“I’ll have to check my calendar. Unless I’m getting a mani-pedi, I guess I can make it.”
“Great. See you then.”
And I did. In fact, I still do.
***
The city below me was cloaked with a heavy, opulent darkness. As predicted, the wind had ceased, and gray edifices of clouds had begun to form in the sky.
I sat on the sofa in my front room, the only illumination coming from my tableside lamp. I was on my second Jack Daniels, facing a thick stack of folders on my lap. All held together by a three-ring binder.
It was a copy of the dossier that Mike Payton had prepared on me. I’d called Harry Polk earlier that day, and, in exchange for the promise of a steak dinner on me, got him to send Jerry Banks over to Payton’s office. As a murder victim, his personal and professional effects were of interest to the police.
CSU techs were swarming all over the room when Banks got there, but he was able to cajole or threaten one of them into making a Xerox of the dossier. They’d found it in a steel file cabinet, along with numerous files relating to the Harlands.
Now, sipping my whiskey, I found myself unable to open it. The weighty stack of college diplomas, police reports, birth certificates and other documents asserting that I’d had a life—and that a good part of it had been shared with the former Barbara Camden, PhD—seemed suddenly too intimidating to examine. Too laden with memories, both good and bad.
And, if Mike Payton was right, too fraught with stunning, unbelievable revelations.
I swallowed the rest of my drink and reached for the bottle beside me. Refilled the glass. I was just about to taste it when I paused. Then carefully lay the glass on the table beside me.
Positioning the dossier more firmly on my lap, I turned to the first page and began to read…
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