Unnatural Acts

by Stuart Woods

  “Hey, there,” Herbie said.

  “Hey. Where are we having dinner tonight?”

  “The Park Avenue Café all right?”

  “That’s fine. I can’t be there before eight,” she said.

  “Eight is good. You want me to pick you up?”

  “No, I’ll meet you.” She said goodbye and hung up.

  That was unusual, Herbie thought. Allison liked being called for. Cookie buzzed again. “Mike Freeman on one.”

  “Good morning, Mike.”

  “Good morning, Herb. I’m going downtown to take a look at the work my people are doing on the High Cotton Ideas building. Would you like to come along?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve got time for that. I haven’t seen it since the work began.”

  “I’ll pick you up in front of your building in fifteen minutes, then.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Bobby Bentley knocked on the door. He had been at the franchise meeting and had asked some good questions Herbie hadn’t thought of.

  “Come in, Bobby, and take a seat.”

  Bobby sat down. “I had dinner with Dad last night, and he asked me to give you his best regards.”

  “That was good of him.”

  “He said he wasn’t far from having some business for you.”

  “For us, Bobby. The firm wouldn’t be getting this business if it weren’t for you, and Bill Eggers will hear about that, believe me.”

  Bobby looked relieved, but now he looked worried again. “Dad ran a background check on you,” he said.

  “Oh? I’m sure he found the report very interesting.”

  “He didn’t know you killed that guy in Little Italy a few years ago.”

  “It was in the papers—it’s no secret. Does he know that the initial charges were dropped?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Next time you speak with him, tell him to ask me about it. I’ll be happy to tell him the whole story.”

  “I think that’s a good idea, Herb. Dad is a very conservative guy, a real straight arrow, and the idea that you have an arrest record is alarming to him.”

  “That’s why I want him to talk to me about it personally. I’ll answer all his questions.”

  “Good, I’ll pass that on to him.” Bobby went back to his cubicle.

  HERBIE WAS standing at the curb when Mike Freeman’s car pulled up. He got in, and they headed downtown to High Cotton Ideas.

  “How’s the new business thing going?” Mike asked.

  “Wonderful! Thank you so much for sending me Joshua Hook!”

  “Josh is a hard-ass but a good guy. He told me you advised him to ease off the boot camp atmosphere, and I agreed. He’s even having the accommodations done up a bit to make them more hotel-like, and nobody will be bunking with anybody else.”

  “My guess is, he was a Marine before he joined the Agency.”

  “Close—he was a Navy SEAL.”

  “He asked me how far I could run without passing out. I told him I don’t run.”

  “Are you going up there next week?”

  “I’m already booked in,” Herbie said.

  They arrived at the High Cotton Ideas building, and Herbie was struck by the transformation the stucco had made to the exterior. The lobby entrance to the new penthouse was under construction, and there was a crane in the street, lifting pallets of construction material to the roof.

  James Rutledge came over and joined them. “The elevator to the roof will be operating in another ten days or so, then we can run materials up there and get rid of the crane.”

  “Sounds good,” Herbie said.

  They walked through the open door of the garage and the difference from before was striking.

  “We’re installing a new steel garage door that will be veneered in mahogany but will be very secure. We can thank Mike’s people for that suggestion.”

  “I’m glad they’ve been of help to you,” Mike said.

  “The security systems are in, and, miracle of miracles, they actually work!”

  “That’s what we aim for,” Mike replied.

  They rode up in the elevator to the floor where Mark Hayes and his people were temporarily working.

  “This is pretty much what the lower floors will look like,” James said. “Open plan, unless there’s a need to divide the areas. Now come on up one floor and see what the executive offices are going to look like.” They got back onto the freight elevator and rode up, then exited into a coolly decorated reception room with the High Cotton Ideas logo painted large on one wall.

  “We’re creating an elevator stop from the private lobby to the executive floor,” James said, as they walked through the main doors. The floor was plush, compared to the lower floors, but decorated in bright colors, almost like a series of children’s rooms. The office furniture was handsome but spare, of light wood, with small conference tables and sofas in the larger offices. At the rear of the floor was a more open area of low-walled cubicles. “This is programmer country,” James said. “They’ll be in here next week, as soon as the computer wiring installation is complete and tested.”

  “Is there anything to see on the roof?” Herbie asked.

  “Right now, it’s just a roof,” James said, “and it’s dangerous for us to be up there. Give me a month, and we’ll have something for you to look at.”

  Mark Hayes entered the area and took them to his corner office, near the new elevator shaft. Men were carrying pieces of furniture through a set of double doors into the big room.

  “The conference table will go there,” Mark said, pointing, “and each seat will have a workstation so that all the people in a meeting can view the same screen.”

  As they left the room, Mark stopped them. “Herb, Mike, I’m very impressed with everything you’ve done to help us get this thing up and running, and I want to invite both of you to join the High Cotton Ideas board of directors. Marshall Brennan is joining, and he’ll be our financial guru.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Herbie said.

  “So would I, Mark,” Mike said.

  Mark rode down to the street with them. “The next time you see this place, it’s going to look like an important place of work.” He shook their hands and went back upstairs.

  Herbie and Mike thanked James for the tour and rode uptown together.

  30

  HERBIE GOT BACK to his office and had a message to return a call to Parker Mosely, Dink Brennan’s roommate at Yale. He dialed the number.

  “Hi, Mr. Fisher,” Parker said. “Thanks for returning my call.”

  “How can I help you, Parker?”

  “I just wanted to relay a message from Dink. He wants you to know how grateful he is to you for getting him into rehab. I saw him yesterday, and he’s doing really well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Parker.”

  “He asked me to tell you that if you’re anywhere near there, to please visit him. He’d like to see you and thank you personally.”

  “If I get up that way I’ll stop in for a visit,” Herbie said. “Thanks for calling, Parker, and give Dink my best.” He hung up and tried to imagine Dink Brennan as a reformed character. He failed.

  PARKER PUT away his cell phone and turned to Carson Cullers, on whose parents’ living room sofa they were sitting, smoking a joint. “Okay,” he said, “that should prime the pump.” He handed Carson a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Now, here’s what Dink wants you to do,” he said. When he had finished he waved away a puff of her smoke. “Now, have you got that? He wants it done exactly that way.”

  “Got it,” Carson said. “You know, this could be fun.”

  “Okay, I gotta run,” Parker said. “There’s a car waiting, and I’ve got a shipment to get back to New Haven.” He said goodbye and left.

  Carson went into her mother’s dressing room and pressed the button that started the moving closet, which resembled the sort of long, electric rack in dry-cleaning establishments. She let it run for a few s
econds, then stopped it and removed a sheer, silk minidress. “Perfect,” she said. “He’ll never know what hit him.”

  HERBIE WAITED at the bar of the Park Avenue Café, since he knew Allison would be a little late; she was always a little late. She hurried in after a ten-minute wait, gave him a peck on the cheek, and they were seated in the dining room. He ordered her a drink, and they took a look at the menus.

  “I’m not staying for dinner,” she said. “You order.”

  Herbie closed the menu. “All right,” he said, “tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing is wrong,” she replied. “I just have to talk to you.”

  She took a swig of her drink, as if she needed it.

  “I’m listening,” Herbie said.

  “I don’t think we should go on seeing each other,” she said.

  “Do you want to tell me why?”

  “You’ve been promoted at the firm, and I want to be promoted. I don’t think it would help my chances if we became an item of office gossip.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows,” he said.

  “Joan knows, and that means Stone knows, and that may mean that Eggers knows.”

  “Stone wouldn’t mention it to Eggers.”

  “I hope you’re right. I just don’t think it does either of us any good for anyone at the firm to know we’re seeing each other.”

  Herbie shrugged. “Well, as far as I know, there’s no rule against it.”

  “Still,” she said, “you must see that it’s not good for either of us.”

  “I won’t argue with you,” Herbie said gently. “Now, let’s order some dinner.”

  “There’s probably somebody from the firm in this restaurant right now,” she said, tossing off the rest of her drink and standing up. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Herbie,” she said.

  “Please don’t be concerned,” he said, and then he watched her leave.

  He waved at a waiter and ordered the veal chop. He didn’t have a girlfriend anymore, but it didn’t seem to have hurt his appetite.

  HERBIE GOT a cab home, and as he walked into his apartment, the phone was ringing. He sat down in the living room and picked up. “Hello?”

  “Is this Herbert Fisher?” a low female voice said.

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Carson Cullers,” she said. “I don’t know if that means anything to you.”

  Herbie thought for a moment; the name sounded familiar. “Dink Brennan’s friend,” he said. “Washington, Connecticut.”

  “That’s right. New York, really, Washington is just a weekend place. I live at Park and Seventy-first.”

  “Then we’re neighbors. I’m just a couple blocks away.”

  “I wonder if we could have a drink sometime?” she said. “I’d like to talk to you about Dink.”

  “Sure,” Herbie said. “Would you like to come here now?”

  “That would be great,” she said.

  He gave her the address. “It’s the penthouse,” he said.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” she replied, and hung up.

  This was interesting, Herbie thought. Why would Dink Brennan’s girlfriend be calling him? He’d already had a call from Parker Mosely, Dink’s roommate, and now this? Was this some sort of campaign to persuade him that Dink should be released?

  He got up and walked around the living room, straightening up a bit. Ten minutes later, the doorman rang, and Herbie asked that she be sent up. He answered the door to find a tall, slender, elegantly dressed young woman standing in the foyer, in a nearly sheer dress, looking a little nervous. “Come in, Carson,” he said, and showed her into the living room. “Have a seat. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Can you make a vodka martini?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Herbie went to the bar and began to put that together. Since Allison had opted out of his life earlier in the evening, he felt glad to have someone there.

  Then he brought himself up short. Hang on, this was his client’s son’s girlfriend, he thought. Better be careful.

  He returned to the sofa with her martini and his cognac on a tray and started to take a chair.

  “Please,” she said, patting the sofa next to her. “Sit here.”

  Herbie had already had a drink and half a bottle of wine, and the girl was looking very good. What the hell, he thought. “Give me a minute, will you? I have to go to the powder room.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Herbie got up and left.

  Carson opened her purse, took out a prescription bottle, and shook two small pills into her hand. She put them on the glass coffee table, took a razor blade from her purse, and chopped them into powder, then held Herbie’s brandy snifter at the edge of the table and raked the powder into his glass. She stirred it with a finger, watching it dissolve, then licked her finger and put the glass back on the table.

  Herbie came back from the powder room, sat down beside her, and raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said.

  Carson smiled. “Cheers, indeed!” She took a gulp of her martini and rested her hand on his thigh.

  “So, tell me about Dink,” Herbie said, taking a sip of brandy.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Dink is history,” Carson said. “I’m sick of his behavior. I’m here because he told me about you, and I thought you sounded interesting.” She moved her hand up his thigh a bit.

  “Well, that’s flattering,” Herbie replied, taking another sip. He rested his head on the back of the sofa cushion and felt her hand move up farther.

  “What are you looking for there?” he asked, sipping more brandy.

  She moved her hand up to his crotch. “This,” she said.

  “Well, now that you’ve found it, what’s next?”

  She unzipped his fly and took out his penis.

  Herbie felt drowsy. He took another pull on the brandy and set the glass on the coffee table.

  She teased him erect, then took him into her mouth.

  31

  DETECTIVE THIRD GRADE Vivian DeCarlo walked into the emergency room at Lenox Hill Hospital and looked around for her partner, Rose Mahon, who was supposed to meet her there to interview a hit-and-run victim. No sign of Rosie.

  “Hey, Viv,” a young female resident in green scrubs said to her.

  “Hey, Liz,” Viv replied. “How’s it going?”

  “Now that you mention it, I’ve just examined a rape victim, and you might want to talk to her. She’s behind the curtain, there, in exam one.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “She says some guy got her drunk and raped her. She wasn’t wearing any panties, but there was no bruising, either internal or external, and she didn’t seem all that drunk, either.”

  “You think she’s lying?”

  “I’ve seen a couple of dozen rape victims in here, and she doesn’t fit the mold. She’s not crying, not even looking upset, and, like I said, not a mark on her. Her first name is Carson.”

  “Did you do a rape kit?”

  “Yep. I found no semen in her vagina, but there was some on what pubic hair she has left after a major wax job. I’ll get you the kit.”

  Viv walked over and pulled the curtain back a few inches. “Carson?”

  The girl was stretched out on the exam table, and she lifted her head a bit. “Yes?”

  Viv walked into the cubicle and pulled the curtain closed behind her. “I’m Detective DeCarlo. Dr. Edwards tells me you’ve been hurt.”

  Carson put her head back onto the table. “I’m not hurt, just raped, that’s all.”

  Viv pulled up a chair, sat down, and got out her notebook. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I went over to this guy’s apartment for a drink and had a martini. He was doing coke and drinking brandy. He made a move, but I wasn’t into it and I told him so. He slapped me across the mouth, pulled up my dress, and ripped off my panties, and he raped me.”

  Viv looked at the woman’s mouth—no sign of swelling. “What’s the man
’s name?”

  “Herbert Fisher. He’s a lawyer at some big-time firm.”

  “Address?”

  She rattled off the address. “The penthouse.”

  “Did anyone see you go to his apartment?”

  “Just the doorman.”

  “What’s your last name and your address and phone number?” She jotted down the information. “Do you want to make a formal complaint?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just go to the newspapers and TV. If I sign a complaint, what are the chances of anything being done about it?”

  “Frankly, based on what you’ve told me, not very good. It’s a he-said-she-said situation. He’ll likely maintain that the sex was consensual, and since you have no injuries, the DA would probably not go forward with the case.”

  “Let me think about it,” Carson said.

  Viv gave her a business card. “You can reach me at both of those numbers.”

  Carson suddenly sat up and hopped off the table. She was at least four inches taller than Viv. “I’m going home,” she said.

  “You should speak to the doctor first.”

  The curtain was pulled back and Dr. Edwards entered and handed Viv a paper bag. “Here’s the kit. Where are you going, sweetheart?” she asked Carson.

  “Home.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay to travel?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Edwards took a form from her clipboard and handed it to Carson. “Give this to the cashier on your way out. She takes credit cards.”

  “Okay, thanks.” And she was gone.

  “That was not like any rape victim I’ve ever seen,” Edwards said.

  VIV FOUND her partner in the waiting room. “Sorry, I was interviewing a rape victim.”

  “I spoke to the hit-and-run victim. She had nothing useful. Didn’t see a thing, didn’t remember anything.”

  “Let’s go talk to the alleged rapist,” Viv said. “He lives near here.”

  They got into their unmarked car and drove to the building. The doorman buzzed the penthouse repeatedly. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Mr. Fisher always answers immediately.”