“Why am I hearing a but coming?”
“But—” he says “—I think he overstated the case against her.”
“Come again?” I say.
“Looking with the mind of a skeptic, with the evidence I have in front of me, I’m not convinced he had it right. At least not to the standard of reasonable doubt, which is what you’re wanting, right?”
“Correct.” I realize I’m massaging the lump on my forehead and drop my hand. “Okay. How many of the seven events are questionable? Two? Three?” Bert was getting on in years by then. Maybe he missed a detail or two. Or maybe he stopped paying as much attention when it became obvious to us both that I was never going to press charges. He used to razz me about spending the money when I wasn’t going to act.
“Six,” he says, as the breath whooshes out of me. “I count six hinky events. To be blunt, it’s possible that everything after the jewelry store was the work of another woman.”
“You’re going to have to walk me through this,” I say when I can talk. “This is a pretty big change of heart.” And speaking of body parts, I’m starting to sweat and my heart is engaged in a canter.
“So let’s start with the one event that’s true. We know without question that Ms. Prosser was behind the jewelry store, correct?”
“Right.”
“Because you saw her in person. Direct witness confirmation.”
“Right. Where are you going with this?”
“Bear with me. After the jewelry store, we never had that level of evidence again. In fact, Bert identified a lot of the photos on your behalf because you got sick of it at one point and wanted the pros to handle it.”
“The later ones, maybe, but not at first. No way. I even looked at a few tapes, and I think I can damn well pick out my own ex.”
“Maybe,” he says levelly, as if he isn’t destroying an orthodoxy I’ve held for years. “Remember, you were hurt, and in the context of vandalism you were primed to see Ms. Prosser. Also, the photos are grainy. And superficially, the two women look very similar. Brunette with hair to their shoulder blades, ’bout five-seven and weighing one-forty. Also, the mystery woman is often wearing the pink hooded sweatshirt you identified as being Ms. Prosser’s.”
“Well, sounds like a lock to me,” I say. “What am I missing?”
“For starters, the mystery woman has a little more material in her, uh, upper story. I didn’t trust my own opinion, so I consulted with an officemate who is—uh—a Victoria’s Secret expert. He concurs.”
I’m not sure how I feel about two men pouring over Liv’s figure, but I guess it goes with the territory. “Or Liv could have used a padded bra.”
“True. True. But what’s with her always wearing the ball cap?”
“Um…she’s intelligent,” I say, exasperated. “Trying to avoid being identified.”
“Then why was she so careful about her face but careless about her vehicle? I mean, we’ve got photos of her ’83 Chevette parked across the street from your house. No attempt to obscure the license plate whatsoever.”
“Right,” I say, seizing on what he just said. “That’s what I remember. Bert had her car on the scene several times.” Toll booth records, too, as I recall. Even a parking ticket.
“The car, yes. But not necessarily Ms. Prosser.”
There’s a long silence as I put it all together. I suppose, theoretically, that he’s right, but the scenario he’s suggesting is frankly ridiculous. Absurd. “So you’re saying that a woman who knows Liv’s taste in clothing, who had access to her car—and her dogs—” I say, recalling the particular incident which really sticks in my craw “—that woman deliberately came onto my property and committed acts of vandalism.”
“I’m saying it’s possible. But one quick way you could put a wrinkle in my theory is by telling me Ms. Prosser’s handedness. Like, whether she’s left- or right-handed,” he clarifies when I don’t speak immediately.
“Right,” I say.
“Are you positive?”
I close my eyes and expel a breath, conjuring images. I picture Liv yesterday, pulling a strand of hair from her mouth. Ten years ago, doing a striptease in the shed with soft, vulnerable eyes. Liv pulling down my zipper before riding me into oblivion. Liv on her knees, gazing up at me as her mouth and hands work me over.
With those pictures to fall back on, I’m damn well sure I would have noticed if she were left-handed.
I think.
Who knows what details I might have altered or put into soft focus during my many review sessions over the years?
I open my eyes. “Ninety-nine percent sure,” I say. “I’ll get to a hundred if you give me an hour. But why is this relevant?”
“Takes a fair bit of force to slash tires. The woman who did your Beemer is almost certainly a southpaw.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why would someone go to the trouble of impersonating Liv?” But I know the answer, of course, and I know who could be behind it, if this bizarre theory holds water.
I was hurt by the jewelry store, but I would have eventually forgiven Liv because I knew I wasn’t blameless. I can’t count how many times I got close to dumping my responsibilities—just shoving them all away—and driving down to see her to apologize. But inevitably, before I could act, along would come another attack on my property.
If there is another woman, I’d bet my left nut that Tucker was the one motivating her.
But when I say as much, Darcy tells me to hold my horses. “First of all, I said I think the woman was left-handed. It’s not conclusive. And second of all, even if there is another woman, that doesn’t necessarily exonerate Ms. Prosser.”
“Come again?”
“It’s possible Ms. Prosser couldn’t be there herself, so she used a proxy.”
I can barely restrain my skeptical laughter. “Hired it out?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “That’s a little unrealistic, isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen stranger things in my day. Trust me. People pull all kinds of shit when they feel spurned. And that would explain how the mystery woman gained access to Ms. Prosser’s car and clothing, plus the animals.”
“Well, then why did she—or they—finally quit?” It’s a question that haunted me for years, and that I sure wouldn’t mind having answered now.
“Could be a lot of things. Ms. Prosser grew up. She got help. She started dating someone else and transferred her obsession to them—though I’ll note she has no criminal record of any kind. Or maybe she just got bored of it. After all, if her goal was to get your attention, there wasn’t any payoff after the jewelry store.”
“Because I didn’t press charges, you mean.”
“Exactly. You didn’t rise to the bait.”
I think back to Liv’s face yesterday. “Nah. I don't buy it. I don't think she's that crazy.”
“Pardon me for saying so, but for a decade you were willing to believe she was behind all eleven incidents. How is it a stretch to believe that she’d bring on a helper?”
He’s got me there.
I sigh and wash my face with my hand. “How do we sort this all out?”
“Can I come there to grill her?”
“No,” I say, and then realizing I’ve spoken curtly, add, “If I’ve been blaming the wrong person, I’m not adding to the injustice.” Plus, Yolanda would kill me if I started interrogating employees during the retreat, especially over kooky theories about ancient history.
“Then you’re going to do two things,” he says. “You’ll find out about her handedness and call me back.”
“Done.”
“And you’ll send me to Ohio and let me poke around. I’ll see if I can get a candidate for the other woman. If we can find her, and if she talks, then we can find out who put her up to it.”
“Do it,” I say. Now that I’ve opened this Pandora’s Box, I damn well want to get some answers.
ON THE BEACH, Yolanda is in the thick of
her last-minute organizing. She’s dressed in the brightly colored shirt she reserves for the first day of outdoor exercises and is busy sorting kitchen sponges into net bags.
“Good afternoon,” I say. “How are the lab rats?”
She lifts her eyebrows at me and grins unrepentantly. “Nervous.”
Smart lab rats. “We’ve got to do something about your hormones,” I say. “You need a mustache to twirl.”
Before I poached Yolanda from a Fortune 500 company, we wound up in a conversation about employee retention and how I was doing it all wrong, especially with Wakefield in an expansion phase.
“You want a lean, cohesive company?” she said to me. “Then stop being so goddamn cheap.”
I had been willing to listen, thank goodness, and willing to fork out the money for a weekend-long experiment at the Super 8 in Boise. Then I watched as what promised to be a chaotic acquisition went through without a hitch, and employee satisfaction soared.
Since then, we’ve worked our way up to five-day retreats in Jamaica, and we both think that’s the perfect arrangement.
On the surface, especially in the indoor sessions, this time is about establishing a common language, mutual respect, and creating a harmonious culture. All the things that sound woo-woo on the surface, but actually contribute to the dividends that give our shareholders hard-ons and lady-boners.
To the astute, this week is also understood to be a long-running job interview. Because no matter how guarded people are when they begin, under the influence of time, alcohol, and most especially fun, everyone lets go of caution. They drop their masks. They cut loose a little. And when they do, it’s amazing what can be learned.
From a casual touch here, you discover who’s having an affair with whom. From a whispered argument there, whose marriage is on the ropes.
The “outdoor games” part of the retreat is especially helpful. It shows who is willing to cut corners or cheat, which employees are natural leaders, and who, paradoxically, can be reliably counted on for original thinking.
Somehow Yolanda will take what she learns here and use it to reshape the Wakefield team back home, so that vulnerabilities are bulwarked and latent strengths harnessed.
And very occasionally, though it’s not what we seek, she will uncover something that warrants a firing.
Speaking of which… I turn to the beach and scan the restless crowd. “On the white team, see the woman with the red runners and the guy in the Bengals cap?”
Yolanda has her head under a table skirt as she digs in a plastic bin. “You mean Olivia Prosser and Tucker Acheson?”
It’s a challenge to keep my mouth from falling open. “How’d they get on your radar already?”
“Other than their odd place in the office flow chart?”
I’d noticed that, too. Within HMZ’s structure, while most staff technologists are assigned to projects rather than engineers, Tucker and Liv exist off to the side, in their own little organizational bubble. I haven’t gone through the entirety of their personnel files, but it looks like neither functioned particularly well until this special arrangement was struck.
“Yeah, aside from that,” I say.
“You gonna tell me why you had her to your villa yesterday, then changed your mind about Milwaukee?”
“When I know more.” There’s no way I want to prejudice Yolanda against Liv before Darcy has finished his investigation. For that matter, much as I might loathe Tucker, he deserves a fair shake.
Her mouth compresses as she pulls down her sunglasses to look over the rim at me.
“I’ve got Darcy working on something,” I say. “And I’ll value your independent opinion.”
She nods. “Guess we’ll swap stories when his report is in.”
“Guess we will.”
“Good enough,” she says.
“Good enough.”
We’re grinning at each other when she thrusts something into my abdomen, shocking an Oof out of me. A white T-shirt.
“Since you’re inserting yourself into my day, I’m putting you on her team.”
“Why?”
“One of their party is out sick. I was going to play sub, but it’s obviously better when I’m a detached observer. Besides—” A huge grin blossoms over her face and takes over her eyes. “It’ll be fun. I get to watch the romantic triangle in action.”
I frown at her. “There is no triangle.” There was a romantic line, and one party who wanted it to be otherwise, but that’s all ancient history.
“Uh-huh,” she says, in that infuriating way she has of telling me she’s seen more than I want.
But I have no real objection to her plan. After that conversation with Darcy, I’m as restless as hell and could use the activity. It’ll provide me an opportunity to establish Liv’s handedness. Plus, much as I hate to admit it, a small part of me wants to spend time with her. After what she’s put me through, how sick is that?
CHAPTER 8
LIV
A s I stand on the beach, from my position within the white team, it’s hard to remember what I was so worried about yesterday.
Finn hasn’t shown, proving that my paranoid instincts about him were screwy and daft.
After doing paperwork all evening and spending the morning in the ballroom, I am finally outdoors, with a chance to actually notice I am in Jamaica.
Now all I have to do is come across as a steady, unremarkable contributor during the afternoon games, and I’m going to get through this retreat just fine.
Then Tucker and I can return home with secure jobs, and after a decade of loose ends, I’ll finally have closure because of my apology to Finn.
It’ll almost be worth wearing a bathing suit in front of my coworkers.
“Phew.” I pull off my hat and use the back of my hand to mop my brow. “It’s going to be a scorcher.”
“I’ll say.” Georgia inclines her head in the direction of the hotel. “Have a look.”
I turn and see a very present Finn on the promenade with Yolanda. He’s pulling his shirt over his head, revealing a sculpted chest and abs. A sprinkling of dark hair leads in a trail down his belly and disappears into a pair of black board shorts.
As my heart starts to hammer, I turn my back and pretend fascination with the water.
Dang. Among other things, it’s deflating to think he might have so much distrust in me that he chose not to leave.
“Don’t know any other CEO who looks like that.” Georgia hums a quick, sparkly melody. “He can take over my company any day.”
“I’m sure he’s attached,” Kimberly says.
“Nope,” Georgia says as I listen with far too much interest. “My cousin is his PA. I get regular updates.”
“Who cares?” Tucker thumps his chest. “If you’re looking for action, you’ve got all the man you can handle right here.”
“Aw, Tucker, honey,” Georgia says, patting his shoulder, “we didn’t mean to make you feel left out.” She breaks off as something behind me catches her attention, and her smile dawns like the tropical sun. “Why, good afternoon, Mr. Wakefield.”
“Good afternoon, folks,” Finn says. His smile is easy, his hands rest lightly on his hips over a T-shirt he must have put on as soon as I turned my back. A white T-shirt. “Nice day for some water games. Yolanda said you were down a team member. Mind if I join you?”
“You’re going to be on our team?” Tucker’s challenging tone earns him startled glances from the others.
“He’s the boss,” I say quietly. “Ergo he gets to be wherever he wants.” I widen my eyes at Tucker, hoping he will read their flashing message of, Behave. This will be a disaster if Finn and Tucker resurrect their old pattern of rivalry.
“‘And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds,’” Princess says. “Hebrews 10:24.” When Finn blinks at her she holds out a hand. “I’m Princess, and you are welcome here.”
“Er, thank you,” Finn says, and I have to bite my lips to avo
id smiling.
People are always shocked the first time they encounter Princess. She’s blonde, wears her hair in a ponytail, and always has something pink and sparkly on her person. But her mind is a steel trap when it comes to finding relevant Bible verses, which she does with startling frequency.
We perform quick introductions. Besides Tucker, Finn, Princess and me, there are four others on the white team.
Kimberly, of the vampiric complexion, works in Purchasing at HMZ, where she comes across as stressed and humorless. It’ll be interesting to see what she’s like in this setting.
Tad works in Drafting. He’s shaped like a plank with an Adam’s apple. The latter bobs as he shakes Finn’s hand. Nervous or attracted? I wonder. Probably both.
Roger is in the mothership’s Accounting department. He has a receding hairline but is built like a retired linebacker. Obviously his past athleticism will be good for the team.
Last is irrepressible Georgia, who works in PR at Wakefield proper. I feel for her. Quite a few of us are coping with desk jockey physiques, including me, but as she is a much larger woman, I have a feeling she’s going to suffer this afternoon.
Somehow Finn ends up standing next to me. While the others watch Yolanda and speculate about what we’ll be doing with the props she’s setting up, it feels like Finn and I are back in sixth grade, consumed by awareness of one another while pretending disinterest. Any time now, I’ll break down and kick him in the shin.
Finn makes the first move by speaking to me in an undertone. “You okay, Liv? You look tired today.”
So I am back to being “Liv” instead of “Olivia.” And if there are shadows under my eyes, they’re thanks to him and that moment by the gate.
“I’m fine thank you, Mr. Wakefield.” If he’s going to be around, I need professional boundaries to make this work. Anything more ambivalent, and I’m going to have trouble with my wayward heart.
“No need for such formality,” Finn says easily, and at a volume the others can hear. “Call me Finn, everybody.”
As they nod, I drop to a crouch on the pretext of getting a water bottle from my duffel. He follows on the pretext of tying a shoe, then stares openly as I take a drink.
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