The guard lifted his chin in the direction of the elevators. "Go on up. It's the third floor, suite 302."
Sam Westin swung open his office door the minute she stepped off the elevator and motioned her inside. Two rows of empty desks made a corridor down the center of the room. A copy machine, coffee maker, and refrigerator were jammed into one corner, and a paper shredder cranked through several documents.
Sam was shorter than Kara's six feet. A fringe of gray hair circled his otherwise bald dome. His round eyes were bright brown, and a neat black—and obviously dyed—mustache outlined his upper lip.
He closed the door and gestured for her to follow him into the room.
Kara handed him the manila envelope. "So," she said, trying to sound casual, "this is going to be better than the first, you think?" She wanted him to believe she was in on whatever the deal was.
He eyed her; Kara kept her gaze steady.
"Yeah, I think so."
She tilted her head with interest. "You do okay on the last one?"
He ripped open the envelope and grunted an affirmative.
"Me too."
He chuckled.
"Of course, not as well as our mutual friend, but good enough."
He flipped through the papers and then stopped on one. Kara tried to make out the upside-down words, but couldn't.
Seeming to notice her interest, Sam gathered the pages and returned them to the envelope. Then, with his arm on her elbow, he steered her back toward the door. "Thanks for the delivery. When you see our friend, tell him I said thanks."
"I will." She faced him. "How long before it all comes together?"
"Couple of days, I guess. Make sure you pick up a Wall Street Journal and keep an eye out." Westin winked at her, hand on the doorknob.
Kara stepped through the threshold and asked the question she'd wanted to ask for days: "You don't think we'll get caught?" If this was legal, on the up and up, then his answer should be one of surprise or puzzlement.
"Nah, there's no direct path." He frowned. "You were careful, right?" He broke eye contact and peered up and down the hall. "Right?"
"Absolutely." Her heart bounced against her rib cage.
Kara hurried down the hall, took the stairs to the lobby, and went out the front door. She waved to the waiting taxi. Her anxiety remained at threat level orange as the driver took her back to Harlem. She thought about the conversation with Westin. There was no mistaking it—Zach and Westin were doing something illegal, and now she was involved. She clenched and unclenched her hands. The minute she got home, she would confront Zach. What would she say? It was important not to accuse him of anything. She replayed the conversation again in her mind. Maybe there was a simple explanation. It sounded shady, but maybe it was just business and they were cautious because of enemies. If that were the case, then why would he say there was no direct path? She knew why.
As the cab made a right onto her street, Kara saw the flashing lights of a police car parked in front of her brownstone. An officer stood behind a crooked line of yellow posts that blocked their way.
"Lady, I gotta let you out here." The cab driver sounded irritated.
Kara settled the bill and gave him a large tip, which was what Zach would have done, and it was his money. She climbed out of the taxi. People stood around in small clusters on the opposite side of the street from her house, small children darting around. A woman much younger than Kara held a baby on her hip; she grabbed one of the running boys.
"Excuse me, officer." Kara approached a middle-aged street cop in a bulky jacket. "I live here. What's going on?"
"There's been a homicide. You got ID?"
She dug out her driver's license, something she used only for ID since she didn't own a car. He scrutinized her face and waved her through the barricade. The sky was lighter than when she had left as the wind-nudged storm clouds had uncovered the sun.
The young woman with the baby on her hip said to an older woman wearing a tightly twisted scarf on her head, "I can't believe this happened."
"Can happen anywhere. I don't let my kids outta my sight."
Kara approached her home, spotting Danny and his partner talking to some of the neighbors.
"Hi."
Danny swung around. "Hey, girl, you doing okay?"
"What's happened? Is Mrs. E. all right?"
His face scrunched. "Mrs. E.? Yeah, she's inside." Then his expression registered understanding. "She's fine. They shot a kid—ten-year-old boy. Looks like an innocent caught a stray; we're waiting for the homicide guys."
Relief swept through her. Then she felt horrible because a child was dead. "What's his name?"
"Barry White, believe it or not."
Kara felt her knees sag.
"You know him?"
"He was one of my students. He lives in the group home on 127th. What was he doing over here?"
"Don't know."
"He was a good boy." A picture of his sweet face took shape—one of the children her imaginary fund would help. She'd signed up for DonorChoose.org, the online charity that helps teachers buy supplies. "Barry wrote the nicest thank you note with illustrations and—"
Danny grabbed her just as she began to sink. "Let's get you inside." He led her to their stoop. "You gonna be okay?"
"It's so unfair."
"Yeah."
She sat down.
"So, no folks?"
"Waters," Danny's partner Dawn interrupted, glaring at Kara.
"I gotta go talk to more neighbors, find out if anyone saw anything." He raised his hand to Dawn, two fingers asking for time. "I'll be back as soon as I can. We'll find the idiot who did this."
Kara watched the two officers move into the crowd.
Sweet Barry White. Who would hurt him? Danny had called him an innocent. He was. She stood and trudged up the steps to the door, pulled out her keys. The neighborhood was quiet, safe. With trembling hands, she shoved the key into the lock. Could Barry's murder have anything to do with her stalker? The door cracked open. Hairs on the nape of her neck rose—she turned. There he was, standing among the throng of black and brown neighbors, the man from the street and the subway. This time he was in a jogging suit, with a red sweatband encircling his head.
Kara searched frantically for Danny in the crowd but he'd moved farther down the block, out of earshot. The man appeared unconcerned that she'd seen him. He stood there watching, as if he was waiting for her to do something.
"Is that you, Kara?" Mrs. E. called from somewhere inside the house. "Come inside and close that door."
Without thinking, Kara ignored her and walked down the steps, her keys still in her hand. She was so tired of being afraid. All her life, she'd been frightened: afraid of her mother's illness, and then her grandma's; afraid of the children at the group homes; afraid her family would never come and claim her; afraid no one would ever adopt her; and, mostly, afraid of Big Jim Smyth. Well, this man, this stalker, was not going to intimidate her anymore. She wasn't sure if Barry White's murder was motivating her, or if there was even a connection, but it didn't matter. She moved around the barricades and crossed the street. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a uniformed cop approaching her.
"Hey you, get back."
Kara kept walking.
The jogger had his arms crossed in front of his chest, legs spread wide. He stood a few feet from a small group of elderly neighbors who were friends with Mrs. E. The cop must not have cared too much because he didn't interfere as Kara moved toward the jogger, her blood pumping. Then an amazing thing happened: without breaking eye contact, the man backed up. Determined not to lower her gaze, Kara stared, in what she hoped was an angry, unafraid expression. In spite of the cold, sweat trickled from her armpits, but Kara didn't stop. The man backed up faster, bumped into one of the women, muttered sorry, and then turned and jogged away from the crowd. She saw him round the corner onto Lenox Avenue, the wide boulevard half a block away. For several moments, she watched the corner, saw the
traffic light change from green to yellow to red. Should she follow him? Her body answered her. Now that the immediate danger had passed, so did her courage. Her mouth had gone dry, and her heart was still racing. She took a deep breath. It still had felt good, even for just a few minutes. It had felt powerful.
Kara walked back to the house. It was time to confront Zach.
* * *
As Kara put the kettle on, the doorbell rang and the grandfather clock chimed four o'clock. Although the sun hadn't quite set, it was pretty dark out, so she had already switched on all the lights in the house, which comforted her. She walked to the front door curious rather than worried, cracked it—leaving on the chain so that no one could force their way inside—and peered into a face she knew well.
This time he was dressed in a navy-blue suit. No sign of the jogging outfit or gray raincoat—an unbuttoned black topcoat had taken its place. Up close she could see his buzz cut was sprinkled with gray, and his eyes—the dark eyes that had stared at her in the bar—were inquisitive, and more intelligent than evil. Standing next to him was another man, shorter, also dressed in a navy suit, with a white shirt, striped burgundy tie, and open topcoat. He had smooth Asian features marred by a jagged scar on his left cheek.
The temperature had dropped. Kara pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders and waited for him to explain himself.
"Good evening, Ms. Lawrence." He held up a large identification pack encased in plastic. "I'm Special Agent Boyd, and this is Special Agent Woo. May we come in?"
The FBI. Kara scrutinized the photos and then the faces of the men. Whatever trouble Zach was in, it was bad—and she was in it too. She removed the door chain, stepped back, and let them enter.
The courage she'd felt a few hours earlier didn't surge back as she led them into the living room. "May I take your coats? Would you like some water? I have the kettle on, would you prefer tea?" Without waiting for an answer, she left them in the living room and walked into the kitchen. Over her shoulder she said, "I'm sorry we don't have any real coffee. Would you like some instant?"
"Ms. Lawrence," Special Agent Woo spoke in a commanding voice, "we don't want anything, thank you." They were standing in the center of the living room, still wearing their topcoats. "We only need a few minutes of your time."
Kara lifted her head and squared her shoulders.
"We have reason to believe," Special Agent Boyd said, "that Mr. Zachary Lowe is involved in insider trading, along with a man named Sam Westin." Steam hissed from the radiator. "We're not sure how many others are involved—we're hoping you can tell us."
Special Agent Woo approached her, stepping into her personal space. "Do you want to sit down?"
"No." She brushed strands of hair from her eyes.
"We've been following you for some time."
Kara tried to swallow but her throat had closed. She forced her mouth open to breathe.
Agent Boyd watched her. Said nothing, didn't move.
Should she "lawyer up," as they said on cop shows, and demand to see her lawyer? What attorney? Maybe she should wait for Danny to come home, tell the agents she had a friend who was a police officer. She took a deep breath, hoping they couldn't sense her fear, but she knew that generating alarm was their intention.
Agent Boyd said, "I know you were aware of us. We wanted you to know we were there. We have times, dates, photographs."
Of what? She hadn't done anything.
"We need your help," he continued.
Agent Woo walked around the living room, as if searching for something.
"There is nothing you can do to help Mr. Lowe," said Agent Boyd in a matter-of-fact voice. "We know what he did, it's just a matter of time before we arrest him. We need to know the names of his accomplices."
Kara found her voice. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Everybody's always innocent. Funny how that goes."
Special Agent Boyd's eyes darkened. They now had the menacing quality Kara remembered from the bar. "Tell us the truth, Ms. Lawrence: you're either guilty or you'll be a protected informant. You need to decide and you need to do it now."
The front door slammed shut and Danny strode into the room. "Boy, what a mess. Whole neighborhood's on edge." He pulled up abruptly. "What's going on?" His hand was on the grip of his holstered gun. "Kara, you okay?"
Thank goodness he was here. At least he'd know if she needed a lawyer. Kara's face flushed. What would he think of her, getting into trouble with the FBI because of Zach?
Agent Boyd ignored Danny's entrance. "Here's my card."
Kara took it.
"Don't keep us waiting."
She examined its official lettering, his name, phone number.
"Call no later than Monday night. After midnight on Monday, both this offer and you turn into pumpkins."
"You guys on the job?" Danny asked.
"Ask Ms. Lawrence." Agent Boyd brushed past the policeman.
Agent Woo followed him, but not before turning back to Kara. "I wouldn't mention this visit to Mr. Lowe if I were you. If you do, you're as guilty as he is, and you'll be treated accordingly."
The two agents left.
"Who the hell are they? What did they want with you? Are those the guys who were following you?"
He was using his interrogator voice. Kara knew she was in real trouble, so she told Danny about the two envelopes Zach had asked her to deliver.
"What were you thinking?"
"He said it was a business deal."
"Why would you do it? He could have hired a courier, or sent someone from his office."
"I trusted him."
He paced around. "You have until Monday to do what, snitch?"
She winced.
"What happens after that?"
His words pounded down on her like the blows from out of nowhere whenever Big Jim got mad. She felt stunned and bruised. Did Danny think she was guilty of some crime? He obviously wouldn't help her now. She had to take care of herself. Without another word, Kara sprinted up the stairs.
"Wait, damn it. Let's talk about this."
She reached the third floor, ran into her bedroom, closed and locked the door behind her. What made her think Danny would or could help her? Why should he believe her? The power she had felt earlier was not even a memory.
Kara lay down on her bed and stared at the water stain on the ceiling. All her life, the only person she could rely on was herself—except for one time. Liz Kennelly, the social worker in charge of Kara's case, had come and removed all the children from the Smyth house. She'd placed Tuesday, Flyer, and Kara in the group home, which was an awful place. But at least no one was beating and raping them.
Tears pooled. She thought about Barry White. At least Flyer, Tuesday, and Kara had each other. When bad things happened, they figured out ways to cope, to stay alive. She'd have to do that now.
Marty jumped on the bed, rubbed against her, and purred. She stroked his fur, reached for the photo of her family—her real family—pulled off her glasses, closed her eyes, and used the one coping mechanism that had worked for her all her life, like whenever Big Jim had climbed on top of her or shoved his penis her mouth. Tears brimmed over. She conjured up her imaginary life: she was with her father and Alex; her mother and grandmother were both alive and well; Tuesday was there and Flyer was healthy, happy. She remembered how warm and safe it had felt in her mother's arms, resting against the cushion of her breasts. The sun shone in her imagined world, and her father—tall and wiry, his bow-shaped lips curled into a crooked smile—came and snuggled next to them. She couldn't hear his voice, but she felt the hardness of his muscles and believed the love in his eyes. Alex crawled onto his lap too, and their father held them both close.
Kara's comfort was short-lived. Special Agent Boyd's threats shoved her fantasy world aside. Escape needed to happen in the real world this time. Kara opened her eyes. She'd have to find out the truth from Zach without letting him know about the FBI, but how?
K
ara got up from the bed and changed into her workout clothes—there was too much to think about this evening; tomorrow was another day. She mounted her stationary bike. Pedaling as fast as she could, she tried not to think about anything but the next programmed hill.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Alex loved Saturday mornings when she could sleep in without feeling guilty. She would lie in bed, click on the television, and watch an old movie she'd seen at least fifteen times. Last Saturday she'd rewatched Love Actually, a story about relationships woven together with humor and pathos. Often a cold slice of Friday-night pizza and a glass of orange juice held her over until she struggled up, surveyed the chaos of her three-room apartment, and debated cleaning up or going to the gym. Most Saturdays she chose a trip to Starbucks instead.
This Saturday, however, was different. First, she had to get up early because she and Vanessa were going to the Bronx in search of Kara. Also, the day before had been rough. While her father had made it through the night without incident, the hospital staff was still cautious about his prognosis. Alex was also worried about Vanessa.
They had left the hospital together the evening before, each going to their separate cars. In spite of the raw evening air, Alex had watched her sister climb into her BMW, start the car, sink back into the leather seats, and close her eyes. Clearly unaware of Alex's scrutiny, Vanessa reached to turn on the radio, shook pills from a vial, popped them into her mouth, and washed them down with bottled water.
Ever since the incident six months earlier, Alex had become increasingly concerned about Vanessa. Watching her swallow those pills brought Alex's fears back.
Vanessa worked as a personal shopper for some of New York's wealthiest men. She found just the right clothes for them, their wives, and their girlfriends, at the very best stores. Tailors accompanied her to her clients' homes, making adjustments on the spot. Business boomed. On the downside, Vanessa was having an affair with one of those customers, George Arthur, a divorced corporate executive who was three times married.
One night last September, Vanessa and George had a fight, a rare occurrence in Vanessa's orderly world. In fact, Alex couldn't remember ever hearing Vanessa raise her voice. It wasn't worth it, according to Vanessa. Their mother always screamed; Vanessa opted for quiet control. Not this time.
Getting It Right Page 8