James cursed when he found no parking places near her building. Impatient to find her, he pulled in front of the apartment building and threw the car into park.
"Is she in?" he asked the doorman when he jumped out of the car. His voice held all the force of drill sergeant.
"Miss Gregory came in about five thirty."
James's knees nearly gave out with relief. "Did she leave again?" His tone was softer. He felt bad about barking at the man.
"No, sir."
James didn't wait for anything more. He pulled the glass door toward him and rushed inside.
"Mr. Hill, your car," the doorman called.
James flipped his keys over his shoulder. The man rushed sideways as he went for the outside pass. James continued into the waiting elevator. At Elizabeth's door, he knocked loudly and called her name. Anger was getting the better of him. She'd stood him up, not answered her phone and caused him undue stress. His heart felt tight in his chest and he was wet with perspiration at the adrenalin high she'd put him through.
She didn't reply.
"I know you're in there." He banged again. "Open this door."
***
The banging startled her. Elizabeth sat up, drawing her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She lowered her head to her knees and rocked. How could it be true? She'd denied it for three years, told herself the SEC was wrong, that James was the most honest man she'd ever met. He wouldn't embezzle money. Yet he'd done it. She looked at the damning paper as if it were a snake. It lay at her feet, poised, ready to strike. It was all there. Claire had kept the entire file of transactions he'd done. Then Claire died and James had somehow fudged the records. He'd walked away, his skin intact, absolved of all responsibility, while $650,000 and a woman's life had been lost.
"Elizabeth, please open this door." She heard him. His voice was lower, muffled through the thickness of the barrier between them. It no longer sounded angry. "I just want to make sure you're all right."
All right, she thought. That was a laugh. She didn't think she'd ever be all right again. To think she'd almost fallen in love with him again. After years of trying to forget what he looked like, how his arms felt around her, how good he smelled and tasted. In a week he'd erased all the ground she'd gained and placed her back in that vulnerable position she'd stood in three years ago. She wouldn't open the door. She didn't care what the neighbors thought of him banging on the steel door as if it were a barn.
She rocked back and forth. Tears rolled silently down her face. After twenty minutes he stopped. Then the phone began to ring. She knew it was him, knew he had a mobile unit in his car. She refused to answer. She sat rocking, staring into space, around her the floor was cluttered with flat daggers, knives that had stabbed at her sense of euphoria and ripped it to shreds.
Three years ago he'd sworn it wasn't true; that what she'd heard, what Claire had said wasn't the whole truth. Reaching over she picked up the paper. Here was the truth. A listing of funds transfers, dollar amounts, dates, times, and James's transaction identification code, as unique as a finger print, next to each one. The code was an anagram of their names with their wedding date embedded in it. It could only be James's. Claire had used the word MAJESTIC as her identification. It was the name of the apartment building where she lived. She said it was easy to remember and no one would guess what it was.
Elizabeth let the paper go. It floated on the warm air, cutting half moons as it settled at her feet. She stared at the it until it blurred before her eyes. Her head pounded with the beginning of a headache. She didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore.
After a while she told herself to think straight. She needed to make decisions, decide what would happened now. She was going to have to break any ties with James. He was a liar, a thief and maybe a killer. She rejected the latter. Claire's accident had been just that, but the papers before her were another matter. In truth, she should send the files to the SEC. He deserved to go to jail for what he'd done. A fresh batch of tears rushed into her eyes. Elizabeth bowed her head and sobbed. Huge gobs of water ran over her knees, wetting her skirt. She held her head, trying to contain the pounding as more salt water rushed into her eyes.
She couldn't send him to jail. She realized it now. No matter what, she'd fallen hopelessly in love with him.
Chapter 8
James hadn't slept all night. He paced the bedroom, replaying yesterday's events in his mind, trying to find the one thing he'd done or said to make Elizabeth react as she had. They'd spoken on the phone. She'd told him the day was going slow. She couldn't wait to leave and she would meet him for dinner at the Key Bridge Marriott right after she closed. Her voice had sounded glad to hear him. She'd been smiling. He could hear it through the clear wonders of fiber optic phone lines.
He'd sat in the bar waiting. The tiny white lights that twinkled in the ceiling year round gave the place the look of Christmas. He'd imagined Elizabeth there among the star-spangled night. What could have happened to make her refuse to talk to him, even acknowledge his presence at her door? If it hadn't been for her neighbors checking to see what the noise was about, he's still be there. Someone had to have come into the shop and upset her, but who? Theresa?
He'd talked to Theresa two days ago. She wouldn't have done it. She was the only person, other than himself, who knew the whole story about Claire and she would never hurt Elizabeth by telling her. Grabbing the phone James dialed her number.
"Did you talk to Elizabeth, yesterday?" he asked when a sleepy voice answered.
"James, is that you? Do you know what time it is?"
He took a deep, calming breath and checked the digital dial of the clock radio on the bedside table. It read five o'clock. Elizabeth was driving him out of his mind. "I'm sorry, Theresa."
"You've been up all night," she stated. "What's happened?"
"Have you spoken to Elizabeth?"
"No, why?"
"Something happened yesterday. I don't know what, but I can't get her on the phone and she refused to open the door for me at her apartment."
"Are you sure she was home?"
"Her car was parked in the garage and the doorman said she'd come in and not gone out again."
"Do you want me to--"
"No, don't do anything," he interrupted. "I'll find her and I'll find out what wrong."
He could hear Theresa's hesitation through the silence of the phone line. "Call me when you find her," she commanded.
"I will." He felt deflated as he replaced the instrument in its cradle.
Morning dawned with a light snow. The weathermen predicted a white Christmas. At eight-thirty James dialed Elizabeth's phone number again. He'd been calling her since seven. He was greeted by two rings and the incessant voice on the answering machine saying she was unable to come to the phone at this time. "Unable or unwilling," he muttered, slamming the receiver into place.
Unconsciously he paced the room. Nothing made sense. He needed to talk to her. There was no way he could solve this...this, what was this? Checking his watch, it was nearly time for her to open Invitation to Love. Taking the time to shower and dress he retraced his route from the night before. She'd already left her apartment when he got there. The shop also showed no activity. He sat next to the empty space where Elizabeth usually parked. Where would she go? When he was tense he usually went to the gym. When Elizabeth needed to be alone, where--. He stopped, his heart thudding against his chest. White flakes collected on the hood and in the angle created by the windshield wipers. When Elizabeth was upset there was only one place she'd go -- home.
James reversed out of the space and pointed the car toward Wisconsin Avenue. Snow in the District impeded traffic like it did no where else on earth. The cobblestone street was backed up with bumper-to-bumper cars. He crawled at the pace of turtle until he passed the library at R Street. Then the road widened and he raced along at a whopping fifteen miles an hour behind a line a cars whose drivers appeared to have all the time in world.
>
A drive that usually took ten minutes took over an hour. Finally, he turned onto Cathedral Avenue and raced toward his parent's house. The garage doors were closed and the driveway empty except for a layer of snow. The faint shadow of two sets of tires told him his parents had left long ago. Hopefully they had arrived at work before the crowds on Wisconsin Avenue brought traffic to a near stand still. He parked and got out. Scanning the neighborhood, he searched for any sign of Elizabeth. Then he saw her car. Snow covered it. She'd been here a long time.
Rejecting the entrance door to his parent's house, James jogged around to the back. Across the yard set a red-brick three-story colonial that Elizabeth and her family had lived in until she was thirteen. The house was empty now. The last family moved out a month ago. They had added a large pool. It was straight alone one side and staggered alone the other. A green covered closed it for the winter. The white snow nearly obliterated the green. Behind the pool a large collection of bushes flanked the back wall. In front of them set a white-painted garden swung. In this light the swing would have blended into the white surroundings created by the falling snow. Elizabeth's dark fur coat contrasted with it as she swung back and forth. Her eyes were fixed in front of her. James stopped when he saw her. He wondered how long she'd been there. Her face looked frozen. Her hands were inside her pockets and snow covered her boots to her ankles.
Quietly he approached. She didn't move. Even if she saw him in her peripheral vision, she gave no acknowledgment.
"Elizabeth," he called softly.
She didn't move. He wasn't sure she knew he was there.
"Elizabeth, we need to talk."
The swing squeaked as it moved; the only sound in the still morning. James stepped inside the swing and sat next to her. Her eyes were fixed, like a person lost in an inner world.
"You can't stay here. It's too cold." He was afraid to reach for her. She looked as if she'd shatter if he touched her. "Come on. We'll talk inside."
Elizabeth's head slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were as cold as the howling wind that gusted up and stirred the snow. She gave him a stare that would wither a man. He withstood it not knowing why it was directed at him.
"Did you do it?" Venom dripped from her lips.
"Do what?"
"Did you steal $650,000."
James's shoulders dropped. "Yes," he said.
***
Elizabeth had known if she stayed at the old house long enough James would remember. He had remembered the ice cream from moving in day. They'd grown up together, been engaged. He knew what she did when she was happy and that she always found her way to this house when she was sad. He'd found her here countless times after her parents died. Although it had been years since she needed the anchor of the red brick building, she had no other place to go. She couldn't stay in her apartment with Claire's files staring at her like open wounds. Here seemed the only place she could go, where memories made her smile and lightened her heart.
She'd seen James the moment he came around the patio, but didn't move. The wind didn't bother her, she was numb already and the coldness hadn't penetrated to her core until James uttered the monosyllable.
All night she'd told herself there had to be another explanation. No way was he capable of stealing that much money and blaming someone else for it. Yet each time she convinced herself of his honesty the hateful piece of paper would prove her wrong.
Elizabeth stood up and stepped out of swing. "Can you explain?" she asked.
He stared directly at her. His eyes were steady and without a hint of guilt. He shook his head.
"What did you do with the money?"
"I can't tell you."
"Three years ago you swore to me you'd done nothing wrong. Now you admit you're a thief." A chill caught her and she shivered.
"Elizabeth, I never lied to you."
"They both can't be true, James. Either you took the money or you didn't."
He stared at her but offered no explanation. Elizabeth felt frustrated. She wanted him to tell her something. Anything that would explain the transfer of funds to a personal account and they a sudden transfer out. She couldn't trace where it had gone; to a numbered account in Switzerland, to the private banks of the Cayman Islands, she didn't know.
"Say something!" she ordered, her body reeling in the wind.
"It's not possible for me to explain it, Elizabeth."
"Then you admit it. Everything Claire told me about you was true. You embezzled money and tried to blame her. She'd have gone to jail if she hadn't died."
"I wish I could explain...."
Elizabeth waited for him to continue. The wind died down and momentarily there was stillness. Between them accusation crackled like dry leaves, but neither offered reasonable cause to doubt the facts at hand. James said nothing, but maintained a steady gaze as if the airwaves between them would tell Elizabeth what she wanted to know. Frustrated she turned and walked away. Her booted heels clicked when she reached the pavement. James didn't follow or try to stop her. At the gate to the street, she looked over his shoulder. He'd turned his back. His shoulders had dropped and for the first time she actually thought he looked defeated.
She wanted to hate him, feel that he was getting everything he deserved. Yet the only feeling that surfaced was love, disappointment that this man, who had been given all the advantages of life, had succumbed to stealing.
Pulling the car door open, she slipped inside and started the engine. The windshield wipers spun across the collected snow, affording her enough visible space to see the road. She drove away, a fresh supply of tears washing down her face.
When she pulled into her parking space at Invitation to Loe, she saw Joanne's car. Thank goodness, she prayed. She could get the girl started and tell her about Officer Robinson's order, then go out. Joanne was very astute and observant, yet this morning she didn't mention that Elizabeth looked as if she'd been up all night, which in fact was the truth. She took her instructions and cheerily made coffee while Elizabeth slipped back through the door and into her car.
She knew it was a long shot. She expected the police department to tell her the same story they had on the phone the previous day, but she went there anyway. It was the Christmas season and maybe even a civil servant would take pity on someone who needed to see that accident report as badly as she did.
This wasn't the case. The bored looking overweight clerk was thirty-something, complaining of her feet and the cost of Christmas gifts when Elizabeth arrived. The woman poured her frustration onto Elizabeth, standing between her and what she wanted like a tank guarding the entrance to Fort Knox. Elizabeth controlled her temper and her need to scream at this woman. She spoke calmly, focusing on the report and not being drawn into discussion of any other subject. Getting no where, she finally she thanked the woman and turned to leave.
Upset at losing, she wasn't paying attention as she left the office. Outside the opaque glass door, she walked into someone. Looking up she found Office Robinson.
"Ms. Gregory, what are you doing here?"
What did telling him the truth matter, she thought. "I needed a report, but I didn't get it."
"Maybe I can help. Come into my office."
Elizabeth had been right. He was a detective now. She seated herself in front of the desk in a steel chair with a faded grey cushion. Stacks of files covered most of the desk's surface. On the floor were others. An empty coffee cup acted as a paperweight sitting on the top of one stacks. On the wall were several plaques for meritorious service and a photograph of him shaking hands with DC's mayor. Elizabeth's assessment of Detective Robinson softened a bit.
"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, taking the coffee cup and placing it on the one square inch of uncovered steel. "Coffee or tea is about all we have."
"Thank you, no," she said.
"All right, now what report did you want to see?"
"The one from the night my sister died. You were the officer who took the report."
/>
"I was." His statement held no emotion, just a simple statement of fact.
"I never read the report. You told me what happened, but now I want to see it. The clerk in the records office said it usually takes a week, but with the holidays it would take more time."
Detective Robinson stood up. He went to a grey regulation file cabinet which he unlocked with a key from a large ring and opened the second drawer. Half way to the back he extracted a rather thin file and handed it to her.
"Take your time," he said. "I'll get us some coffee." He took the cup from the desk and left her alone.
Elizabeth held her surprise inside. Why would he still have this? she wondered. Was there something unusual about her sister's death? Were they still investigating it? Did they know about James?
Elizabeth read. Inside the covers of the manila colored folder were just the facts of the accident. There was nothing here to lead anyone to believe it belonged in a locked cabinet. The cars had been driving fast, above eighty according the force of the impact. The ground was dry but patches of ice had been present. The conclusion stated that Claire's car, Car Number One the report called it, had hit a patch of ice and the driver lost control. The car spun around and Car Number Two, James's, had struck it. The skid marks on the roadway showed Car Number Two tried to avoid collision, but the speed at which the drivers had been going left too little stopping room before impact. Blood-alcohol levels indicated the surviving driver had been sober. Autopsy reports showed Claire's levels at .03. Two additional times Elizabeth read the report. The then Officer Robinson had added a comment that the two cars were either racing or chasing each other, but in his opinion it was an accident and not a deliberate pursuit.
Sitting back Elizabeth let the report fall onto her lap. She exhaled on a long sigh. At least James was not guilty of causing Claire's death, but she had no clear picture of where they had been going and why they were traveling at such high speeds inside the District lines.
Detective Robinson came back. He held his ceramic cup with the shield of the DC Police Department etched in silver on the side in one hand and a tan colored paper cup in the other. He handed her the paper cup.
One Christmas Night (Capitol Chronicles Book 6) Page 8
