Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She continued to gaze out the window. “I found out why my brother is dead.” She turned and handed him the earring. “The markings on the back are the artist’s initials. It’s a trademark. Reputable jewelers won’t copy it. The artist’s name is William Welles. He lives on Maui.”

  “That’s where you went?” he asked, rolling over the earring to see what appeared to be two interlocking “W”s.

  “The earring is one of a kind. I thought if he had records, he could tell us who he made it for.”

  “Did he?”

  “No,” she said. Then she looked up at him. “But he remembered her.”

  37

  ELIZABETH MEYERS SAT on the bench seat in a corner of the family kitchen. One of three in the compound, this kitchen was closest to their living quarters on the second floor. It was also rarely used. Her husband preferred to eat either at restaurants or at his desk. Though there was a stocked refrigerator, Elizabeth rarely opened it. There was no need. She had a staff to do those things. When she wanted something to eat or drink, she asked for it, and it materialized. If she said, “I’d like a Coke,” someone brought her one. “Make it a root beer,” and someone changed it. “A tuna sandwich. A steak.” Anything she wanted, she got. The staff was never far away.

  She pulled her bathrobe around her and sipped a cup of chamomile tea. Carmen Dupree, a rail-thin black woman with a shock of gray hair, stood humming and peeling a green apple. Carmen had worked for the Meyers family for the better part of thirty years because she could bake an apple pie that Robert Meyers III could not live without. As Carmen liked to tell the story—and she told it often—her pie had taken first place at a county fair in Seattle the year Robert Meyers was stumping the state, in search of the black vote for his run at governor. Meyers had been an honorary judge at the fair and insisted on a photo with the winner. Carmen wasn’t dumb. She knew Meyers was more interested in a photo opportunity with a poor, dark-skinned black woman from slave roots, but she also knew that once he ate her apple pie, he would be hooked—everyone was, especially men. It was never enough to keep them around full-time, but, as with sex, they always returned for it.

  Robert Meyers was no different. He sought out the recipe, even offered to buy it. No fool, Carmen refused to let it part her lips. When Meyers was elected governor, he sought her out again, this time dangling a job as bait. It was another photo opportunity, and Carmen was once again a prop. She didn’t care. She said she liked to imagine what her mother and grandmother would say, knowing that a Dupree was working for one of the wealthiest families in all of Washington. Then she would chuckle and answer her own question. “Probably that the size of the house only meant there was more house to clean.”

  Carmen popped a slice of the apple into her mouth and savored it with her eyes closed, as if letting it melt. Concluding that it met with her approval, she continued cutting razor-thin pieces, letting them fall into the center of the second of two freshly made pie crusts. The first pie baked in one of the three ovens. Carmen spoke to Elizabeth as she peeled the skin from another apple. “It’s a shame to waste the skin. That’s where you find the nutrients. But it can be bitter, and that takes away from the flavor of the cinnamon. And cinnamon”—she looked over at Elizabeth—“is what makes an apple pie, apple pie.”

  Elizabeth smiled in reply.

  Carmen cut the last of the slices onto the mound in the uncooked pie crust, then put down the knife. She checked the clock on the wall, wiped a spot on her forehead with the back of her hand, and walked to the ovens, turning on the light to study the pie through the window. She gently eased open the door as if worried she’d wake what was inside. “Golden brown. Not a bit darker, or the crust can crumble on you,” she said.

  She donned two oven mitts and gently removed the pie. The hidden ingredients passed down through generations of Dupree pie makers overwhelmed the room with the aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and baked apples. She placed the pie on the counter and smiled down at it as if it were a newborn baby. The pie was as much art as delicacy. The crust crisscrossed in a perfect grid pattern. Baked apple oozed to the surface through the squares.

  “Would you like a slice of pie, Mrs. Meyers? Need to let it cool a spell, but it will be ready in no time.”

  Elizabeth looked up from her cup of tea. No matter how many times she asked, Carmen refused to call her Elizabeth. Her husband had made a point that first names were not appropriate, and the staff abided by it. “No, thank you, Carmen. It does smell wonderful, though.”

  “You need to keep up your strength, Mrs. Meyers.” Carmen leaned over the pie. “It’s going to be a busy year for you and Mr. Meyers. Busy, indeed.”

  “Well said, Carmen.”

  Elizabeth dropped her cup. It shattered on the tile floor, tea splattering.

  Robert Meyers stood in the doorway, cinching tight a silk bathrobe. Carmen calmly walked to a closet in the servants’ pantry and retrieved a broom, dustpan, and mop, sweeping up the shards of porcelain. “Don’t cut your feet, now, Mrs. Meyers. You just stay put.”

  “I’ve been telling Mrs. Meyers she needs to eat better, but she doesn’t seem to want to listen to me.” Meyers shuffled across the white-tiled floor in bedroom slippers, careful to avoid the tea casualty. “I can get an entire company to move with just a word, but I can’t get my own wife to eat. What do you think about that?”

  Carmen used a white towel to wipe up the tea that had spattered the side of the bench seat. “I wouldn’t know nothing about that, Mr. Meyers. I ain’t never had a problem eatin’, or getting my men to eat.”

  Meyers went over to where his wife sat and stroked her hair. “?I awoke to find you missing. I was worried. Having trouble sleeping again?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Well, it’s probably the tea. You know caffeine keeps you awake. You should be drinking warm milk. Isn’t that right, Carmen?”

  “Chamomile tea don’t have but a bit of caffeine, Mr. Meyers, and I wouldn’t know about not sleeping, neither.” Carmen wrung the wet rag over a sink and ran it under hot water. “I’ve never had trouble sleeping, and I drink a cup of tea or more every night. Tea soothes the body.”

  Meyers continued to stroke his wife’s hair.

  “Can’t speak for the soul,” Carmen added quietly.

  “What’s that?” Meyers asked, turning toward her.

  “Oh, nothing, Mr. Meyers, just mumbling to myself as I do.”

  Meyers walked to the counter, broke off a piece of the pie crust, and nibbled on it. “So, what were you two ladies discussing at this late hour?”

  Carmen ran the towel under the water, wrung it out again, and walked back to finish wiping down the table and floor. “Woman talk, Mr. Meyers; nothing that would interest a man.”

  Meyers turned from the pie and leaned against the granite counter, his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe. “Well, that makes me all the more interested. It sounds like something secretive and exciting.”

  Carmen shook her head. She had her back to him as she finished wiping down the table. “Nothing secretive or exciting about it. Just this and that.”

  “Hmm. Well, I think I’ll have a slice of pie, even if Mrs. Meyers won’t join me. Do you think it’s cooled enough?”

  “It could cool some more.”

  “Just the same, I think I’ll have my slice, now that I’m awake. Cut me a piece, won’t you?”

  Carmen left the wet rag on the table and wiped her hands dry on the light blue apron around her waist. She walked to the counter and picked out a sharp nine-inch knife from a wooden block. Meyers remained stationed at the counter. She looked up at him, knife in hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Meyers, but if you’re fixin’ to have a piece of pie, you’ll need to let me cut it.”

  Meyers moved to his left, allowing Carmen just enough room to step past. She cut through the outer crust of the pie slowly, careful not to break the rest of the grid and risk caving in the entire pie. As she moved her
hand to make the second cut, Meyers reached out and took her wrist. Elizabeth looked up from the table.

  “You have to give a man a bigger slice of pie than that.” Meyers moved Carmen’s hand to the right. “You never want to cheat a man out of something he has become accustomed to having.”

  Carmen’s focus remained on the pie. She waited patiently until Meyers released her wrist. When he did, she looked up at him. “My mother said you always give a man what he deserves. Just what he deserves,” she said. Then she lowered the knife, and her gaze, and cut the slice of pie exactly where she had intended.

  38

  HE WANTED A gift for his young wife,” Dana said. Logan sat on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently for her to tell him what she knew. She had trouble finding the words. She finally said, “He was a wealthy businessman from a prominent Seattle family.” Then she looked back out the window and recalled Welles calmly seated with his head down, like an old man asleep in a chair.

  She had walked back toward him. “You remember her, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he’d said. “I remember her.”

  Dana sat, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. “Will you tell me her name?”

  Welles had raised his eyes. “Elizabeth Meyers.”

  Disbelieving, she’d asked, “Robert Meyers’s wife? Senator Meyers’s wife?”

  Welles had shrugged, his face a blank mask. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know what I said. Who he is now is of no concern to me.” He had rocked rhythmically in his wooden chair, stroking Leonardo’s back. “He wanted an anniversary gift. He wanted to surprise her. But as I said, I do not create anything without meeting the person who is to wear it. He did not understand at first, and I did not expect him to. But he relented. I spent an afternoon with her. A charming woman, like yourself, but one filled with great sadness. Ultimately, he was quite pleased by the design. He believed the tanzanite brought out the blue of his wife’s eyes.”

  Dana looked again at Logan. “Six years ago, the man who paid for those earrings became a United States senator. A week ago, he announced his candidacy for president of the United States.” She said the words without emotion. When Logan did not immediately respond, she said the name for him. “William Welles made the earring for Robert Meyers’s wife, Elizabeth.”

  “Dana …”

  She raised her hand to stop him. “I had the entire flight home to consider it. It explains why Laurence King is dead. It explains why he chose to rob a man who had given away almost everything he had of value. It explains why Daniel Holmes—or whoever the man is—came to my brother’s house and why he went to the cabin. He’s looking for the earring. They know that she misplaced it and that it can be traced to her and her only. They must have been watching her closely.”

  “Is it possible that there is more than one pair? That this is a copy?”

  She shook her head. “Not with that engraving on back. It’s one of a kind.”

  “And you think Robert Meyers sent King and Cole to get the earnings?”

  “I think he’s ultimately behind it, yes.”

  “Maybe she sent them.”

  She shook her head. “It was Meyers.”

  “That remains an awfully big leap, Dana.”

  “Find Marshall Cole and ask him.”

  Logan hesitated. “Marshall Cole is dead. We found him in a gas station bathroom in Yakima. He was apparently driving back to Idaho, where he had relatives.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “It fits. We both know it fits.”

  Logan ran a hand across his chin. “It might explain some things, but to allege that Robert Meyers had your brother killed because he was having an affair with his wife will require a lot more evidence than an earring.”

  “I know that.…” Her voice trailed away.

  Logan ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s start over. Tell me what happened in Maui.”

  Dana agreed, because she knew how Logan felt—the only thing that would convince him would be the reality of what had happened, the facts that neither could discount. She recounted her trip to the island, her efforts to find William Welles, and the substance of their conversation. It wasn’t hard to do. She kept replaying their meeting and conversation over and over again in her head.

  “He said the blue stone reflected the color of her eyes and her beauty, the diamond below it, a teardrop. He said it was one of many she had and will continue to shed.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” she said. Then, “But Welles said to look within myself to understand the earring.” She turned and looked out the window, not wanting to see Logan’s face when she continued, embarrassed. “I have a bad marriage. It’s been bad for some time. I’ve just refused to accept it. Now I don’t have a choice.” She looked at him. “My husband is cheating on me. He probably has before. I’ve shed more than a few tears over my marriage. I imagine I’ll shed more.”

  Logan waited a moment, and she let him process the information. “And you think that Elizabeth Meyers also has a bad marriage, that it’s the reason Welles designed the earring as he did?”

  “I suspect it is.”

  Logan rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking it through, not dismissing her but still puzzled. “How would this guy Welles know that about you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You had to be there. You had to have met him. He knew. Somehow he knew.”

  Logan cleared his throat. “Assuming you’re correct, why wouldn’t Meyers confront his wife—tell her that she had to stop seeing your brother? Why wouldn’t he just keep her under lock and key? With the security entourage he employs, it certainly would be possible. Why kill your brother and put everything at risk, everything he’s worked to achieve?”

  “Why?” Dana had also considered this on the flight home. “Why did Jack Kennedy sleep with Marilyn Monroe in the White House? Why would Bill Clinton sneak out of the Arkansas governor’s mansion with his wife asleep in bed beside him? Why would he risk getting caught having sex in the Oval Office? Why would Richard Nixon, a landslide winner in every poll, order the break-in to the Democratic headquarters?” There were other questions she could ask, like why would men at Enron and Arthur Andersen and dozens of other companies around the world do the things they did. “Men in power think they’re omnipotent. They think they’re beyond reach, that the rules governing the rest of society don’t apply to them, because normally, they don’t. They do what they want because no one has ever told them they can’t. Maybe that’s what my brother was going to tell me. Maybe Elizabeth Meyers was the problem he wanted to talk to me about.”

  “But to have your brother killed. To risk—”

  “If word got out that his wife was having an affair, it wouldn’t rock just Meyers’s marriage, it would rock his entire world. It would shatter the image that he and his political advisers have so carefully cultivated to get him where he wants to go. The return to Camelot is a sham. It’s a house of cards, and if you pull this card, the house crumbles. He knows that.”

  Logan paced, mentally switching gears to homicide cop. “Will this guy in Maui give a statement? Will he identify the earring and say who he designed it for?”

  Dana shook her head. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek. Several others followed. “I used a credit card to buy my ticket. You were right. I was the next logical choice. Someone followed me to the island and killed him.” It pained her to imagine someone taking William Welles’s life. He was a gentle man. Too good for this world, he had created his own.

  Logan took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his head. “That’s a problem,” he said, leaving unspoken what they were both thinking. If Dana was correct, there were only two people in the world who could identify the earring’s owner. One was dead, and the other likely wouldn’t dare.

  39

  BRIAN GRIFFIN STOOD from his desk with a look of alarm when Dana walked into his
office on the fourth floor of the Seattle University School of Law. His expression and first question told her that a warm shower and change of clothes had not concealed how she looked.

  “Dana. What happened?”

  Griffin’s concern also didn’t begin to describe how awful she felt. She didn’t know what it felt like to be run over by a truck, but she couldn’t imagine it was much worse than how she felt at the moment. The burning sensation from the cut in her forehead had become a dull, pounding headache that two aspirin didn’t dent. She felt dizzy. Her forearms and shins stung from the cuts and burns, and she was having difficulty taking anything more than shallow breaths; the pain in her side was at times excruciating.

  Logan stepped into the office from the hallway, and Dana introduced him. “This is my colleague Michael Logan. I asked him to give me a ride.”

  “Let me get you a place to sit,” Griffin said, turning his attention to Logan and starting to remove a stack of papers from the second of two chairs near the door.

  Logan waved it off. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’d prefer to stand.”

  Griffin closed the door behind them, making the cramped office feel even smaller. It was half the size of an associate’s office at Strong & Thurmond. Dana had never been to her brother’s office. She had been expecting the halls of academia, with rich dark wood and Tiffany lamps, but the law school was a newly constructed redbrick-and-steel-beam building with a lot of glass to allow for natural light. The interior was a modern design, with light wood and carpeted hallways well lit by overhead skylights. Griffin’s desk was a horseshoe shape; the office had wall-to-ceiling built-in shelves stuffed with law books and knickknacks. The wall where diplomas and professional certificates traditionally hung in law offices held framed photographs of Griffin and an attractive redhead who Dana assumed was his former wife.