14
By the time Cash reached the inner sanctum of the Battery Club in San Francisco, she was irked and, truth be told, intimidated. This was exactly the kind of exclusive club whose pretentious existence irritated her, and as soon as she was inside, she realized she had dressed wrongly, looking frumpy and out of place in her muddy sneakers, black jeans, and a collared shirt she had spilled a spot of coffee on earlier in the day. The excessively neutral looks she got from the doorkeepers—as if they were struggling to hide their disdain—further annoyed her.
She had wanted to meet in a coffee shop, but Castillo had insisted on meeting her at “his club.” He explained it was “for security purposes,” because the club had strict no-photo and no-video policies in place, and there was a record of everyone who was signed in. As if a UFO crankologist had to worry about being overheard spilling world-shattering secrets.
A uniformed club attendant directed her to the billiards room. The room was a busy space with two beige-colored pool tables, unconventional art, and loud wallpaper. Crimson benches that appeared as if they were made from fluffy tiramisu biscuits rimmed the space and made up a sitting area. There was only one person there, a man shooting pool by himself: Castillo. She had seen pictures of him online, and now she paused in the doorway to take his measure in person. He was a lanky man, mid-thirties, trimmed beard, a black turtleneck, skinny pants, and pointed black shoes. The one imperfect note was his radar ears.
And his pool game. Cash could see he was bad at it—really bad. She could’ve beaten him with one hand tied behind her back. But hismovements were smooth and full of confidence, even if he was missing every single shot he tried to make. He finally looked up from the shot he was lining up—she could see he was going to hit it wrong—and gave her a big smile, his immaculate white teeth gleaming in the light. Putting down the cue, he strode over, hand extended.
“Javi Castillo,” he said. “So good to meet you, Agent Cash.”
Cash wasn’t used to this warm a greeting from an interviewee, especially one who had hung up on her, and it threw her off-balance. “Thank you, Mr. Castillo. We appreciate your cooperation,” she said, more formally than she intended.
“Please call me Javi,” he said.
She didn’t reciprocate the offer, and there was a brief silence.
“Shall we sit?” She gestured toward the seating area.
“I have a better spot, one that’s a little more… secure.” Javi beckoned Cash to follow, and limped up some stairs to a higher floor. Cash followed, a little in awe at how big the club was. Only a handful of people milled about, and most of them appeared to work there.
“Doesn’t usually get busy during the day,” Castillo said, “but there’s a nice out-of-the-way room where we can talk. Here’s the Musto Bar.” He gestured grandly around them as they entered yet another extravagant room. “Everything you see was designed by Ken Fulk.”
She didn’t know who Ken Fulk was and couldn’t care less. Passing to the back of the bar, they entered a lounge area with a pink piano sitting in the corner. The walls were painted swaths of dark forest green and black. A rather handsome guy who looked barely in his thirties, wearing a funky shirt with martini glasses and sporting a man-bun, greeted Castillo by name, nodding at him over a glass he was polishing.
“Hey, Jared, my man,” Castillo said, and grinned in response.
They approached a bookcase in the far wall. Castillo rubbed the head of the bust of Woodrow Wilson set into the bookcase, and a panel swung inward to reveal a hidden room with two couches and musical instruments affixed to the walls.
“The Green Room,” Castillo explained. “Fun, right? Nobody comes in here during the day. I like to hold meetings in here. It’s quiet.”
Cash settled into one of the couches and placed her cell on the little table between them. “Mind if I record?”
“As long as it’s kept confidential.”
“We keep a tight lid on all evidence and interviews,” said Cash.
“Very well, you may record, but you might get scolded by the staff if they notice.” He crossed his legs, in so doing revealing that he had a prosthetic lower leg, gleaming in titanium and steel. She quickly covered up her surprise.
“So,” he continued, “I was terribly shocked to hear about Willy Grooms. What a sweet old man. What can you tell me about the murder?”
“He was found in his cabin in the Flat Tops five days ago. I’m afraid I can’t share most of the details, as they’re still confidential, but it appears…” She hesitated, wondering how much she should share with him. “He may have been tortured.” She looked closely for the reaction.
Castillo appeared confounded. “Tortured? By whom?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr. Castillo.”
“How?”
“That’s confidential, for now.”
Castillo ran fingers through his hair in distress.
She could see that Castillo made an effort to pull himself together. If this was an act, Cash thought, it was a damned good one.
He crossed and uncrossed his legs several times and then said, “Tortured? Hell, I need a drink. And you?”
“I could use a cup of coffee. Instant coffee, if they have it. Cream and sugar.”
