by Simon Wood
Josh found Bob’s third crack about their bad seats annoying.
Bob nodded in the direction of the vendor trawling the aisles. “I wonder if the beer man has cotton balls for nose bleeds.”
“I couldn’t help it. You knew the Lakers game was going to be popular, and I’ve apologized for forgetting to book tickets earlier.” Josh had bought the tickets on game day after Brady and Williams had interrogated him. After explaining himself to Kate he’d slipped out to the box office, but seating choices were limited.
ARCO Arena was busy, bubbling with excitement
leading up to the tipoff for the Kings home game against the LA Lakers. Hopes were high for a good result. This year’s team showed promise for a good playoff position.
Even the basketball commentators had been kind
to the Kings in their reviews of the team’s chances. The lower levels of the arena were filled and very few plastic seats didn’t have someone’s ass filling them.
Josh and Bob sat way up in the northeast wedge of the arena, three rows from the wall. Even these less popular, cheaper seats were occupied. Josh didn’t mind being this far away from the action. He’d offered the tickets to Bob more as an excuse to talk than to watch the game.
“Do you want a cold one from the vendor?” Bob
asked.
“No, I’m okay.” Josh felt cold. The temperature of the stadium seemed a degree or two too chilly for his liking.
Bob called to the overweight vendor. The middle
aged man, whose gut seemed genetically engineered to perfectly hold the tray of beverages, came over to Bob.
Bob relieved him of a cup of Coors Light and the vendor relieved Bob of an excessive amount of cash. The
vendor moved on to the next guy requesting his wares.
Bob looked at what his money had bought him.
“Shit, I’m sure they’re jacking the prices around here to pay players and coaches.”
“You know you’re going to be scalped in places like this,” Josh remarked.
“They should have a beer cap as well as a salary
cap,” Bob muttered.
The respective coaching staffs called the players to the benches. After several minutes, the starting lineups were announced and the players were met with a
rapturous chorus of cheers, whistles, applause and abuse—the abuse, of course, aimed in the direction of the Lakers players. Like the fans, Bob was on his feet, the overpriced beer spilling from the plastic cup. On his feet too, Josh clapped appreciatively, though not really party to the frenzy going on below him; not tonight.
The
crowd retook their seats in anticipation of the
tipoff and Josh and Bob took theirs. As they watched the action on the court as the game neared its start, Bob spoke endlessly about the players’ form, playoff chances, the NBA, who was hot and who was a waste of space. Josh listened, but said little.
The game began and Bob focused on the play.
“The cops came around this morning.” Josh sat with his legs apart, bent forward with his forearms resting on his knees and his head down staring at the litter strewn ground.
“Oh, yeah?” Bob said, not really listening. He was as alert as a prairie dog, twitching and shadow boxing with the flow of the game. “So they finally got around to talking to you about Mitchell?”
“No.”
“So what were they doing?” Bob cursed when the
Kings lost the ball and the Lakers gathered it up for an easy two points.
“They’re looking to prosecute me for threatening
some woman on the phone,” Josh said.
The crowd moaned in disappointment as the Lakers
made another basket. But to Josh it sounded like they were upset at his revelation.
Bob turned to Josh. “What woman did you threaten?”
“No one,” Josh said. “I have no idea who this
woman is who’s making the allegations.”
“You wanna find out her name?”
“I know her name, but I’ve never heard of her.”
“So what are the cops saying?”
“They said that someone made a call from my home
phone to this woman threatening to kill her. They have telephone records proving it was my phone.”
“Shit.”
“And because I’m the only man in the house, I’m
their prime suspect.”
“So what’s her name?”
“Margaret Macey.”
“That rings a bell,” Bob said.
“You know her?” Josh said in surprise.
“I don’t know. It’s just that the name sounds familiar for some reason.” Bob shook his head in failure. “Anyway, when did this threatening behavior take place?”
“That’s the thing. It happened around eight last Saturday night.”
“But you were having your birthday party.”
“I know. I think that’s the only reason that I’m not trying to post bail right now. They may want to make a recording of my voice for identification. That cop from the hospital has got it in for me. He didn’t believe me about Mitchell bouncing me into the river and he doesn’t believe that I had nothing to do with this threatening phone call.”
Recounting the events from earlier that day brought Josh’s fears back to the forefront of his mind. He felt he was going down for something, whether it was for his crimes or somebody else’s. Nervous excitement consumed him like a plague, the disease breaking down his immunity to stress until it destroyed him. He stared blankly at the players on the court.
Bob looked around him to check if people were listening to Josh’s excitable ramblings. The Kings fans
were concentrating on their team’s performance too avidly to notice their conversation.
“What cop?”
“Brady. Didn’t you meet him at the hospital?”
“No. I knew they were around, but I didn’t see
them.”
“Anyway, he’s got it in for me,” Josh said.
“Personally, you don’t have anything to worry about.
They can’t prove it was you who made that phone call.
Any one of us could have done it. And I think you’d have to be a special kind of stupid to threaten someone from your own phone. It’s all circumstantial. They’ve got nothing.”
“Yeah, but the cops think that’s what I did to cover my ass. They think I arranged the party just to have lots of suspects present.”
“Bullshit! They’re screwing with you because they’ve nothing better to run with. So they’re hoping you’ll do something stupid to give them a lead. From their point of view they know they’ve got a no-hoper.”
Bob made sense. If the cops had any evidence, they would have charged him. He could breathe easily, for now.
“Do they have a recording of the phone call?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“If they take a voiceprint from you, they can’t compare it. All they can do is play it to this …” Bob
snapped his fingers as he searched for the name.
“Margaret Macey,” Josh finished for him.
“I think a lawyer would have a fine time if the cops didn’t interview all the other possible suspects at the party. How have they left things?”
“Just that they would get in contact.”
“What about this voice recording?”
“They’ll let me know.”
“Yeah. They don’t have a thing. What about James
Mitchell?”
“What about him? They didn’t want to listen. They didn’t want to talk about anything except this phone call.”
“So you never got to speak to them about the
party?”
“No, they weren’t interested.”
“Bastards. We’ve got to get them to listen to us.”
“What do we do?”
“Never mind that now, sit back and enjoy the game.
Let
the Kings entertain you.” Bob patted Josh’s shoulder.
“We’ll worry about it after the game.”
Josh sat back and joined in with the thousands of fans enjoying the game.
Bob sped along the interstate with the other drivers leaving the game. He was quiet, lost in thought, and Josh was no different. Bob’s silence had little to do with the King’s collapse during overtime. Something in his brain itched and he couldn’t quite reach to scratch it.
When Josh had told him about the police visit, something had clicked in his head, but the connection eluded him. It was the woman who had called the police, Margaret Macey. Her name meant something to him.
Suddenly, a car horn blared in annoyance. In a world of his own, Bob had let his car wander to straddle the line separating the second and third lanes. The noise snapped him out of his deep contemplation and back to the matter of car control. He jerked the car back into his lane. The disgruntled driver accelerated past Bob’s Toyota.
“Shit, Bob. I can do without two traffic accidents in the same calendar month,” Josh said just for Bob’s benefit—he rarely got the chance to inflict the same brand of humor on his friend that his friend did on him.
“Hey, sorry, man. I wasn’t concentrating,” Bob said.
He stared straight out into the darkness that lay at the end of the headlight beams.
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?” Confused, Bob glanced over at Josh.
“For the caustic ‘fuck you’ remark,” Josh said. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was miles away, thinking.”
“I’m sorry, did it hurt?” Josh said and laughed.
A pained expression appeared on Bob’s face. “I’m
serious, Josh. I was thinking about that woman the cops told you about.”
That brought Josh’s humor to an abrupt end. “Margaret Macey, you mean?”
“Yeah, I remember hearing her name recently. And I think I know why. She’s a client.”
The remark silenced both men for a moment. The thump-thump of the tires striking the all too regular breaks in trie worn concrete road punctuated the quiet.
“Shit,” Josh said. “I don’t know if that’s something to feel good or bad about.”
“Neither do I,” Bob said.
“I don’t think it adds much to my case that the
woman I allegedly threatened is a client of a close friend of mine. I’m sure if Brady knew that he would have both of us in front of a judge in the morning.”
“I’m not sure it means anything. It’s probably a coincidence that you are both my clients. Now forget
about it. I’ll take you home and I’ll look into it. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”
“That’s easier said than done,” Josh said.
“All right, I shouldn’t have told you. I can do without you going postal on me.”
Josh conceded to Bob’s request with little resistance.
They lapsed into silence once more, their minds filled with more questions and fears. The car’s interior reverberated with the drone of engine noise and the Doppler
effect of passing vehicles.
Bob dropped off Josh outside his house, told him not to worry and promised he would get back to him. He waited until Josh let himself into his house and closed the door before driving away.
In his office, Bob returned the handset to the receiver.
He’d just informed his wife that he’d be home late from the Kings game. He had to check out something at the office. Nancy had slammed the phone down with a
sharp crack. That’s gonna cost me, Bob thought.
He switched on the computer on his desk. While it booted up, Bob left his office and went to the filing cabinets in the archive. His computer database would have details regarding all his clients, including Margaret Macey, if she was a client of his firm. But his filing cabinets contained the personal correspondence he received from his clients and copies of original documentation.
He
searched the deep drawer cabinet for Macey. The
double cabinet contained two rows of files side by side, but didn’t contain a record for Margaret Macey; only a Harrison F. Macey, who had a car insurance policy with Bob.
“Shit. That woman is a client. I know it,” he muttered to himself.
He went back to his office. The computer’s screen bathed the room in a spectral glow. He hit the light switch on the wall by the door. The fluorescent strips flickered into life with a bink-bink sound.
Bob shifted the heaps of paperwork strewn across
his desk to the floor to make a clear spot.
“A messy desk is a sign of a sharp mind,” he’d told his wife.
She’d responded with, “No, that’s the sign of a lazy bastard.”
In his opinion, both sayings had merit.
He sat at his desk and logged onto the network. He selected a file that provided client information. Typing Margaret Macey’s name in the appropriate data fields, he started a search. The computer blinked a dialog box: Searching… Please wait.
“Thanks for the advice,” he said.
The screen flashed up the information. There she
was—Margaret F. Macey, her address, age, social security number, and past business transactions.
“She is a customer,” he exclaimed to his empty office.
With the mouse, Bob clicked the Print icon at the top of the screen. A whirring came from the printer in the main office and sheets of paper emerged from the machine like a white tongue.
Hungrily, he read through the information and the grin dropped from his face like a rock. Margaret
Macey had made a viatical settlement with Pinnacle Investments less than two years ago and he’d acted as the
agent. Bob’s brief notes detailed that the medical treatment she had undergone for a weak heart was beyond
what her medical insurance would cover. He’d helped her to pay for medical bills and provide cash for further treatment with the viatical settlement of her hundred and fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy that her dead husband had made her take out years before.
It wasn’t the revelation that he’d acted as agent to Pinnacle Investments to both Josh and Margaret Macey that left him slack-jawed. He had hundreds of clients he’d dealt with for years, but he rarely remembered their names a few days after dealing with their accounts.
But in this case, he remembered the senior citizen’s name because James Mitchell had asked about her
and Josh at their meeting.
Bob moved his chair back from his desk in shock
and it came to an abrupt halt against something on the floor. He looked down. One of the castors on the
swivel chair was wedged under some of the files he had placed on the floor. He leaned down and picked up the offending items. He looked at the names on the file covers—they read Joshua Michaels and Margaret
Macey. He had removed the files to show them to
James Mitchell.
Josh groaned when the telephone on the bedside table rang. Cursing, he reached across for it. The digital clock radio displayed the time—12:01 A.M.; he had been asleep less than half an hour. Kate stirred in the bed next to him.
“Hello,” he said sleepily.
“Josh, it’s me,” the excited voice said.
“Bob?”
“I’ve found something. Margaret Macey is a client and you two are connected.”
“What?” Josh sat bolt upright, taking the comforter with him. The sleep that had fogged his mind burned away like a morning mist.
“Josh, what’s going on?” Kate asked, disturbed by the phone, then by her husband stealing the covers.
Josh stuffed the phone into the bedclothes for privacy.
“Honey, go back to sleep. It’s Bob and he has got something on that woman the cops say I threatened.”
“Oh, Jesus, Josh. Leave it alone. This household has been in enough turmoil over the last two w
eeks without you looking for more.”
“I’ll tell you what he knows. Go back to sleep.” Josh put the phone to his ear. “Bob, I’m going to change phones, hold on.”
Josh got out of bed and slipped into a pair of shorts.
He wondered if Bob had something that made sense of the situation he was being drawn into. Was there finally a beacon in the night leading him to safe waters?
“Honey, will you put the phone down when I pick it up downstairs?”
Kate nodded, taking the phone from him, and
started interrogating Bob on what he was doing.
Josh rushed downstairs in the darkness and switched on the lights. He took the cordless in the living room.
Kate put the receiver down.
“What did you find out?” Josh asked.
“Margaret Macey is a seventy-seven-year-old woman living over in the rough part of downtown. And she had a life insurance policy with me,” Bob said.
“She had?” Josh paced. He went from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen to the hall and back to the living room, switching lights on as he went. Disapprovingly, Wiener looked up from his bed in the
kitchen. Josh couldn’t be still when he was excited.
“Yeah. Like you, she made a viatical settlement and I was the agent.”
“She sold her life insurance. When?”
“About this time two years ago.”
He wasn’t getting information quick enough; it was maddening—he wanted to scream. Who did she sell the insurance policy to? The fear grew within him that he already knew the answer. Josh paced even faster, as if to outrun his anxiety, and threatened to cut a groove in the carpets and floorboards. “Who to, Bob?”
“Our good friends at Pinnacle Investments.”
He was right and hated it. Patterns were emerging.
The truth was presenting itself. But it wasn’t making any of this go away.
“I should have known,” Josh said. “You’ve got a
good memory to remember that, pal.”
“But that’s not the reason I remembered her.”
Invisible spider’s feet crawled up Josh’s spine. “What do you mean?”
“The reason why her name meant something was because I had her file out. When James Mitchell saw me,
