DONE GONE WRONG

by Cathy Pickens

  That too left me speechless, since it seemed a little more worldly than I expected of Rowly.

  “What now?” Rowly asked, patiently willing to run up the meter for me. The house loomed beyond my cab window.

  I sighed. “I don’t know, Rowly. I just don’t know.”

  “He owe you money or something?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” I assured him. “He’s about to invest in a new drug, which means crawling into bed with a doctor I don’t trust. I didn’t have time for phone calls and appointments, so I decided to risk the direct approach.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you ain’t walking up on this too smart.”

  Actually I did mind him saying it, since it was true.

  “I suppose you have a suggestion.” My tone was only mildly flippant, because he sounded as if he did.

  “You know anything about this guy?”

  “You mean,” I thumbed through my papers, “other than the fact that he’s worth an estimated hundred million dollars—estimated because all his company stock is closely held; that he often has his picture taken with leggy blondes even though he’s married to a short, dark-haired socialite; and that he’s an elder in his Presbyterian church?”

  Rowly took it in stride that anyone flying into town on Saturday night to track down some guy would do her homework.

  He cut the taxi’s headlights but kept the motor miming. Staring at the house, he chewed thoughtfully on his bottom Up. “How much time you got?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Got to be on a plane tomorrow night.”

  “That don’t leave us enough time to try the long-legged blonde. Not you, ma’am,” he hastened to add. Apparently I’d acted startled. “Lord, you’re too short and nowhere near blonde enough for him. Naw, I know somebody.” He nodded sagely. “But you ain’t got enough time.”

  That was an intriguing comment on Rowly’s range of skills and contacts—or on Atlanta’s availability of talent. I was destined never to know which.

  “Nope. Ain’t enough time to set up something like that So we’ll just catch him tomorrow. He’s bound to go to church, don’cha reckon?”

  Rowly turned to face me, solemn as a bucktoothed man with a wobbly Adam’s apple can be.

  “Rowly, you’re a genius.” I asked him to take me to the J. W. Marriott at Lenox Square and settled back, suddenly exhausted.

  “So, ma’am. What is it you do, if you don’t mind my asking?” He talked to his rearview mirror while slicing through the dark streets toward where the posh people shop.

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  He nodded but didn’t press me for more. I had the feeling his reaction would have been the same if I’d been a Mafia hit moll or a member of an FBI sting operation. Rowly, for all his redneckyness, had the air of a man who’d seen it all and done most of it.

  “I’ll see you at seven o’clock sharp,” he promised.

  I didn’t ask how he knew he wouldn’t be on a cab run or question his enthusiasm for my quest. I was too tired to worry about it. I paid him, wondering if the tip was too much or not enough. Might as well take another stab at seeing Pendleton Rabb in the morning before Lydia arrived.

  19

  SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY MORNING

  I paced about my hotel room, from bathroom to window and back; still moving long after I’d arranged and rearranged my meager belongings. My mother frequently points out that I wrongly equate action with accomplishment. “They also serve who only stand and wait,” she says. Someone told me she stole that from Milton. In any case, here I was, have credit card, will fly.

  I checked my voice mail. Nothing from Jake Baker. No point in leaving him another message. On a fluke, I tried Pendleton Rabb’s numbers one more time.

  The recorded voice at Rabb & Company, sexy but efficient, informed me that the offices were closed until regular business hours on Monday. She didn’t give a number to call or buttons to push in case of emergency, or even a beep to leave a message.

  Too het up to sleep and tired of pacing, I thumbed through my notes on Tixtill, but I couldn’t actually focus on any of the words.

  Spread out on the table was the real reason I’d come to Atlanta. Not to shop with Lydia or help Tunisia Johnson or Mark Tilman or get dirt on Langley Hilliard, but to run away from the Uplift case. I didn’t have to be a psychologist—or my mother—to recognize avoidance when I saw it. What had I been thinking, going back to Charleston? I felt anxious, at loose ends. No, at the losing end.

  I shoved the papers back in my satchel. Staring mindlessly at those files wasn’t doing any good.

  Stretched out on the flowered bedspread, I thumbed through Mark’s journal, backward from the last entry.

  Why had Mark sent this to Sanda? By courier, the same day he was supposed to meet me. I still couldn’t get over a cash-strapped resident popping for the cost of a courier to deliver it. Maybe if he’d stuck an engagement ring inside ... Was the note to find Tunisia a note to himself? To Sanda? Or someone else?

  Had something happened that afternoon to frighten him? He couldn’t have been too concerned or he wouldn’t have mailed it to his own apartment, and he would’ve included more instructions. Maybe he simply wanted to keep someone at the clinic from asking to see his notes.

  Too many questions.

  I thumbed backward through the journal, searching for sleep more than anything else. But die word Rabb caught my eye.

  January 26. Called Rabb HQ today. J.B. oversees project. Warned re sensitivity reactions. More widespread in population than earlier #’s. Will upset L.H. J.B. to notify P. Rabb personally.

  Warned about sensitivity reactions? Sensitivity reactions to the drag. That would make a lively conversation starter when I caught up with Pendleton Rabb. I kept reading.

  January 29. Called Rabb & Co. J.B. assured me P.R. aware. Would respond. Talk to L.H. re reassessing all subjects enrolled in project.

  L. H.—Langley Hilliaird? Mark’s news would’ve upset him. J. B. must be somebody at Rabb & Company. Maybe I could find him. Or her. Or maybe I should just go shopping.

  I discovered the second morning after a car accident is even more painful than the first morning after one. The alarm clock buzzed me out of a shadowy dream where I ran up and down darkened flights of stairs in a ramshackle building built over the water. When I woke, my arm refused to turn off the clock radio. Slowly, I found none of my major muscle groups were happy with me.

  In the watt-sized bathroom mirror, I studied the seat belt bruise that had eaten my right breast and crept up my neck. Thank goodness I’d packed a turtleneck.

  A hot shower and some stretching loosened me enough to creep downstairs.

  Rowly waited, checking his watch in an obvious way. He was lucky I’d made it at all. He graciously popped out to open my door, more from an anxiousness to get started than from cabbie courtesy.

  We parked ourselves at a discreet distance, facing away from the gates of Pendleton Rabb’s Southern Gothic home. And we waited.

  “Rowly, just out of curiosity, how much is it costing me to sit here?” The meter wasn’t running.

  “Aah. I don’t have to charge you anything unless we’re rolling. Then I gotta account for that.” He kept his eyes on his side mirror, watching the gates behind us.

  A low entertainment threshold. I’d dug my worn leather notepad from my bag, thinking I’d use the time to brainstorm on the Uplift case—or to plan what I was going to say to Pendleton Rabb when I finally got close to him. But instead of doing anything useful, I stretched my legs across the seat and stared out the back window. And fidgeted.

  By this time tomorrow morning, we’d be in court I pushed the thought aside.

  Lydia had called earlier, saying she’d be at the Marriott at twelve o’clock—which meant she wouldn’t be there until after one. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, so I was hungry, and I’d drunk too much coffee, so I needed a bathroom. I didn’t think borrowing a neighbor’s bush would pass Paces Fer
ry Lane muster. So I squirmed, snoozed, and tried to decide why I was here.

  We’d been parked over an hour. Rowly slumped in the front seat, his head bobbing to the Sunday morning gospel tunes on a country station. I half expected the Atlanta cops or a private security service to roust us, but no one did. A couple of guys jogged past. Neither of them paid us any attention.

  Somehow, the Rabb research project was connected to two deaths. Mark Tilman and Tunisia Johnson didn’t have anything else in common. I didn’t see a personal relationship, despite Demarcos’s rumor. Maybe somebody at Rabb could shed light on what had worried Mark, why he had called them. Most important, I wanted to understand Hilliard’s financial interest in the contraceptive project, something Jake could use on cross-examination to rattle him. I knew from experience that, when rattled, Hilliard could be volatile. A rational part of my brain knew my animosity toward Hilliard was irrational. Still, he deserved to be brought down.

  I almost dozed off. When the iron gates began to move, I thought my bloodshot eyes were playing a trick. The gates jerked in response to some remote signal and a large, dark Mercedes with tinted windows barreled down the winding drive.

  Rowly sprang to life, hitting the ignition and almost shouting, “That’s him!” He restrained himself until the Mercedes cleared a couple of driveways past us, then he pulled out to follow.

  He kept enough distance to see but not be noticed. “You’ve done this before,” I commented.

  “Well, studying PI stuff and fren-six books is a hobby of mine. Sure wouldn’t want to be a PI in South Carolina—you can’t pack heat there.”

  I didn’t ask about Georgia law or whether he was currently armed and dangerous. I didn’t want to know. Lucky me. I’d found Atlanta’s only redneck Philip Marlowe wannabe country-music-singing cab driver.

  We followed Pendleton Rabb’s Mercedes to the Peach Way Presbyterian Church, where Pendleton emerged from the backseat waving and greeting the severely clad parishioners, most of whom had driven themselves to church and parked in the back lot. Pendleton looked enough like his People photo that I recognized him, though he was pudgier and balding. Hard to believe he had a party-boy reputation, but money will buy a lot of things.

  Pendleton helped his wife out. She adjusted a brocade suit that would have funded my entire wardrobe.

  “That must be him,” Rowly said. Leaned forward, clutching the steering wheel, he was scarcely able to contain himself. “You gonna try to catch him now?”

  I hesitated. Rowly eased our cab in where churchgoers’ cars turned the tree-lined lane into a parking lot.

  “Naw. We’ll wait. The service is starting in a few minutes. No need to make a scene here.” I didn’t want to admit it, but I was chickening out.

  Rowly looked crestfallen. Through the open cab windows, we could hear the organ prelude begin. The baroque music and the elegantly attired churchgoers made me homesick for the worn wooden pews, “Are You Washed in the Blood,” and the old blue hymnals at Dacus First Baptist.

  “How about we go get some breakfast and come back?” I suggested.

  Rowly rolled his eyes, but he drove me several blocks to an intersection loaded with fast-food choices. I opted for a lard-laden biscuit, iced tea, and a restroom visit. Rowly got himself a cup of coffee and tried not to look too anxious to get back to the stakeout.

  Of course, I failed to appreciate how much distance would separate fast food from the Peach Way Presbyterians. I’d also not counted on the Peach Way Presbyterians being in such a rush to adjourn for lunch. When we returned, the parking lot was emptying and it wasn’t yet 12:00.

  With a series of nonverbal grunts and squirms, Rowly reprimanded me for what my hunger pangs had wrought, but he settled down as soon as we spotted the Rabbs folding themselves into the shiny black Mercedes.

  Rowly smacked his palm on the steering wheel and cut off a gray-haired couple crossing the street. “Missed him. Don’t you worry, though. He won’t get back behind those gates without seein’ you.”

  See us, he would, if he bothered to look out his back window. I thought Rowly would drive up the Mercedes’s tailpipe. Apparently, though, tailgating is common in Atlanta traffic, and after only a few hours here, I understood the etymology of the phrase “Driving like a bat out of Georgia.”

  Rowly correctly predicted that Rabb wouldn’t disappear behind his estate gates. Instead, he was going to disappear behind the gates of the Peach Way Country Club.

  “Whoo-ee,” Rowly said. “This is some more country club.” The guard, who almost saluted as the Rabbs drove in, flagged us down.

  “We’re with the Rabbs,” Rowly yelled out the window. He hit the accelerator as the guard glanced after the disappearing Mercedes.

  I didn’t risk a look back to see if he gave chase or called for help. When we pulled up under the porte cochere, I let out the breath I’d been holding as we’d wound around to the elegant gray-stone clubhouse.

  The Rabbs were already mincing through the front door as Rowly squeaked the cab to a stop. Not the usual coach of choice for coming to the Peach Way Club, but in Atlanta, eccentrics are thick on the ground. I hoped that would stand me in good stead for the next few minutes.

  I pictured Hilliard to psych myself into bulldog mode as I trotted into the grand hallway. “Mr. Rabb! Excuse me. Sir!” The clink of dishes and hubbub of voices signaled the direction of the dining room. Damn, he was in a hurry—he must have skipped breakfast.

  I caught up with him just inside the dining room door. The maitre d’ greeted him and studied me with grave suspicion. The missus disappeared toward the powder room.

  “Mr. Rabb, could I have a quick word with you?”

  Judging from Rabb’s expression, this interview wasn’t starting well. The look he gave me could’ve deboned chicken.

  “I’m Avery Andrews. I’m a lawyer. From South Carolina. You received a call last week from Dr. Mark Tilman. I understand—”

  “What are you doing here? This is a private club.” His eyes shifted quickly from me to the tables seated closest to us.

  The maitre d’ wasn’t going to haul me out himself; he was on the house phone calling someone to do it for him. I didn’t have time to win friends here.

  “Mr. Rabb, I understand your company is funding research on a new contraceptive, and I understand the project is of personal interest to you. That it’s your first significant pharmaceutical initiative.”

  Eyeing me as he might an escaped lunatic, Rabb took a step backward and bumped up against the decorative balustrade at the dining room entrance. He was probably wondering whether it was safer—and less embarrassing—to humor me or to make a run for it into die dining room.

  “I understand Dr. Mark Tilman reported problems that developed during some drag testing in Charleston, at Barnard Medical.”

  At the mention of Mark Tilman, the tip of Rabb’s tongue darted out to wet his lips.

  “I understand he contacted someone at your company with the initials J. B.”

  He kept looking around, as if waiting for someone to rescue him. It struck me he didn’t look or act like a corporate CEO.

  “Pendleton.” With a booming drawl, a short, well-padded man in an expensive suit entered from the hallway. He gave Rabb a familiar thump on the arm, but his assessing gaze was for me alone. The movement positioned him so he could, in part, block me from Rabb.

  “A problem, Pendleton?” he asked, his voice friendly, his green eyes wary and fixed on me.

  “Avery Andrews, Mr.—?” I offered my hand and tried to reclaim some control.

  “John Barden. Mr. Rabb’s attorney.” We straggled briefly, with him gripping my hand and watching my eyes to see if I’d wince, before a flicker of amusement at the comer of his mouth heralded a trace in the handshake battle.

  “I’m an attorney. I’ve come from Charleston, investigating what may be a double murder.” I threw die last word at Pendleton. I was being overly dramatic, but I had only one chance to get Rabb’s attention
before I got hauled out the door.

  “Miz Andrews,” Barden drawled seductively, a Southern charmer, honeyed and smooth. “I serve as Mr. Rabb’s corporate counsel. I’m sure any questions you have would best come through formal channels. This doesn’t sound like something that need interrupt Sunday dinner.”

  In my most resonant courtroom voice, my mention of murder carried well into the dining room. We were drawing more than polite glances, particularly from a guy who’d come in behind Mr. Corporate Counsel.

  The new guy didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His buzz haircut and the strain his shoulders inflicted on his suit coat announced that he wasn’t just an ugly briefcase carrier for Rabb’s lawyer. He watched the lawyer with dog-like devotion and only glanced in my direction, as if to have my location marked when the order to attack was given.

  “Miz Andrews.” The lawyer took my arm and turned me away from the eavesdropping diners and toward the front door. He dropped his voice to a quiet threat meant only for my ears. “Now is not the time. If you don’t leave, I can assure you Mr. Wix here can make your visit to Atlanta memorable indeed, starting with a visit to police headquarters.”

  Wix, the junkyard dog in the muscle-stressed suit, stood at attention behind us.

  John Barden seemed to enjoy his role as antitourism director. “This talk of murder is nonsense. Why would we know anything of that?”

  “I thought Rabb would want to know about a potential public relations nightmare before you all sign any agreements with Langley Hilliard. And I’d appreciate understanding Hilliard’s relationship on this end. A lot rides on a trial he is set to testify in. My timing isn’t the best, but I’ve come a long way for those answers and I don’t have much time.”

  With impeccable stage presence, Rowly made his entrance at the end of the hallway. His prominent Adam’s apple, buck teeth, lumpy cotton pants, and scarecrow straw hair were clearly out of place in the Peach Way Club. He didn’t look much of a match for Wix, who could bench-press Rowly and me at the same time. But Rowly’s appearance disconcerted Barden long enough for me to turn back to Rabb.