Tommy said he’d worn Tony Lama boots all the years he’d known him. Okay, so I wasn’t at a costume party, I guess. The high split in the back of the coat had three closed snaps. He unsnapped the bottom one. He liked how the back flapped around his boots when he walked; there might be something to this outfit. He put his wallet and keys in his jeans pocket and was wheeled down to the lobby to catch a taxi.
His amnesia was frustrating and debilitating. Dr. Fitzgerald had said his memories would build on one another and come to him faster in recall. This might allow him to reinvent himself. He’d have to find out who he was, though, to decide who he would be.
THE CAB DROPPED HIM in front of a condo building in the middle of Del Rey Lagoon Park. “This is it?” he asked the cabby.
“Yes, sir. This is the address you gave me.”
The number on the front of the building matched his driver’s license. He was home, but it didn’t look familiar—nothing did. He was hopeful, though, that the interior would trigger some memories. He fumbled with his key ring at the front door, not knowing which key was right. Finally, he found the one that fit and entered the condominium said to be his.
Wainwright looked at everything as he stood in the foyer. Nothing. No recollection at all. Well, what did you expect, a marching band? “Okay,” he said, just to have some noise in the place, “to my left there’s a small, functional U-shaped kitchen. It all looks very pleasant but unfamiliar.”
He felt like a burglar in someone else’s home. This just didn’t seem like a place where he had lived. But he had to remind himself the clothes he was wearing didn’t feel like his either. “Nothing seems familiar to me, but they say this place is mine.”
In a room that seemed to be an office, he opened a desk drawer. Rifling through some papers, he found a pile that appeared to be a novel manuscript, with his name listed as the author. I’m a writer? Cool. That fits the duds I’m wearing. He looked through a checkbook he found under the pile. There was plenty of dough in the account. This writing stuff must pay pretty well. On the desktop he saw a small tape recorder. He picked it up and continued his inspection of the condo. He thought having a recording of his findings might come in handy later.
“This stack of mail has some letters and bills addressed to a Lacey Kinkaid Wainwright,” he said into the recorder. “I have no idea who that is. Maybe a sister? Mother? Wife? If a woman lives here with me, there’s one sure way to find out.” He cleverly determined which room was the master bedroom by checking the rooms on the other floors of the five-split-level condominium.
“On the bedroom dresser, there are some framed photos of...her,” he said, continuing to record his observations. “What a doll! I sure hope she’s not my sister.” Wainwright looked around the bedroom, with its quality furnishings, original artwork, and high-end accessories. “Nice place. Think I’ll stay for a while.”
He headed to the walk-in closet. “Women’s clothes, more women’s clothes—a lot of them and expensive looking too. She has more closet space than I do. I’ll change that, just as soon as I figure out who this broad is.”
Wainwright spent the afternoon looking through closets and various boxes. He hadn’t gotten to a couple of them labeled “Lacey” yet. Those seemed more beat up than the ones he’d already examined—older, probably hauled around a lot. They could wait for another time.
He headed back upstairs. “I’m going through the desk to see how Ms. Wainwright and I might know each other. On the desktop there’s a notebook that seems to be full of research material. I was apparently in the middle of writing a novel but not too recently. The notes are dated early March. Under the notebook are two Day-Timers. His and hers?”
Two ticket stubs showed a flight from Salzburg to LAX more than a month earlier. Along with those were two passports and a marriage license. His and hers and theirs. The license was issued to Lacey Ann Kinkaid and Garth Wainwright. He had a wife. A framed wedding photo, displayed prominently, seemed to confirm the fact. So, this is the little woman with a ton of expensive clothes. Wainwright now focused his search on Lacey—his wife. In the desk drawer, a crumpled cablegram proclaimed that his brother, Bobby, had died and that Aunt Emma was making the funeral arrangements. Setting it aside, he spotted a black zipped leather case in the drawer. That looks important. Let’s see what this lady and her husband keep in...Her husband? Hey, pal, that’s you. Where do you get off with this third-person point of view? Get used to it. You’re a married man. One who knows nothing about his wife, his life, or himself. For that matter, you don’t remember anything that’s happened in the world for the past forty years.
Wait a minute—how old am I?
Wainwright picked up his passport: “Date of birth/Date de naissance/Fecha de naciniento.” On the next line, he read “20 Jan. 1938.” He unzipped the black case and took out the papers in the first plastic leaf. A deed to a condominium, this condominium. The title was in his name. No community property here. Sorry, babe.
Behind that was another document on stiff parchment paper. It was a deed giving joint ownership of the condo to Lacey Ann Kinkaid Wainwright. Okay, welcome home, dear. Say, where is the little woman? Is she at work? I wonder what she does. With looks like hers, I’ll bet she’s has some kind of glamour job or another. So, what time do glamour girls get off work?
That last thought made Wainwright consider something much more telling. He’d been in a coma at UCLA for a long time. Did Lacey visit? Did she try to see him? If she had, the staff probably would have told him. So where was this glamour queen?
Looking around the condo—the place he hadn’t been in for a month, whether or not he could remember that—he saw that it was tidy. No dust anywhere; the woodwork was polished; and the floors looked clean and waxed. The kitchen was spotless. He now noticed the trail the vacuum cleaner had made on the carpet. Somebody has been here and done a terrific job of cleaning the place. So the wife didn’t come to the hospital but stayed home to wash and clean? Yeah, sure. Something is wrong with this picture.
The black case yielded other documents, including an honorable discharge. Hmm, I was a lieutenant commander in the US Navy. And then there was a social security card—his, not hers. Where is she? Oh, my God, was she in the car crash with me? Did she die?
Wainwright picked up the desk phone and dialed the number Tommy Shaw had written on the back of his business card. “Tommy, I’m home and going through some papers. I’ve got some questions that I hope you’ll answer for me. Tell me about Lacey. I need to know, and now. What do you know about the crash?”
Tommy told him everything he’d learned. His friend had a severe case of “need to know,” so he answered Wainwright’s questions completely, despite Dr. Fitzgerald’s advice.
“I feel like such an idiot. My brother dies, and I can’t recall anything about the services—or him. I was on my honeymoon with a beautiful woman—for whom I have no feelings at all.”
Amnesia is a bitch! They predicted I’d get my memory back, but when will it return? Will all of it come back? God, I’d rather be dead than have my memory lost forever.
Tommy tried to help him with his questions about Lacey, but he didn’t know everything. What the heck does “presumed missing” mean anyhow? You’re either missing or you’re found. So where was his wife? The telegram had said his Aunt Emma was making funeral arrangements. He needed to speak with someone who could tell him more than what Tommy knew. After he got off the phone, he decided to call his aunt. Great idea, genius. But how are you going to get her number? Maybe her phone number was listed in one of the Day-Timers on the desk. He found nothing under the “A” section but scored when he flipped to “E.” Early that evening he called and spoke to Aunt Emma.
“Hello, Aunt Emma. It’s Garth. The car crash...it made me lose my memory. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you right now.”
“Yes, dear. I know about that. When I read about the crash in the paper next morning, I immediately called the hospital. They only told me you wer
e critical but stable. I went to see you several times while you were in the coma as well. I’m so glad you’re alive and healthy. I called the sheriff’s office to file a report on Lacey, but someone already had done that.”
“Thank you for that. I’m alive and healthy but with no memory. No one at the hospital told me you came to see me...or if they did, I forgot. The doctors said it’s temporary, and I’ll recover my memories eventually. Auntie Emma...do I call you that? It seems to feel right.”
“Yes, dear. You’ve always called me Auntie Emma.”
She went on to answer questions that Tommy couldn’t. The mystery of the clean house was solved when Auntie Emma said, “You have a housekeeper, Collette. She comes every Thursday.”
She explained that he and Lacey had left together after the reception. It was late—she guessed around nine thirty—when they had said their good-byes and driven off. She thought the drive time from Montecito to Topanga Canyon was a little less than two hours. Tommy told him Deputy Robinson had stumbled upon the crash at 1:08 a.m.
That means somewhere between eleven thirty and 1:08, I went over the cliff and my wife vanished. A moment in time that turned my life inside out.
THE NEXT MORNING, WAINWRIGHT called UCLA Medical Center. He needed to know about his admission to the hospital on April eleventh. Although he didn’t get to speak to Dr. Fitzgerald, the admissions clerk was very helpful. He waited for the clerk to pull his file. It must have been in the next county; she was gone so long. The wait gave him a chance, however, to dig some more through Lacey’s stuff. What he found broke his heart.
She had saved his old love letters. They were still in the envelopes he had mailed them in and were bound with a wide rubber band. He read the first one, which was at the bottom of the stack. With a tear in his eye, he accepted that he loved this woman, with a passion so hot that it threatened to singe the paper. He had loved her more than he loved anyone else in the world. Wainwright was deeply committed to Lacey Ann Kinkaid. He had to be; the letters said so.
By the time the admissions clerk returned, he’d regained control of his emotions. The clerk said he was alone when Deputy Robinson had found him in critical condition. The EMTs had responded within four minutes of the dispatcher’s call and gotten him into the ambulance stat. Wainwright was in the hospital so long that he had picked up on the medical shorthand for “immediately.”
That was all that was in the admissions report. Wainwright figured a call to the EMTs would be a waste of time, but a call to the sheriff’s deputy wouldn’t. Talking with the first responder might reveal more than what Tommy or the admissions clerk had told him. When Wainwright called, Deputy Robinson was just coming in for his five o’clock shift.
“Sure, I can speak with you, Mr. Wainwright. In fact, I’m awful glad you’re able to speak to anyone. That was a close one out there. So happy you’re doing okay.”
“Deputy, could you describe that night for me? I’ve had a little run-in with amnesia, due to the accident, and your description might help me remember some of what happened. Please, just take me through it from the beginning to the end.”
Deputy Robinson did. He was happy to oblige this man who had almost died in his arms. Besides, the county taxpayers paid him to risk his life on a daily basis. They wouldn’t object to a little chat with a man whose life he’d saved. In fact, having been saved, Wainwright would now continue to be a tax-paying citizen of LA County.
Wainwright profusely thanked the deputy for his kindness and bravery in saving his life. Robinson said he’d make a copy of everything in the case file and leave it at the desk for Wainwright to pick up.
“I won’t forget you anytime soon, Deputy Robinson. That is, just as soon as I can remember anything about the last forty years.”
Robinson chuckled. “Hey, I know I shouldn’t be laughing, but the way you said that hit my funny bone, I guess. Sorry, Mr. Wainwright. You might want to speak to a man named Carson Starr. He called the LAPD to report your wife missing on Monday, April twelfth. The number for his law firm is in the file here for you.”
“No apology needed. I’m just happy there’s something funny in all this for us to laugh at. Thanks for everything, Deputy. Good-bye.”
WAINWRIGHT PICKED UP the file from the substation the next day. It included photos, measurements, and a map of the crash scene. He already knew some of the information from what the staff and visitors at UCLA Medical had told him.
Deputy Robinson had called dispatch at 0108 on April eleventh. The statements given by the EMTs mentioned nothing about Lacey. But he did learn something new while reading the report. After the ambulance left, Robinson had stayed to search for other survivors—or bodies. But he found none. He returned to search again in the daylight, but nothing of Lacey’s was located.
That was the interesting fact. No purse or any of a purse’s contents: no cosmetics, mirror, wallet, nothing. Nothing of Lacey’s was in the car or nearby in the debris field. Wainwright knew from Aunt Emma that Lacey was with him when the Karmann Ghia had left the Montecito mansion. Unless Lacey climbed out of the car in the valley and took her purse with her, it should have been found in the crash. Since nothing was found, it meant someone must have taken Lacey and her purse. From the report, he learned that the skid marks were most likely from a Jeep Wagoneer. The forensic team reported that this tread pattern didn’t exist before 1980 and had a similar design to tires supplied on Wagoneers and light trucks. Thousands of these tires been sold in the past two years.
The tire marks left by the Karmann Ghia indicated it had been pushed sideways over the edge. While this was speculation from the county forensics lab, it was a good guess and worth following up on. Wainwright wanted to visit the crash site on his way home. His copy of the accident report had a good map of the site. The Topanga Canyon crash site was twenty-eight minutes (seventeen miles) from the substation. Everyone in LA measures distance by time rather than miles.
Wainwright parked his rented Cutlass Ciera in the spot Robinson had parked his squad car, as indicated on the map. The shredded landscape at the edge of the road indicated where his car had crashed. He began to understand the picture, literally.
It was an intercept. Somehow the driver of the Jeep had known his route—and known it early enough for him to drive to Topanga and wait for Wainwright’s arrival. In a window of less than two hours, someone had crashed into the Ghia, scaled the cliff, taken Lacey, and driven away to...somewhere. He had been deliberately run off the road, and Lacey had been removed from the scene before Robinson had called dispatch. She’d been snatched.
This was a well-orchestrated attempted murder and kidnapping, Wainwright thought. He suspected the LA County Sheriff’s Department knew this as well. He would call Mr. Carson Starr, as the deputy had suggested. Tommy said Starr was Lacey’s managing partner at Jamison, Langley & Starr. Who better to ask about a missing person than the lawyer who reported it?
Who drove Lacey away and why did they take her? Wainwright wondered. Well, by God’s good graces, I’ll get her back.
WHEN WAINWRIGHT GOT back to his condo, he didn’t know where to start. Dr. Fitzgerald had said it would take time for his memories to come back, and the process would be slow. A few memories were in fact returning, but they were out of any sequence he could discern.
He remembered his car, his beloved green Karmann Ghia convertible. Smashed into an insurance adjuster’s “Beyond Repair.” But because he’d seen photos of it in the sheriff’s report, that wouldn’t count as a true memory, would it? At the crash site, Wainwright saw the damage inflicted by his car: trees, shrubs, grasses all ripped to pieces. Although he had no memory of the crash, he did experience a vision of Bobby’s services: the crowd, the casket, the grave. Now where do I file all that?
Speaking with Tommy helped him recall the months before he had resigned from his board seat at CapVest. He remembered some of the efforts to find the killer of his partners and parts of his fight to save the company from the SEC’s clutches o
n the fraud and embezzlement charges. Wainwright knew some of the roles Tommy and others had played in saving the firm. He also knew about Stacy and Greg Mulholland’s involvement and the fact that Lacey was a key player. Tommy had said so.
But could he remember Lacey? Not so much. Why couldn’t he remember this woman, his wife, his lover? She was his true love. Tommy had said so.
In the leather case, Wainwright came across a letter from Jules Jarvis—whoever that was—transferring a significant number of CapVest stock shares to him. In that same case, he found two keys that looked like safe-deposit-box keys. If that was true, the box might contain a clue to Lacey’s whereabouts. The keys had no identification numbers, so he guessed he’d find the box at the same branch where he maintained his checking and savings accounts. There was only one way to find out.
He had to jump through hoops to prove to the bankers he suffered from amnesia and that was why he didn’t know the number of his safety deposit box. Bankers get cranky when they work on Saturday. The letter from Dr. Fitzgerald on UCLA Medical letterhead was the final proof he needed to gain access to box number 1492. He now remembered the memory jogger he had always used to recall his box number: “In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.”
Mostly the box held stock certificates from firms in which he apparently had invested. Looking at these documents, he experienced a flash of recollection. Although he didn’t know them by name, two men were standing with him in a lakeside yard. The blond guy might have been Tommy. The two men were reading a letter that granted both men a large block of CapVest shares.
There were some other personal papers, including two divorce decrees. Those he didn’t want to remember, so back in the box they went. Good riddance. How many guys would like to forget the names of their ex-wives? Geez, two former marriages, so do I have kids? Are there some short people with my last name running around someplace?
Inside Moves Page 9
