Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller)

by Schaab, Susan

  “No. I’ve been a slave to my career.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, I guess I never found the right girl.”

  “So, what do you do when you’re in Africa?” she asked.

  “Take photographs mostly.”

  “Do you track animals?”

  “Only until I can get them to pose.”

  She smiled, “Have you ever had a close call … a dangerous encounter?”

  “Not on the African continent.”

  After a moment, Joe said in a mellifluous voice, “I’ve walked a lot of trails, logged many miles in Kenyan wilderness. I’ve seen a few lions, but was always lucky enough to be downwind and between meals.”

  “Did you have native guides go with you?”

  “Yes, sometimes. But I was often wearing the spider.”

  “Wearing the spider?”

  “Yeah. That was what we called the lead. The person in the lead always cleared the trail. Walked through the spider webs. Sometimes the spiders rode along for a bit.”

  “You wore the spider? You let it crawl around on you while you walked?”

  “Well, most of the time they were pretty good at staying put where they landed.”

  “Why would you not just brush it off?”

  “And let it land on your mate who was following close behind?”

  “Oooohhhh. I’m not sure I’d be good at wearing the spider.”

  “I’m kidding.” He smiled again, “Spiders always get the brush-off. It’s just a matter of technique.”

  “I guess that takes some skill, not to mention consideration for your mates.”

  “Another chance for chivalry,” he laughed.

  “You’d wear the spider for me?” she asked.

  “I’d wear whatever you asked me to.”

  Evie reached for her water glass and took a slow drink. She glanced down at the empty plates as the busboy appeared to clear the table.

  “Joe, that was a lovely meal. Thank you.”

  “There are these tickets to the Vienna Philharmonic at Carnegie Hall, but if you prefer, we can go to Doubles.”

  “That club at the Sherry Netherland?”

  “Yes. A friend who’s a member invited us to go as his guest. It’s a quiet place where we can have some dessert and coffee.”

  Evie nodded and smiled, prompting Joe to waive at the waiter and ask for the check. They walked out into the warm night, up Seventh Avenue and along Central Park South toward Fifth Avenue. A soft breeze waltzed through the horse chestnut trees in the park, muffling the sounds of the taxi-dominated traffic. There were mostly couples and groups of tourists at the edge of the Park and their conversations rode the wind, disguising their origin.

  Joe’s voice had become a whisper, and as they walked he told Evie stories of prior visits to New York when he was young and reckless. The horse-drawn hansom cabs lined the north side of the street as the drivers, like actors on a sidewalk stage, mingled, dressed in everything from top hat and polo attire, to what appeared to be nineteenth-century British military uniforms. Most of the horses, clad in their colorfully decorated tack, stood head down, buried nose-deep in buckets of water or oats. One bay gelding looked toward Joe and Evie as they approached; Joe stopped.

  He whispered to Evie, “Do you know how to greet a horse?”

  “Other than the usual pleasantries, I’m afraid I’m at a loss,” Evie laughed.

  Joe grinned, removed his jacket and placed it neatly over her arm, with a dramatic display. He then asked her to watch.

  After gaining permission from the horse’s owner, he walked slowly toward the bay gelding, his eyes fixed on the horse’s gaze. Joe’s movements were gradual but decisive, and he began to lean his head slowly toward the gelding’s head as if bowing to a stately gentleman. Without further explanation, he gracefully positioned his mouth at the level of the gelding’s nostrils and blew a short blast of air toward the gelding’s right nostril. When the horse felt Joe’s breath, he shivered and nodded as if in recognition of an old friend. His eyes flashed, he snorted a return greeting and then seemed to study Joe, like an embarrassed acquaintance trying to remember where they had met previously.

  Joe reached out and gently caressed the head of the gelding, lightly massaging behind the horse’s ears. The gelding submitted calmly, nodded again and turned toward Joe in a blind admission that recognition was futile, but with the willingness to make a new friend. Evie laughed from her place of observation some four feet away. Joe bowed to his new friend, bid him adieu and turned toward Evie with a broad smile.

  “A blast of air in the nostril is their form of greeting. It’s as if I was speaking his language, and he was appropriately taken by surprise.”

  “Well, perhaps you should exchange business cards,” Evie said laughing as she nodded to the gelding’s handler, who laughed with her.

  When Joe returned to her side, he retrieved his jacket and took her hand in his, squeezing gently. As they continued their walk toward Fifth Avenue, Evie felt as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff admiring the view, contemplating a dive into a crystal blue sea of emotion.

  They disappeared from view through the revolving door of the Sherry Netherland Hotel. After floating down the crimson steps into the hidden sanctuary of the private club, Evie and Joe shared a strawberry pastry, sipped coffee and danced for over an hour to Frank Sinatra.

  As they moved slowly around the dance floor, Evie felt an internal war brewing. Part of her was enjoying being swept away, but there was a persistent voice chanting caution. Joe could have easily been a manufactured image in a dream. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she would awaken with a flush in her cheeks and a lilting afterglow. He held her close as they danced and traded tactile messages. Afterward, she was glad to sit down at their table and sip a glass of water.

  He walked out to the hotel lobby to check his voice mail, leaving her in a state of reflection. This man is dangerous. He is too good to be true. When he returned she was extracting a red rose from the vase on the table. She held it to her nose.

  “So you do like roses,” he said.

  “Yes, very much,” she paused and suddenly remembered the beautiful bouquet that had been waiting for her Tuesday evening at her apartment building. She had thought that they were from Ralph, but had failed to confirm her conclusion. “This is embarrassing, but did you send me roses earlier this week?”

  “Yes, but I was afraid you didn’t like them since you hadn’t said anything.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. There was no card … except there was a note under my door from my friend Ralph across the hall. I … well. I thought he sent them. It was really a lovely thought. You must think I’m so rude.”

  Joe didn’t answer at first, but then said, “Well, Ralph owes me then.” He laughed and asked, “Do you want to know what the card said?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Let’s pursue this.”

  “You wrote that on the card?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you sign it?” she asked.

  “The man on the plane.”

  Evie smiled and thought for a moment. “How did you find my address? I’m unlisted.”

  “Information like that’s fairly easy to obtain,” Joe grinned. “I also know you were born in 1972 in New Jersey, an only child, that you financed your liberal arts degree from Columbia and that your law degree is from Harvard, which you completed with honors. You were at Harvard three years after I finished at MIT and left Cambridge, so we missed an opportunity to meet. I know you lived briefly in Paris, I’m assuming you were interning, perhaps as a legal clerk, and then you worked for Marvyn & Goldstein for a year or so prior to your present firm, where you’re a senior associate in the corporate department.”

  Evie stared at him.

  “I … uhhh. Is all this published somewhere?”

  Her first thought was that she should have been flattered that this man had been interested enough to seek out informat
ion about her, but it made her uncomfortable nonetheless. The voice of reluctance in her head returned and chanted more loudly now its message of caution.

  “Well, it’s like a puzzle. A little determination is all that’s necessary to assemble the pieces.”

  A stab of uneasiness pierced her stomach. She smiled, excused herself and went to the ladies room to verify that the growing anxiety she was feeling was not visible in her face. She sat on a vanity stool and looked at herself in the mirror. A wave of some insistent sensation rushed over her. She felt chilled and feverish and her hands were moist with sweat. Her stomach was tightening and she felt light-headed. Her heart pounded and she had to force air into her lungs. She was afraid for a moment that she was going to cry. She took a few slow deep breaths and felt a little better. She dabbed at a tear in the corner of her eye with a Kleenex.

  Why do I feel so violated by Joe’s information gathering? Am I just tired? Tired of being tired. She hadn’t thought about Alan all evening, but maybe she was more fearful about the potential career harm Alan could inflict than she had let herself believe. Could he be behind the handwritten note? Maybe she was having a full-blown anxiety attack. She combed her hair and powdered her nose. Pull yourself together, Evie. She closed her eyes for a moment and forced her mind to quiet itself. Although she had genuinely enjoyed the evening, she suddenly felt the need to go home.

  When she returned to the table, she saw that Joe had left the table and was standing at the bar chatting with a man dressed in a tuxedo, who seemed to be the evening steward of the club. She approached the two men, and Joe put his arm around her, carefully, so as not to disrupt the placement of her wrap perfectly draped over her shoulders. Joe introduced her to the man and after a few polite words, the man excused himself and disappeared behind a door.

  “Are you ready to go?” Joe asked, stepping with her to a side area near the coat room, away from the path of traffic.

  “Yes. Thank you. Joe, I really had a lovely evening.”

  “Well, I hope this is not goodbye. I intended to walk you home.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’m a bit tired. I think I’ll just grab a taxi.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Please don’t be offended, but I would prefer to say goodnight here,” she said.

  “Evie, did I say something to upset you?”

  “No. Definitely not. You’re the perfect gentleman. Truly. I just have a lot on my mind, and I’m exhausted from the week.”

  “May I see you again?”

  “Aren’t you leaving town tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but I’ll be back soon.”

  “Joe. I uhhh … Okay. Yes, sure, of course. We can get together again when you’re back in the city.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Joe asked, searching her eyes and noticing for the first time a growing distance there.

  “Yes. I’m fine,” she smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m really useless when I get tired. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, “but at least let me put you in a taxi.”

  “Okay.”

  With his arm around her more firmly now, he guided her up the stairs to the hotel lobby and through the revolving door, nodding at the doorman, who whistled at a taxi parked to the right of the hotel awning. The taxi moved toward the center of the hotel entrance and waited. Joe escorted Evie to its door, opened it, but before helping her inside he turned her body toward him and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. She smiled up at him and slid into the seat. He shut the door and leaned in the window of the front seat and handed some bills to the taxi driver. “That should cover it,” he said as the driver nodded.

  Evie opened her mouth to object, but instead smiled broadly at Joe, mouthed “Thank you” through the window and waved as the taxi moved away from the curb.

  On the ride home, Evie retreated to her thoughts. I met this man four days ago. To anticipate a date and actually leave the office early was a rarity for her. She had enjoyed herself more tonight than any other time in recent memory. It was as if she was standing on a beautiful beach just feet away from a beckoning ocean that she knew was denominated by an invisible, life-claiming riptide, only the strength of the riptide was unknown. Was it that she was simply afraid of becoming close to a man, afraid of getting hurt? Was it something specific about Joe himself or the fact that his life was based on the opposite coast? There was something about him that made him seem unreal and confidence-worthy at the same time.

  Or maybe her anxiety attack had not really been about him at all. Maybe it was her sense that she was on the cusp of a real career battle, and she wanted to travel light when it came to relationships—they always seem to absorb so much energy. She sighed and returned her thoughts to the more urgent situation at the office, and a male figure who seemed much more clearly defined.

  10

  On Saturday morning, Evie woke early and dialed her office voice mail before her first cup of English Breakfast tea. Not sure what she would hear, she felt compelled to check, as if the act of listening would magically prevent any bad news. No new messages. She made the morning’s pot of tea and took a cup into the bathroom, showering and dressing in less than twenty minutes.

  With the clarity of thought that followed a good night’s sleep, she was more confident this morning in her memory that Gerais Chevas was not among the clients she’d spoken to in the prior month. There had to be a mistake that was not hers. Or, was the false hotel receipt part of the “paper trail” to which Alan had referred?

  She left her apartment and walked south on Seventh Avenue, thoughts flowing freely. Despite waking up with the same set of indigestible facts she had faced yesterday, the unsolved puzzle seemed less debilitating this morning. Whoever had sent that handwritten note would be peddling a lie if he or she published the accusation anywhere; it was not Evie in the photograph. No threat had been made anyway. She decided to forget it. And as for Alan, she decided to plant herself in front of Hanover and tell him everything. Jenna and Lisa were right. She should describe her history of encounters with Alan, including the incident in Chicago that she had failed to report. Despite the passage of time, the circumstances of that night had not grown stale in her mind; on the contrary, they sometimes tormented her like a recurring dream.

  After running some errands, she stopped in a Frozen Willy yogurt shop and ordered a couple of coconut scoops on a multi-grain cone. She crossed 53rd Street and walked north. She found a small outdoor pavilion and sat in the sun listening to the manmade waterfall and engaging in full-frontal people-watching. Mentally, she began thinking through a list of details she wanted to cover with Hanover. She would be as objective as possible and let Hanover react. As the managing partner and head of the firm, he would be compelled to at least investigate. In theory, Hanover’s involvement should make it much easier to find out what was really going on.

  She finished the last bite of yogurt and walked the remaining blocks to her building. When she arrived at her apartment door and turned the key in the lock she noticed that her door was already unlocked. Did I forget to lock the door? She pushed open the door and, before walking through the threshold, studied the interior. There was a stack of twenty dollar bills visible on a side table, just the way she’d left it when grabbing some money for her errands. An intruder would have taken that. I must’ve left the door unlocked. How careless. The thought ended there.

  She settled into her chair with a large envelope Helen had left for her. It contained the expense documentation for Senator Arbeson’s art collection. From the date of purchase, most of the paintings had been displayed in his Upper East Side apartment. However, there was a series of rental payments on a climate-controlled warehouse for a period of time and a package of invoices for cleaning, removing contaminants, repair of scrapes and flaking, re-varnishing. There were invoices for appraisals on several different dates. There was an additional storage fee for a period of time when the paintings were placed in a
nother art collector’s apartment. How did these paintings suffer so much abuse? And why would someone have an expensive art collection stored away after displaying them in one’s apartment? Odd.

  She found nothing in his documentation unequivocally supporting the notion that any of the paintings had been acquired as investments. Other than the repetitious appraisals, one would have a difficult time establishing a tax-friendly motive. As she flipped through the documents, she found an itemized document that looked to be an inventory from a divorce settlement with the paintings highlighted and some of the restoration expenses charged back to his ex-wife’s share. Ahhh.

  Evie remembered reading about wife number one—a hotheaded woman who had claimed marital abuse, sold her story to a tabloid and sucker-punched the Senator’s initial senatorial campaign. No one had given her story much credibility, but perhaps there’d been some truth to it. Maybe the paintings suffered some of the damage during one of those violent arguments. From the recent news stories about his current marriage, it was apparent that his relationships were fraught with rancor. In any event, there was clearly not enough documentation to establish ordinary and necessary business expenses totaling thirteen million dollars in connection with an investment. Senator Arbeson would likely change his mind about supporting her quest for partnership once he received her memo.

  She put the envelope back in her briefcase, booted up her laptop and dialed into the firm’s network system. The CPU hummed its startup tune and the modem issued its series of tones to establish communication. She worked all afternoon, drafting the memo to Senator Arbeson and creating a timeline of her work over the summer to show that Gerais Chevas had not been among the clients she’d served.

  When she was finished with her timeline, the resulting document was a voluminous, convoluted monologue on overworked law firm associates. A controvertible alibi. She knew there could be electronic or other evidence to contradict her claimed workflow, but it was her best attempt. A pitiable house of cards, there was no way to prove absolutely that she didn’t help on a particular deal—she worked on too many of Alan’s matters and her name had now appeared, at least electronically, in connection with this Brazilian contact. And, honest mistake or not, she’d been listed as working on Gooseneck when she had not. Where else would her name show up? While her inability to access files ostensibly provided current proof of her lack of involvement, she knew passwords and access parameters could be changed in seconds, erasing a history of inaccessibility.