False Profits

by Patricia Smiley

  “You’ve always had a vivid imagination. It’s been a big part of your success.” His voice sounded thin and hollow.

  “Polk was meeting someone the night he was murdered. Someone with a secret in his past. I believe that person was you, and the secret was Teresa García. What happened? Did the two of you miss each other at the Project Rescue dinner? The firm was one of the sponsors of that event. You must have been there. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? Because you agreed to meet Polk later at the yacht club. I’m guessing he used Teresa García as leverage to get you to change the NeuroMed report. What I don’t understand is why you killed him.”

  Gordon looked surprised, then pleased, as if he were proud of me. He didn’t answer for a time, just stared ahead into the blackness, his hands gripping the wheel. Finally, he gently returned the throttle to neutral, and the engines idled. I braced myself as the boat lurched from its wake.

  Gordon’s shoulders slumped. His expression was both worry-worn and resigned. “What a mess.”

  That was an understatement, to say the least. I sat frozen in my seat, trying to comprehend my own idiocy for sitting here, chatting with a murderer. As the boat drifted into the deep trough of a swell, it began to rock sideways. I braced myself to keep from rolling out of my seat. Between the smell of diesel fumes and the movement of the boat, my stomach was feeling really iffy.

  “I didn’t change that report,” he said. “I gave Polk your research and told him he could do what he wanted, as long as he left the firm out of it. It made me sick when I found out what he’d done. My God, I could have lost everything.”

  “And Teresa García? What did she lose?”

  “You have to believe me, Tucker,” he said. “That was an accident. Polk was using the García business to squeeze all of us for money and favors—equipment from Bernie, investors from Wade. I gave him your work on the business plan for free, but he obviously wanted more. When he got Whitener’s letter on Friday, he was frantic. He came to see me that night. When I refused to help him, he told me he had a medical file on the García girl in his office, and that he was prepared to turn it over to the police. He was trying to bully me. So stupid of him. I had to warn Wade, so I told Polk whatever he wanted to hear just to get rid of him.”

  “And what did he want to hear, Gordon? That you’d set me up to take the fall?”

  “Yes.” His tone was detached and businesslike. “After Polk left, I called Wade and told him to go to the Center with his key and find García’s file.”

  “Ah, now I get it. Covington trashed the place looking for it. And when Polk stopped by the Center on Saturday night, he saw the mess and knew you’d betrayed him.”

  “Polk was livid when he realized the García file was missing. I denied taking it, but he didn’t believe me. That’s when I found out he also had the NeuroMed originals and that he planned to destroy them. He wouldn’t tell me how he got them, but it didn’t matter. I wanted them back. I persuaded him to bring the documents to the boat, and we’d cut some kind of deal.”

  “So you knew the NeuroMed file was missing all along?”

  “Sure, but I also knew if anybody could find it, you could. Fear is a compelling motivator.”

  “Here’s one thing I don’t understand, Gordon: Why did Polk agree to meet with you? Wasn’t he afraid you’d betray him again?”

  “I don’t think he considered that. He was too angry. He came storming onto the boat Saturday night. We argued. He pushed. I pushed back. He hit his head on the corner of the bar.”

  “So you took him out into the bay and threw him overboard to finish him off?”

  “I thought he was dead,” he said. “I panicked. It was a stupid mistake.”

  “Your second stupid mistake, if I’m right. Raping Teresa García was your first.”

  A look of disgust crossed his face. “I didn’t rape that girl.” He sighed and shook his head slowly. “We were at Wade’s place in Aspen, getting shit-faced. Bernie and I heard screaming from the bedroom. We found Wade on top of her. She was hysterical, kicking, and yelling her head off. I tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t shut up, so I put my hand over her mouth. She bit me. Shit, I don’t know—I snapped. I grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her head against the headboard. I kept doing it and doing it until she stopped. Jesus! I thought I’d killed her.”

  My heart pounded. “You did kill her, Gordon. Teresa García died from those head injuries. But I don’t have to tell you that. Gee, two murders. That’s almost serial. But don’t worry, money works miracles in the legal system these days.”

  He smiled. It was a sad-little-boy smile that set my nerves on edge. “You know, Tucker,” he said with eerie calm, “I can’t let you off this boat.”

  A chill spiked through my body as I finished his sentence in my head—alive. I was starting to feel sick.

  “Won’t people think it odd,” I said, “Milton Polk and me dying the same way?”

  He considered that for a moment. The tone of his answer was chillingly matter-of-fact. “Not really. You’re in a lot of trouble. Facing a federal criminal investigation. Depressed. You decided to end it. Or better yet, your face is a mess. Someone decided to teach you a lesson. A boyfriend? Maybe he finished the job.”

  I pointed to the knot on my forehead. “This is compliments of Irene Borodin. At least that’s my guess. You probably don’t know her, but she works for Sunland Manufacturing. I’m sure when the police get around to it, they’ll be talking to all sorts of people. Maybe even to your friend Bernie Cole.”

  He looked annoyed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tucker, and neither does Bernie. He didn’t have a clue why you’d been to see him. You used your mother’s real name, but I knew right away it was you.” Gordon stood and motioned me toward the stairs. “Let’s go below.”

  I scanned the bridge but didn’t see anything that I could use as a weapon. Maybe there was a radio. I could call for help. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see one, because I wouldn’t know how to use it anyway. What were my chances up here versus down there? It didn’t seem to make much difference. Gordon didn’t appear to have a weapon, and he couldn’t just pick me up and throw me overboard. At least, I didn’t think so. Nevertheless, I didn’t let him out of my sight as I walked down the ladder to the salon. The air below was stale and smelled of mildew. I felt woozy, and my mouth was beginning to water.

  “Don’t worry,” he said in an even tone. “The ocean’s no more than sixty degrees. Twenty minutes and you’ll just go to sleep.”

  “You knew I didn’t change the NeuroMed report, but you set me up to take the blame. How could you do that to me?”

  It was a silly thing to ask a man who was going to kill me, but giving my research to Polk in the first place seemed like his stupidest move of all. I thought back to that day in Gordon’s office, when he’d spoken about not being able to go back and change the big mistakes. Teresa García and Milton Polk were already dead. He was right; it had been far too late to change that.

  “Give me your car keys,” he said.

  “I guess that’s what the police call an MO. Are you going to leave my car at the airport, like you did with Polk’s Mercedes? How did you get back to the yacht club anyway? Taxi? Don’t you know the police will be checking every cab in and out of LAX?”

  “Give me your fucking keys, Tucker.”

  He looked around. My gym bag was lying next to the couch. As he walked toward it, I ran for the ladder to the lower deck. Each footstep sent a flash of pain to the bruises on my body.

  “Why are you running, Tucker?” he shouted. “There’s nowhere to go.”

  I was bouncing off the furniture and the walls from the violent motion of the boat but was able to scramble down the ladder and outside to the cockpit in time to lean over the side. The water looked black, cold, and very deep. This was it. I started to gag. The last moments of my life, and I was going to spend them losing my lunch.

  Gordon was behind me, rou
ghly pulling off my stocking cap. He grabbed at the yellow slicker, trying to get it off, too, but Houdini couldn’t have un-Velcroed me under the circumstances. At first, I felt too sick to think about what he was doing. Then it dawned on me: He wanted Eleanor’s jacket. Screw him. If I was going to die, I was taking the evidence with me. I struggled to push him away, but all I managed to do was send his glasses sliding down his nose. The effort sent a searing pain through my shoulder.

  Gordon tugged at the jacket again. The force sent my body rocking on the rail of the boat like a teeter-totter. My ribs ached as I clawed at the fiberglass bulkhead until my fingers touched something. It was about the size of a quart of milk, with a long, springy antenna. I grabbed for it and held on, hoping to gain enough momentum to roll back onto the deck. Unfortunately, whatever I was holding on to pulled loose, and I lost my balance.

  For a moment I was weightless. Then a cold blast of water hit my face. I tried to hold on to that antenna, hoping it was some kind of radio, but when I felt myself sinking, I let it go. I fought my way to the surface. Salt water filled my mouth and nose. I gagged. Coughed. Fought panic.

  I called for help, but no other vessels were close by, and Gordon’s boat was already steaming back to Marina del Rey. I kicked frantically to stay afloat, but the weight of all those clothes kept pulling me under. My shoes were filled with water. I had to get them off. Using my arms to tread water, I pried off one shoe with the opposite foot. When both shoes were off, I scissor-kicked as I tore at the Velcro wristbands and front closure of the jacket. Each time I went under, it took every ounce of strength I had in my arms and legs to fight my way back to the surface. If I anticipated the swells and closed my mouth and eyes, I could avoid inhaling more briny water. By the time I’d shed Eleanor’s slicker and heavy sweater, I was exhausted. My teeth were chattering, and my body shook violently from the frigid water of Santa Monica Bay.

  Gordon’s boat was barely visible now—just a single white light fading in the distance. I’d always hated swimming in the ocean, because there were things down there looking for their next meal. They could see me, but I couldn’t see them. I tried to focus on anything except how cold and how frightened I was. I wondered if Muldoon liked Mrs. Domanski better than me . . . if Pookie and Bruce really had a groovy kind of love . . . if Eric could ever be happy without me . . . if Aunt Sylvia would finally get my house. I also wondered if Joe Deegan had those wet little curls on his neck every time he stepped out of the shower.

  I swam toward the lights on the shore until I got tired. Then I lay back, closed my eyes, and let the swells carry me. I’d rest—just for a moment, that’s all. Then I’d get my strength back, and start swimming again. At least, that’s what I told myself. The bad news was, no matter what I did, I’d never make it back to land. The good news was, I didn’t feel seasick any longer.

  30

  through a veil of pain and drowsiness, I saw the image of Joe Deegan. His arms were crossed, and his head was slightly cocked. That irreverent grin of his had been replaced by a look of concern. In my mental haze, his blue-gray eyes caressed my body. His fingertips touched the bumps and bruises on my face and began a slow journey down my neck.

  “Think we should take her to Torrance Memorial?”

  “Nah,” Deegan said. “I’ll take care of her.”

  My eyes fluttered open, and I saw him standing over me. I’d been dozing off and on for the past two hours, slumped in a chair at the Coast Guard Air Station near LAX. Someone had given me a blanket, but I still had on my wet clothes, minus Eleanor’s yellow slicker, her sweater, and my shoes, which were all at the bottom of Santa Monica Bay.

  From what I’d been told, whatever I was holding on to when I fell from the boat was called an EPIRB. I’d torn it out of its bracket, and when it hit the water, it sent a transmission to a satellite, which beamed a signal to some Air Force base in Illinois. They notified the Coast Guard Air Station in Marina del Rey. The gadget was programmed with personal data, including Gordon’s phone numbers. Eleanor confirmed he was on the boat, so the Coast Guard sent a helicopter and a rescue swimmer. I’d been lucky. Only three out of a hundred distress calls are real. If they’d waited their usual twenty minutes to respond, I’d have been as dead as an oyster on the half shell.

  Deegan’s hair was messed up, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. He was wearing his brown leather jacket, Levi’s, and a white T-shirt that had Pacific-14 printed in small letters on the front.

  He looked at my face and whistled. “Hate to see the other guy.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I hear you took a little helicopter ride,” he teased.

  I just rolled my eyes.

  From a black gym bag he pulled out what looked like a pair of gray sweatpants, a blue sweatshirt, and a pair of socks. He tossed them on my lap. “Get those clothes off.”

  “Yeah, you wish.”

  He grinned. “Suit yourself, ma’am.” He reached to take back the items, but my reflexes weren’t completely shot. I grabbed the outfit and got up, intending to head to the bathroom to change. Only, I felt a little wobbly. Before I knew it, he’d scooped me up in his arms. What could I do? I had to hold on or I’d fall.

  I was going to tell him to put me down, but by the time I could coax my nose out of his neck, he’d already carried me to the door of the bathroom. He stood there holding me for a moment. His forehead was slightly furrowed in concern, and his lips were pressed together in a masculine sort of pout. Finally, he put me down and placed his hand on the wall alongside my head.

  “See what happens when you keep things from me?” he said. “You almost got yourself killed.”

  “I don’t even know why you’re here. I asked for Duane Kleinman.”

  “Yeah, and was I ever hurt.” His words were soft, and his lips so near, I could feel his breath on my cheek. “I thought we meant more to each other than that.”

  I ducked under his arm and into the bathroom. The clothes were undoubtedly his and were a little large, but not by much. He was tall, but so was I. My hair was stiff with salt, and the knot on my forehead was turning strange colors that didn’t qualify as attractive.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Deegan was still leaning against the wall outside the door. His eyes twinkled, and the corners of his mouth were turned down, trying to hide a smile as he surveyed the damage. The look was intimate and made my face feel warm.

  “You look like hell,” he said.

  He put a dry blanket around my shoulders and led me out the door.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

  “Home.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  He stopped and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Mine,” I said firmly, because I hadn’t meant it the way he thought.

  He smiled to himself as he led me to a black Ford Explorer parked in the lot. He threw his gym bag and my soggy clothes onto the backseat. Then he fastened my seat belt. The car smelled of leather and something fruity, and soon the heater had warmed me into a mellowness that caught me off guard.

  “Where’s Gordon?” I asked.

  “In custody. We were on our way to serve a warrant on the boat, only you got there first. Maybe I should lock you up for interfering with a police investigation. At least that way I could keep an eye on you.”

  “How did you know I was on Gordon’s boat?”

  “Some guy with a weird-looking dog was looking for you, too. He told us he’d seen you leave with Aames. He described you to a T. If I was the jealous type, you’d be answering a few questions right now.”

  Lights from the cars on the freeway were making my head throb, so I closed my eyes until we reached the coast highway, where the traffic slowed and the brightness dimmed. By the time we pulled into my driveway, I was fighting the urge to drift off.

  “If you weren’t in my bedroom, who was?” I asked.

  “I can hardly wait to see this bedroom you keep talking about,” he said. “I assume it was Gordon A
ames. I gave Buck your driver’s license, but he didn’t want to drive all the way out to the beach, so he dropped it by your office. He left it with Aames’s secretary. Some woman named Marsha. I don’t know where he got your jacket, but probably from Covington.”

  Deegan helped me out of the car and got the spare key back from Mrs. Domanski, who perked up considerably when she saw him. She seemed quite disappointed when she couldn’t entice him to join her for cocktails. As for Muldoon, he was beside himself sniffing. Deegan squatted, playfully rubbed the pup’s ears, and said, “Hey, buddy.” Muldoon rolled over on his back, making sure I was appreciating how admiration was properly bestowed.

  Despite my protests, Deegan fed and walked Muldoon and then tucked me into bed. He even pulled an extra blanket from Pookie’s room to keep me warm. If you asked me, the guy was starting to feel a little too comfortable in my house.

  “Then who killed Roy Trebeau?” I said drowsily.

  “Get some rest. We’ll talk about it later.”

  He pulled the covers up around my chin and brushed his hand across my cheek as though he was checking for fever—just like Pookie did when I was a child. He took the extra set of car keys and told me someone would bring the Boxster home in the morning. Just before he turned out the lights, he ruffled my hair. The ruffle was brotherly, and for the first time, I wished that it weren’t and that he wouldn’t leave. I managed to mumble a few more words before I fell into a deep sleep.

  31

  i wasn’t sure if Deegan stayed that whole night. The couch looked as if it had been slept on, but by the time I woke up, he was gone. Venus and Eugene arrived in the morning with food and a lot of bossy demands. They stayed all day despite my protests. Venus spent the time entertaining me with a date-from-hell retrospective while Eugene busied himself sprucing up the house with his latest knitting project: a dusting mitt, which featured a popcorn stitch he’d perfected during the week I was suspended from work.