States of Grace by Mandy Miller (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

and motion Miranda to follow me into the back room. “And this here is the kitchen complete with chipped enamel sink and…”

Vinnie casts a sideways glance at the adjoining toilet with no door and coughs. “We’ll need to fix that eyesore first. Can’t be makin’ coffee in the same place where you…Well, you know what I mean.”

We climb a rickety wooden staircase to the second floor which is empty except for cobwebs the size of hammocks.

“Hey, can you give me a hand?”

Downstairs, we find Jake hauling in two chairs, a coffee maker, and a microwave from the bed of his truck. “Housewarming gifts from the staff of the Star,” he says with a flourish, like a game show host.

“You have a staff?”

“Hey, you met Moose.”

“Thanks, Jake. Totally not necessary, but much appreciated.”

For the rest of the afternoon, our little merry band scrubs, mops, and dusts, cleaning away years of neglect. We position the desk against the back wall, facing the storefront window which has also been relieved of decades of grime. Jake even manufactures a makeshift bathroom door with a blue tarp, the type used to cover damaged roofs after hurricanes. It’s the most joyous afternoon I’ve spent in a long time, the perennial knot in my gut replaced by what might be hope.

“How about we go back to The Hurricane and I’ll put some food on the grill?”

I drag one of the chairs behind the desk. “Thanks Vin, but I think I’ll spend some time getting settled in.”

“Just us boys then, Jakey. Let’s go. I’m hungry after all this slave labor.”

***

After they’re gone, I venture out with Miranda to survey my new neighborhood. As twilight descends, junkies huddle in doorways of abandoned buildings, grubby coats pulled around their wasted bodies, like nightcrawlers waiting in the shadows for nightfall to troll for their next fix. A group of young men crowds around a milk crate playing cards and talking trash. A mother drags a toddler away from a blind man who’s weaving hats out of banana leaves when he tries to stick one of his creations on her head. Like I said, it’s not much, but it’s a start. And it’s all mine.

We’ve only been gone thirty minutes, but by the time we get back, at least a dozen handbills have been wedged in the door jamb, offering everything from tarot card readings to silicone shots to plump up your butt. I unlock the four deadbolts Jake insisted on installing. Miranda bounds inside and settles herself in a dog bed Vinnie left by the front door. I pull the snub nose Smith & Wesson from my jacket pocket and put it in the top drawer of the desk. Firepower beats locks every day of the week. And so does a huge canine with sharp incisors.

I connect to Ivory Soul Kitchen’s guest Wi-Fi network, log onto the Broward County Property Appraiser’s website, and type in the address for the Florida Center for Pain, and scroll down to the sections labeled Property Owner and Mailing Address. I repeat the process in the counties for each of the FCP clinics and find the property owner and mailing address to be identical for all five locations listed on the flyer: Doloris Holdings, Inc., 1001 Federal Road, Suite 310, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33301. I Google the address and find it’s a UPS Store. Doloris Holdings looks to be a shell company, but one set up by someone with a maudlin sense of humor, Doloris being the Latin word for pain. Six years of prep-school Latin did not go for naught.

I search for Doloris Holdings on the Florida Department of Corporations site—incorporated in 2005, same Federal Highway address and owner.

I rub my eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“Holy roller! Gretchen owns the FCP pain clinics!” I yell, causing Miranda to leap from her post by the door and race to my side.

“No way! The FCP clinics are owned by Gretchen?”

Right there in black and white—Doloris Holdings’ most recent annual report lists only one officer, its president, Gretchen Post. Post, Gretchen’s maiden name. At least one good thing came of cyberstalking Gretchen back when I was trying to figure out who Manny was sleeping with.

I slump back in my chair, hands on my head. “But what, if anything, does Gretchen have to do with Sinclair, other than the fact that Zoe goes to St. Paul’s?”

Miranda sits back on her haunches, eyes fixed on me.

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence that Sinclair was arrested at one of Gretchen’s clinics, the same place I saw Serena? Or are they all connected? And what would that matter? There’s still the proverbial smoking gun and then the fact that Zoe had a crush on Sinclair, who was sleeping with Serena, and…”

I glance down at Miranda, her gaze so earnest, as if what I’m saying is of the utmost importance to the future of mankind.

“Gretchen owning FCP doesn’t change a thing, does it? It makes her a shady lady, but it doesn’t mean Zoe didn’t kill Sinclair.”

A low growl.

“I hear you. I don’t think she did either.”

“Aghhh!” I get up to switch off the overhead light, which sounds like a dying fly. “More damn questions than answers at every turn.”

I sit back behind the desk and pull the chain on the green banker’s desk lamp, a law school graduation gift from my father which Vinnie nabbed from my home office and brought over.

“I need to get some blinds for that thing,” I mumble, feeling exposed in face of the window which spans the entire front of the building.

Outside, the dregs of daylight are fading and it’s raining, making my ghetto look less ghetto, softening its rapier-sharp edges as in a moody black-and-white photograph from an earlier time, one where men in trench coats waited under lamp posts, faces obscured by fedoras.

A fire engine siren pierces my reverie, sound waves attenuating as it vanishes into the night on its way to someone’s misfortune.

I pace around, trying on a few theories for size. Why