a better man than that. Why'd you lie, Nathan, when I asked you about the bomb before?”

“I didn't lie,” Nathan says, stripping off his gloves. “What I said was that I didn't kill Katrina's parents.”

“Considering her father's alive and running a bar in Miami, no shit. Now, are you going to tell me what really happened?”

Nathan goes over to the locker that contains the boxing equipment and pulls out one set of sparring gloves. “Let's see if you really are ready for the answer. You survive two rounds, and I'll tell you a bedtime story.”

“What are the rules?” I ask, catching the gloves as he tosses them to me.

“Boxing. I don't want to actually hurt you, Jackson. But you'll have to earn the truth if you want it. Coming in here and demanding things from me doesn't show me that you're ready for the truth. So I will test your resolve.”

We walk over to the matted area, which is about the closest thing we have to a ring without throwing down outside on the grass. Nathan sets the timer, then pulls his gloves on. “On the bell.”

“No mouthpieces?” I ask. Nathan shrugs, and I get his point. I don't even have one here in the gym, and it doesn't matter anyway. If something gets knocked out, I'll go to the dentist.

The electronic bell goes off, and I come out. I've got size on him, at least twenty pounds, and I'm an inch taller, but I'm taking nothing for granted. He might not want to hurt me, he might be tired and sweaty, but he's not an idiot. In fact, he's perhaps the deadliest man I know.

I lose track of what's happening after his first combination comes whipping toward my head. All I know is that he's a whirlwind, fists coming through every gap in whatever defense I set up. I keep my hands high, protecting my head, hoping that all the crunches and other stomach training I do can keep me from getting put down with a liver shot.

Nathan does notice, and I'm eating punch after punch to my stomach and sides, and I run, dancing and shucking and jiving as best I can. I had decent moves in my last fight, easily avoiding the guy I fought then, some football player from Tulane who thought he was a little tougher than he actually was.

But Nathan's no college football player with more balls than brains. He's trained, he's a professional, and as the bell beeps to signal the end of the first round, I'm already staggering as I head back to the corner.

“You can't take an ass whipping like that again,” Nathan says, barely breathing hard while I kneel in my corner. “Give up.”

“Not until you tell me what you did to the Grammercys.” I get to my feet, my stomach on fire and my legs shaking. “Come on, I won't just be a punching bag this round.”

Nathan's eyes gleam with something that I think is either respect or perhaps pity, or maybe he just thinks I'm out of my fucking gourd. The bell rings and I step out, flicking a jab. It's not much, but I hope it's enough to keep him from just steamrolling me again.

No such luck. In a sweet little move, he switches his stance, his right hand becoming his lead and catching me over my punch, his fist crashing into my jaw. I feel something work loose, and the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth. I stagger back, trying to duck away, covering up. The world is spinning, and suddenly I hit the mat, knocked down.

“One... two... stay the fuck down... four...” Nathan says, and I at least take a little comfort in the fact that he's breathing heavier than he was before. It'd be so easy, giving up. But Katrina would never give up. She's willing to die for her vengeance...

I don't know how I get to my feet, but suddenly I'm up with my fists out, and for some crazy fucking reason, I'm waving Nathan over. “Come on! Is that it, old man?”

Nathan shakes his head and steps forward again, this time back in his typical left-handed stance. His left jab catches me between the eyes, and I eat it, ducking into the punch and throwing everything I have into a right cross that catches him in the side, just under his armpit and causing him to grunt.

He steps back and shakes out his arm. Nodding in respect, he unleashes hell, and I'm forced to just defend again before another sledgehammer explodes in my stomach, and I'm down on one knee.

“Stay the fuck down!” Nathan gasps, stepping back. I hold my stomach and look up at the clock, seeing there's still thirty seconds left. I can survive thirty seconds, hell he’s gasping for breath as much as I am.

I get up, my left hand holding my ribs, and wave him in. “I got a lot more.”

Nathan spits to the side and steps forward again, throwing what he probably thinks is a mercy shot, a looping overhand that if it lands is going to put me into dreamland for quite a while. I weave, coming under the punch and unleashing everything I've got left into a left hook. As weak as I feel right now, it catches Nathan with probably all the force of a sick grasshopper, but still it catches him, and I feel a sense of accomplishment as the bell rings.

He steps back, and wipes a bit of blood from his nose, while I work my jaw and spit, bright red splattering on the mats, but at least no teeth come out. “I did it.”

“You did,” Nathan says, stripping off his glove. He sticks his hand out, and I reciprocate, shaking hands with the man. “I didn't think you had it in you to get up from that second one.”

“Bullshit, you didn't think I'd get up from the first one,” I reply, rubbing my jaw. “Think we can get something to ice this thing? I'm not sure I won't lose a tooth still.”

“Yeah. Let's sit outside, and I'll get you an ice pack.”

We go out by the pool, Nathan going inside and coming back out a minute later with a bag of frozen peas and a couple of bottles of mineral water. I notice that Andrea's still at the dining room table, watching us as Nathan hands me the peas and sits down. He cracks one of the mineral waters and passes it over. “Sorry, no ice packs, but the peas work just fine, too.”

“Thanks. How's the nose?”

“Not bad, didn't break anything. You got my respect for that one,” Nathan says, cracking the other mineral water and taking a drink. “Now... I owe you a story.”

I nod, and swirl some water around in my mouth, washing out what's left of the blood before spitting it onto the lawn. “What makes the grass grow green?” I joke, and Nathan chuckles as I finish the line, ingrained for him but just a movie quote for me. “Blood, blood, blood.”

Nathan takes another drink of his water then leans back. “Samuel Grammercy isn't the saint that his daughter thinks he is. Then again, considering the man left his own daughter behind in this city's foster care system, I guess you already figured that out. But Samuel wasn't even the good cop that the papers made him out to be.”

“What was he?” I ask. “Nathan, I never really got to know the man. And I missed the timeline on his death, which is something I still regret since I missed Katrina going into the system, too.”

“That was Peter's plan,” Nathan says quietly. “The truth is, Samuel worked for Peter, or perhaps it'd be better to say worked for Peter's friends. You see, while Samuel got plenty of busts, the vast majority of them fell into two categories. Either he was busting the guys who were enemies of his employers, or he was doing an end around.”

“What's an end around?” I ask. Nathan smirks and gives me a look. “Seriously. I've been deluded for years, so don't just assume I know fucking everything.”

“Okay. An end around is when Samuel would arrest or bust someone, but then before the case went to trial, something would get screwed up, charges were never pressed, whatever. The key part of an end around though happens in the evidence room. Say that a week ago, the cops made a bust for ten guns. Then Samuel pulls the end around, and in checking in evidence from his bust, things get mixed up, and when the charges are dropped, the evidence is returned to the suspects, but the first case shows only five guns on their bust now. Guess where those other five guns went? Right into Samuel's friends' evidence.”

“And this was profitable?” I ask, surprised. “Seems like a lot for five guns.”

“Oh, Samuel pulled end arounds for more than just five guns,” Nathan said. “He was damn near an expert in doing that sort of evidence tag switch on stolen property, too. Computers, art, currency, anything except drugs. It wasn't that Samuel had a problem with drugs, it's just that NOPD policy is to destroy drugs regardless of whether charges stick or are dropped. He had a whole other funnel system in place for that one.”