What Simon Didn’t Say

by Copeland, Joy

  “Ray, I’ve already gathered some material.”

  He winced. “Well, good. Good! I’d like the twenty-four hours to go over that material and consider my—I mean our—next steps before we send the notice to the Board.”

  “Then we should meet tomorrow. Same time?”

  “Yes, but I’ll be in Bethesda all day. Crayton officers’ meeting. A mandatory event.”

  “The sooner we do this, the better, Ray.”

  “I’m sure,” he responded. “Look, I have a black-tie appearance tomorrow evening. It’s also up in Bethesda. After the officer’s meeting, I have to run home and get dressed. Could you meet me at my home in Potomac?”

  “Well…I suppose.” She thought of using Tina’s car, which had been sitting idly in its parking spot. She had the keys, and Tina had urged her to use it if needed.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. We can brainstorm on it tomorrow at six.” Ray grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled his address. “And for the time being, let’s keep this to ourselves. Right? Say nothing more to Khalfani or his crew or anyone else.”

  What could possibly change in twenty-four hours? Ray was going to go about his normal work schedule. “Okay,” she answered. “I’ll bring the material with me. Tomorrow I’ll be at your house at six.”

  “Thank you, Zoie.”

  Zoie left his office, hoping that on the way to the Metro she’d run into Simon. Maybe he’d have another message for her—a less cryptic message. However, neither Simon nor his weird buddy was at their usual spot. Part of her wanted to warn Jahi. But for now she had to keep her mouth shut. He could be involved.

  From behind his glass desk, Ray Gaddis stared at the black-framed picture of his prize, the Bonnie Princess. The shot was taken the day he sailed her up to Annapolis. His fifty-foot sailboat was his dream of a lifetime. But most weekends the boat stayed docked. Time to sail was at a premium. What would happen to the Bonnie Princess if he had to serve time?

  Ray tapped his wedding band on the arm of his chair. Over the last year, his nervous tapping had badly scarred the chrome. Things had been going well. To some degree the financial rock he’d been under was lifted. He’d mastered juggling the funds for boat payments and tuition at Brown and Yale for his twin sons, Gavin and Glen. The hefty mortgage on his ten-thousand-square-foot home on Benniford Lane, in Potomac, was still doable. Ray sighed. Money was tight, but he was surviving.

  “Ahh. How did life get so complicated?” He moaned.

  Four more years at the Foundation was his rough calculation of the time left before he could comfortably retire. Then he’d say adios to all those Crayton bastards—the ones who grated on his nerves with their disingenuous pats on the back, the ones who’d pushed him into the dead-end Foundation job with a cut in salary and no bonuses, and the ones for whom he’d perfected his famous Gaddis smile. Now this nosey little legal bitch was going to mess it all up.

  The Crayton rumor mill had it that Anthony Clarke would personally ask him to resume his old position as head of Operations. The inner sanctum had put out feelers: “Ray Gaddis back in the saddle over in Operations—what do you think?” They even sent a flunky—Deputy General Council Jeffries—to feel him out.

  “Ray, we know you like the Foundation job, but we may need you back in Operations. How would you feel if Tony asked you to step in again? Take the reins of Operations? It would only be temporary, until we could find someone.”

  “Don’t know. I’d have to give it some thought,” he’d answered. “You know I’ll do what’s right for the company.”

  That night Ray met a young man at a Capitol Hill bar. It was the best damn sex he’d had in over a year. In the subsequent days, he strutted like a rooster. It was all he could do to stifle his smiles of victory. He planned how he’d turn down Clarke’s official offer. The nerve of them, Ray thought. They expected him to bail Crayton out after unceremoniously kicking him to the curb.

  A real offer, however, never materialized. All Ray could think was that Anthony really hated him. The feeling was mutual.

  Now serious clouds threatened the skies. He might go to jail. Maybe they’d put him in an executive-style, minimum-security prison, in a country-club lockup for white-collar criminals.

  Ray pulled out a bottle of John Walker Blue Label from the credenza and poured a half glass. He gulped it down and poured another. Then he picked up the phone to make the call that he’d been dreading. After several rings it was answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me,” Ray said.

  “I know who it is. Yeah, what’s up? I don’t like you calling me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to. We have a serious problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “That Taylor woman snooped around and found something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Irregularities. Enough that she’s demanding that I tell the Board.”

  “Or what?”

  Ray gulped. “Or she’ll go to the corporate authorities.” His voice trailed.

  “Damn, Ray! How could you be so careless?”

  “What do you mean? She’s a nosey bitch.” Ray drained his glass.

  “You take care of things.”

  “I have been. She’s too smart for her own good,” Ray said. “I told her to give me twenty-four hours to respond to her.”

  Ray grabbed a wad of tissues from a box on his desk and wiped new sweat from his forehead.

  “What a fuck up. Has she told anyone else about her suspicions?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This time I’ll take care of it.”

  “What does ‘take care of it’ mean?” Ray asked.

  “Don’t worry. Let me handle it from here.”

  “Look, I don’t want to get involved in anything heavy duty.”

  “Ray, you’re already involved. Did you forget the pictures?”

  For a second Ray had forgotten. Somehow he’d turned attempts to extort him into even more lucrative kickbacks, a scheme that put money in his pockets in a quid pro quo arrangement. In the switch he’d forgotten all about the pictures. Now the whole scheme was out of control. They had evidence of his infidelity, his homosexual encounters. The pictures could get him fired from Crayton and out him to his wife, family, and friends. But pictures alone couldn’t put him in jail. In the light of this new trauma, those pictures were a weak threat. Despite his feeling of desperation, he wasn’t stupid.

  “Pictures? No, I haven’t forgotten,” he answered.

  “Good. When do you see the Taylor woman?”

  “Tomorrow. Tomorrow at six, at my home.”

  “I’ll be in touch. Go about your business as if nothing has happened. Understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Ray poured his third glass of Johnny Walker. He was mesmerized by the amber liquid, which promised to calm his fears. There had to be another way, a way he could fix it all. He thought about going down to the marina. He could stay on his boat for the night or even sail away. But he wouldn’t have time to make arrangements. It was an hour’s drive, and Joan was out of town, so were the kids. He needed a crew. Plus, driving that far with the liquor he’d consumed didn’t make sense.

  “Shit,” he said. “Might as well just bite the bullet.” He could confess to the Board. Yes, confess and ask for mercy. Repay the funds. He had until tomorrow to think about it. In the meantime he’d go home and gather some things, in case he would have to make a quick exit.

  Chapter 24

  Anybody Home?

  Zoie was coming. His twenty-four hours were up. Scotch in hand, Ray paced the narrow aisle of his dimly lit media center. The length of the theater-style room measured fifteen of his large steps. In an hour he’d made the journey enough times to wear a spot in the carpet.

  Ray liked the room’s techno-corporate feel. It radiated power. But today the feeling of corporate power failed him. His actions mimicked those of a madman, not an executive, as he trudged endlessly in the ho
le that he’d dug for himself.

  On the next pass, he knocked a chair out of place, but he didn’t adjust his course. He trudged ahead, colliding with another chair, brutalizing that chair with his hip in an almost deliberate act to punish himself. His legs, disconnected from his mind, moved under demonic control, oblivious to fatigue. Fear had taken hold, suspending rational behavior and thinking. Fear gave him increased energy but no real answers. The message his subconscious relayed to his conscious mind was loud and clear: Your goose is cooked!

  The media room was the only room in the house without windows. Who knew what or who could be watching his activities from the thick woods, which surrounded the place? He’d always enjoyed the privacy of his woodland, which provided peacefulness and distance from the corporate grind. Except for today, the isolation was worrisome. Earlier he looked out at the woods and thought he’d seen eyes looking back at him.

  Joan was visiting her sister and not due back for a week. The boys were in Nags Head with friends. Just as well. They didn’t need to be in town when the hell was unleashed. While sitting through the officer meetings all day, he’d pondered the hell that was coming. He almost decided to take the “fessing up” route—not because he felt guilt or remorse but because he couldn’t stand his growing panic, his fear of getting caught. The tension was eating him alive. I can’t do time, he thought. Life’s too short. If he made a deal, maybe the powers that be would let him off easy. He could offer the name of his accomplice in exchange for leniency.

  He stood still for the first time in many minutes. Putting a hand to his face, he felt its dampness from his crazy exercise. He’d lost count of his Scotch refills. He was supposed to attend the officers’ banquet at eight. How could he possibly drive? What did it matter anyway? His world was about to unravel. In forty-eight hours the people who had smiled at him and patted him on the back at the earlier meeting would distance themselves from his personal and professional train wreck.

  He looked at his watch. Where was that Taylor woman? He couldn’t remember whether he’d told her five thirty or six. He moved from the media room’s solid walls to his very open foyer. Through the glass panels adjacent to his double doors, his eyes scanned the driveway’s tree-lined perimeter. This time no eyes real or imagined gazed back. He chalked up his previous sighting to his foggy brain.

  He was about to head to his office to wait when he saw a car making its way from the main road and down the long driveway. The vehicle was a dusty gray and devoid of shine, a late model of something or other. The car made its way slowly into the circular driveway. Instead of stopping in front of the door, it continued around the circle, pulling into the short connector, with the separate garage building. Ray couldn’t make out the identity of the driver. For longer than seemed appropriate, the car sat motionless. The car didn’t fit the image of something that Zoie Taylor would drive. The nosey bitch was a classy dresser, likely to drive a classy car. On what we pay her, she certainly can afford something better, Ray thought, still trying to figure out what was going on. Freelance workmen often trolled the area searching for trees to cut and brush to clear, but the good ole boys always came in trucks. No one else he knew would be caught dead in such a vehicle. His address was too far off the beaten path for the casual drop-in. Perhaps Joan had set up some service appointment and had forgotten to tell him. Having regained his composure, he stepped out onto his flagstone porch, Scotch in hand, ready to greet and then quickly dismiss the car’s occupant.

  Finally a woman emerged.

  No, it wasn’t Zoie, though like Zoie this woman was black, but she was taller. She wore tight jeans and a sapphire-blue fitted shirt, which matched the color and iridescence of her ethnic head wrap. She carried a worn leather satchel, like the ones carried by old college professors. Maybe she’s one of Joan’s charity contacts, he thought, irritated by the intrusion in the midst of his personal trauma. Why the fuck did she park so far away?

  “Can I help you?” he yelled out to the woman, who moved toward him with a slow swaying, being careful on the cobblestone drive.

  When she was within a few steps, she said, “Mr. Ray Gaddis?”

  “No, my wife is not home. You’ll have to come back when she’s around.”

  “I’m looking for you. You are Mr. Ray Gaddis?”

  Attempting to decipher the hint of her accent, he acknowledged his identity with a nod and then immediately regretted doing so.

  “I’ve got a message for you.”

  At close contact his eyes locked on the woman’s dark eyes. Those eyes looked straight into his and seemed to not blink. Their deep blackness picked up the hint of sapphire blue from her blouse. Like deep dark pools, they invited him to take a plunge. It wasn’t about sex. Women weren’t his thing. Entranced, Ray didn’t see the man who came from around the tall thin evergreen topiary, which adorned his flagstone porch. The man grabbed him from the side and covered Ray’s mouth with a large gloved hand. Stunned, Ray didn’t think to bite. It was all happening so quickly. He was being dragged inside. The front door slammed so hard it shook the vase on the foyer table. The next thing Ray knew, he was gagged, and his hands were bound behind him. His eyes batted back the sweat as the two forced him into his study and shoved him into a chair. He strained to say something, but what came out sounded like grunts.

  The man wore a ski mask, had a wiry build, and was obviously strong. The man held Ray in the chair while the woman pulled some rubber tubing from her briefcase, pushed up Ray’s sleeve, and tied it around his bare arm. The two were moving fast, using signals rather than words to communicate. The woman filled a syringe from a small vial. As Ray squirmed in his chair under the man’s strong grip, she searched for a vein. Ray’s eyes went wild, and they filled with sweat. Then he felt a pop. As the cool liquid entered his arm, he stopped squirming. With droopy eyes he watched the woman dab with a cotton ball the place on his arm where the needle had entered. The man released his grip.

  Ray saw the man pull off his mask. But by now his two captors were fuzzy shadows. Ray’s neck could no longer support his heavy head. He was so tired. His eyes could no longer stay open. His heart felt like a bowling ball, too heavy to beat another beat. With eyes closed he could still think, but thinking—like breathing—was no longer important. The cares of the world were lifted. Perhaps this was better than prison. Finally understanding what was taking place, he thought he should have known they would cover their tracks. On the horizon Ray saw his boat, the Bonnie Princess. Sail away. Sail away.

  Ray’s house in upper Potomac proved difficult to find. Not sure how to use the GPS in Tina’s car, Zoie had printed the MapQuest directions and had them on the seat next to her. But the directions leading from point A to point B proved worthless after she’d gone off course. More than once she backtracked after missing a turn. Hassled and frustrated, she pulled into a gas station at a busy intersection to seek help. From behind the counter of the station’s small convenience store, a quick-tongued attendant rattled off a series of driving maneuvers, in Asian-accented English. Zoie asked him twice to repeat the instructions, trying to tune her ear to the rhythm of his English with minimum success. Not bothering to ask him a third time, she thanked him and left, understanding only two maneuvers. Her wandering through Potomac was over when she spotted a parkway sign that indicated that she was back on the right road.

  Zoie was prepared for this meeting. She’d reworked her write-up of the situation and prepared slides for a Board presentation. I’ll let him do what he wants with the stuff, she decided. She just wanted to get the meeting over with and get home before the evening thunderstorm rolled in.

  It had been only twenty-four hours since she alerted Ray to her suspicions of fraud. Now he wanted to put his spin on things before going to the Board. Had she let herself be duped? What could have changed in twenty-four hours that would cause a better outcome? Or was this little meeting a ploy to delay the inevitable? She thought about Jahi. Part of her wanted to warn him, but she had promised
not to say anything to him.

  Zoie arrived at Ray’s house ten minutes late—not bad for all the trouble she’d had finding it. The house was close to what she had expected: grander than grand, a country estate. “Chateau is not my style, but this will do for a weekend getaway,” Zoie said, laughing as she rounded the driveway. She parked in front, grabbed her briefcase, and went up to the door. She rang the bell and waited and waited; then she rang the bell again. She knocked a number of times and then pressed her face against the glass panel beside the door to look inside. There was a large foyer and a curving staircase with a wrought-iron railing. She went to the side of the house, going into the flowerbeds in her heels. She found another window and looked in. What she saw looked like an office, but all seemed quiet in there.

  “Ray, where are you? I know you didn’t dare stand me up,” she shouted defiantly. Irritated that she’d made the drive at his request, she pulled out her cell phone and scanned through her contacts. Ray’s cell or home number wasn’t there. She could call Milton, but Milton would want to know why she was looking for Ray. She’d promised Ray not to say anything to anyone. But if Ray didn’t show, all bets would be off on that promise.

  Zoie sat in Tina’s car for another thirty minutes. The air was muggy and strangely still, the sky growing dark. “Even full professors only get twenty minutes,” she said to the trees, recalling her college days.

  Disgusted, she drove away.

  Chapter 25

  Dog Eat Dog

  For someone who’d gone in circles searching for Ray’s house in the burbs, Zoie found the route back to the city with surprising ease. Tina’s car seemed to find its own way. It was if the car knew that the mind of the person behind its wheel was otherwise engaged.

  Zoie cursed Ray a hundred times, first for standing her up and then for being a general scum bucket—not to mention a likely felon. Not since the days following her breakup with Elliot had she used such foul language or damned so thoroughly a fellow soul. She raged on as if someone were listening, and she slapped the wheel to emphasize her points. But the worst of it came when she began to curse herself. With lips finally quiet, she noticed a bitter taste on her tongue—a bitterness caused by her own stupidity. She’d fallen into Ray’s little trap and listened to his plea to work things his way. She should have followed her instincts to do what she knew to be right. Why had she given the bastard the benefit of the doubt? He’d bought another whole day of scheming with the knowledge that she was onto him.