by Ronnie Allen
Tony tried to make light of it. “Enough. We got the point, and by the way, you got Carlson PO’d again.”
“So what else is new?”
“John, we get it. He’s not your favorite person, but he is head of this team,” Sal said.
“Nah, it’s more than that. Something’s going on with him. His mood, his temper. He’s antsy. Don’t you guys notice anything strange about him lately?”
“Yeah, his breathin’ and coughin’. He won’t listen to us about his smokin’. You have to get him checked out,” Tony said.
“All right but, again, it’s more than that. Why did he send you here?”
“To check up on you! You’re upsetting your wife, too!” Sal exclaimed, not afraid to add it.
John put up a good front. “Correction, soon to be ex-wife.”
“Well, why don’t you do something about it? You’re not even separated yet. Not every cop has to have a failed marriage.”
“I’m not a cop, Tony, and don’t you think I know that? What are you doing, keeping tabs on me?”
“What are friends for? Somebody has to, or else you’d get lost. And what about this little guy?” Tony picked up the framed photo of Ricky and smiled. “Given up? You and Vicki break up, there’s no chance.”
“No. I haven’t given up. The social workers that took him away aren’t there anymore. It’s a crazy system. They must have changed his name.”
“Did you ever once think he was adopted, and now has a loving home?” Sal asked.
“Yeah. I have, but the loving home should have been with us.”
John stared at the photo. He blamed himself. He should not have let them take Ricky away. He should have fought them with everything he had.
“Stop beating yourself up, John. You saved the little kid’s life. Go on, get out of here, Maybe you can catch Vicki before she leaves.”
“Can’t yet, Tony, got things to take care of here. She’ll still be home.”
“First mistake, job over wife,” Sal said.
“Listen, Mr. Playboy,” Tony interjected. “Vicki is the best thing that ever happened to you. Before you met Vicki, you didn’t even have the patience to have a conversation for more than two minutes, unless it was with a patient. Come on, don’t go back to the old John.”
John sensed a lecture coming on and he deplored lectures. “Stop, guys. Just stop.”
“Oh no, I’m not going to stop.” Tony said. “ I’m not letting you pull this bullshit. Remember three years ago when Hal did the kills and you were visiting your folks in Florida?”
John clenched his teeth. His jaw bulged. He held his breath and his nostrils flared like an angry horse. He closed his eyes and, if he could have run out of the office, he would have. Only that would be telling his friends they had won.
“You told us, Skyping at the crime scene, that you met the woman you were going to marry. Remember that? So what the hell happened in three fucking years, man?”
Tony could get excited all he wanted, but John didn’t have to listen. He ignored Tony’s rampage, but he knew he was right. He missed his precious Vicki already. “Go tell the almighty lieutenant, I’ll be there,” he said, checking his watch, “Around six. That’ll give me a couple hours to clean up the mess here,” he added, holding Bobby Mitchell’s file.
John watched Sal and Tony leave, very exasperated, and he knew deep down that they had his best interests at heart.
Hesitating, John opened the file and read two pages to at least get an idea of why the kid was here. Then the last line and signature on the page told him who sent him.
I knew it!
This warranted a phone call. Taking his smartphone out of his pocket, he checked the contact list and auto dialed. Sitting back in his chair, he listened to the phone ring three times before it was picked up.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Uncle Jerry, it’s me.”
“Ah, I see you received my gift.”
“Oh, a real gem.”
“I thought you’d like him.”
“Excuse me, like him?”
“Uh oh, what did he do already?”
“Aside, from calling me a prick and making a hostage situation last longer than it should have--”
“Hostage situation? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” John thought of another battle he wanted to avoid. “But, please, don’t tell my parents. You sentenced him to five hundred hours,” he said, scanning the file for more details. “And there’s a B-felony drug conviction with intent to sell. So you sent him to me instead of incarcerating him?”
“Yes, I did. I used my discretion.”
John knew that, by law, Bobby could have gotten jail time of at least a year. “I’d like you to increase it to one thousand, please.”
“Done. I’ll tell him at his next court appearance. On what grounds?”
“Give me a day to think about it. Who’s his PO? Oh, I see here, Charlie Smitts. I know him well. And you already know I’ll be tougher on him than lockup, right?”
“Now you know why you got him.”
“Like I needed another one.” John was tired of getting these community service kids. They were too easy for him and he preferred to work hard at reforming forensic patients. He appreciated the reputation he’d established for himself over the last ten years as having more patients eligible to stand trial than any other forensic psychiatrist in the city. He had the right principles and methods with the ability to put theories of therapy into practice and structure them so they were effective. He wasn’t planning to stop doing what he did best anytime soon.
“Come on, John, this age group is your specialty, and every criminal court judge, including myself, in New York City knows it, and your success rate. So turn him into a functioning young adult, will you please? His next arrest gets him jail time.”
“So you’re putting it on me to keep him out?”
Judge Marks remained silent.
Here comes the guilt trip.
“I got it. Do my best. That’s actually why I need the thousand.”
“You got it. Seeing him today?”
“Tomorrow, I want him to stew awhile.”
“Ah, you gave him the look.”
John smiled in acknowledgement. He was famous for it and no one else could imitate his deliberate, I’ve-got-your-number, wide-open-eyes, intense dark stare with raised eyebrows that made even the strongest-minded people wobble in their shoes. It was enough to send quivers through the most confident, let alone the emotionally compromised. Call it being vindictive, call it a skill at getting his point across, but John did it like no one else could. “Gotta go.”
“And don’t forget to call your mother. It’s her birthday, and before midnight. They don’t keep your hours.”
He hated being told what to do, but it ran in the family. “I will. Speak with you soon.”
Might as well do what he could when he was there, so he picked up the phone on his desk and depressed one button to the kitchen.
“Stan, how are you doing? And tell me the truth.”
“I’m fine, really, John. I am. I’m telling you the truth. Dr. Malter checked me out, pressure a little high from the tension, and he’ll see me again tomorrow, so stop worrying.”
“All right, but I’ll be checking on you more than once a day. Tomorrow, I want to see that Bobby kid as soon as he comes in. Is that at eleven?”
“He’s supposed to be here at eleven, but he’s always at least forty minutes late.”
“Ah, okay,” John now had a starting point from which to work with Bobby. “All right, send him to me the second he gets here.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” John hung up.
Tomorrow will be the last day he’s late.
CHAPTER 7
Barbara paid the five-dollar-and-forty-five-cent toll on her E-ZPass and slid on the ice into the left lane of Hugh L. Carey Tunnel. The traffic didn’t ease up. It was one-point-seven miles under water in this
semi-lit, two-lane tunnel with both lanes going in the same direction at this hour. Small trucks, the Express Bus, all passed her on the right as she held the steering wheel on her Camaro steady with a wide-open-eyed gaze, staring directly in front of her. She hated this drive, every time she made it into the city.
Today the payoff was worth the tremors and heavy feeling that overcame her with anxiety. She trembled. Her mouth was open, and her breathing was shallow. The beads of perspiration rolled down the sides of her face. She gingerly took her right hand off the steering wheel to wipe the sweat away. Couldn’t afford to smear her makeup.
The car began to sway into the orange cones separating her from the right lane. She grabbed the steering wheel with both hands to regain her focus. It was hard. She moaned in anguish. Little girl whines escaped her throat. She couldn’t stop emoting. When would she reach the other end? This ride seemed to take forever.
Her heart hammered in her chest, bouncing off her ribs, and her head pounded. Lightheadedness and dizziness made her nauseous. It was worse than a migraine, and she prayed her heart wouldn’t jump out of her chest. It was as if she was in a closed MRI with her claustrophobic rating off the charts.
Fumes from the car in front of her came in through the heater. She gagged and shut it off. She couldn’t breathe.
The nape of her neck was soaked with sweat. Yet she was freezing, and shivers ran through her. She couldn’t find what was crawling on her skin. But this would be worth it. She had endured more suffering than this in her life. Nothing would stop her. Not today.
She got out onto the FDR, going north. The traffic eased up and, in the open air, her rampant emotions calmed down. She opened the window to allow the frigid fresh air to dry her now dampened hair.
She contemplated her moves with her prospect, Morgan Reynolds, the reckless, incompetent forty-year old multi-million-dollar-a-year-publisher whom she’d been waiting to meet since last year. She recalled three years of meetings with his father. Jacob Reynolds had been a sitting duck for her, and she paralyzed him every time with her imaginary pellet gun. Being well into his eighties, she duped him into becoming a benefactor for her adolescent therapy clinic, The Gemini Clinic for Mental Health, getting a $200,000 donation from him. She smiled, remembering that all she had needed was to be soft spoken and kind with him, to make him feel respected and worthy.
He had always looked her up and down and told her how beautiful and smart she was. He even had told her she was the daughter he wished he had, unlike the bum of a son he’d raised. He’d divulged so much to her. But she never told him she would have loved to have a father like him. The memory stung. Oh well, it wasn’t her fate.
Jacob had passed on several months ago, and Morgan fell into his father’s shoes. Her next angle was on her mind and she almost missed the Twenty-Third Street exit. She made it to the exit, cutting off a car to her right, almost causing an accident, which earned her the middle finger salute from the pissed-off driver.
She drove up East Twenty-Third Street to Park Avenue South and turned into the Reynolds Publishing Company’s garage on the corner.
Time to get my payback.
***
Barbara parked inches away from the sign that said Reserved, Morgan Reynolds, pleased she arrived before him. She made sure not to pull all the way in so he couldn’t open the back door of his limo without hitting her car. There was no room for him to get out of the passenger side, either. That was good. She’d planned it that way. But she was unsure what she’d do or how it would unfold when he arrived.
First, she needed to refresh herself. She perfected her makeup, sprayed her hairbrush with sensuous Prada cologne, ran the brush through her hair, and then dowsed herself. Satisfied that she was perfect, everything went back into her bag.
Diving into her tote again, Barbara plucked out a black velvet pouch. Slipping her fingers inside, she removed a dazzling, seven-inch pendant on a twenty-four-inch black cord, the purpose of which was to increase her psychic intuition. It was rather weighty, with each of the stones being at least one-and-a-half inches in length. After she slipped the cord over her neck, she held the pendant in her left hand.
She focused on each stone, one by one, manifesting their intent, starting with an irregular shaped chunk of purple amethyst on the top to increase her mental acuity and awareness. The amethyst had varying shades of purple, which enhanced translucency. The next one was a polished tumbled stone of labradorite, with its lines of greens, purples, and blues throughout the lustrous surface, for increasing her psychic ability. Underneath that, an opaque green aventurine tumbled stone, for manifesting her goals. At the bottom tip, a jagged edged, clear quartz point positioned downward energized all of the stones above it. She inhaled deeply to intertwine the energy of all the stones and initiate their synergy as her intent focused all around them. Her gaze followed the path of pewter of varying thickness that secured the stones, from bottom to top over the purple-glass cylinder pendant.
Barbara then removed a deck of tarot cards wrapped in a vivid paisley-print multicolored silk scarf with the colors of the seven chakras--red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and purple. Then she unwrapped the cloth around the cards. She grounded herself, placing both feet flat in front of the gas pedal and brake, took deep breaths, meditated, and asked herself a clear and concise, open-ended question, taking responsibility for herself, the way she’d always phrased them.
What do I need to do to get Morgan to do what I want?
She shuffled the deck three times. Then she picked a number from one to ten--seven--and pulled seven cards, holding the deck in her left hand. One by one, she drew each card from the top toward her heart, before flipping it over and placing it on the passenger seat.
The High Priestess, Justice, Nine of Pentacles, The Devil, King of Cups, Page of Swords, and the King of Wands were the cards she pulled. She scanned the cards and interpreted her answer.
The cards told her a story. She had to be just as unscrupulous as Morgan, and just as assertive, not giving him a chance to get the better of her.
She had to cut him off before he started to belittle her and attempted to make a mockery of her. She had to have the last word and really manipulate him to get what she wanted--another two hundred thousand--not caring at all what she said to intimidate him. His board would be there and they were men of his father’s age, so they would be easy to win over.
She needed to appeal to their sense of chivalry and their willingness to help her as they had been doing in the past.
Morgan needed help from them to make the decision and they could veto whatever he said. He was barely surviving and he hadn’t learned all of the ropes yet. He seemed to be trying, however, so she needed to tune into his vibes.
To Barbara, this was a slam-dunk, and she would get the donation--the first step in her payback. Satisfied that she’d gotten the answer, she put the cards back into the deck, wrapped them carefully--as they were a prized possession--and put them back into the velvet pouch, contemplating what she needed to say and how she needed to behave. She removed the pendant from around her neck, kissed it, and placed it close to her heart before replacing it in the pouch.
***
Morgan’s black Mercedes limo pulled into the garage. He was arrogant with his own attorney, Steven Katz, also around thirty-five, and good friends with him as well.
“Don’t tell me how I should handle this.”
“I’m your attorney, Morgan. You pay me for telling you. All I’m saying is that your father always gave with generosity and gratitude to her clinic.”
“My bastard father gave with such generosity and gratitude so I’d get 200 grand less for that quarter and for no other reason. There aren’t any stats and very inadequate reports submitted with her application, so I doubt she’s credible, but my father, in his infinite wisdom, saw something in her. Maybe she’s the daughter he never had, who knows? All I know is he didn’t want me. But I’ll continue to give it to her. Why, I don’t know.�
�
“Oh, yeah? With how many strings attached?”
CHAPTER 8
John hesitated before he unlocked the door to his seven-room condo on the Upper East side of Manhattan, carrying a yellow Tiffany glass vase that contained eighteen, fully bloomed, long-stemmed yellow roses dusted with gold glitter. He dreaded this confrontation with Vicki. He had prepared himself for a more stressful time than he had at the hospital, earlier.
“Calm down,” he repeatedly muttered under his breath. He’d do the best he could, but when Vicki made up her mind, she was as flexible as stainless steel. Then again, so was he, but with Vicki, he melted like sweet butter left out on a hot summer day. “Babe?”
“I’m in the bedroom.” Vicki strolled out to greet him in a solid hot-pink velour sweat suit zipped way down low to accentuate her perfect cleavage. She was dressed for winter, except for her infamous flip-flops. “Oh, darlin’, they are so beautiful. And the glitter.”
She slid her delicate hands over his large ones to take the vase from him. He cherished her mere touch. He closed his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge that this might be the last time he would revel in her softness.
She positioned the vase directly in the center of the glass coffee table and stepped back to admire the placement. The glitter reflected the gold off the hand-painted art deco designs on the wall behind the couch.
“Come here. You are the sunshine of my life, Vicki, just like the glitter on the roses.”
She gave him a crooked smile.
“I know. That was lame. I know, babe.” He caressed her in his arms, held her close, and bent down to give her a long sensual kiss. He wasn’t letting go. He kissed her lips, cheeks, all around her face, and whispered in her ear, “Babe, don’t leave. Don’t leave, babe. I love you.”
He saw her studying him with sad eyes. “John, we talked about this. We talked about this a lot. And you did it again today, didn’t you?” She pulled away, plopped down on the couch, grabbed a gray and yellow throw pillow, and crunched it in her lap.
