Deep in space, a star named KIC 8462852 flickers for some unknown reason, while down on Earth an ex-cop, ex–security agent, ex-husband, and ex–amateur bowler grimaces as he downs a glass of spinach juice and hopes that his internal organs are paying attention to the effort he’s making on their behalf.
This particular star has confounded scientists the world over by its constant dimming and brightening, while Jon Brazuca confounds only himself with his new resolution to be kinder to his body. He inherited low self-esteem from his spineless mother and weak-chinned father, both of whom apologized through life and then on into their retirement.
But Brazuca is over it. This demeaning cycle of “I’m sorry” and “I beg your pardon” would end with him.
He is turning over a new leaf, and then blending it into a smoothie.
The evening sun is low on the horizon and he is filled with chlorophyll and contentment. Brazuca has always been more awake at night, more alive, and has now turned to astronomy to help fill in the gaps. He is not a man of science, but wishes that he were. His mother had once taken him to Spain as a child, to the cliffs of Famara, and together they had looked out at the stars reflected in pools of water on the beachfront below.
Thinking of this, he longs for a simpler time, when women he generously pleasured didn’t drug him and tie him to a bed, leaving him to be found by astonished maids. Which is something that actually happened to him approximately a year ago. Nora Watts, the woman he’d attended AA meetings with, the woman who had gone and lost a daughter that she hadn’t even wanted, the woman whom he felt compelled to help for no rhyme or reason that made any goddamn sense to him—she had left him high, literally, but not at all dry. No, she’d fed him a booze-and-sedative cocktail that put him to sleep and gave his body the little bump it had been wanting for so very long.
And it has taken him months to kick the habit again.
Brazuca stands on the balcony of his apartment in East Vancouver and winks up at the sky, in the general direction of the flickering star he has read about in a magazine. He feels for a brief moment a sort of affinity for the universe. He chugs the rest of the juice and belches in contentment.
His friend Bernard Lam has asked him to come over, and for the first time ever, he feels like hanging out with a billionaire.
“Brazuca,” says Lam, at the door of his sprawling Point Grey mansion. If there’s a housing crisis in Vancouver, it might be because so much space has been taken up by this single estate. There’s an east wing and a west wing, and about twenty rooms in between them. There are outdoor courts for every sport, and a miniature golf course for variety. If you get bored of the saltwater pool, there’s a freshwater one on the other side of the property.
Bernard Lam, the playboy son of a wealthy businessman and philanthropist, gestures for Brazuca to follow him inside. His famous charm is nowhere to be seen. His manner is grave and uncertain as he leads Brazuca down a long hallway filled with family photographs mounted on the wall, newer photos of Lam and his recent bride, and then into a study. “What’s wrong?” Brazuca asks as soon as the door is closed behind them.
“One moment.” Lam goes to his laptop on the desk. There’s a bottle of scotch next to him and no photos to speak of here. It is a family-free zone. Lam turns the screen toward Brazuca.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, glancing at the woman on Lam’s computer. In the picture, she’s in a sundress on a yacht, laughing up at the camera. She’s tall and voluptuous, with a sheet of glossy dark hair and bright eyes.
“Her name was Clementine. She was the love of my life.”
No amount of spinach juice can stop the headache that begins at Brazuca’s temples at Lam’s use of past tense. The woman in the photo wasn’t the woman on the walls of the family home. So the love of his life was not Lam’s new bride. “When?”
“They found her last week in her apartment. They say it was an overdose. She’s . . . she was four months pregnant.”
“Yours?” Brazuca asks, careful to keep his voice even.
Lam raises a brow, as if the possibility of anything else doesn’t even exist.
Brazuca decides not to push. “So what do you need?”
“You’re still working with that small PI outfit? They give you any time off?”
“I take contracts as needed. They’re flexible.” His new employers weren’t picky about what work he chose, as long as he took some of it off their hands. They’d even offered to make him a partner in a more formal sort of arrangement, but he’d said no to that. He didn’t want formal.
“Good,” says Lam. “That’s very good. I need you to find out who her dealer is.”
“Bernard . . .”
“You will, of course, be generously compensated.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Then do it for a friend. Do it for me. My girl and my child are dead. I want to know who’s responsible.”
Brazuca wonders if Lam knows that, with the use of the word girl, he has painted both of them with the same brush of idealized innocence. “You’re not going to like what comes out of this,” he says quietly. “It will bring you no peace of mind.” Death by overdose is a nasty thing to deal with. Blame is hard to pin down.
“Who says I want peace of mind?” Lam pours a shot of scotch into his glass and knocks it back. “I’ll give you the paperwork and her contacts. They didn’t find anything on her phone. The drug she took . . .” He looks away, gathers his thoughts. “It was cocaine laced with a new synthetic opiate now hitting the streets. A fentanyl derivative more potent than what’s been seen before, and actually stronger than fentanyl. Called YLD Ten.”
“Wild Ten? I’ve heard of it. Not much. But I know it’s out there.” It was the stupid name that got to him. Easy to remember when you place an order from your friendly neighborhood drug dealer.
“Then you know how dangerous it is. She was only twenty-five. She had her whole life ahead of her, Jon, and it was with me. I need to know. Please.”
“Okay,” Brazuca says, after a minute. Because he’s not the kind of man who can say no to a cry for help. Turns out, his leaf isn’t so fresh after all. “I’ll look into it. Do you have a key to her apartment?”
Lam nods. “Of course. I own the place.”
“Of course,” Brazuca murmurs. “I’ll get started right away.” He doesn’t have to say the “sir” because it’s implied. Bernard Lam, whose life he saved several years earlier, is oblivious to this dig.