by Nic Tatano
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sean.”
“I feel like I know you already,” he says. “You met my wife Rachel at the Giants playoff game.”
“Oh, that was her? She’s terrific. And that’s why you were in Florida. Spring training.”
“Yep. But Tyler takes good care of her when I’m away,” he says.
“He takes good care of me, too.”
“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I turn to Tyler. “Really. So you’ve been talking about me?”
“You’re all he talks about,” says the ballplayer. “Well, gotta go warm up if I’m gonna start this game.” He tips his cap to me. “Nice meeting you, Twitter Girl. Now take good care of my brother.”
“Again, I think it’s the other way around.”
Sean turns and jogs toward the bullpen.
“So, that explains the great seats.”
Tyler nods. “Well, in addition to being his brother I do act as his agent. I negotiated his last contract and all of his endorsement deals. Part of the deal with the Mets was great season tickets.”
“Tyler, you never cease to amaze me. Meanwhile, I’m all you talk about?”
“He’s exaggerating. I may have mentioned you a time or two.”
***
I open the door Tuesday night and find Dale Carlin carrying several very fat manila envelopes. “That’s what you got from the IRS?”
He nods as he enters our home. “You wanted his tax returns and financial statements. When you’re worth millions, you generate a lot of paperwork.”
We walk to the kitchen and he puts the envelopes down on the table. “Remember, a lot of this is caused by single transactions. Every time there’s one over ten thousand dollars, it gets flagged by Internal Revenue. I’m sure most of these are things like stock transactions, that sort of thing. But if we’re going to find a large amount of missing money, it’s going to be in this pile.”
Sam comes over to the table. “You guys look like you could use some help.”
I sit down, grab one of the envelopes and slide it over to him. “We’ve gotta do this the old fashioned way. If you see anything with our magic number, that’s what we’re looking for.”
I write the number in bold magic marker on a sheet of paper and tape it to the back of the only empty chair so we can all see it. Dale sits down and grabs an envelope while I do the same.
“This reminds me of that scene in All the President’s Men,” he says. “Where Redford and Hoffman are in the Library of Congress going through that mountain of slips.”
“So this is old fashioned legwork,” says Sam, as he begins going through the stack of papers.
“Technology can be wonderful, but you can’t google a great story,” says Dale.
An hour later we’re about halfway through. At this point we’ve all got the magic number memorized, so things are moving a little faster.
“Damn, this guy’s got a lotta money,” says Sam.
“Dad founded Becker Industries,” says Dale. “And Will inherited fifty percent when the guy passed away.”
My eyes are bugging out at some of the amounts on the papers. “I knew he was loaded, but this is unreal.”
“Careful,” says Dale, “or people will start calling you a gold digger.”
“I wouldn’t care if he was broke.”
Suddenly Sam sits up straight. “Hey, I got something.”
Dale and I both get up and look over his shoulder. The number matches, and the figure next to it is large enough to raise a big red flag.
Two million dollars.
Transferred in May of 2005, which falls in that “missing time” period.
But there are also letters in front of the number.
EIN.
“Well, that’s a big chunk of change,” says Dale.
“What the hell is EIN?” I ask.
“No clue,” says Dale.
Sam pulls his tablet from a pouch on the side of his chair. “I’ll look it up.” He turns it on and does a quick search typing in the three letters. “Well, that was easy. It’s an employer identification number used by the IRS. Basically like a social security number for any business entity.”
Dale looks at me. “So he transferred two million to a business.”
“Sam, type in our magic number with EIN in front of it.”
My brother does so but gets no results. “Nothing. Apparently they’re also as private as social security numbers.”
“I’ll have to get back to my contact at the IRS,” says Dale.
“So, what do you think it is?” I ask.
Dale shrugs. “Could be something as innocent as a subsidiary of Becker Industries. Maybe a venture capital deal. Or, with him being a politician, could be some sort of bribe or payoff.”
I really don’t want to believe that. “That last part doesn’t sound like Will.”
“I’m sure it isn’t, but let me call my contact and find out. I’m sure once we can put a name with that number all the pieces of the puzzle will fall into place. Let’s go through the rest of the papers to see if we find something else.”
We return to our chairs and begin sorting through the remainder of the papers.
Dale stops suddenly. “Oh, speaking of puzzle pieces, I do have an answer about his perfect record in Congress while he was supposedly at home. It’s called ghost voting.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s when a member of Congress knows he’s going to be absent and gets another member to vote for him. Apparently it’s against the rules but as we all know the rules don’t really apply to anyone in Congress. I don’t know who voted for Becker while he was gone, but I did confirm that he was not in Washington for three months.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
@TwitterGirl
Price of gasoline is so high Congress to explore drilling rights to President Turner’s head.
I stick my head in Tyler’s office. “Hey, what are you doing for dinner?”
“Hadn’t thought about it, why?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
“Top Dog get called away again?”
I move into the office. “No, it has nothing to do with him. I feel like having dinner with you, okay? And there’s this great new Mexican place uptown that I recently discovered. C’mon, my treat.”
“I love Mexican. You sure I’m not keeping you from your main squeeze?”
“We’re not joined at the hip, Tyler. I’ll see plenty of him on the long road trip later this week and I won’t see you. So I need my Tyler fix before I leave.”
“Oh, so you’re addicted to me?”
“Can’t I simply take a good friend out to dinner without an interrogation?”
We arrive at the subway platform, which is about ten degrees warmer than it is outdoors while the air is stagnant. It’s crowded as usual, filled with what I call the “commuting undead.” People who are so fried from work they look like zombies on the train. Amazingly, no one recognizes me, or, if they do, they’re too tired to even shoot me a look of recognition.
“We could have taken a cab,” says Tyler, who I know is not fond of the subway.
“Too much traffic, and I already made a reservation.” Suddenly the hot platform has made me thirsty. “Hey, you want a soda?”
“I’m good.”
“Be right back.”
I head to the little stand selling newspapers, drinks and snacks, my mouth watering for something cold. I grab a bottle of Dr. Browns root beer—.
“Oh my God!”
I whip my head around toward the source of the woman’s scream and see two things.
A little girl, maybe five years old, on the subway tracks, dangerously close to the third rail that would electrocute her.
And a train heading straight for her.
A transit cop is already running toward the child, but he’s at the far end of the platform and I don’t think he’ll make it.
The train is getting closer. Its brakes put out an ear-piercing squeal as the motorman has obviously noticed the child.
And then Tyler jumps onto the tracks.
“Tyler!”
The soda drops from my hand, crashing to the platform. I start running toward Tyler, who has reached the child.
The train is bearing down on them.
I can see the motorman’s face, filled with dread.
He knows he can’t stop the train in time.
The commuting undead are paralyzed, staring at the scene.
Tyler picks up the child and runs back to the platform. I reach the spot at the same time as the transit cop and kneel down at the edge of the platform.
My eyes lock with Tyler’s for a split second. I somehow know what he’s going to do, so I open my arms wide and he tosses the little girl toward me.
I catch her and fall backward.
The transit cop reaches out for Tyler, grabs both his hands and yanks him off the tracks a split second before the train roars by.
The crowd starts to surround us. The hysterical mother grabs the child from me and hugs her for dear life as I brush myself off and start to get up. “My God, Tyler, you could have been—”
He’s not moving.
“He hit his head on the pole,” says the transit cop, who grabs his radio. “Need paramedics right now on the northbound subway platform…”
His words fade and all goes silent. I crawl toward Tyler as blood runs fast down his forehead. I need something to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. I reach up for my scarf but I’ve forgotten it on my desk.
The blood is flowing faster.
I need something.
I rip off some fabric from the hem of my dress and apply pressure with it as I lift his head off the ground and rest it in my lap. The cop takes his pulse. “You his wife?”
“Good friend.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tyler Garrity.”
The cop gently pats Tyler’s face. “Hey Tyler, wake up. C’mon buddy, wake up.”
But he doesn’t.
My arms are wrapped around my waist as I pace in the cold waiting room that smells of antiseptic. People have been staring at me, not from recognition but from the fact I’m walking around with a bloody ripped dress. It’s been two hours, and the longer I wait the more I worry. Tyler was still unconscious when they brought him in. The paramedics told me it was obviously a concussion, but the cop told me he hit his head really hard, which makes me wonder if it’s something more serious. I couldn’t get in touch with Will but did talk to Frank, who’s on his way from Jersey.
The waiting room is about half full. Some are watching the television mounted on the wall. The sound on the TV is low, but loud enough for people to hear. I glance up as the newscast is starting, and see a grainy black and white surveillance video from the subway platform.
Tyler’s heroism is the lead story.
I walk toward the TV to get a closer look. Everyone in the waiting room watches in amazement as the video shows the child falling onto the tracks and Tyler jumping in a few seconds later. The video runs normal speed, then goes slow motion as the transit cop pulls Tyler out just as the subway car rolls by. He had inches to spare.
The bright red graphic across the bottom of the screen describes it perfectly.
Subway Hero.
“Garrity?”
The doctor’s voice breaks my concentration and I move quickly toward him. “I’m with Tyler Garrity.” My words are thick in my throat. “Is he—”
“He’s stable, but he’s in a coma.”
My hands go to my face. “Oh my God…”
The doctor takes my shoulders. “Look, it’s a bad concussion and he’ll probably be fine. We just have to wait for him to wake up?”
“How long do you think that will be?”
“No way of knowing. Five minutes, five days. The body is healing itself, and when it’s done he’ll wake up. But he’s out of immediate danger and we’ve transferred him to a private room.”
“Can I see him?”
“Are you related?”
“Do I need to be?”
The doctor rolls his eyes, then notices the blood on my dress. “Okay, Mrs. Garrity. Go ahead. Room 225 down the hall.”
Tyler’s breathing is steady. I’m sitting in a chair close to the bed so I can hold his hand. The EKG machine emits a steady low beep. My head rests on the mattress, as I’m emotionally drained.
I hear a gentle tap on the door and look up to see Sam and Ripley, who is wheeling a carry-on bag. “How’s he doing?” she asks.
“Still in a coma.”
“The video was incredible,” says Sam, as they move to the other side the bed. “I mean, talk about brave. Tyler’s got some brass ones.”
“Does he have family here?” she asks.
“Only his brother the ballplayer, who’s on the way. The others live in California. Flying out on the red eye.”
“Have you been here all by yourself?”
“No. Most of the campaign people came by. Frank just went down to the coffee shop and will be right back. The woman whose daughter he saved was here. Bunch of reporters talked to me about what happened.” I look at the carry-on. “Ripley, you going somewhere?”
“No, but we figured you weren’t and I saw your dress on the video. Brought you some fresh clothes and a bunch of snacks.”
“You know me too well. I don’t want him waking up alone.”
“Why don’t you take a shower and change out of that bloody thing and we’ll keep a close eye on him.”
“Not right now, Ripley.”
“Sure, sweetie. Whenever you’re ready.”
A nurse wanders in carrying a clipboard and looks at me. “I’m sorry Miss, but we don’t have any cots available. You can spend the night in one of our empty rooms if you like.”
I shake my head. “No, I’ll stay in here with him. This chair will be fine.”
“You’re a good friend,” she says, as she leaves.
I lay my head back on the mattress and stare at Tyler, watch his chest go up and down as he breathes.
C’mon, dammit, wake up.
Two hours later Sam and Ripley are gone and Tyler’s brother is sleeping in the room across the hall after offering to take over the watch. My back starts barking from the stiff chair. I’m not sure I can get any sleep in this thing.
But I’m not leaving him alone.
I’m not leaving him, period.
Fortunately he’s in a decent sized bed. I move to the other side and lay down next to him, taking his hand. I lean over and kiss the top of his head, stroke his hair, then whisper in his ear. “Wake up, Tyler. I can’t lose you. Follow my voice. Focus. Take my hand and follow my voice. Concentrate.”
I squeeze his hand, my fingers entwined with his, hoping for a response. But nothing happens. I lay my head on the pillow. The emotion of the day catches up to me and I’m out cold in a matter of seconds.
***
“Cassidy?”
I crack open one eye and see Frank a few feet from the bed. “Oh, hey Frank. What time is it?”
“Nine. You stayed here all night?”
“Yeah.” I quickly turn, hoping to see Tyler has woken up, but he’s still got his eyes closed. I gently pat his face. “Tyler? C’mon, wake up.”
“I’m sure he’ll come around soon,” says Frank, trying his best to look convincing. “The doctor said he should be okay.”
I sit up and get out of the bed. “I sure hope you’re right, but I’m worried you’re not. Where’s Will? He never called back last night.”
“Full schedule today. Couple of speeches, big fundraiser, then off to the west coast.”
“He’s not coming by?”
“Don’t think he can make it.”
“You made it, Frank.”
He looks down at the ground. “Will sent flowers.”
“You made it, Frank. Twice. And so did everyone else in th
e campaign.”
“Listen, about the road trip—”
“I’m not going anywhere till Tyler wakes up. And if the fact that Jackie Kennedy isn’t along for the ride upsets some people in the party, I don’t give a damn.”
“That’s fine, Cassidy. I was going to say you could do your Twitter Girl thing from here, but if you don’t feel like it don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you. I don’t exactly feel snarky today. But don’t plan on my being back at the campaign office till Tyler’s better.”
“Not a problem, Cassidy. It was really nice of you to stay. You want me to go get you some coffee and something to eat before I have to go?”
“That would be nice. Thanks, Frank.”
“Okay, be right back. And remember, please call me the minute he wakes up.”
“Will do, Frank.”
The phone in the room rings as soon as he leaves so I answer it. “Tyler Garrity’s room.”
“Hi, this is James Hennison. Who’s this?”
“Cassidy Shea.”
“Oh, hi. Looking forward to meeting you soon.”
“Yeah, same here.” And I’m gonna give you a piece of my mind when I do.
“How’s Tyler?”
“Stable but still in a coma. So nothing new to report.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll come around. Tell him I called when he wakes up. We’re all praying for him.”
“Sure, James.” What the hell, I’ve got the guy on the line and time to let him know he can’t push me around. “Hey, before you go… can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you think it was a good idea to do the sex before marriage poll?”
Dead silence.
“James, you there?” (Damn, wish this was via FaceTime so I could see the bastard sweat.)
“You, uh, weren’t supposed to know about that.”
“Well, I happened to walk in Tyler’s office when he reamed you a new one.”
“Look, when the candidate wants to do something, I try to go along. Will really wanted to know how the voters would react if you two… you know.”
My jaw drops and my eyes become saucers.
You gotta be kidding me.
It was Will’s idea.
More dead silence, this time from my end as I’m trying to process information I never expected.
