by Nina Howard
“Can I help you?” She offered with no intention of assistance.
The trench coat man flashed a badge at barked at her. “We’re looking for Robert Vernon. Is he here?”
The two other men almost broke their necks straining to look further into the apartment. The trench coat man never took his eyes off of her. She gathered the collar of her robe around her neck, feeling exposed. It was not a sensation she liked.
“It’s the middle of the day. I’m sure he’s at his office,” she said, with a bravado that was a little shaky.
“We’ve already been there. He never showed up today,” trench coat man said. He placed his badge back in his breast pocket and turned to go.
“Is that it? You’re going to barge in here with no explanation, demand to see my husband and then just leave? What’s this all about?” she roared. She was almost ready to stamp her foot.
As the Members Only sidekicks turned to call for the elevator, Mr. Trench Coat took out a business card and handed it to Victoria. “When you see your husband, my advice is that you make sure he calls me. First.” The elevator arrived and Pieter just smiled and said “Good afternoon, Mrs. Vernon”. It was obvious that he’d be repeating the story of Mrs. Vernon’s unlikely visitors to the evening shift and janitorial staff.
Victoria stood in the foyer holding the card. “Michael Towner, Special Agent, FBI”. Special Agent? FBI? What the hell was going on? She let out a yell so loud the agents could probably hear it in the elevator.
“Lumi!” She screamed. Lumi, who was standing about two feet behind Victoria jumped. “Get me a phone.”
###
In the elevator on the way down, Mike Towner replayed the scene in his mind. He had been working in the Organized Crime Unit for so long, the only wives he had come across lived in New Jersey and had hair that could hide Jimmy Hoffa. This woman was another story.
He laughed to himself thinking of her coming out in such a snit. He loved the effect of flaunting his badge and watching the mighty mistress of the manor come to a screeching halt. He had to give her credit, though, she did recover nicely.
“Could you believe that place?” asked Pauly, one of his Members Only coworkers. “Jeez, those paintings looked like they could be in a museum.”
“They probably were,” replied Mike. He had noticed the paintings, yet the bitch in the bathrobe held his attention much more. He had seen plenty of houses like this. Her “I’m better than you” attitude was too much for him. He had had enough of that kind of woman in his life. Give me the Donna Feredicos of the world, he thought.
Donna was married to Tony “The Tank” Federico, the boss of the Castelino Family, one of the most infamous crime families in the Tri-State area . The Federico case had landed on Mike’s desk after going nowhere for almost two years. “The Tank” was a very bad guy, but a very slick one as well. They knew that he had his fingers in everything from run of the mill prostitution to drugs to arms trafficking. They had been successful in arresting some of the soldiers in the outfit, however The Tank was untouchable. The case landed on Mike’s desk after the division had worked on it for almost two years with no substantial results.
Mike went after The Tank with gusto. He loved working Organized Crime. He knew that The Tank and his outfit were some of the worst guys out there, there was something about the way they structured their operation that he understood. There was a code in the world of the Mob that was iron-clad, and in an odd way, Mike respected that. Loyalty was expected, and rewarded. They took care of their own.
When he started the Tony Federico case, the last person he expected to help him was Donna Federico. She was your textbook Mafia Wife, and relished her position as the boss’ wife. There was a parallel hierarchy in the wives’ world that mirrored that of their husbands, and Donna was at the top. Mike had figured out that the best way to get to The Tank was to get to Donna. Over the course of a year, he met with Donna a half-dozen times, trying to convince her that the best thing she could do for her family, for her children, was to cooperate with him. He showed just what Tony was up to, and how Tony had set her up to take the fall for so many of his crimes - that he would have never thought twice about sending her to jail to save himself. Finally, Mike was able to convince her that by helping them get Tony, she would not only save herself, but save her children. And that’s the argument that finally convinced her to work with him.
Donna let Mike set her up with a wire, and wore it on four different occasions. She was good - she knew just what to say to coax what they needed out of Tony and his top lieutenants. What Mike got on tape was solid gold. Unfortunately, he had broken about two dozen rules to get her to cooperate. And when the wire he used on her had been ruled inadmissible, the entire case self-destructed. And that’s how Mike found himself working in Financial Fraud and ultimately standing in Victoria Vernon’s mahogany-paneled elevator. Get me out of this gilded prison and back to the real world, he thought as the elevator operator let them out into the luxurious lobby.
###
Victoria threw the phone against the wall, narrowly missing the Damien Hirst painting that she had fallen in love with at Young British Artists exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery in North London in the early 90s. Lumi picked up the phone and tenderly straightened the painting.
“Where the fuck is he?” She demanded of Lumi. Lumi had been afraid of her boss before, now she was terrorized. She shrugged her shoulders and scurried out of the room. Victoria picked up the phone again and dialed. She listened to the voicemail message. Trip’s cheerful voice asking her to leave a message with the promise that he’d get back to her as soon as he could.
“Trip Vernon! Where the hell are you?” She was on the verge of tears, and fought to keep control. She took a deep breath before she continued. “Call me the minute you get this message.” She then walked to her desk and sat down. She sat for a minute, deciding what to do next. Hysteria was replaced by a strange calmness. She picked up the various directories to the clubs and organizations to which she and Trip belonged and began to dial. No, Mrs. Vernon, we haven’t seen Mr. Vernon. No, Mrs. Vernon, Mr. Vernon hasn’t been in today. Again and again. She picked up her personal phone book, then hesitated. Instinct told her now wasn’t the time to call friends.
She did, however, call their attorney, who technically was a friend. Jack Taggert had been Trip’s roommate at Williams and the best man at their wedding. Trip and Victoria vacationed with Jack and Judy a half dozen times. They had done everything from renting a yacht in the Bahamas to taking a crazy chalet ski trip in Corcheval. Victoria had the feeling that today she didn’t need a friend, she needed a lawyer.
Jack wasn’t in. His secretary said he was at a conference out of town. She knew enough to know that meant that the last place Jack was was at a conference. She tried his cell, just to be sure, but got his voicemail as expected. Her message to Jack was more civil than the one to Trip, though no less urgent. She didn’t expect a return call any time soon.
She sat at her desk without moving for quite some time. She jumped when the phone in her hand rang.
“Where in the hell have you been?” she demanded?
“Getting the most fabulous massage,” purred the silky voice of Jeanine Larkin. “Viktor is a magician with his hands.”
The last person with whom Victoria wanted to talk at this particular moment with was Jeanine Larkin. She made Lucy Pearson seem like a newborn kitten. If Jeanine got her fangs into what Victoria feared was happening in her house right now, Victoria wouldn’t have the chance to do any damage control. The question was: What was she trying to control?
“Jeanine! That massage sounds good on you. You really have to share that Viktor with the rest of us.” Victoria couldn’t let any of her anxiety show. “You’ve been at the top of my list to call. You must be psychic.”
“You must have known that I’ve got the most incredible piece of dirt,” she said it like she had just won the lottery. “You’re never going to believe it.”
<
br /> Try me, Victoria thought. I really don’t have time for this. “Jeanine, I’m dying to hear your news, but Trip is waiting for me right now and if I don’t scoot, he’ll have my head.” The one thing all the wives respected was the ire of the captains of industry that they were all married to. “How about lunch next week?”
She hung up the phone and unplugged it.
After instructing Lumi to neither answer the phone or the door for the rest of the day, Victoria realized that she was still in her bathrobe. She went back into her bedroom to get dressed and came upon the outfit she had laid upon the bed less than an hour ago. It wasn’t even six and she felt like she had been through the ringer today.
She picked up the hangers and surveyed her earlier choice. Clearly, the aforementioned outfit would no longer do. If she was going to spend her day trying to figure out what the hell was going on with Trip, she might as well look bloody well fantastic doing it.
###
Jack finally returned her call, and he was great. He told her that there was nothing to worry about, that the FBI was completely unauthorized to come into her home. Did they have a warrant? Of course not. He had spoken with Trip just yesterday, and had no reason to believe that this was anything except just a big misunderstanding. Victoria berated herself for letting those men get the best of her. Of course Trip wasn’t up to anything illegal. Immoral, maybe, but that wasn’t the jurisdiction of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Unless it was a crime to cheat at golf or overestimate the value of a charitable contribution. She’d deal with the FBI nonsense later. She glanced at the sterling Tiffany clock on her bedside table. 4:15. Too late for Phillipe (and she really did need to see him sooner than later), she’d go to the Carlisle to meet Trip and his client at 6:00 as originally planned.
As she stepped out of the sleek black car at the Carlisle, Victoria felt in that she was back in complete control. This afternoon had really thrown her - she was surprised at how much. Things didn’t throw Victoria Vernon. She walked into the hotel and the doorman gave her a nod of recognition. When she entered the dimly lit bar, everyone looked up a bit to see who had come in. When they saw it was Victoria Vernon, the looks lingered just a little longer than usual. Even people who didn’t know who she was, knew she was someone.
She greeted the bartender by name and walked to the corner table that she knew would be reserved for her. Trip loved taking clients to Bemelman’s Bar at the Carlisle. It was hushed yet vibrant at the same time. Besides, they had the best bar nibbles in the city. The waiter greeted her by name and she ordered a Ketel One on the rocks, with a twist. She would have loved a beer, truth be told, she had long ago decided that vodka on the rocks was classy, understated and had minimal calories. She could nurse one all night if necessary, but tonight was not going to be one of those nights.
Looking around the room, Victoria recognized a few people. There was the anchor from that financial network that screamed all the time. He even looked frantic just sitting at a table with his drink. Perhaps it was the twenty-something beauty that was with him that had him so worked up. It always amused Victoria that in New York, a man could look and act like a troll, yet as long as he had money, power or fame, he could get any most any woman he wanted.
The waiter returned when she finished her drink. It went down more quickly than she had wanted - she’d have to make sure to nurse the second one. She looked at her vintage Phillipe Patek gold watch - Trip had given it to her on their second anniversary and she had worn it almost every day since - and got a knot in her stomach when she realized that Trip was over 20 minutes late. No client, either. Were they meeting at the St. Regis instead? She checked her Blackberry. No, Bemelman’s, 6pm. The waiter hovered over the table, not wanting to upset Mrs. Vernon.
Suddenly the second drink didn’t appeal at all. Victoria handed the waiter her credit card without waiting for the check. Normally Victoria never felt awkward sitting at a table by herself. She didn’t feel the need to bring a newspaper like some people, or read a book. Tonight she wished that she had something to distract her. After what seemed like half an hour, the waiter returned with an embarrassed look on his face.
“Mrs. Vernon, I’m sorry, but your card...” He handed the card back to her.
Declined? It was an American Express Black Card. There was no limit.
“There must be some mistake,” she opened her wallet and extracted another card. “I’m sorry Raphael. Try this one.” She felt like a welfare mother looking for food stamps.
Moments later, Raphael returned empty-handed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Vernon, we were told to destroy the card.”
Victoria willed herself through this awkward situation. She grabbed a handful of cash and laid it on the table. “No worries, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
###
The elevator door opened into her freshly renovated foyer and Victoria walked into her apartment without a backwards glance at the elevator man. She forced herself to at as normally as possible, did a cursory flip through the day’s mail as usual and was taking off her coat when she was met with squeals of joy from her children.
“Mommy! You’re home!” Her daughter Posey was just 6, in kindergarten at The Chapin School. Victoria was worried that Chapin wouldn’t accept her last fall, even though Parker had been at St. Bernard’s, their brother school, for the past five years. Posey had a slight lisp and although Victoria had scheduled twice-weekly appointments with the city’s top speech therapist, the lisp refused to budge. Trip told her not to worry about it. He thought it was cute, and besides, he said, she’d grow out of it. Perhaps, still not soon enough for the admissions committee at Chapin.
Her heart melted just a little bit at the sight of her daughter, freshly bathed, in her Belgian lace nightgown. She had just lost her first tooth (did Lumi remember to put the tooth fairy money under her pillow?), which at least for now seemed to explain the lisp. She had curly auburn hair and freckles, just like Trip’s sister Eleanor. This concerned Victoria greatly, as Eleanor epitomized the look that only a girl from Wisconsin with a great love of horses and a great deal of money could achieve.
She bent down to give Posey a kiss. The children knew that they could really only air kiss their mother. She was always on her way somewhere and knew that they couldn’t mess the makeup. Posey was a little surprised, then, when Victoria gave her a hug.
“Hey, where’s Dad?” Parker asked as he met them, Nintendo DS in hand.
Good question, Victoria thought. “He’s working late.” This was nothing new to the Vernon children, so they took it in stride. Let’s end this conversation before it goes any farther, she thought. “What time is it?” she asked with a false sense of concern. That should get them scurrying.
Lumi shooed the children back to their rooms and called goodnight to Mrs. Vernon. Parker stopped as he headed down the hall. “Hey mom, can you ask Dad to come see me tonight before he goes to bed? I have something to ask him.” Yeah, me too, she thought.
Chapter 3
Mike knocked on the door of his new boss, Clark Donaldson, and waited for the response. After years in the Organized Crime Unit, Mike was used to a boss that barked, yelled and swore like a drunken sailor. Clark, on the other hand, was as genteel as the white collar criminals that he investigated. He motioned Mike into his office while he was finishing up a phone call. He mouthed the word “Washington” and gestured to Mike to sit down.
Clark covered the phone with his hand and whispered an apology. His politeness drove Mike crazy. That was one of the things he loved about the OCU - rudeness was the order of the day, and everyone was okay with it. ‘Fuck you you fucking fuck’ was a term of love and affection, and Mike loved being a part of it. Fuck yes!
For a guy who barely uttered a swear word until he was twenty, most of the people who knew him in his youth would have been shocked to see him hanging with the dogs of the Organized Crime Unit, throwing shit to the guys (and girls), eating every kind of slop that came by, wearing clothes
that had as many wrinkles as they had stains. As a matter of fact, most of the people who knew Michael Merrill Towner were shocked that he was even working for the FBI, and not sitting in a corner office of Howard, Towner and Richardson. Mike had been on track to become heir apparent of one of the oldest and most revered law firms in Philadelphia. His grandfather had founded the firm, his father took over the helm, and it was fully expected that he, too, would continue the family legacy.
He did everything his parents expected of him. Haverford through eighth grade, Choate for high school. Harvard for both undergrad and law school. Mick and Susan Towner regularly congratulated themselves on the fine job they had done with Mike. There was barely a day that someone at the club, the firm or at church didn’t ask about Mike, and the Towners loved nothing more than to dowplay Mike’s accomplishments. Oh, Mike? He’s in school in Boston. They’d never mention the “H” word. They wouldn’t want to seem like they were boasting.
It was a great childhood. Mike had nothing to complain about. He had two older sisters who treated him like their own personal baby doll, and still did to this day. In law school, he started dating Brooke Heston, an undergrad from Tufts. His parents were thrown by the Tufts thing. They never mentioned the “L” word, but Mike got a kick out of the fact that she came from such a liberal school and that it bothered them so much. They got to know Brooke, and really began to like her. She may not have money, although she came from a fine old Boston family with no money. For the Towners, the next best thing to money was lineage. They warmed up to Brooke very nicely.
Everything was going according to plan until just before Mike graduated from Law School. He was set to return to Philadelphia and start at Howard, Towner. Brooke was going to transfer to the Art Institute of Philadelphia. She had been studying Art History at Tufts, so it seemed a natural transition. She and Mike had found a great apartment near Rittenhouse Square and had even talked of getting a dog.
