“It’s out of my hands,” he said quietly. “They voted to suspend you while they look into the situation. I convinced them to let you take some time off. With pay. It’s the best I could do. I’m sorry.”
His words felt like a cold shower. I sucked in my stomach, hoping to keep my emotions in check, but the pain wouldn’t go away. The fat lady had sung. There’d be no help from the firm with any FBI investigation now. And no partnership. No office with a view. It felt as if the final curtain had just dropped on my entire life.
“And if I refuse to go quietly?” I kept my voice icy and controlled.
Gordon’s expression had changed, had become pained, as if it disturbed him to have lost his composure. He sat and started rearranging and fiddling with those letters in an attempt to keep the focus off his words and my question.
“It’s only temporary,” he said. “The partners will meet next week to discuss the problem. It’s at the top of their agenda. By that time, our attorneys will have met with Whitener’s people, and we’ll be able to assess the situation. I’m sure they’ll support you then.”
“Gordon, why do I get the impression that you’re on everybody’s side except mine?”
He raised his head slowly and looked at me. His expression was an accusation, as if I’d betrayed him in some way and my disloyalty weighed heavily on him. Then he winced as if in pain. I wondered if his ulcer was acting up. I could only hope so.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “I’ve always been on your side—you know that—but sometimes you don’t make it easy. Just stay out of it for now, and give me time to smooth things over.”
When I spoke, it was with a tone that I used when I was about to say something I’d probably regret. “You don’t leave me much choice, so I’ll play it your way. For one week. But what you’re doing is wrong, Gordon, and probably illegal. So when the partners meet, I’ll be there—with my own attorney. Tell them to put that on their agenda.”
The muscles in his cheeks twitched from clenching his jaw. He stared at the desktop, looking small, much smaller than I’d ever seen him look before. I held the Amsterdam memo in a death grip, trying to keep from bumping into anything as I crossed the room.
Before opening the door, I turned to face him. “And, Gordon? That downsizing bit is pure bullshit. You fired Eugene without cause. So I suggest you unfire him, or I’m going to tell him to get himself a lawyer, a good one, and sue your ass off.”
I stumbled out of the office, past a stunned Marsha, down the hallway, concentrating only on a subtle leafy pattern in the beige carpet. Was the accent color cream or oatmeal? Had I imagined the past fifteen minutes? I tried to reconvene my anger, but all I felt was emptiness. I’d spent my whole career at Aames & Associates. For what? Pookie was right. I’d trusted harder, not smarter, and had only myself to blame.
Eugene’s desk was in sight when I realized that I’d forgotten to tell Gordon that the NeuroMed file was gone. Just as well. The last thing I needed was to have him angrier with me than he already was. I couldn’t let anything sidetrack me now, because I had less than one week to locate those missing documents, or I might find myself not only out of a job but also into a jail cell.
11
i didn’t want to make Eugene more anxious than he already was, so I downplayed my own uneasiness when I explained what had happened in my meeting with Gordon. I knew Eugene’s salary was a piddly amount compared with the cost of a lawsuit, so I thought the firm would weigh those risks and decide to keep him on the payroll, but I wasn’t sure. At first he refused to stay on without me, but I eventually convinced him it was the best thing to do.
Regardless of what Gordon said about a temporary suspension, I felt unemployed. My entire identity had been tied up in the firm, but now I wasn’t sure that I even wanted to be reinstated, not under the circumstances. One thing I was sure of, though: Whether I stayed with the firm or not, I wanted it to be my decision, not Gordon’s or the partners’. As for Covington, it was unimaginable that he would deny Gordon a consulting contract because of my one flippant remark. I was already persona non grata at the firm, and didn’t want the blame for losing that consulting bid heaped on me, too. Despite Gordon’s warning, I was going to call Covington—grovel if necessary—to straighten things out.
Venus was fuming. Poor Gordon if he tangled with her today. She and I commiserated for a while until she had to leave for a meeting. After she was gone, I checked the firm’s contact database and copied a half-dozen numbers listed for Covington onto the back of the Amsterdam memo. I was going to call him, but first I wanted to talk with Mona Polk. I had to find out who had altered the NeuroMed report and why they were blaming me. She seemed like the logical place to start my search. Besides, if things didn’t work out at the firm, I might need clients of my own, and she’d be my first.
Mona picked up on the first ring. She was surprised but pleased to hear from me so soon. Yes, indeed, she said, she was eager to see me. I jotted down her address in Pacific Palisades next to Covington’s telephone numbers and slipped the paper into my purse.
A pall had settled over the room. I didn’t want to stay here any longer. Eugene sat at his desk in a state of agitated limbo, half packed, waiting for Gordon’s call. I knew Gordon. He’d have someone in Human Resources take care of it, but not until I was gone.
The partners’ meeting was next week. Whitener’s deadline was Monday. I wanted to be prepared. Of course, a top priority was finding the NeuroMed documents, but I also wanted to follow up on the Tucker Sinclair-Sunland connection. If Polk or Francine had used my name for insurance fraud, I had to know what else I was facing.
I rolled up my Moorish rug and packed my tchotchkes. The lowboy would have to stay behind for now. It took several trips to load everything into the car. Nobody tried to stop me. Nobody even asked me what I was doing. By the time I was finished, there was still an hour until my appointment with Mona Polk. I decided to pace myself by taking Wilshire Boulevard instead of the freeway. By the time I’d reached Westwood Boulevard, I was still ahead of schedule, so I pulled into the Village to make a couple of telephone calls.
Westwood Village is the commercial area just south of UCLA, where I went to school. The boulevard was jammed with traffic headed onto campus. On the sidewalks, students with backpacks and men in suits with cell phones hanging from their belts barely noticed the rug sticking out of my car window as I parked at a meter near the corner of Broxton and Gayley. Across the street was one of the many coffee shops that had sprouted up in the area as part of the invasion from the Northwest. With all that caffeine, no wonder people were sleepless in Seattle.
I used my cell phone to dial the first number listed for Covington, then the second, third, fourth, and fifth. He wasn’t in. Did I want to leave my name? Maybe not. What did I expect? That he’d be in and anxious to chitchat? I stared at the last number on the list. My enthusiasm was waning. Oh, what the hell. A young Valley girl answered on the third ring. Covington wasn’t in. I was about to hang up when she said, “Are you RSVP’ing for the luncheon tomorrow?” She giggled.
I had no idea what she was talking about. “Yes, the luncheon,” I said. “How did you know?”
“I could see it in your voice,” she said. “It’s a gift. Besides, I’m getting a zillion calls a minute. What’s your name?”
I gave it to her, and she rustled some papers.
“Like, totally weird. You’re not here.”
“Guess whoever made the list doesn’t have your gift. Maybe you can just add my name?”
“Yeah, okay,” she said hesitantly, as if she was looking into my voice once more for some kind of sign. “Since it’s, like, for charity and all.”
I expected her name to be Tiffany Amber, but it was Carole. She was a temp and the biggest gift I’d had all day. The luncheon was a fund-raiser being held at Covington’s home the following day. Carole made it clear I should bring my checkbook. The suggested minimum donation was two grand. Ouch! I sp
elled my name—twice—and crossed my fingers hoping Tiffany Amber/ Carole wouldn’t screw it up. Having written down all the essential information, including Covington’s address, I closed my cell phone. Things were looking up. Me, in Wade Covington’s home, schmoozing in the relaxed atmosphere of an intimate charity luncheon. What more could I ask for?
I decided to test my winning streak by calling Eric. I still felt uncomfortable about the whole getting-back-together thing and hoped he wouldn’t bring it up. Not that he had any really bad qualities, just annoying ones, and that wasn’t even counting the universal stuff men did with toilet seats and wet towels on the bedspread, which couldn’t fairly be held against him. On the other hand, neither of us had had a serious relationship since our divorce, and it did get lonely sometimes. I decided at least to keep an open mind.
I didn’t have to wait long after dialing Eric’s number before I heard his voice on the line. The first words out of his mouth were, “Somebody logged on to my computer. Know who that might have been?” He sounded peeved.
I felt a guilty burn on my face. “Nope,” I said, “but if I think of anyone, I’ll let you know.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” he said sarcastically. Then his tone turned serious. “Look, Tucker. I’m swamped. I’ll have to work at home all weekend just to catch up. So what do you want now?”
“I’ll make it quick,” I said. “I need a lawyer. Someone kind of civil and kind of criminal. Like the guy you play tennis with. The one with the breasts. Is he any good?”
“Sheldon Greenblatt does not have breasts.” He sounded huffy, punching each syllable. “And yes, he’s good. The best. But at six hundred an hour, he’s not in your budget. What’s going on?”
“Can I tell him you referred me?”
“Tucker, you’re making me nervous. Tell me why you need a lawyer.”
“Let’s just say the best offense is a good defense attorney,” I said. “What’s his number?”
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as Eric weighed his desire to know more against his need to tackle the work on his desk. He was conscientious to a fault, so I knew which one he’d choose.
There was a heavy sigh, and then he said, “Let me call him first.”
I smiled. “Warn him, huh?”
“Something like that.” There was another short pause, and then his voice became a little softer. “Tucker, look. You can’t put me off forever. We have to talk—in person—about our relationship.”
That relationship word again. The last thing I needed was for Eric to press me on the topic right now. Still, the affection in his tone made me think about all the good times we’d had together. The PBS bug specials we’d watched, wrapped in each other’s arms. The elegant dinner parties he loved to throw for our friends. The Minnesota trips to visit his aunt So-you-didn’t-take-the-Bergstrom-name-then? Lena.
I kept my tone light. “Sounds scary.”
“Yeah, maybe a little it is.” His voice had a teasing quality about it that was very appealing. “But it could be a little wonderful, too.”
Oh, what the hell. Eric deserved reciprocity for Shelly Greenblatt, so before we hung up, I agreed to meet him at six the following evening. I put the phone in my purse and glanced across the street at the shop next to Stan’s Donuts. In the window was a T-shirt that read, Jesus is coming, everybody look busy. Sounded like good advice, so I put the car in gear and headed for Mona Polk’s house.
Pacific Palisades is a hilly residential area on the coast, tucked in between Santa Monica on the south and Malibu on the west. It’s as far away from the hustle and bustle of the inner city as affluence can take you. The Methodist Episcopal Church originally developed the land, and many of the streets are named after its bishops. In the early days, I guess church members felt that the high palisades got them closer to God. Nowadays, Pac Pal property owners don’t claim to rub elbows with God, but they do cozy up to some pretty impressive profits when they sell.
I turned onto Bienveneda and then made a left onto a side street to a large Spanish-style house. I parked in the circular driveway and made my way to the massive wooden door. Nothing so modern as a doorbell was visible, so I used a brass lion’s head to announce my arrival.
An ageless, squat woman, presumably Elsa, answered the door. She was Indian-looking, perhaps Central American, with broad brown cheeks and coarse black hair held together in a braid that cascaded down the middle of her back.
“Tucker Sinclair to see Mrs. Polk.”
She gave me what looked like the evil eye before motioning me inside with a nod. The circular foyer connected to a long hallway leading to parts unknown. To the right were two intricately carved wooden doors. To the left was a stairway, which was barricaded by a wrought-iron gate that looked like chic prison bars. My leather-soled shoes made a hollow sound as I followed her across the terra-cotta tiles. She pointed to a dark, rough-hewn wooden bench that looked as if it had once served as a pew in some early California mission. The foyer was empty except for that bench and a small table near the door, which held an arrangement of exotic flowers. I sat.
Clad in thin backless slippers, the woman shuffled softly across the floor and through the iron gate, closing it solidly behind her as if worried I might follow uninvited. Then she rounded the corner of the stairway and disappeared.
After waiting for several minutes, I rose from the bench and walked over to sniff the flowers. Beyond roses and carnations, my knowledge of botany is minimal, and I couldn’t identify any of those blooms. A miniature envelope was threaded through a plastic pitchfork poking out of the pot. I couldn’t resist. The unsigned message on the card inside read, For a job well done. Didn’t sound like a typical condolence message, but so far, my association with the Polks had been less than conventional.
Snooping is like guacamole. After you acquire a taste for it, it’s hard to stop. I scouted the room to make sure I was alone and then moved toward the double doors, pressing down on one of the handles. The door opened into a massive living room that seemed somehow very un-Milton-like. I would sooner have expected a condo in the Marina with fake zebra beanbag chairs and a pinball machine. Instead, the room was filled with an amazing array of antiques that could have been dizzying had the pieces not been arranged with such skill. Ceramics, pottery, metal, and wood implements harmonized with the unique rugs and furniture pieces. The total effect was primitive and haunting.
The mood was broken when fingers dug into my shoulder with amazing strength. I turned to face Elsa. Her disposition had turned even surlier, if that was possible. Pointedly she surveyed the area to check if anything was missing. When she seemed satisfied that each piece was secure in its usual place, she motioned me out of the room. I returned obediently to the foyer, feeling like a child who’d been caught looking up dirty words in the dictionary.
She poked me in the back with her finger and pointed toward the stairs. “Go.”
Her unblinking black eyes followed me as I slipped through the iron gate and began climbing the stairs. Even as I rounded the corner, I could feel her eyes still searing into my back with pinpoint precision, like a laser just before the bullet hits.
12
a fortyish and fashionably thin Mona Polk stood at the top of the stairs in a navy pleated skirt and white blouse that could have doubled as a school uniform. She wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Milton Polk was overweight and out of shape. His wife looked like a woman who took care of herself, not the wide-eyed woman-child I envisioned from her lilting telephone voice. Her hair was blond and curly like a Nordic Betty Boop, and it framed a rather flat but pleasing face. A biceps the size of a lemon flexed as she reached out to offer me her hand. I followed her down a bare wood hallway that smelled of carnauba wax, until we reached a large room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and leaded-glass windows that opened onto an English garden.
“Pardon the mess.” She gestured toward an assembly line of papers and stamps on an industrial-strength table. “I’m program chairm
an for Project Rescue. We sponsor a shelter for battered women in Guadalajara. Have you heard of us?”
“Sorry,” I said.
“No, I suppose not. There are so many needy causes, aren’t there? I organized an awards dinner Saturday night,” she said. “Now I’m working on our monthly newsletter, but with all the confusion, I got behind.”
At least an awards dinner explained the cryptic job-well-done message on the flowers downstairs.
“Was that the dinner Dr. Polk was supposed to attend?” I asked.
She looked at me, seeking clarification with her pea green eyes. “He did attend. He left early, but he was there. That was the last time I saw him.” She pressed a tissue to her left eye even though they both looked dry to me.
“I got the impression Dr. Polk was a no-show. Francine said he didn’t pick up the tuxedo he’d planned to wear that night. She also told me you were out of town for the weekend and didn’t know where he was.”
Mona Polk pinched her lips together until they were small and round. “I was at the dinner, and so was he. Shortly after the event was over, I left for our place in Santa Barbara. My husband had already gone—home, I presumed. When I came back on Monday and he wasn’t at the house, I wasn’t alarmed. I don’t always know his schedule.”
“What time did he leave the dinner?”
“I’m not sure exactly. I saw him at around ten, so some time after that.”
That meant Polk was still alive late Saturday night, which meant he probably died shortly after leaving the Project Rescue event.
“Dr. Polk told Francine he was meeting someone Saturday night,” I said. “Do you have any idea who that was?”
She seemed slightly peeved, the first break I’d detected in her honeyed facade. “I suggest you discard half of what you hear from Francine Chalmers, and then discount the other half. That woman was very possessive of my husband. It made his life difficult at times. Do you mind if I work while we talk? There’s a lot to be done.”
False Profits Page 10
