My blood curdles and my hands have knotted into fists. It is supposed to be me who assists her to the care center. My perfect-perfect plan is out the window, and I can’t even imagine how much worse this day is going to get. Then I hear sirens in the distance, giving me a fairly good idea.
CHAPTER FOUR
Douglas
An ambulance rounds the corner and pulls to the edge of the road. Two paramedics, both in black pants and gray shirts, bail out and rush to Hannah’s side.
“Where are you hurt?” The taller of the two asks, his eyes temporarily landing on the mangled bike and then focusing back on Hannah.
“My leg,” Hannah cries. “I think it’s broken.”
While they go into rescue-mode, Dr. Jag gets right in there with them. “I’m a doctor. I’ll join you in the ambulance.”
Hannah, through all her hurt and pain manages a damned smile for Dr. Jag. And I swear her heart does a little skip.
I am a nice-looking man. But Dr. Jag is irritatingly good-looking. He isn’t dressed in physician’s clothing. Instead, he is wearing nice tan trousers and a white button-up dress shirt. His dark brown hair is neatly trimmed. And let’s not forget he is driving a red jag. I hate this asshole. I really do. It is supposed to be me that Hannah is making goo-goo eyes at. Not him.
“No, I’ll go with her,” I interject. “I need to be there to give the facility my credentials so they can send all the billings to me. I’ll take it from here.” I crowd my way in front of Dr. Jag to ensure my presence in the ambulance.
A cop car arrives with two uniformed policemen piling out and heading toward us. Ms. Camry advances toward them, pointing her finger back at me. “That man … that man right there,” she looks between the officers and me, “he purposely ran that poor girl over. I saw the whole thing. He meant to do it.” As the officers near us, she adds, “You need to arrest him.”
“I didn’t run her over,” I argue. “I was heading south on University. The light had turned red and while waiting for it to turn, I began thinking about getting home to my wife and kids. It’s the weekend and I was considering taking the kiddos over to Chuck E. Cheese.” God, I hate that place. There is no way I was going there. “Anyway, I was lost in my thoughts and didn’t realize the light had changed to green. When I looked up, there was a huge gap in front of me, so I hit the gas to make up the distance. Yes, I had noticed the girl on the bike beforehand, but I thought she had already cleared the intersection – you know, considering my delay. Anyway, when I turned right, I just didn’t see her there and accidentally hit her. The sun was in my eyes.” I point to the sun. The officers both look at the big blazing ball setting low against the horizon. “You need to make a note of that. It needs to be documented,” I say in self-defense. Since it is quickly sinking low, I add, “In fact, I think I should take a couple of pictures myself.”
Before they have time to pull out their pens and little pads, I have my phone out, snapping my own photos. By now Hannah is being carted to the ambulance.
Dr. Jag is running toward the officers with his business card waving from his hand. “I’m Dr. Phillip Andrews. My information is here. I’ll be accompanying Ms. Williams to the hospital. I’ll be glad to give my statement later … but that guy ran her over.” He points at me and scowls.
“He sure did,” Ms. Camry chimes in. “Had to floor the gas to do it,” she adds with another contrite look at me.
The chunky officer goes to fetch the business card. As he glances at it, Dr. Jag adds, “By the way, I’m Detective James Andrews’ nephew. He’ll vouch for me that I’m not the type of person to be running from the scene of the crime.”
The officer’s eyes light up at this news. “Of course, you go right ahead with the victim. We’ll be over to the hospital in a little while to take your statement as well as to get her story.” Then he turns and looks at me, the brightness in his eyes turning into a cold hard stare. “Let’s start with your name. Then tell me all over again exactly what happened.” Then he flips that little pad open and steps into my personal space.
“Douglas Vanover,” I tell him, followed by answering his questions regarding my address and phone number, insurance cards and registration information. Then I go through the whole sordid mess all over again with Officer Bennett, according to his name badge. “Like I said before, the light had turned red and, while idling in place, I began daydreaming about the upcoming weekend … maybe taking the wife and kids over to Chuck E. Cheese. By the time I snapped out of my daze, the light had turned green, and a huge gap had formed. When I realized it, I did press on the accelerator to make up the distance. I had noticed the girl bicycling beforehand, but when I no longer saw her, I thought she had gone on when the light changed. When I turned, the sun hit me like a ton of bricks, and I just didn’t see her. It was truly an accident.” I sigh deeply and put on my absolute longest face. And I’m not acting. Dammit, I did not mean for Hannah to be hurt … not until I got what I wanted from her.
While we go through my story AGAIN, the other officer is getting an earful from Ms. Camry. I can hear her spouting from behind me as she explains her story once more.
“He paced himself alongside her,” she reiterates. “A gray Silverado honked to get him to move along. He lurched forward to appease the guy. But then he slacked off again to be by the biker. The driver in the gray truck was upset and passed me, along with that doctor – he was the guy driving the red jag. Then he swerved in front of the doctor. We all had to stop briefly at the light. But when it turned green, that man,” and I can feel a finger pointing at me, “stomped on the gas and plowed into her. He meant to do it.”
Officer Bennett does a third run-through with me and then goes over to inspect the bike and then my car. The other officer is getting the contact information for Ms. Camry.
“My name is Olivia Stephens.” She presents a business card, preventing me from catching any other information. But while everyone is preoccupied, I take a picture of the license plate on the Jag that has been left behind, as well as the Camry. I may have to do a little sleuthing to locate these meddlers and make sure they can’t talk in a court of law … ever.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hannah
With the whole weekend ahead of me, I can’t wait to get off work. On Sunday I am scheduled to ride my bike in a ten-mile marathon. I’ve been building my endurance for several weeks now. After work, I’ve been hurrying home, changing clothes, and setting out to increase my goal.
At first, I could barely make it a down the street to the bike trail and as far as the Botanical Gardens. With my legs burning and aching, I’d have to turn around and head back. But with each passing day, I have pushed further and further, until I am able to go all the way down to the zoo before having to turn around and come back. Roundtrip, it is a nine-mile trek from where I live. Hopefully, by Sunday, I’ll be able to power through to make it the full ten miles. It will be disappointing that Chelsea, my best friend, won’t be there to watch me cross the finish line. But she and her family left this morning for a cruise.
Chelsea and I work together at Mobility Bank. She is a teller, and I am the branch manager. Because our bank president is rarely here these days, his responsibilities have shifted to me, including opening, and closing the institution. Mr. Witherspoon’s wife is gravely ill with cancer, and I’ve been happy to oversee his duties as well as mine.
When closing time arrives, I check to make sure that I am logged out of my computer, that everyone is out of the building and that the alarm system is properly set. Then I shoulder my purse and walk across the parking lot to my Honda Accord. It’s not new, but it’s very dependable.
As soon as I’m home, I switch my clothes and grab my fanny pack. My apartment complex has a garage one floor below my apartment. Exiting through the laundry room, I take a flight of stairs down to where I park my car and store my bike. Mashing a button on the wall, the garage door grinds to the top. Once I’ve pushed my bike out, I use a handheld remote to lower
the door and stuff the tiny device in my belt bag. Adjusting the helmet over my head, I straddle the seat and begin pumping the pedals toward the cycling path.
I have barely started my trek when I notice some dude pacing me in an Audi Q3. At first, I tell myself I’m imagining it. Testing him, I speed up and find that he accelerates too. As I near the Botanical Gardens I slow my pedaling to see what he does. Sure enough, he drops to a crawl, resulting in a man in a gray Silverado blasting his horn at him. What is this guy doing?
My heart begins to pound, wondering what I should do. My thoughts are that he might be trying to kidnap me. While it seems improbable that he would do so in front of witnesses, I hold back, only pedaling fast enough to keep the bike going.
This Audi guy has cars stacking up behind him and everyone is getting testy. Suddenly the gray truck maneuvers into the inside lane and darts around a white Camry and a red Jaguar. He then cuts in front of the Audi, giving him the finger in the process.
When I glance up, I see that the light has turned green, and the gray truck is barreling straight through. The Audi guy is practically frozen in his lane. I make a mental note of his license plate and then put my legs into high gear, shooting for the intersection. I need to cross on the green light and get to the other side. There’s a convenience store one block away and I can’t wait to get there where it will be safer for me to call the police.
With my wheels turning as fast as I can make them, I hit the intersection at top speed. I am barely into the lane when … BOOM. My bike and I are catapulted into the air and I land with a giant thud on the grassy knoll beside the road. For a moment I think I was knocked out. Then suddenly I’m aware of instant pain shooting through my leg. It hurts like all get out and I begin moaning and groaning and tears are flowing down my cheeks.
While I writhe on the ground from the horrible, excruciating pain, someone hovers over me and I hear mumbling, then, “Miss, can you hear me?”
I flutter my eyes open, but the sun is blocking my vision. “Ouch. It hurts. I’m hurt. Please help me.”
“Absolutely,” the man says. “Let me take you to the care center. It’s only a few blocks away.”
I am relieved to hear only a care center is needed. Maybe I am not hurt quite as bad as it feels. But then a second male voice begins saying not to move me because of possible internal injuries, that my leg may have been broken, and that I need the hospital. Then I hear some lady screaming about someone purposely running me over. The second male agrees. Then I focus my teary eyes on the man offering to take me to the care center and realize it is the guy from the Audi.
“You were way back there,” I say. “How did you get into the intersection?”
In the back of my mind, I already know the answer. He sped ahead to plow me over. But why would he do such a thing?
CHAPTER SIX
Douglas
I am about at my patience’s end when I am required to tell my story again to the police. Repetitively, I proclaim it was an accident, having been blinded by the sun. My story continues to be adversely presented by Ms. Camry’s insistence that I steamrolled over that poor girl. The on-going he-said, she-said, is giving me an enormous headache.
Unfortunately, her story is going to be supported by Dr. Jag saying the same thing. But since they have yet to take his statement, the officers are at an impasse with two differing versions of what may or may not have happened. Thank God this is one of the few traffic intersections without a camera system. Otherwise, I would be doomed. Though I expect to be arrested, in the end, they allow me to leave, giving me a warning that they’ll be in touch. But even as I slide into my seat and watch the bicycle being placed in the trunk of the officer’s vehicle, I know those two witnesses are going to be nothing but trouble and that my problems have only just begun.
***
The day has now worn on to the point the sun is no longer a problem when I back my car onto the street and head toward my mansion positioned in the residential section of the Royalty High Country Club. This posh neighborhood is reserved for members only. It requires passing through a 24-7 manned security gate to enter the grounds. From there, I live off the back westerly side where the ultra-rich reside. This secluded area is beyond a second gate that opens into a half-dozen mega-houses, each residence sitting on no less than five acres. You can’t get onto my property without clearance from either myself, my wife, or one of my staff. It’s the same for every house in this area. In this area of town, all homeowners have grounds keepers, pool maintenance guys, butlers, maids, chefs, nannies, you damn-well name it. It’s not only considered a luxury, but it’s also a requirement if you want to live here. You either keep up the image or go live with the riffraff. And let me tell you, in my line of business, image is everything.
I’m a personal investment broker within my own company, Vanover Wealth Investments. Unlike Merrill Lynch who maybe remembers you, but probably doesn’t, I know my customers, not only by their first name, but I know their spouses and kids, their anniversaries and everyone’s birthdays. I know if they prefer red wine, white wine, or beer. It’s within my knowledge if they like football, basketball, baseball, or hockey. I even know which spouses cheat, and which ones have never even considered it. I know about their alcohol, drug, and gambling problems. I know it all. But more importantly, my investment background, combined with my knowledge of every freaking clients’ background, gives me the perfect insight on just who to target.
Not one of my clients knows much about me, or that they might be potential objectives. I’m just the guy who’s supposed to make them rich … or richer as is mostly the case. I’m the guru who invests their money and makes it a hell of a lot bigger. And who would I be to give such personal, crucial advice if I didn’t look like I knew exactly what I was doing? Hence, this monstrosity of a house I live in, screaming to the whole world that I’m filthy rich and my advice must be golden. This big house comes with a trophy wife and two cute kids. It all looks amazingly beautiful to the envious outsider. But behind those closed doors … well, that’s a whole different story.
I enter through the garage entrance and find my wife, Carol, at the dining table. I stand in the hallway watching from a distance. She is perusing a sales catalog from Tiffany’s. I want to rip it from her hands, roll it into a tube and beat her over the head with it. Her perfectly manicured nails wrap around the stem of a wineglass as she takes a slow savoring sip. I notice the bottle next to her. It is an aux brulees wine specially imported from France … we have a whole case of it, courtesy of Carol’s exquisite taste. It’s somewhere around two thousand dollars a bottle and should be saved for special occasions. It’s Friday night. I guess that’s special enough for Carol. And since it goes well with duck, I assume that’s what was for dinner. She rubs an idle finger across her nose, a perfect rhinoplasty job that set me back several thousand bucks. Her bleached-blonde hair is in a messy bun with a few long strands cascading down the back of her Gucci sweater. Her makeup remains perfectly applied even though it is near the day’s end. I enter as she flips the page. For a long moment I stand at the end of the table looking at her, wondering how I got myself into this life.
“Oh, you’re already home,” she says, just now noticing me after being engorged in the latest jewelry offers. She seems oblivious to how overly late I am in getting home.
“Yeah,” I say. “Where are the kids?” I ask because that’s what dads do.
“Already in bed,” she answers. Then she looks at me for the first time. “You missed dinner. I’ll have Millie come back and heat it for you.”
Millie is our personal chef, and she has already gone home for the day. I can just imagine her reaction at having to return simply to heat my dinner in the microwave. As ridiculous as that sounds, Carol has required this service on several occasions when she has come in late after a shopping spree or a long day at the spa.
“No, I’m not hungry,” I tell her.
“Suit yourself,” she says and goes right back to
her diamond hunting.
I take the chair opposite her and begin drinking the remaining wine, straight from the bottle. She glowers at me in that disapproving way she has. I ignore her, keeping the drink turned up. After several long, delicious drags, I slam the glass container back down on the table. Then I look straight into her baby blue eyes. “There was a car accident today.”
“Oh, what happened?” Her question barely shows any interest. However, it is obvious that I’m all in one piece, so I suppose there’s no need for alarm.
“I accidentally hit someone on a bicycle. A girl … she was taken to the emergency room. Mostly likely she has a broken leg at the very least.”
“Well, it was an accident,” she unemotionally responds from over the top of an advertisement for a $16K Tiffany cocktail watch, which she circles with a pen. I am sure it will make its way to her wrist.
“There may be charges pressed,” I say in a worried tone. “Two people claimed I hit the gas and purposely ran over her.”
She lays the magazine on the table and glares at me. “Why would they say that?”
I go through my fake story about daydreaming at the red light, it changing to green, me trying to catch the light and then turning into the sun and not seeing her. I imagine myself having to regurgitate this same story many, many times over the next few months.
She narrows her eyes and presses her lips together, staring at me for a long time. Then she takes another sip of her wine and says, “This would’ve never happened if you hadn’t let Edgar go … this is your fault.”
Edgar was my driver. We still have Leonard who chauffeurs her and the kids around. I’m a perfectly good driver (don’t say a damned word about me running Hannah over). There was no need to pay someone a humongous salary to haul my butt around. Truthfully, there were two reasons I let Edgar go. One was money. It takes a shitload of it to run this household. The other was because I couldn’t have him driving me around while I was stalking my next victim. And if I went off on my own too many times without him, it would look suspicious. He had to go.
The Perfect-Perfect Plan Page 2