The Accidental Audience

by Faith Wood

  She took a deep breath and tapped in Remington’s office number, preparing to be patched into voicemail.

  “Elite Real Estate—this is Alison.”

  “Good morning, Alison—Nicole Remington, please.”

  “Please hold.”

  The receptionist clicked off, offering Colbie the opportunity to listen to a litany of real estate properties on the market. Within seconds, a low-slung voice greeted her.

  “Good morning—this is Nicole Remington.” Her voice was deeper than Colbie expected, and surprisingly sultry.

  “Ms. Remington, my name is Colbie Colleen . . .” Colbie listened, opening her senses to everything she heard on the other end of the line before words—a short gasp, then silence. She continued. “I’m certain you know who I am, and why I’m contacting you.”

  Remington paused, uncertain of the appropriate response. “Yes . . .” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Colbie paused for effect, allowing her intuition to guide her. Because she entered the conversation without expectation, she recognized Remington’s single-worded answer was tinged with resignation.

  “It’s over, Ms. Remington. As it stands now, you’re in a heap of trouble—but, something tells me you’re not acting in your own interests. Am I right?”

  “Yes . . .” Again, her voice was barely audible.

  Colbie tuned into Remington, her mind’s eye revealing the symbol of a hamster in a cage with a wheel. The vision corroborated it was the right time to back her suspect into a corner—right then, Remington was trapped, and she knew it. Any attempt to disengage, and she would simply be spinning her wheels.

  “Look—I want to help you, but I need you to help me. How about if we meet this evening at Conlan’s Steak House at eight-thirty? Conlan’s was perfect—it hadn’t changed since the ‘50s, and Colbie considered it one of the gems of their city—quiet, and out of the way. “Do you know it?”

  “I do. I’ll meet you there at eight-thirty.” Remington sounded like a small child in trouble for leaving the back door open.

  “Excellent. I’m certain if we work together, we can achieve what needs to be done.” Colbie rang off, confident in Remington’s showing up. She has a lot to lose, she thought. She’ll give up Vincent . . .

  The steakhouse was just as Colbie remembered it. She hadn’t been there for about ten years, but it looked exactly the same—as she entered, red faux-leather booths lined the walls on each side, small tables positioned in the middle. Its smell was familiar—grilled steak lightly scented with mildew. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the dimmed light as she scanned the restaurant for Remington, but she hadn’t arrived. A woman of about sixty welcomed her, hand poised gracefully on the menus atop the hostess stand. As did the restaurant, the hostess appeared stuck in time, her hair stacked in a greying beehive.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “Two please—a booth in the back, perhaps.” The woman nodded, leading Colbie to a private booth perfect for a confidential meeting. She slid in to the middle of its curve as the hostess laid two menus on the edge of the table. “I’m waiting for someone—she’s tall, dark hair with a red streak, in her mid-thirties . . .” There was no need to say more. The woman nodded her understanding, and offered to send the cocktail waitress over to take her drink order. Not tonight, Colbie thought as she opened a menu. I need to have a clear mind . . .

  She focused on the front of the restaurant so she could assess Remington’s body language and posture as she entered. Colbie was confident once her suspect made it to the table, Remington would adopt a defense posture, and she wanted to study her before she steeled herself for an accusatory onslaught. Remington had no idea of what to expect from their meeting—all she knew was she was on the hot seat, and it behooved her to expect the worst.

  Five minutes later, Nicole Remington pulled open the heavy wooden door, appearing timid and unsure. Gone was the glitz and glam of the woman filled with confidence Colbie saw walking up the steps of the brownstone only a few weeks previous. Instead, Colbie witnessed a woman whose soul was owned by someone else, her thirty-five years long passed believability. Her hair was one color, the playful cherry streaks replaced with something more conservative, and she appeared shorter than Colbie remembered—then again, compared to her own diminutive frame, anyone seemed taller than she.

  Pretending to look at the menu, Colbie analyzed Remington’s demeanor as she spoke with the hostess. No smile. Not a flicker of personality. As she approached the table, she stayed behind the hostess by three or four paces—almost as if she were afraid to get any closer. As if she were exceeding her station in life. Abuse? Colbie wondered. If so, at the hands of Al Vincent?

  “Here she is!” The hostess smiled widely, revealing a row of cigarette-stained teeth.

  Colbie returned the smile, extending her hand to Remington. “Right on time! Thank you for being so prompt!” No use in making her feel worse—besides, the plan was to act as a caring friend. She could tell by looking at Remington she didn’t have far to go to reach her breaking point—and, the way things were going to go, she’d probably reach it that night. Remington accepted the handshake and slipped off her coat, folding it meticulously before draping it over the back of the booth—a quick assessment told Colbie it was cashmere. High class, and pricey.

  Remington hesitated, realizing her first predicament of the evening. Because Colbie seated herself squarely in the middle, Remington had no option—no matter how she positioned herself, she would be sitting next to Colbie, not across from her. It also forced her to turn at an angle to face her accuser—both of which Colbie planned. By facing Colbie, it automatically placed Remington in a more relaxed position. Colbie planned to mirror her, giving the appearance to anyone not knowing better they were old friends catching up over dinner.

  “Do you mind if I call you Nicole?” Colbie asked as Remington slid into the booth. She chose to sit to Colbie’s left, turning her body to the right as she tried to get comfortable. Slightly pulled back, her head tilted to the right, indicating an immediate uncertain, defensive posture.

  “That’s fine . . .”

  “Good. Something to drink?”

  Nicole shook her head. “No, thank you—water is fine.” Colbie listened carefully to the nuances of her speech—the word ‘fine’ preceded by a slight hesitation. Everything sure as hell isn’t fine, she thought, as Remington shifted uncomfortably in the booth.

  “Okay—I think I’ll order an iced tea. That sounds good.” She signaled the server then looked Remington in the eye.

  “Shall we begin?”

  Within the hour, Colbie knew for certain what she suspected—Al Vincent pulled all the strings. Remington spilled her guts about everything, including her less-than-above board real estate deals complete with Vincent’s blackmailing her.

  “I don’t know how he knows, but he does . . .” Her eyes filled with tears as she realized Al Vincent played her for a fool. “I’m an idiot . . .”

  “No—you’re not an idiot. There isn’t anyone alive who hasn’t made some pretty serious mistakes, so you can’t beat yourself up about it.” Colbie felt a pang of guilt as she watched her once adversary crumble before her. Still, she possessed one more bit of information that would probably send Remington around the bend—Al Vincent was really Alvin MacGregor.

  And, he was a cop.

  Colbie considered revealing her trump card, but just because Remington was emotional and weak, her fractured spirit didn’t mean Colbie could trust her. She had to keep in mind Vincent molded her easily, and Colbie’s guessed his talons were long, always in a death grip.

  By the time they were ready to leave, Colbie had enough information to bring Vincent to his knees, but timing remained an issue. As she suspected, Remington was only a part Alvin’s overall scheme, but it did come as a surprise she alre
ady started to change the balance of their relationship. Remington confided in Colbie she could no longer stand the sight of him, and if it weren’t for her being in so deep, she would have kicked him to the curb long ago. It was also a surprise that Remington came clean so fast—but, all that did was solidify her suspicion that Nicole Remington didn’t have what it takes to fight back, and she let Vincent get the best of her.

  Colbie also decided to hold back the info about Vincent’s being a dirty cop—armed with that knowledge, Remington might pull back thinking her life were at risk. Although she didn’t come right out and say, Nicole Remington was scared witless of Al Vincent, and it was clear to Colbie there was abuse in Nicole’s life. Whether it were inflicted by Vincent remained a question, but Colbie instinctively knew he was at the crux of everything.

  As they spoke that evening, Colbie searched for outward signs indicating the abuse was physical, but there were none. Remington wore a tasteful long-sleeved blouse, pencil skirt, and knee-high boots, so it was hard to tell. But, when Colbie opened her mind to Remington as a whole, it was obvious the scars were emotional. Perhaps a little slapping thrown in, but such actions didn’t appear to be the root of her fear. Remington was quick to let Colbie know jail didn’t appeal to her, and she would do anything to save her own skin. That admission provided Colbie the necessary leverage she need to take down Vincent, and she wouldn’t hesitate to use it when the time was right.

  Until then, she needed to keep Remington close.

  Before calling it a night, Colbie wanted to know one thing—was Brian still alive? She felt he was, but she was so close to the investigation she had to be certain. In the moment of asking her question, Colbie felt buried emotions surge, her eyes brimming with tears. She wasn’t proud of it—no self-respecting cop would be caught doing such a thing. But, in reality, she wasn’t a cop anymore, and letting Remington see her pain wasn’t a bad thing—she counted on its cementing their partnership to bring Al Vincent down, and it seemed to work, too—Remington patted her hand as she confided Brian was just fine.

  Then she dropped the bombshell that Vincent was after her, not her lover.

  Just as Colbie thought.

  Colbie sat in her car in front of the restaurant, trying to absorb what Remington disclosed—Al Vincent was targeting her for whatever reason. When she pressed Nicole about why he had her in his sights, Remington said she didn’t know. That made sense—because Remington didn’t know Al was a cop, she wouldn’t have any idea as to Colbie’s and Alvin’s checkered professional history. No wonder he didn’t want to tell her how he knew about her murky real estate deals—it had to be through his time at the precinct.

  As pissed as she was, Colbie had to think calmly and clearly. Part of her wanted to bust into Sarge’s office ready to do battle with Alvin, while another part—the biggest—wanted to nail him so he couldn’t take advantage of any loopholes. He was smarter than Colbie thought, and in order to send him up for the rest of his life, she needed more.

  She needed proof.

  She closed her eyes, and leaned back against the headrest—a migraine jockeyed for position as she realized for the first time in her investigation she was drained. Brian’s disappearance was bigger than she imagined and, in one evening, it transformed from a kidnapping only to kidnapping, fraud, and police corruption.

  The only good news was learning Brian was fine. Remington promised Colbie she would make certain he was treated as well as possible without arousing Vincent’s suspicion. As far as she knew, he didn’t have plans other than to make Colbie sweat—and, according to Remington, he enjoyed every second of it. Of course, he did, Colbie thought as she recalled her last encounters with Vincent—because he’s Alvin MacGregor. He always asked about the investigation as if he were interested in Brian’s welfare—and, hers. She knew better, but couldn’t see the truth because she wasn’t looking for it. At least, what she perceived to be the truth. Now, blindfolds removed, she looked squarely in the face of evil, understanding the complex reality of her situation. Alvin’s hatred for her twisted the investigation into skewed angles, and she needed to make sense of them.

  Colbie opened her eyes as the owners of the restaurant were closing up shop. I need to get some sleep, she thought as she backed the car out of the parking space. I’m going to need it . . .

  Intuition told her things were going to get worse before they got better.

  She sat in the car for a few more minutes, trying to gain understanding of the task in front of her. She had the chops to bust things wide open, but she had to be careful—tangling with Alvin MacGregor was worse than walking into a hornet’s nest.

  Chapter 17

  Colbie brought Ryan up to speed the following morning, then dialed Optimum Security—she was certain Tammy would be interested in what she had to say. The familiar voice greeted her, and Colbie lost no time in getting to the point.

  “Tammy, my name is Colbie Colleen, and I’d like to take you to lunch today. Is twelve-thirty a good time?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know . . .” The receptionist struggled to maintain her poise.

  “You’re right—you don’t know who I am, so why should you have lunch with me? Well, for this reason—I’m investigating some—interesting—business practices at Optimum Security, and I need to find out if you’re involved.” Colbie knew in order for Tammy to take her seriously, she had to make her think she was involved in something illegal. She may or may not be, but Colbie really didn’t care about that. Chances were pretty good Tammy was merely a pawn, and she couldn’t do much for the investigation other than secure confidential information and hand it over.

  “Me? How can I be involved in anything? I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Tammy’s voice reached an annoying squeak as she realized the possible ramifications of what Colbie just told her. Maybe she’s not that stupid, Colbie thought as she listened to the rising fear in the receptionist’s voice.

  “Well, that’s what I need to find out—I’ll meet you at the restaurant across from Optimum Security at twelve-thirty. Until then, I suggest you keep our conversation to ourselves . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “Tammy—really? I assure you, you’re not in a position to argue. I’m investigating serious allegations and, if you want to keep yourself out of what is already a giant mess, I suggest you suck it up, and meet me. Now, I can help you—that doesn’t mean I’ll have the same offer two weeks down the road.”

  That did it. Tammy quickly agreed.

  Colbie ended the conversation with Tammy’s promise she wouldn’t open her mouth. But, as with everything else in the investigation, Colbie couldn’t trust anyone or anything. Contacting Tammy was a risk she needed to take, and she didn’t want much from Tammy other than a list of clients and personnel—anything else would be a gift.

  Calls accomplished, she set out for the south side of town to investigate the possibility of Alvin MacGregor’s being on the take. She tried to get one of her officer friends from the precinct to go with her, but no one was available. Not the best situation, she had to move forward to an area of town with which she had little experience, but its reputation suggested it was a good idea to go packing. She wished she could slip back into the comfort of her uniform—at least it would afford her some sort of protection. Now? No one would care who she was, or why she was there. She could disappear as easily as her boyfriend and no one, other than Ryan, would have a clue about where to look.

  The only other people who gave a rat’s ass about the investigation—Brian’s parents and sister—were completely worthless, and Colbie couldn’t trust them to remember her last name. No, she was on her own as she parked in front of the dry cleaner’s.

  The pungent smell of chemicals mingling with steam greeted her as she pulled open the metal barred glass door. A small rack of freshly pressed shirts stood next to the c
ash register, and the phone rang raucously until a small Asian woman scurried in from the back room of the shop. Inconspicuously, Colbie listened to the phone conversation with little hope of understanding anything—the woman spoke Chinese.

  She nodded to Colbie as she hung up.

  “May I help you?” Her accent was thick, and Colbie needed to listen carefully to understand her correctly.

  She smiled. “I hope so—I want to talk to someone about the cop who visits you each Friday.” She wasn’t sure how the woman would react—as with many foreign cultures, when someone comes knocking asking about something other than dirty shirts, English becomes a non-existent language. This time, she got lucky—the woman appeared to understand her, and Colbie detected a slight look of alarm flicker in the woman’s eyes.

  “You wait here,” she commanded as she disappeared between two cheap cotton curtains. Within moments she returned, accompanied by a middle-aged man who was most likely her husband.

  “How may I help?” The man refused Colbie’s extended hand.

  “Well, I’m not sure—but, I’m hoping you will speak to me about the cop who comes here every Friday.” She paused, studying his response.

  “No one comes here . . .”

  “Really? Do you mean he doesn’t come here now?” The man nodded, and she knew it was a lie.

  “Did he come here before?” A nod.

  “How long ago?” The man was silent, unsure of what he should say. Colbie sensed an element of fear and, knowing Alvin, she was certain he threatened the man standing before her. “Did he threaten you?” Silence. She tried again. “How long ago was he here?”