Abide With Me

by Shellie Arnold

  “For business. I’m contracted by companies all over the globe.”

  “Ever take your wife on those trips? Hard to leave a beautiful woman.” Reedy leaned forward. “Ever take her along to soften up clients? Socialize with customers? Persuade investors?”

  “No.” Nick clenched his hands on the table. “No, and I’ll ignore what you’re implying. My wife has nothing to do with my business. She doesn’t travel with me. She knows almost nothing of what I do. I barely—”

  See her.

  Reedy smiled slowly as if he knew Nick’s thoughts.

  “We’ll get back to your wife. Now, about your personal business. Did Gavin Hawk set up your LLC for your consulting firm? What about your real estate purchases? Was he involved in those in an advisory capacity? Did you consult him regarding all your real estate purchases? How many properties do you own?”

  “You’re asking questions too fast. I’ve been traveling. I’ve barely slept the last day and a half. I can’t remember everything, in order to answer.” He squeezed his eyes, straining to keep up. “I no longer own properties.”

  “But …” Reedy prompted as if he and Nick were sharing secrets.

  Nick swallowed. “I’m an investor in a large project.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  He shook his head. “What difference does it make where Angelina is?”

  “Your personal business attorney, Gavin Hawk, isn’t answering his phone. We’ve called several times. How do you know she didn’t run off with him?”

  “Because I know her.”

  “Do you? You’re never home. You never take her with you. Where is she, Mr. Rousseau?”

  His breathing came fast. “She’s at a wedding—I was supposed to go with her, but I didn’t—in, um, Las Vegas.”

  “That’s right. She’s staying at the Paris Hotel, and she’s booked on a morning flight to return tomorrow. Will she tell me the same things you are? I’ve already confirmed you traveled alone. Pretty Mrs. Rousseau was always left behind. What I can’t figure out is, did you do that because you didn’t want to share the money you hoped to make?” He looked again at the picture in his hand, then back at Nick. “Or are you just plain stupid? Any man who would leave a woman like that alone for months at a time is either an idiot, blind, or both.”

  Nick almost reached for the picture, just to see if Reedy was messing with him.

  “She’s making a name for herself in the art world, isn’t she?” Reedy asked. “Wonder what kind of contacts that gives her.”

  “Are you going to arrest my wife? I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just don’t arrest my wife.”

  Reedy tilted his chin. “You care about her?”

  “Of course I care about her. She’s my wife.”

  “Hmm. Maybe it’s better you kept her out of the loop. Whether you did it out of care or selfishness remains to be seen.” Reedy stood. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait!” Nick rose, his bound wrists jarring him to a stop. He sat. “Are you going to arrest Angelina? Do I need to get her an attorney, too?”

  “That’s up to you.” Detective Reedy let the door slam behind him.

  Nick looked at his cuffed hands hooked around the bar on the table. At the orange scrubs he now wore.

  Never in his life had he been in a police station, let alone been arrested. Aside from when he and Angie had first visited southern Alabama right after they married when a cop bought them a meal and gave them directions, getting a speeding ticket was the only contact he’d ever had with law enforcement.

  He caught himself bouncing his leg and stopped. He clasped and unclasped his hands. Drummed his fingers on the table.

  Think. Think.

  He’d been charged with real estate fraud, which was impossible. With the exception of his home, he no longer owned properties.

  He could only sit and wait until his attorney arrived or the detective returned and gave him more information. To figure out what was going on, he definitely needed more information.

  And something told him the worst news was yet to come.

  ***

  The door on Nick’s left opened and a dark-haired man in blue jeans and a knit shirt entered. Nick knew those blue eyes and that face.

  His shoulders relaxed. “Pastor Crane?”

  “Pierce, please.” He waved away the formal title.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Dad volunteers weekly as chaplain with the Emergency Responders. He’s on vacation, so I took his shift. I heard about your arrest.” He sat on the stool opposite Nick. “Are you all right?”

  “No.” Nick motioned at his cuffed hands.

  “Have you been told anything?”

  He wasn’t sure how much he should say. “I’m charged with real estate fraud, but I don’t know exactly what that means.” He paused. “I just flew home today. I’ve been working in Spain for over three months. I haven’t been in the country a full week in almost a year.”

  “Did you tell them that?” Pierce asked.

  “I think they already know it. They know I’ve been in Spain.” A thought occurred to him. “Did they let you in here hoping I’d confess?”

  Pierce sat back. “No. Can I do anything for you? Where’s Angelina?”

  “A wedding somewhere—Las Vegas.” He let out a breath. “I can’t think straight. I called her. She’s flying home, but she probably can’t get here until tomorrow. Could you call her again? Ask if she reached our lawyer?”

  “Sure.”

  He told Pierce Angie’s number. “Can a police detective lie to a suspect?”

  “I have no idea. You think you’re being lied to?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been on and off planes for the last twenty-plus hours. I don’t even know what day it is.”

  “You said Angie was trying to call your lawyer. So, you already have representation?”

  “Sort of. He specializes in corporations, trusts, and wills, and long-term estate planning.”

  Which meant even if Gavin got Angie’s messages, he couldn’t defend Nick.

  He adjusted his hands in the cuffs. “Do you know a criminal attorney nearby? I need someone right away.”

  “I do. Julius Floyd, Deacon Floyd’s son. I’ll call him right after I call Angie.”

  “No,” Nick said. “I need you to call him first. And Pierce? If Angie’s spoken with our personal attorney, I need to know that as soon as possible.”

  “Will do.”

  Pierce left.

  Franklin returned. “Comfort break.” He freed Nick’s handcuffs from the security bar. “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I figured you could use a bathroom about now.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  Franklin walked him to a single-person restroom with a steel sink and urinal bolted to the wall and no toilet paper in sight.

  “That work for ya?” Franklin asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’ll lock the door from the outside. Knock when you’re done. I’ll expect that knock in about sixty seconds.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was the shortest sixty seconds of his life.

  He knocked.

  Franklin opened the door. “Follow me.”

  They walked back to the interview room. Franklin re-secured his wrists to the table.

  “Preacher man said your new attorney will be in to see you tomorrow morning. Sit tight, not sure what we’re doing now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alone again, Nick stared at the dingy tile ceiling.

  How had this happened? It couldn’t be real.

  Fear—like a dark, open mouth—swallowed him feet to throat. He’d been worried about the tax implications of selling off his properties so quickly. But the opportunity of a lifetime had presented itself right at the end of the year. Had his hasty decisions inadvertently led him into breaking the law?

  ***

  Angelina’s cell rang. The ID read Row
e City Emergency Services.

  She answered. “Hello?”

  “It’s Pierce Crane. Pastor at The Barn Church? My dad rotates as chaplain with the emergency responders here in Rowe City. I’m covering for him as he’s on vacation. I’ve just spoken with Nicholas. He wanted me to call you.”

  She almost said she didn’t care what Nick had to say. That she hadn’t seen Nick in almost four months, and before that, only for a couple of evenings after a fourteen-week business trip, which had been the pattern for many years. What was the difference if he were in prison?

  “I’ll fly out in the morning and arrive by two,” she said.

  “Do you need someone to pick you up at the airport?”

  “No, thanks. I left a car there in the garage.”

  “I’ve called a criminal attorney for Nick. Julius Floyd—from the church?—will see him as soon as possible tomorrow.” Pierce paused. “Nick wanted me to ask if you’ve heard from your personal attorney?”

  “All I get is voicemail.”

  Similar to when she called Nick during his many trips.

  Something rose in her, like lava burning its way to the surface.

  “Do you know why Nick and I don’t attend church together very often, Pastor Crane? Why I have all but stopped attending? Because my husband was home maybe three Sundays last year. Maybe that many. I grew tired of going alone.”

  “I can understand that. And call me Pierce.”

  “Why are you being so nice? You barely know us.”

  He chuckled. “My wife would say it’s because she’s rubbed off on me.”

  From her sporadic visits to The Barn Church, Angelina knew Pierce had a sensitive, emotional radar similar to his wife’s. Hence Angelina envisioning his sermon on adultery when she’d stupidly thought Lorenzo was the solution to her loveless life. But she hadn’t known he could pick up vibes from the other side of the country across phone lines.

  “And,” he continued, “I don’t think I’d be wrong in saying Nick’s not the only one who’s hurting right now.”

  “You have no idea.” She reddened at what she’d imagined doing with Lorenzo.

  “What’s happening with your husband is pretty serious. One way or another you’ll be affected.”

  “That’s the nature of marriage, isn’t it?”

  She hated sounding so cynical but couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “No offense taken. Laurie and I are available if you need us. No expectations. I’ll text you our cell numbers.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  She ended the call. Laid her phone on the antique writing desk beside the bed.

  A text came, instructions for those who wanted to line up outside her previous hotel and blow bubbles at Rita and Thomas as they left on their honeymoon. They’d looked so in love when they’d said their vows. So in tune with each other.

  She remembered that feeling. When as newlyweds she’d thought she and Nick would never drift apart. When she’d thought nothing could wedge itself between them.

  When it seemed they’d barely go an hour without saying I love you.

  With painful clarity, she realized Nick had spoken more words to her today than he had during his previous trip. And despite his arrest, neither of them had spoken the words I love you.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nick didn’t know how long he sat before the door opened again. Officer Franklin carried leg shackles into the room.

  “We’re transporting you to the state prison in Troy. Stay seated, Mr. Rousseau.”

  Nicholas obeyed as his cuffs were removed from the restraining bar and re-applied.

  “Turn this way.” Franklin knelt before him, snapped a cuff around each ankle, and secured a chain up to his wrists.

  “Suspect on the move!” he shouted out the door.

  Another officer stepped in, sandwiching Nick behind Officer Franklin. The shackles required he shuffle in small steps. They escorted him through the maze of desks. They rode an elevator and stepped out onto a ground floor loading dock. A police van waited.

  “Down the ramp, Mr. Rousseau. Duck and climb in the back seat.”

  They chained his shackles to the metal floor, secured a seatbelt around his waist.

  The van pulled away, its big engine humming as the old Buick’s he’d owned when he and Angelina married. He thought of his humble honeymoon. Of wanting to provide for Angie and drawing one of his first big ideas on the steamed bathroom mirror. Maybe this time his big idea would claim his freedom.

  They rode on in the dark, down unlit rural roads that seemed to stretch forever. Then, up ahead, a haze of light shone like a beacon. Nick thought it a small town until he realized they’d slowed at a security gate.

  “Don’t move until we tell you to.” Franklin spoke from the front passenger seat.

  The state prison facility in Troy was enormous, a rigid brick building lit from all directions by wide lights on tall poles. A high fence topped with razor wire surrounded the complex. As the gate closed behind the police van, Nicholas shook his head to clear it.

  “You all right back there?” Officer Franklin asked.

  “As good as can be expected, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

  The other officer’s radio beeped.

  “Conley,” he answered. “We’re pulling into the loading dock now. ETA five minutes. That was the State Prosecutor. He wants to talk to Rousseau.”

  Franklin shot Nick a glance. “You willing to answer questions again without an attorney?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I can listen.”

  That would give him more information about the charges and the evidence supposedly compiled against him.

  He was taken to a small room that held one table, two chairs, and had what appeared to be a one-way mirror along one wall. Officer Franklin removed his leg shackles. This time, he didn’t secure Nick’s cuffed wrists to the bar on the table, but rather let him rest them in his lap.

  “I’ll be handing you over to the state,” he said. “Stuff works a bit different here than at the county. You want a sandwich?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Be right back. You stay put, and they won’t hook you to the table.”

  “Got it.”

  There was no clock on the wall. No music filtered into the room. He heard footsteps in the hall, voices, and random laughter.

  The door opened. A man dressed in a suit entered and took the seat across from him.

  “I’m State Prosecutor Darrin Simon.”

  Instinctively, Nick started to offer his hand, then caught himself and lowered them back to his lap.

  The prosecutor’s cool eyes studied him, his angular face twitched once. “Are you willing to talk to me without representation?”

  “For the moment. I’ve another attorney coming tomorrow. Mr. Simon, there’s been a mistake.”

  “Oh, there have been lots of mistakes. And I think you made many of them.”

  Nicholas opened his mouth, then shut it. He recognized that tone, the I’m-not-going-to-believe-what-you-tell-me tone he encountered from so many clients—CEOs and company owners who doubted Nick’s input on increasing their business’s productivity. He’d learned when to rephrase his ideas, when to push, and when to simply let the numbers speak for themselves. If a potential client didn’t want his expertise, there were ten more lined up who did.

  But the man sitting before him wasn’t a potential client.

  Simon blinked once, twice. “You’ve been charged with four counts of real estate fraud.” He paused. “Nothing to say?”

  Nick didn’t know how much he should say without his attorney present. He only knew he was innocent.

  “I don’t understand what you think I’ve done. I’ve never committed fraud or stolen anything in my life. I’m not guilty. I’ve been out of the country for over three months.”

  Simon glanced through a file he held. “That’s right. You’ve been in Spain. You’ve made
many trips to Spain over the years, haven’t you, Mr. Rousseau?”

  Nick’s heart skipped; he felt his blood pressure rise. “Yes. I have clients all over the world.”

  “You’ve also been investing in real estate for many years. When was the last time you spoke with Gerald Barker?”

  His old boss from Jenkinsons?

  “Is Gerald all right?”

  “If one can be all right after losing over five million dollars to a scam.”

  “What? Five million?”

  “You should know, Mr. Rousseau.”

  Simon reopened the file. He laid papers on the table like a casino dealer revealing a poker hand card by card. Each document bore the PGI logo of a black pyramid with gold letters.

  “He lost the money to you and your phony investment scheme. Where’s the money, Nick?”

  Nick looked at Simon, and his throat went bone dry. “You’re serious.”

  Simon pointed to the first document. “As serious as five million from Gerald Barker.”

  “I haven’t spoken with Gerald in half a dozen years.”

  “Six-point-two million from Frances Sweeney.” Simon moved his hand to the second document.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where did you get these?”

  Simon slid the third stack of papers in front of Nick. “A whopping eleven million from Jeremy Jenkinson—president of Jenkinsons in Birmingham.”

  “I’ve never even spoken with Jeremy Jenkinson. His father ran the company when I worked there years ago.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’ve never stolen from anyone. I’ve never taken a dime that wasn’t mine in my whole life.”

  Simon gathered his papers and stood. “I think I’ll let you sit there and think about that. Sometimes simply being in this room for a bit will jog a person’s memory.”

  “Wait! You said there were four charges.”

  So far, Nick read on Simon’s expression. “Or maybe your wife knows where the money is.”

  The State Prosecutor walked away, closing the door behind him.

  Nick raised his bound hands to his face. Angelina. Whatever they thought he’d done, they thought she was involved.

  Officer Franklin arrived with a sandwich and bottled water.