by Mindy Klasky
Kira Franklin favored him with a smile and then glanced at Hal, silently seeking—and receiving—his permission to continue. Kira was stage managing the Sam Shepard one-acts that had been my primary focus since I’d joined the Mercer. She was a professional-in-residence; she worked full-time at the Mercer, which gave her a somewhat rare and always welcome stability in the theatrical world.
From what I’d seen so far, she was an excellent stage manager. She was always prepared; she even anticipated some of the director’s quirkiest requests. She was unflappable during rehearsal, keeping her temper no matter what chaos erupted around her. I could see why she sat on the Mercer board—she could advocate effectively for the people who worked in the theater, even as she spoke the language of businessmen and-women, of donors. Rumor had it that her father was some big important lawyer in the Midwest, and it was clear that Kira had mastered the arts of argumentation and persuasion somewhere in her career.
Now, she took a sip from her paper cup of coffee, and I remembered the other major thing I knew about her. Kira liked her coffee strong, so strong that everyone else refused to drink the stuff she brewed backstage. During the first rehearsal for the Shepard pieces, Mercer old-timers had taken up a collection and bought her a huge gift card for the Starbucks on the corner, just so that the rest of us could make something drinkable with the in-house machine.
Kira flashed me a professional smile, and I made myself take a deep breath. This couldn’t be so terrible. What were they going to ask me about, anyway? Everyone at the Mercer knew that Dean and I lived together. I’d insisted on being up-front about our relationship before I accepted the theater’s offer of employment.
So what was I afraid of now? Fielding questions about the deepest, darkest secrets of my love life?
After a firm nod to the rest of the board, Kira turned to me and said, “Becca, were you and Dean together last night?”
Wow. She really was going to ask me about my love life.
I didn’t think it was possible for my facial capillaries to fill again so quickly. “Excuse me?” I managed to choke out.
Kira sighed, and I could make out a wash of sympathy behind her eyes. “I know that question must seem really intrusive. I’d take more time to explain, but the situation is really urgent. We need to speak with Dean immediately, and we haven’t been able to reach him for the past twenty-four hours. He isn’t answering his cell or his BlackBerry.”
I considered lying. I could say that Dean had come home from the gym yesterday evening. That we’d made a stir-fry for dinner. That we’d slipped into bed after watching the news. That I’d made him a bag lunch that morning and kissed him goodbye before he left, playing my role as the perfect 1950s housewife.
Except the board already knew that Dean wasn’t at work. And any lies I told would just delay the moment when I could get help finding my boyfriend. “He didn’t come home,” I said. “He left the apartment before I did yesterday, but there was a note telling me not to wait up.”
Before Kira could ask another question, another board member slammed her perfectly manicured hand down on the table. “I told you!”
Alicia Morton’s hair swept back from her face, twin silver wings gleaming against jet black in her corporate bob. A single strand of pearls slashed across her throat. Her severe black jacket managed to emphasize her feminine curves, even as it was cut to make her look like a no-holds-barred advertising executive.
Which she was.
Alicia Morton had recently joined the board as part of Hal’s efforts to forge ongoing partnerships with strong, traditional New York businesses. I couldn’t imagine what had led Alicia to accept Hal’s invitation; she seemed to resent everything about the Mercer.
Everyone in the theater world had heard about her behavior at the Fall Fete, Hal’s most important fundraiser of the year. Hal had introduced Alicia from the dais, intending to recognize our newest board member and move on. Alicia had a different plan, though. She’d commandeered the microphone and transformed the dinner into a question-and-answer session, a probing investigation of all Hal’s plans for the coming season. In fact, Hal had only succeeded in silencing Alicia when he reminded everyone that the Mercer was going to skyrocket in prominence with its production of Crystal Dreams.
Whoops.
“I told you,” Alicia repeated, biting off her words with military precision. She flexed her talons toward the stranger at the head of the table. “We shouldn’t have a lawyer sitting here. We should have the police!”
Well, at least that told me who the unknown guy was. A lawyer. That couldn’t be good.
“Bill Rodriguez,” he said, inclining his head toward me by way of greeting. I nodded warily. “I’m from Fenter, Grimley, and Swanson. We represent the Mercer Project. We handle tax work, finances in general.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, falling back on the social lubrication of etiquette. Alicia snorted, but at least she held her tongue.
Bill had the courtesy to act as if he hadn’t heard her. “What exactly is your job here at the Mercer, Ms. Morris?”
“I’m the dramaturg,” I said. I was prepared for the politely blank look he gave me; I encountered it from nearly everyone who wasn’t positioned deep inside the theater world. I clarified: “I work behind the scenes. I’m sort of an ‘in-house critic.’” I shrugged, as if I were searching for words, even though I knew my little speech by heart. “I’m sort of like a…psychotherapist and career coach for the production itself, helping everyone involved to achieve their full potential. I bring together interested parties, pull whatever strings I can so that a show is the best it can possibly be.”
Bill nodded slowly before glancing at his notes. “How involved are you with Mercer Project financials?”
“Financials?”
“Does your job involve your keeping books for the theater?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Do you write checks on any of the Mercer accounts?”
“No.” Two simple, straightforward answers. Go, me.
I looked at the board members again. What was this all about? Was I in trouble for that reimbursement slip I’d submitted last month? Did they think I’d been too generous with my tip to that cab driver, the one who’d stopped for me in the middle of a deluge at three in the morning, after the first rehearsal for the Shepards? I’d thought the service was worth ten dollars, and if they weren’t going to approve the tip, I’d pay for it out of my own damn pocket.
The board members stared back at me. Yeah. This wasn’t about any ten-dollar tip. The board of directors didn’t give a collective damn about my reimbursement slips.
Bill continued, apparently unaware that every single person in the room was scrutinizing me as if I were some freakish new specimen of bug. Even Hal looked distant, bemused. Bill asked, “What is the maximum amount that you can sign for, here at the theater?”
“Without prior approval?”
“Without prior approval,” Bill agreed.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars. But my job doesn’t really require me to put out a lot of money up front. I might buy a book or two, or make some copies at the library. Sometimes I download fee-based articles online.”
Bill nodded, as if he expected as much. “And just to clarify, Ms. Morris. Are you on the signature cards for any of the Mercer Project bank accounts?”
Signature cards? Like the ones you fill out when you first open up an account? “Um, no.” I licked my lips and flattened my fingers on the tabletop. “Why are you asking me all these questions? What exactly do you think I’ve done?”
Bill looked around at the board members, as if he were requesting permission from them. When both Hal and Mr. Ames had acquiesced with the tiniest of nods, Bill turned back to me. “Ms. Morris, we’ve been investigating some…irregularities in the Mercer Project’s accounts. With an organization of this size, we’re accustomed to seeing some fluctuation on a daily basis. The board called this meeting, though, and asked me to at
tend, because three of the Project’s accounts were closed out completely yesterday morning.”
Closed. Out. Completely.
The words seemed to echo in the suddenly too-small room. My stomach swooped, as if I were flying down a roller coaster’s steepest descent. The board was here. A lawyer was here. And Dean was nowhere to be seen. And money—apparently a lot of money—was missing.
Even as I tried to come up with a benign explanation, I repeated to Bill, “Completely?”
He met my gaze impassively. “Dean Marcus had authority to sign for each of those accounts. He could write checks on them, up to whatever amount he deemed necessary for the Mercer.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was suddenly too dry to complete the motion. I had to be misunderstanding what Bill was saying. There had to be some mistake. “I—I don’t know,” I stammered, as if someone had asked me a question. “I—How much money are you talking about?”
Bill answered as if he were reciting some obscure clause in the Constitution. “Three million, five hundred thousand, twenty-seven dollars and thirty-two cents.”
My lungs froze. “Thirty-two cents?” I managed to chip past the ice crystals, incredulous at the absurd detail when the figure Bill had just named was a quarter of the theater’s annual budget.
He nodded curtly. “Thirty-two cents.”
I collapsed back in my chair.
Three and a half million dollars.
Dean was good with money. Careful. Precise. When he picked up the check for our dinners out, he tipped an exact fifteen percent, pretax, to the penny, because that was the proper thing to do. That was the rule.
I thought back to the Valentine’s Day we’d just celebrated. I’d really splurged. Dean had been working so hard; he’d been so stressed. I’d bought him the cell phone that he coveted, the latest model with more bells and whistles than I could even begin to understand. He had been as excited as a little boy when he opened the package—he’d oohed and aahed and made a big ceremony out of opening the box, extracting the phone as if it were some precious religious artifact.
Then, he’d handed me a little envelope. He’d printed my name on the outside in red ink, a color that might have been romantic if he hadn’t used it every day. His tight scrawl had set out the letters of my name, more precise than a typewriter. Inside, I’d found a gift card to Victoria’s Secret. Twenty-five bucks. Enough to buy one of the slinky lingerie sets that he’d been drooling over in the store window the week before. On sale.
I’d bought the Godiva chocolates on my own, telling myself that Dean would have gotten them for me, if he’d had time. Note to self: Insert long, boring story about all the other skimpy gifts he’d ever given me the entire time we’d dated—Christmas, birthdays. Insert longer, more boring story about the complete absence of presents for silly dating anniversaries. Dean was conservative when it came to money.
But three point five million dollars—that wasn’t even in the same world as Christmas presents, as eating out, as worrying about some overworked waitress left with a too-small tip. Three and a half million dollars.
And I finally understood why I was sitting at this table, why I was staring at the Mercer Project’s lawyer. I understood why Hal had made me come into the room, why he hadn’t let me leave when he’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to listen to my concerns about Crystal Dreams.
I was such an idiot.
Ten months ago, when I’d started interviewing with the Mercer, I’d worried about working in the same theater that employed my boyfriend. I hadn’t wanted anyone to think that I was some nepotistic little slut, dependent on my boyfriend to get me my job. But I’d let Dean convince me that the Mercer was one of the finest theaters in the country, the finest theater for me.
Eight months ago, when the Mercer offered me a job, I’d been pretty sure it was a bad idea to move in with Dean, once we were both in the city. We’d never lived together before. When he was still up in New Haven, his apartment had resembled a cleaner and neater version of the Crate and Barrel catalog. Mine had resembled Filene’s Basement. On a sale day. In the middle of the holiday shopping season. When half the staff was too hungover to come in to work. But I’d let Dean convince me again, believed him when he said that we needed to share an apartment to meet the high cost of living in New York.
Six months ago, I’d been absolutely certain that we shouldn’t share a bank account—not while Dean was still nickel-and-diming every waiter we encountered. Not while I was still awed by the generosity of my grandfather, who had written a four-figure check to congratulate me on pursuing my dreams and achieving my master’s degree. But Dean had argued that we would be functioning as one household—paying utilities, writing out checks for first and last month’s rent, settling into our lives together, forever. Dean was the one who understood money, understood finance. I’d let him convince me again.
I was such an incredibly stupid, naive, idiotic…fool.
I was going to be sick. I was going to cry. I was going to scream.
Instead, I realized that Bill Rodriguez had asked me a question, and everyone in the room was waiting for my answer. “I’m sorry,” I said, settling my palms next to the manila envelope that still sat in front of me like a place mat. “I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, ‘Do you know where we can find Dean Marcus?’”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
And I really, truly didn’t. He’d lied to me. He’d deliberately set me up, left a note so that I wouldn’t question his whereabouts until it was too late. Way too late.
Everyone stared at me. Hal was clearly angry; the tendons in his neck looked as if they’d been sculpted into his flesh. I could only hope that his rage was directed at Dean, not at me. A couple of the other board members had pity painted across their faces. Alicia Morton looked blatantly skeptical, as if she thought I could actually snap my fingers and make Dean appear, but I just wasn’t willing to try.
“There are computer chips in cell phones, aren’t there?” I asked anyone who wanted to listen. “If we call him, the police can locate the phone, can’t they?”
Bill nodded and said, “We’re already working on that.”
“I can go through his desk at home,” I said. “I might be able to find more information there. I don’t think he has any relatives. He said he doesn’t, but maybe…” There was a rustle among the directors, and no one would meet my eyes. I knew what they were thinking: if he’d lied about bank accounts, why wouldn’t he lie about family? About anything else? About everything else.
Bill spoke to me as if I were a small child. “Your apartment has been sealed off. The police are there now—they’re treating it as a crime scene. Once they’re through looking for evidence, they’ll probably let you back in.”
“Probably?” My voice broke on my incredulous question.
“It should only take a week or so for them to finish.”
“A week!” This had to be some sort of bad joke. The police never took a week to complete an investigation in the movies.
Bill shrugged, and his tone was apologetic. “If there’d been a murder, they’d move faster. As it is, they’re going to want to go through everything. Every single drawer, every last computer file. Financial crimes can be concealed in ways that murders can’t.”
“Great,” I muttered. It sounded like he was saying I’d actually be better off if someone had died.
This couldn’t be happening to me. I couldn’t be locked out of my own apartment. I couldn’t be worried about police going through every last atom of my stuff.
But with a final oomph of recognition, I realized that I wasn’t actually, completely, one hundred percent surprised.
Oh, I hadn’t known that Dean Marcus was a thief. He hadn’t told me that he intended to embezzle millions from our employer. He hadn’t dropped hints around the house like a naughty eight-year-old, hoping to be caught before he got into really big trouble.
But little things about the past
couple of months suddenly crystallized, suddenly collapsed into place. Dean, logging off computer websites a little too quickly when I walked into the room. Dean, pushing off my playful suggestion that we spend an entire Sunday in bed together, saying that he had to finish balancing books for the Mercer. Dean, zoning out while I talked about my pet projects, missing my words so thoroughly that he didn’t even hear when I started quoting from Shakespeare, just to test if he was paying attention.
I’d thought that he was just preoccupied. I’d thought that he was just being a guy.
But that bizarre—for Dean’s notion of bizarre—note on the fridge: “Gotta run. Don’t wait up.”
He just didn’t say where he was running to. Didn’t say how long he would be gone. And like an idiot, I’d waited up anyway.
My fingers tingled, and I realized that I hadn’t drawn a complete breath since Bill had told me what Dean had done. I forced myself to inhale, only to discover that my eyes were burning, stinging. I caught my lower lip between my teeth and made myself count to ten, but nothing got any better.
Slowly, methodically, I picked up my manila envelope. The motion reminded me that we had another problem—the rights issue for Crystal Dreams. But somehow, that matter had faded in importance, blotted out by the fact that twenty-five percent of our operating budget had evaporated at the hands of my boyfriend.
Former boyfriend.
I stood up. I sought out Hal’s eyes, only to find that he was studying a mess of papers in front of him. I looked at all the other board members, swallowed my relief that everyone had found something else to occupy their apparent attention, something other than me. Only when I knew they weren’t staring at me did I trust myself to speak. “Is there anything else you need from me now? Or may I go clean out my office?”
Hal met my eyes. “That won’t be necessary, Rebecca. You aren’t being fired.”
I steadied myself by planting a hand on the table. “I’m not?”
He shook his head. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”