The Big Fix

by Linda Grimes

  We were in Nigel’s media room. It had three rows of black leather recliners, four across, with built-in cup holders. A free space in the middle of the last row accommodated his wheelchair.

  His top of the line, eighty-inch LED television—with extremely high resolution—was mounted to the back wall. Mark had asked Nigel not to dim the lights, so we all had a clear view of the Conrads’ faces when the scene of their son-in-law with Frannie played out before them. Naturally, we stopped the video before the movie scene with Angelica—it would have been beyond cruel to let them think, even for a second, that their daughter might still be alive. Not that the camera angle showed her face, but her voice would be easily recognizable. That scene was for Jackson’s eyes only, extra incentive for him to confess to hiring a hit man—the only way Billy and I had been able to think of that would see justice done without exposing adaptors to the world.

  “Would you care to see it again?” Nigel asked politely when it was finished.

  “No!” Elizabeth said, averting her eyes from the screen.

  Joe’s mouth was set in a straight line, lips pressed tightly together. We gave them a minute to absorb what they’d seen.

  Mrs. Conrad was the first to realize the truly important implication. “Does this … does this mean Lily-Ann didn’t do it?” she asked, still stunned.

  Conrad, face still tight, said, “Don’t jump to any conclusions, Elizabeth. All this proves is that Jackson Gunn is a filthy cheater”—Elizabeth blanched and gave me a fearful look—“with a lot to lose if this sordid piece of smut gets out. It doesn’t mean Lily-Ann didn’t do it.”

  “But, Joseph, this is exactly what Lily-Ann tried to tell us, and we wouldn’t listen, and now my baby is in that horrible place, and the whole world thinks … We have to get her out.” She turned to Nigel. “You have to get her out of that nasty jail right this minute.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mrs. Conrad. As your husband says, nothing about this video proves Lily-Ann didn’t do it. After what you and your husband told the district attorney, we’re going to have to come forward with something concrete.”

  “But that was supposed to help! Tell him, Joseph. Tell him how being harder on her was going to make her see reason, so that when she was acquitted, she would sign the agreement, and we could keep her close, and she would never, ever have a chance to do anything so awful again”—her eyes were getting wilder the more she comprehended—“but, oh my God, if she didn’t do it, then…”

  She finally crumpled, sobbing quietly. Conrad remained still, not even reaching out a hand to comfort his wife.

  “We can’t go back to the DA and tell him we lied,” Conrad said.

  “Even though you did,” I said.

  “We had no way of knowing that. Lily-Ann has always been impulsive. We’ve had to employ tough love with her, it was the only way—”

  “To control her?” Thomas said, his disgust plain. He was more circumspect with his clients, but these weren’t his clients.

  Joe glared at him. “Spare me any lectures on parenting. Just tell me what we can do to get this straightened out with a minimum of exposure in the press.”

  Mark stood. “That’s where I come in.”

  “And who are you?” Joe said.

  “I’m the guy who’s going to make sure your son-in-law pays for killing your firstborn.”

  “If he did. I’m still not convinced that because he cheated, he necessarily hired someone to kill Angelica.”

  Some people just can’t admit when they’re wrong. “His whole career is at stake if Brookfield sees that video. He did it. I can’t tell you everything about how we know, but trust me, we know. You’ll help us find him?” I pressed.

  He glanced at his wife, who still looked shell-shocked. “Yes. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Good,” Mark said. “First thing—do you know where your son-in-law is?”

  “I do not.”

  “Have you spoken to your son-in-law in the past twenty-four hours?”

  Conrad squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Apparently, being the one questioned chafed. “I have.”

  “In person?” Mark said.

  “On the phone.”

  “Did he call you or did you call him?” Mark was exhibiting great patience, I thought.

  “He called my cell.”

  “So you have the number he called from?”

  “I do.”

  “Mr. Conrad, this would be a lot more productive if I didn’t have to pull the details from you one at a time,” Mark said, sounding reasonable.

  Argh. Great time to exhibit restraint during questioning, Mr. CIA Operative. Personally, I wanted to scream at the man, and Mark couldn’t even raise his voice? Maybe threaten a little bodily harm?

  I glanced at Elizabeth, who was looking pretty ghastly. Maybe Mark was trying not to upset her any more than necessary.

  Conrad looked annoyed and pulled out his cell phone, scrolling through until he found the number, and gave it to Mark. Thomas jotted it down and left the room.

  “That’s not his usual number. I don’t know where he was calling from.”

  “Thank you. We’ll track it down,” Mark said.

  “Excuse me,” Laura said. “Mrs. Conrad, are you all right? May I get you something to drink? Or perhaps I can show you where to powder your nose?”

  Trust Laura to put it delicately. The woman looked like she was about to barf.

  Nigel spoke up. “My aide will be happy to—”

  Laura waved away his suggestion. “That’s all right. I know where it is.” She hooked her arm through Elizabeth’s and helped her stand.

  “Thank you,” the still bewildered woman said, following Laura gladly.

  Good ol’ Joe looked like he’d hold her back if he could. The control freak probably didn’t want her out of his sight.

  “Now then, Mr. Conrad,” Mark continued, “what did Jackson want from you?”

  “Want? Why would he want anything? He’s a millionaire in his own right, even if you don’t count what he inherited from Angelica. That’s why I didn’t think he had any reason to get rid of her.”

  “Let me rephrase the question. What was the reason for his call?”

  “He mentioned some of Angelica’s possessions. Wondered if Elizabeth and I had them.”

  “Possessions?” Mark said.

  “Nothing of any import.”

  Uh-huh. The stock certificates, maybe? Or possibly a few stray flash drives with Angelica’s file on them?

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That we’d look when we had the time.” Joe was starting to sweat. “Really, it’s nothing. Trinkets. That sort of thing.”

  Thomas returned, and shook his head at Mark’s questioning glance. Guess the phone number had been a blind alley.

  Mark nodded. “Okay, Mr. Conrad, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to call Jackson’s cell phone and leave a message—”

  “What if he answers?” Joe interrupted.

  “He won’t. Leave a message telling him to call you back as soon as possible, that it’s urgent.”

  “And when he does, you’ll trace the call and find him?” Joe said.

  “That’s one possibility, yes. But I’m guessing he won’t be on the phone long enough, so I want you to invite him to dinner at your place.”

  “What makes you think he’ll come? He’s a busy man,” Joe said, looking uneasy at the prospect of face time with his son-in-law.

  Mark looked at Thomas and Nigel. “We need to make sure he comes. Ideas?”

  Thomas, after a brief pause, said, “Tell him Angelica had mailed a package to herself at the company address before she was killed, and that you think he, as her widower, should be the one to open it. I’m guessing wild bears couldn’t keep him from coming for something like that.”

  “But there is no package,” Joe said, looking downright dewy on top now.

  “You have a problem with lying?” Thomas said, r
aising one sardonic brow.

  “There will be a package,” Mark said before Conrad could respond to Thomas. “We’ll fake one up.”

  Conrad pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his head. “When do you want him there?”

  * * *

  After the Conrads left, Laura filled us in on her interlude with Elizabeth.

  “That woman is completely under her husband’s thumb, and utterly terrified about something. No doubt that would be the possibility of her dalliance with her son-in-law coming to light.”

  “Will she be a help?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, definitely. She’ll jump on anything she thinks will save her from scandal.”

  “Great,” I said. “Um, not to sound dense here, but what’s up with the package?”

  Mark smiled at Thomas. “If I’m not mistaken, your Machiavellian brother is hoping Jackson will think Angelica mailed the elusive flash drives to herself to keep Jackson from finding them. And possibly the stock certificates, if he’s even noticed those are missing.”

  Thomas took a small bow. “With a little luck, Jackson will think he has the chance to clean up all his loose ends, and will jump on it.”

  “And we’ll be there to get him tomorrow?” I said, slipping that “we” in as casually as I could. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but no way were they leaving me out of this part of the operation.

  Conrad was supposed to set up the dinner for the next evening at his Malibu home. He’d call Nigel with the details once he had Jackson nailed down to a time. If Jackson even called him back. I was still holding my breath on that one.

  Mark looked at me and nodded. “Yeah, Howdy. We’ll be there to get him.”

  He hadn’t even looked at Thomas for permission to include me. I thought that was progress.

  After we made our good-byes to Nigel, promising to keep him updated on breaking developments, I realized I didn’t have a ride, so naturally I asked Thomas. When I told him where Billy and I had been staying, he looked somewhat pained. It was pretty far from his hotel, and he was no doubt anxious to salvage some remnant of his honeymoon with Laura.

  “I’ll drop her, Tom. It’s on my way,” Mark said.

  Yikes. Things had seemed almost normal with him while we were talking to the Conrads, when we’d had Thomas, Laura, and Nigel as a buffer between us, but alone with him? Wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  “Thanks, Mark.” Laura winked at him. “I owe you.”

  “And I won’t let you forget it either,” Mark said, humor in his eyes.

  Laura gave me a quick hug. “See ya later, sugar,” she said, adding, in a whisper, “Don’t look so nervous. He’s not going to eat you.”

  Huh, I thought. Shows how much you know.

  “Hop in, Howdy,” Mark said once they were gone.

  He was still acting like the old Mark, the pre-sleeping-with-me Mark, so maybe this would be okay. I mean, I was willing to pretend it never happened if that was the way he wanted it. I can be big that way.

  “Is that a Rolls?” I asked, temporarily distracted. “You can rent those?”

  He nodded. “A Wraith. And you can rent anything in Hollywood.”

  I whistled. “Nice. Maybe a tad excessive, but nice.”

  “I like to blend with my surroundings,” he said, and opened the passenger-side door for me.

  “You know, I’ve never driven a Rolls before…” I said.

  He smiled—again, almost as if nothing had happened between us. “Sorry. I’m the only driver allowed by the rental agreement.”

  I slid into the passenger seat with a regretful sigh and a shrug, suppressing the thought that Billy wouldn’t have let that stop him.

  “Oh, well. I’ve never ridden in one either. I guess that’s the next best thing.”

  The ultrasoft, ivory leather seat hugged me in luxury. It wouldn’t do to get too used to this. Might make one decide to do anything for money, and that would conflict with my inner altruism.

  We chatted about the car for most of the drive to my hotel—the paint job (black sides, silver-white hood and top), the bold grill, the classic Rolls hood ornament. Not that I knew all that much about cars—or even cared, other than recognizing a seriously cool ride when I see one—but I figured it was a safe topic of conversation. Mark seemed to agree.

  When he parked at the hotel instead of letting me off I began to feel a little uneasy.

  “You don’t have to walk me to the door,” I said. “It’s a safe hotel.”

  “Yeah. Reasonable, too. That’s why I’m staying here. I’d rather put money into cars.”

  Uh-oh. “When you said it was on your way…”

  “Can’t get any more ‘on the way’ than this,” he said, keeping it friendly. Casual.

  I twisted in my seat to face him. “Mark…” Oh, hell, what did I even want to say?

  He met my eyes with the softer version of his. “Howdy, now isn’t the time to discuss anything other than how we’re going to get Jackson Gunn, and we’ve already done that. Let’s just go to our separate rooms and get some rest before tomorrow.”

  I nodded in agreement, my relief safely outweighing a stubborn streak of disappointment.

  Chapter 28

  Well, I can cross seeing Billionaires’ Beach off my bucket list, I thought. Not that spending time at the pricey Malibu locale was ever on it. I prefer my sun and sand less densely populated.

  The houses were, for the most part, large and luxurious. But honestly—and I didn’t think this was sour grapes—they were too close together, and the beach was on the narrow side. Killer view of the ocean from the Conrads’ huge kitchen, though, which overlooked a long lap pool.

  I was currently playing sous chef to Laura’s cook. (Which meant I was basically doing nothing but waiting, since Laura wasn’t dumb enough to let me actually help.) The real cook, along with the other servants, had been given the evening off to keep them out of the line of fire, should it come to that. None of us thought Jackson was going anywhere unprotected these days. He could even be legally armed—it wasn’t tough for a celebrity to get a concealed-carry permit in California.

  If Jackson got uncomfortable after he arrived, and tried to run this way, he’d wind up with Laura’s foot in his face. I was actually kind of hoping that would be necessary. (Vindictive? Moi? Well … yeah. I didn’t appreciate being anyone’s alibi.)

  I had to stay out of sight until later because Gunn would recognize me at once. I couldn’t adapt to be one of the servants, for instance, because the Conrads didn’t know about adaptors.

  Mark was filling in for their usual butler, and would be on hand for any trouble at the front of the house. If Gunn questioned the Conrads about it, they would say the other guy had been poached by a family down the beach. Nothing unusual about that—rich people lured away their friends’ servants all the time. Good help was hard to find, and all was fair when it came to keeping your household running smoothly.

  Thomas and Nigel were hidden away in Joe’s office, to be brought out later, in case Jackson needed more convincing that it was worth his while to plead guilty and hope for a relatively light sentence. Nigel was willing to take him on as a client because it would ultimately help Lily-Ann. “Of course, the notoriety doesn’t hurt business either,” he’d admitted, with his Clooney smile.

  “He’s here. Get ready.” Mark’s voice sounded oddly intimate in my ear. He’d fitted us all with tiny, almost invisible earpieces and microphones, so we could communicate throughout the evening. All we had to do was speak in a quiet voice, and the sensitive wireless mics we were all wearing beneath our collars would transmit to everyone in our group.

  “Standing by,” Laura said. It sounded weird to hear her both from across the kitchen island and in the receiver in my ear at the same time. She placed a few more hot and cheesy something-or-anothers on the tray next to the thick, crab-salad-stuffed cucumber slices.

  Elizabeth came into the kitchen a few minutes later, looking pale and nervous. “I do
n’t know if I can stand to look at him. And Joseph is more agitated than I’ve ever seen him. Worse, even, than when we found out about Angelica.”

  Laura glanced at me, telegraphing an alert with her expressive eyes.

  I gave a tiny nod. “Mrs. Conrad, why don’t you sit here with me for a few minutes while Laura takes the hors d’oeuvres out? Maybe we can have a drink of water, or tea, or—”

  “I have a new pinot grigio—would you care to try it?” She crossed the kitchen to the wine fridge and grabbed a bottle. “I keep a corkscrew in that drawer right behind you—be a dear and get it, won’t you? Oh, and the glasses are in the cupboard behind you.”

  “Um, sure,” I said.

  Laura left with the cheesy whatchamacallits, mouthing the words be careful as she left.

  Never have I seen a bottle of wine opened and poured faster. She put a half-full glass in my hand, clinked hers to it, and drank. Relief settled over her face, relaxing it into its more familiar composure. Huh. So that was how she managed to stay so calm in front of the cameras.

  “Cheers,” I said, and sipped a microscopic amount. I wanted to keep my wits sharp.

  “Do you like it? It’s Italian, of course.” She added a token splash to my glass, and refilled hers. “Funny, but I don’t care for the California pinots—does that make me disloyal? Joseph says we should support the local wineries. I mean, since we live here. But he doesn’t even drink wine unless he’s forced, so what does he know?”

  At least the color was coming back to her face.

  “I think you should drink what you like,” I said, trying to appear engaged, all the while straining to listen to the voices in my ear. They were indistinct. Apparently, the mics only picked up the wearer’s voice clearly.

  Definitely two men talking. Must be Joe and Jackson. But I thought I’d heard a woman’s voice in the background, too. I assumed Laura could hear what they were discussing, and would find a way to relay any essential information.

  Elizabeth was still yammering about the wine. “… drink red when he has to, but prefers whiskey. I say a light, crisp pinot is so much more refreshing…” She poured herself another refill.