Della

by Julie Michele Gettys

  On her way out, a clerk at the nurses’s station handed her a note:

  Della,

  Sorry I left without a good-bye. I knew you wanted to be alone with Dad. I’ll call you tonight.

  Love, Steven

  She held the note to her breast and made her way to the elevator.

  22

  In the dark, exhaust-filled underground garage of the Gates International Building, Della gathered her briefcase and purse from the passenger seat and made her way to the elevators.

  Everything in her life had been shattered. She had no one to turn to, no place to run, no one to love.

  Her future, pinned to a DNA test, had yet to be revealed. Whether she was Wes Gates’s daughter or not, its mysteries paralyzed her. Frightening visions of her future wheeled through her imagination.

  Wes lay in a coma, his life dwindling away. With each hour, her unanswered questions spiraled into eternity, lost to her forever.

  The venom that sent Lillian home without a word, left Della doubtful she’d ever see her mother again. Remorse welled within her with each recollection of their last conversation. The condemned expression in Lillian’s eyes ripped at Della’s heart. What had she done? As soon as she started thinking straight, she’d try to make up for the shabby way she dismissed Lillian that fateful day.

  This morning, she awakened to a new drummer. Now she had to prove herself on the job, see if she had the raw talent without Wes looking over her shoulder. The time had come to audit Henshaw and Associates, a job she’d avoided far too long. Phillip was a cheat, a whiner, and had Carrie’s devoted support. His past proved him impervious to any accountability to the headquarters office. Until now! She should have undertaken this project when Wes first assigned his company to her. But no, she delayed the inevitable, secretly fearing Carrie’s wrath. Even Wes had pussy-footed around Henshaw before turning the company over to her.

  What in God’s name was she getting into?

  At her desk, ready for action, she called in her team of five accountants for a quick review of the process she wanted them to follow. These were the best accountants under Gates’s roof. Two women, three men, all in their thirties, all spit-polished, all carrying expensive leather briefcases–the Stepford accountants.

  Henshaw was different from the others because there were multiple accounts to consider. Each recording artist had a separate set of books. Phillip did everything for them except feed them, and she wondered if he didn’t do that occasionally. There were a thousand tracks to cover, trails of money easily hidden in this business. “Leave no stone unturned,” she ordered.

  Her trusted crew nodded in unison, then filed out of her office like good soldiers with their marching orders in hand.

  Phillip would only learn of the review once she and her staff arrived to perform the surprise audit, a common practice at Gates International. When she was first promoted to vice president, Wes told her he wanted her to oversee the first audits on all companies reporting to her. That was how he learned where his companies stood, and that was how he wanted his assistants to carry on. Who could argue with a man who built an empire worth a half-billion dollars from the ground up?

  To survive the day, she veiled her thoughts of Wes connected to tubes and monitors. She pushed thoughts of Steven from her mind before heading out to begin the biggest challenge of her career.

  Within moments, she was at the Beverly Hills end of Sunset Boulevard, where Phillip’s offices nestled unobtrusively between two sleazy-looking nightclubs. Della parked her car in back next to Phillip’s sleek new silver Jaguar.

  Dressed in a new navy suit with a shimmering white silk blouse and a Gucci bag slung over her shoulder, she clenched her teeth, fighting her fears. She’d just stroll past Phillip’s secretary into his office where she’d plunk herself down in the white leather chair in front of his desk. This was one day Phillip might regret his open-door policy. She girded herself, let out a breath and waltzed past his secretary like she owned the place, through the open door of Phillip’s sprawling playpen. The place reeked of cigar and cigarette smoke. She came to a dead halt, facing not only Phillip but, of all people, Rick Courtney.

  Their stunned expressions matched her own. Rick’s presence sent shockwaves through her, instantly reminding her of all the horrible things he’d done. He was a pusher of the worst kind, known to sell crack and cocaine to kids.

  Rick rose from the seat she had planned to take and regained his composure, which wasn’t unusual for the ever-unflappable Ricky boy. All she thought of was her cleaned-out apartment and his half-baked promise to repay her tacked to the door, which he never followed through on.

  “Della,” he crooned. “It’s been a while. I’ve heard great things about you.”

  Still the old smoothie, smothered in cloying cologne she’d once found seductive. His scent repelled her now; he did, too. He hadn’t changed one iota. He was still handsome and trim, without a trace of aging on his chiseled face. Phillip was visibly shaken. His eyes darted from her to Rick. She had caught him red-handed, still buying drugs for his clients. Nothing had changed.

  “I didn’t think you’d lower yourself to come in here with your minions and do an audit,” Phillip croaked.

  “Company policy. I have to oversee the first audit as a new VP. Sorry. I know you must be disappointed.” She faked candor, shaking inside. Hitting hard wasn’t her style. These days, she preferred the softer touch–more honey, less vinegar.

  “I’m not ready,” he said.

  “That’s the whole idea, Phillip. You know the drill. I should have done this earlier.” She faced Rick, gazed into his cobalt eyes, fury churning beneath her composure. “Since you’re back in business, give me a number where I can reach you. It’s time you settle up with me. Otherwise-- “ She broke off for fear of chasing him away. She had to use kid gloves with this putz.

  Phillip edged his way down in his seat, smoldering. “Why the hell are you cranking up business when Wes is lying in a hospital bed, dying?”

  “He’s alive. The family wants business as usual.”

  “For chrissake, Della, he’s not going to make it. Everyone knows but you. You could at least have the courtesy to pull back during this time. Some of us have respect for the guy.”

  She plopped her briefcase on his desk, annoyed by his phony concern. “This is what he wants. So, why don’t we dispense with the accusations and let me get on with it? I’d like to move through this as quickly as possible. How soon we finish depends on you.” She was hitting too hard; use a little of the Wes Gates’s charm. “It’ll be painless, Phillip, I promise,” she said in softer tone.

  Phillip threw up his hands. “You’re one tough little cookie.” He shrugged in resignation. “Have at it. Everything is on the up-and-up around here.”

  Rick said, “How about lunch later? I’ll settle up with you.”

  Had she heard him right? “I’d love it. I’ll be waiting.”

  “One okay?”

  “Perfect,” she said, her heart pounding at the prospect. She took her briefcase and with trembling hands, strolled out of the office. The secretary showed Della to an empty office used by accountants and lawyers, and which sometimes served as a small conference room, with a desk, a phone, a fax, and a computer.

  “If you need anything, let me know,” said a young girl Della had never seen before. Phillip went through starry-eyed secretaries like casting directors go through Hollywood starlets.

  Alone, Della picked up the phone and called Iris. “Can you dig up the number of the detective Wes uses? The guy who found out about Rick when I married him?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Rick’s here. I’m having lunch with him. I want him followed. I’m going to see this guy pays his dues, and I don’t mean replenishing my apartment with the furniture and personal treasures he stole.”

  Iris laughed. “Sounds like you’re still in the saddle.”

  “I am. For what it’s worth, my heart is breaking, an
d I’m doing everything I can to stay afloat.”

  “Join the club. You’re a great gal, Della. I’m on your side. Anything I can do, let me know. Hang on a minute and I’ll get the number for you.”

  Della leaned back with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, pulling papers from her briefcase, smelling stale cigar smoke clinging to her clothes. If Rick was just toying with her and didn’t show up for lunch, she’d find him if it was the last thing she did. He wouldn’t get away this time. At least she knew he was hanging out with Phillip, and he lived in town. With the help of a good PI, she should have no trouble rounding him up. He needed to do a little time for all his larceny and drug trafficking.

  Oh, Wes, why are you lying in that bed, threatening to not come back? I need you so. We all do. The world won’t be the same without you. When it came right down to it, she didn’t care anymore what his reasons were for staying away from her all those years. Now that she knew he might be her dad, all she wanted was time with him, time to make up for the years without him. She’d make up with her mother, too. Some way, by hook or by crook, they’d get back together, if she had to get down on her knees and beg forgiveness.

  Iris came back on the line. “Gordon McKinley. He’s the best in the business. He’ll know who you are.”

  “Really?” Della jotted the number down, smiled to herself, recalling the Reno fiasco and how Wes had come to her rescue. Unbeknownst to her, he was being very fatherly. Too bad Wes and McKinley hadn’t stopped her from making a fool of herself. She hung up.

  Gordon McKinley expressed happiness to be back on the case. He agreed to be outside Henshaw’s office before one o’clock, obscured from view. He or an associate would stick with Rick until he knew everything about the guy except his toilet habits; he’d learn those, too, if necessary.

  One o’clock rolled around. She thought of Gordon McKinley outside, hidden from view, checking his watch. The door flew open and greasy Rick sauntered into the office, all smiles.

  Her mission had begun. Wes, always the one looking for a little excitement, would be proud of her. Too bad he wasn’t here taking part in this shakedown. It was the kind of thing they enjoyed doing together–getting the bad guys, winning in the end.

  He still had the same old blue Carrera, looking like new. He probably spent his leisure time polishing and waxing, rubbing life into the bloody thing. Would the police confiscate his classy blue car when they arrested him? She heard they took all personal possessions during a drug bust. She could hardly wait.

  They drove to a small bistro with sidewalk seating a short distance down the Strip, and ordered drinks and salads. The bright light of the summer sun shone on Rick’s shiny dark hair. His demeanor was as cool and unfettered as a frog on a lily pad in the late afternoon. The lunch crowd had thinned, leaving space for personal conversation.

  She glanced around inconspicuously for McKinley, not expecting to find him, though. McKinley could blend into the fabric of the landscape.

  Her club soda and Rick’s beer arrived. With the day’s confusion, she mustered only small talk until their salads arrived; then he got serious.

  “I’m sorry about what happened. I meant to pay you back, but I was outta here for a while. Know what I mean?”

  “I do. You were lucky.”

  “You know what time can do. I kinda forgot about it all.”

  “Sounds like you. How sad,” she said. Following involuntary fasting, she devoured her crisp greens smothered in a raspberry vinaigrette while he picked at his.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. “Here’s five thousand dollars. Does that cover it?”

  How quick and easy it was for him to present an envelope filled with illicitly-gained drug money and hand it over with a pithy smile, thinking he could simply pay off the heartache and physical pain she’d endured that vile day nearly five years ago. She took the envelope, squeezed it, wondering if he had filled it with cut-up newspaper, and stuck it in her purse. “Everything except the sentimentality. But that doesn’t mean much to you, does it, Rick?”

  “I deserve anything you want to lay on me.”

  “Tell me, why did you marry me?”

  “Believe it or not, I loved you.” He glanced down. “With maybe a little opportunism mixed in. I planned to tell you about myself, but you were so desperate to get married at the time, I didn’t have a chance.”

  Desperate to get married? How dare he? Insecure, yes, but desperate? She wanted to slap him; then a wave of calm washed away her anger. She actually felt sorry for the guy. He hadn’t changed a bit.

  “When you found out what I did and froze me out, I freaked.”

  “Do you really think I’d have married you, knowing what you did?”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.” The indelible picture of Steven’s face blazed through her mind. “How about you?”

  “After you, hardly.”

  “You flatter me. We weren’t married long enough for an honest roll in the hay.”

  She had what she came for, a trail and her money. She stood. “I’m a working girl, and I have to get back. I’ll walk. It’s only a couple of blocks.” He remained in his seat. She held out her hand. They shook.

  “Sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “Positive.” One more minute with this jerk would have brought up her delicious salad, which she needed to get her through the rest of the afternoon.

  “You take care now,” he said, “and don’t take any wooden nickels.”

  She patted her purse. “Hope there are none in here.”

  “All backed by pure gold, doll. I just hope this puts things right between us.”

  “Oh, it does.” She leaned in close to him and whispered, “Don’t call me doll.” She straightened. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. I’ll be hanging out at Phillip’s for a while. You come there fairly often, don’t you?”

  “I’ll be there more often, now that I know you’ll be there.” He winked.

  She wanted to barf.

  A bright sun, a cool breeze, and a little reparation from Rick gave Della the lift she needed to make it through the rest of the day. A few buildings before she reached Henshaw’s, she spotted a Make A Wish Foundation office. On impulse, she stepped inside, took the envelope with the five thousand dollars of dirty money and decided the best way to launder it was to give to someone who needed help. “Here’s a donation from Gates International.” She handed the receptionist the money and left.

  By five, the Stepford team turned in a set of sketchy preliminary reports from a semi-cooperative Henshaw staff. By the next day, after studying this information, she’d be prepared to issue the next step in the audit.

  At home that evening, Della sat down at the dining room table and began reading, looking for something, anything to nail Henshaw. Nothing! He was as clean as a house with a full-time maid.

  Her mind drifted to the phone, wishing Steven would call. She yearned for the sound of his voice. She always would. A cardigan he had left behind hung on the chair next to her. She grabbed the sweater, pressed the soft material to her nose. His scent was exciting and disturbing.

  The clock chimed eleven; her concentration had faded when the phone finally rang. A cry of relief broke from her lips. “Steven?”

  The phone sat on the table, at her side, ready. She let it ring three times. With a steady hand, she lifted the receiver to her ear.

  First, a jarring moment of silence, then came the same shattering electronic voice, “You’re not listening to me, are you, Della?”

  “What?” she said, barely able to control the tremor in her voice.

  “I thought I made it perfectly clear you were to leave your job before something very bad happened to you. Now, you’re going to make me do something ugly.”

  The voice had a deliberate heartbeat between each word. The number he or she called from would be on the caller I.D. machine Wes bought her.

  “If you continue your audi
t of Henshaw and Associates, you’ll never live to see the outcome. This is my final warning.”

  23

  Thirty minutes later Steven arrived, grabbed Della and held her so tight, the tumult of emotions within her burst forth in a torrent of tears. This emotional eruption was the result of the “old” Steven hug that said ‘I love you’ more than anything in the world, the one that made her feel protected from the ill winds swirling around her.

  “I love you,” she mumbled nearly inaudibly against his chest, hating herself for using the words she only recently admitted she had no right to use. He stroked her hair with soothing tenderness, then deliberately pulled back.

  “Did you call the police?”

  She nodded, wiping the dampness from her cheeks with her fingers. “I even tried calling the number back myself, but of course, there was no answer. Probably a public phone.” Della stepped away and paced the room. “I can’t believe this is anything more than a disgruntled employee trying to slow me down with idle threats.” She spun around. “There are a few kooks in this company, you know.”

  Steven removed a small pistol from his jacket pocket.

  She gasped.

  “It’s a Ruger Auto. Put the gun under your pillow,” he said. “It’s loaded. It’ll make me feel better. Tomorrow I’ll get you something smaller, more efficient.”

  With sudden revulsion, her hand recoiled into a fist. “I don’t want a gun in here. I hate those things. I wouldn’t know how to use it.”

  “You just push this little safety off.” He demonstrated. “Aim and fire. It could save your life.”

  She shuddered.

  “Just put it under your pillow. Security,” he said.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when I’d have to protect myself like this. Dammit, this has to be a joke.”