by Dana Dratch
“How kind of you.”
I elbowed Trip. “Told you we needed popcorn.”
“Don’t make me get the duct tape,” Trip replied.
I stuck out my tongue.
“You see, I know about the key-man policy, Benjamin.”
“And I suppose you want part of it.”
“It’s not a matter of wanting, Benjamin. A portion of it belongs to me. Under the terms of your business agreement, all of Everett’s heirs are entitled to compensation for his half of the agency. That makes my baby and me significant stakeholders.”
“No, that means your child is possibly an heir. If it’s actually born. And if it passes a paternity test. And that’s assuming Everett’s family even consents to a DNA test, which I doubt.”
“I can force it. Legally.”
“Everett was cremated. Good luck getting DNA from ashes. Or maybe you want to ask Margaret for blood from her babies, so that you can try to cheat them out of their inheritance?” Walters’ own laugh was short, dry, and mirthless.
“It doesn’t matter what Margaret wants anymore. Everett’s child is Everett’s heir.”
“I can promise you that will be one, long expensive legal battle. And with you out of work, I can’t think there will be many attorneys willing to go up against us pro bono. Especially given the connections our firm has in this town. But let’s assume that, in spite of those very long odds, you do manage to eke out a win. The most you’d get would be a pittance. Scraps. No control. And as managing partner, I’d move to have that money put in trust until your poor, unfortunate child turns twenty-one. Or perhaps twenty-five. Of course, I would see to it that I—or someone who answers to me—would be named trustee. You see, while I may be, how did you put it, ‘charmingly quaint,’ I do know a lot of very influential lawyers, bankers, and judges.
“So that little win will leave you with a mountain of legal bills, two decades of minimum-wage jobs, and absolutely nothing else,” Walters continued evenly. “No one will even think of hiring you. I’ll make sure of that. Especially after the stunt you and Everett attempted. Did you really think I didn’t know about that? Your secret visits to the lawyers across town? Pushing me out of my own business? The agency my father founded? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I’d let you walk off with my family’s legacy?”
His hushed voice was like sandpaper. And he was relentless. “What have you done to earn it? You barely scraped out a degree from a second-rate school, and you know how to wiggle your ass. Congratulations. That may have worked wonders with my partner. But it’s not going to cut it with me—or anyone else—ever again. I will promise you that. You see, the men in this town love to parade around with their arm candy. But if one of the little tramps tries to go public, she’s out. Damaged goods. In D.C., reputation is everything.
“You think you’re telegenic?” he mocked. “Not after the media gets the full rundown of every misstep you’ve ever made, from that married English professor you seduced in college to your little three-way in that Chicago hotel last year. There are color pictures of that one, I understand.”
“I’m not ashamed of my past.”
“That’s fortunate. Because you’re about to see it all again—in gory living color—every time you turn on the television, use a computer, or pick up a newspaper. And so will your parents, your neighbors, your boyfriends, and everyone you’ve ever met. You think the public is going to buy your little love story and eat you up? The media machine is going to rip you apart and grind you into hamburger. Your name will become shorthand for ‘whore.’ You’ll be reduced to a punch line.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Walters continued, barely pausing. “I interrupted you. You were explaining how you’re holding the winning hand. Please continue. Tell me how you’re going to get ‘very rich’?”
“Everett and I were in love.”
“Oh, please. You were a side effect of his Viagra.”
“He never needed Viagra with me. Not once.”
“He was going through those little blue pills like they were breath mints. You forget, in this office, Margaret handles the insurance claims. His doctors tried to code it as something else. But she’s dogged, our Margaret. A few phone calls to the right nurses, and she found out exactly what Everett was picking up every time he stopped by the pharmacy. And she knew she certainly wasn’t receiving any of the benefits.”
“I know what Everett had on you, Benjamin,” Jennifer said, her voice shrill. “I want a full partnership. Fifty percent. Or I will tell the world. You think I’m going to be a joke? Wait until your secret gets out. You won’t have a client left. So you better get used to sharing your precious agency with—what did you call me? ‘Arm candy’? Because it beats having no agency at all.”
“What is it?” Walters asked evenly.
“What is what?”
“What is it you think Everett had on me?”
“The truth,” she screeched. “In black and white.”
“What truth, Jennifer?”
“Do you think I’m kidding?”
“No, Jennifer, I think you’re bluffing. And I’m calling you on it. So, what is this alleged secret? This horrible truth?”
“You won’t like seeing your story in print, either, Benjamin,” she said with the lilt back in her voice. “Maybe I’ll just talk to that reporter who used to work here. I happen to know she’s very interested in what goes on around this place. She’s phoned me three times this week. I’ve been avoiding her calls, but perhaps I should invite her over for coffee. Decaf for me, of course.”
“First rule of thumb in blackmail, my dear: don’t ever bluff. Now get out of here.”
“I don’t care what you say. Everett was my fiancé. I’m carrying his child. And I will have a partnership in this firm, whether you like it or not. Here’s what you need to know, Benjamin . . .”
“No,” Walters interrupted, his rough voice barely above a whisper. “Here’s what you need to know. You’re a cheap little tart. You’re not going to win in court. Or in the court of public opinion. Consider yourself on an extended leave of absence until further notice. I don’t want to see you in this office. And I’m quite certain Margaret doesn’t, either. You can show yourself out.”
There was a shuffling sound, then ten seconds of silence followed by a familiar click: the conference room door closing.
I fast-forwarded. Nothing. “That’s it. Show’s over.”
“Any way to tell when that scene was recorded?” Trip asked.
“Nope. But it’s the last thing on the tape. Could have been last week. Could have been yesterday.”
“Given that she mentioned the investigations and used you as a bargaining chip, I’m willing to bet it’s recent,” he said. “You didn’t actually call her, did you?”
“Hell, no,” I said. “She’s your girlfriend. If I’d wanted a heart-to-heart, I’d have had you do it.”
“I’m living in your house, sleeping on your sofa, and you’re giving me orders,” Trip said. “Did we inadvertently get married?”
“I can’t even begin to process all of this,” I said. “A confirmed pregnancy. And a second blackmail attempt.”
“So Margaret knew that Coleman was cheating.”
“If you believe Walters,” I said.
“Do you?”
“If lying was college basketball, both of these two would be in the Final Four,” I said. “You wanna know which one is telling the truth? Neither. You can’t believe a word either one of them says.”
“So what did we learn?” Trip said. “Or, more to the point, what have I got to show for the last hour and a half of my life?”
“Walters hates Jennifer. Jennifer hates Walters.”
“Check.”
“Jennifer tried to blackmail Walters,” I said. “First with the pregnancy test, and later with the mystery information. Probably his father’s AIDS diagnosis. But it sounds like Jennifer didn’t really know about that. Could be she knew that Coleman blackmailed
his way into C&W, but Coleman never bothered to share all the details.”
“Check and check,” he said. “And by the way, next time you do this, plant a camera, too. I would love to have seen the look on Walters’ face when he opened his ‘present.’”
“Worst surprise party ever.”
“I don’t think she killed him,” Trip said.
“Yeah, Nick nailed that right from the beginning. She had too much to lose if he died. And too much to gain if he lived.”
“But Walters might have. Or Margaret.”
“Yes and yes,” I said. “You want to know what—out of this whole conversation—I actually believe? I think the bit about Margaret and the Viagra is true. That definitely sounds like her. So I’m guessing she knew Coleman was having an affair. But when she went looking for the likely culprit, for some reason Walters pointed her in my direction.”
“What if it wasn’t Walters?” Trip theorized. “What if it was Coleman himself?”
“Why?”
“You know how you always said that the weasels at C&W employed misdirection about as often as other cubicle-dwellers used Microsoft Word?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The old focus-on-this-don’t-look-at-that routine.”
“Coleman was afraid of his wife, yes?”
“Definitely yes,” I said.
“And the last thing he wanted was for scary, controlling Mommy wife to find out about his tender young love and their plans for a new life together,” Trip said. “So he threw her off the scent with a red herring.”
“Which explains Margaret’s attitude change toward me after a couple of weeks. I kept wondering what I’d done wrong. If I’d inadvertently snubbed her somehow.”
“If you tried being nicer to her . . .” he started.
“I did. Like an idiot.”
“That would have just made her madder,” Trip said. “She’d have thought you two lovebirds were mocking her. All he’d have had to do was drop a few subtle hints. Nothing too obvious.”
“Because if he wanted to really sell it, she’d have had to ‘discover’ it herself,” I said. “So he left a trail of clues that led her to my door. Literally.”
“And if he was totally fiendish . . .” Trip started.
“Which he was,” I interrupted.
“When she confronted him, he would have confessed. Crocodile tears, phony remorse, the whole schmear.”
“Then if he went missing for a few hours to visit Jennifer or their lawyers, she would have just assumed I was working my wiles again.”
“You minx, you,” he said.
“And if Walters wanted to get rid of Coleman, he could have used that little charade to his advantage,” I said.
“Hence the perfume and the missing earrings,” Trip said. “It fits. But which one of them did it?”
“Flip a coin,” I replied. “Either. Or neither. It could still be one of his happy ex-employees. Billy Bob getting any information there?”
“A dozen guys who are delighted that Coleman’s dead but swear they didn’t do it.”
“Everett P. Coleman,” I said. “To know him is to loathe him.”
“Is that what they’re etching on the headstone?”
“Hey, this is a guy who even screwed over his own kid,” I said. “I mean, maybe he cut off college because Pat changed majors. Or maybe Coleman was just grabbing all the available cash to fund the next chapter of his own life.” I paused. “You think Jennifer’s in danger?”
“If she’s blackmailing a killer, she’s got the life expectancy of a jelly donut at a Weight Watchers meeting,” Trip said. “I really hate the fact that she dragged your name back into this. But I keep flashing back to the first rule of reporting.”
“Spell the names right?”
“OK, the second rule,” he said.
“No preconceptions, and we go where the information takes us.”
“And where is the information taking us?” he asked.
“To visit the blackmailing liar to find out about the double-dealing liar?”
“Very good,” Trip said. “If you were Lucy, I’d give you a cookie.”
“Jennifer doesn’t know who did it, either,” I said. “If she did, she’d have threatened Walters with it. Or she’d be using it against Margaret to get a share of the insurance money.”
“She might know without knowing she knows,” Trip countered. “Things she’s seen and heard. But Walters was right about one thing: she was bluffing about knowing what Coleman had on him.”
“No reason for Coleman to tell her,” I said. “He wasn’t planning to die. And otherwise, it’s like sharing the secret of a magic trick. Coleman seems like a big man because he can make Walters jump through hoops. Loses a little of the luster if you know Margaret was the one who did the heavy lifting. And that the only reason Coleman married Margaret in the first place was so he could blackmail his way into the company.”
“Remind me again why you wanted to work with these people?”
“Damned if I know.”
“And how was it you finally wised up?”
“I was fired and frogmarched from the building.”
“Please tell me you’ve learned something from all of this,” Trip said.
“I promise if I ever sell my soul again, I’m holding out for a higher price.”
“That’s my girl.”
Chapter 46
Ten minutes later, we were in Trip’s car with the top down, soaking up the April sunshine and racing toward Jennifer’s home.
According to Google and MapQuest, she lived in Georgetown, not far from Trip.
We decided we might have more luck if we just showed up. And I’d talked Nick out of a half-dozen chocolate cupcakes, which I figured should buy at least enough goodwill to get us in the door.
I’ve always loved Georgetown. I can’t afford it myself. But that’s part of the charm.
As much as I disliked Jennifer, I had to admit her neighborhood was gorgeous. Brick row houses lined the street, as they probably had for over 250 years. Gas-style electric lights dotted the block. And shutters and doors were painted Colonial-inspired shades of slate gray, forest green, burgundy, and black.
In this end of town, if you had to ask what anything cost—as I frequently did—you definitely couldn’t make the mortgage.
“I’m thinking Everett might have been paying her rent,” I said, as Trip pulled into a spot a block down from Jennifer’s townhouse.
“Yeah, I’m guessing this is where he would have moved after he took over C&W and ditched Margaret.”
“Man, talk about feathering your nest. If Margaret ever finds this place, she’s gonna go bananas.”
“You may want to mention that to Jennifer,” Trip said, as he took the cake box out of my hands, and we started up the block. “She may swim with the sharks, but she doesn’t appear to recognize the risks.”
“First rule of business: show no fear.”
“Not showing it is fine. Not feeling it is nuts.”
Jennifer’s row house had dark green shutters with a door to match. I could see my reflection in the gleaming brass knocker.
I rapped three times and stepped back.
Half a minute later we were still standing there.
“I hear music,” Trip said. He cupped one hand and leaned into the door. “Coming from inside. Sounds like U2.”
“OK, so she’s a nasty human being with excellent taste in music.” I banged the knocker three more times. Loudly.
Two minutes later, we were still standing there. But from what we could hear through the door, Bono and the boys had launched into “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
I went back down the steps and stood on the sidewalk, studying the house. All the drapes were drawn. But there was an alley between Jennifer’s townhouse and the one next door.
I whistled to Trip and jerked my head toward the alley. He nodded and followed.
As we cut around the corner between the buildings, I
felt a chill down my spine. Spring weather, I told myself.
We rounded the corner. The gate was open, and Jennifer’s brick patio looked like it had been hit by a freak storm. A little café table lay on its side, next to two broken clay flowerpots. Potting soil and yellow tulips were crushed into the brick.
The French doors were closed. The drapes were drawn. But I could still hear the music.
“I don’t like the look of this,” Trip said quietly.
“Gust of wind, maybe?”
“Have to be a pretty strong gust. My money’s on a tempest of the two-legged variety.”
“Jennifer just lost her boyfriend and her job. Plus she’s pregnant. Could she have had a bit of a temper tantrum?”
“Yeah, keep selling, I’m still not buying. As your hired muscle and self-appointed bodyguard, I think we should turn around, head for the car, and forget I ever suggested this little picnic.”
“We came all the way back here. I’m at least going to knock. If it makes you feel better, pull out your cell phone. Worse comes to worst, we scream our heads off and call the cops.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re boneheaded stubborn?” he said, juggling the cake box in one hand and producing an iPhone in the other.
“OK, except for the slight Virginia accent, you sound like my mother.”
“As long as I don’t sound like my mother.”
I knocked sharply on the door. “Jennifer, we’re on the patio! And we brought cupcakes!”
I looked at Trip. He rolled his eyes.
“Hey, if somebody showed up at my door with cupcakes, I’d at least come to the peephole,” I said.
“If Freddy Krueger showed up at your door with cupcakes, you’d knock him down rushing the box.”
“I have a healthy relationship with food.”
“You’re a cupcake whore,” he said.
“They have something from all the major food groups. They’re nature’s perfect food.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s eggs.”
“Yeah, but cupcakes have eggs in them,” I said.
“If Jennifer is home, she’s probably calling the cops right now. ‘Hello, police? There’s a deranged woman on my patio threatening me with diabetes.’ So can we get the bleep out of here already? This place is giving me a serious case of the creeps.”