Getting It Right

by Karen E. Osborne

  "Mr. Lowe's office," a no-nonsense voice answered.

  "May I please speak with him? It's an emergency." She tried to steady her breathing.

  "May I ask who's calling?"

  "Kara Lawrence. Please, I must speak with him right now."

  Kara searched the faces in the café but she didn't see the man. At six feet tall, she knew she stood out, towering over the women and most of the men. With the same self-consciousness she'd had as a teenager, she folded her frame from the middle, rounded her shoulders, and ducked her head. She felt her breakfast—or lack thereof—churn in her stomach.

  The woman put her on hold, and soft music played.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Lowe is not available. Would you like to leave a message with me or on his voice mail?"

  Kara pushed the red hang-up button, her eyes filling up with tears. Why wouldn't he take her call? His assistant must not have conveyed the urgency. Kara thought about calling back and demanding that the woman get him on the phone. Instead, she dialed the number of the 17th Precinct.

  "Officer Waters, please." Her legs sagged and she felt light-headed, so she leaned against a wall that was covered in questionable substances. Zach was probably in a meeting, and had asked the secretary not to interrupt him, so she didn't tell him. The desk sergeant on the phone asked her to hold on.

  "Officer Waters."

  "It's Kara. Some man is following me, and I'm scared, and I'm sorry to bother you."

  "Where are you? I'm on my way."

  "I think I'm going to be sick."

  She could hear him shout rapid-fire instructions: "Patch this to my cell, sarge." Then to Kara: "Are you someplace where there are other people?"

  "Yes."

  "Stay put. Give me the address."

  "On the east side." She scanned the shop again—the man was nowhere in sight. Now the coffee shop, filled with the sounds of friendly conversation, didn't seem sinister. People laughed, newspapers crackled, and voices ordered coffee and bagels to go.

  "Do you know what street?"

  Over the phone, she could hear the door slam, the engine of his patrol car turn over, and the seriousness of his tone. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called. I just got scared." She started to cry.

  "Kara, ask someone there for the address."

  Getting back on the train felt impossible. She had to steady herself just to remain upright, and she could still feel her intestines cramping. She got the address from a man with a strong Russian accent and gave it to Danny.

  The old woman flushed and opened the bathroom door. The smell, however, changed Kara's mind about going inside. Instead, she found an empty stool and ordered a cup of tea. Most stalkers were actually harmless, weren't they?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alex drove under the speed limit. Patches of ice covered the road. She and Sean took turns opening the office at eight a.m., and today was hers. Unfortunately, she and Vanessa had stayed up until three in the morning before the night nurse convinced them to go home. Now Alex was way late, again.

  It took forty minutes to get from home to their White Plains office during the morning rush. At nine thirty, however, traffic was light and she made it in thirty. The parking lot was full so she pulled into a Visitors Only spot. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed she looked as poorly as she felt: dark smudges outlined bloodshot eyes; their violet irises faded. She grabbed her tangled hair and, using a rubber band she found in the cup holder, pulled it into a ponytail. It would have to do.

  McCormick and Lawrence Graphic Designs shared space with thirty other small businesses in a multitenant office building just off the Hutchinson River Parkway at the intersection of the Cross Westchester Expressway. The rent was a little pricey, but it was a good address that gave the business legitimacy. Alex took the stairs, hurried down the hall, and pushed open the front door.

  Sean was sitting at Gracie's desk—she was ­­­their half-time receptionist, customer-service rep, and office manager. He glanced up from the computer screen. "Nice of you to drop by."

  "Good morning," Alex said, ignoring his sarcasm.

  A former college basketball player, Sean still appeared fit at fifty years old. He was handsome in an unkempt sort of way, the 1800s swirl of his mustache adding panache. They had met when Alex was a graduate student at NYU's Wagner Business School. She interned for the firm where Sean worked, and they had hit it off even though he criticized her more than he complimented her. He had a good eye and strong technical skills, and he said that Alex had a lot of "creative promise." He became her mentor. It was only natural that when Alex decided to hang her shingle, she sought out Sean for advice. This led to a revelation that Sean had always wanted to work for himself, and thus the birth of their little company.

  Whenever Alex complained about Sean to Vanessa, which was often, her sister pronounced him dull, untalented, and a drag on the business. "You're the franchise; you don't need him." None of that was true. Alex was good at marketing and graphic design, and Sean provided most of the technical expertise and made sure the invoices got out on time. He dealt with all things financial and unpleasant. He balanced her out.

  He could also be her knight, coming to her rescue more than once over the years. Alex recalled an incident from just a few months ago. She had been sitting at her desk trying to solve a complex design problem. Deep in thought, she was toying with a crystal bear Gracie had given her for her birthday. On the umpteenth toss, just as a solution came to mind, the bear slipped from her hand, hit the edge of the desk, and shattered. Alex bent to the floor to retrieve the pieces, and as she lifted one of the larger shards, she noticed droplets of blood pulsing from her wrist. Perhaps it was the amount of blood, or the childhood memory of her mother's cut wrists, that made her knees buckle. The glass slivers and chunks she'd just picked up slipped from her fingers. She must have cried out as she hit the floor because the next thing she remembered was Sean lifting her and racing down the stairs as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

  "Stay awake, kiddo, don't pass out on me." He'd kicked open the outer door with his foot.

  Once in his car, they zigzagged through traffic to the hospital. Sean had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her throbbing wrist, staunching the blood flow.

  "Did you hear the one about the guy who asked why golf is called golf? Because oh shit was taken . . . Did you watch Jimmy Fallon last night? Let me see if I can remember how it went."

  They laughed a lot that night. Sean didn't even know how hilarious he was. In the past, he'd made her laugh so hard her stomach ached, but not because the stories he told were funny. He botched most jokes—rushed them, forgot the punch lines. It was just that he tried so hard. Sometimes he acted out all of the parts, jumped around in uncoordinated abandon. That night he stayed with her, convinced the doctors she hadn't tried to kill herself, drove her home, and spent the night on the couch, just in case.

  Other times, he did just the right thing in his own peculiar way. After a difficult fight with her mother last week, Sean offered an imitation of Judy that was spot on. By the end of it, Alex had forgotten how upset she'd been.

  Sean now cleared his throat loud enough to bring Alex back to the present.

  "I know you're worried. I'll call Jonas."

  "You mean you didn't call him yesterday?"

  "Damn it, Sean, ease up."

  "He's practically our only client."

  "I've got a lot going on."

  Sean curled his lips under so that all she could see was the oversized mustache.

  "I'm sorry, okay? I need a little sympathy. I'll call him."

  "Fine," he said, drawing out the vowel sound. "So how is your father?"

  Alex sat down at her desk and swiveled her chair so she partially faced Sean. "They're running tests." She powered up her computer. "I better read my e-mail and get to this Frankel job." His silence made her turn back to him. He looked hurt. "We can talk at lunchtime, okay?"

  Without a word, Sean left her offic
e. It was quite confusing. Most of the time, Alex wasn't sure what she had said or did to make him upset.

  She picked up her phone and called her father's private number at the hospital.

  "When are you coming back?" her mother demanded.

  "After work, around—"

  "I can't manage these disrespectful people. You need to be here now."

  "Mom, who's being disrespectful?"

  "The helper people, I just told you."

  Alex knew this conversation would not advance in a productive manner, so she promised to speak with the head nurse when she visited later that day. Then she hung up. No way was she going to call the nurse with her mother's complaint. "Helper people, jeez," she muttered to herself.

  Next, Alex read and responded to all of her urgent e-mails. It was eleven a.m. before she had a chance to call Jonas Frankel. But she called Martin Dawes instead.

  "Well, Alexandra, to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?"

  Martin Dawes and her father had been friends since law school, so he knew Alex before she was "a fully formed thought," as he was fond of saying nearly every time he saw her.

  "I need your help, and my dad suggested I call you."

  "I'll do my best."

  "He asked me to find my half-sister, the one he put up for adoption." There was a long pause on the other end. "Mr. Dawes, are you still there?"

  She could imagine his shocked expression. Formal in his manner, Martin Dawes reminded Alex of a prep school headmaster on an ivy-covered New England campus.

  He harrumphed a couple of times before he responded: "Why would your father make such a request?"

  He clearly thought she was making this up. She explained about his heart attack, that this was a sickbed wish, and her plan to start with the house in the Bronx. "It's important to him," she concluded. "Please help us, my dad said he could always count on you." She couldn't believe she'd used the count on you phrase. She hoped it didn't irritate Mr. Dawes as much as it did her.

  "Heart attack? How is he doing?"

  "Touch and go; I'm sure he'll be okay." Her voice caught.

  Papers shuffled. She could almost hear him weighing her news. Finally, he cleared his throat again. "Of course, let me get you the particulars and I'll e-mail you this afternoon. Would that be satisfactory?"

  "I really appreciate it, thank you." Alex drew a deep breath.

  "Is there something else?"

  "As a matter of fact." She hadn't intended to quiz him; confidentiality was his middle name, but she needed to understand. "Do you know how all of this came about? The girl, I mean?"

  "You should ask your father."

  "He's not able to tell me much." This was almost true. "Lots of painkillers."

  The persistant silence on the other end of the phone reminded Alex of her conversations with Sean. She waited Martin Dawes out.

  "They met at a Washington event, as I recall."

  Alex remembered her dad saying he'd made frequent trips to the capital.

  "Your father had powerful political connections through old family ties in the beginning, but later through his own cult of personality."

  "He charms everyone."

  "Indeed. Anyway, he attended numerous events; the party affiliation did not matter. I believe the young woman in question worked for a New York congressman, but I don't recall who." Mr. Dawes made a nervous coughing sound before continuing, "There was never a question of him leaving your mother. Your father was, and continues to be, committed to her."

  Alex had always believed that but now she was less sure—an illegitimate child was pretty damning evidence to the contrary. "Is that what he told you at the time?"

  "Not in so many words."

  "Why do you think he betrayed her?"

  "Your father cares deeply about his family. Surely you agree, Alexandra."

  Alex did not respond.

  "You see, the child was African American, and that had to be a factor."

  He said this as if it explained everything, but it didn't. So what? She was his blood, his daughter, just like Alex.

  "And yes, your father made it clear to me, in word and deed, that your mother, your sisters, and you were his first priority."

  Alex remained quiet. She leaned back in the chair, pulled out a cigarette from an old pack stashed in her desk, and rolled it between her fingers. Were there other children? Was Kara the only one he'd left behind? Was her race the reason he abandoned her? Both Aunt Peggy and Martin Dawes made it sound like the real reason, but that couldn't be true. "Please, tell me about her."

  "I know very little. I sent the monthly checks for her care. That's really all I know, I'm sorry."

  "Did he ever visit her?" Alex asked, thinking about the photograph she'd found.

  "From time to time, I believe, in the beginning. Alex, you must ask your father these questions."

  Alex thanked him, gave him her e-mail address, and hung up. The muscle under her eye pulsed.

  An old photo of the Lawrence girls sat on her desk. Each of them stood slightly apart, dressed in their designer best; Alex, the tallest of the three, held Pigeon's hand and clutched a miniature purse in her other hand. Even then, Vanessa looked detached and Pigeon sad. Once again, Alex conjured up the image of the woman and the little girl, Kara. Not only did he visit her, but also, more troubling, he had taken Alex with him. Alex called Vanessa.

  "Are you still up for a trip to the Bronx?" Alex passed the cigarette under her nose and breathed in its dry, sweet smell.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Sean's head poking into her office. "Everything okay with Jonas?"

  She lowered the phone a fraction and whipped the cigarette behind her back. "Damn it." Then she lifted the phone back to her ear. "Oh, not you, Vanessa. Listen, I gotta go. See you at the hospital this evening." She placed the phone down slowly, reluctant to face Sean's unforgiving scowl.

  "Tell me you called him."

  She gave him an embarrassed shrug.

  "Some of us have to make a living. Some of us don't have Daddy's money waiting in the wings."

  "I can't believe you said that to me."

  "As if it isn't true."

  "You know the only way I get the money . . ." She couldn't finish the sentence. Sean knew she would inherit a chunk of money when her father died, but why would he bring it up at a time like this?

  "I didn't mean to be insensitive." His face turned bright red. "Call him, Alex, before we have no work." He slammed out of her office.

  Damn it. It was so easy to hurt him back. But of course he wasn't implying anything about her father dying. She pushed up from her chair to apologize to him, but halfway out the door, she stopped—the thing to do was make the call.

  As she waited for a connection, she took a deep drag on her unlit cigarette. Bits of tobacco went into her mouth and made her cough.

  "Jonas Frankel."

  "Hi, Jonas, it's Alex."

  "I expected your call yesterday, and my package today."

  "My father had a heart attack."

  "I'm sorry. Unfortunately, that doesn't change my financial needs."

  "I'll have it for you by the end of the day."

  Alex hung up, wondering how she'd manage that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Danny pushed into the shop, his partner close behind. Danny's hat was pulled low, his hand on the butt of his holstered gun, his jacket glistening with melted snow. He frowned, his eyes bright with concern. His partner, a short, square-shaped woman, blue-black hair tucked under her cap, checked out the shop and the people passing outside.

  Kara waved and he came over.

  "Let's get you out of here." He steered her to the warm squad car waiting out front, and the three of them climbed in, the female officer in the backseat.

  "Kara Lawrence, Dawn Teagle."

  The woman barely acknowledged the introduction.

  With a notepad in hand, Danny said, "You sounded terrified on the phone . . . Tell me what happened."

&
nbsp; Kara told him about the man at the bar, on the street, in the subway, and then today. As she explained each encounter, her anxiety rose.

  "What are you doing down here?" Danny knew her school was uptown.

  "I told you this morning, I had an errand to run." It felt like a lie. He stared at her. Maybe he could tell she hadn't told the whole truth, cops probably knew. She glanced away and then at her watch. "I'm going to be late for class."

  "I'll drive you." The notebook snapped closed. Over his shoulder he looked out the back window and then shoved the Crown Victoria cruiser into reverse.

  There was something in his voice that made her feel bad, disappointment perhaps, as if she'd let him down.

  Officer Teagle muttered, "Shit."

  Kara could see the reflection of her pale, unmade-up face in the rearview mirror. Officer Teagle caught her eye.

  "Waters, we'd better make time. We're way out of line here, and I'm not gonna get busted for her."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause you a problem."

  "Nothing to be sorry for, Kara," Danny said. Then to his partner, "Give her a break."

  The woman grunted but didn't say anything more.

  Danny wove through the crowded streets and made their way uptown. Kara stared out the water-streaked window. Bits of slush accumulated along the window's edge. She went over in her mind the times the stalker had appeared: it started on Thursday, the day Zach gave her the envelope. Except she'd had the same feeling days before. She tried to remember when she'd first felt it. Was it when Zach had asked her to deliver the first package? Zach should have taken her call, he should have been the one rescuing her. Once again, her eyes filled up.

  * * *

  Kara missed the morning briefing at school. All the teachers from each grade met once a week to discuss the students, share their progress, discuss any special needs or worries. Kara knew each of her students well. She met with their parents or guardians on a regular basis and understood each child's likes and fears. Only once before—when she had the flu—had she missed the weekly session. But today, thirty minutes late, she'd run to her first class and plunged right into the lesson.