by Meg O'Brien
I am on my feet, my hands covering my mouth. “Kidnapped! My God, no! What are you talking about?”
“Marti Bright was here on the Peninsula three months ago for only one reason—to help the Ryans find her son. When she couldn’t find him she called the first family for help. The president assigned us to the case.”
I lean forward and reach out to my desk for support. “I don’t believe this! Marti never said a word to me. And what about the FBI? The local police? No one’s said anything, there’s been nothing in the press.”
“No one has been told. At Ms. Bright’s and the Ryans’ request, only the president and Mrs. Chase know about the kidnapping. The first family honored this request when Marti Bright was alive. And now, given the way Ms. Bright died and the attention it’s drawn, making the kidnapping public could work against negotiations for the child’s safe return.”
“Negotiations.” I lick my lips. My mouth is so dry, it hurts. “There are negotiations, then? You know who took Justin?”
Mauro’s eyes give the hint of a flicker, and Hillars leans forward.
“You know the boy personally?” Hillars asks in his Southern drawl.
“No, no, of course not.”
This is not the entire truth, but I’m still not sure I trust the Secret Service any more than they apparently trust me.
“Do you know who took Justin?” I say again.
“We are not at liberty to answer that.”
“But if—When did you say it happened?” I ask.
For a long moment it seems they won’t answer. Then Mauro says, “As I told you, our information is that Ms. Bright began negotiations with the kidnapper three months ago.”
“Three months! But that’s impossible, we told each other everything! Marti would never have kept something like this from me.”
Still, I am remembering that in the past three months she never answered my phone calls, never came by when she was here. I am hearing Ned say, “You’re the one who killed her,” and seeing Sister Helen’s cold, unfriendly face.
What in the name of God has been going on?
“If indeed she told you everything,” Agent Mauro continues, “then you must be able to tell us the name of the boy’s biological father.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t know. She never told me.”
“Ms. Northrup, I can’t emphasize enough that the boy’s life is at stake. If you know—”
“I don’t, dammit! She said it was only one night, and she didn’t want the father involved.”
“Did she give you a reason for that? Was the man in question abusive, for instance? Did she feel she had to hide the child from him?”
“I…no. I don’t think so…” I hesitate.
“But?”
“She said she didn’t think he’d make a good father. Wasn’t father material, or maybe that he wasn’t available. Something like that.”
“Was he unstable?”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know. That’s all she said.”
I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself together. And where the hell is Jeffrey? Surely he isn’t still out there hosting that damn party. Surely he sent everyone home.
In fact, I know I heard cars leaving. Why doesn’t he come in here and throw his considerable weight around, demanding to know what’s going on? Why doesn’t he call Sol Lenquist, our lawyer?
Maybe he has. Sol will get me out of here.
But Agent Mauro has one more zinger under his cap. “You know a woman named Helen Asback?”
“Helen Asback. No…no, the name isn’t familiar.”
“You may know her as Sister Helen.”
“Oh. Well, yes, of course, I know Sister Helen. I just don’t recall ever hearing her last name.” That was another thing my former teacher had refused to use, that and civilian clothes. “What about her?” I ask.
“Ms. Northrup, we spoke with Helen Asback, or Sister Helen, as you know her, before coming here. She and Marti Bright’s brother—” he consults his notes “—Ned Bright. They both seem to think you know more about Ms. Bright’s murder than you’ve admitted to.”
“But that’s crazy. I haven’t seen Sister Helen in twenty years. And I never really met Marti’s brother until today. I don’t know how they can say such a thing.”
“Perhaps Ms. Bright told them something? Something that might incriminate you?”
I might have given up a good job to marry Jeffrey and fritter my life away in Carmel, but I was not a working reporter beforehand for nothing. Every remaining instinct I have tells me Agent Mauro is fishing. Otherwise, he would not be telling me all this. And his questions would be more specific.
“Perhaps she did,” I say coolly. “And perhaps they—and you, Agent Mauro, and you, Agent Hillars—can all just go to hell.”
Gathering strength from my anger, I stand. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see that this is getting us anywhere. I obviously don’t know the things you want to know. And I am very, very tired. If you insist, I and my lawyer will meet with you in the morning. Meanwhile, I’m asking you both to leave.”
I am rewarded by a deep flush filling Agent Mauro’s face.
Agent Hillars is the one who speaks. “We apologize if we have offended you, Ms. Northrup. Please understand, we are only trying to get to the bottom of things. We would like to find your friend’s murderer. Stephen? Shall we go?”
His back is stiff as he leads the way to the door. Agent Mauro turns as if for a parting shot, but Hillars, amazingly, grabs his arm and shoves him through the door, muttering, “Not now, Stephen. For God’s sake!”
As the door closes I sink back into my chair and bury my face in my hands.
Justin—Justin has been kidnapped. Oh, dear God, Marti, now what do I do?
Jeffrey is in the living room alone, slumped in his favorite easy chair and downing what looks like his favorite drink, straight scotch. He’s been at it a while; his face is flushed and slack.
“God, Jeffrey, anyone would think you were in there getting the third degree, not me! And why the hell didn’t you do something?”
I know I sound like a shrew, but I can’t help it. My nerves are a-jangle.
He gives me a sour look. “Do what, Abby? Charge in there and throw them out? That somehow didn’t seem quite the way to go.”
“You could at least have called Sol.”
“I did.”
That takes some of the wind out of my sails. I slump in the chair opposite Jeffrey’s in front of the fire.
“What did he say?”
“He’s on his way.”
I make the snorting sound my husband despises. “What did you do, wait till the horse was halfway out the barn to call?”
“No, my dear, I reached him on his cell phone in Santa Cruz. He said he’d be here within the hour.” Jeffrey looks at his watch. “Which means any time now.” He downs the rest of his drink in one swallow. “Well…what did they want?”
Aside from the fact that the Secret Service told me to keep Justin’s kidnapping confidential, I am not ready to tell Jeffrey about Marti’s son.
“I’m not really sure,” I say. “They asked a lot of questions about Marti.”
Jeffrey flicks a look at me. “What did you tell them?”
“Not much that they didn’t already know.”
“They’ve been investigating the murder?”
“They…Yes.”
“You hesitated. Why?”
“Dammit, Jeffrey, I’m exhausted, and I don’t feel like telling it twice. You can hear it along with Sol.”
I get up and go to the sideboard, pouring myself a stiff drink. “You need a refill?”
He sets his glass down and stands, beginning to pace. “No. I should stay sober for when Sol gets here.”
“A bit late for that,” I say.
“You know, your mouth—”
“Will get me in trouble one day. Right. I apologize. It’s just that it does seem you’ve been drinking more than usual lately. Wh
at’s going on, Jeffrey?”
“What’s going on? You have to ask? I feel like a prisoner here, locked up with someone who can’t stand the sight of me and wants me gone yesterday, if not today.”
The ice in my glass clinks as I whirl around. “Oh, and you think it’s a picnic for me? This whole thing was your idea, for God’s sake! If you want out, get out. It’s as simple as that.”
“You know it’s not that simple.”
“No, nothing with you ever is.”
I study him, the Clooney haircut passé now, the bedroom eyes beginning to pale. Jeffrey is only in his fifties, yet in the past few months he seems to have aged quickly. The exercise isn’t helping, and his trainer either hasn’t the guts to tell him or can’t afford to lose the income.
I sigh, remembering the early days and how much fun they were. The dreams still alive, promises not yet broken. “Oh, Jeffrey…” I say, “it’s not you I can’t stand the sight of. It’s what you did. That night keeps coming back, over and over. If I sound bitter, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get it out of my head.”
“Well, now I have a night to remember, too,” he says coldly. “You and your little policeman friend. Christ, Abby, couldn’t you at least have picked someone with more class?”
I am hot to the defense of Ben. “More class? You mean like Karen? Your little bimbo?”
“For Christ’s sake, she’s your sister! Show a little respect.”
I laugh, but without mirth. “Like you did, there between her legs, gobbling her up like the last dinner of a condemned man?”
“Well, I felt like a condemned man.”
“Jeffrey…” My sigh is heavy, loaded with both misery and guilt. “Let’s not do this. Not again.”
He falls silent. But the odd thing is, he’s probably right—maybe I should try to show a little respect. Karen is, indeed, my sister. Unfortunately, she is also a tramp. If the word sounds harsh, I like it for its versatile definitions: hobo, walkabout…sleepabout. My parents did their best, but Karen never responded to anyone’s best, only their worst. At sixteen she ran off, never wrote, never called, broke both my parents’ hearts. When she showed up here in Carmel five years ago, she was a forty-year-old adolescent, a woman who had learned to make her way through the world by using people. She lived with me and Jeffrey for several months, during which time she slept with half the married men in Carmel in an effort to prove she was still young enough to attract them. When she ran out of marital fodder elsewhere, she started on mine. Part of Karen’s problem is that she loves things, and when she saw what I had, she wanted it.
I got the last laugh, though. Jeffrey may have put her up in a million-dollar condo with an ocean view, but now she’s stuck with him—while I’ve got Ben.
Ben and this house, so long as I put up with Jeffrey until after the election.
Chase’s reelection. I wonder what my husband would say if he knew his golden boy had sent the Secret Service here tonight.
But then, he must have known this the minute they walked through the door. The Secret Service acts at the behest of the president, and no one—in private life, at least—is closer to the president than Jeffrey.
So why does he seem so nervous about their visit? Why is he drinking so heavily? And why doesn’t he tell me he knows why they were here?
A car pulls into the drive, and moments later the doorbell rings. I go to the foyer to let Sol in.
“Sorry it took me so long, Abby.” He looks around. “Your visitors leave?”
“You mean the federal ones? I chased them away.”
“Well, if anyone could do that it would be you,” he says, smiling. “What’s going on?”
“Come in, Sol. Sit down. Can I get you a drink?”
He follows me into the living room, where he nods to Jeffrey but passes on the drink. Sinking into the sofa, he groans, putting a pillow behind his back to prop it. “I wish you’d get real furniture some day,” he mutters, not for the first time. “This puffy shit is killing my knees.”
Sol is short, dark and beefy. He looks and thinks like a mob lawyer, but his heart is pure. He’s been Jeffrey’s and my lawyer ever since we married, and he’s always been absolutely fair with both of us. I’m one of the few divorced or divorcing wives in Carmel who didn’t need to go out and get a shark of her own. It was Sol, in fact, who talked Jeffrey out of a prenup before the wedding. He held up his own happy marriage as an example and told Jeffrey it was based on trust. Nothing could work without it, he argued, and Jeffrey finally agreed to marry me without the agreement he’d wanted: that if we ever split, I’d leave with only what I’d brought in.
Which was virtually nothing. I was so in love at the time, I didn’t care. I’d have signed the prenup without a second thought.
“Okay, so tell me what this is all about,” Sol begins.
I sit across from him and sip my drink. “This isn’t the first time they interviewed me,” I say. “I talked to them a few days ago, too.”
Jeffrey looks startled. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, you weren’t here. After that, I forgot. Anyway, Sol, they were asking me questions about Marti. And they seemed to know everything about me, right down to the mole on my behind. They had obviously done an in-depth background investigation.”
“Really? What kinds of things did they know about you?” Sol asks.
“They knew all about my school years,” I tell him. “My grades from kindergarten on, they said, my friends through high school…They even knew that Marti and I were in the convent together and left together, that we’ve been friends over the years.”
Sol’s heard all this, so I’m not telling him anything new.
“Did you get their names?”
“The one who did all the talking was an Agent Mauro. Stephen Mauro. The other one was Hillars. I don’t know his first name.”
“That’s okay, I can get it easily enough. What kinds of questions did they ask?”
“They wanted to know everything I could tell them about Marti. Specifically, who she saw when she was here in the area, and who she might have had close relationships with.”
“You mean, like a boyfriend? A lover?”
I hesitate, tempted to tell him about Justin, that he’s been kidnapped, and that because of this Mauro and Hillars were here at the request of the first family. I am stopped, however, by the fact that, first of all, Mauro emphasized confidentiality, and secondly, Jeffrey is here. Again I wonder: If Chase wanted Jeffrey to know about this, wouldn’t he have called and told him? A phone call from the president warning us about a pending visit from the Secret Service wouldn’t have been out of place.
Sol, I think, must be reading my mind. He rubs his face and seems thoughtful. “Jeffrey?” he says at last.
“Yes, Sol?”
“They didn’t talk to you?”
“No. They did stop in here on the way out. Said they wanted to see me tomorrow morning at ten, at the Carmel police station.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” I say.
Jeffrey gives me a dark look, as if I am personally responsible for this imposition.
I turn to Sol. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Abby. Did they ask you anything you felt was unusual?”
“Any number of things.” I summarize the conversation for him, leaving out only the information about Justin. “I finally told them they should question people at the different shelters Marti visited, that if she knew anyone here besides me, it would be them. They said they had already talked to people there, but no one had ever felt close to Marti. People said they had liked her, but that they never really knew her well.”
“And that struck you as unusual?”
I look down at the ice melting in my glass of scotch. “Only because I’d come to feel I didn’t know her very well, either.”
“You weren’t that close anymore?’
“I thought we were. But in the past three months, Marti changed. I never really knew where
she was, and I tried to reach her several times but she didn’t answer my phone calls. In fact, the last time I actually talked to her, now that I think of it, was one day about six months ago. I saw her here, driving down a street in Monterey. I remember the day because it was when President Chase was here to speak to that environmental group at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. You remember that, Jeffrey?”
He nods, but does not look at all happy.
“Foam Street was closed,” I recall, “and as I turned down one of the alternate routes, there she was, going the opposite direction. I waved to her and we both pulled over and talked a few minutes.”
“About anything in particular?” Sol asks.
“No, just that she was here to do that piece on the homeless, and I was on my way to a…luncheon.” I must have sounded like a fool, I think. A rich, aimless fool.
“I never saw her again after that,” I say softly. “Until the other day, that is. On the, uh…the hill.” My eyes tear, and I look away.
Sol heaves his bulky frame up and groans again, stretching. “You got any soda water?”
“Sure. Your stomach bothering you?”
“Like a blazing oven.”
“Sol, you should see a doctor.”
“Doctor! Ha. The day I put myself in the hands of one of those shysters is the day I’m dead.”
Sol saw his wife die from the wrong medication, prescribed by a doctor and administered in a hospital. I pour him a glass of soda water from the sideboard.
Jeffrey seems unusually quiet. Even Sol seems to notice.
“Jeffrey? You worried about something?”
“Of course I’m worried,” he snaps. “This is the last thing I need right now, with the election only a month away. If voters get wind we’re being investigated by the Secret Service, it won’t matter why. The press will build it up into something Abby—or I—have supposedly done wrong, and by the time they’re finished making things up, it could very well rub off on Chase. I haven’t backed him for the past twelve years, from the time he was a raw-nosed congressman, to have him lose this reelection.”
Gary Chase, with Jeffrey’s help, climbed the ladder rapidly on the heels of a president who had been dragged through the mud for sexual “indiscretions” in the Oval Office. When squeaky-clean Chase appeared on the scene, he was a breath of fresh air for voters. A shoo-in.