by Polly Iyer
Stewart got out of bed and circled the room. Abby heard the pitter-patter of bare feet. He mumbled under his breath, conversing with himself, scolding, cajoling. Then another circle in the other direction.
“This is hurting my head. Can we stop now?”
“We’re almost there. A little longer, then I’ll stop. Where did you put the papers?”
“I don’t know. Stop asking me. I don’t know.”
Stewart did another turn around the room. When he stopped, everything went quiet. “There was a bank near our apartment in Buckhead,” he said. “I opened an account and put all the money from the other banks in there. Then I put the papers in a safe deposit box.”
Adrenaline spiked every nerve in Abby’s body. “But how did you keep it open? You were…away.”
Stewart paced some more. Abby could almost hear the thoughts filtering into his head. “I didn’t. Jimmy Carlin did. The bank sent the statements to him. He handled everything.”
She was right. Carlin. That was the name. “Your accountant?”
“Yes,” he said. Abby heard the pain in his voice. “I can’t. No more, please.”
“Is Jimmy Carlin’s name on the account?”
Abby held her breath.
“Why, no, of course not. The account is in your name,” Stewart said. “Abigael Gallant.”
The thudding in her chest felt like a bass drum. She settled Stewart and left the room. He’d put everything in her name—the one person he trusted. Luke was there to take her hand. “The account is in my name. Not Gentry, Gallant.”
“He can’t do that,” Luke said. “His name would have to be on the account.”
“Stewart inherited his father’s business smarts.” Abby said. “His mother’s too, I guess. He had me sign a power of attorney. I trusted Stewart. He said sign, I signed. Then he arranged for all the bank statements to be sent to his accountant. This Carlin guy has managed the account for eight years. All in my name.”
“Goddamn!” Luke said. “I never thought to check your name.”
“What about the key?” Jeff asked.
“I doubt he has it,” Luke said. “If he did, they would have taken it.”
“The accountant probably has one,” Abby said, “but I’d rather not bring anyone else into this.”
“We’ll need the key to get into that box,” Jeff said.
“Not necessarily,” Luke said. “I worked a case where a couple had a joint account. The husband kept the key, but when he was murdered, the wife couldn’t find it. The bank drilled the box once she proved who she was. If the box is in Abby’s name, she can get into it.”
Don Weston left, and Jeff and Luke left to call the bank. Dr. Schell approached Abby. “Do you want me to continue the hypnosis, Dr. Gallant?”
“No. We found out what we wanted to know. We can let Stewart rest. If you don’t mind my putting you on the spot, Doctor, do you think with the right drugs there’s any hope Stewart might recover? There are times he seems almost normal.”
“The EEG shows damage, and though he’ll have lucid moments, he’ll never be the person you knew. That’s not to say he can’t lead a productive life, especially where his art is concerned. In fact, that would be excellent therapy. I’m sorry. It’s a tragic story, isn’t it?”
Abby swallowed the lump in her throat. Don’t break down now. But sorrow over Stewart almost overwhelmed her. “Yes, it is, but I think soon we’ll have enough evidence to put the people who caused Stewart’s destruction behind bars for a long, long time.”
“Dr. Weston has agreed to allow Stewart to stay until the matter is settled. I think it would be detrimental to send him back where people have harmed him. I said I would also take responsibility.” Dr. Schell moved closer to Abby, his voice a whisper. “Sometimes one must do the right thing, even if it stretches the boundaries. I feel this is one of those times.” He patted Abby’s arm. “Interesting case, my dear. Dr. Weston has promised to keep me informed.”
Abby paused, turned in the doctor’s direction. “I’m anxious to find out how this all ends too, Doctor.”
“Dr. Gallant, forgive me if I’m out of line, but you’re in the midst of a rather disturbing time. My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow. If you would like to talk, I’m available.”
His voice was so soothing, so compassionate. “That’s very kind of you, Doctor. Actually, I would.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
In the Wrong Zone
Luke saw the strain on Abby’s face, the dark circles under glazed eyes. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the SUV. “You’re exhausted.”
“I am. I can’t make the trip to Atlanta now, Luke. Besides, by the time we get there the bank will be closed. That safe deposit box isn’t going anywhere. It’s held Stewart’s secret for eight years. A day or two more won’t matter.”
“Just as well. The bank said to let them know when we were coming and they’d arrange for someone to drill the lock. We’ll call tomorrow and make an appointment.”
Luke opened the car door and helped her in. She leaned her head on the headrest, and before he got around to his side she had fallen fast asleep. He tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and kissed her cheek.
Two hours later, through heavy traffic in Columbia, Luke walked Abby into the house. He kissed her inside the door. “Come on, I’ll tuck you into bed.”
“I slept all the way home. I’m not tired now. I want a glass of wine. Meyer brought a bottle a couple of weeks ago. I put it in the wine rack. Why don’t you open it?”
Luke pulled the bottle from the wine rack. “Damn!” he said.
“What?”
“There was a bottle of this wine in Matt’s new cooler. Seeing the label reminded me.”
“Oh, Luke.”
Luke stared at the bottle of wine. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?”
“Call Norm.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Two temperature zones separated Matt’s cooler. One for white wine, one for red.”
“So?”
“This bottle of red was in the white zone.”
Abby shook her head. “What does that mean?”
“It means I want Norm to check it out.”
“Why? You don’t—Do you think Matt hid the papers in the wine bottle?”
“Why not? Who’d think of checking there? I looked inside the cooler but not inside the bottles. Collyer, or whoever tossed Matt’s apartment didn’t notice either.”
Abby called Norm to tell him Luke’s idea. He said he’d get back to them in the morning.
“I forgot all about the wine,” Luke said. “I’ll open the bottle.”
“Forget the wine.” Abby got up, grabbed Luke by the hand, and led him to the bedroom. “I want you to make love to me.”
“Since you were walking ahead of me, I didn’t see what you said, but I like where we’re headed.”
Abby turned and repeated what she’d said, one word at a time.
“Um, no problemo.” He felt the heat in his groin. “You don’t have to ask. All you have to do is touch me. That’s all you’ve ever had to do.”
She stopped, her smiling face almost level with his. “I want you to make love to me in the dark.” Then, she put her fingertips on his eyelids, closing them.
He moved her hands to the side. “I won’t be able to see what you’re saying.”
“I won’t speak, and neither will you. I’ll hear what you hear, and I want you to see what I see. To feel how I feel. To smell, to taste. I want you to touch my body the way I touch yours. All over, every inch.”
“Is this some kind of experiment?”
“No, no experiment. You once said I got so far inside of you that you felt naked to the bone. I want us to be naked to the bone, inside and out. I don’t want you to see me. I want you to know me. I want you to love me with the rest of your senses.”
“You’re right,” Luke said. “Screw the wine.”
&n
bsp; * * * * *
“Tell Luke he was on the money,” Norm said, when he called back the next day. “An airtight tube held the rolled up papers inside the bottle.”
“What are they?” she asked.
“Three sheets filled with numbers. All we can tell is that they have something to do with the Gentry-Serrano Foundation. We’ve sent them to our forensic accountant. Let you know as soon as we do. Tell Luke good work.”
Abby repeated the conversation. “Very sharp. I’m impressed.”
“I don’t need to hear to put two and two together.”
Abby moved into him, her arms around his back. She made sure he saw her lips. “Yes, but you need to have the smarts to add it up.”
Luke kissed the top of her head. “When you get to work, make an appointment at the bank to get into the box.”
“Do you think it’s necessary now that we have Matt’s set?”
“Yes, I do. Matt’s are copies. The originals are in the bank. I don’t want anyone saying the papers were doctored.”
* * * * *
Abby felt Luke stir. She poked him. “What is it?”
“Text. Murder on the south side.”
She heard him text. “Who are you texting?” He didn’t answer. She nudged him and repeated the question.
“Jeff. I’ll take you to work, but things are coming to a head, and I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“It’s not like I’ll be alone. I’ll be in the office. Cleo will be there. People are all around.”
“Not good enough. Shit. Jeff is giving a demonstration at one of the schools this morning. Pete will know someone.”
“Luke, you’re making too big a deal of this.” But Luke wasn’t paying attention. She got up and went in to the bathroom to shower.
When she came out, Luke said, “Pete’s assigning a cop to you. He’ll be there until I come and take over. Unless something extraordinary happens, I should be free by eleven. Make the bank appointment at three. Record the number.”
“It’s ridiculous. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Record.”
Abby recorded the number Luke recited. “Are you happy now?”
“Yes.”
She heard the bathroom door close. No point arguing. Luke wouldn’t change his mind.
* * * * *
A young cop named Ricky Howard was talking to Cleo when Luke walked Abby to her office. The two men exchanged a few words.
“You’re not to go anywhere without him,” Luke said.”
“Can I go to the bathroom without him?”
Luke laughed. “You’re impossible.” He kissed her and left.
Abby checked the schedule Cleo had left on her computer. She had a light day. Three clients, two this morning, both late, and one this afternoon. She called her afternoon appointment to reschedule before making any commitment to the bank in Atlanta. The client said the change suited her, so Abby called the bank. They told her to let them know the exact time she’d be arriving and they’d have someone waiting to open the box.
Abby listened to the files of her two morning patients—one a repeater, the other sent by a referring doctor.
Before the first patient arrived, she heard a disturbance in the outer office. What on earth is that? “Cleo?” More scuffling and the muffled sound of a woman’s voice. Abby’s next client was a man. She got up, baffled by the noises, and walked to her office door, opened it. “Cleo?” What’s going on?” When Cleo didn’t answer, Abby said, “Are you here?” A stifled sound, then silence put Abby on alert. Her skin grew hot with alarm. She took a step toward Cleo’s desk. Another step. Her foot hit something on the floor. She bent down and touched the warm body. “Oh, my God, Cleo.” Tracing her hand over Cleo’s body, she felt a sticky residue on her fingers and gasped. Her heart pumped faster. Where was the cop? “Officer Howard? Are you here?” She listened, heard breathing. She felt for Cleo’s pulse and couldn’t find it. Bile rose in her throat. She got up and reached for the phone to call 911. A gloved hand grabbed her wrist.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a man’s accented voice said.
Then the smell hit her like a freight train. Cloves.
Chapter Forty
The Art of the Game
“Sorry to interrupt your morning, Mrs. Gentry.” The South African accent was as pungent as his cloying scent.
“She needs a doctor. Please, let me call a doctor, then you can do whatever you want with me.”
“You don’t have any bargaining power, and it’s probably too late for a doctor. Now get up and let’s get going before someone comes. I wouldn’t want to kill one of your patients, but I will if I have to.”
Tears filled Abby’s eyes. “What kind of monster are you?”
“One who gets paid a lot of money to do what my bosses want.”
“Did your bosses tell you to kill an innocent woman? What about the cop?”
“I’ll make sure you don’t trip over him on the way out.”
Daisy nuzzled her leg.
“Fucking dog,” Collyer said.
“Please don’t hurt her. I’ll tie her up. Please.”
“Do it!”
Abby coaxed Daisy into her office and fastened her harness. She took a lock she kept in her desk and secured the harness to a drawer handle.
“Where’s your cane?”
“In the coat closet.”
“I’ll get it. I don’t want anyone to question why a blind woman is walking around without an aid. Then you’re going to walk out of here with me like I’m your best friend.”
“What if I won’t go?”
“I’ll kill your dog while you listen, and it won’t be pleasant. Then I’ll dispose of anyone who walks in here. I assume you have patients coming. And because I enjoy what I do, I’ll take you along while I kill your deaf boyfriend and that flake of a mother.”
Fear pulsed through Abby’s veins. Collyer did not make threats. Cleo lay dead or dying, and so did Officer Howard. Collyer meant every word.
Abby patted Daisy’s furry coat and calmed her down. “Where are we going?”
“We’re taking a ride to Atlanta.”
“Why?”
“There’s a minor problem of a safe deposit box only you can get into. Call the bank. Tell them you’ll be there in exactly three hours.”
“But—”
“No buts. Fucking do what you’re told, and hurry up.”
“The number’s on my recorder.”
“Good. I can check to make sure you’re not dialing someone else. Not that it would matter.”
Abby listened, then punched in the bank’s number with a shaky hand. She checked her watch. Nine. She told them she’d be there at noon, barring traffic.
They’d been so careful. How did Collyer know about the bank? If he knew about the bank, he knew about Stewart.
He thrust the cane at her. She took it. “But how—”
“Shut up.” He grabbed her arm and led her out of the office. Abby didn’t hear anyone in the corridor, and no one spoke on the way out. If she screamed, people would surely die, and she couldn’t add that to her already overloaded conscience. Don’t die, Cleo. Please don’t die.
They walked across the street to the parking garage. The car was low and small with four doors, because he put the cane in the back seat. Definitely not a Navigator.
“How do you know about Atlanta?” she asked when they settled inside.
“You ask too many questions.”
“You can’t let me go now, so what difference would it make if I know?”
“Did you and your cop friends really think we didn’t know where Stewart was all this time?”
“Then why…” Of course! They were waiting for Stewart to lead them to the papers. And the only person he would tell was me. “Then you planned his escape?”
“Not exactly. His walking out of the hospital took us by surprise, but one thing about Stewart—he’s predictable. Sooner or later he’d show up at your place. You’re what
makes him tick.”
Collyer pinched her chin. Abby jerked her head away, disgusted by the sound of his derisive laugh.
“At first we thought his escape would be a problem, but then, well, he hadn’t told Scanlon anything in eight years, maybe this was just what the doctor ordered.”
All the planning, all the precautions meant nothing. They sat back and waited.
“That fellow is amazing, really. With all the doctor’s incentives, Stewart never told where he stashed the damn papers. Don’t you find that fascinating?”
“Fascinating? You took a man’s life to find some papers?”
“Not any papers,” Collyer said. “Papers more important to the people I work for than Stewart is. Family business. I liked Stewart, certainly better than the rest of the Gentrys’ snotty brood. If he’d kept his mouth shut eight years ago—but no, he had to tell his mother he was going to the cops. That might’ve been the stupidest thing Stewart had ever done. Good thing he told, though, or I might’ve been forced to leave the country to escape the fallout, and I like it here.”
“You still didn’t answer my question. Why come after me?”
“I’m getting to that. Patience. We have three hours to Atlanta and five back to Charleston. All the time in the world.”
Not for me. Not by this time tomorrow. Once Mrs. Gentry has the papers, she’d see me as more collateral damage.
“So, we wondered,” Collyer continued, “did you know about the envelope eight years ago? Dr. Scanlon didn’t think so, but maybe Stewart would release some hidden memory. I tossed your house, planted a bug in your phone and another in the house. I also put a tracking device in your purse. Who’d’ve thought a blind woman would change purses?”
Abby suppressed a shiver as Collyer shed light on the extent of his intrusion into her personal life. They knew her every move, everything that went on in her house. “I’m a fashion plate,” she said, figuring the sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “I like brown with brown and black with black.” That’s why he left through the house instead of through the garden gate. To plant the damn bugs. “You could have done all that without my knowing. Why come back a second time?”
