Was he looking for a whole car. The fuck was it with these guys?
Christos stared him down. 'You secondhand dealers all failed comedians? What d'you do, get together after hours? Shoot the shit, and share jokes?'
See if that didn't put a dent in the little guy's grin.
But Christos didn't wait for his reaction. He was already scanning the lot. And wouldn't you know it. Right away he saw a set of wheels he liked.
It was an '85 Coupe de Ville. A big mother. Black vinyl top. Tons of shiny chrome. And it was the exact same icy blue as his new jacket.
How about that.
He went over and walked circles around it, the little guy in tow. Kicked the Armor-Ailed tires. Inspected the body for rust. Bent down and looked in through the windows at big black leather seats and a dashboard like a 747.
But what sold him on it was the color. That icy blue. Hell, it was like a sign. Matching car and coat.
Then and there, he decided to buy it—depending on how it ran.
The smarmy little guy said, 'Wanna take her on a test drive?' Anxious to make a sale.
Christos decided to play it real cool. 'Naw. Not yet.'
Besides, the Caddy wasn't what he was really after. Oh, he'd buy it, yeah. But that was just a fringe benefit. The real reason was to throw off suspicion.
The way he had it figured, if he bought one car from a dealer, this de Ville for instance, no one would connect him with the car he was really after—the getaway car he was scouting around for. The one he'd have to come back for at night and steal.
It had to be a vehicle nobody would notice, like that silver Tercel over there, at the edge of the lot. Parked where you could drive right off with it.
But first he'd have to take the getaway out for a spin, make sure it wouldn't die on him. And, since grand theft auto wasn't exactly his specialty, it couldn't have any alarm systems that needed disconnecting, or freezing with liquid nitrogen. Also, he'd have to make a wax impression of the key, since he wasn't good at using a slim jim, either, and didn't have the tools or the know-how to punch out the ignition and yank the steering column locks.
Christos turned to the little guy. 'Before I take any test drives, I wanna know one thing.'
'Sure. Shoot it by me.'
Christos winced inwardly at the choice of words. He didn't want to be reminded of any shooting. That was a bridge he'd have to cross soon enough.
But keeping his cool, he said, 'What kinda discount do I get if I pay cash?'
50
Home sweet home!
The double-width townhouse on East Sixty-ninth Street had never looked so good to Dorothy-Anne. Inside, the house was very quiet, very still. The children were all in school, and the staff were all busy doing their jobs.
Now is as good a time to start as any.
She headed straight upstairs to her bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and stripped of her clothes. She padded into the bathroom on bare feet, splashed her face with cold water, then dried off vigorously. Finished, she walked back through the bedroom to her dressing room, where she grabbed clothes. Simple, comfortable gym sweats. Just the thing for the job, she thought. Finally, she slipped her feet into comfy old flat mules.
That done, she was ready. I know what I have to do, she thought. What I must do.
Even though she felt racked with guilt over her night with Hunt, strangely enough, their intimacy had somehow finally propelled her to face this onerous task. It had been three months since Freddie's death, and it was time she went through his clothes, and then down the hall to clean out his office.
Yes, she thought, is is time now . . . time for a sense of closure. She knew that it was a task she couldn't possibly leave to somebody else, but even so, she didn't know when she'd ever dreaded anything so much.
She squared her shoulders and strode purposefully over to Freddie's large dressing room and put a hand on the handle and turned. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Tears, unexpected and sudden, sprang to her eyes.
She reached up with a finger and brushed at them, standing there peering into the darkness, breathing in her dead husband's scent, a scent still very much alive in here.
It's time, she thought again. Time to put the past behind me.
With a strengthened resolve, she quickly selected a few sweatshirts and baseball caps emblazoned with various team logos, and carried them out to the bedroom, where she laid them down on the bed.
They may be the least valuable things in his wardrobe, she thought, but they will be the most treasured by the children.
She went back to the dressing room and picked up some empty shoe boxes off the floor, then began emptying the drawers in the built-in chest of loose tie clasps, engraved belt buckles, money clips, wallets, and such.
Then she began to take out the extremely valuable dress sets—cuff links and studs, all in their individual leather boxes. She opened the first one. A Verdura eighteen-karat gold, enamel, and diamond 'Night and Day' set. Day in turquoise enamel with gold maps, and night in midnight blue enamel with diamond stars. Verdura baroque pearl, diamond, and sapphire cuff links. On and on and on. All of these gifts from her. Freddie would never have gone out and bought them for himself.
She began shoveling these precious objects and many others into the empty shoe boxes. When she was finished, she carried them out to the bedroom and placed the boxes on a chest.
Looking at them, she thought, Someday the children can pick and choose what they want, or the whole lot will go to Christie's to be auctioned.
She returned to the dressing room and had a last look around inside, then switched off the light. Just as she was closing the door, she heard her name being called out.
'Dorothy-Anne!' Venetia called. 'Girlfriend! Where are you?'
'I'm in here,' Dorothy-Anne called back. 'The bedroom.'
Venetia swept in, a vision in a cloud of oyster silk. 'Ohhhh! Welcome back!' She rushed toward Dorothy-Anne with her arms spread out, and grasped her in a tight hug.
Dorothy-Anne laughed and hugged her back. 'Oh, Venetia, you are a sight for sore eyes.' She stood back looking at her friend. 'You look beautiful. As usual.'
Venetia suddenly caught sight of the sweatshirts and baseball caps on the bed, then saw the shoe boxes on the chest. The smile instantly disappeared from her face and she stared at Dorothy-Anne.
'You're finally doing it?' she asked softly. 'Clearing out his things?'
'Yes,' Dorothy-Anne answered her.
'Good girl,' Venetia said. She reached out and took one of Dorothy- Anne's hands in hers. 'I think it will make you feel better. Maybe not today, but soon.'
'It certainly isn't easy,' Dorothy-Anne said.
Venetia squeezed her hand and smiled. 'Is there anything I can do to help? I mean anything.'
'Oh . . . I don't know.' Dorothy-Anne hesitated. 'Not really. I—'
'Get real, girl,' Venetia broke in. 'This is Venetia, okay? Remember me? Your best friend? I'm in this with you. Now what? Tell me.'
'Well, I got everything out of his dressing room that I want. The rest gets packed up for pickup.'
'Done,' Venetia said. 'Where's it going? Goodwill? Salvation Army?'
'No,' Dorothy-Anne replied. 'I want it all to go to that thrift shop that benefits AIDS patients, whatever it's called.'
'Housing Works,' Venetia quickly responded. 'I'll call them for a pickup. Meanwhile, I know there are eighty million boxes down in the basement in a storage room. So I'll go down and rustle up some help with those. I'll have that dressing room empty before you can bat those beautiful eyes of yours.'
'Oh, Venetia, you're too much. Really.' Tears welled up in Dorothy- Anne's eyes again. 'I don't know what I'd do—'
'Shush,' Venetia said, hugging her again. 'Let's just get busy. Get the deal done.'
'Okay,' Dorothy-Anne said, extricating herself from Venetia's embrace. She wiped at her eyes. 'You're right. I'm going to be down the hall clearing out Freddie's office. If you ne
ed anything, I'll be there.'
She walked down the hall to Freddie's office, and had no sooner opened the door than she heard the shrieks of three boisterous children, then the thunder of their steps on the stairway. Nanny Florrie's admonishing voice followed them up the steps.
'Quiet with you now. Like a herd of elephants! And slow doon!'
Dorothy-Anne closed Freddie's office door again and quickly strode down the hall to the stairs. The moment she got there, Zack slammed straight into her.
'Mommie!' he yelped, throwing his arms around her tightly. 'Mommie! Mommie! Mommie!'
Behind him, Fred and Liz, wide grins on their faces, called out, 'Mom!' in unison.
Dorothy-Anne bent down and kissed Zack, then, one arm around his shoulder, she held the other out for Liz and Fred. Hugging and kissing them in turn, despite Zack's efforts to push them away.
Dorothy-Anne's heart swelled to bursting. Never had she heard such beautiful music as their squeals and bickering, their clamor for her attention.
Nanny Florrie finally arrived at the top of the stairs, huffing and puffing loudly, her face red with both exertion from the climb and exasperation with her charges.
'They'll be the death o' me,' she complained. 'Miss Venetia hae a nice surprise fer ye young'uns doonstairs in the basement. She says to tell ye that it involves a nice cash reward if ye get doon there in a hurry.'
Three sets of ears perked up.
Zack squealed 'Money, money, money!' and took off down the stairs, taking them three at a time.
Dorothy-Anne stood and watched them go, thinking that she must be the luckiest woman alive to have three such wonderful children. Then she turned and went back to Freddie's office.
She opened the door and switched on the light, then stood there for a few moments before closing the door behind her. Her eyes swept over Freddie's Jeffersonian hideaway, taking in its spare but luxurious appointments:
The highly polished oak floors and gleaming brass chandelier and wall sconces. The antique architect's table on which she saw plans spread out for Eden Isle. The old framed architectural drawings on the pistachio green walls. Louis XV chairs that may have belonged to Jefferson himself. The George II mahogany kneehole desk on which was perched his desktop computer. Surprisingly, it didn't look out of place in this timeless room.
She walked first to his desk and looked down. The breath caught in her throat when she saw his desk calendar: December 15, 1997, it read. The day of his death.
Bracing herself on the desk, Dorothy-Anne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. I've got to go on, she told herself. It's time to finish what I've begun.
Opening her eyes, she looked down at his appointments for that day and noticed that there was a note, scratched out in Freddie's unmistakable script: 'Copy slush file to diskette. Take to Aspen!!! Call C. to confirm.' Followed by a telephone number.
What's the slush file? she wondered. Why take it to Aspen? And who is this C.? All this on the day he died.
Well, there's one way to find out. She picked up the telephone and dialed the number. After a moment she heard the click of a machine and a female voice came on the line, simply stating that the caller should leave a message. Dorothy-Anne left her name and telephone number and hung up.
Now her curiosity was more aroused than ever. A woman's voice on the machine. Was she 'C.'? She made a mental note to call the number again later, if she hadn't received a call back.
She began rifling through the neat stack of mail stacked on the lower left-hand corner of the desk. Nearly all of it, she noted, was requests for charitable contributions. There was very little of a personal nature. A few invitations, to parties, to gallery openings, auction previews, and such. Dorothy-Anne picked up the stack and unceremoniously dumped it into the wastebasket.
Next, she went through a stack of papers perfectly aligned in a mahogany tray on the upper left-hand side of the desk. Mostly copies of faxes relating to Eden Isle. All of it, she was certain, with backup copies at Hale headquarters. She dumped them in the wastebasket as well.
Finally, she began opening desk drawers. Nearly everything else she found was business related, all information that she was certain, once again, would have copies at Hale headquarters. She starting dumping as she went, quickly eyeballing everything first.
That was how she almost failed to see an ordinary-looking manila envelope with no labels on it whatsoever. Its weight was suddenly what attracted her attention. She opened the envelope and saw that it contained a single computer diskette. On it a label read 'Slush File.'
Dorothy-Anne felt a shiver of anticipation rush through her, and the hair at the nape of her neck stood up. For some reason she felt that she was on the brink of a discovery, of solving some mystery she hadn't known existed in the first place.
She looked over at Freddie's desktop; its darkened, blank monitor sat there staring back at her. She knew very little about computers, but she knew someone who knew a great deal.
But what if there's something on the diskette that she shouldn't see?
She decided that she would just have to risk it. Freddie, after all, had been the most trustworthy person she'd ever known. She couldn't imagine that there would be anything his own wife and daughter shouldn't see on this mysterious diskette.
Dorothy-Anne picked up the house phone and punched out Nanny Florrie's number. When she answered, she told her to send Liz upstairs to her father's office immediately.
It was only moments before there was a knock at the door. 'Mom?' Liz's voice was very soft and full of apprehension, as if she were worried about her mother on the other side of the door.
'Come on in, sweetie,' Dorothy-Anne answered her.
Liz opened the door and came into the office. 'What is it, Mom?' She looked relieved to see that Dorothy-Anne was okay.
Dorothy-Anne looked over at her. 'Liz, you've got to help me with something.' She held up the diskette. 'I found this in your father's desk. I don't know what's on this diskette, but it was more or less hidden, and coded, and it's something I know nothing about.'
Liz grinned widely. 'No problem. It's a cinch!' She went over to the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down. Then she reached over, booted up the computer, took the proffered diskette from Dorothy-Anne's hand, and slipped it in the drive.
'Uh-oh,' Liz said after a moment. 'You know Daddy's password?'
'No.' Dorothy-Anne's heart sank. 'I have no idea.'
'Don't worry, Mom,' Liz said encouragingly. 'I know Daddy . . . knew Daddy,' she corrected herself. 'And I betcha I can crack it in minutes.'
Liz tucked her head down and concentrated on the keyboard with grim determination.
Dorothy-Anne watched over Liz's shoulder as she hit keys, typing away quickly, expertly. Not for the first time, she marveled that this wondrous creature could be her daughter.
Occasionally Liz would stop, scratch her head, then continue, fingers flying.
It seemed mere seconds before Liz shouted: 'Voila!' She beamed triumphantly up at her mother. 'Slush File,' she said.
'How did you do it?' Dorothy-Anne asked excitedly.
'I told you,' Liz replied. 'I knew my dad. It had to be a password that had to do with us. All of us. So I tried all sort of things. Our names combined various ways, our initials. Finally, knowing how Dad thought, I tried F plus D equals five. Freddie plus Dorothy-Anne equals five, with the three of us children. It's a simple equation, streamlined, includes all of us. And that was it.'
Dorothy-Anne was utterly amazed. She encircled Liz with her arms from behind and bent over and planted a kiss on the top of her head.
'You are one of the great wonders of the world,' she said.
'No,' Liz said matter-of-factly, 'but I'm glad you think so.' She grinned, then said, 'Let's see what we've got.'
Dorothy-Anne peered at the monitor closely. Under the file title, she immediately noticed the same telephone number she'd seen scratched out on Freddie's calendar. And next to it a name: Caroline Springer-Vos.
She quickly checked his calendar to make certain she was correct. Yes! The phone number was the same. And this Caroline Springer-Vos must be 'C.' Yes.
Caroline Springer-Vos.
Who was she? Why did her name ring a faraway bell? Dorothy-Anne didn't know, but she was sure that she had heard the name before.
Looking back at the monitor, she saw the file name, 'Slush,' at the top of the page, followed by the name and telephone number. Immediately following this were columns with headings.
On the right were company names, abbreviated as they appeared on the various stock exchanges. She noticed DIS for Walt Disney, SRV for Service Corporation International, IBM for International Business Machines, of course. There was Intel, Microsoft, Netscape. And on and on and on, dozens of company names, primarily blue chip, but, she noticed, there was a smattering of names she'd never heard of before. To the right of these were columns of number of shares purchased and dollar figured paid.
Liz scrolled the file on the screen without her mother asking her to, and Dorothy-Anne looked at the monitor with a mixture of awe, astonishment, and growing excitement.
The list went on for page after page after page. Dorothy-Anne saw that there were year-end summaries going all the way back to the year she and Freddie were married. These included total amounts invested, percentage return, dividends paid, and she noted that all profits were reinvested.
'Look, Mom,' Liz shrieked. 'The most recent year-end summary.' She looked up at her mother. 'Get a load of this. Value of investments to date.'
Dorothy-Anne peered at the monitor closely, and saw where Liz had the cursor pointed. And was stunned.
Seventy-three million dollars!
Could this be right? Could she be imagining this? Or was she completely wrong about what this entire file meant?
For she was certain she knew exactly what it was: Freddie had invested nearly every penny of his salary—since they had first married.
A million dollars a year.
As she stood there trying to digest this information, Dorothy-Anne thought back to conversations they'd had in the distant past about Freddie's salary. Despite his protests, they'd each drawn a million dollars a year in salary. But Freddie had always said that he could never spend it, that he had no use for it with all the company benefits: cars, planes, generous expense accounts, and staying in their own hotels when he traveled.
Second Love Page 52