Page 28 of The Older Brother
Chapter 9
As much asI hate hauling cars on our rickety-ass trailer with Miguel’s lifted truck, I needed this alone time to get my head straight. The drive up north on the seventeen has always had a way of resetting my soul. It’s quieter up here. The peace always comes at that point when dirt and cactus finally dissolve into Ponderosa pines. When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was passing through a magic wormhole into another world. The temperature suddenly dips twenty degrees, and the sky gets smaller thanks to tree-peppered mountains.
Getting under my brother’s skin seemed like a good idea until the fucker started showing up more often and inviting me to shit just so he could passive aggressively interrogate me over his ex-girlfriend. I stuck to our story when he showed up in the garage two days ago, but I know he saw more than he let on. Fuck, Saylor’s leg was still wrapped around my head when I heard his pussy-ass motor idle into the driveway. I refuse to confirm anything for him, though. I can tell the thoughts are torturing him. And I’m not stupid. I know what the real reason was that he invited me for a round of golf yesterday morning with some of our father’s clients. He wanted to pair up and getme alone so he could probe more, see if Saylor and I are a thing. The joke was on him, though, because I charmed one of the clients so well that he insisted we share a cart so we could talk more about classic cars and the upcoming auction in Scottsdale.
I roll my window down and breathe in the air, still a warm eighty-four outside but a far cry from the triple digits I left behind. The Welcome to Flagstaff sign greets me just as my phone buzzes in my console. I prop my phone up and swipe the message open so I can glance at it while I’m in a traffic lull on the final stretch into town.
It’s from the seller, a guy named Mike.
MIKE: I’m at Dante’s Diner right off Main. I grabbed a booth. You’ll see the car parked out front.
I give the message a thumbs up, then groan over the fact that this guy seems to want to chat over lunch. I was hoping to hook the car up and head back to town before rush hour hit the city. Miguel didn’t give me a lot of details on the deal, other than the magic words—classic Corvette. I guess it’s in rough shape body-wise, but the engine is solid, so it’s mostly going to be a body job on Mig’s end, maybe a few upgrades under the hood by me and Jersey when he gets back into town this weekend. The price is set, at least it better be because I’m carrying a cashier’s check for fourteen thousand and nothing else.
The exit for Main comes up in minutes, and I’m parked next to what looks like a '67 Vette seconds later. Miguel was right about pouncing. I exit the truck and round the car, eyeing it for opportunities and money pits as best I can before heading into the diner. She needs a new hood, but the doors can be buffed out, and once Mig hits the body with a paint job, we’re looking at doubling our investment at the least.
I flip the truck key ring around my thumb, glancing over my shoulder one last time as I head into the diner. The hard stop I make the moment I’m inside, though, trips my feet a little. Parole Officer Steve slips out of a booth in the far corner of the diner and nods at me as if he’s expecting me. A quick glance around the restaurant fills in the gaps as he’s the only single dude in here, and he’s dressed in a casual gray T-shirt with jeans. His peppered gray hair is a little messy, like he’s just pulled a ball cap from his head. No court badge or white, button down with a pocket protector. This version of the man standing before me now is more weekend warrior, fresh from his kid’s club soccer game.
“Rowan, nice to meet you. I’m Mike.” There’s a directness to his tone, so I reach out and take his hand before sliding into the seat across from him.
“Nice to meet you . . . Mike.” My molars grind together as I search the table for context clues about what the fuck is going on. There’s a folder flipped open with what looks very much like a car title. I twist the folder to face me so I can read the name, and sure enough—Mike Gillespie.
“What can I get you all?” The waitress breaks my confusion spiral, and I pop my gaze up to Mike-slash-Steve about a half second before uttering, “Just coffee for me.”
He leans forward, pulling a pair of black-rimmed glasses from his pocket and sliding them on the bridge of his nose while dropping his gaze down the menu.
“I think I’ll do the pastrami and coffee here, too. Thank you.” He tucks the menu back into the slot behind the canister of sugars and creamers, grinning at our waitress, an older woman with a tightly wrapped bun atop her head.
“Thanks, Sugar,” she winks at him, pushing her pen into the bun before tearing the ticket from her booklet and marching toward the kitchen window behind the counter.
“So, Mike . . .” I roll my head back to face my parole officer head on.
He chuckles and pulls the glasses from his face before pinching the bridge of his nose.
“For this meeting, right now, it’s Mike. You understand?” The grin on his face feels forced, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be smiling back.
I laugh softly and lean back into the booth, keeping up the performance because I understood that much from his vague clues.
“Can’t say I do, Mike. Why don’t you fill me in?”
He pushes the folder toward me and slides the title sheet to the right, uncovering what looks like a copy of an email sent from my father’s office to a man named Lionel Petersen.
“Mind?” I glance up at him for permission to bring the documents closer.
“Of course. You need to know exactly what you’re buying.” Fuck if that’s not a loaded statement right now.
The first email reads fairly boring to me at first, the usual exchange of talking points I’ve heard buzzed through a million times—profit and loss numbers, company business models, legal agreements, including those pending.
I shrug and glance up to meetMike’swaiting gaze.
“Seems like things are all in order here,” I say, about to push the folder back his way. He nods at it, though, hazing his eyes, which I think means I should flip through a few more pages.
That’s when I see it.
The red herring.
The same numbers the company’s CEO sent my father look to have been recalculated a day later, and while they are closely aligned, they aren’t exact matches. And a few of them, specifically cash-flow statements, are wildly different.
“So, whose numbers are right here?” I lift my head and pull my brow in.
