Raymond shook his head, refusing to speak.
So I continued. After all, I still had plenty to say. "Because, as I recall, if I'm not mistaken, March 15, 1989, was the day before March 16, 1989, a very important day in the history of this company." I brought my finger up to my chin and pretended to rack my brain for all the important details. "Yes, I believe March 15 was the day before you announced to the world that Kelen Industries, once a small, humble, tiny little manufacturing plant, was now teaming up with Ford Motor Company to supply engines for their newest line of midsized cars. Wow!" I took a deep breath and feigned an impressed nod of appreciation.
"You know," I said, thinking long and hard about my next seemingly puzzling statement. "I would have thought that you'd be out celebrating on March 15, 1989 – the day before such a huge, important announcement. But no, you were probably too busy for that, huh?" I speculated. "I can imagine. I mean, rounding up all your long-lost, grad school buddies and telling each of them to buy tens of thousands of shares in your company before this big exciting news hit the public would certainly tie up a lot of time. Not to mention all those stressful negotiations of who gets what percent of who and what and where and..."
"What do you want?" Raymond said, infuriated.
"Some people call me a human calculator," I continued, ignoring his question. "And it's true. I have been known to do the occasional computation in my head. But this one was actually quite staggering: two hundred thousands shares total at five dollars a share is impressive enough. But then to have the stock price rise from five dollars to fifty dollars in less than a year? Now that's some serious cash." I paused and pretended to punch the corresponding numbers into my mental calculator until I had come up with the final tally. "That's like ten million dollars made on insider trading alone! Not to mention what you must have made legally on the deal itself."
"What do you want?" he repeated, seemingly fed up with my ongoing rant, and no longer willing to suffer through it quietly.
I stood up and looked him directly in the eye. No longer afraid. No longer the one with the lower hand in this game. "I believe we've already established what I want," I said firmly. And after that there was really nothing more to be said.
So I walked out the door, careful not to let it slam behind me. After all, I had probably disturbed his peaceful world enough for one day. And no one appreciates a slammed door.
34
The Puppet Master
I KNEW it was only a matter of time before the phone rang and Karen Richards was on the other end, demanding to know why her husband had unexpectedly returned early from his business trip a few days earlier, and she had yet to hear from me regarding the outcome of his inspection.
So when the phone did ring on Friday morning while I was still basking in the triumphant glow of my battle against Raymond Jacobs, I assumed it would be her.
I unplugged the Treo from its charger on my nightstand and answered the call. "Hello?" I said, my voice still overflowing with traces of sweet victory.
"Yes,hello, Ashlyn?"It was a female voice.Kind and compassionate, with just a small hint of something familiar about it. But after having Karen Richards's voice burned involuntarily into my memory, I was certain this wasn't her.
"May I ask what this is in regards to?"
There was a pause on the other end. "Um . . ." the voice began hesitantly. "This is Lauren Ireland. Do you remember me?"
I grimaced. Of course I remembered her. She'd practically bit my head off. Not that I blamed her. I mean, I'm sure the fact that her father hired me behind her back came as quite a shock. But the question wasn't, did I remember her, but why the hell was her voice coming through my phone?
"Yes, I remember you," I said cautiously, worried that she might be calling to give me another earful, or worse yet, a guilt trip about her canceled wedding or non-refundable plane tickets to Fiji. I placed my finger, poised and ready, on the hang-up button, as a precaution.
"I hope you don't mind me contacting you. I found your number on my father's desk. He doesn't know that I'm calling."
"I don't mind," I replied, unsure of whether or not I meant it.
She took a deep breath. "First off, I want to apologize for my behavior a few weeks ago...in my father's office. I assure you, that's not how I normally behave. It's just that with your news and the whole thing...well, I was definitely taken by surprise."
"No need to apologize, Miss Ireland."
"Please, call me Lauren."
"It's fine, Lauren. I assure you, I've heard much worse."
She laughed nervously. "I can only imagine."
There was an awkward silence on the phone, and I wasn't sure who was supposed to speak next. I still had no idea why she was calling. Was it just to apologize? Or was there something else?
"Actually, the reason I'm calling..." she began.
Okay, so there was something else.
". . . is because I was kind of hoping we could meet. For coffee or something."
I shifted uncomfortably and finally took a seat on the edge of my bed. This was definitely not something I did often. Why did she even feel the need to meet me, anyway? Did she suddenly want us to become friends? Best buddies with the woman who destroyed her engagement? That seemed a little far-fetched.
"Honestly, Lauren. If you just want to apologize, there's no need. I completely understand why you reacted the way you did. And I don't hold it against you."
"No," she replied. "It's not that. Actually, it's regarding a different subject altogether."
She had certainly piqued my curiosity. "And what would that be, exactly?" I asked as politely as possible. Given my recent track record, I wasn't really in the mood for any more surprises.
"I'd actually rather discuss it with you in person, if you don't mind. I promise I won't take up more than an hour of your time."
My first reaction was that it was a setup. An ambush. Lauren and ten of her biggest friends would be waiting for me at whatever tunnel or deserted playground she suggested for our rendezvous. But I could hear something deep in her voice that immediately ruled out that possibility. She sounded humbled. Despairing. Looking for guidance. Well, I certainly wasn't one to be writing an advice column right about now, but I supposed it couldn't hurt to meet with her. Besides, what else did I have to do these days? Take up knitting?
So I agreed.
To my relief, she didn't suggest an abandoned playground or back alley somewhere. She asked if we could meet at a simple coffee shop in Santa Monica.
"The 18th Street Café, do you know it?"
I smiled. "Yes, it's a nice place."
Lauren and I agreed to meet the following evening, and as I hung up the phone I immediately wondered if I would regret it. But I convinced myself that I should be welcoming any distraction at this point. Because as much as I hated to admit it, it was nearly impossible not to think about Jamie with every passing minute. A small, tiny, insignificant part of me wondered why I hadn't heard from him. Especially when he was clearly the one in the wrong about this whole thing.
I mean, sure, I had the card in my purse. I know how it must have looked to him when he found it. Especially given the odd encounter we had had with the man at Haku Sushi who almost spilled everything.
But wouldn't he at least call or e-mail to make sure I had gotten home all right?
He had basically deserted me in a foreign country.
Okay, I had deserted myself. But nonetheless, despite my better judgment, despite my better self telling me not to, I still caught myself staring longingly at the phone from time to time. I still couldn't help but check my voice mail even when there was no voice-mail indicator on my screen.
And I hated that I did that.
I hated that he had made me care. The lying, cheating scumball had me wondering whether or not he would ever pick up the phone to call me again.
And then there was the next question: Was he a lying, cheating scumball to begin with?
And then there w
as the question after that: What was I going to tell his wife?
My services had always been very clear: intention to cheat. Displaying unfaithful tendencies. Almost sex. That's what they were, and that's what they'd always been.
Everyone got the same treatment. Every man got the same, up-to-the-last-minute thrill ride. And if this were any other assignment, Jamie technically would have passed.
So is that what I should tell Karen Howard Richards? That he's innocent?
Or would I tell her the truth? All of it. The plane trip from Vegas, the round of golf, sushi, airplane bags, Paris. And then let her decide. Let her try to answer the question I still hadn't been able to answer.
And what about the reverse scenario? The one where Karen doesn't call at all. The one where I never hear from her again – for whatever reason. Maybe Jamie flew home from Paris all full of remorse and regret, and spilled his heart out to her, confessed everything, and they had a passionate night full of honest communication and incredible make-up sex.
Good for them.
I hope they're very happy together.
At least I'd never have to deal with either one of them again. As unlikely as I believed that scenario was, I did find it strange that I still had yet to hear from her since I got back. Jamie would have obviously taken a flight home right away, wouldn't he?
His trip was more than likely cut short. He told me he had to come back to Los Angeles to work on other accounts. So why wouldn't she know he was here? And if she knew he was here, why wouldn't she call me for the results?
The whole thing was just very strange. It always had been. It had never quite added up entirely. And I was in no mood to start trying to dig to the bottom of it with a teaspoon. It would undoubtedly take forever and the metal would probably give out halfway through.
So I vowed not to even try.
Not to even think about it.
But I knew that was easier said than done.
I WASN'T exactly looking forward to my meeting with Lauren Ireland, but I wasn't exactly dreading it, either. I was certainly intrigued by her request to meet, not having a clue about what she might possibly want to talk to me about.
Her phone call had come about a month after I informed her and her father about Parker Colman's failure in the hotel room – and at the poker table, for that matter. And she had been completely blind-sided by the information. So not only did she have to digest the fact that she and her soon-to-be husband had differing opinions on what was "appropriate" bachelor party behavior, but she also had to come to grips with the fact that her father had hired someone called a "fidelity inspector" to prove it. Most people don't even know that someone like that exists to begin with.
That's why I initially suspected an attack. A way to get me alone so she could give me another piece of her mind. A more well-thought-out, well-taped-together piece. I mean, her previous outburst was entirely impromptu, no preplanned speech or carefully premeditated insults. I could only imagine what the girl would be able to come up with had she been given adequate time to prepare.
But something inside me was telling me it wasn't a trap. That Lauren had another agenda, a much less violent or verbally abusive one. And that something inside me was the very reason I was now stepping into the coffee shop on the corner of 18th Street and Santa Monica Boulevard.
Well... that and just plain old curiosity.
"Ashlyn!" I heard someone call out.
I turned to see Lauren seated at a small table with one empty chair. She appeared well rested, peaceful, not at all what I imagined my clients (or daughters of clients in this case) to look like only a month after an assignment. I immediately remembered how attractive she was. Conservatively dressed once again, but without a doubt, a very pretty girl.
She waved amicably and I made my way over. As I approached she put away a small, wireless device that she had been toying with and stood up to greet me with a handshake.
"Thanks again for coming." Her face was pleasant and relaxed. And she looked extremely grateful to see me show up.
If this was a surprise attack, she certainly took the word surprise very seriously.
"It's no problem," I replied, and took the empty seat across from her.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked. "Coffee, tea... they have amazing chai lattés here."
"Chai would be fine."
I watched her hurry to the counter, order the drinks, and then return to the table. "They'll bring them over," she said as she pulled her calf-length A-line skirt close to her legs and sat down.
I smiled politely. "Great."
"So," she began, fidgeting with the sugar holder, "you're probably wondering why I asked to meet you."
I nodded. "Yes, I am a bit curious. Your phone call definitely wasn't expected."
"Do you get a lot of nasty phone calls?" she asked with genuine interest.
I shrugged. "Some," I said, cautiously opting not to share the privileged information about my recent retirement until I knew a little bit more about her reasons for bringing me here. "I can usually tell by the person's tone of voice within the first five seconds of the call, and I simply hang up," I continued. "Then I store their number under the word screen."
She listened to me speak, her eyes devouring my words, thirsty for more. I started to feel a bit uneasy. And then a strange thought crossed my mind. Maybe she had a crush on me.
I immediately dismissed it. That's ridiculous!
"So what do you charge for something like this?" she asked next.
I looked at her peculiarly. What was with all the interest in my job? I'd never had a former client be this probing before. "Wait a minute," I said apprehensively. "Are you writing an article or something? What is this about?" I demanded, my tone instantly changing from patient to borderline aggravation. I eyed my bag on the floor and wondered if I should make a mad dash for the door before some hidden photographer busted out to take my picture (again!) and plaster it all over the front of The LA Times: THE LEGENDARY "FIDELITY INSPECTOR" CAUGHT ON FILM!
All I needed right now was another dose of national exposure.
Her eyes shot open. "No! Oh, no! I'm sorry. I should have told you why I was here before I started in with all the questions."
I raised my eyebrows suspiciously. "Okay, then, why don't you tell me now?"
She lowered her eyes slightly, as if embarrassed about the topic of discussion. After a brief moment she lifted her head and focused on me. "Actually, I asked you here because—"
"Two chai lattés," a voice announced.
We both looked up at the teenage boy in a green apron hovering above us holding two ceramic cups filled to the brim with steaming hot liquid.
"Yes," Lauren said anxiously, taking one of the cups from his hand. He set the other mug down in front of me.
"Thanks," I said with a half smile before immediately turning back to Lauren. "You were saying..."
She took a deep breath and blew on the surface of her tea, causing small ripples to form and dissipate over the short distance to the other side of the mug. "Yes. Well, the truth is, I asked you here because I'm interested in your job."
I shot her a confused look. "Well, that much was obvious with all the questions. But why are you so interested in my... job?"
In all honesty, I could certainly see how this job would be fairly interesting to people on the outside. It was different, a bit scandalous. I could see how the curiosity factor would set in upon mentioning it. But the fact was, I was so very over it at this point that I could hardly relate to her level of fascination.
"Well," Lauren continued, "I'm interested in it because . . ." She bit her lip. I could tell whatever she was about to say was difficult.
I started to take a sip of my chai latté. I could feel the heat of the tea underneath my lips, so I cautiously tried to regulate the amount entering my mouth.
"Because I want to do what you do," she finished.
So much for a small sip. It was like a floodgate had opened
and half of the mug of hot chai flowed into my mouth, scorching my tongue and the back of my throat. I coughed violently. "You what?" I managed to get out as I rubbed my charred tongue against the roof of my mouth.
"I want to do exactly what you do. You know, test people for infidelity."
I stared at her in disbelief, and then spun my head around the coffeehouse. Was this a joke? Was I being set up by Zoë or Sophie, or somebody?
When my eyes returned to hers I could see absolute sincerity in her face. She was 100 percent serious, and was now waiting for my response. My advice.
I leaned forward. "You want to be a fidelity inspector?" I confirmed in a low whisper.
She nodded her head firmly.
"Why?" I asked, leaving my mouth disturbingly agape as if I were asking someone why they would want to be dunked under water three times and only brought up twice.
She looked down at the table and rubbed her temples. At that moment, for the first time since I had walked through that door, I saw the same pain on her face as I had seen a month ago in her father's office.
She swallowed hard and looked up again. "Because I want to devote the rest of my life to making sure the cheating scum of this world are brought to justice."
I continued to massage my burned tongue against the inside of my cheek. I opened my mouth warily and said, "Lauren, I think you're overreacting here. I understand that you're feeling hurt and betrayed. But I doubt you're thinking rationally right now. You should probably let this whole event settle and clear your head before you start thinking of ways to get revenge on the male species."
She shook her head stubbornly. "No, I am thinking rationally. For the first time in my life. Ashlyn—" She stopped abruptly. "Wait, that's not your real name, is it?"
I folded my arms across my chest. "No," I said with a definitiveness that implied she would not be learning my real name any time soon.
She nodded her understanding, not pressing the issue. "Well, whoever you are, you opened my eyes. You showed me something that probably would have taken me years to see on my own...if I even ended up seeing it at all. And that's an amazing gift to give someone. I want to give it back to as many people as I can."
Fidelity Files Page 43
