I had been a fool to trust the system…particularly when my entire case was based on eavesdropping.
Donnie and Bethany both appeared to be absorbed in their work—though I imagined their minds were really on the topic of their meeting with Sid. They did not acknowledge me, and I made no effort to engage them.
A little before lunch I did have a reason to talk to Ellen about a work-related issue. I walked over to her desk, actively feeling sorry for her: She was likely the target of a murder plot, and she didn't even know it.
My position as Ellen’s only benefactor did nothing to soften her attitude toward me. (I was still an unknown benefactor, after all; and as yet I had done nothing to help her.) She replied to my request in her usual manner, an attitude that wavered on the midway point between grudging acknowledgement and total dismissal.
If Ellen only knew, I thought…
Feeling fidgety, I walked to the Coke machine. There is nothing like a Coke Zero to steady the nerves, I have found.
I took a moment to stare back into the little space I entered the previous day. If I had never stepped back there, I would still be doing my job at Thomas-Smithfield in blissful ignorance. I would be content in my illusion that Sid was my benevolent mentor, that Donnie and Bethany were nothing more than run-of-the-mill coworkers from hell.
My can of Coke Zero in hand, I headed back to my desk. Who should be walking in the opposite direction then, but Sid Harper.
He said hello to me, but his gaze seemed to linger on me with a scrutiny that had not been there before. Had Anne already contacted him?
It was just a matter of time, I knew, before Sid Harper and I came to a serious confrontation.
Chapter 15
As it turned out, I had another brief encounter with the Brown-Eyed Girl that day. Far from clarifying anything about her, the chance meeting only increased the number of question marks.
I was heading out at 5:10 p.m. (I was in no mood to work any voluntary overtime—not after the past few days.) The Brown-Eyed Girl was on the elevator when I boarded it on the third floor. As I’ve mentioned, it seemed that I always ran into her on the elevator.
Whatever had been bothering her lately, she seemed to have recovered from the trauma. I said hello and she gave me a tentative smile and a greeting in return.
Now would be a good time to talk to her, I thought. Just the two of us in the elevator; and we’d ride two floors together down to the ground floor.
The elevator door closed behind me. I tried to think of something to say. I noticed (not for the first time) how pretty the Brown-Eyed Girl was, albeit in an understated sort of way.
Then I heard the elevator doors ding behind me. Someone else was boarding the elevator. The elevator had been set to descend, but someone had pushed the open button before it began its descent.
That person was Donnie. He immediately noticed me, threw back his shoulders and smirked.
That took only a split second. Then the Brown-Eyed Girl and Donnie noticed each other.
Donnie threw the Brown-Eyed Girl a similar smirk. She, on the other hand, was visibly horrified by his presence.
I was a bit surprised by her immediately negative reaction. While Donnie was a blowhard and a jerk, he was one of those big, flamboyant guys whom a lot of women find attractive. Bethany was certainly fascinated by him, as I’ve already mentioned.
But not the Brown-Eyed Girl. I could have sworn that she gasped when she took the full measure of Donnie.
Then she proceeded to exit the elevator.
“Excuse me,” she said, to both of us and neither of us.
The Brown-Eyed Girl stepped past me. She pushed the button on the elevator’s internal control panel that opened the twin doors. The doors opened with a pneumatic wheeze, and the Brown-Eyed Girl walked out without looking back.
Donnie’s gaze followed her out. He made a long, self-satisfied sneer in her wake.
I looked at Donnie, waiting—stupidly—for him to provide an explanation and a context. There was backstory here. But I should have known that Donnie wasn't going to tell me.
“What are you lookin’ at?” he finally asked.
A few days ago, I would have pressed Donnie for an explanation to the obvious question. But I now knew that he was far more dangerous than I’d previously thought. I would have to tread carefully with him.
“Nothing,” I said simply. I leaned forward and pushed the door-close button.
I said nothing to Donnie during the ride down. I leaned against one of the elevator’s back corners, having decided to let him exit first. By letting him go ahead of me, I would avoid a walk out of the building with him at my side.
When the doors opened on the first floor, Donnie started to step out. He paused on the threshold of the elevator and turned in my direction.
“You’re up to something,” he said. “I don’t know what it is yet, but you’re up to something.”
My heart skipped a beat, and I could feel the blood drain from my face. I maintained sufficient composure to reply, “What I’m ‘up to’ is leaving for the day. Come on, Donnie, it’s been a long day. Let’s not play games.”
Donnie’s half-smile told me that he did not believe me, that he knew I was hiding something from him, even as he was hiding plenty from me.
Mercifully, though, he chose not to pursue the matter any further. He walked out of the elevator and toward the main entrance the building. I waited a few seconds and walked out, too, giving him a healthy head start so that I would be done with him for the day, at least.
But I was still shaken from what he had said. Intrigue, I now realized, was not my forte, and I was doing it badly. Among the conspirators, Donnie was easily the dullest of the three. If he had seen through me so easily, then I was in considerable trouble, indeed.
Chapter 16
I usually made a point to call my ex-wife at least three times a week so that she could put me on the phone with Olivia. I had always been humbled and amazed at the way a short conversation with our daughter would both soothe and embolden me—no matter what else was wrong with the world. This is one of the many benefits that children provide to their parents: they put the big picture in perspective, they help you see beyond the moment and into the future.
I don't necessarily expect you to understand this if you don't have children. (Because truth be told, I would have dismissed such a claim as maudlin myself before Olivia was born.)
If there was ever a night when I needed to hear my daughter’s voice, this was it. As soon as I arrived home that evening, I pushed the speed dial icon for Claire’s phone. I was even looking forward to talking to Claire. Our marriage had been difficult, and much bitterness and resentment had resulted from our divorce. But she had been my wife at one time. Moreover, we were Olivia’s parents. That was a bond that we would always have, no matter who else or what else came between us.
Those thoughts were my emotional refuge as I heard the virtual ring of Claire’s cell phone in Dayton. My anticipation deepened when I heard the half-second click that indicated that the call was being answered.
“Hello?”
Those two syllables stunned me out of my brief respite from the day’s tension. It wasn't Claire’s voice that answered my call.
It was Ryan’s voice.
“Ryan? Where is Claire? Where’s Olivia? What the hell are you doing answering her phone?”
“Hold on there, champ,” Ryan said. His inflection was perfectly balanced between condescension and threat. “Claire is in the shower. She left her phone out in the living room. I saw it was you and so I answered it.”
“So you’re in her condo right now?” A stupid question.
“Yeah, I’m in her condo. Get used to it, buddy.”
I pictured Ryan sitting in the recliner in Claire’s living room, her showering in the unit’s master bathroom, Olivia there watching television, or perhaps reading one of her picture books. It sickened me to think that Ryan was becoming such a familiar and intimat
e fixture in their lives.
“Do me a favor Ryan: Don’t call me champ, and please remember that I’m not your buddy.”
He made a little snorting sound. “You’re not going to be easy about this, are you?”
“Why should I? Now, if you don't mind, would you let me talk to my daughter, buddy?”
“Hold on.”
Ryan gave Olivia the phone, and we talked for the better part of ten minutes. At some point during our conversation, Claire emerged from the shower. After we’d finished talking, Claire took the phone from Olivia and asked me if anything was wrong. I guessed that Ryan had cued her that I was being difficult again. During our few and brief interactions, Ryan had proven himself to be skilled at both bluster and playing the tattletale. Claire didn't look on me in a favorable light to begin with, and Ryan was determined to make sure that my reputation underwent no rehabilitation in her eyes.
“Is there anything ‘wrong’?” I repeated her question back to her. “Yeah, the fact that Ryan answered your phone is wrong.”
“I’m sure he told you that I was in the shower,” she said. “Listen, Frank, I had a long day at the office today. I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you. Okay?”
“Sure thing.”
I said goodbye to Claire and terminated the call. Yeah, I knew all about long and complicated days at the office.
My talk with Olivia had jogged that analytical part of my brain, though. I had what I took to be a sudden epiphany regarding my problem at work: I had been going about the matter all wrong.
I had a moral responsibility to warn Ellen, but I didn't have a responsibility to prosecute the conspirators with corporate HR. My only real obligation was to inform Ellen that her life might be in grave danger.
Once Ellen was made aware of the situation, she would take the initiative in reporting the conspiracy against her to all the relevant powers-that-be.
That would mean HR at first. In the longer run, some branch of law enforcement would become involved, as well. How could it be otherwise?
I would certainly be called upon to corroborate her claims, to give testimony regarding the conversation that I had overheard. But I would let her take the lead. It was her life that was in danger.
In that context, my eavesdropping would be viewed as a comparatively minor breach of etiquette. More importantly, I would no longer be waging a lone, secret battle against Sid, Donnie, and Bethany—a battle which I had fought poorly so far.
I slept much easier that night than the night before. Tomorrow I would tell Ellen what I had overheard, openly and with full disclosure. I would assure her that I’d be willing to back her up when she appealed to both Thomas-Smithfield and (presumably) the law for protection.
The fact that Ellen obviously didn't like me much would also be little more than a minor impediment. Surely she would see that whatever reasons she had for disliking me, I was the only one in the department who was truly on her side.
Chapter 17
Although I slept well, there were butterflies in my stomach as I drove to work.
Sure, it was easy enough to see a conversation with Ellen Watson as the logical solution to my problem—until I thought about all the complications.
I really had no idea how Ellen Watson would react. I had to trust that I could be convincing enough, so that her reaction wouldn't be one of total incredulity.
I also had to think, needless to say, about the forces my revelation would unleash—regardless of whether Ellen believed me or not.
Up until this time, I had walked the fence. My meeting with Anne Hull had been a non-meeting, in which I had only danced around the edges of the truth. I still had plausible deniability.
My refuge of plausible deniability would fall down within a few hours, I realized, as I walked from my car toward the main entrance of the Thomas-Smithfield building. If I had somehow misinterpreted what I had overheard—if there was, in fact, no plot to kill Ellen Watson—I would be fired. A false accusation of conspiracy to commit murder was no laughing matter.
If, on the other hand, I had interpreted that eavesdropped conversation correctly, then the worst-case scenario was even more dire. My revelation would ruin the lives of three people who were guilty of planning a murder—even if they hadn't carried it out yet. I couldn't forget that if they were willing to “eliminate” Ellen, they would also be willing to eliminate me.
But did I have a choice, I wondered, as I rode the elevator up to the third floor?
No—the truth was that I didn't have a choice. If I did nothing, if I ignored what I had heard, then I would be partly responsible if Ellen Watson met with an unfortunate accident or suddenly disappeared. How would I face my daughter, Olivia, knowing that I had been such a moral and physical coward? How would I face myself?
I waited until about 9:00 a.m., when Donnie and Bethany had already disappeared on the day’s first extended boondoggle, and Sid was in a meeting with the other purchasing managers.
I wanted to delay. I couldn't delay. I took a deep breath, stood up from my desk, and made the short walk over to Ellen Watson’s desk.
“Ellen,” I began, “do you have a few minutes to talk?”
I was standing behind her. Due to the location of her desk, that was the only way it was possible to approach her. Her desk faced one of the building’s wide support pillars, and there were file cabinets on either side of it.
Ellen turned in her chair and looked up at me, inscrutable and unfriendly as always.
“What?”
“I need to discuss something with you.”
“So discuss,” she said. She gestured toward her computer screen. “I’ve got a lot of work to get done.”
I sighed, took another deep breath. “We really need to talk about this privately. It won’t take long but we need to go to a meeting room. Believe me, you’ll understand after you hear it.”
Ellen pursed her lips and looked back at her computer screen, then up at me again.
“Okay, if you say so, but this is highly unusual.”
“Thank you.” You're damn right it’s highly unusual, I thought, but did not say.
As we walked to the cluster of private meeting rooms on the third floor, it occurred to me that Ellen was going out of her way to be difficult, while I was going out of my way to save her from the most grievous harm. Oh, the ironies in all this. They just never stopped coming.
The first meeting room after the vending machine alcove was open. Ellen started to veer toward it. This much was logical: Why not go to the closest available space? Then I thought: Maybe I wasn't the only person in the building who knew that there was a space between the walls of this meeting room that allowed for eavesdropping. I didn't want to risk our conversation being overheard.
“Not that meeting room, Ellen. The next one. It’s open, too.”
Ellen let out an exaggerated sigh. “You’re being very strange here, Frank. This had better be good.”
“It will be, Ellen. Trust me.”
We went into the second meeting room and sat down at the little table. Much as Anne Hull had done, Ellen looked at me expectantly, as if to say, It’s your meeting. Which it was.
There was no way to convey what I had to convey with half-measures. I therefore didn't waste any time with vague statements like, “You might be in danger.” I didn't ask her if she’d had any sense, of late, that someone was following her or watching her. I didn't know Ellen Watson well, but I knew her well enough to know that she would never meet me halfway. If I played coy, she would simply terminate the meeting and walk out. Then she would tell Sid, Donnie, or Bethany what a screwball I was. She might even go directly to HR.
So I laid out the entire scenario for her: I described how I had eavesdropped on the conversation between Sid and my two coworkers. Then I described my aborted conversation with Anne Hull, and the decision process that had led me to talk to her.
As I described the situation, Ellen Watson’s face registered anxiousness,
then shock, and finally—a smoldering anger. I hadn't asked her why Sid, Donnie, and Bethany could possibly want to kill her.
She didn't tell me what she was thinking about all this. But I got the definite sense that my revelation wasn't a total surprise. Somehow, I knew, Ellen had seen this coming.
“All right,” Ellen said, after I was finished.
I was taken aback at her willingness to believe me. I had offered no physical evidence, after all. I had been prepared for her to challenge the truthfulness of what I was saying. At the very least, I had expected her to say something along the lines of, “Are you sure you heard that?”
Ellen Watson didn't interrogate me or accuse me of telling tall tales. But she did have a follow-up question.
“So you haven't told anyone what you’ve just told me?” she asked.
“No—except, sort of, Anne Hull. Like I said, though, that discussion was so vague that Anne might have thought I was talking about anything or anyone.”
Ellen nodded, taking this in.
“I believe you,” she said, “in case you're wondering. I have a request, though.”
“Sure,” I said. This I had anticipated. “I figure you’ll need me to repeat this story for HR, or for someone in law enforcement—or both.”
Ellen and I were on the same side. It was two against three now. Even if Sid was a very powerful player for the other side, the depth of their malfeasance would ruin them. Now that Ellen had heard me and believed me, I was beginning to think that this would work out okay.
I had images of Sid, Donnie, and Bethany being led away in handcuffs, of me talking to a police department detective, maybe even testifying in court. These weren't outcomes I would have hoped for—even in Donnie’s case—but now that this was out in the open, sort of, I would see it through.
Then Ellen said, “No. I don’t want you to do that. I would like you to keep this to yourself. Don’t mention it to anyone. Will you do that for me, Frank?”
The Eavesdropper Page 5
