"I know, Dave, and it's all right. Really. Now, let's decide what to do about all this money." She suddenly was weak with fatigue. Keeping her eyes open took pure force of will. "Or more accurately," she said, standing, "you two decide what to do, and then go do it. I trust you both. I trust you to do what Al would do, to make wise choices and decisions. I don't need or want you to consult me. Draw up a power of attorney and I'll sign it."
She was talking too fast, and moving away from them, toward the hall and the bedroom. She knew they didn't want her to leave, not yet, but she would not be drawn into further discussion. She had managed to get through the day without once being overcome and debilitated by a sense of loss and loneliness. The only way to continue was to obliterate reality, and the way to do that was to sleep. She waved off whatever it was they were saying to her and hurried down the hallway. She closed the door and, without bothering to undress, fell horizontally across the bed. She didn't turn back the covers and put her head on the pillows because that would feel too familiar, and these days, familiarity birthed pain. Memory birthed pain. Today, so far, she'd managed to steer clear of thoughts and memories and pain. Until now, and the ones she now was having were not about Al.
Some feeling that she couldn't name, and which she certainly didn't like, was elbowing itself into the space with all the other thoughts and feelings. This one felt like an alarm, like a warning. But she'd already given herself over to the notion of escape—from all feeling and thought and certainly from pain. With that her final conscious claim for the day, she slept. Deep, dark, and dreamless.
CHAPTER FOUR
Such sleep is a blessing when its purpose is to obliterate consciousness and awareness; and for Carole Ann, that had been her intention for the past week. Such sleep, however much of a blessing it can be, also has a down side: It is practically impossible to achieve sudden, abrupt wakefulness from such a state. So, Carole Ann was oblivious to the first two rings of the phone. The third ring penetrated her consciousness, and the fourth awakened that inherent human instinct that signals danger when the phone rings in the middle of the night. On the fifth ring she struggled to sit up and reach for the phone, and in the instant before the ring ended and the automated messaging system would have picked up, she snatched up the phone and held it to her ear. She did not speak because her mouth and brain were not yet in synch enough for her to form words. So she listened to a vaguely familiar voice call her name: "Miss Gibson." Three times he said it before she replied.
"Who is this?" she whispered.
"It's Fish, Miss Gibson. I'm sorry to wake you up, but you didn't return my calls and this is urgent, OK?"
Who, what, when, where, why. Her brain would not process. Everything about the voice and the urgency it contained was familiar, but the details weren't registering.
"Are you there, Miss Gibson? C.A.?" The voice was hesitant and shy on the C.A. and she knew instantly who it was and that knowledge woke her completely.
"Is there a problem?" she asked almost briskly.
"Yes Ma'am, a big one," he said, and she heard the hint of a smile in his voice. "I mean C.A. And don't call me anything but Fish. This line may not be secure."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Carole Ann was fully and rationally awake now; awake enough to process not only what he'd said but to begin imagining potential reasons for it. "I'm assuming this is no game you're playing." It was not a question and the tone of his response was as grave as her own.
"No, Ma'am. No game. I need you to meet me later today. At your favorite place, at one o'clock your favorite time. Do you understand?"
She shuddered at the words. She'd never heard him speak with such authority or with such fear. "I understand."
"And make sure you're not followed. This is not a game."
"I understand. But at least tell me why." She wanted some hint of a reason for what was happening, but he cut her off.
"I'm very sorry about what happened to your husband but it was not an accident. Do you understand?"
He must have realized the futility of waiting for a reply because the line buzzed as he disconnected, and still she held the instrument until the loud, computerized warning beep-beep sounded, startling her into hanging up the receiver. She sat on the side of the bed and looked at the telephone. Marveled, really, at the fact of her presence in this room, the guest room, where she'd slept since Mitch and Dave's departure. Al, with his Buddhist sensibilities, would not have found it worth marveling about, her presence in this room and her proximity to the phone, for he would have accepted that she was in the right place at the right time and that's the way things should be. However, Carole Ann thought it worth noting. Suppose she'd still been sleeping in their room. She would not have heard the phone because there was no phone in their room. But she was in the guest room, where there was a telephone.
For the first time she noticed the clock. Almost six-thirty. She'd felt like it was the middle of the night, and here it was almost time to get up. Fish—Tommy—must already be at work, she thought. He liked working early. She hated it. Hated getting up in the morning. No matter that she'd spent most of her career rising at or before six—a necessary evil since most criminal courts convened at nine and there frequently were chambers conferences and other work to do before court, not to mention the fact that she required coffee and food before beginning her day. So, rising early had been a necessity, but she'd never liked it and had never adjusted to it. And in the week since Dave and Mitch left, she had slipped easily into the habit of staying awake reading or watching videos until two or three in the morning, and then sleeping until nine or ten.
She was wide awake now, though. Every nerve ending was pulsating and the blood was pounding in her head. She rushed into the kitchen and, without thought, ground beans and measured coffee and water and pressed the button to begin the brewing. She rushed into the bathroom, stripped off the tee shirt and sweat pants that had become her sleepwear, and stepped into the shower before the water was ready, alternately freezing and scalding herself. Still rushing, she threw on clean shorts and tee shirt and charged into the kitchen, anxious for the now-ready coffee Only when she'd had her first hot, satisfying sip did she permit her brain to take hold, to take over, and direct her actions.
Carole Ann took her coffee to the bedroom, the bedroom she'd shared with Al, and settled herself in his fat, comfortable arm chair. And she recalled every syllable of Tommy's phone call. Heard again his voice, how serious and concerned—and frightened—he sounded. How he said that Al's death was no accident. How that could mean only one thing. And for her, that simply was not possible, not in any rational or logical construct. But Tommy was vehement in his insistence that Al had not been the arbitrary victim of a street mugger, like she'd been told. And she believed Tommy; she just did not believe his words. But why would Tommy lie? Or invent? Or permit himself to be manipulated? Or violate the bond of their trust? He wouldn't. Nor would he make light of her "favorite place" and "favorite time."
Carole Ann encircled the hot coffee mug between her hands and remembered her first meeting with Tommy Griffin. She'd scheduled it for one-forty-five on a Thursday afternoon at a Chinatown restaurant, the Yangtze River. Tommy's first question to her as they seated themselves had been, "What kinda time is one-forty-five? What's wrong with regular time, like one thirty or two o'clock? I never heard of anybody setting a meet for something-forty-five!" He'd been truly perplexed, so much so that she'd laughed with true enjoyment. Then she'd explained the legal billing system, and how the smallest increment was the quarter hour and even though he wasn't being billed for that initial meeting, it was habit; and it also allowed her to schedule her time in billable increments so that she'd be on time for subsequent appointments. And then it had been his turn to laugh. He said he'd never heard of anything so money-grubbing and greedy and it must be true what they said about lawyers. Then, before she could respond, he'd told her he hated Chinese food—this as he was picking up and opening the menu. Then h
e laughed again. The entire menu was written in Chinese. "Yep," he'd said with a slow, sad shake of his head, grin still wide. "It must be true what they say about lawyers."
Her ire had evaporated as quickly as it had materialized in the face of his genuinely good-natured and good-spirited jibes at her profession. He was, she'd decided in that moment, a nice guy. She liked him, especially as she'd watched his face open an relax as she'd explained that she loved Chinese food and came here because this restaurant, alone among the dozens of similar ones in Chinatown, was a favorite of the Chinese themselves, which suggested to her that the food must be authentically Chinese. The menu certainly was. So, when she came here, she entrusted her palate to the people who ran the place: She ate what they brought her, as long as the fare didn't include duck toes or chicken beaks or any of the more esoteric cultural delicacies. Tommy, still grinning and shaking his head, had agreed to experiment, and had been vociferous in his pleasure. He had allowed that what he'd eaten on the run from neighborhood carry-outs must not have been true Chinese food. Thus, the Yangtze had become special to them during the year of their association. And she'd always arranged it so their meetings occurred at something-forty-five. He would not tread lightly on the sanctity of that place or that time.
Carole Ann would meet Tommy in Chinatown this afternoon at one forty-five. But what in the hell would she do with herself until then? She certainly could not—would not—sit here thinking about Al being murdered for the next six or seven hours. And she knew better than to turn on the television. Remembering that Mitch, news junkie that he was, had the paper started, she padded down the hall to the front door and punched the security pad to de-activate the alarm. Instead of the red blinking light turning to green, as she expected, a second red light blinked in staccato fashion, not the steady blinking of the armed signal. She frowned and, cursing, she re-entered the security code. The damn thing would malfunction now that Al wasn't here not only to witness its failure, but to correct it. Dammit! Surely she hadn't forgotten the code. Not overnight, for she'd set it before going to bed last night. She punched in the code a third time and the green light winked at her warmly.
She flung open the door with a great show of irritation and scooped up three papers with an uncharitable whispered comment on Mitch's addiction to news, which she revised when she realized that in addition to the Washington Post, there was the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times. Suspicious at the latter's arrival given the time difference between the coasts, she looked closely and saw that it was Sunday's paper. No matter. It was still her home town rag and she'd look forward to reading it. It would, she knew, make her feel close to her mother. She tucked the papers under her arm, closed the door, and turned to study the alarm key pad. She entered her code and the light switched from green to blinking red. The system was armed. She entered the code again and was rewarded with a gentle green glare. No second, fast-flashing red light.
She shrugged and trudged down the hall with her bounty of newspapers. She spread them out on the dining room table and, still standing, read the front page headlines from each of them. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but she did know that she couldn't sit down and read this amalgamation of misery and mayhem over a cup of coffee like some insufficiently-occupied Georgetown matron, and then make wry comments on the vagaries of human nature or the sorry state of governmental and societal affairs. So, what would she do with herself until time to meet Tommy? She closed and folded the papers and began to pace, as if she were in the courtroom. She strode back up the hall toward the front door and studied the alarm key pad. Then she turned and charged down the hallway, through the living room, and flung open the balcony doors. The sun, fully up and already hot, meant she need not over-dress for her meeting with Tommy. She crossed into the kitchen and poured herself another cup of coffee, which she took with her to the den.
She was about to plop down on the sofa when she spied the neat folders on the desk left by Mitch and Dave. Despite their pleas, Carole Ann had not read their account of what they'd done and what they needed her to do. They'd left a full week ago, and she'd intentionally ignored the pile of folders. She pulled out the chair and sat at the desk. She put the coffee cup down and opened the top folder. On top was a three-page, single spaced letter signed by both Mitch and Dave. She scanned it quickly. They outlined in detail everything they'd done and planned to do regarding her finances. She ignored most of the detail, focusing on what she considered to be the salient points: That there now were two checking accounts into which funds from several different sources would be deposited regularly. She didn't want to know about those sources, though it was explained in great detail. She read enough to understand that Mitch and Dave controlled one account, from which they would pay all of her bills, including her taxes and credit card charges, all of which now went to Mitch, who sent an itemized listing of payments to Dave, who wrote the checks and then sent them to Dave for signature. Carole Ann's eyes misted at the lengths to which they'd gone to insure that not even the smallest hint of impropriety could exist. She saw that the second account, into which forty-five hundred dollars would be deposited each month, was hers to do with as she pleased. If she needed more, they'd see to it. If she needed more?? What the hell would she do with forty-five hundred dollars a month if her bills already were paid? Through the tears now spilling from her eyes, she saw that she would soon be receiving an ATM card that would allow her to access her new account, along with her new checks. The ones that would have just her name on them. Not her name and Al's name.
Carole Ann pushed the chair back from the desk and let the tears flow unchecked. She hadn't cried hard and long for quite a few days, and she got a splitting headache almost immediately. So she stopped crying, wiped her face on her tee shirt, and finished reading Mitch and Dave's letter. They'd suggested several investments and would, they said, make additional recommendations after they'd done more research. They outlined their procedures for making certain that they couldn't cheat her and steal her money and she almost cried again. Then they explained that everything they'd done was in a file in the notebook computer in the desk drawer, along with Al's notes about their existing investments and some of his plans for future investments. Also in the computer was a locked file that Mitch and Dave didn't think pertained to their finances, but that Carole Ann, if she knew the password, should access and let them know.
She didn't want to read any more, to know any more. And she sure as hell didn't want to fool around with the computer, trying to unlock some file. How was she supposed to intuit Al's secret password? That's why they were secret. And whatever was locked inside the secret file couldn't impact in any significant way the work already done by Mitch and Dave. She counted the folders stacked neatly on the desk: Eleven of them. Investments. Things she owned. Sources of income. She stacked them neatly and put them in a drawer, on top of the laptop, with a half-hearted promise to review them in detail and attempt to unlock the mystery file some time soon. But not now. Not when she was so tense and agitated. Not when all she wanted was to talk to Tommy. But it was barely ten o'clock. She had to do something for the next three hours.
With a sigh, Carole Ann opened the desk drawer and retrieved the eleven file folders and the laptop, which she connected to the cables that snaked up from the bottom of the desk and were anchored there, and switched it on. Then, beginning with the top one, she read every word on every sheet of paper in each of the eleven folders. Then she pulled up each of Al's files in the computer and read through them. She was surprised by and grateful for the nearness she experienced reading his thoughts and plans. Then she switched to the directory, found the locked file, and tried to open it. Silly endeavor, but it never ceased to amaze her how much time one could waste playing with a computer. She was not a hacker. Computers were useful, efficient, time-saving tools, unless one spent hours playing games or living out absurd fantasies with strangers in chat rooms. Al had locked the file for a reason. He wasn't here to explain that reason. It
must mean that it was none of her business. She switched off the machine, unplugged the cables, and returned computer and folders to the drawer. Then she went to get dressed for her meeting with Tommy.
A plan for leaving her building undetected had formulated itself in the recesses of her mind. Tommy had said to make certain she wasn't followed; and while the admonition had both unnerved and annoyed her, she didn't take it lightly. So, instead of riding the subway—the fastest, easiest, and most convenient mode of travel—she would drive. Almost nobody knew they had a car, a ten-year old black Saab convertible that lived covered in the underground garage of their apartment building and which they took out for a drive one weekend a month. Al, like many native New Yorkers, had never learned to drive. Carole Ann, like every native Angelino, learned to walk and drive at the same time, and she loved driving. Ergo, the convertible. Had the choice been hers, they'd have lived in the suburbs, somewhere on a river, and commuted to work, top down, breeze blowing. But Al not only didn't drive, he didn't like automobiles. Didn't like being in them. He liked subways and busses and trains. So, they lived downtown, close to work. And one weekend a month, they drove. To go camping or antiquing or hiking or discovering some new and beautiful place. All weekend they were in the car, on the road, not returning home until late Sunday night.
Carole Ann, dressed in a filmy white blouse and skirt and wide, floppy, straw hat, chastised herself for her wardrobe choice as she prepared to slip the dust cover off the Saab. She hadn't driven the car in almost two months, and the cover would be filthy. Then she remembered that Mitch and Dave had driven one night to Baltimore, to an Orioles game, and they would have shaken the cover. She was relieved to be proved correct. The car started instantly; she allowed a minute of warm-up time, then backed out of the space and toward the exit. She inserted the coded key card that opened the door, and while she waited, put on a pair of large black sunglasses. She pulled out of the garage into the afternoon sun and sat there until the door closed, making certain that no car exited on her tail. She sat there for a moment longer to make sure the door didn't open immediately, then she drove off.
One Must Wait Page 9
