by Jeff Buick
Her eyes teared up again and she dabbed at them with a tissue. It came away stained with mascara. “I loved my husband, Senor Ortega. And sometimes things happen that are beyond your own control.”
“Do you wish to discuss these things?”
She shook her head. “They’re private. My husband and I had a very good marriage. We loved each other, and neither of us would cause harm to the other. For that to happen, it would take outside influences.”
“These outside influences, they would be private.”
“Yes.”
He scratched his cheek lightly, then rubbed his clean-shaven chin. His dark eyes were thoughtful. He rose from his chair and said, “I’m sorry about your husband, Ms. Simons. It was a tragic accident. Please accept my condolences. You are free to go.”
“Thank you,” she said, rising and shaking his hand.
“Would you like a ride back to your hotel?”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll find a cab. I need some time alone right now.”
“I understand,” Ortega said.
Taylor left the police station. The streets outside were almost deserted, the hour late. She walked slowly along the uneven cement, oblivious to the shopkeepers trying to lure in the last tourist of the day. She was alone in Mexico, alone in the world. Her parents were gone, she had no brothers or sisters, and now her husband was dead. G-cubed was gone—in the hands of a competitor, and although the loss of the business seemed trite in comparison to what had just happened on the rugged cliffs of the East Baja Cape, it was still a loss. She had suffered enough loss for one lifetime. She leaned against the rough concrete walls of a small silver store and closed her eyes. The night breeze was chilly. She tugged her thin coat about her waist and pulled up the zipper. The street was quiet, save for an occasional car or moped driving by.
Things could be worse. She could be in a Mexican prison cell waiting for Manuel Ortega to decide what to do with her. Alan had tried to kill Edward Brand by pushing the Ford Explorer over the cliff. It had backfired, and Alan had died instead. But if the police were to find out what his intentions were, she could be held as an accessory. Then a disturbing thought occurred to her. Edward Brand seemed quite at home in Mexico. First Mexico City, now the Baja peninsula. If he were as well connected as he appeared to be, what were the chances he might go to the police himself and tell them what happened? Perhaps he knew the local police well enough. Perhaps.
She looked up and down the street. Dim streetlights lit the roadway at uneven intervals and an old mangy dog lay on the sidewalk a few feet from her, disinterested now that he was sure she had no food. A set of headlights appeared, and a car pulled up to the curb. It was a cab. The driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.
“Taxi?” he said. He was a young man with an eager dark-skinned face. His eyes were hopeful. Perhaps he had a fare.
Taylor stared at his eyes, seeing the hope. That was the key. Hope. She had to keep hope alive in her spirit. Hope and belief. Belief that there was a reason for what happens, and that the world was not just a giant ball of random events all jumbled together to form the lives of those who got up every day and went about their various routines. She needed to believe there was a purpose to what happened. She broke off the eye contact and took a deep breath. The taxi was an older car, but well maintained. And it was the start of her new life without Alan. The moment she slipped into the backseat of that car, she was starting the long and arduous process of rebuilding her life. It was one step closer to whatever normalcy she could find.
She smiled at the young man. It was a sad smile, with sad eyes. And sad eyes never lie.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes. I’d like to start the journey right now.”
He jumped from the driver’s seat and opened the rear passenger door. She slid in, knowing the importance of the moment, but also knowing the enormity of the hill in front of her. But somehow, just taking the first step felt good.
“Where to, señorita?” he asked, leaning over the seat.
“Playa Grande, Cabo San Lucas,” she said, but she knew this journey was longer.
Much longer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Taylor loved the Japanese Tea Garden. She always had. It was her favorite spot not only in Golden Gate Park, but in all of San Francisco. She sat in the Tea House sipping herbal tea, her jacket buttoned against the late November chill. The waterfalls still flowed and the humpback bridges and pagodas were as unique as always, but the beauty of spring, when the cherry blossoms were at their peak, was sadly missing. The lack of color didn’t bother her. In fact, it suited her mood.
Twenty-six days had passed since the car had slipped over the cliff taking her husband to his death. Twenty-six nights sleeping alone. Twenty-six times dragging herself out of bed in the morning and trying to make some sense out of what had happened. The horrified look on his face as the car plunged toward the sea was forever etched into her brain. His eyes, so alive, so vulnerable. Then gone.
She sipped her tea, the warm liquid pleasing to her senses. Sometimes she seemed impervious to the cold; other days she couldn’t get warm even after a steaming hot bath. Her body was trying to tell her something, but she didn’t know what. But what was happening with her mind was clear. She was depressed. That was something she had never known. She had been furious when Edward Brand had stolen their money, and for a few days she had felt the long tentacles of depression reaching out for her, but she had not given in to the darkness.
This was different. A dark cloud covered her life, and although she tried to strip it away and let normalcy return, it was absolute and omnipresent. For the first time in her life she understood what depression was and why it was so ugly. Her heart went out to every person who suffered from the disease. To her this was new and horrific; to many others it was a life sentence. She wondered if she was now a member of that group. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, she saw a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase enter the garden. He looked to where she sat, and they briefly locked eyes. She tried to smile, but ended up just nodding. He started toward her.
The Mexican police had recovered the twisted remains of the car, but Alan’s body had been washed away by the currents. All of his body except his right hand, which had been torn off by the impact of the vehicle crashing into the surf. The divers who worked the crash scene had found his hand caught in the steering column, his fingers crushed between the column and the dash. But in one way that awful indignity had been a blessing. The doctors had run a DNA profile from the hand that had matched perfectly with Alan’s DNA on file at his doctor’s office. That identification allowed the insurance company to close the file on Alan’s death. The man who was now within a few feet of Taylor’s small table was the insurance company’s representative. In the briefcase was a check.
“Ms. Simons,” he said as he came within earshot.
“Hello, Greg,” she said. She had spoken with him numerous times in the past three weeks and had found him to be very professional and caring.
He sat in the chair beside her. “Nice place to meet,” he said, glancing about.
“I like it here,” she said, a sudden chill sweeping through her. She tried to pull her coat tighter against her throat, but it was already snug. “It’s peaceful.”
He was quiet for a minute, both of them watching a small group of tourists as they made their way slowly through the garden, stopping on one of the humpback bridges for a picture. Finally he said, “You’re very fortunate that you and Mr. Bestwick decided to have some of his sperm frozen. Without a body, the company probably would have balked at paying out the claim. But the positive DNA identification allowed us to move quickly. And to print this.” He handed her a check for just over a million dollars. “There’s a couple of thousand dollars interest on top of the policy amount. It’s paid retroactive to the day when Mr. Bestwick died.”
Taylor didn’t take the check, so the insurance rep tucked it under h
er teacup. It fluttered slightly in the wind. She could see the amount. It brought tears to her eyes. Was that the value of Alan’s life? It seemed so cold. So cut and dried. When the tears subsided, she said, “We had thought that maybe we’d try to have a child. But Alan had a very low sperm count, and the chances of me getting pregnant were slim. That’s why we opted to have some of his sperm frozen. Just in case.”
Greg nodded. “The guys at the lab had no problem getting a definite match. If it’s any consolation, Ms. Simons, lots of people aren’t adequately insured and have a very difficult time after their partner passes away. At least you were wise enough to make sure you had insurance.”
She gave him a weak smile. “I’d like to take credit, Greg, but it was Alan’s idea.” She was quiet for a minute, then said, “What should I do with my policy? I’ve got the same amount, a million dollars, in term life. But there’s no one to give it to now.”
“No family?” he asked.
She shook her head. “My parents passed away about three years ago. They were a bit older when I was born, and I was an only child. Dad was eighty-one and Mom was seventy-seven. Mom only lasted six months after Dad died.” This time she managed a smile. “I guess that’s true love. She couldn’t live without him.”
“Why don’t you give it a few months before you make a decision. Term life is cheap. You can always change your will and give the money to a good cause. A lot of people leave money to charity. There are plenty of very worthwhile causes.”
She nodded, a slow, almost indistinguishable motion. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay,” he said, shutting the clasp on his briefcase. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Simons.”
She looked in his eyes and saw real emotion. And for a moment she felt for him, always meeting with people awash in tragedy. Feeling their pain. She reached out and took his hand and simply held it for a minute. “You’re a wonderful person, Greg. Enjoy every day you have with those you love.”
“I will,” he said. He waited until she released his hand, then slowly stood and gave her a final nod. “You take care, Ms. Simons.”
“Thanks.” She watched him walk through the garden and out of the front gates into the park. Her tea was tepid, and she sipped it quicker now. When she finished, she took one last tour through the garden, spending a half hour in one of the pagodas. Then she returned to her car and drove home. The check was sitting on the passenger’s seat and when she was stopped at a red light she glanced down and read the numbers. A million dollars. In addition to the money left over from the sale of their house, she had well over one-point-five million in cash. Enough to buy a small house somewhere well outside San Francisco, where the property values were easier on the pocketbook, and still have the better part of a million dollars in the bank. The light turned green, and she looked back to the road.
A million dollars wasn’t a lot by today’s standards, but with no expenses for housing or a car, she could easily manage on five thousand a month, give or take. And the interest on a million dollars, wisely invested, would about cover that. If she were careful, she wouldn’t need to work again. But was that what she wanted? To sit at home in her little bungalow letting the world slip past? Maybe right now, but what about the future? She didn’t know.
Taylor pulled up in front of her house, collected the check off the car seat and went inside. It was dark, the curtains and blinds all pulled shut. She forced herself to open the window coverings and let in the November sun. It hurt her eyes, but that was crazy—she had just been outside without sunglasses. God, the mind was truly a powerful thing. She slid the check under the spine of a book on the fireplace. Another book caught her eye and she pulled it off the mantle. Picasso. She turned to page 108 and stared at the picture of Alan. With shaking hands she removed it, slid the book back into its slot and sat on the couch. God, she loved this picture of him. Every part of the man was laughing—his eyes, his mouth, his whole body. What had he found so funny, so wonderful, that he would be so happy.
If she could only rewind time.
She held the photo for a long while, the minutes melding together and slipping by without consequence. She gently kissed the picture and held it close to her cheek. Where was he when the picture was taken? Where, on this sometimes very large planet was he at that precise moment? She set the picture on the coffee table and stared at it. She had always thought that the buildings behind him looked European. But where in Europe? There was a sign of some sort on one of the buildings, but it was too small and blurred to make out the print. God, she wanted to know where he had stood at the precise moment someone had snapped the picture. She rose from the couch and walked over to the phone. The number she dialed was prefixed with a Washington, D.C., area code. When a voice answered, it was Kelly Kramer.
“Hi, Taylor,” he said. “How are you today?”
“I’m okay, Kelly. I went to the Japanese Tea Garden today. It was good to get out.”
“It’s November, Taylor. You dressing for the weather?”
“Of course,” she said. “Stop worrying about me so much. I’m all right.”
“You sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Actually, I’ve got something I’d like you to do for me.”
“Anything. What is it?”
“I have a picture of Alan, but I don’t know where it was taken. I’d like to know. There’s writing on one of the buildings in the background, but I can’t read it. I thought you might have a computer program that could enhance it. Every movie I’ve seen with spies in it has that sort of technology.”
“We probably do,” he said, laughing. “I’m still too new to know what we’ve got. You want to mail me the photo?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll bring it myself.”
“You’re coming to Washington?” he asked, surprise in his voice.
“I think so. I’ll call you and let you know when I’m in and where I’ll be staying.”
“No way. You’re not staying at a hotel. I’ve got lots of room at my house. You need to be with friends right now, not in some hotel.”
She thought about the offer for a minute, then said, “Okay, Kelly. Thanks.”
“Call me when you confirm your flight,” he said.
“Okay.”
She hung up and stared at the phone. Why had she said she was coming to Washington? Where had that come from? She had no idea. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to distance herself from the picture by putting it in the mail. Maybe. Maybe she needed a friend right now. And Kelly was a friend—the one guy who had always been there for her. She trusted him more than anyone she knew. Maybe that was it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Taylor saw Kelly Kramer the second she exited the arrival gate at Baltimore-Washington International. He was standing against the posts that delineated the arriving passengers from those waiting. He looked taller than she remembered. He smiled as she approached, his teeth white against the natural pigments in his skin. His hair was longer, almost to his shoulders, and he still sported the goatee. He looked good.
“Hi,” she said, dropping her carry-on and hugging him, a simple act repeated countless times every day in every airport.
“You okay?” he asked when they broke off the embrace. “You look great.”
“I’m doing a bit better,” she said. They walked toward the baggage carousel. “I’m really trying to fight off this depression. It’s tough.”
The warning light flashed and a siren sounded for a few seconds, and then the carousel chugged to life. The first bag to drop onto the stainless steel track was hers. “Now that’s never happened before,” she said.
Kelly plucked the bag off and set it on its wheels. “A sign, that’s what it is. A good sign. You’re supposed to be here.”
“That the way these things work?” she asked as they headed for the parking lot. He just grinned.
They took 295 South, the Friday afternoon traffic thick but moving well, and Taylor watched the mileage
signs as they neared Washington. When they were only a few miles out, she said, “I thought your place was in Baltimore.”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m in D.C.”
“You should have told me. I’d have flown into Dulles or Reagan.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, concentrating on the road.
“The National Security Agency is about halfway between the two cities, isn’t it?”
“Pretty close,” he said as they passed Cheverly, on the outskirts of the city. Kelly took 50 West and cut north of Anacostia Park, following the main thoroughfare past Mount Vernon Square. The traffic was heavy but moving as they rounded Dupont Circle, the massive trees ghosts of their summer selves. A light layer of fresh snow covered the ground, bright white against the starkness of the barren trees. “You want to get an early dinner?” he asked.
“Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“There’s a great little Italian place near my condo. And they don’t take reservations.”
“That’s a good thing?” she asked.
“Friday night in D.C. without a reservation and you’ll starve. The only places we’ll get in now are the ones who don’t book in advance. And it’s a wonderful little restaurant, if you like pasta.”
“Love pasta,” she said. “Let’s try it.”
Kelly navigated through the rush-hour traffic jamming the circle, then cut north on Connecticut Avenue to Columbia. He found a parking space a few doors from the bistro and they walked briskly down the block. The wind had come up, and the snow was beginning to fall again. Taylor buttoned her coat and held the lapels tight to her neck. She detested cold weather and found driving in snow about the most confusing and dangerous thing in the world. Her view of people who lived in cold climates was mixed—admiration for living with the adversity and wonderment at why they would choose to do it. After all, there was always California. Warm, and by the looks of rush hour, the traffic wasn’t any worse. They pushed on the door, and a blast of warm air hit them.
