False Profits

by Patricia Smiley

  “I’m looking for Benito.”

  He looked bored with me already. “He’s not here.”

  “They said he was working tonight.”

  “They were wrong. Today’s his day off. Check out front if you want his schedule.”

  I put my head on the bar and tried to figure out why nothing ever went my way. When I looked up seconds later, the guy had already abandoned me for an octogenarian in a Greek sailor’s hat.

  Everything ached as I slipped off the bar stool and headed back to the front desk. When I asked the orthodontically enhanced receptionist to check Benito’s schedule, she confirmed that he wasn’t due in until the following Wednesday. That was too late to get any information for my meeting with Shelly Greenblatt the following day. Also too late for Mo Whitener’s Monday deadline. I asked if she’d been working the previous Saturday night. She had, but her shift ended at nine p.m. She told me that no one was ever at the desk after that hour. As a last resort, I asked her to check the lost-and-found. She did, but she found no maroon envelope.

  Naturally, the receptionist wouldn’t give me Benito’s home telephone number, either. I was at the end of my ability to think of the next step. I’d pinned my hopes on finding some bit of information that would end this treasure hunt, but I’d been naive to think I could figure out any of this. On the back of one of my homemade business cards, I wrote a note asking Benito to call me if he remembered seeing Polk that Saturday night. I handed it to the receptionist.

  As I turned to leave, she said, “Milton Polk? We were wondering who he was.”

  I did a slow spin and looked at her.

  “Hold on,” she said, disappearing behind a door. When she reappeared, she was holding a large envelope imprinted with the yacht club’s return address. It was addressed in Polk’s own hand to himself at his home in Pacific Palisades.

  “He must have dropped it in the mailbox outside without stamps,” the girl said. “The post office won’t deliver anymore without them. When it came back, we didn’t know where to send it. He wasn’t listed as a member. Do you know how we can get this to him?”

  It was just like Milton Polk to try to stiff the U.S. Postal Service. My facial muscles hurt, but I managed to produce a big smile. “I’ll take care of that for you.”

  She hesitated at first, but finally handed me the envelope. I gave her another smile and a heartfelt thank-you to boot. I eased onto a nearby couch and ripped open the package. An enormous weight lifted off my chest when I peeked inside and saw something gloriously maroon. I studied the documents to make sure they were the originals. When I was satisfied that they were, I hugged the envelope like a long-lost lover. My cell phone was still with my purse in the car, so I used a pay phone to dial Gordon’s number. He was going to be ecstatic.

  “THAT’S THE BEST news I’ve heard all week,” Gordon said with an audible sigh of relief.

  He hadn’t been home, but luckily his wife, Eleanor, had given me his cell phone number. I’d found him in his car.

  I smiled. “Thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased?” he said. “Tucker, you saved my ass.”

  Not to mention my own, I thought.

  “I’ll bring the file to the office on Monday.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” He chuckled. “I’m sending an armored car over right now to pick it up.”

  I smiled. The old Gordon was back, and that felt good.

  “Seriously, Tucker,” he said. “I don’t want to ever go through this again. I think we should put the documents in a safe place for the rest of the weekend.”

  “Okay,” I said, without much enthusiasm. I was tired and still had to stop by to see Franco and Janus before going home.

  “I’ve been meaning to stop by my boat anyway,” he said. “How about if we meet for a few minutes to discuss strategy for Monday. On the way home, I’ll drop the NeuroMed documents by the office and lock them in the safe.”

  He was right to be cautious, but frankly, all I’d wanted was to go home and nurse my bruised and battered body. The only thing that kept me from saying no was the prospect of getting back into Gordon’s good graces. He and I would be a team again, confronting Whitener and the evil partners with the NeuroMed documents on Monday. That sounded just too appealing to turn down. Besides, I’d finally get the chance to see Gordon’s boat. Eat your heart out, Richard Hastings, I thought.

  I’d been spacing out on the couch in the yacht club’s lobby for the better part of an hour when I felt someone touch my arm. Gordon Aames stood beside me, wearing chinos, a polo shirt, and a blue fleece jacket. For once, he looked completely relaxed. I forgot about everything except how good it felt to see his kind and confident smile.

  “Jesus, you look terrible,” he said. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Can I do something? Get you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He sat down next to me on the couch. Then he sighed. “We’ve missed you at the office, Tucker.” He seemed calm. Sincere.

  “Thanks, Gordon, that’s good news.”

  “You think that’s good, get ready for better,” he said. “We’ve been dropped from Whitener’s complaint.”

  I felt relief and then a surge of unexpected anger. All the anxiety and pain I’d been through—for nothing.

  “At least that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about,” I said.

  He hesitated. “Well, not you. Just the firm. But it frees me up to help you, and I’m glad to do it. I’ve been in close contact with all the partners. There are a few glitches with the Amsterdam project. Everyone realizes it was a mistake to replace you. I’ve convinced them to take a new look at the whole thing.”

  I felt both curious and wary. “Why would Whitener drop the firm and not me?”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied. “It happens all the time. Whitener’s attorneys realized they couldn’t make a case against us.”

  Again, there was that “us” that didn’t include me.

  “I guarantee you,” he continued, “the whole thing will blow over as soon as we produce the contracts and the original report. Where are they?”

  I held the maroon document envelope up in front of him. He looked at it and smiled. Then he looked at me, and his apparent relief turned to concern.

  “You’re trembling,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Actually, I wasn’t sure and told him so.

  He took my hands in his and said, “You’re freezing. Let’s go to the boat. Eleanor has some warm clothes on board. You can change. I’ll make you a drink. Fill you in on everything. Did I tell you Hastings just joined the club? You know, I think you should join, too. I’ll put you up for membership. What do you say?”

  His question was rhetorical. It was a done deal. It was true, the firm had picked up a lot of business through the club, and now that I’d had more time to think about it, if that little weasel Hastings had joined, then so would I.

  Gordon braced my elbow as I slipped the envelope with the original NeuroMed report into a side pocket of the gym bag so it wouldn’t get smelly from my wet clothes. As he led me out the front door, he began brainstorming ideas about how to save one of Covington’s financially troubled subsidiaries, and expressing his optimism that Aames & Associates would get the chance to turn the company around. His enthusiasm made me smile until I thought about Milton Polk and Teresa García, and my mind wandered. If winning the consulting contract hinged on keeping silent about Wade Covington and what I knew, it was something I couldn’t do, not even for Gordon. But how could I break the news to him that the reward he coveted most wasn’t worth the price, especially if it came from a man who, I suspected, was a rapist and a murderer?

  28

  it was dark as I followed Gordon through a chain-link gate and down the metal gangway to the boat slips. The narrow cement docks swayed from the wind and surge, leaving me feeling slightly off balance. Somewhere in the
distance, a loose halyard clanked against a mast.

  Gordon’s boat was in the last slip just before the main channel. Darkness made it hard to distinguish details, but the size alone was impressive. It was a powerboat and at least fifty feet long. I stepped onto the swim step and then followed Gordon up a few stairs to the main salon. He disappeared into one of the staterooms and, after a few minutes, returned with a stocking cap, a heavy wool sweater, and a yellow rain slicker that looked as if it belonged to a school crossing guard. I set my gym bag by the couch, slipped into the sweater, and then zipped and Velcroed myself into the jacket. The pockets were full of everything from mittens to a roll of Tums tablets, which made the sucker awfully heavy but warm. I smoothed down my hair before pulling the cap over my head.

  Gordon went to the bar and rummaged through a cabinet until he found a bottle and a couple of plastic glasses. “Scotch?”

  “What about your ulcer?”

  He winked. “It’s for medicinal purposes. Just don’t tell Eleanor.”

  “I don’t drink the hard stuff,” I said.

  “Get used to it. It’s part of the culture. You want to work with the boys, you drink with the boys. Besides, it’ll relax you.”

  He poured until the glasses were nearly full, and then added ice from a small refrigerator under the counter. No mixer. He handed me one of the glasses. He took his and climbed up another ladder to the top deck. A short time later, I heard the sound of engines roaring to life. While he wasn’t watching, I poured most of my drink down the sink, which probably emptied directly into the marina. I hoped the booze didn’t give some sardine a hangover.

  “I can’t be gone more than half an hour,” he said, “but I haven’t used her in a while. I thought we could go out and run the engines while we’re talking. And since you’re going to be using the club and the boat to entertain, it’ll give you a chance to learn the routine.”

  What was Gordon thinking? That he was going to teach me to drive this tanker tonight? Sweet of him to offer, but I didn’t think so. Thirty minutes was barely enough time to plan our approach with the partners and for me to tell him about Wade Covington. There certainly wasn’t time for How to Skipper a Yacht, part I.

  Gordon released the lines from the bow and instructed me to do the same with those at the stern. When I cast them free, he slowly maneuvered the boat out of the slip. I joined him on the bridge, which was enclosed on three sides by stiff plastic windows. Despite the shelter they provided, the air up there was still chilly. I was glad to have all the extra clothing.

  Across the basin, the palms surrounding the Marina del Rey Hotel were bending with the wind. Gordon motored slowly past a fuel dock and made way toward the breakwater. As we cleared the north entrance of the channel, he pushed the two throttles forward, and the boat picked up speed.

  Covington had been an important client even before these latest contract talks, so I didn’t know how Gordon would take the news that as soon as I showed Teresa García’s medical chart to Detective Kleinman, Covington would be in no position to grant a consulting contract to anyone. I had to warn him before the shit hit the fan. As the two of us sat there looking out at the water, I tried to ease my way onto the subject.

  “Have you heard anything from Wade Covington?” I asked.

  “No, thank God,” Gordon said. “I think I smoothed things over, but your going to his house was a big mistake.”

  “I wanted to apologize for offending him.”

  “That’s what I told him,” he said, “but, Tucker, we’ve got to talk about this independent streak of yours.”

  I’d heard that lecture before, and I didn’t want to hear it again right now, so I pretended to be enthralled by the blipping lights on the half-dozen screens in front of me. I didn’t understand boat electronics, but I didn’t really need to. That was Gordon’s job. I could tell that we were heading west, in the general direction of Malibu, but despite the moon, I couldn’t see any vessels out here but ours. It was rougher in the open water than it had been in the channel. The motion of the boat was making me a little queasy.

  “Gordon, there are some things about Covington—”

  “Forget Covington.” His voice had a slight edge to it now. “And don’t change the subject. You haven’t been a team player lately, Tucker. You can’t be a maverick if you want to be a partner.”

  “In case you forgot,” I said, “the partners banished me from the firm almost a week ago, so I’m not sure, exactly, what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about Mona Polk,” he said. “You’re working for her. That’s strictly against company policy. All contracts have to be presented to the managing partners and approved before accepting a job from a client. You know that.”

  I tried to imagine how he’d found out about Mona. The only thing I could think of was that maybe she’d called the office looking for me. Except, that didn’t make sense. Eugene would have taken the call. The last thing he would have done was tell Gordon.

  “How did you find out?” I asked.

  “Bernie Cole. He said you stopped by Sunland to see him about some survey you were doing for her.”

  I was stunned, and for a few seconds all I could do was stare at him. Finally I said, “You know Bernard Cole?”

  “Sure. We’re fraternity brothers.”

  “You went to Luther Mann with Bernard Cole?” I asked. “Didn’t Wade Covington go there, too?”

  “Sure. Bernie didn’t graduate, and Wade was a few years ahead of us, but that’s how we all met. Bernie and I skied Aspen before it started taking itself so seriously.”

  I felt a chill despite the heavy parka. “Was Wade Covington one of your ski buddies, too?”

  He shot me a glance. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” I said. “I was thinking of taking a ski trip over Thanksgiving. Dr. Polk told me he stayed with Covington at his Aspen house a few times. Told me it was a good place to go.”

  He took a drink of Scotch and winced. Not playing well with his ulcer, I guessed. “Yeah. Aspen’s still good.”

  “Milton Polk gave me the impression he was a real hot dog, but he didn’t strike me as the athletic type,” I said. “Was he any good?”

  He reached up and adjusted some dials on one of the screens, and then increased the speed. “Did I say I skied with Polk?”

  “I just assumed you might have run into him one time or another, since he was a friend of Covington’s.”

  “You’re very inquisitive tonight, Tucker,” he said. “More so than usual.” He squinted at me, then continued. “He didn’t ski at all that I noticed. Mostly, he went from the refrigerator to the telephone. So how’s Mrs. Polk doing?”

  According to Francine, Milton Polk had been to Covington’s Aspen house only once, when Teresa García was raped and beaten. If Gordon was at Aspen with Polk, it meant that he was also a witness to that crime, or at least an accessory to the cover-up. I was getting that wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time kind of feeling again.

  “Tucker, I asked about Mrs. Polk. Is she okay? Suicide’s a tough one.”

  “What makes you think he committed suicide?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—murder maybe.”

  Gordon’s facial muscles went slack. He pushed on the throttle, and the boat lurched forward. We were going really fast now. As the boat hit the swells, the bow bounced out of the water, pounding my body against the seat, making my stomach churn.

  “Slow down!” I yelled. “We’re going to crash.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s why we came out here. To run the engines.”

  From the determined set of his jaw, he looked as if he weren’t going to stop until he ran this tub onto the beach at Waikiki. But a few minutes later the boat hit a swell that knocked Gordon’s glass of Scotch out of its holder, splashing alcohol all over the bulkhead and all over me.

  “Shit!” he snapped. “The instruments.”

  He slowed down the boat a
nd pushed a button on a panel, after which the boat seemed to steer itself. He instructed me to call him if I saw any moving lights, and then he went below. The only lights I saw weren’t moving. They were from the shore to the right of us, and they glimmered like Christmas bulbs strung along some distant roofline.

  When Gordon returned, he handed me a stack of napkins to wipe the deck and to absorb the Scotch that had soaked into my sweatpants. My muscles were stiff and achy from the exertion at Gorky’s and from the cold. I also wasn’t feeling so steady on my feet. He wiped the moisture from the instrument screens, and I did my best to clean the deck. As I looked for a place to toss the soggy napkins, I noticed that they were imprinted with a name and some kind of logo. The light on the bridge was dim, but I could just make out a picture of an anchor. Beneath it were the words Write Off. My lips parted slightly as I willed my lungs to breathe. My arms felt like dead weights as I held the napkin up.

  “Your boat?”

  He flashed me a wry smile. “Eleanor’s idea. I wanted to name her Amazing Grace, but she had veto power.”

  I closed my eyes while the realization crept slowly into my consciousness. I was almost sorry I hadn’t joined Gordon for a drink. It might indeed have relaxed me, might have muted the fear that snaked its way through every part of my body. Milton Polk’s scrawled instructions across a coffee receipt. Not write off the coffee as a business expense. That’s not what he’d meant at all. Write Off. The name of a boat. The boat owned by the man he was meeting last Saturday night. The man who murdered him.

  29

  you killed Milton Polk,” I said stupidly, overwhelmed by the realization. Gordon’s eyes darted around the bridge, focusing on everything but me, as if he didn’t know what else to do. Even in the dim light, I could see the color draining from his face.