Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie

by Merry Jones

  I headed across Fairmount Park toward the Schuylkill River, following Kelly Drive, passing the Museum of Art, the row of elegant old boathouses, the Girard Avenue bridge, the clusters of sculpture in the gardens above the river’s banks.

  I walked among joggers, skaters, and bike riders for maybe half an hour before I sat, looking out on the water. Watching its motion, the ripples of silver flickering on the surface. Ducks in pairs. Geese and gulls in flocks. Turtles of all sizes crowding onto an immersed tree trunk near the riverbank. Scullers rowing by. I sat, unaware of time, almost calm.

  In truth, I was relieved. I’d shown Susan the files. The awful secret wasn’t mine alone anymore. And, for all her scolding, she’d survived. Hadn’t fainted or puked or even stopped speaking to me.

  But that wasn’t all: I was relieved about Charlie. The conversation with the shadow had almost convinced me that he wasn’t—hadn’t been—a pedophile. Those pictures weren’t his. They were, as Derek had said, stolen “personal client information.” The pictures could ruin careers, shatter lives, lead to blackmail. And provide motive for murder.

  Which meant, as Susan said, that there would be more suspects in Charlie’s death. I would no longer be alone on the list. Might even not be at the top.

  I closed my eyes, felt the late day-sun warm my face. Let the tension out of my shoulders. Recalled the photos. The smiling boy, holding Somerset Bradley’s hand. The spindly young girl holding an ice cream cone, walking with Derek Morris and Jonas Walters.

  In front of the Kremlin.

  In Red Square.

  I was on my feet again, hurrying. Jogging—no, despite my bruises and sore muscles—I was running home. Obviously, the men had been in Russia. In Moscow. I ran along the river, absorbed, not noticing the cyclist coming up behind me.

  “To your left!” A guy walking a bulldog screamed at me, and reflexively, without looking around, I jumped off the path onto the slope of grass leading down to the water, stumbled, twisted my ankle, and fell, protecting my already sore hands and knees, so that I rolled over the cement and splashed right into the Schuylkill. I landed sideways, felt the cold wet slap, then the immersion, then my hands and knees sinking into muck. I tried to stand, but the river bottom sucked at whatever body part I leaned on for leverage. With a final burst, I thrust my torso upward to a standing position, felt my head emerge, then my chest, drew a hungry breath of air, and let my legs sink calf deep in muck, turned to see a small crowd standing at water’s edge, gaping in alarm. A wiry, bearded guy had taken his shirt off, ready for a rescue. In shallow water.

  Voices called to me, asking if I was all right. Telling each other what had happened. “This bike went right at her, knocked her over.”

  “She just rolled right into the water.”

  “They ought to make bike lanes.”

  “There. She’s climbing out. Grab her. Pull her up.”

  From far away, I watched the bearded guy and a woman in jogging clothes reach out, take my arms, then my waist, pulling me out of the mud and water. Finally, I was again on solid ground. I watched myself thank them, tell them that I was fine. That I lived nearby. The skinny guy offered me his shirt. Another one wrung out my sweatshirt and hung it on my shoulders.

  Someone said that the cyclist should be arrested. That the bike had seemed to aim deliberately at me. Someone else agreed. I thought of the incident in Chinatown. What was with these bike riders, coming at me wherever I went?

  Unless it wasn’t riders. Unless it was just one. One rider, following me. Deliberately trying to run me down. I was shivering. Dirty. Dripping and soggy. Was I also paranoid?

  “You’re bleeding,” the jogger woman pointed at my leg.

  Yes. I was. My knees were scraped raw, and bloody water trickled down my legs, into my sneakers. But I didn’t feel pain. I just felt wet. And numb. And I wanted to get away from this well-intentioned group so I could get home.

  Laughter was what did it. I don’t know how I started laughing, but I did. The others were angry at the cyclist, worried about me. But when I started to giggle about my clumsiness, retracing my fall, everyone relaxed. Began laughing, too. Thanking everyone, I refused more help and finally broke away.

  By the time I got to Green Street, I’d become accustomed to the stares of passersby. I was bleeding, drenched, cold. And limping. Wounds, old and new, were nagging and annoyed.

  I went inside, peeling off wet clothes, looking at my latest scrapes and bruises. Ready to wash off the river in a hot bath. But while the water was running, I went into my bedroom.

  The envelope from Charlie’s pocket was on the dresser, where I’d left it. And among the itineraries, just as I’d remembered, was a trip to Russia’s capital.

  The papers gave departure and arrival information, hotel accommodations. For a party of five, but the only name listed was Derek’s. Nothing incriminating.

  Even so, combined with the photos, the itineraries built the case that the five had traveled to Russia together to have sex with children.

  I was trembling. Limped to the bath, sunk into steaming water. Felt the sting of heat on my scrapes and cuts. Leaned back. And soaked. When the bath cooled, I turned the faucet on again, adding more hot. Washed my sores. Watched my skin turn rosy.

  Finally, when my blood was again running warm, I stepped into my soft chenille robe, sat on my bed, and called Susan. I didn’t mention falling into the river. Just the itineraries.

  “Trips to Russia?” She’d already spoken to Stiles, had told him about the flash drive.

  “Travel plans. Flight schedules. Hotels.”

  “Get them to me pronto, so I can give Stiles everything at once. This is great, Elle. It proves that other people besides you had motive. It should take the heat off you.”

  After the call, I sat on the bed, holding my phone and the envelope. Wondering how Charlie found out about the sex vacations. About his partner being involved in something so vile. And then I wasn’t sitting anymore. I was lying down. Watching myself, curled with my knees tucked against my chest. Missing Charlie. Wanting to talk to him—not just to the shadowy image I kept conjuring—but the three-dimensional, still breathing Charlie. To hear his rich baritone lie to me again. To touch his face, his hands. Look into the darkness of his eyes. How was it that he was dead? What had happened to him? To us?

  I knew, of course. There had been lots of little frictions. Unanswered questions. Unspoken suspicions. Underlying doubts. And then one day, I’d opened a statement from Fidelity, the investment company handling my portfolio.

  I’d called him in a panic. “Charlie, Fidelity says I have $17.34 in my account. What do I do? They lost my money.”

  He’d been busy. Distracted. Half listening. “Calm down, Elf. What?”

  I repeated myself. Asked if I should call them. Or get a lawyer to call them.

  A tiny hesitation. “It’s okay, Elf. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” He’d sounded confident. Smooth. Like it was no big deal that over two hundred thousand dollars had been misplaced like car keys. “It’s probably a simple computer error.”

  “Charlie, it’s an investment account. With lots of separate investments in it. How can it be just a simple computer error?”

  “Let me get on it, Elf. Just be patient and calm down. I’ll take care of it.”

  And I’d believed him. That night, he’d assuaged me, saying Fidelity was “working on it.” And the next evening, he told me he’d been busy all day with a big client, had played phone tag with Fidelity. He’d poured me a glass of Shiraz, held it out. Looked into my eyes.

  And that’s when the walls crumbled. The floor shattered. The sky collapsed. I’d known. There had been no computer error. No phone tag. Fidelity had made no mistake. No. What had happened was Charlie. Charlie had taken the money. Had emptied my account, used it for some business venture. Hadn’t bothered to ask. He’d stolen it.

  And lied about it.

  And that was it: the end. After all the other little lies. After
years of Charlie’s slick explanations and questionable excuses, it was that one flash of realization, that one final lie that crushed all trust between us. And with trust went everything else. That night—that instant—our marriage ended. It took another fourteen months for us to admit it. Nothing was said out loud. But we both knew. Our marriage died even as Charlie stood there, looking into my eyes, offering me a glass of Shiraz.

  Well, there was no use going over the aftermath. The blame, accusations, excuses. The pitiful efforts at patching things up. No point. I never found out why he took the money or what happened to it. He’d promised to pay it back. But he’d promised a lot of things. Never mind. That was history. And Charlie was dead.

  I watched the woman as she lay on the bed for almost an hour, not moving. Still holding the phone, staring blankly at the papers. I could see the heading on the itinerary in her hands, could read the name of the travel agency. Magic Travel. Its address was on Sansom Street in Center City. I knew the street. It wasn’t far from Dr. Schroeder’s office in Society Hill.

  Before I left the house first thing the next morning, I went to the computer, opened the files of photos, clicked through, looking for pictures that clearly showed each of the four men’s faces. And I printed them out, one by one.

  Magic Travel was a small storefront located between a nail salon and a pizza parlor, across from a parking lot. Outside, a rack supported a couple of chained bikes. Something I’d never have noticed before, but now everything involving bikes seemed to flash red alert. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. What did I really hope to accomplish? The travel agent might be a criminal—maybe hooked up with the Russian Mafia, arranging sex workers for travelers who booked with them. Maybe I was getting into dangerous territory, should let the police do the investigating and forget it. I could still leave.

  But I didn’t. I wanted to find out what was going on, and I knew that the travel agency wouldn’t reveal to the police what they might to a prospective customer. Derek Morris would never have known where in Moscow to go for child prostitutes. Someone had advised him. Maybe someone online or in Russia. Or maybe the travel agent.

  I stood in front of the agency, figuring out what I’d say. How I’d approach the topic of unconventional services. I watched the flashing neon sign in the window—a wand and top hat with a neon airplane flying out of it. The name of the business arched above them in gold and green neon cursive. I peeked inside, saw a bike helmet dangling from a coat rack—dark green, not purple. Maps, posters, and displayed brochures lining the walls. Toy model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. A model of a cruise ship mounted on a table. Nothing unusual.

  Go on in, I told myself. What was the harm? I’d stay just a minute. Just get a feel for the place, ask a couple questions, and leave.

  The receptionist had red hair and blunt fingernails bitten almost to the quick. When she smiled, two dimples popped up, both on one side of her face. The name plate on her desk said, “Cindy.”

  “Can I help you?”

  Great. What was I supposed to say? I smiled. Hesitated.

  A man’s laughter boomed from one of the three cubicles at the back of the room.

  I looked around. Saw myself standing at the counter, looking nervous. I could say, “Hi. Do you by any chance arrange international sex tours?” Or maybe, “Do you have special packages for pedophiles?”

  Lord, what was I doing there? I should go.

  “My husband, actually his friends, booked a trip here a few months ago. They went to Russia.”

  She nodded, waited for me to go on.

  I took out the photos. “Do you recognize any of these guys?”

  She leaned over, glanced at the photos. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Was there a problem with the bookings? Because if there was—”

  “Oh, no. No. It’s—I just wanted to know what their travel package included.”

  Her eyes shifted. Her brows rose. Her smile faded, dimples disappeared. “Because?”

  Because? What should I say? “Because they’re thinking of going back. With more friends. And I’ll be doing the arrangements.”

  Good answer. Quick thinking. She nodded, sat back, asked for information. Names, dates of the trip they’d already taken, so she could look it up. I handed her the itinerary. She typed information into the computer. In the back offices, men were laughing.

  I stood at the desk, clutching my bag, waiting. Watching Cindy. Looking around. Wondering what I was doing there. Why I hadn’t left the investigating to the police.

  Cindy’s eyes were on the screen. Reading. She punched more keys. Read some more. Frowned. Bit her lip. Then looked up at me. “Ma’am,” she hesitated, “the trip you’re interested in—I’m afraid it was a deluxe customized package, arranged directly by Mr. Lowery.”

  My stomach twisted, warning me to leave. “Mr. Lowery?”

  She nodded. “The boss. He has a list of clients he handles exclusively.”

  Oh, of course he did. Clients with exclusive requirements.

  “So all those records will be in his private files. If you want, you can ask him about them directly.”

  Uh-oh. Ask him about his exclusive clients?

  “Actually, he’s stepped out for a moment. He should be back soon.” She glanced at the rear cubicles, where men were talking. Bit her nail, took a shallow breath.

  Instantly, I thought that she was lying, that Mr. Lowery wasn’t out, that he was one of the men in the back, and she was covering for him. But then I thought that, no, he wasn’t in the back, that Mr. Lowery didn’t exist. That “Mr. Lowery” was a code name indicating trips arranged for sex or other illegal purposes. That the men in the back were thugs from the Russian Mafia who would want to know that someone was out front, asking about one of those trips. That Cindy was trying to stall me until she could get their attention.

  She was still talking. Watching me too closely. “—get you started. Why don’t I take the preliminary information. Like your name and address, the names of your friends who want to travel, dates, and destinations.”

  “No, no.” I backed away. Not about to identify myself. “It’s fine. I’ll come back another time—when Mr. Lowery is here.”

  “Are you sure?” She eyed the cubicles again.

  “Yes. Thank you.” I turned, heading for the door. Hurrying.

  “Ma’am? Hold on, ma’am. Wait—” Oh God. She was coming after me. Running around the desk.

  I turned the knob, opened the door. Stepped out onto Sansom Street, where there were cars passing, people walking. But she was fast, caught up to me. Put her hand on my arm. Tight. Grabbing, pulling. What was she going to do, drag me back inside? Let the mob interrogate me? I saw myself in a cubicle, tied to an office chair, being tortured by Russian travel agents.

  I wheeled around, facing her. Saw red hair, freckles, twin dimples in one cheek.

  “You forgot these, ma’am.” The hand that wasn’t touching me held out Charlie’s itinerary papers.

  I took them and thanked her. She tried to smile, but her eyes looked unconvinced.

  I walked, head down, occasionally looking over my shoulder to see if anyone from the travel agency was following me, scolding myself. I’d accomplished nothing. All I’d learned by going to the travel agency was that the men who’d gone to Russia had been on a special client list. But that didn’t necessarily mean they’d been involved in illegal or immoral activities. For all I knew, “special” meant corporate. Or rich. Or repeat. Or complaining and difficult.

  In fact, “special” could mean anything. My eyes focused on the sidewalk, the cracks in the cement, old wads of gum, cigarette butts, the shoes of passing feet. What was wrong with me? Why had I even gone there? I could hear Susan, screaming. Telling me I was interfering with the investigation. Influencing possible witnesses. Messing with minds, tampering with truth. Whatever. That she couldn’t help me if I continued to insert myself—

  “Elf?”

  Elf? I stopped walking. Listened. The
voice wasn’t Charlie’s. Not as deep. I spun around.

  Joel, the magician, smiled broadly, looking me over.

  Joel? Really?

  “Wow. I wasn’t sure it was you, but it is.” He put his hands on my shoulders, studying my face. Smiling.

  I stood immobile, blinking like a stunned rabbit. Aware of each bloodshot eye, every forehead bruise. Damn, I should have worn mascara. Joel?

  “How’ve you been doing?” He took my hands, leaned over and pecked my cheek. As if pecking my cheek was perfectly normal. As if we knew each other. My cheek tingled, no longer accustomed to the brush of whiskers. He didn’t release my hands, and the cut and scrapes began throbbing from the pressure of being held.

  Say something, I told myself. Tell him you’re okay. “I’m okay. Thanks.” And then I said, “What are you doing here?” Great line. Like it was surprising that a guy from Philadelphia would be walking on a Center City street? But I was stunned, seeing him. Aware of my breathing, my pulse.

  “I work nearby.” He let go of my hands, finally, and pulled a Hershey’s Kiss out of my ear. Held it up, handed it to me. Grinned.

  My face got hot. “Doing tricks? That’s your job?” I thought of Magic Travel, the wand and the top hat.

  He laughed. “If only. No. I’m just a working slob. A paper pusher, even on Saturdays.” He stared with dancing eyes. Too long. The moment was awkward.

  I looked away, then back at him. “Well, it’s nice to see you—”

  “Elle, are you free? Want to go for coffee? Or there’s a frozen yogurt place nearby.” His eyes flirted, teasing and impudent, as if asking not about getting me a latte but about getting us a room.

  Stop it, I scolded myself. You’re imagining things. But my neck was heating up. Blotching. Adrenalin was rushing, speeding up my heartbeat. Signaling a warning. Fight or flight? What was wrong with me? Joel was merely being personable. I was way overreacting.

  “I can’t.” Finally, I managed an answer. “I have an appointment. With a doctor.” Why was I telling him that?

  He kept his eyes on mine. “Okay, then have dinner with me.”