by Leslie Glass
Charlie pretended not to notice it. "Don't worry about it, Gayle. It's not going to happen. What do you want me to do?"
"Did the stuff come with a card? A letter? Anything we can use against her?"
"Nope. Nothing at all. The woman is very smart. As far as I know, Santa sent it. But I can dig. Who knows, she might have had it sent from out of state. You ready to number this one? The woman knew what side I dress on, for Christ's sake."
Gayle shook her head. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The inseam."
The face of the woman who, as far as he knew, loved only her cat, froze with understanding. "Jesus, spare me the dirty details, Charlie. And don't number the account yet. Find the juice first, then we'll number and let go of it."
"Okay, if that's the way you want it." Charlie shrugged, thinking of Cassie. "How do you want me to handle it?"
"Your usual will do nicely. Just hurry it up. I don't want to get stuck in this."
"How about the clothes?" he asked innocently.
"If their source can't come back to bite you on the ass, do what you want with them. Toss 'em, wear 'em, bring them into the office and display them. I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, I don't know anything about any clothes. But everybody knows I have a faulty memory," she said, waving him off.
CHAPTER 36
CASSIE SPENT HER DAYS VISITING MITCH in the hospital and with lawyers for the ho spital, with Mark Cohen, and with Ira Mandel. It turned out at the best of times it wasn't so easy to turn off the respirator of a brain-dead person. No one-two-three procedure at all. Despite the hundreds of thousands of dollars that the insurance company officials quickly informed Cassie it took to keep Mitch ensconced in his glass cocoon day after day, no one at the hospital would give the okay to let him go.
In those meetings, just like in the conspiracy that had gone on for years before the stroke, no principal in the matter mentioned the circumstances of the situation. The girlfriend wanted the vegetable intact because New York State recognized his wife as his heir. The wife wanted the husband dead so she could move on. The IRS matter was now on the back burner. The life-and-death debate centered around the malpractice issue. An army of doctors and lawyers were mobilized to analyze and consult on the potential lethality of Mona Whitman versus the world on the viability-of-Mitchell Sales-as-a-human issue. In other words, was he brain-dead, or not?
In her first meeting with Ira in his office on Fifty-sixth Street in Manhattan, Cassie did not waste her time complaining about Mona's potential lawsuit involving Cassie's alleged harassment and kidnapping. She now knew such a suit could not even be filed, much less won, without a police report and witnesses.
"All I want is justice," she told Ira, pounding the long mahogany table in his boardroom.
"Cassie, baby, I know just how you feel," he replied, all neutrality. "You look wonderful. I don't know how you do it. Did you lose weight, change your hair?"
Cassie was wearing a simple black linen sheath. She had on big fake gold earrings. New copper-tinged sunglasses dangled from her hand. The old Cassie had disappeared. No one recognized her anymore. Friends failed to recognize her at the supermarket, at the post office, on all her daily rounds. No one recognized her at the bank or Sales Importers, where she went to check things out and get money. Not only that, all the people who hadn't been looking at her for fifteen years were turning their heads when she walked by. The big irony was that the only person who was oblivious to her new face and figure was her husband. The "refreshed" face that was supposed to have rekindled Mitch's love and tolerance for her, have them dancing cheek to cheek on cruise ships and energetically leaping over streams holding hands like the geriatric lovers in Centrum commercials left him absolutely cold. But then, he was in a coma. Cassie smiled.
"I might have lost a few pounds, Ira, over the years. But you haven't seen me in such a long time. How would you know? Your loyalties seem to have shifted in the last few years."
"No way, Cassie. I've always had the greatest respect for you." Ira gave her an oily smile.
Cassie thought it was amazing how men could think women were so stupid. She'd just repeated for the fourteenth time all the things that Mona had done to her, and he was acting as if they were having a walk in the park.
"I want justice. I want those credit card bills paid off and the cards canceled now. This is not a difficult problem."
Ira sat across from her. There was a thin sheen of moisture on his forehead. "Actually, Cassie, this is a difficult problem. I didn't know anything about this debt of yours until you brought it up."
"It's not a debt of mine," Cassie said slowly. "It's a debt in my name. I want the bills paid and my name cleared."
"I'm not sure how you expect me to do that."
"Somebody has the money to pay those debts. You told me Mitch was very rich. Mona must have money, too."
"Yes, but these things take time. It will have to be done in some kind of settlement, down the road. We have to think of the tax consequences."
"Ira, I don't want it done down the road."
"But you're going to have to wait a little while, stay calm, and be mature about this."
"Mature?" Cassie didn't like the sound of that.
"Well, look at it this way. Your inheritance will cover the debts and then some. I feel certain that if you behave in a dignified manner and don't excite further interest from the IRS, you'll probably be able to keep your house and sustain your lifestyle." He said this looking her right in the eye as if maintaining her modest lifestyle was Cassie's only wish.
"Isn't peace and a reasonable settlement with the greater enemy, without nasty lawsuits, the best justice for us all?" he finished.
Cassie stared at him coldly. "No, Ira, I don't think that's the best justice for us all." She kept her dignity but only just. She was the injured party, the wronged wife. She wasn't accepting the debt. No. Period. End of story. She wasn't accepting it.
Now she could see how people were driven to murder. She could just imagine how the fifty-something Jean Harris had been driven to shoot her lover when she'd found out he'd stolen her diet cookbook and left her for a younger woman.
Mona, the disgusting pig. The girl who'd never been as pretty as she in the first place had been knocking her husband's socks off for years. With just her ass and simpering smile, she'd found a way to steal Cassie's man, her purchasing power, her dignity, her very identity. And then Mona changed herself to fit it. She'd influenced their friends and their doctors, their lawyer, their accountant. Now everyone was telling Cassie to be mature.
She opened her mouth to let him have it, but Ira held up his hand. "Stop, think for a moment, Cassie. Think about the consequences of what you're saying." There it was again. That little think.
"Ira, listen to me carefully. I will not accept the debt. Mona is a thief. I'm not going to let her get away with this."
"Cassie, Cassie, Cassie." Ira shook his head. "Don't get vindictive. You're in a precarious situation here. Think of your future. Don't hurt yourself now."
"I am thinking of my future, Ira."
"Then be reasonable. Be smart. Smile through your tears, honey. How about a cup of coffee? Huh? Make you feel better."
"I'm not smiling through my tears, Ira," Cassie told him angrily. "I don't want coffee." I want revenge, she didn't say.
"I understand, you want to play hardball. Then let me be perfectly clear. Any action you take now could sink the boat, you got that? Mitch did a few things I didn't know anything about, and I still don't. We're all in trouble, okay." Ira shook his fist at her. "You girls are driving me crazy."
"What?"
"Forget I said that." He became instantly soothing. "Look, I'm telling you as a friend to trust me on this. Give me the receipts and whatever else you have. I'll find a way to take care of you, you have my word on it."
You girls are driving me crazy? Give him the receipts?
"Okay. Fine." Once again, Cassie understood the situation per
fectly. She could no more trust him than she could trust that snake Parker Higgins. She put on one of those new fake smiles of compliance she'd learned recently and said goodbye. She was grateful that she'd already gotten the incriminating files and receipts out of the house and into a safe-deposit box.
CHAPTER 37
WHILE THE HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATORS and their lawyers were having yet another meet ing that they claimed would be their last and final meeting to decide the fate of Mitchell Sales, Cassie was contemplating her garden from her spot at the kitchen table. Without a power of attorney, she had not a single thing to do but wait for all the people who had control over her life to finish doing what they had to do. She herself was stuck. She couldn't move on. She had nothing to do but weep and brood.
She had been settling in for a good cry when Charlie Schwab walked through the gate into her yard. She saw him through the cracks in her laced fingers that she'd put over her eyes to catch her tears. Right away she saw that he had changed in the ten days since she'd last seen him. She hastily dropped her hands to get a better look. He was wearing a neat navy suit, a French blue shirt bright enough to knock a person's eyes out, and a tomato red tie, the kind of outfit Mitch would wear. His brush-cut hair had grown out some and almost looked as if it had been styled. Somehow he'd passed from the high school stage to a place a lot closer to middle age, where she was. The IRS agent, whose personal interest in her she wasn't supposed to excite, turned out to be a dish.
She hadn't been expecting visitors, though. She herself was wearing only a little makeup, white shorts, and a black T-shirt. Luckily there was nothing wrong with her legs. She opened the back door and called out, "You're back."
"Yep, like the proverbial bad penny. You look very cute. Did you change your hair or something?" He examined her curiously.
"Not really. What's up?"
He strode toward the house. "Oh, I enjoyed our talk. I was thinking about some of the things you said and thought I'd stop in to inquire how your husband is doing."
"Not dead yet," Cassie murmured. But he could have found that out from Ira. "How is the case going?"
"It's… unusual, that's for sure." Schwab pinched his lips together and dipped his chin.
"Have you discovered something?" she asked.
"No, no," he said quickly.
"You haven't found the house and car and jewelry and clothes his girlfriend charged to me? Oops." The very cat Cassie wasn't supposed to let out of the bag just jumped out of the bag. What a relief.
"Ah, there's the reason for the gift tax questions you asked." Charlie's newly coiffed head tilted to one side.
"You're very quick."
"It's what I get paid for. Your husband didn't file gift taxes. I checked."
Cassie nodded. Ira told her that if she made an issue of the credit card debt, Mona would certainly claim the items were gifts. The IRS would require the filing of gift tax returns, and that would add another 25, 28 percent to the bills in Cassie's name that had to be paid by somebody no matter what. Over the million point. So much for exciting IRS interest. "I guess it was pretty stupid to tell you," she said.
"Never mind, I guessed anyway." He pointed to the picket fence, the arbor, and pergola over the patio, each covered with several varieties of climbing roses all twined together so that the pinks, blushes, and lavenders all appeared to be growing on the same bush. He changed the subject. "You're a hell of a gardener. How did you get your roses to do that? I can barely get one color to grow on mine."
"Oh, it's easy. Plant two varieties close together and they twine. You seem unusually interested in flowers. Do you garden yourself?" He hadn't answered this question the last time she'd asked it.
"Oh, I wouldn't call it gardening. But I know a lily border when I see one. My father is the expert. He studies the catalogs."
"Do you think I overdo it on the lilies?" She glanced over at the profusion of dwarf Asiatics in her lawn borders.
"No, they look great. Can I come in?"
"Oh sure. Why not? Maybe you can enlighten me some more. This tax stuff is very complicated." Cassie felt a powerful urge to scratch at the crusty spots in her scalp where the stitches had been. It was an effort to restrain herself from digging her nails in and ripping her mask off.
"Tell me about it," he said.
She smiled, but didn't think she really should. "You want some coffee or a drink?"
"We could start with coffee," he said.
Cassie just happened to have some. They went into the house, where she frothed milk and poured. This time she had too much on her mind to bake anything. She put some grapes on the table. Plump green ones, added a few strawberries. They looked nice together.
Charles Schwab took a seat and sampled his coffee. "Great. Thanks. What would you like to know?"
Cassie took her place opposite him. "All right, here's a big one. What happens if my husband dies? Do you still have to audit?"
"Ah." Charlie put his cup down. "That's a good question. In that case, more departments will become involved. The business audit will progress, but his estate will be affected as well. An estate issue puts you much more in the picture. The liability will be yours. But a different department in the Service would be handling it, if that's what you're asking."
"What department are you?"
"I'm a revenue agent. I just look at the routine audits. When I find something out of the ordinary, the big guns take over."
"I gather you're looking for something out of the ordinary." Cassie played with her spoon.
Charlie nodded. "There have been some possibly illegal conversions made."
Cassie gave in and scratched her head. Illegal conversions. What were they?
"I'm a finder," Schwab said, gazing at her curiously. "What's wrong?"
"I'm a loser," she blurted.
He laughed uneasily. "No, no, far from that. You're a stunning woman." He blew air out of his mouth. "Really. I fell for you the first time I saw you. I'm sure men tell you that all the time."
Cassie had been thinking along a different line. She'd been thinking finders keepers, losers weepers-she'd meant she was a loser and a weeper. She shivered at the compliment.
"Hey, I didn't mean to offend you." All ten of Schwab's fingers tapped restlessly on her kitchen table. He did that thing with his chin. Little tiny thing. His knee was bobbing. He looked like a horse about to bolt.
"Does everybody get nervous around you?" she asked.
"Pretty much," he admitted.
Cassie had a feeling that something momentous was happening, but she didn't know what it was. He had a nervous knee and rapping fingers, but she liked his eyes. She wished he would sit still long enough for her to tell him the story about Mitch and Mona and what they'd done to her. But she didn't think it would help her case.
Ira told her that Mitch had given half of his company away (implying more gift tax on that as well) and had sheltered the other half in another company, a limited liability company, whatever that was, to impact taxes somehow. When she called to ask Parker who owned this new shelter company in Delaware, he implied it wasn't her.
Cassie's cheeks prickled with something that wasn't exactly feeling. Her ears and scalp itched. She was aware of herself as a remade woman with a facade that changed the way people saw her but not yet the way she saw herself. With this attractive man sitting at her kitchen table she felt an old, powerful feeling stir, like a giant teasing at the locked door in her basement. She couldn't help smiling as yearning rose in her body like steam off the heated pool on a chilly day. Her old life was over. She would never be reconciled with Mitch. He would never say he was sorry. She was almost free, a woman who hadn't been kissed in such a long time, she couldn't even remember what it felt like.
She took a deep breath, wishing she had Charlie's ear, his shoulder to lean on. She knew it was his job to disarm her and dipped her own chin, ashamed of herself for falling for it.
"What?" Schwab asked.
"Nothing."
"No, no. You were about to say something."
The moment passed. "Tell me about conversions," she said.
The knee stopped bobbing. He relaxed. "It has to do with money laundering. Do you know what that is?"
"Oh yeah. Mafia stuff." Cassie pressed her lips together.
"The mob doesn't have a lock on it." Charlie laughed. "People who aren't connected do it, too."
"You said you were a finder. I know where some things could be found," she said softly. She could give him Mona's house. That was in Mona's name. Unearned income? And the Jaguar? Unearned, too. She bet Mona was not much of a declarer.
"Here?" Schwab glanced around again.
"No, no. Not here," Cassie said quickly.
"I see." Schwab popped a grape in his mouth. "What about your wine cellar?" he asked.
"How do you know about that?"
"A little bird told me."
"Humph. Is that a conversion, too?"
He popped another grape. "These are good. It may be."
"How?"
"Let's say expensive merchandise is lost or stolen, in transit or from the warehouse. Taxpayer may report the loss and take a deduction. But the merchandise is actually moved to another location, where it becomes a personal, not a business, asset that can be sold privately under the table without capital gains."
Cassie inhaled sharply. "You think the wine downstairs is that?"
"I can check it out."
"Could I say no?"
Charlie shook his head slowly. "Not really."
"How bad will it hurt me?"
"Honestly, I don't know."
"Is there anything I can do to help myself?"
"You could help me."
Now his cute smile made her queasy. It wasn't a big leap to guess where he was going with this. "How would helping you help me?"
"I know how the system works. I could help you with the angles. You think about it." He rose to go. "By the way, I really want to compliment you on the way you're holding up. Believe me, I know how the stress gets to people."