by Ellis, T. W.
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘It’s what we do,’ Wilks says with the kind of unshakable confidence I’ve never come close to feeling myself. ‘We know how this kind of criminal organisation – how this kind of cartel – operates. Please trust us on that.’
I’m not sure exactly when it’s happened during this conversation but I’ve slipped off the arm of the chair and into it proper. Slipped is perhaps too generous a term. I’ve fallen. I’ve collapsed.
‘You promise me that nothing is going to happen to Leo?’
Wilks is resolute: ‘I swear it.’
‘Okay,’ I breathe, nodding. ‘Okay. What do you need to know from me? Not that I know how I can possibly help when I didn’t know any of this until a few minutes ago.’
Messer takes over. ‘We believe that the last time Leo was in Rome he met with the European representative of the cartel. We believe this representative gave Leo information: accounts, codes, businesses all around the world. Fronts, Jem. Cartel fronts. We believe that Leo was given access to their global financial infrastructure. That kind of information could expedite our progress by years. I don’t want to stray into hyperbole but we’re talking about enough evidence to bring down the entire cartel.’
‘Why would they trust him with so much information?’
‘Because he’s already proved himself to them,’ Wilks explains. ‘For a long time he’s been washing money through his business. A few thousand here, a hundred thousand there. He’s reliable. He’s consistent. More than that: he’s whiter than white in all the ways they’re dirty.’
‘And,’ Messer adds, ‘they have the perfect leverage in you. Leo can’t betray them. He can’t say no.’
‘I don’t know anything about that information,’ I say. ‘I wish I did.’
‘We don’t expect you to, but perhaps you might know where Leo is keeping it. They’ll have given him an external hard drive, maybe a thumb drive. Something physical that can’t be copied, that isn’t attached to the internet. Leo would naturally be very protective of it. Maybe you’ve noticed him trying to hide something.’
I shrug. I shake my head. ‘I don’t pay enough attention to Leo’s business to know if he brought back a few thumb sticks from Rome. How could I?’
Wilks and Messer exchange a look I can’t read. Wilks’ mouth opens to say something but no words come out because a phone rings from the kitchen. For a second I assume it’s my cell that I’ve left on the table, next to my plate. But it’s not. It’s the house phone. It’s an unfamiliar sound because almost no one ever calls it.
‘I’d best get that,’ I say, grateful for the excuse to leave the room, to take a break from all this sensory overload.
Wilks is unsure but nods and I stand up.
‘If it’s Leo,’ she says, ‘don’t tell him about this conversation.’
My brow furrows.
‘Until we’re finished,’ she adds. ‘Please, for his sake.’
I give her a limp nod and make my way to the kitchen. It won’t be Leo because he would call my cell. No one calls their own house any more, do they?
As if I haven’t already got enough to process, now I’m wondering who could possibly be calling first thing in the morning?
The answer will change everything.
8:26 a.m.
I’m still dazed from what Wilks and Messer have told me when I reach the house phone on the kitchen wall. Like answering the door, picking up a phone is not something I’m good at. Usually I can check the number on my cell phone and not answer the call if I don’t recognise the number, but my head is spinning so much from what Wilks and Messer have just told me that my brain is playing by a whole different rulebook and my problems are again taking a back seat.
Anxiety is a crippling condition with no outward symptoms. I look normal. I even act normal. I can hide my anxiety so well that few people have ever seen it. Confidence can be feigned. Calmness can be faked. A smile is a mask anyone can wear and I’ve always been so good at smiling.
Leo wants to understand. God knows he’s tried to understand, but when even I can’t explain how I’m feeling, let alone why I’m feeling like it, how could he possibly get it?
I don’t get it.
I never used to be like this. If one day I had woken up like it, I could have fixed it because I would have known there was a problem. But that’s how anxiety gets you. You don’t see it coming. You don’t know you have it until the damage is done and you’re trapped in a downward spiral of negative thoughts and emotions that feed off one another in an endless cycle of misery.
At best, an observer thinks you’ve become moody, withdrawn, irritable, uncommunicative, even rude. They don’t know there’s something wrong inside because nothing’s wrong on the outside.
I have a hard enough time getting through the morning without all this stuff about Leo and cartels to process, but for some inexplicable reason it helps my greater problems because I feel numb, a different person almost.
For once, answering the phone seems like no big deal.
That different person scoops up the receiver and says, ‘Yeah?’
A slight silence before a man says, ‘Mrs Talhoffer?’
It’s a deep voice. A serious tone.
‘Yeah,’ I say, my mind still far away.
‘Mrs Jemima Talhoffer?’
‘There isn’t a second Mrs Talhoffer here, I assure you. Who is this?’
The deep voice says, ‘Mrs Talhoffer, I’m sorry to call you out of the blue but my name is Agent Carlson. I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I need a couple of minutes to ask you a few questions about your husband, Leo. It’s really important.’
I’m in no mood to have even a couple of minutes of my time wasted. ‘Don’t you people talk to one another?’
Carlson says, ‘Sorry, what? I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve already had enough of FBI agents asking me about my husband and it’s not even nine in the a.m.’
Again, Carlson says, ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Please, for the sake of my sanity and the US tax payer, learn how to coordinate your investigations. I’m sure you’ll understand if I’m a little short of patience considering the morning I’m having. There’s only so much a girl can take.’
‘Mrs Talhoffer, I’m afraid I—’
‘What is it with you people insisting on that level of formality? Call me Jem, for the love of all that is good in this world. Write it on a Post-it. Stick it in the file. Let all the other agents know. While you’re at it you can add that I don’t even like Jemima. In short: Call. Me. Jem.’
‘Jem,’ Carlson says, ‘I don’t understand what you’re telling me.’
‘Have another coffee, Carlson, because you need it. What I’m telling you is that I have two of your colleagues in my living room right at this very moment asking me questions about Leo, his business, criminal organisations, information on memory sticks. You know, all the things you’re about to ask me, and I’m not going to waste my breath repeating everything to you now. Wait for the report or give your fellow agents a call later or whatever it is you would normally do in this situation.’
A silence, then: ‘You have two FBI agents in your home? Right now?’
‘That’s what I just said. A woman and a man. Wilks and Messer.’
There’s another silence and I can hear myself, what I’ve just said, and I feel guilty for my abruptness, my rudeness. This isn’t me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Carlson. ‘I’m not in a good place right now and all this about Leo is a lot to take in and I shouldn’t have been so curt with you. I’m really very sorry.’
Is there a word a woman says more than sorry?
Carlson’s tone becomes grave. ‘Listen to me very carefully, Jem. I’m the only FBI agent interested in your husband’s affairs.’
I echo Carlson’s earlier words: ‘Sorry, what?’
‘This is my case, Jem. No one else is involved at this stage. It’s still
very early days. Still preliminary enquiries. I’m on my own.’
I have so many things to ask yet all I can utter is, ‘But Wilks and Messer …’
‘Whoever that man and that woman say they are they’re not with the Bureau.’
My heart is beating so fast it’s making my whole body tremble.
Carlson continues: ‘The only people who know what you’ve told me would be myself, your husband, and Leo’s business associates.’
I’m cold. I’m so cold.
‘They have badges,’ I say.
‘Jem,’ Carlson begins, ‘any identification they’ve shown you is bogus. As I said: there are no other agents privy to what I’m doing. Jem, whoever those people say they are, they’re lying.’
8:29 a.m.
Wilks and Messer aren’t FBI agents.
Then who are they?
I’ve answered my own question before I’ve finished asking about it. As Carlson said, there’s only so many people who know what Leo’s been doing.
Wilks and Messer are Leo’s business associates.
Cartel.
If he doesn’t do what they want they’ll send people to kill you.
‘I really don’t want to scare you,’ Carlson says, ‘but you need to get out of there immediately.’
Too late for that, I want to say.
I’m already terrified but I’m only half-listening because I realise Wilks is in the kitchen with me.
I’ve been so focused on what Carlson’s been telling me that I failed to hear her approach.
‘You’re in a lot of danger, Jem,’ Carlson says in my ear while my gaze is locked on Wilks nearing me. ‘Hang up the phone and get out of the house. Call the Bureau as soon as you’re safe and I’ll come get you. Wherever you are, I’ll come to you. I’ll make sure you’re safe, I swear. But now, Jem, you need to run. You need to get out right now. You need—’
‘That’s okay, Mom,’ I say, trying to push the fear from my face. ‘I’ll call you back later. Gotta go.’
I somehow manage to hang the receiver back in place on its cradle without it falling from my shaking fingers.
‘Is everything okay?’ Wilks asks in her stern, deadpan tone.
I don’t know how long she was in the kitchen. I don’t know how much she heard.
Wilks is close to me now and the wall is behind me. I have nowhere to go.
I’m trapped.
I think about the gun in the holster under her jacket. It’s still there because it’s not in her hands. They’re empty at her sides.
For how long?
But despite the implicit threat of her presence she’s not aggressive. She must not have heard anything concrete. She only heard me, what I said. She doesn’t know who was on the phone. She can’t know what Carlson told me.
Messer’s words echo in my mind: Enough evidence to bring down the entire cartel.
That’s why they’re here, that’s why they’re asking me questions, I realise. They want the information Leo has on them. They need the information. I don’t understand why but something must have changed.
Carlson, of course. They’ve realised someone is on to them, to Leo. They want the information back before it can be used against them. I don’t get why they’re coming to me instead of Leo but that doesn’t matter right now, does it? I need to get out of here like Carlson said. Answers can wait.
I force myself to look normal. Thankfully, that’s one thing I know without a doubt I can do well. Like I said: a smile is a mask anyone can wear. But you can’t understand how tiring it is to smile when you don’t feel it, when you feel the exact opposite. It’s exhausting, but I’m so well-practised at it, I can do it now and I know it will work.
I smile and shake my head and roll my eyes as if I was lost in a moment, a dilemma.
‘My mother …’ I say.
Wilks seems to soften with the words, reassured. Convinced. She has no reason to doubt me. As far as Wilks is concerned, I’m still valuable. I’m still ignorant. I’m still no threat.
‘We have a difficult relationship,’ I continue, somehow, the words spilling out of my mouth with an amazing degree of coherence I didn’t realise I was capable of manifesting. ‘She … Look, you don’t want to hear about our mother–daughter issues, do you?’
Wilks says, ‘I’m afraid we have more pressing matters.’
I tilt my palms up. ‘I understand. Frankly, I’d prefer to talk about Leo and money laundering than I would my dear mamma.’
Wilks’ lips turn up a little in an imitation of a smile. She’s not a people person, and in that understanding I also realise that the cartel has sent a certain kind of person to take care of this problem. The kind of people who aren’t used to making friendly faces. The kind of people who aren’t even capable of faking it.
The worst of the worst, by Messer’s own admission.
I swallow. My throat is dry again. I gesture to the doorway, to the living room, to Messer. ‘Shall we continue?’
Wilks nods. ‘We’ll try not to take up too much more of your time.’
‘There’s no rush,’ I tell her. ‘I’m happy to help.’
It’s amazing how easy the lies keep flowing when you’re scared for your life.
She shuffles on ahead of me and when we’re in the hallway I see that Messer is standing in the living area, looking this way. His expression is concerned, questioning. I don’t see the look Wilks gives him but Messer relaxes and sits back down.
When Wilks is almost through the threshold, I say, ‘I’m going to use the restroom,’ as I begin ascending the stairs.
Wilks stops. Turns back. ‘You don’t have a downstairs bathroom?’
‘Cistern is on the fritz,’ I say with a casual air, not looking back because I’m not convinced the bluff will survive the scrutiny of eye contact. A welcome side effect is that it seems to reinforce the lie, because why would I feel the need to convince someone if it were true?
When I reach the top of the stairs I dare to glance back down and catch Wilks’ back heading for the living area. She’s bought it.
My heart is hammering now. A flight of stairs is no physical challenge for me but combined with all the adrenalin coursing through my system, making it up to the landing has taken its toll. I’m trying so hard not to release the fear building inside of me my whole body feels ready to explode.
Still, I’ve bought myself some time, some breathing room.
But what do I do now?
8:32 a.m.
Going upstairs feels like an instant mistake. I’ve created distance from Wilks and Messer but I have to fight off the feeling of despair that I’ve trapped myself and made things even more difficult and even more dangerous. I had no choice. There’s nothing I could have said that would plausibly explain me leaving the house as Carlson implored me to do. Wilks and Messer would have seen through anything I had said as justification. Claiming I needed some fresh air while swiping my car keys from the bowl by the door was never going to work.
I have no plan, but I need to think of one.
Fast.
I figure I have a couple of minutes to formulate a course of action. If Wilks isn’t yet on to me – and if she is, she wouldn’t have let me go upstairs – then there’s no reason for them to think I’m doing anything up here but peeing. Worse, I do need to pee. That’s going to have to wait. I can’t afford to burn what little time I have.
I’m in my yoga gear. Should I change into something more practical? Like what? I don’t know. My thoughts are racing at a hundred miles an hour. No time to change, and what’s the point? My only priority right now is to get out of this house.
But how?
The building is two storeys, and despite a decent level of fitness and strength, I’m no climber. If I try and scale a drainpipe I’m going to fall and could break my neck or at best turn my ankle. Which might as well be the same thing once Wilks and Messer realise what I’m doing. I wouldn’t be able to outrun them hobbling on one foot, let alone a bullet.
First, though, I ease the bathroom door open, making as little noise as I can, then rush to the sink and turn on a tap. I make sure to give the door a bit of a slam after I’ve left. I don’t imagine the sound of running water will fool Wilks or Messer long when they come to investigate but it might give me a few extra seconds and I have an awful premonition every single second is going to count.
The home office overlooks the garage so that’s where I go next, padding with slow steps along the landing on the balls of my bare feet in an effort to remain silent. I know where the floorboards creak so I avoid them. We don’t keep doors closed in this house – bathrooms excluded – so I slip into the office without having to risk squeaky hinges. If I get out of this mess, I’m going to drown every hinge in grease.
If …
The office is for both of us yet it’s only Leo who uses it with any kind of regularity. I can run my business from a couple of spreadsheets and email so I work from my laptop anywhere in the house that takes my fancy. Often, I’ll do so outside on the porch. Because the office has become Leo’s domain it’s disorganised. Not messy, but cluttered. There are too many things on the desk. Too many box files on the shelves. Too many little succulents and cacti on the windowsill.
He names them all. Five minutes ago, I still thought it was cute that he had a parade of plants on the sill, all christened after his favourite seventies folk rock artists: Steely, Jefferson, Jethro, Ambrosia … Now, they form a barrier of prickly alarms threatening to slow me down, or potentially announce my escape. I hesitate with indecision. Clamber over them and risk knocking one off or take the time to move them all out of the way?
Damn you, Leo. Damn your cuteness.
I push the door to but I don’t shut it. I want it to block noise, not make more. Then I wheel Leo’s big office chair from under the desk and across the carpet so it sits beneath the sill. I undo the catch and heave the sash. It takes some effort. I feel my shoulders contract. I have to push, hard. The window opens but it squawks, painted wood against painted wood, in a sudden release of tension.
