Simon Wood

by Accidents Waiting to Happen

  Although bored by her personal outpourings, he absorbed every piece of information on a professional level. He'd offered ideas to get back at her adulterous lover, and she'd reveled in those ideas. It was after that she'd bedded him. It wasn't lovemaking, but lustful sex. The professional's revenge-filled suggestions had been an aphrodisiac. After an hour of adventurous sex, which the professional hadn't had in a long time, he suggested that she drop hints to the media about her ex-lover's crimes.

  Bell returned from the kitchen, handed him an opened bottle of beer and sat down on the couch next to him. He positioned himself so he could face her when he spoke.

  "Have you had time to calm down since you called me?" the professional asked.

  "Does it look like it?" Bell demanded.

  The professional smiled. "No, it doesn't, but that's fine. The question is how are you going to use that anger to your advantage?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You can be angry all week, but what good does it do you?"

  He watched the gears turn in her skull. She was trying to think. That was fine. She could believe that she needed to, but he was doing the thinking for her.

  The tension went out of her body. "It doesn't do me any good."

  "That's right. So what are you going to do instead?"

  "I'll do whatever I want," she said emphatically.

  He smiled a snake's smile. "That's right. So what did Josh say?"

  "He told me he wants me out of his life for good and he's willing to pay once more, then that's it. He doesn't care what I do after that."

  "So he is willing to take his chances with the truth."

  The professional mused on that point. "That takes a strong man who believes he can survive the bullets you have to fire at him."

  "He's not strong," Bell barked. "He's weak."

  "So what do you want to do? Do you want more money?"

  "I have enough of his money."

  "Do you want him to go to prison?"

  "I want him to appreciate me. To know the damage he's done to me." She jabbed a finger into her chest. "I want him to know I loved him and he trashed what we had."

  Bell poured out a list of Michaels's wrongdoings and ranted about how he should be made to regret them. It was music to the professional's ears. Between him and Michaels, they'd created a monster hell-bent on destruction.

  "So revenge it is?"

  She mulled that over, then smiled. "I suppose so.

  What do you suggest--another call to Channel Three with more revelations?"

  "Something like that. Something to grab his attention,"

  the professional said. "A test of his convictions, if you will."

  "Sounds good to me."

  Bell took the professional's hand and placed it between her thighs. He felt the heat of her sex on his fingertips through the material of her shorts.

  "James, let's discuss it further in the bedroom," she said.

  The professional didn't object.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "Jeez, I feel perfectly angelic. I've never been this high up before," Bob complained.

  Josh found Bob's third crack about their bad seats annoying.

  Bob nodded in the direction of the vendor trawling the aisles. "I wonder if the beer man has cotton balls for nose bleeds."

  "I couldn't help it. You knew the Lakers game was going to be popular, and I've apologized for forgetting to book tickets earlier." Josh had bought the tickets on game day after Brady and Williams had interrogated him. After explaining himself to Kate he'd slipped out to the box office, but seating choices were limited.

  ARCO Arena was busy, bubbling with excitement leading up to the tipoff for the Kings home game against the LA Lakers. Hopes were high for a good result. This year's team showed promise for a good playoff position.

  Even the basketball commentators had been kind to the Kings in their reviews of the team's chances. The lower levels of the arena were filled and very few plastic seats didn't have someone's ass filling them.

  Josh and Bob sat way up in the northeast wedge of the arena, three rows from the wall. Even these less popular, cheaper seats were occupied. Josh didn't mind being this far away from the action. He'd offered the tickets to Bob more as an excuse to talk than to watch the game.

  "Do you want a cold one from the vendor?" Bob asked.

  "No, I'm okay." Josh felt cold. The temperature of the stadium seemed a degree or two too chilly for his liking.

  Bob called to the overweight vendor. The middle aged man, whose gut seemed genetically engineered to perfectly hold the tray of beverages, came over to Bob.

  Bob relieved him of a cup of Coors Light and the vendor relieved Bob of an excessive amount of cash. The vendor moved on to the next guy requesting his wares.

  Bob looked at what his money had bought him.

  "Shit, I'm sure they're jacking the prices around here to pay players and coaches."

  "You know you're going to be scalped in places like this," Josh remarked.

  "They should have a beer cap as well as a salary cap," Bob muttered.

  The respective coaching staffs called the players to the benches. After several minutes, the starting lineups were announced and the players were met with a rapturous chorus of cheers, whistles, applause and abuse--the abuse, of course, aimed in the direction of the Lakers players. Like the fans, Bob was on his feet, the overpriced beer spilling from the plastic cup. On his feet too, Josh clapped appreciatively, though not really party to the frenzy going on below him; not tonight.

  The

  crowd retook their seats in anticipation of the tipoff and Josh and Bob took theirs. As they watched the action on the court as the game neared its start, Bob spoke endlessly about the players' form, playoff chances, the NBA, who was hot and who was a waste of space. Josh listened, but said little.

  The game began and Bob focused on the play.

  "The cops came around this morning." Josh sat with his legs apart, bent forward with his forearms resting on his knees and his head down staring at the litter strewn ground.

  "Oh, yeah?" Bob said, not really listening. He was as alert as a prairie dog, twitching and shadow boxing with the flow of the game. "So they finally got around to talking to you about Mitchell?"

  "No."

  "So what were they doing?" Bob cursed when the Kings lost the ball and the Lakers gathered it up for an easy two points.

  "They're looking to prosecute me for threatening some woman on the phone," Josh said.

  The crowd moaned in disappointment as the Lakers made another basket. But to Josh it sounded like they were upset at his revelation.

  Bob turned to Josh. "What woman did you threaten?"

  "No one," Josh said. "I have no idea who this woman is who's making the allegations."

  "You wanna find out her name?"

  "I know her name, but I've never heard of her."

  "So what are the cops saying?"

  "They said that someone made a call from my home phone to this woman threatening to kill her. They have telephone records proving it was my phone."

  "Shit."

  "And because I'm the only man in the house, I'm their prime suspect."

  "So what's her name?"

  "Margaret Macey."

  "That rings a bell," Bob said.

  "You know her?" Josh said in surprise.

  "I don't know. It's just that the name sounds familiar for some reason." Bob shook his head in failure. "Anyway, when did this threatening behavior take place?"

  "That's the thing. It happened around eight last Saturday night."

  "But you were having your birthday party."

  "I know. I think that's the only reason that I'm not trying to post bail right now. They may want to make a recording of my voice for identification. That cop from the hospital has got it in for me. He didn't believe me about Mitchell bouncing me into the river and he doesn't believe that I had nothing to do with this threatening phone call."

  Recounting the
events from earlier that day brought Josh's fears back to the forefront of his mind. He felt he was going down for something, whether it was for his crimes or somebody else's. Nervous excitement consumed him like a plague, the disease breaking down his immunity to stress until it destroyed him. He stared blankly at the players on the court.

  Bob looked around him to check if people were listening to Josh's excitable ramblings. The Kings fans were concentrating on their team's performance too avidly to notice their conversation.

  "What cop?"

  "Brady. Didn't you meet him at the hospital?"

  "No. I knew they were around, but I didn't see them."

  "Anyway, he's got it in for me," Josh said.

  "Personally, you don't have anything to worry about.

  They can't prove it was you who made that phone call.

  Any one of us could have done it. And I think you'd have to be a special kind of stupid to threaten someone from your own phone. It's all circumstantial. They've got nothing."

  "Yeah, but the cops think that's what I did to cover my ass. They think I arranged the party just to have lots of suspects present."

  "Bullshit! They're screwing with you because they've nothing better to run with. So they're hoping you'll do something stupid to give them a lead. From their point of view they know they've got a no-hoper."

  Bob made sense. If the cops had any evidence, they would have charged him. He could breathe easily, for now.

  "Do they have a recording of the phone call?"

  "Not as far as I know."

  "If they take a voiceprint from you, they can't compare it. All they can do is play it to this ..." Bob snapped his fingers as he searched for the name.

  "Margaret Macey," Josh finished for him.

  "I think a lawyer would have a fine time if the cops didn't interview all the other possible suspects at the party. How have they left things?"

  "Just that they would get in contact."

  "What about this voice recording?"

  "They'll let me know."

  "Yeah. They don't have a thing. What about James Mitchell?"

  "What about him? They didn't want to listen. They didn't want to talk about anything except this phone call."

  "So you never got to speak to them about the party?"

  "No, they weren't interested."

  "Bastards. We've got to get them to listen to us."

  "What do we do?"

  "Never mind that now, sit back and enjoy the game.

  Let the Kings entertain you." Bob patted Josh's shoulder.

  "We'll worry about it after the game."

  Josh sat back and joined in with the thousands of fans enjoying the game.

  Bob sped along the interstate with the other drivers leaving the game. He was quiet, lost in thought, and Josh was no different. Bob's silence had little to do with the King's collapse during overtime. Something in his brain itched and he couldn't quite reach to scratch it.

  When Josh had told him about the police visit, something had clicked in his head, but the connection eluded him. It was the woman who had called the police, Margaret Macey. Her name meant something to him.

  Suddenly, a car horn blared in annoyance. In a world of his own, Bob had let his car wander to straddle the line separating the second and third lanes. The noise snapped him out of his deep contemplation and back to the matter of car control. He jerked the car back into his lane. The disgruntled driver accelerated past Bob's Toyota.

  "Shit, Bob. I can do without two traffic accidents in the same calendar month," Josh said just for Bob's benefit--he rarely got the chance to inflict the same brand of humor on his friend that his friend did on him.

  "Hey, sorry, man. I wasn't concentrating," Bob said.

  He stared straight out into the darkness that lay at the end of the headlight beams.

  "I'm waiting."

  "For what?" Confused, Bob glanced over at Josh.

  "For the caustic 'fuck you' remark," Josh said. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah, sorry. I was miles away, thinking."

  "I'm sorry, did it hurt?" Josh said and laughed.

  A pained expression appeared on Bob's face. "I'm serious, Josh. I was thinking about that woman the cops told you about."

  That brought Josh's humor to an abrupt end. "Margaret Macey, you mean?"

  "Yeah, I remember hearing her name recently. And I think I know why. She's a client."

  The remark silenced both men for a moment. The thump-thump of the tires striking the all too regular breaks in trie worn concrete road punctuated the quiet.

  "Shit," Josh said. "I don't know if that's something to feel good or bad about."

  "Neither do I," Bob said.

  "I don't think it adds much to my case that the woman I allegedly threatened is a client of a close friend of mine. I'm sure if Brady knew that he would have both of us in front of a judge in the morning."

  "I'm not sure it means anything. It's probably a coincidence that you are both my clients. Now forget about it. I'll take you home and I'll look into it. If I find anything, I'll let you know."

  "That's easier said than done," Josh said.

  "All right, I shouldn't have told you. I can do without you going postal on me."

  Josh conceded to Bob's request with little resistance.

  They lapsed into silence once more, their minds filled with more questions and fears. The car's interior reverberated with the drone of engine noise and the Doppler effect of passing vehicles.

  Bob dropped off Josh outside his house, told him not to worry and promised he would get back to him. He waited until Josh let himself into his house and closed the door before driving away.

  In his office, Bob returned the handset to the receiver.

  He'd just informed his wife that he'd be home late from the Kings game. He had to check out something at the office. Nancy had slammed the phone down with a sharp crack. That's gonna cost me, Bob thought.

  He switched on the computer on his desk. While it booted up, Bob left his office and went to the filing cabinets in the archive. His computer database would have details regarding all his clients, including Margaret Macey, if she was a client of his firm. But his filing cabinets contained the personal correspondence he received from his clients and copies of original documentation.

  He

  searched the deep drawer cabinet for Macey. The double cabinet contained two rows of files side by side, but didn't contain a record for Margaret Macey; only a Harrison F. Macey, who had a car insurance policy with Bob.

  "Shit. That woman is a client. I know it," he muttered to himself.

  He went back to his office. The computer's screen bathed the room in a spectral glow. He hit the light switch on the wall by the door. The fluorescent strips flickered into life with a bink-bink sound.

  Bob shifted the heaps of paperwork strewn across his desk to the floor to make a clear spot.

  "A messy desk is a sign of a sharp mind," he'd told his wife.

  She'd responded with, "No, that's the sign of a lazy bastard."

  In his opinion, both sayings had merit.

  He sat at his desk and logged onto the network. He selected a file that provided client information. Typing Margaret Macey's name in the appropriate data fields, he started a search. The computer blinked a dialog box: Searching.. . Please wait.

  "Thanks for the advice," he said.

  The screen flashed up the information. There she was--Margaret F. Macey, her address, age, social security number, and past business transactions.

  "She is a customer," he exclaimed to his empty office.

  With the mouse, Bob clicked the Print icon at the top of the screen. A whirring came from the printer in the main office and sheets of paper emerged from the machine like a white tongue.

  Hungrily, he read through the information and the grin dropped from his face like a rock. Margaret Macey had made a viatical settlement with Pinnacle Investments less than two years ago and he'd acted as the agent. Bob's brief notes detail
ed that the medical treatment she had undergone for a weak heart was beyond what her medical insurance would cover. He'd helped her to pay for medical bills and provide cash for further treatment with the viatical settlement of her hundred and fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy that her dead husband had made her take out years before.

  It wasn't the revelation that he'd acted as agent to Pinnacle Investments to both Josh and Margaret Macey that left him slack-jawed. He had hundreds of clients he'd dealt with for years, but he rarely remembered their names a few days after dealing with their accounts.

  But in this case, he remembered the senior citizen's name because James Mitchell had asked about her and Josh at their meeting.

  Bob moved his chair back from his desk in shock and it came to an abrupt halt against something on the floor. He looked down. One of the castors on the swivel chair was wedged under some of the files he had placed on the floor. He leaned down and picked up the offending items. He looked at the names on the file covers--they read Joshua Michaels and Margaret Macey. He had removed the files to show them to James Mitchell.

  Josh groaned when the telephone on the bedside table rang. Cursing, he reached across for it. The digital clock radio displayed the time--12:01 A.M.; he had been asleep less than half an hour. Kate stirred in the bed next to him.

  "Hello," he said sleepily.

  "Josh, it's me," the excited voice said.

  "Bob?"

  "I've found something. Margaret Macey is a client and you two are connected."

  "What?" Josh sat bolt upright, taking the comforter with him. The sleep that had fogged his mind burned away like a morning mist.

  "Josh, what's going on?" Kate asked, disturbed by the phone, then by her husband stealing the covers.

  Josh stuffed the phone into the bedclothes for privacy.

  "Honey, go back to sleep. It's Bob and he has got something on that woman the cops say I threatened."

  "Oh, Jesus, Josh. Leave it alone. This household has been in enough turmoil over the last two weeks without you looking for more."

  "I'll tell you what he knows. Go back to sleep." Josh put the phone to his ear. "Bob, I'm going to change phones, hold on."