by April Smith
“Did you get the money from Mrs. Claire? I was waiting to hear.”
“No. I didn’t. I talked to her, but … I didn’t get anywhere.”
“How can I take care of the children with no money?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Gutiérrez.”
While I am standing there, Henry Caravetti, a mailroom clerk with muscular dystrophy, rolls by in his electric wheelchair and puts a bundle of envelopes into my tray. I give him a thumbs-up. His pale lips stretch into a wobbly smile as he removes one frozen hand from the controls, jerks it up toward the ceiling to return my gesture, and travels on.
“These children are your family,” Mrs. Gutiérrez spits angrily, “but you feel nothing. Lady, I am sorry for you.”
She hangs up. I sit there motionless, feeling attacked from within and without. Suddenly it all turns to anger and I slam through desk drawers, purse, and the pockets of my jacket, finding the peach and gray card from the Dana Orthopedic Clinic squashed on the bottom of my blue canvas briefcase along with some warped throat lozenges. Once again I fight the impulse to identify myself as an FBI agent in order to cut through the standard receptionist bullshit but I do use the words “very urgent” and “legal matter,” which finally get me through to Dr. Eberhardt.
“I’m sorry—who are you again?”
I tell him that I am a cousin of their late housekeeper, Violeta. It sounds odd but I stick with it.
“Apparently you still owed her money when she left your employ.”
Cold: “She was paid.”
“She told a friend you still owed her approximately four hundred dollars.”
“That’s crazy. I wouldn’t rip off a housemaid.”
“Let’s short-circuit this.” I feel guilty and deeply conflicted and he is a doctor living in a million-and-a-half-dollar house with a crystal chandelier. “Her children have nobody to take care of them, okay? May I suggest out of common decency, as her last employer, you make a contribution to their welfare?”
“Hold it, Ms. Grey,” he says, making a big deal out of Ms. “I fired Violeta. Do you want to know why? Instead of watching my children, which she was paid very well to do, she was inside gabbing with another housekeeper. Because of her negligence my four-year-old daughter fell into a pool and almost drowned.”
Subdued: “I didn’t know about that.”
“No, you didn’t know, but here you are making insulting accusations.”
“Still,” pressing forward despite shaky ground, “her children need help.”
“How about help from a government agency? I pay fifty-one percent of my income to the government, which is supposed to take care of people like Violeta. People, by the way, who aren’t even American citizens.”
Another burst of laughter from the lunchroom.
There is a pause as if he’s thinking about it, then Dr. Eberhardt blows an exasperated breath into the phone. “If she claims I owed her money I’ll write out a check just to close the books.”
I thank him and tell him to send it directly to Mrs. Gutiérrez.
“Violeta behaved negligently, but what happened to her was senseless and outrageous, and I feel for the kids. Just don’t ever come to me again.”
I sink into the chair, nodding triumphantly toward the Bank Dick’s Undercover Disguise as if it should congratulate me for solving the problem of Teresa and Cristóbal. It doesn’t wave or hold its sleeves up in a clasp of victory, however, and a darkening shadow edges my relief. The doctor’s description of Violeta’s negligence does not square with his wife’s reaction to my questions. Claire Eberhardt shut down, saying only, “We had to let Violeta go, it didn’t work out.” If a maid let my kid almost drown in a pool I’d feel a right to be a bit more critical. My impression of her at the door wavers and finally becomes clear: Claire Eberhardt was behaving like the classic suspect with something of her own to hide.
As if to sort things out, I absently start going through my mail. That is when I find the official letter from Special Agent in Charge (SAC) Robert Galloway, who has reviewed my request for transfer to the Kidnapping and Extortion Squad. He has denied that request, citing an “unfavorable addendum” from my supervisor, Duane Carter.
I return to the lunchroom and stand there empty-handed while people tuck into neat slices of Kyle’s French apple tarts and Duane Carter tells a story about a fifteenth-century katana sword worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Harder than steel we make today, it is still incredibly delicate. Touch it and your fingerprint will ruin the surface. Breathe on it and it will begin to rust in thirty minutes, Duane says.
The men wow and the females in the room start to clean up.
I say to Barbara: “Duane fucked me.”
“What now?”
“Request for transfer denied.”
“Damn.” She folds her arms and sinks into the word. “Damn.”
Our voices are low. My jaw is clenched with the effort of not giving in to a rage that is steadily building out of control.
Barbara leans over to pick up a dish off the table. “This is discrimination.”
Looking past her I see the smudgy glass window plastered with notices of Softball games and scuba diving trips, wavery white shapes of anonymous people passing in the hall. Sometimes I so desire the comforting of a mother.
“If it is discrimination it’s going to stop right now.”
Ignoring her look of caution I step toward Duane Carter and square off with him right there at the potluck lunch.
“Hey, Duane.”
“Ana?”
“The SAC denied my request for transfer.” The talk quiets. “Your unfavorable addendum had a big influence on his decision.”
Duane glances at the members of the squad who have caught the drift and suppresses a smile.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Are you really sorry, Duane?”
“Of course he’s sorry,” says Donnato from out of nowhere. “Now he’s got to put up with you for seven more years,” giving our supervisor a sideways cock of the head as if commiserating on how difficult and challenging it is to manage women on any level in this world today. I hate it when Donnato mediates for Duane, even though he does it because he thinks he’s protecting me.
“I guess I can put up with her,” Duane jokes.
“If you force me to continue to work on your squad, Duane, I promise you this: only one of us is going to be left standing.”
Donnato’s smile fades into a look of appalled disgust, as if I have just wandered out into the middle of a firefight like some rank rookie amateur while he and every other smart veteran is well under cover and intends to stay there. Nothing I can do for you now, he is telling me with a shudder, the only question remaining is whether he will hang around to watch me get blown away.
But instead of letting loose with everything he’s got, Duane surprises everyone by pulling up a chair and straddling it so he and I are actually eyeball to eyeball and I can observe the fine texture of his porcelain-white skin and the few short dark hairs that lie flat beneath his lower lip, wondering if he even shaves.
“Why don’t you like me?”
It is meant to be disarming and of course it is, this roll-up-the-sleeves honesty undertaken in public, Duane’s attempt to make me look like the bad guy, my aggressiveness turned ugly in the face of his genuine hurt. I know Barbara doesn’t buy it and neither does Donnato, but they leave the room anyway, along with most everyone else who suddenly has to get back to their desks.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“But that’s just it. I don’t dislike you, Ana. If I’m tough with you it’s because you can take it. And maybe also, frankly, because you need it. You do tend to carry a chip.”
“So you denied my transfer for my own good.”
Duane isn’t interested in sarcasm from me. He is concentrating on following the line of his sincerity, which is an effort.
“When the time comes, you’ll take off like a bat out of
hell and nobody’ll stop you. But there’s no need to be in such a hurry. Christ, you’re not even thirty yet, are you?”
I have been leaning my butt against the edge of one of the brown lunchroom tables. I am wearing a short black skirt, black tights and heels and it makes me feel sexy and insouciant to be lounging there, arms crossed, fingering the soft sleeves of the white sweater I wore for the potluck lunch, the one with the lacy almost see-through bodice. Duane Carter is looking at me with a neutral kind of innocence like an adolescent boy who has quit setting fires for the day and is on his knees playing with a toy car collection like when he was six.
“The fact remains that I made a perfect bust out there at California First Bank and I deserve to be rewarded for it, not punished.”
“I’m trying to explain this is not about punishment—”
“Sure it is. You’re punishing me because I’m female.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and laughs out loud. “I hope you don’t really believe that.”
“Yes, I do, and I’m going to bring an EEOC lawsuit charging sex discrimination against you and the Bureau to prove it.”
Duane gets to his feet and tosses the chair aside. His hands are deep in his pockets, feeling for those stolen matches or whatever his source of destructive psychic power. The innocence is gone and black fire rages once again in his eyes. That didn’t take long.
• • •
Ever since that class action suit on behalf of Hispanic agents, the FBI has been under scrutiny; another lawsuit filed by some black agents also received wide attention. I know very well the powers that be within the Bureau will not tolerate accusations of discrimination against the Los Angeles field office.
It turns out, after a couple of conversations with the advocacy lawyers, that I have a very good case. So good that on the eve of the filing deadline, Special Agent in Charge Robert Galloway calls both Duane and me to his office for a special meeting.
I have never been inside Galloway’s corner office, with the wide-open view of downtown Los Angeles and the better carpeting and new butterscotch plaid furniture.
“I had to go back to the start of this thing to try and get somewhere,” Galloway begins in his Brooklyn accent, “and I can see where each of you has a particular point of view.”
Galloway worked the organized crime division of our New York office for eighteen years yet there isn’t a strand of gray on his head of thick wavy black Irish hair. He always wears a turtleneck—his trademark—never a shirt and tie, no matter what the occasion or weather, giving rise to rumors of tracheotomies and bullet wounds and cancer scars.… But he still smokes cigars so either he’s got a death wish or, like the rest of us, he holds out for being a maverick in his own way.
It is ten thirty and below us the blocky low cityscape of Los Angeles is lit by a dazzling milky white haze that will burn off to clear skies and seventy-five degrees by noon. By coincidence Duane and I are both wearing navy blue suits with white shirts, which makes us look like a pair of airline reservation clerks.
On the coffee table there are souvenirs of Galloway’s days in New York City, including a model of the Statue of Liberty and a four-inch oval brass seal of NYPD Detective Division.
Galloway picks it up and worries it in his hand. I ask what it’s for.
“It’s a belt buckle. They couldn’t afford to give me the whole belt.”
He refers to a file on his lap. He has come around the desk, management style, positioning himself near us to show we are all equal, comfortably sitting with legs crossed, an unlit cigar between his teeth.
“Going back to this bust at the bank … it looks like Ana did quite a noteworthy thing. She ascertained there was a felony in progress, single-handedly isolated and subdued the subject so that he could be arrested without incident by LAPD.… And then”—he shakes his head and laughs—“the schmuck turns out to be good for six other robberies!”
He laughs and laughs. He laughs until he coughs and turns red in the face.
Duane Carter is not even smiling. He is leveling that eerie killer look at Galloway. I remember Donnato telling me about their rivalry and feel a chill, wondering if Galloway feels it, too.
“Special Agent Grey failed to call for backup assistance, thereby endangering herself and the public,” says Duane.
Galloway wipes his eyes. “You’re right. Calling in a 211 in progress would have been the approved procedure.”
His arm is dropped over the side of the chair but he’s still holding the heavy belt buckle, fingering it with implacable cool. They are locked on to each other now.
“He’s right on a technicality.” I am swinging my leg impatiently. “He’s not right to deny me a transfer because—”
“I said at the beginning that you both have a point,” Galloway interrupts sharply. “Stop pouting, Ana, it’ll give you worry lines and you’re much too young and pretty.”
He raises his eyebrows, daring me to call him on it. Instead I take a cue from his own behavior and laugh. More of a snort, actually, but at least I’m not pouting.
“I’m going to allow Duane’s addendum to stand.”
Meaning it will be a part of my personal file forever. Other people down the line will read it, not know the facts, and assume I screwed up. The unfairness of it propels me to my feet.
“That is just plain wrong!”
“Nobody says you have to agree.”
“I don’t agree. I disagree in the strongest terms and I’m certain the EEOC will back me up.”
I stop breathlessly. The power has shifted with dizzying speed. Now they’re both watching me, secure in their chairs, while I’m stamping my foot in the middle of the room.
The worst of it is Duane Carter looking at me with pity.
“Well, if you’d calm down and cool out,” Galloway continues, “I’ll tell you the rest of my decision.”
I back down into the chair.
“I’m going to let the addendum stand … but I am also going to approve Ana’s request for transfer.”
“Excuse me,” says Duane, “but ain’t that just the teensiest bit disingenuous? How can you do both?”
“I’m approving Ana’s transfer on a contingency basis. If after a trial period it looks like she can handle it, then we’ll go ahead and move her up to Kidnapping and Extortion.”
“What a complete pile of steaming horseshit.”
In my opinion it is a masterly compromise.
“What’s the contingency?” I ask eagerly.
Galloway gets up and goes back to the desk, puts the half-chewed cigar in an ashtray with two other soggy butts.
“I’m going to put you on a drug case. See how you do.”
I’m leaning forward in my chair ready to jump up and sprint for it, whatever it is.
“This came to me through the Director’s office. It’s what they call ‘high profile.’ ”
I can’t tell if Galloway is smiling because he’s giving me a gift or because he finds the words “high profile” particularly amusing, worthy of an ironic twist. In the meantime, Duane’s face is turning so dark it is almost the color of his navy blue suit.
“Jayne Mason is alleging that her physician got her addicted to prescription drugs.”
There is a moment of stupefied silence. We were expecting Colombians, Mexicans, Crips, and Bloods.
“You’d have to be on Mars not to know Jayne Mason was in and out of the Betty Ford Center,” Galloway continues. “Well, now she claims she’s an addict because of this shyster M.D. named Eberhardt.”
Duane: ‘What’s the Bureau’s jurisdiction?”
“She claims the drugs he gave her came from Mexico.” Galloway tosses a file at me.
“Mighty thin,” observes Duane.
“Look at Title 18 of the Federal Code, Drug Abuse Prevention, or maybe 21, Wrongful Distribution.”
I am speechless.
I know perfectly well that I am obligated to tell the Special Agent in Charge immediately of my conflict of
interest concerning this case. That my alleged cousin, who died under mysterious circumstances, worked for this very Dr. Eberhardt.
“Sounds like a case of medical fraud to me,” Duane persists, “which would put it under the jurisdiction of the White Collar Crime Squad, am I wrong?”
“Like I said before,” Galloway repeats sternly, “this came from the Director’s office.”
He has made the political significance clear to both of us.
“I will handle it with discretion.”
“Fuck discretion,” Galloway grunts. “Just get to the fucking bottom of this so I can appear halfway fucking intelligent.”
We file out. Duane is already through the doorway when Galloway touches my shoulder lightly. I turn. The cigar is back in his mouth.
“There’s no reason to file that lawsuit now, am I right?”
“I think you’ve been very fair.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Duane is waiting for me in the hall.
“Prestige case,” I say, tossing my hair.
“Dog case,” he replies with a great big happy smile and strolls away.
It doesn’t matter what Duane Carter thinks, this is my chance to advance a dozen squares on the achievement chart or even rocket off the chart—Jayne Mason, it has to be big—and the fact that I have prior knowledge of the players involved has pivoted in my mind from being a conflict of interest to an incredible advantage.
I am thinking about that day in the alley behind the orthopedic office when I saw Jayne Mason and the accused doctor together. She was dressed in red, breaking out of his grasp, striding toward the limousine. Now I remember something else. A fanciful detail. The doctor had been holding a rose. A yellow rose on a long stem. After the limo disappeared, he tossed the rose into the trash and the heavy door snapped shut behind him.
NINE
THE FIRST STEP is to assemble all the information on Randall Eberhardt, M.D., that currently exists on the hard disk and magnetic tape archives of the world.
I run his name through our in-house computer, which will turn up previous arrests anywhere on the globe and discover there are none. I check with the California Department of Motor Vehicles for citations of reckless driving, driving under the influence, or speeding, which are, again, negative. I subpoena the records and obtain a printout from the telephone company of toll calls made from both the medical office and the residence on Twentieth Street, looking for a pattern that would point to a drug connection, but all I learn is that the Eberhardts still make a lot of calls to friends and relations in Boston.
