by D. F. Bailey
“My responsibility? I wasn’t even there.” He could feel his heart racing. What was Petersen trying to say?
“No. You weren’t.” Petersen’s voice softened slightly. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. Nobody’s blaming you. But I want you to acknowledge the extent of your responsibility.”
Finch stood up and paced behind the chair. He could feel the blood pulsing through his arms and chest. “My responsibility was letting Bethany into our home. And then letting my son get into my car with her. When she was fucking plastered.”
“Okay. That’s it, then. That’s the part you have to embrace. You have to look at what you allowed Bethany to do. What you helped her do.”
Will’s lips pushed down into a frown. He nodded and gasped for air. The room was compressing him, pressing his muscles and bones against its flat walls. “All right!” he shouted — and suddenly he was released.
“All right?”
“Yeah, I can accept that,” he said, not sure what exactly this might mean. “Accept that I let her into our lives. That I let her destroy us.” He brushed his hands against his eyes. Oh god, why is this so hard?
“Easier said than done.” Petersen eased back in his chair. “You’ve got to actualize that, man.”
“You think this is easy?”
“No, I don’t. I think this is the hardest thing you’ve ever tried to do.” From his desk drawer Petersen lifted two mini José Ceuvro tequila bottles into his hand, the one-point-seven ouncers served on airplanes. As he dangled them in the air, the liquid gold shimmered under the fluorescent lighting. “What’s the most important thing you lost from drinking?”
Finch rolled his lips and cast his mind inward. The answer was obvious but he couldn’t say it.
“What was the one gift that booze ripped out of your life,” Petersen said in a whisper. But he didn’t pose it as a question. More a statement of fact.
Finch rolled his head from side to side. This was hard. Hard to feel. Hard to confess that he’d lost so much.
“Buddy,” he said at last and glanced at Petersen, then at the polished linoleum floor. “Losing Buddy,” he said firmly, as a point of clarification.
“So, finally. Do you realize that’s the first time I’ve heard you speak his name?”
A dark look crossed his face, a new tinge of shame. “No.”
Petersen nodded and set the two bottles of tequila on his desk. “You got a picture of him?”
Finch nodded again. “Back in my room.”
“Let’s go.” Petersen tucked the bottles into his pocket and led them out of his office, up the stairs to the resident dorms that faced onto the park.
Finch pawed through his dresser and handed Petersen the three-by-four inch picture of Buddy and Cecily sitting on a bench at the zoo. He perched on his dorm bed and studied Petersen’s face.
“Who’s the woman?”
“My wife, Cecily. Buddy’s mom.” Will tried to smile. “She passed almost two years ago.”
“He was a nice looking kid, Will.”
Petersen was one of the few people who knew the background story. About the afternoon when Bethany attempted to drive Buddy to his T-ball game, after Finch had told her to wait until he’d finished repairing a tire on Buddy’s bike. He’d told her that he — Will — would drive him, and then ten minutes later it registered that she hadn’t waited and they’d left without him. At the same time, perhaps at that very moment, she smashed his Toyota — and Buddy — into the concrete on-ramp leading onto the 101 from Market Street.
“I want you to try this tonight, before you go to bed.” Petersen drew the two tequila minis from his pocket and stood them on the night table next to Finch’s bed. Then he slipped the picture of Buddy between the two bottles.
The two men studied the arrangement he’d made, a miniature shrine built of liquid gold and grief. For a moment Finch felt like smashing it to the floor, smashing Petersen for being a probing piece of shit. Then he realized that Petersen was right. This make-shift memorial was a reminder of Finch’s lapse, a chapel where he could worship his son’s memory. Alcoholic or not, he needed to embrace this new chastity. It was a way to honor his love for Buddy and Cecily, to embrace them both again.
Remembering all that, remembering his life with Buddy and Cecily, Finch now reached into his courier bag and took out the small leather case where he stored Buddy’s picture and the two mini-bottles of José Ceuvro and set them on the nightstand beside his bed in the Prest Motel. He washed up, then pulled the bedcovers open and lay down, clicked off the TV and the night lamp. He didn’t need to think about booze or Bethany too often anymore. He was almost past all that, and he knew it. But Buddy and Cecily he would always remember.
Finally he set those memories aside, too; instead he considered the questions he’d put to Franklin Whitelaw tomorrow. Questions for the Senator’s sons and wife and daughters, or anyone else willing talk to him about Toeplitz.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thursday morning, as Finch stood under the shower in his bathroom at the Prest Motel he tried to assess where his story was headed. Obviously there was more to Toeplitz’s death than Sheriff Gruman let on. Jennie Lee was confident of that, but because she had no solid evidence of foul play, she was temporarily blocked by Gruman and had to bide her time. But soon her hand would be forced by Toeplitz’s estate lawyers and unless she made a formal request for an investigation, his car would be released, cleaned and repaired, and any forensic evidence destroyed. Finch also had other concerns. Ben Argyle’s immobilizing panic up in the mountains seemed far too extreme for such an accomplished kid. Was there more to his anxiety than he’d revealed? The question hung in Finch’s mind, another tiny piece in a jigsaw puzzle without any edges.
There seemed to be more tangents to the story than anyone imagined. He knew that playing ball on visitor’s turf held a distinct disadvantage and that he needed as many allies as he could gather. If he could gain his trust, Ben Argyle might disclose what was really troubling him. But Finch’s first recruit had to be Jennie Lee, so after his breakfast he sorted through the electronic files that Fiona had sent to him and when he found what he needed, he composed an email to Jennie that would demonstrate his good faith and build on their agreement:
Jennie, thanks for meeting with me yesterday.
As promised, I’ve unearthed the timing of the DA’s announcement that he’d bring Toeplitz to the stand for the prosecution: May 4 at 2 PM. Five days later — on May 9, the Argyles came across Toeplitz’s corpse. Working backward, assuming he’d died the previous day, that makes the date of his death May 8. Assuming at least a day to drive from San Fran to Astoria (it took me just under 12 hours) and another to pack his bags, etc., that puts his departure from SF no later than May 6. In other words, he died within 48 hours of arriving in the county.
I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but the Whitelaw family spent the past week in their compound in Cannon Beach. That suggests to me that Whitelaw called Toeplitz in on short notice — which explains why Toeplitz was here at all. Whitelaw’s motive? A last chance to turn Toeplitz away from the DA and back to the firm’s cause? And Toeplitz’s motive? So far, I can’t imagine why he’d want to cross swords with Whitelaw following the DA’s announcement. That’s one thing I want to unearth when I pay Whitelaw a visit this morning.
I’ll call you when I know more. I’d also like to hear your findings at the end of today.
By the way, any news of the bear?
Best, Will.
The drive south along Route 101 gave him about forty minutes to prepare for Whitelaw. For any interview that’s destined to be adversarial, he’d learned to arrive on the scene unannounced. The only two advantages a reporter possesses are physical and psychological surprise. Physical surprise means you materialize as if sent by God. Your abrupt appearance can create a lapse, a sort of forgetfulness, and before the interviewee remembers to tell you to bugger off, he’s already answered three or four questions. The second surprise
is psychological. Your questions spear directly to a critical point, to the need-to-know answer your story hangs upon. But no matter what, at some juncture the impact of surprise will diminish and you’ll be tossed out the door and the interview is over. Never expect a second chance. And if you’re facing a media veteran, sometimes the end of the interview can arrive at the moment of confrontation. Once you hear the word “trespass” you’re legally advised to back away. If you hesitate, as Finch had learned on two separate occasions, you can expect a punch to the nose. A sorry way to ruin an otherwise agreeable day.
The drive through the village of Cannon Beach was pleasant enough. The tidy shops and cottages were all clad with clapboard and shingle siding, some painted a traditional Cape Cod gray, but many were left unpainted and exposed to the salt and wind that rolled up from the expansive beach to the west. The ocean seemed to lick at the low-lying town, renowned for its vulnerability to a tsunami that, when it arrived, would sweep the village into the forests on the east side of Route 101 and then rip and splinter whatever remained as the waves rolled back into the sea.
As he drove past their driveway, Finch realized that Fiona’s description of the Whitelaw beach estate understated the invisibility of the compound. While there was no gate to control traffic into and out of the property, a long gravel driveway climbed a steep hill overlooking the road and ocean. Somewhere above him, well beyond the reach of any tsunami, the property stretched back into the forest. Finch parked his car on the shoulder of the road where it widened above a reinforced bank. He trod up the hill, turned a corner and an outbuilding appeared on the right. The property manager’s house, he supposed. Behind it stood the main building, a three-story wood-framed hunting lodge that combined all the essentials of luxury fused with rustic domesticity. Anyone could tell at a glance that Senator Franklin Whitelaw had successfully combined two mainstays of west coast Americana: an enterprising spirit and cash.
On the left stood a four-bay garage. Like all the other buildings, it was faced with rough-hewn cedar planks, left unpainted so that over the years the ocean winds and rain had weathered them to the natural colors of the landscape. One garage door was drawn up, revealing a red Mercedes-Benz C320 Sport Coupe. Much sexier than Toeplitz’s GLK, but probably too sexy for Franklin Whitelaw himself. Fiona was right again: likely his sons and daughters were here, too. The whole family gathered for consultation in the face of a potentially devastating law suit — and Toeplitz called in for one last chance to save himself. Or die.
No one was visible on the front yard, a patchy mix of turf and compacted sand, impossible to cultivate into anything resembling a lawn. Even this far back from the shore, the winter storms would smash into this piece of paradise with sheets of sand blown up from the miles of uninterrupted beach below. Before he continued, Finch turned to admire the view. In the distance, groups of families and partying teenagers had planted umbrellas next to the shoreline and unloaded food and beverages from their ice chests: Perrier and brie, pinot noir and grilled asparagus tips. Rising from the shallow foreshore, a massive boulder, Haystack Rock, appeared on the right. The entire effect was picture perfect.
Finch approached the front door of the main building. Above the entrance hung a wooden sign with the word, SALVUS carved into the plank. Latin for salvation. He wondered what sort of salvation Whitelaw and his clan might have in mind. He could make out the ring of laughter echoing from behind the house and decided to wander into the backyard, hoping to find the senator in an unguarded state of mind. When he turned past the kitchen he saw a tennis court, a professional-looking installation properly fenced with an elevated referee’s chair perched above the net.
Four people in their mid-twenties, all dressed in tennis whites, were enjoying a set of mixed-doubles. In the ref’s chair sat a brunette woman trading shouts with one of the men. Dressed in a black blouse and black skirt, she looked five years older than the players on the court. Various cat-calls and mock threats rose between their accusations and from time to time, the two girls on the court burst into laughter. Completely pre-occupied, none of them noticed Finch as he stepped into the shade of the roof gable above the kitchen wall. Suddenly the mock-argument turned with bitter seriousness.
“Jennifer, you witch!” The ref threw her sun visor to the ground, climbed down from her chair, stood on the clay surface with her hands bunched on her hips. Will imagined that she was about to punch her tormentor in the face. Then she turned and strode towards him.
“Gianna, come on. Stop it,” Jennifer begged in a tone that resembled the earlier playfulness. “I know you’re upset. I was just kidding for goodness sake.”
“Please, Gianna,” her male partner called. Finch recognized him; one of the Whitelaw boys. Medium height, medium build and medium looks compromised by premature balding. His brother stood facing him on the opposite side of the net. Their twin skulls were glowing in the brilliant spring sunshine.
“Yeah, Gi-Gi, we can’t go on without you,” his brother pleaded. “Not against these ivy leaguers. Without a ref, we all know they cheat!”
Finch stood motionless in the shadow, realizing that Gianna would soon cross in front of him as she approached the kitchen door. When she entered the canopy of shade, she took a step backward as if someone had pushed her shoulder.
“Whoa. You startled me,” she said in a low voice to Finch. Despite the scare she seemed composed, indifferent to the taunts from the tennis players who resumed their game with a serious attitude.
“Sorry!” Finch held a hand aloft and forced a smile to his lips. “Silly of me. Happens all the time,” he added and stirred his hand, waving away an imaginary bee.
“Me too,” she said. “Skittish by nature.”
“Runs in some families,” he said and shifted gears to a conversational tone. “My mother, for example. Even though she knew she was an anxious person, it didn’t help her to overcome it.” He smiled. “She was nervous ’til the day she died.”
“Right.” Gianna studied him a moment and smiled. Although they’d never met, she appeared happy to see him. Someone to lift her out of the boredom of tennis. “And you’re with which of my brothers?… ”
He smiled again. “Oh, sorry. I’m Will Finch.” He held out a hand to her.
“Gianna Whitelaw.” She shook his hand with a surprising vigor and her mouth revealed a look of doubt. “Oh god. Don’t tell me you’re here with one of the girls.”
He glanced at the girls as they skipped across the court. Healthy, lively, ripe. “No.” He leaned toward Gianna and whispered, “Too young for me.”
She seemed to like that, as though he’d turned a key that unlocked the door to her sense of trust. “Care to join me for a cocktail — or too early for you?” She led the way into the designer kitchen, a large room with restaurant-grade appliances: a six-burner gas cooktop with custom copper range hood, built-in refrigerator-freezer and double drawer dishwasher.
“Yeah.” He tapped the face of his watch. “Too soon for me. But I see you’ve got some coffee on.”
“Coffee’s always on at this place.”
“Great. Black, no sugar.”
“Aren’t you a hardy fellow.” A blush rose through her neck and settled on her cheeks. Beneath the pink tinge he detected a Mediterranean richness in her skin. Deep, warm tones in her arms and taut calves below her skirt. She smiled and poured a mug of coffee for him.
They sat at an oak table next to the window, bunting small talk to one another. Finch decided to run with whatever entered her mind, and when the time was right, steer his way to the topic of Toeplitz. Now installed in her house, engaged in conversation, drinking with her, Gianna apparently assumed that he must be a party guest; his attachment to a specific brother or sister no longer interested her. She leaned toward him as she spoke and her black blouse dipped open revealing the tight cleavage of her breasts. Obviously a push-up job, he mused. But effective enough.
“You know, you remind me of him.” Her chin dipped with a hint of
sadness. “Your eyes.”
“Remind you of who?”
She shrugged as if it should be obvious. “Raymond.”
Finch blinked. In an instant several puzzle pieces locked together. Raymond Toeplitz — and her black blouse and skirt. She was in mourning. But none of the other tennis players were. If anything, they appeared to be celebrating. And their argument on the court wasn’t about a disputed line call. It must be about the chasm that separated their lives with the deceased. But he had to test that idea before he continued.
“You mean Mr. Toeplitz.” He offered this as statement, not a question.
“Of course.” She hesitated at the formality. “Did you know him?” Her eyes narrowed as if she might be on the verge of linking him to someone in her world.
“Yes. We met twice.” He broke eye contact, eager to find another topic. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I just realized … you’re in mourning.”
She took a long pull on her drink and set the glass on the table. “Fuck, someone has to bear his memory.”
Finch shook his head. “But not the others.”
She rolled her eyes in disgust. “What do the sports guys say? One and done. Well, one day they drove Ray out of here, and then … he was done.”
“Drove him out of here?”
Before she could answer they were distracted by a rustling in the hallway off the kitchen. Then Finch heard footsteps approach. Senator Franklin Whitelaw entered the room, an open newspaper in one hand, reading glasses in the other. “Anybody seen the business section?” he asked.
A tremor rattled through his hand as he slipped the glasses into his shirt pocket. He set his eyes on Finch with a distant look. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Franklin Whitelaw. Proprietor,” he added with a brief laugh and swept his free hand across the room.
“Daddy, this is Will Finch.”
He set the newspaper on the table and they shook hands. Finch realized that the senator didn’t recognize him or his name. The advantage of surprise remained.
