by J. M. Barlog
“I won’t be disturbed,” Kate said into her speaker after she settled into a well-used, high-backed leather chair. There was no mistaking Kate Matheson as the owner of all that fell within her reach, and that this spacious, well-appointed office was her lair.
“So, what can I do for you, Detective?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jenny Garrett.”
“I see. And this concerns her accident?”
Kate brought her fingertips across her forehead just above her eyes, moving the few strands of russet hair out of the way. Something churned behind those eyes.
“Yes.”
“How possibly could I help?”
“I understand you and Mrs. Garrett are partners in this agency?”
“Correct.”
“Equal partners?”
“Fifty-fifty,” Kate offered with a little head nod.
“When was the last time you saw Jenny that Friday, September fifteenth?”
“Early afternoon. I had just returned from a client meeting—Simply Beautiful Cosmetics. We’d been working that account for six months at that time and still struggling to get the campaign off the ground. Jenny was working in her office. We talked for, I guess, an hour or so.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Accounts, general stuff, I guess.”
“What exactly do you mean by accounts?”
“Just accounts. One I was working on and one she was working on. She showed me some storyboarding nearing completion. I offered my opinion. She ignored it. Business as usual.”
“How would you characterize Jenny’s state of mind at that time?”
“State of mind? She was fine. Why?” Kate had turned a bit sardonic in her response.
“She wasn’t upset or maybe depressed about anything?”
“Jenny? Jenny’s never depressed, and it would take total devastation to upset her. Jenny’s always sailed on a even keel for as long as I’ve known her. She’s the rock at Matheson Garrett.”
“And what are you?”
“I’m the wire.”
“How long have you known Jenny?”
Kate paused. It was one of those things you know but have to think about to reconfirm when asked.
“Eleven years. We were at Cornell together. That’s where we met.”
“Ms. Matheson, how is your advertising business going?”
“You know, Mr. Walker, none of this sounds like it pertains to Jenny’s accident.”
“Indulge me.”
“Like gangbusters. We’ve realized twenty percent annual growth every year since we started.”
“And I take it that means you entertain a substantial client base?”
“And by entertain you mean?”
“Client lunches with around a half dozen cocktails. Extravagant dinners where the booze flows like a fountain until the client is giddy.”
“So that’s the purpose of this visit?”
“Ms. Matheson, to put it bluntly, did Jenny Garrett entertain any clients during lunch that Friday?”
Kate’s sudden shift in her chair offered more than just a casual affront to Rick’s question. He’s got a lot of nerve coming in here and insinuating something like that. Business is business, and those that don’t know how to schmooze, don’t last long in this business. Kate thought the words but held her tongue in check. He had a lot of nerve coming in here and insinuating.
“Advertising is sales; sales is schmoozing. How far do you think we’d get ordering club soda at client lunches?”
“Ms. Matheson, did Jenny consume alcohol during her business lunches?”
Rick doled out his question with greater sternness. He was losing his patience with Kate.
“Yes. But Jenny’s a social drinker. She drinks with a client, but usually nurses hers while ordering doubles for whomever she’s with.”
Rick said nothing. He shifted in his chair and scribbled something in his notebook. It was the first time he had put his pen to the pad.
“You’re intimating Jenny was drunk that Friday night?”
“We investigate every accident thoroughly, and I take my responsibility very seriously, Ms. Matheson.”
The directness of Rick’s response proved unsettling.
“To answer your question, I don’t know. I’ll have her calendar brought in.”
“Please. I really do need to understand how Jenny spent that Friday.”
“You ever think of asking Jenny?” Kate asked sarcastically. The surprised look on her face meant to convey that she figured Rick to be a complete idiot.
“Jenny’s memory of the accident is very unclear right now.”
“You’re kidding?”
“You seem genuinely surprised, Ms. Matheson.”
“I am. I haven’t talked with Jenny since before the accident. Warren keeps me current. He said Jenny couldn’t handle seeing me. I heard she was pretty messed up. Her face, I mean.”
Rick used those moments while Kate buzzed Jenny’s secretary to review the set of questions he had scribbled in his notebook. Within a minute or two, the secretary delivered the calendar to Kate’s desk, all the time avoiding eye contact with the detective.
“Jenny’s office remains just as it was before the accident. I’m sorry, detective, can I have my secretary get you coffee or something?”
Rick slid forward in his chair. He wanted a better look at the top page with the plastic marker across it—September fifteenth.
“Nothing on her calendar,” Kate quickly pointed out, as if that exonerated her partner from any wrongdoing.
Rick studied the unblemished page.
“Does that mean then that Jenny did not have a business lunch with a client?”
“Not always. If an important client calls impromptu looking for a free lunch, we jump. We never let an opportunity get away. You want to see an ad agency go belly up fast, that’s the way to do it.”
“What about Jenny’s telephone log?”
“I’ll have it brought in. Her secretary keeps the telephone log for her.”
“If you please. Ms. Matheson, I’ll also need a look at Matheson Garrett’s financial condition.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I’d like to look at Matheson and Garrett’s financial records.”
“Hold on a minute. I don’t see how something like that is germane to your investigation. The way I understand it, Jenny lost control of her car and went over a guard rail while driving down a hill. How can the agency’s financial health have anything to do with that?”
Rick buried his excitement. His inquiry had struck a nerve in Matheson. Maybe there was something in the financial records he needed to see.
“Ms. Matheson. There’s a nine-year-old girl in a coma. That makes everything germane.”
Kate rubbed her fingers along the slick surface of her desk, averting her eyes for a prolonged moment. She was weighing all the implications of Walker’s request. She knew pretty much what her options were at this moment and had to decide which way she should move.
“Let me tell you. We’ve got our problems. Our growth is a little more overwhelming than we realized. We’ve doubled the staff within two years. That means a hefty overhead and added expenses. If you’re implying Jenny was drinking because she worried over the agency failing, I doubt that. We maintain a more than adequate reserve of working capital.”
Rick felt a churning in his gut. As a result, he decided it was time to let the pot heat up before playing his final card.
“Could I ask you a few questions about Jenny’s life outside this agency?”
“Sure.”
“How would you characterize Jenny and Warren’s relationship? Normal?”
“Normal?” Kate laughed. “Warren trades commodities. You don’t have normal with a guy in that profession. Jenny’s in the middle of a fledgling advertising agency. I guess their relationship was as normal as it could be under those conditions. Mr. Walker, Jenny and I spend six days a week together, but I can�
��t say I know much about her relationship with Warren. We have very little time to talk about our personal lives. I’ll say this, Jenny never really confides in me about Warren.”
“Then you would be unaware of any problems between them?”
“Jenny did seem different the last few weeks before the accident, maybe even going back as far as a month before.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Preoccupied maybe. You want to know more about Jenny and Warren, talk with Bridget.”
“Bridget?”
“Bridget Sterling, a mutual friend. We were all at Cornell. Jenny spends more time with her out of this office than with me.”
Kate flipped through her Rolodex, grabbed up a silver pen from its holder and jotted down Bridget’s address and telephone number on a slip of paper that had FROM THE DESK OF KATE MATHESON printed in flowing script along the top.
“Ms. Matheson, I’d like to keep Jenny’s calendar, telephone log and anything else that might help me get an accurate picture of those days leading up to her accident.”
“Sure. Jenny’s secretary is at your disposal. Feel free to contact her directly for anything you need.”
Rick rose to leave, tucking his notebook in his pocket and the calendar under his arm. He thought he detected a glimpse of relief take over Kate’s face.
“When do I get access to the agency’s books?” Rick doled out the question in a way that limited Kate’s response.
“The books? I don’t know...”
Kate forced her eyes to remain on the detective’s.
Rick’s eyes conveyed his tenacity and authority. He expected to get whatever he wanted. Kate’s uneasy hesitation sounded a blaring alarm inside his head. She seemed jolted by his request...why?
“Your complete financial records. You do keep them on premises, don’t you?”
“No,” Kate offered sharply, hiding her embarrassment. “They’re with our accountant. Neither Jenny nor I are very good with the numbers. But give me a day or two, I’ll have them made available.”
“That would be fine. Here’s my number. Call me when the books are ready.” Rick handed Kate his card.
She stared at it for a long moment. It took every ounce of strength she could muster to keep the surprise out of her face.
“My secretary will show you to Jenny’s office,” Kate said absentmindedly. Her eyes never left Rick’s card.
After Rick left, Kate closed her door and returned to her chair, where she shoved the papers sitting in front of her away and stared at the card.
“Special Investigations—fuck,” she muttered, dialing the number for the accounting firm of Jarvison and Lewis.
8
Jenny sat propped up by pillows in bed, enjoying the sun against her face and browsing through the trades, missing more than she saw. She could hear Warren tapping away at his computer in the den. The magazines spurred Jenny’s first spurts of anxiousness to return to work. But would she remember what to do? And what she might have said to clients before the accident? Did she make commitments to any of her clients that she would now not remember?
For a moment, she pressed her mind into service, trying to recapture that night at the restaurant. Nothing buoyed to the surface. It was as if that day never existed in her life. She could neither confirm nor deny anything that anyone claimed she had said or did that day. Or the days preceding it.
A total void filled her head.
The only vision she could crystallize in her mind was a meeting with Kate. And she was excited about something. Would Kate remember why Jenny was excited? And when did that memory she now clung to actually take place? Was it a month old? A year?
****
Outside in the yard, Mr. Chips sniffed over every inch of ground for the millionth time and dug with his snout through the mounds of fallen leaves. Finding nothing of interest, he returned to the porch and stretched out upon the top step with his front paws hanging over the edge, waiting for Warren to remember to let him in.
He scratched at his ear, sniffed along the crack between the boards on the porch, and went after an ant that quickly scurried to safety.
Then something changed.
A wave of icy terror fell upon the animal. His sense of imminent danger had been triggered. Chips pricked his ears. A terrible threat swam through him. The dog sampled the air swirling down from the trees. Not there. He pointed his snout toward the door.
Inside the house.
Chips issued a deep guttural growl. The hairs at his nape stood rigid. Mr. Chips bounded for the door, his yaps turning quickly to fervent braying while he scraped wildly at the wooden door frame.
****
Jenny’s eyes fluttered out of focus on the page. She, at last, succumbed to her fatigue. She was pushing it and she knew it, thinking if she forced herself to work harder, she would recover much sooner. When she put the magazine down, she heard Chips whimpering from far away.
Jenny closed her eyes for a moment to refresh them.
When she opened them, the pellucid specter of herself hovered at the foot of her bed.
Jenny sucked in a breath, building a scream. The graven image, only a few feet away, was undeniably her and radiated its own pale glow, appearing to be solid, yet at the same time, translucent.
Jenny tried to swallow, but phlegm choked her throat and blocked her scream.
A battered, bloody hand rose to extend a lacerated and snaggled finger pointing at her.
Jenny stretched out her own hand as if to push the image away.
“W-W-warren!” She wanted to scream it—it came out no louder than a staccato whisper.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Chips clawed at the door until the pounding sounded like rapid machine gun fire. He yapped and barked in warning, knowing he was helpless to come to Jenny’s aid.
“Wait a goddamn minute, you shit!” Warren scowled as he marched down the hall at a pace matching the rapidity of Chips’ braying.
As Warren appeared through the doorway, Jenny could discern Warren’s form behind the specter.
“Jenny!” he screamed.
Ruby blood oozed from the corners of Jenny’s eyes, trickling down her cheeks like out-of-control tear drops. Blood gushed from both her nostrils. When Jenny opened her mouth, blood spilled out onto her night dress. It was as if she had become frozen on the bed, unable to move, unable to do anything.
The specter vanished.
“W-warren, h-help me, p-p-please!.
Warren’s face paled at the sight of blood streaming down Jenny’s face. He attacked the bleeding with towels folded haphazardly into compresses, pressing them against Jenny’s pallid skin while tilting her head back. Moments later, the bleeding ceased.
“Jenny, what’s going on?”
“S-she w-was here. Warren, please help me. I’m a-afraid.”
9
Rick pressed the buzzer for apartment 602 in the Glen Oaks apartment building. A nice secure place to live amidst of an otherwise run-down strip of city. The morning’s brisk north wind swirled discarded newspapers into tornadic circles along the sidewalk. Rick would rather have spent his Saturday morning at home, doing anything but thinking about this case. But he realized there wasn’t much for him around the small apartment he called home, and working kept his mind off the fact that another year was passing and he was still alone.
He shifted, buzzing again. One more buzz, he thought, then he was out of here. This case was turning into a ringer anyway, and Rick held little hope of learning anything worthwhile. They would probably never really know what happened that night.
“Yes?” a tinny timid voice asked over the intercom.
“Ms. Bridget Sterling?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Rick Walker, I’d like to talk to you about Jenny Garrett.”
“Oh. Sure, I’ll buzz you in.”
A short clanking elevator ride later, Rick rapped on the door with the 602 painted on it. When no immediate response came, he placed his badge
before the peephole at a distance where it would be in focus to the occupant inside.
First a deadbolt receded, then the lock on the door handle clicked and finally the sound of a sliding chain came. The door opened without the slightest hesitancy.
Rick had to force his eyes to remain on Bridget’s sparkling blue orbs. It took all the will power he could muster to avoid the fluorescent orange Spandex top that stretched across well-rounded and otherwise unfettered breasts touting soft nipples that played for his attention.
Bridget’s frame had all the markings of having been sculpted by an artist. Though she was a slight woman, the same age as Jenny, she completely overwhelmed anyone who came into her view. She wore Spandex shorts that began at a tight, exposed mid-section and smoothed like silk downward to where inviting thighs took over. A sweat band held her hair in check.
Rick had to work consciously to overcome the impression that he was ogling her.
“Sorry, but I live alone, and I don’t like to open my door unless I know who it is.”
“I fully understand.”
In those few steps that it took to move from the foyer into the living room, Rick took in the breadth of Bridget’s life. Doing so also took his eyes off what remained engraved inside his mind. Her furnishings were as lavish as she was beautiful. Bridget was undoubtedly a woman who liked to surround herself with very nice things.
“Yes, Detective, Jenny and I went to Cornell together, and we’ve been best friends ever since,” Bridget answered in response to Rick’s initial question.
Bridget straddled the arm rest of a chair while Rick sat on the sofa. Her lush black, shoulder-length hair had been secured in a French braid. She took a long drink from a bottle of spring water and used the towel around her neck to wipe away the beads of sweat accumulating on her forehead.
Rick waited, admiring the way other sweat beads trickled down her honey-colored flesh.
Temptation filled his head. Temptation almost impossible to quell.
“I’m sorry. I just finished my Tae-bo workout. A minute later, and I’d have been in the shower.”
It was obvious Bridget worked out habitually. Her lean silky legs disappeared under the Spandex shorts. It also became obvious to Rick that Bridget’s smile was more than just perfunctory.
