Prodigal

by T M Heron

  I feel too sorry for myself to be angry but once I’m out of here all hell will break loose. It’s too hard and too cold and too squalid to sleep and I’m convinced basic human rights are being withheld. My face is parallel with the rim of a stainless-steel toilet. I while away some time planning what I’ll do to Carla when the time is right, but it’s impossible to lift my spirits.

  At God knows what hour a cop opens the door, mutters something about friends in high places, and throws a sleeping bag at me. From this I deduce Carla is finally home from her outing and has deigned to make a call. I put the blanket on top of the mattress and crawl into the sleeping bag, shoes and all.

  32

  It feels like about midday Friday when they escort me to an interview room. My watch and belt were confiscated so I can’t be sure. No one has offered me breakfast or so much as a drink. The room is internal and has as much balmy cheer as my cell. It possibly served as a fridge in a former life. Alongside the less than ambient temperature it has a medium-sized table and three chairs. Anthony Hartman is sitting on one of them.

  “They could be taping us,” I say quickly. I can see video paraphernalia up in the ceiling corner, and it’s blinking. I stuff my hands in my pockets because they are shaking with cold.

  Anthony nudges one of the chairs out with his toe. “No one is taping us.”

  “In that case,” I say, sitting down heavily, “you need to get me out of here immediately. This is a set-up. I’ve been set up. And Carla, the useless—”

  The door opens and a cop walks in holding a cup of something steaming. He places it in front of Anthony and disappears.

  “Are they kidding?” I say, through chattering teeth. “Where’s mine?”

  “I didn’t order one for you,” says Anthony. He rolls off a black leather glove and takes a careful sip. I can smell it now. Coffee. My mouth waters.

  Anthony is wearing a black suit under a navy cashmere coat. He looks warm, relaxed and very much in command. He takes another sip. Steam rises off the coffee and dissipates quickly in the frigid environment.

  “You’ll recall I did worry,” he says, “that this thing with Jo’s murder would besmirch your entry into the partnership. It was put to you quite reasonably, I thought.”

  “I could’ve waited forever for that to be solved,” I mumble.

  “You could’ve,” he agrees. “But you didn’t, did you? Instead you decided, ill-advisedly I might add, you were in a position to force my hand.”

  Anthony picks up his discarded glove and rolls it into a sausage. He places it on the table where it slowly unfurrows again. It has fur lining and navy stitching and looks like kid-skin. “You put yourself before the firm. And, more important, you thought you could ride roughshod over me.”

  For a moment his light blue eyes darken with the memory and I see something ugly and stark lurking behind it all. “I’ve been managing partner of Bakers for five years. Do you really you’re the first person with a little bit of sway who thought he’d flex his new muscles?”

  He laughs. Sips thoughtfully. “Did you know I promised your father that we’d never offer you partnership? You must be a special kind of creep to elicit that sort of behavior in your own father.” His eyes close in satisfaction. “It gave me great amusement to tell you to bring Harry on board and we’d give you partnership.”

  “Yet here we are,” I manage through my shock. “And I am a partner.”

  “For the moment. Can you remember what I told you if things didn’t go your way with Pacitto?”

  I fully remember him telling me he’d bury me.

  “That’s right.” He’s watched me have the thought, seen me remember our exchange. “And not a client in the world will be able to protect you.”

  Anthony stands up and makes a show of suddenly having a very cold hand. He puts his glove back on. “Do you see how easy it was for me to put you here? I can put you back here again. Permanently, even. In three weeks there’s a partners’ conference. I think, given you’re the main person of interest in a murder case that’s getting stronger by the day, you’ll be asked to resign.”

  “I’m not resigning.”

  “I’d advise you to reconsider. Let me be as specific as I can; if you resign all of this can go away.”

  “A lot can happen in three weeks.” It’s the best I can offer. “They’ll probably have found who did it by then.”

  Anthony smiles. “Not unless it’s you. Because as of now that’s the only place they’ll be directed to look.”

  ◆◆◆

  Someone gives me a plastic cup of tepid water and Carla arrives.

  “I need coffee. Proper coffee,” I say.

  “I’m not a barista,” she says. “Your fiancée is quite a number.”

  “She’s not my fiancée.”

  Carla sits as far away from me as the table will allow, as if I’ve contracted something infectious overnight.

  “Two things,” she says. “First, nothing was found in the search. Pacitto was just trying his luck with you. But even if they had found something under last night’s warrant it would have been inadmissible.”

  Relief floods through me. I am not hard enough to spend another night in a cell. “Why?”

  “Judge Mauder didn’t know the tip-off was anonymous. There wasn’t sufficient information to justify the search.”

  “And they just did it anyway?”

  “Yes. He’s furious. It’s a big no-no. But Aubrey really wants you for this.”

  “Aubrey?”

  “Detective Pacitto.”

  “The guy’s a prick. I’m going to work out who killed Jo myself once I’m out. How hard can it be?”

  “Leave it to the experts.”

  “What experts? I might even use that investigator. Ingrid.” Even in this cold hole of an interview room just saying Ingrid’s name out loud gives me a warm feeling.

  Carla stares at me, her face bland, and I swear to God one day I’m going to make her express something other than polished disinterest. “You need to plead guilty,” she says.

  “What? I’m not. When are you going to start trusting me?”

  Carla sighs. “The evidence is stacking up, Jackson. Also, you haven’t been honest with me. You were seen in your car outside Jo’s house at six-twenty on the night she was killed. They have a photo.”

  “I can explain.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “I had work files for her. Have a look at what was found. There’ll be Bakers work files there.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward and say that?”

  “I knew it would look bad.”

  “That’s a stupid excuse. And it does look bad. And now in light of everything else it looks even worse. They’re not going to let this go, Jackson. If you did it, and I’m sure there was good reason, now would be the time to come forward. The harder you make them work for this, the worse it will be for you.”

  “You’re my lawyer. You’re meant to believe me.”

  Carla pauses. “Here’s the thing. I can’t represent you any longer.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It was a management decision.”

  “It’s going to look like the firm doesn’t believe me.”

  She shrugs. Face blank. “The only condition under which I can represent you is if you aren’t with the firm.”

  She leaves and cold air flows in before the door swishes shut, and the walls start to close in on me. I’m lawyer-less and the firm is not going to back me. It’s another clear message from Anthony Hartman.

  I look at my empty coffee cup, but it has no answer. A deep fatigue engulfs me and a sense of foreboding settles in.

  Pacitto appears. He wears a wooly winter jersey over his suit pants. It will have come from some mid-range menswear shop but it looks very warm compared to how I’m feeling. He doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed about his unlawful search. I find I don’t have the energy to rib him.

  “I’m goin
g to get you for this,” he says.

  “I can go?”

  “For now. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts. Your mother has a car waiting.”

  33

  The driver takes me back to Mother’s. My own house is uninhabitable after the search. If I had any spirit, I’d consider pressing charges, but I don’t. My father is winning from the grave.

  My bedroom at my mother’s house is fit for a king. The more we’ve come to know each other the more personalized the room has become. A silver bowl of Calimyrna figs on the dresser. A painting I admired from upstairs now on the wall above my bed. A bottle of Hakushu single malt and a crystal tumbler on a side table near the fireplace.

  I shower off the grime, desperation and poverty from the prison. It takes about an hour. When I’m done showering, I still feel cold. It may take forever to lose that bone-deep chill that crept over me in the cell. And I haven’t managed to shower off my feelings of impending defeat. I should’ve known death wouldn’t curtail my father’s reach.

  I pull on a soft merino T-shirt.

  Resign now, and it can all be over.

  I cannot for the life of me imagine what it would be like to be incarcerated. But after one night in a cell I know I am not cut out for an extended experience of that nature.

  There are chinos in my drawer, but I overlook them in favor of sweatpants.

  I sit down on the bed and think about how much better my life might be if I did resign. No Finch following my every move. No hard balling from Anthony. No worrying about the police. No pandering to clients. No stupid set hours. More flexibility with which to see my girls. I could go back to being the person I was before my father died, only richer. What would be so bad about that?

  I have the world’s best excuse to resign, after all. I have a family empire to run. A glamorous life to lead. And it’s all suddenly beginning to hold a lot of appeal.

  There’s only one problem. It’s what my father wanted. It’s what Anthony now wants. And probably, in her own way, it’s what Jo would’ve wanted too. I can picture her being quite happy with the sequence of events her death set in place.

  I’m suddenly more tired than I can ever remember feeling. I just want to sleep, but I have a mother somewhere in the house who is anxious to know why her son spent last night in a prison cell. A mother who is going to be surprised and maybe let down when I tell her I no longer want the partnership we were both so excited about. So I wander upstairs and tell Kylie to make me French toast and then I sprawl on my father’s old chaise longue in front of the fire.

  The French toast shows up before Mother does. It’s delicious as is the fire and I make a stern promise to myself I’m never going to spend another night in a prison cell.

  When Mother sweeps into the room she looks excited. “When on earth did you get engaged, Jacky? And why are mothers always the last to know everything?”

  “I what?”

  “Ava! She called me early this morning to tell me about the misunderstanding last night.”

  “The misunderstanding. The . . . it’s far worse than a misunderstanding, Mother.”

  “Well, when do we get to meet her? This fiancée of yours?”

  “We’re not engaged. I don’t know why she would have told you that.”

  Mother sits down decide me. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Jacky?”

  “You know my executive assistant was murdered?”

  “I do.”

  “Someone cut her throat.”

  “Yes, yes. I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but what does any of this have to do with you?”

  Something warm pulses through me. I guess Mother and I really are blood related. She takes my hand and I don’t mind.

  “Last night someone told the cops that the knife Jo was killed with, and an item of her clothing, were buried on my property. They called it in as a tip-off. I was set up. Then I was arrested.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight. I called my lawyer. I thought she’d get me out right away, but she couldn’t. I spent last night in a cell, Mother.”

  “In a prison cell?”

  “Didn’t Ava tell you?”

  “She just called this morning and said you were at the station. What kind of a fiancée leaves out those kinds of details?”

  “She’s not my fiancée. But Mother, I need you to listen to this. The cops, this one cop, a detective, he’s taken a personal disliking to me. He thinks I killed her. They’re following me around now.”

  Mother squeezes my hand. “Jacky, we have the best lawyers in the country at our fingertips. We’ll complain.”

  “No lawyer in the country can stop an ongoing investigation.” Actually, Anthony Hartman can if he wants, I think, but I’m not sharing this with my mother. “I just need you to know, the board to know, if things get hairy—”

  “Don’t worry about the board. Don’t give it a second thought.”

  I look at Mother’s face and she is incensed her precious son is the target of police harassment. Again I feel warm, a good sensation in my gut.

  “I think I might resign my partnership,” I say. “It’s probably time to give RIL my full attention.”

  “Whatever you want, dear,” says my mother. She smiles indulgently. “It’s funny, when you started at Bakers your father said he couldn’t see you being a partner.”

  Of course he did, the prick, because he was personally ensuring it would never happen. And now Anthony Hartman has picked up the mantle.

  “I don’t care what you do,” Mother says. “Just whatever makes you happy. All this dreadful business. We might need a drink. I’ll go find Kylie.”

  I sit and look at my hand. It’s warm where she’s been holding it.

  ◆◆◆

  I spend most of Saturday in my room sleeping. Being arrested and falsely accused of murder is exhausting. So is being anywhere near my sister right now.

  At some point Mother arranges cleaners to attend to my house. It turns out a builder is also required. I’d be in a rage if I had the energy. But Mother is handling everything and all I have to do is sleep and eat and think about how much more soothing my life would have been if I’d had access to my mother earlier. I’m beginning to feel good about having a normal relationship with a normal mother. I’m beginning to genuinely like her.

  Saturday night I take a drive in my father’s old Mercedes and try to see if anyone is following me. I detect no one. It’s not as easy as it looks in the movies. Either that or I’m not being followed. Not knowing either way makes me paranoid. I’ve never felt paranoid before. Not even on acid.

  ◆◆◆

  On Sunday night I hotwire Helen’s night nurse’s Toyota Corolla and drive to Savannah’s. Just for once there’s no rain or wind but it’s bitterly cold. I’m wearing tracksuit pants, trainers and a sweatshirt.

  “Dress up warmly,” said Mother as I was leaving.

  Savannah has yet to appear in her room, so I sit in the darkness sipping some of the Hakushu I’ve decanted from the bottle in my room at Mother’s. Other than the dulcet calls of a night bird it’s peaceful in the pool house. The bourbon flows through my veins warming me from the inside out. I can hear my heart beating in the stillness.

  I’m totally calm tonight because I know her stepfather won’t be appearing to ruin everything. Not after that little note Warren left him on the paddock gate.

  Visiting Savannah is how I imagine it would be to go on a retreat. It will be time to start tracking her soon. To work out how I can abduct her. In fact, it’s way overdue. Yet sitting and waiting for her is the only meditative state I’ve ever experienced. And I’m far from ready for it to end.

  Finally the lights go on in her window. Trusting soul that she is, no curtains are drawn. She’s wearing hockey gear and talking animatedly on her cell phone. As she talks, she starts casually stripping off pieces of clothing and discarding them into a wicker laundry basket. When she’s down to just her underwear and long spo
rt socks she sits on the bed, still absorbed in conversation.

  Savannah is leggy and curvy without an ounce of fat. Her skin is luminous, like Ingrid’s, dare I mention it. It would feel like silk to the touch. As I watch I get a sense of being unlimited. A sense of being alive. After the shit that’s rained down on me lately this visit is a much-needed return to my core self. And then I hear a scuffling sound over at the gazebo and realize I am not alone.

  I freeze and my blood runs cold. My first thoughts are that it must be an animal. The sound was not particularly cautious nor was it stealthy. But there’s a very human outline sitting in the gazebo. I’ve been followed.

  It’s a cop. It cannot end like this!

  And it doesn’t. Because it’s not a cop. It’s Savannah’s stepfather. I lean back to be more in alignment with the pool-house doorframe. But he doesn’t see me. He’s too busy looking up at the window and shaking something around in a bag. He omits a low groan.

  Up inside her room Savannah places her cell on the bed and starts taking off the rest of her clothes. Her stepfather partly stands, mutters something. Shakes the bag harder. Hunches over, I can hear him breathing heavily.

  Suddenly I realize there is no bag. Savannah is undressing upstairs, piece by piece, and her abusive stepfather, whose car is not in the garage, is half-standing half-leaning against the gazebo jerking himself off.

  “Don’t take off your bra,” I want to scream. “There’s a sick bastard down here and he’s watching you.”

  But she doesn’t hear.

  “Arrgh,” goes her stepfather.

  For a moment I think I’m going to faint.

  “Arrgh.”

  I want to hurl myself at him. He’s desecrating sacred ground here. But I can do nothing. I close my eyes, but I still have to sit and listen. He’s not even quiet. Why should he be? It’s his house and his stepdaughter.

  By the end I don’t know who is more violated, Savannah or me. What I do know is that this has stirred a rage up in me like never before. What I do know is that I am not fucking resigning. Nor am I limping off with my tail between my legs like a whipped dog. My father is not winning this, and neither is Anthony Hartman. And once I sort out that mess, I’ll be dealing permanently to this one here with Savannah.