by David Ellis
Jacob’s face wrinkled up. “She didn’t mean to,” he squealed, before bursting into sobs.
Rachel reached for him. She gently pulled him against her, then she stood up, holding him in her arms, his stubby arms wrapped around her neck, his face snug against her shoulder, his body trembling with each sob. She placed a hand behind his head, cradling him. She turned as she whispered into his ear, and I saw her face next to his. The tears had streaked down her face, fresh ones still coming. Her eyebrows were arched, her eyes dancing, as she spoke quietly to this child, trying to say something that would make him believe that he would have a good life, a future, a mommy who didn’t hurt him.
“You there?”
I see Frank Tiller in the reflection off the window. I turn my chair around to face him and note the reaction on his face.
He sizes up my downtrodden appearance, then raises an eyebrow. “I hope you at least had some company.”
Frank is a broad-chested man—played ball in college, he’ll be the first to remind you, might have gone pro if a torn anterior cruciate ligament hadn’t bumped his time in the forty to double digits—whose gut has gained considerable ground in the past few years. He has blond and gray hair, wavy, and way too long, in my opinion. He’s a loud, boisterous guy, a back-slapper, with a pretty good business sense, but someone who doesn’t sweat the details. Only Frank would imagine that I was up all night screwing my brains out when we have this huge meeting this morning. He would do it, I’m sure, and still give a great presentation the next morning, off the cuff. Me, I don’t have the gift.
Today, Frank has a blue striped shirt with white collar and French cuffs, dark blue braces, and a bright red silk tie, an appropriately bold ensemble. He’s always in good cheer, and his clothes accentuate the impression. I silently curse him for being in the office so early, but he loves the life.
I shrug at his suggestion that I look tired. I wonder how I appear to him, how I will appear to everyone today. I stare at my half-drunk coffee from last night, the open bag of potato chips, the empty muffin wrapper, hoping that Frank will notice them, too, and ask me about it.
“You’re working too damn hard,” he tells me. In my tenure with the firm, I have developed a reputation as one of the hardest-working people. A “grinder” is how one of the senior partners described me. The truth of the matter is that I could be a lot more efficient with my time. And unlike many, especially the married ones, I am in no particular hurry to get home at night. A lot of the people around here tell me that I shouldn’t let work completely intrude on my personal life, to which I silently reply, What personal life?
Tiller has joked that they could board up the window in my office and I wouldn’t notice. He says this with an air of sympathy. He knows my parents have passed away, and I have only a sister, whom I see, at most, a couple times a year. So he has taken it upon himself to serve as a surrogate father, a role in which I find him utterly ridiculous.
I shake my head. “I’m not feeling that great. Touch of the flu.” The plan had been to act as normally as possible today. Not to say I was tired, or sick, or distracted, or upset. Not to act differently, or draw any attention to myself whatsoever. It took me a grand total of ten minutes to blow that plan. Now I have the flu. And I almost forgot my most important line: “Working late on Madison.”
Frank claps his hands with a whack and rubs them together, a Boy Scout making fire, his indicator that a hot deal is about to close. “Put on your game face,” he says eagerly. Today, he is saying, we may close this deal. I was hoping he’d ask me how late I was working, so I could reluctantly admit that I was here past three. But he’s caught up. “Let’s do a run-through. Nine-thirty?”
“Great.”
He pauses at the door, giving me the once-over. “You hear about that doctor in your town?”
The change of topics throws me, and Jesus, what a topic. For some damn reason, it has not occurred to me that everyone will be talking about last night’s events. I consider saying I hadn’t heard. “Yeah, I read something briefly.” You know, just some light reading I skipped over.
“Briefly? Someone broke into his house and kidnapped him, probably killed him. In your quiet little town.”
“They don’t know where he is?” I ask. Zero for 2 on the intelligent responses. The headline probably said, “Prominent Surgeon Kidnapped.”
Frank shakes his head. “Some guy broke in, they think he shot him, and he carried him out of the house.”
“Was it for ransom?”
“They don’t know. They found his blood all over the carpet.”
“Just his blood?” I ask. Jesus, what a question.
Frank pauses a moment, not sure what I mean. “Well, I think they’ve ruled out animal sacrifice.” He smiles briefly at his joke. “He beat up the wife, too.”
“Who did?”
“What do you mean, who?” He measures me. “Are you with us this morning? The bad guys.”
I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. “She’s alive?” I ask through the Kleenex.
“The wife? Yeah. Although not by much, what I understand.”
I just shake my head, hoping the conversation will end. My throat is closing up, my classic reaction to stress. Move on, Frank.
Frank’s eyes raise a moment, over my head, then back to me. His expression drops. “Oh, jeez,” he says. “You knew them—from that charity, right?”
“Of course I knew them,” I say too abruptly. This isn’t going well. I throw the tissue into the garbage can behind me. “I mean, not that well. But they seem like nice people.” I wave a hand. “No big deal.” No big deal that people I know were involved in a brutal break-and-enter.
He appraises me for a moment. “Yeah. Nice fucking world, huh?”
Yeah, Frank. Nice fucking world. Now get out.
“Nine-thirty,” he says to me with a pointed finger.
“Nine-thirty.” I sneeze into my hands.
Frank cocks his head a little, like he’s trying to get a clearer look at me. “You up for it?”
“Sure, sure,” I say, my cupped hands full of phlegm. “Nine-thirty.”
“You might wanna get a cup a coffee in ya.” He taps the door frame and is gone.
Good God, what a lousy performance. Gee, Officer, now that you mention it, Marty did seem a little distracted that morning. He said he didn’t feel good, and he sure didn’t look good, like he’d hardly slept. And you know something else? I mentioned the kidnapping to him, you shoulda seen the look on his face. He wanted to know whose blood was on the carpet. He snapped at me when I asked him if he knew the Reinardts.
I realize that this will be my life post-doctor, at least for the immediate future. Second guessing any conversation I have. Trying to imagine the look on my face. Seeing everything through this prism. The man in the plastic bubble.
Frank is one of my closest friends, probably wouldn’t turn me in even if I spilled the whole damn thing to him, and there I was tripping all over myself. I’ve realized over the years that I have seriously overestimated my poker face and, in fact, that I often give off a misleading expression. Someone takes me seriously when I’m kidding, thinks that I’m mad when I’m not. This is not the most sought-after trait for a person trying to cover up a homicide.
The office starts buzzing a lot earlier than I would have preferred; I guess everyone has the same idea here, cramming in last-minute details to get an early start on the long weekend. I sit in my office, doing next to nothing, until a little before eight. Then my secretary, Debra, pops in. Deb has been my secretary going on four years now. She is a petite woman, five-one at most, with a mass of blond hair covered with hair spray. Deb is a little battleship, a staffer who looks at the white-collars with probably too much distrust, quick to defensiveness except when she’s dealing with me. I happen to think she’s pretty attractive, but she wears too much makeup and is way too fussy with her appearance.
“Hi” is the extent of her morning greeting, as she fumbles with
some papers. She hands me the Madison contract. As she looks up at me, she stops with the papers. “You look good. Long night?”
On our office voice mail, you can bypass the computerized message telling you the time of the call by pressing 1. I had hoped that Deb wouldn’t do this, that she would hear that I called her past three in the morning.
“Thanks for noticing,” I say. Let’s see if I can manage not to screw up this conversation. “Tiller’s been all over me on this mall deal.”
I stare again at my food from last night. Is someone gonna notice this stuff?
“You need to exit out of the Madison document,” Deb scolds me. On our computer network, only one person can work on a document at a time. So at least I’ve established something with her: I was working late. Or maybe she’ll think I just got into the document this morning. Shit.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “At three in the morning I’m not thinking too straight.”
She says nothing, much to my chagrin, just reaches around me and taps on the keyboard, exiting the document. I look at the papers she has set in front of me.
“Marty, you really look awful. You should go home.”
I grab a tissue in time to catch my sneeze. Then a second one.
“I can’t,” I say, before blowing my nose. “The Madison meeting is today. That’s why I was working so late last night.”
She gives me that maternal look she has, arms folded and head cocked. Then she nods at the desk. “Nice breakfast.”
So! She noticed. But wait—breakfast? “No, no,” I correct. “This food is from last night. I was eating this last night.”
Deb stares at me, a little curious at my eagerness to explain the prior evening’s dinner selection. “Oh-kay,” she says cautiously. Sure, Marty, whatever. Weirdo.
Deb reaches down to the contract and flips it open to a page she has tabbed with a yellow Post-it. “I wasn’t sure what you wrote here,” she says.
“Where?”
“Here.” She runs her long nail under the words. “I thought you wrote ‘easements and endorsements.’ But that doesn’t make sense.”
I pick up the paper to read it.
“What happened to your fingers?”
I put the contract down and look at my right hand. The index and middle fingers are swollen and have turned a shade of purple.
“Oh, you know,” I say casually. But I don’t know. “Jammed ’em playing basketball.”
She gently puts her hand underneath the fingers. “Did you break them?”
“I don’t think so.” I pick up the contract with my left hand and read it. “Encroachments. Easements and encroachments.” I hand the contract to her.
“Oh. Okay. That makes sense.” She snatches the papers from me. “I’ll get this right back to you.” She starts to walk out and stops. “Sandy has some gauze and tape,” she says. “You should get them taped up, at least. I can—”
“Deb, they’re fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just forget it, okay?”
She shrugs and leaves. I sneeze again. Then again. I decide right then that I won’t leave my office today unless I have to.
I end up using the crutch of feeling sick to explain my downtrodden appearance today. The meeting with the Texas investors goes fine; in fact, it is about the only time today that the Reinardt incident doesn’t come up in conversation.
5
ABDUCTION OF SURGEON ROCKS QUIET TOWN
Prominent Physician Kidnapped from Home, Believed Dead
Dr. Derrick J. Reinardt, a respected cardiologist and a leading local philanthropist, was abducted from his home in suburban Highland Woods late Thursday night. Police responded to a 911 call from Dr. Reinardt’s wife at approximately 10:00 P.M. Investigators believe that the intruder crashed through a glass door dividing the back porch and the den, using a piece of patio furniture to gain entry.
The intruder first attacked Dr. Reinardt’s wife, Rachel, in the den. Police suspect that the intruder may have attempted to sexually assault Mrs. Reinardt when he was surprised by Dr. Reinardt. Dr. Reinardt apparently heard a commotion and came to the living room with his handgun.
Police believe that a struggle ensued between the intruder and the victim, in which Dr. Reinardt was thrown to the floor in the den and shot by the perpetrator. The man then carried Dr. Reinardt back out through the same glass door he used to gain entry.
The suspect is described only as a white male, thin build, approximately 6′2″. The intruder was wearing a navy-blue ski mask and heavy coat.
Investigators do not believe that this was a kidnapping for ransom, although they concede that they are not ruling out any possibilities at this point. An intensive manhunt is under way for Dr. Reinardt, a cardiovascular surgeon at Mercy Hospital and the founder and cochair of the Reinardt Family Children’s Foundation. Mrs. Reinardt was treated at Highland Woods Memorial Hospital for bruises to her face and body.
I set the paper down on the kitchen table and take a long drink of coffee.
I broke in and attacked her. Maybe tried to rape her. Did she give them that idea? They could have come up with that on their own, the way Rachel looked. Then the doctor came down with his gun. I took the gun away, threw him down, and shot him. Rachel called 911 after I left. And I was wearing a ski mask, so she never saw my face.
Not bad. This will throw off suspicion that I broke in with the sole purpose of attacking the doctor. It was just an ordinary rapist who got surprised by the husband. They won’t be looking for motive beyond that.
I glance at my watch: 4:25. I wish it were later. In fact, I wish that days and days could go by in seconds. I want to put distance between me and the incident. I’m not sure why; the police could still solve the crime months from now. But the further away I get from this, the better I can handle it.
Almost instinctively, I leave the kitchen table and walk over to the portable phone in the den. I pick it up and punch the numbers I have never dialed but know by heart.
A soft voice answers. “H-Hello?”
“Hello,” I say, trying to sound innocent and concerned, but my voice has deepened considerably from my cold, giving off a menacing tone. “This is Marty Kalish. I work with Mrs. Reinardt at the foundation. I was just calling to offer my condolences and to see if there was anything at all I could do.”
“Oh, well . . . thank you, Mr. . . . Kalish? This is Rachel’s mother. I’m afraid she isn’t up to speaking—” She covers the phone. Voices in the background. “Umm, hold on a minute, please.”
My pulse races.
“This is Rachel Reinardt.”
“Mrs. Reinardt, this is Marty Kalish. I work at the foundation.” I speak with a deliberate formality. Never know who might be listening. “I don’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted to tell you that we’re all praying for you.”
“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Kalish. We’re all praying, too.”
“Do they have any idea who did this?”
“I’m afraid not. All we can do is hope.”
I want to say more but don’t dare. I cannot, in fact, say another word. An awkward silence hangs over the line. We have so much to say to each other.
“Will you excuse me?” Rachel finally says.
“Of course, of course.”
“Thank you for calling.” A soft click.
Mr. Kalish. Mrs. Reinardt. This is how it will be from now on.
The cocktail party at the Arnold T. Pierce Museum was one of the most anticipated fund-raisers the foundation has ever put on. It had a national flavor to it, with the invitees including the secretary of education from Washington. It was an election year, and the chance to attend an event filled with wealthy contributors drew most of the public officials from the county.
The theme was casino night, perhaps the most clichéd and least subtle fund-raising theme in history. The museum cleared out the largest exhibit room it had to hold the hundreds of socialites who attended. Dr. Derrick Reinardt was at his best tha
t night, mixing with the politicos and businesspeople from across the nation. The word was that the doctor had a few political aspirations of his own, and it was clear to all that he was in his element that night.
The elegant Mrs. Reinardt wore a long black dress, off the shoulders. Her long black hair was pulled up. She mingled as comfortably as her husband, and probably more effectively as far as fund-raising was concerned. She would move from group to group, always commanding the fixed attention of all. She would playfully hold on to the arms of acquaintances, laugh gracefully at the appropriate times.
All of this, of course, I observed from afar, having never met Mrs. Reinardt and seeing her only from across the room. I was not one of the targets tonight. In fact, I was supposed to be doing my share of soliciting.
“It’s just not my game,” I explained to Jerry Lazarus, who had joined the foundation about the time I did. Jerry went to law school with me, only he graduated and joined a high-powered firm.
Jerry laughed. “You’ll never hold public office, Marty,” a fate that he and many others had predicted for me in my more vibrant years. “You can’t schmooze.” Even then, after all the years out of law school, I still had to laugh at these words coming from an ex-hippie like Laz. I always pegged Jerry for public-interest work, legal assistance or NARAL, maybe some tree-hugging group. His long hair from those days was now cropped stylishly, the granola replaced with quiche, the flannel shirts traded in for trendy designer suits and silk ties. He reminded me of so many other students from my law school days, who would moan about civil rights and constitutional protections and join protests about faculty diversity or environmental policy, but when it came time to choose a vocation would become infinitely more fascinated with the finer points of corporate restructuring and vertical monopolies. I never thought I would hear the word “schmooze” from the same guy who almost dropped out of school rather than take a mandatory first-year legislation class, all because the professor had once served in the Nixon administration.
