by A W Hartoin
“I don’t know how long this is going to take,” I said.
“A week?”
“Maybe.”
“We need kids,” he said.
“What for? Adults can go.” I pointed to the closest plane. There was a trio of grandpas climbing up to it.
“Kids like it. More fun.”
That was true in a way. There was nothing like watching a kid go crazy with exploring.
“No kids required. I have you.” The last time we went, I lost Aaron and it took three hours to find him.
He just stared at me. Well, he stared off to the left.
“Fine. I’ll take you to the Children’s Hospital event they’re having, but you have to promise not to ditch me or cook. It’s a fundraiser, not a day I want to have to spend searching for you.”
Aaron didn’t answer. He put a reminder in his phone that I promised to go and bring him. I made a mental note to buy some energy bars. I was going to need them.
“Come on, nut,” I said. “Let’s go talk to a stranger about embarrassing sex stuff.”
We crossed the street to the building catty-corner to the place of Aaron’s dreams. Calabasas Elite Accounting was on the top floor with a nice view of the happiness going on opposite. I parked Aaron at a window, thrilled to not have to discuss anything intimate in front of him. He’d never shown any interest in women, men, or romance of any kind, but he’d surprised me before and I wasn’t jazzed to take the chance.
The receptionist looked up from her computer and frowned. “Can I help you?”
“Mercy Watts to see Mr. Calabasas,” I said.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have an appointment. Would you like to make one?” She glanced down. “I have a ten o’clock two weeks from Tuesday.”
Seriously? The waiting room was empty.
“No, thanks. Please tell him I’m here. Big Steve Warnock sent me.”
“Mr. Calabasas isn’t in,” she said. “May I take a message?”
I took a breath and said, “No, you may not. He’s in and I want to see him.”
“He’s not in.”
“If he wasn’t in, you would’ve said that from the get-go.”
“I don’t give my boss’s whereabouts to strange women,” she said with a barely concealed sneer. She recognized me. Of course, she did.
“Alright then,” I said. “Give me just a moment.” I called Big Steve’s office. He was in court making someone’s day very bad, but his executive assistant, Janice, said she’d take care of it.
I leaned on the receptionist’s counter. “So you have an opinion about me, care to share?”
“I don’t have an opinion.”
“You’re not a good liar. You should really work on that.”
Her face screwed up with every uncharitable thought she had welling up when the double doors beside the desk burst open. A man about forty, wearing a power tie, suspenders, and white collared shirt hurried out saying, “Miss Watts, I was wondering when you’d come by. Please come back. Stacy, hold my calls.”
I flounced past the grimacing Stacy into the guts of a serious accounting firm. Unlike the waiting room, the back of Elite Accounting was a hive of activity. Mr. Calabasas led me through a maze of cubicles. I couldn’t see anyone over the high carpeted partitions, but the cacophony of computer keys, calculators, and voices raised in discussion assured me that it was packed with personnel.
“Excuse the noise,” said Mr. Calabasas. “We’re busy.”
“No problem.” I followed him into his mid-century modern office, complete with a Rothko, and sighed with relief when he closed the door.
“Sit down. Sit down.” He pulled a cushy chair over to his teak desk for me and then sat down before tapping his intercom. “Molly, can you bring in some refreshments.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Coffee, tea?”
“Water would be great,” I said.
“What would you like, Mr. Calabasas?” squawked the intercom.
“A selection of waters, please,” he said.
“Right away.”
Mr. Calabasas steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “You are exactly how I imagined you.”
“Really?” I looked like crap on a cracker. My hair was frizzy. I didn’t bother with makeup and I was wearing one of Chuck’s sweatshirts that hung down nearly to my knees.
“Yes. A real Marilyn, not some studio creation. I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”
“Not at all. I hear the Marilyn thing all the time, but not usually so nice.”
The office door opened flooding us with noise and Molly, a heavily-pregnant thirty-something came in carrying a tray with six different kinds of bottled water. She set it on the desk, gave me a curious glance, and asked if there’d be anything else.
“No, thanks. But can you cancel Mr. Fielding?”
“Sure thing.” Molly left and I picked a bottle of Teinacher still water, The Girls’ favorite Black Forest brand.
“So you found out who’s going after our Catherine?” he asked, pouring himself a Volvic.
“Not yet,” I said.
“No?”
“Sorry. I need more information.”
“I assume that Big Steve forwarded the…pictures to you and your computer expert?”
“He did, but I need some background on Catherine. Since I can’t talk to her, I came to you.”
“Sure. What would you like to know?” he asked.
“What’s her work consist of, enemies, personality, whatever you can think of.”
He smiled. “That’s easy. Everyone loves Catherine. I can’t imagine why anyone would do this.”
“Someone’s not crazy about her. They want her fired,” I said.
Mr. Calabasas tensed up. “Right. Let me think.”
The picture he painted of Catherine was generous, overly so, I have to say. He thought she was practically perfect. He hired her straight out of college as a favor to his friend, her father, but he wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t had top grades and recommendations. She was his best analyst and had a mind for the details no one, including him, noticed. Catherine was well-liked in the office. She was generous and she organized the holiday parties, elaborate ones under budget. She remembered birthdays and anniversaries better than Molly and she had them on her calendar.
“I don’t know what else to say. Catherine is absolutely tops. That’s why I asked Big Steve for this favor. I hope it’s not too much trouble for you.”
“Not at all. What about Catherine’s personal relationships?” I asked.
“She’s been dating Theo for two years, I think. Nice guy, quiet. She dated some other people, but I don’t have their names. Molly might know. Do you have any clue who would do this to her?”
“Not yet.”
“They want me to fire her, but that’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t fire Catherine or anyone over something so obviously fake.”
“Mr. Calabasas,” I said. “I’m going to be straight with you.”
He stiffened the tiniest bit. “Okay.”
“It’s her.”
“What’s her?”
“The pictures. They are of Catherine,” I said.
He shook his head so hard he almost dislodged his wire-rimmed glasses. “No. That’s not right. Maybe I didn’t describe her well enough. Catherine’s not like that. She’s understated. She wears sweatpants. I’ve never even seen her in a dress. If you’d said Stacy, maybe, but not Catherine. No way.”
“My computer expert is the best. He’s worked for my dad forever and he’s never wrong about this stuff. Never.”
“Have him look again,” said Mr. Calabasas, flushing to the roots of his dyed black hair.
“I can, but it won’t make any difference. He compared birth marks, skin patterns. The photos haven’t been altered in any way. It’s her.”
He jolted to his feet and went to look out the windows that made up one wall of his office. “I looked at those pictures.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t thrilled
to see them either,” I said.
“Then it must be Theo or one of those old boyfriends.”
“It’s not. My guy checked them out. Catherine’s doing this on the down low.”
Mr. Calabasas turned around, still flushed. “You mean, she’s cheating on Theo.”
“Looks like it.”
“I don’t want to know that.”
“Same here,” I said. “Do you want me to keep after this?”
He stuttered for a minute. “I don’t know. This is private.”
“But it involves you and your company. Who else has seen the pictures?”
“Nobody. They came to my private company email.”
“Who else has that email address?” I asked.
“Well, when I say private, I just mean it’s not on the company site. People have it. Clients, family, friends.”
“Catherine?”
“Of course. What are you thinking?”
“Whoever did this had access to her private information, those pictures and potentially your email address.”
He sat back down and took a long drink of water. “It has to be her…”
“Lover?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “No, not necessarily. It is someone who knows what she’s been up to. Could be a lover or a lover’s wife, for instance.”
“If we ignore it, maybe they’ll go away,” he said thoughtfully.
“I doubt it. They’ve made some serious effort here. My guy hasn’t even gotten access to those pictures yet. She’s using a separate phone.”
“Will he get in?”
“He will when she uses the phone on her home wifi. He’ll stick a worm or whatever on it and get what’s on there. Whoever we’re after knows how to do that themselves or they paid someone to do it. I’m not saying it’s the hardest thing in the world, but it’s not the easiest either.”
“You’re saying they were motivated.”
“They were and are. I expect more messages to come in.”
“Great. You’re absolutely sure it’s her?” he asked.
“I am.”
He leaned back and put his hands over his eyes. “Shit. Her father cannot know about this.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “But you should know they want something. I don’t think they’ll stop until they get it.”
He dropped his hands. “If they looked at me at all, they’ll know I’m discreet. I wouldn’t out Catherine.”
“Maybe they believe you will fire her.”
“Not likely. She’s my golden boy so to speak. Besides, what she does in her private life has nothing to do with the business.”
“Unless it humiliates the business,” I said. “They might go public. Post on one of those slut-shaming websites or something.”
“Maybe it’s about her father,” he said. “You’re aware that Cabot is heading for the Appeals Court. This wouldn’t help that. It might even kill his chances.”
I finished my Teinacher and thought it over. “If I was trying to wreck her dad’s career or get him not to run, something like that, I’d send those pictures to his campaign or to a newspaper. Why bother with you? Doesn’t make sense.”
“So you’re thinking it’s to do with my business.” He clinched his fists. “God dammit, Catherine.”
“I don’t know. It could just be revenge. She dumped the wrong guy or his significant other found out. Could be a big nothing.”
“Or a big something.”
“You want me to keep on it?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
I stood up. “I need to talk to your staff.”
“You can’t do that. They’ll be suspicious.”
“Then it’s time I talk to Catherine.”
“No,” he said, getting steely-eyed. “I don’t want her to know I know if we can avoid it. She might quit out of embarrassment. When I say she’s my best, I’m not kidding. I can’t lose her.”
“Got it,” I said. “But you have to give me somebody. You must trust someone around this joint. Who can be trusted to keep their mouth shut?”
“Molly. She knew about my divorce for six months and she didn’t tell a soul.”
“You’re sure about her? She’s going on maternity leave soon, right?”
He smiled. “And she’s staying with us. I have the best benefits around. Three months paid maternity and on-site daycare.”
“Perfect.”
He reached for the intercom, but I held up my hand. “Let me go out and talk to her alone. She might be more candid.”
“Whatever you say. Use the small conference room. No one will bother you there.” Mr. Calabasas walked me out to Molly’s desk and asked her to cooperate with me completely. She raised her eyebrows but readily agreed without questions.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll keep me apprised of all developments?”
“I will.”
Molly took me down to the small conference room that wasn’t so small. You could’ve had a meeting of the president’s cabinet in there. Molly lowered herself into a leather-upholstered chair with a little groan. “So what’s this all about? You’ve got me pretty curious.”
“How well do you know Catherine Cabot?” I asked.
She sneered. It was one of those micro expressions criminal psychologists talk about. Molly showed her true feelings about Catherine in a split second. If I had blinked, I’d have missed it.
“Not well. She’s a great analyst, our best really.” She smiled and I would’ve thought it was genuine if I didn’t know better.
“You don’t like her,” I said. It was not a question.
“I like her.”
“No, you don’t. I can tell. Let’s get down to it. Someone is basically threatening Catherine. You could even call it a kind of blackmail. I need to know what you think of her and who doesn’t like her and why.”
Molly’s mouth was hanging open and it took her a second to close it before she said, “Are you serious?”
“Completely,” I said. “This is between you, me, and Mr. Calabasas. Nobody else knows.”
“Except Catherine, you mean.”
“She doesn’t know and he wants to keep it that way. Okay?”
“Okay. Can you tell me what the blackmail or whatever is?” Something in Molly’s face told me she already had a pretty good idea.
“Pictures of an embarrassing nature,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and clasped her hands over her huge belly. “You mean nude pictures.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“Not really. I mean, I’m surprised someone would blackmail her, but nude pictures, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because she sexted my friend Jillian’s husband last year. It almost broke up their marriage,” said Molly as steely-eyed as her boss.
I got out my phone. “Who was that?”
“You can’t talk to her about it. Jill is so humiliated. She’d hate that I even told you.”
“I won’t interview her, but I have to rule her and her husband out.”
Molly hesitated, but said, “Jillian Sonnet. Her idiot husband is Darren.”
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“Oh, let’s see. I found out in August. I think Jill said it started in June.”
Darren Sonnet was a high school classmate of Catherine’s. They met again at a class reunion and one thing led to another. The wife found out when Darren left his phone at home when he went golfing and Jillian saw multiple messages come in from Katy Frommer. She’d overheard Catherine give that name at the reunion, to a man, of course, so she knew exactly who it was. By the time Darren passed the ninth hole, Jillian had figured out Darren’s code, her birthday, which infuriated her even more. She got the whole story, texted Catherine that she was a whore, put Darren’s clothes on the barbecue, and set fire to them.
Jillian was supposed to be meeting Molly for a spa day and when she didn’t show up or answer the phone, Molly went over and got there in
time to see lighter fluid soaking Darren’s Sunday suit.
“I wanted to tell off Catherine so bad,” Molly said.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
She sniffed. “Are you kidding? Catherine’s at the top around here. If it’s between me and her, I’m out. I need this job.”
“You never told anyone?”
“No. I promised Jillian. I wouldn’t have now, except blackmail’s a crime and I have to, don’t I?”
“I think so,” I said. “What did Catherine say to Jillian?”
“Nothing. Never answered any of the texts. Coward.”
“Did you see the pictures?”
“Yeah.” Molly screwed up her face like she’d smelled something bad. “Catherine naked. Gross.”
“Er…how naked?”
“What do you mean? Naked naked.”
“Like posed. Are we talking tasteful or dirty?” I asked.
Molly’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know about tasteful, but they weren’t like, you know, porn.”
Interesting.
“Is that all?” I asked.
Molly looked to the left. “What else would there be?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
She stayed silent.
“That’s not the only reason you can’t stand Catherine, is it? Did she hit on your husband?”
Molly laughed. “God no. Timothy thinks she’s dirt.”
“I thought you didn’t tell anyone about Darren.”
“Just Tim. Now this is just a rumor. You know how people talk.”
I did know how people talk, but apparently Catherine didn’t and neither did a guy named Gary Vance. Around four years ago, Catherine told her very good friend, Becca Corne, that she’d had a fling with Gary and showed Becca the pictures to prove it since Becca didn’t believe Gary would be interested in Catherine. Molly googled some pictures of Gary, an airline pilot and personal trainer. I would’ve needed some proof, too. Gary was smoking hot and married to a former cheerleader for the Rams.
So Catherine showed pictures of Gary to Becca and they had a good laugh over the size of his assets. Becca wasn’t quite the secret keeper that Molly was and told just about everyone she knew. Molly’s husband heard it from his workout partner where Gary was a trainer.
“Did it get back to Gary?” I asked.