Chuck shook his head again, more emphatically this time, like he was a rancher appraising a prized horse. “That girl is gonna’ make men melt when she gets older.”
“Easy,” I said. “That’s my goddaughter.”
Chuck shrugged. “Doesn’t change what’s gonna’ be.”
At times, Paul wondered where the West Virginia farm boy ended and the Princeton summa cum laude graduate began. “See you later.”
“See ya,” he said, turning back to watch the students.
Paul continued downstairs. Outside, he veered right at the main building and headed down the wide stone stairway to the front of the school. Just past the sidewalk, a large roundabout circled an iron statue of the academy’s founder, Colonel Hillcrest, riding a rearing horse.
A horn beeped twice. Shelly Evans had parked her black-and-orange MINI Cooper. Paul smiled, waved, and trotted over as she and her fourteen-year-old daughter Tiffany got out.
Chapter Two
Chuck Fitzgerald followed Paul at a cautious distance.
As he walked down the path toward the center of campus, the twenty-odd brick buildings that made up Hillcrest Academy stood out among the bare trees. Most were original colonial structures built around the 1800s, which drastically contrasted the state of the art classrooms and facilities that wealthy parents paid a five-figure tuition for every year. Money he had never dreamed of growing up in rural West Virginia.
Students waved to him on their way to the cafeteria. He waved back. He was the “friendly teacher.” The one everyone liked.
It was an act he hated performing.
When he reached the administration building, he hovered behind a corner that had a good vantage point of the parking lot. He watched as a black-and-orange MINI Cooper parked in front of Paul, and Shelly Evans and her daughter got out.
He fished out his phone and texted: He’s meeting with Shelly Evans now. Why don’t I just grab her and force him to tell us everything?
His phone chirped with the reply: Do not hurt Shelly in any way. Keep surveilling Paul. Learn all you can.
Chuck responded: There are other ways to discover what he’s hiding.
Drug-induced recollection has already been tried. It didn’t work, so it’s unlikely torture will. Besides, I’m working on other plans.
So, continue trying the old-fashioned way?
Yes. Continue befriending him. If my plan works, I’ll give you the green light to kill him.
And if I learn what he’s hiding before then?
Kill him immediately.
Chuck tucked the phone in his pocket and went to get breakfast.
Three
“OMG,” Tiffany said, talking animatedly on the phone. “She totally knew you dated him for four months. I can’t believe she hooked up with him. What a slut!” Tiffany looked like a younger version of her mother with long, wavy, blond hair on top of a high forehead with an angular face. She wore the white shirt, blue tie, and blue skirt uniform and carried a leather backpack slung over one shoulder.
Paul rested his coffee mug on the hood of Shelly’s car and hugged her warmly. “How was mother-daughter bonding?”
Shelly glanced at her daughter. “About what you’d expect for a mother trying to bond with a teenage daughter desperate to be on her own.” She hugged him back tightly. “Sorry we didn’t have time for our usual dinner catch-up. But with Frank suing for custody, I needed time with Tiffany.”
“Completely understand. Your daughter comes first.”
She turned her head to her daughter and her eyes narrowed. “Tiffany. Hang up the phone and say hello to your godfather.”
The girl continued to talk.
Shelly raised her voice in warning. “Tiffany.”
The girl sighed and said, “Have to go, my mom’s being a pain.” She turned and gave Paul a weak hug. “Hey, Uncle Paul.”
“Hey, Tiff.”
She huffed. “No one calls me that anymore.”
“Sorry, Tiffany,” he said awkwardly.
Tiffany’s phone beeped and she thrust it in front of her eyes. “Mom, I have to go, bye,” she said, and darted toward the school, her backpack slipping down her shoulder as she answered the phone. Before she was out of earshot, Paul heard her say, “Ugh, I know. I can’t believe my mom doesn’t have a BMW.”
Shelly sighed. “She’s too much like her father.”
He completely agreed with Shelly’s sentiment. Every time they’d met, Frank Evans had made a huge effort to mention how much money he made and how his Wall Street firm couldn’t function without him. “He still dragging out the divorce proceedings?”
Her lips tightened. “He’s using custody of Tiffany as a weapon.”
“But Tiffany fell into a bad crowd when she lived with him. That’s why she’s at Hillcrest in the first place. How could a judge decide in his favor?”
“He’s got a really expensive lawyer. His family also foots the bill for this.” Shelly gestured to the school. “But enough about him. How are you? Have you been out on any dates?”
Paul thought about how much of a catch he was: a thirty-seven-year-old man who’d never been married, had a large scar on his jaw and neck, and whose job for the last ten years had required him to lie to everyone he knew. “Tons,” he said.
“Paul.” She rested her hand on his arm. “The best way for you to remember the past is to live in the present. Speaking of that, how much have you remembered since you left the recovery facility?”
He thought about the poster board in his room. “Some of it.”
She cocked her head to the side. “But not enough to satisfy the inquiry?”
“No,” he said, and he couldn’t hide the anger in his voice. “But more than I did under those mind-fucking pill pushers.” He glanced at the students walking into school. Evidently, no one had heard him.
“I know what they did to you. That’s why I helped you make bail and got you this job.”
“I had to get this job because the FBI revoked my security clearance and froze all my bank accounts.”
She waved his comment away. “But time’s running out,” she said, concern in her voice. “If you can’t remember what happened in three weeks, they’re going to have a sham of a trial and throw you in jail.”
“You mean Forton will throw me under the bus.”
“I don’t agree with what he’s doing, but sixty-four million dollars disappeared. He’s got a right to know where it went.”
“The quacks believe I don’t remember. Why can’t he?”
“Not all of the psychologists agreed with that diagnosis. Some thought you might be faking it so you could keep the money.”
“But I…”
She stepped closer. “I know you didn’t, but they don’t know you. Undercover agents are trained to lie, Paul. It’s literally part of their job. And you were one of our best. So when something like this happens, they assume the worst and make you prove otherwise. That’s why you need to remember.”
“Didn’t Eric confirm my version?”
She paused. “Eric has…already made his statement. It needs corroboration.”
After he’d escaped, the bureau questioned him repeatedly about Eric. They wondered if one or both of them had betrayed the FBI. When Paul pressed them about what happened to Eric, they only said he was on another mission. When he asked Shelly, she gave him vaguely worded responses and asked him not to push her on it.
“What about the traitor?” he asked.
Chapter Four
Shelly leaned close. “I’ve learned that two other operatives infiltrating the Ndrangheta were exposed before your operation.”
Paul raised his voice. “Why wasn’t I told before I went in?”
“I don’t know. The reports were sealed and buried. I called in every last favor I had to get them.”
“Dammit, Shelly, I…”
“I know. Forton’s flying into Montreal from Italy for a briefing on the Ndrangheta in Canada. I’m meeting him afterward to
find out more.”
“You think he…?”
She shook her head. “No, he took over Italian operations after the agents were killed. But there’s another person in Montreal who might know more. A former mafia boss who relocated from Italy. His security is rather tight, though.” She stared into his eyes. “I might need your help.”
“Shelly, you know I don’t want to do that anymore.”
“I do, but you’ve been out of the game for eight months. This might be good for you. It might even help you remember. And you’re the only one I trust.”
His mouth tightened. He didn’t want to be the man he used to be.
“I’ll surveil his house after I meet with Forton,” she added. “I may not need you. But if I do…”
She’d done so much to help him, and they’d both been through a lot, so he couldn’t let her down. “I’ll be there,” he said.
Shelly smiled. She’d known she’d get her way.
“Now, what are you doing to remember?” she asked, changing the subject.
He paused. “Still mapping pieces out on the Post-It board.”
“That’s it?”
“Hey, it’s helped.”
She shook her head. “You need to do more. Something different. You haven’t made any progress in weeks.”
“I’m doing everything I can.” But even as he said those words, he wasn’t entirely convinced he was. At times, he felt there was something inside him that didn’t want to remember, and that scared him.
“I don’t think you are,” she countered. “I love you to death, but ever since the Italian operation, you’ve got this whole martyr complex. You’ve isolated yourself and refused to participate in life, almost as if you’re doing penance. That isn’t going to help you remember. And despite what you think, you need help.” She reached into her car and retrieved a manila envelope. She hesitated before handing it to him.
“What’s this?”
She gestured for him to open it. “Forton had the FBI issue this. I convinced him to let me give it to you. I thought it would be easier.”
He raised the top flap of the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was a court order to attend therapy. Fury surged up inside him, and he tore the paper in half.
“Paul,” Shelly said. “Don’t be that way.”
He realized this whole conversation had been her way of needling him to see a shrink. Her manipulation sat like a sour apple in his chest. “How could you?” he yelled. “You’re abusing our friendship to make me do what you want.”
“I’m trying to help you,” she said, grabbing his arm. “I pulled in every favor I could to get you out on bail because I have faith in you. But the trial is less than three weeks away.”
Paul pulled back. He remembered his time at the recovery facility. They’d spent more than six months trying to help him recall the last 24 hours of his operation. They’d given him drugs that made him sick, counseling, drugs that prevented him from sleeping, and more counseling. One batch of pills locked him into one of his old cover identities. Another set of injections made him comatose. He woke up a week later not remembering what they’d done to him.
At the end of it all, they’d made him forget more of his undercover work.
“I can’t go back there,” he said. “I just can’t.”
“You don’t have to. The guy’s a specialist who lives just over the Canadian border. He’s agreed to drive here every day to help you.”
He stood there, his mind a little numb.
Another cold December wind blew by. Trees swayed back and forth.
Shelly gave him time, then said, “Paul, if you don’t agree, they’ll revoke your bail and send agents to bring you in.”
His mind raced to find a way out of this, but he couldn’t think of anything.
“I know you’re trying to think of a way out of this,” she said. “But you have to go. I’ve read up on this guy. I really think he can help.”
He stared at her. Her expression—fear—wasn’t one he’d seen on her before. Still, he remained silent.
“Paul, don’t be like this. We’ve gone through too much together. You know I’m right.”
Except he didn’t think she was, and the warrant prevented him from making his own choices. He didn’t know if she’d had a hand in issuing it, but he wouldn’t be surprised. She’d done things like that before. She called it “helping him.” He called it friendship abuse.
He held up the tattered remains of the order. “Doesn’t really matter what I say, does it?”
Shelly had, yet again, gotten her way. She hugged him. He didn’t hug back.
“He’ll meet you here today at 4:00 p.m. I’m trying to reserve a private room. I’ll text you the location.” She opened the car door. “Focus on remembering, Paul. I’ll take care of the rest. And call me the minute you have a breakthrough.” She sat in her seat and fastened her seat belt. “And please, give the psychologist a chance.” she added, starting the car.
Paul stepped back and said nothing.
Shelly closed the door, revved the engine, and tore down the only road in and out of the school.
His chest felt as cold as the wind, and for a minute, he wondered if she really understood what he’d gone through. As he climbed the stairs to the main building, however, the full weight of his situation hit him. He’d worked for months trying to recover his memories and never remembered anything past his torture. The trial was less than three weeks away. With luck and divine intervention, perhaps he could pierce the amnesia on his own. Barring that, maybe he did need help. But he wanted to get help on his own terms. Not from some court-ordered shrink whose “helpful drugs” would probably be the death of him.
He walked into the main building and wove around students in their blue-and-white uniforms ambling in all different directions. He nodded to some and greeted others by name as he marched briskly through the main hall, past the Founder’s Museum on the left and the administration offices on the right. He took the stairs to the second floor, where his classroom was located.
As he headed for the end of the L-shaped hall, he heard a commotion around the corner, followed by a gruff voice saying, “Why are you even in an AP class, nerd? You’re like ten.”
Chapter Five
“I’m fourteen,” a small voice replied.
Paul peeked around the corner and saw David Morales facing off against Kevin Chenault, the latter flanked by two hulking football players. David and Kevin couldn’t have been more different. David was short with beige skin, wavy brown hair that hung over his forehead, and a round, unremarkable baby face. Kevin was tall with black skin, hair shaved close to his scalp, and an angular face that girls crushed on.
“Doesn’t matter,” Kevin said, leaning over David in a threatening manner. “Stop blowing the curves. It makes me look stupid.”
“If you spent less time consorting with your friends in the rec room and more time studying, you’d make better grades,” David said.
Paul stifled a laugh. Generally, he approved of sarcasm, but sarcasm wasn’t in David’s nature. He scrutinized the boy and saw the thin mouth and deadpan face, which confirmed that David was, in his own socially awkward way, trying to help.
“Consort?” Kevin said, laughing. “Only nerds use words like that.” He shoved David.
The white bookends smiled and cheered dumbly at Kevin’s actions.
David looked surprised then confused, as if no one had ever done anything like that to him.
Paul quietly stepped out from behind the corner.
As soon as Kevin saw him, he put his arm around David and threw up a big smile. “Mr. T,” he said, trying to look like he was David’s best friend. “I was just congratulating David on his latest test score.”
Paul rolled his eyes. Kevin could vomit charm and charisma, and if you didn’t know him or couldn’t read people well, you’d think he was the most honest person around. To his victims’ misfortune, more than a few adults on campus swallowed his shtick
. Acting Principal Haverford, or as Paul called him, Asshat Principalis, always sided with Kevin whenever someone complained about him.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to him about,” he said, using Kevin’s words as a ruse.
Kevin smiled broadly at David. “Maybe you aren’t that smart after all.”
Before he even processed what he was thinking, he quipped, “It’s okay, we’ll talk about your test later.” Paul immediately regretted saying those words. It’s not that Kevin didn’t deserve to have his ego knocked down a bit, but he knew it would only make the situation between David and Kevin worse in the long run.
A scowl crossed Kevin’s face, but it quickly morphed into a plastic, toothy grin. Paul knew what that smile meant: Kevin would find a way to get back at David and his teacher.
Once Kevin and his two goons left, Paul led David down the hall, into his classroom. His hope was that he could empower the boy to stand up for himself. He gestured for David to pull up a desk next to him and turned on the coffee maker at the corner of his desk. He sank into his squeaky red leather office chair, reached into a drawer, and plucked out a brown sugar Pop-Tart.
David sat cross-legged in the seat, put his elbows on his knees, and rested his head in his hands. In that position, he looked like he was in grade school, not high school. Paul offered him a piece of the Pop-Tart, but he shook his head.
David looked up at him with wide eyes. “This isn’t about my test, is it?” he asked nervously.
“No,” Paul said, trying to put him at ease. “It was perfect, just like all the other ones. If I hadn’t looked up your previous records, I would have thought you cheated.”
“I didn’t,” he said, concern evident on his face.
“I know. I know,” he said, putting up a hand to indicate everything was okay. “I checked with your previous teachers. They all said you’re the brightest student they’ve ever taught.”
The Italian Deception Page 5