by Alan Chaput
They ran back to the lobby.
“Alarm is reset,” Judy said.
“Okay.” Patricia glanced at the tracking device. “Guard is a block away. Let’s go.”
They stepped out. Once Judy had locked the door, they headed for the Escalade parked around the corner.
A fire truck with sirens blaring and red lights flashing turned onto the street. Caught in the truck’s headlights, the two froze.
If the guard was close by, he’d see them. And anyone who looked out their windows to see what the commotion was about would see them as well. Patricia fought back rising panic. Her mind spun as she tried to digest the situation. “Girls’ night out,” she shouted to Judy.
The two entwined, laughed, and staggered like drunks toward the corner. Judy, bless her heart, started to sing “Dixie.”
The fire truck, wheels thumping over the cobblestones, rushed by.
The two turned the corner and closed the distance to the Escalade. Patricia ducked into the SUV just as a veil of rain descended.
“Phew, that was tense,” Patricia said.
“Yeah, but I got exactly what I needed. Best of all, nobody will find out we were there.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Judy blinked. “What do you mean?”
“When I opened the blinds, I swear there was someone on the other side of the glass. He was big, burly, and he was looking in at me.”
“Well, we are in Savannah. Maybe it was a ghost.”
“I know what I saw, Judy.”
“If he was there, who was he?”
“I don’t know, but I’m afraid he might have recognized me. My picture is in the paper all the time. And if he recognized me, he’s someone who could create problems for us if he talks to the wrong people.”
Chapter 3
It’d been merely a day since Hayley, Patricia’s only child, had returned to college to complete her freshman year, but to Patricia the time seemed much longer. She sipped her second cup of coffee and gazed down from her second-floor bedroom window at the city square where she and Hayley, as a child, had spent countless hours lounging on the benches feeding the pigeons and squirrels. So long ago, before Hayley’s world stretched beyond family bounds.
Patricia noticed a big burly man with a cap pulled down over his face standing on the edge of the square staring at her home. She knew most of the regular vagrants, but didn’t recall seeing him before. She did a double take. Oh my God. He so resembles the man from last night. He did recognize me. He found me.
No, she assured herself, just a coincidence.
She walked away, checked her smartphone for messages, and returned. He was still there, still studying her house. Was he casing the place? Looking for vulnerabilities? Good luck, buddy! The house had the best available security.
He leaned against the light pole as if he owned the square. A broad smile filled his affable face. His black hair hung limp at his cheeks. He stooped to scratch his bare foot.
Patricia tensed. Shoeless in the city, walking barefoot on cracked concrete, broken glass, and rocks. People shouldn’t have to live like that. Not in her city. She’d helped the down-and-out before, of course she’d help this time as well. Besides, it would give her an excuse to learn what he was up to.
She turned from the window and went downstairs, where she removed her gun from the safe. After slipping the weapon into her purse, she went to the mudroom and pulled an old pair of Trey’s flip-flops from the beach supplies bin. In the foyer, she hesitated in front of the hall mirror, making sure her floral print day dress and hair were tidy enough to be seen outside.
When she stepped onto the porch, she was pleased to see the man was still standing in the square. She descended the wide staircase to the courtyard, where she lifted the latch on the wrought-iron gate and crossed the cobbled street.
She stopped in front of the man. Not too near. A foul, unwashed odor closed the distance.
His head was down.
She waited for him to glance up and acknowledge her. He seemed lost in thought as she looked him over. Big body. The broad shoulders of a laborer. Tangled, long black hair hung over his face.
She coughed.
He raised his head and brushed hair from his eyes. A distinctive scar hovered over his right eye. Breath left her. He was the man in Beau’s window. She’d known he’d seen her. Probably recognized her. But she had no idea he’d find her so quickly. “What do you want?” she asked cautiously.
He remained silent, motionless. If he remembered her, he didn’t show it, but she certainly recognized him. Patricia let her shoulders drop. Took a deep breath and then another. Stay calm.
He might have been in his mid-twenties, but it was hard to say. And while he was shabbily dressed, his teeth were straight and white. Though his sad eyes tore at her, she kept coming back to the scar like a tongue to a chipped tooth.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“Don’t believe so.” He smiled, wrinkling the tanned skin around his eyes.
Her neck hairs bristled. “I couldn’t help notice you’ve taken an interest in my home.”
“Not really.” His deep, syrupy voice was proud.
“You from around here?”
He shook his head. “Just passing through.”
She held out the flip-flops. “You can have these.”
He raised his eyebrows and gave her a bewildered look. “I don’t want to go to the shelter.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She brought the shoes up higher. “These are for you.”
“What’s the deal?”
“Deal?”
“There’s always a deal.”
“I’m not looking for anything in return.” She stepped closer, placed the flip-flops on the bench, and turned to leave.
“My name’s Rhett, Mrs. Falcon.”
She froze. Her vision sharpened to catalog the shadowed sidewalks, old homes and cobbled streets. There was no one else in view. Just him and her. Knowing better than to show her fear, she touched her purse with the concealed gun and turned to face him. “You know my name?”
He spread his thick arms. A smug smile crossed his face. He nodded. “That’s your house over there.”
“How do you know my name?”
He grinned. “Everybody knows the famous Falcons.”
But he’d said he was just passing through. “Why are you here?”
“Last night. There was rain. There was an overhang. I went to it to get out of the rain. Suddenly the blinds opened, scaring me to death. And I think you were startled too. I’m sorry I scared you. I wanted to tell you that and to make sure you were okay.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
He took the flip-flops and slipped them on. His heels hung over the back a bit, but they looked like they’d do. “Thank you for your kindness. Won’t nothin’ happen to your place as long as I’m here.”
“Do you think I need protection?”
He raised his shoulders. “Who doesn’t?”
“You know you can’t loiter around here.”
He nodded.
Unable to find anything else relevant to say to him, she gave a proper gracious smile and strode back across the street, leaving the young man and his mystery behind her. At least for now.
Just as she entered her home, a chime from her cell phone jolted her. She walked to the front window while she consulted her phone and read the text message from her husband. Meeting at Chatham Club tonight. Won’t be home until after supper.
She texted back OK just as the phone rang. Judy.
“We need to talk. It’s urgent.” Judy’s voice was uncharacteristically somber.
“Are you okay, honey?”
“After last night, what do you think?”
“I think we need a long talk, but don’t you have tennis with my mom?”
“Yeah. In a couple of hours.”
“Do you want to stop by on the way to the club?”
&nb
sp; “You don’t mind?”
“No, not at all. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
When Judy, dressed in tennis whites, arrived she seemed distressed, not unexpected considering last night’s revelations. They greeted each other with a double kiss on both cheeks then went to the kitchen where Patricia poured coffee.
Judy sat at the table and let out a long sigh.
“Hard day?” Patricia asked.
Judy rolled her bloodshot eyes. “I want it over.”
Patricia took her friend’s hand. “Divorce?”
Tears formed in Judy’s eyes. “I want him and all this drama out of my life.”
Patricia patted Judy’s hand. “He has a successful practice here. He’s not leaving Savannah and neither are you.”
“I want out of this sham marriage.”
“You two should be able to do that.”
Judy squinted. “We can’t talk.”
“Lawyers?”
“Too confrontational. I’d just like to get the divorce details settled with him, then have the lawyers write them up.”
“You’ll need an intermediary.”
Judy’s eyebrow elevated. “You?”
She knew them both, but this was asking a lot. “I, ah, if you like.”
“You sure it’s no bother?”
“What are friends for, particularly in time of need. If he’s available, I’ll speak with him this afternoon.”
Judy smiled. “Meanwhile, let’s keep this to ourselves.”
After Judy left, Patricia called Doctor Beau Simpson, Judy’s lying, cheating husband and Patricia’s mother’s doctor, and asked to see him immediately. He agreed. She walked to his medical office, just a few blocks away.
“I appreciate you seeing me,” Patricia said as she took a seat in his office. The computer with the incriminating information loomed on the right of the credenza. The azalea bushes outside his office window where the stranger had been were laden with red flowers. It all seemed so innocent, but she knew better.
Beau, a noted cardiologist and marathon runner, wore his brown hair long. Like the incense that still lingered, he was both an unusual as well as an intimidatingly huge man.
He settled his six-foot-eight frame into his chair and smiled. One of those face-lifted, permanent, unnatural smiles. “What can I do for you, Patricia? Is this about your mother?”
“No. I know you’re a busy man, Beau. I’ll get right to the point. You’ve been cheating on Judy.”
A strained look briefly crossed his well-tanned face. He avoided her eyes. Silence gathered for a moment and hung like a storm cloud over the circular office table they shared. Then his lips curled up and he brought his eyes to hers. “You damn Falcons, you’re all alike. Old money with no self-earned credentials. Now you’re butting into my business. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Yesterday your mother tried to tell me, a Harvard med graduate, what medications she should be taking. You’re all fools, operating on unfounded information. As for Judy, she’s the one who is cheating, not me.”
“It’s not about my family. It’s about you. Your infidelity is a fact, Beau. You’re not helping the situation by denying it.” She cleared her throat. “I’m here as Judy’s friend to help you two deal quietly with this matter and come to an equitable settlement, a divorce resolution.”
He shook his head, swaying his long hair. “That’s ridiculous.” He didn’t appear to be concerned. He consulted his watch and stood up. “I’m due at the hospital in fifteen minutes.”
She dug her nails into her palms. “So, you’d prefer public divorce proceedings and the attendant media coverage that socialite divorces always get in our city?”
He gave her another crooked smile, but his brown eyes were frigid. “There won’t be any divorce proceedings. Not in this city. Not anywhere. Now get out of my office or I’ll call security and have you thrown out.”
Incredible. She leaned forward. “You might want to think this through. You’re taking on more than your wife.”
“You think I’m intimidated by you and your silly bridge group?”
Patricia clenched her teeth and stood. He was powerful, well connected, but could he really block divorce proceedings? Nah. He was bluffing. “Judy has names, dates and places. She has receipts and video surveillance footage.”
He elevated his wide, tapered chin a tad. “She has no such thing, because I’ve done nothing.”
“Beau, believe me. She can take you down.”
“Let her try.” He rounded the table and stooped face-to-face with her. “This discussion is over.”
She walked to the door.
“One more thing, Patricia.”
She hesitated. Now what?
“Tell Judy I have photographs too.”
Chapter 4
After three hours of back-to-back meetings with clients, Trey Falcon’s working day was only half over.
He pushed back from his desk, stretched his six-six frame, and headed into his private bathroom where he changed into a fresh shirt. He needed to look dapper for his lunch meeting with Alton at the club. There would surely be clients at the club this time of day.
He tucked the shirt in and buckled his thirty-six-inch belt using a new notch. It was time to buy a bigger belt. While knotting his tie, he noticed his graying hair needed a trim. He’d often considered having it cut on a regular schedule, but his chaotic life was neither routine nor predictable enough to schedule haircuts.
Trey left his office on Falcon Square and strode west on the brick sidewalk. The overcast sky took the sting out of the sun. A jasmine aroma filled the air. Historic buildings with wrought-iron balconies loomed over the sidewalk. The magnificent structures were a testament to Savannah’s wealth, an opulence that had grown and been passed on over centuries by a small group of merchants and their offspring who looked after such things. He was proud to be a member of that group.
An ornate antique clock stood on a brick pedestal in front of the bank. Eleven-thirty. He nodded. He had just enough time to get to his meeting with Lucius Alton. Trey would have preferred working through lunch, but Alton, who wielded extraordinary political and economic power in Savannah, was a close friend.
Trey would never be able to repay his debt to Alton. Years ago, Alton had shared inside information that had proven essential to several inter-related high-profile cases Trey was handling. Winning those cases had established Trey’s legal bonafides. He owed Alton big for his extremely successful career.
A midday rain started up. Had his lunch guest been anyone but Alton, Trey would have ducked for cover, called, and cancelled. With fat raindrops spilling down his neck, he threw his navy sports coat over his head and dashed to the entrance of The DeSoto hotel. Once safely under the portico, he blew out a breath and looked out.
Five years ago, when he was forty and running for exercise, he wouldn’t have been winded, nor would his quads have been on fire. Such were the unintended consequences of prioritizing work over health. He patted his midsection. And too many fast-food lunches.
There was something ominous about the surprising downpour. His spirit dampened along with his sports coat, he wiped rain from his face with his handkerchief and strode into the hotel. Eyes on the lookout, a habit spawned from painful confrontations with ex-clients at this popular gathering place, he crossed the lobby to the private elevator for The Chatham Club.
As Trey exited the elevator at the fourteenth floor, Alton was waiting in the foyer. Alton’s hunched back was permanently bent at a right angle to his legs by scoliosis. When he walked, he leaned so far forward he seemed about to plunge headfirst into the carpet. His small dark eyes, like two finger holes in his white bowling ball head, locked on Trey’s.
Trey enjoyed time with Alton and looked forward to a pleasant working lunch with a man he loved like a brother.
“Trey,” Alton said. No nod. No offered hand. No smile. Alton never smiled.
“Alton,” Trey said with a nod, then gave his wet jac
ket to the maître d’, who went to the club closet and returned with a dry one and a face towel.
After scrubbing his face and hands dry, Trey donned the fresh jacket and followed Alton and the maître d’ into a paneled private dining room. One table, near the window, two chairs. Trey remained standing until Alton sat.
Seated across from each other, they placed drink orders. Red-rimmed eyes were the only color on Alton’s pale, drawn face. He seemed to have lost some weight.
Questions about this unplanned meeting bombarded Trey, but respect for his friend restrained him. This was Alton’s meeting.
Alton folded his pudgy, pale hands. Heavy lines etched his brow. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m dying.” He sighed and looked down and away. “Terminal cancer.”
Trey shuddered. His stomach knotted. An awful, awkward silence ensued as Trey searched for the right words. Alton was a dear friend. Life without him was unthinkable. “I am so very sorry to hear that.” Trey shook his head. “You know that I’m a God-fearing man, but I … Damn it. Life’s so unfair. I don’t want you to leave, ever.”
“I apologize.” Alton’s oval face had a look of intense focus. “I didn’t want to burden anyone with my condition, least of all you. But it couldn’t be avoided.”
Trey nodded solemnly. Alton wouldn’t meet him just to tell him about this, there had to be more. Eyes locked on his friend, Trey brought a finger to his lips and remained silent.
“I’ve been taking stock of my life and have made a few important decisions, one of which I want to share with you. Before I depart, I would like the Cotton Coalition to rethink the subject of my replacement.”
Trey straightened. The request caught him by surprise. Alton, like Trey, had no male heir. Under Coalition rules, at Alton’s death his seat would be awarded to a deserving gentleman from an unrepresented historic family. Trey dreaded the day the Falcon family would lose their representation when he died.
“I’d like my seat to go to my daughter, Isabel.” Alton’s jaw tightened. “Since you don’t have a male heir either, I thought you might lend your support for a rule change to permit female successors.”