“Stomach’s still a little...”
“Okay. Feel better. G’night.”
And then she was gone. Asleep again. Her gift at work. The invitation for sex, he reminded himself, was her conditioned response to anything that was “Sara.” Psychologically speaking, it was perfectly normal. Healthy even. As long as Ben didn’t use his dead wife as emotional leverage, Alex could express her natural possessiveness with sexual affection without recrimination.
Funny, thought Ben. When the subject of Alex’s dead husband bubbled up, the last thing he wanted was a 1:00 A.M. screw. Ben made a mental note for their next couple’s session, then slid from bed. Sleep was no longer an option that night. Nor denial. Ben needed to go back out to the office, dig the CD out of his desk, and listen to it again. Not all of it. Just the bits at the end. The hard parts about Sara, the twins, and the stranger named Stu Raymo. If he had learned anything from twelve years of grief counseling it was the following: the only way out of an emotional wreck is a good road map.
No time like the present, thought Ben.
2
“SAFETY FIRST!” answered Josie. Those were the exact words that Josie Jones used to answer the office phone. Every time. Even if caller ID informed her that it was her own mother at the other end, Ben’s instructions were crisp. Every call should be answered identically. She thought it was a bit silly, but of course she had said, yes. After all, Josie wanted to keep her job. Soon after, she had rationalized it all as a branding thing. Like with TV commercials or advertising. That and it could appear extremely unprofessional if clients were waiting in the lobby and she answered the phone with a simple, hello. But that assumed clients actually waited in the lobby for Ben, and they usually didn’t. Ben’s Burbank office was rarely visited by anybody other than overnight delivery men.
“I’m sorry,” Josie continued on the phone, “Mr. Keller hasn’t checked in yet.” She was lying. “No, sir. But when he calls, I’ll give him the message that you’ve called twice.”
Josie hung up, spun to her computer, then tagged the phone sheet with a note to remind Ben that Mo Lessberg from Cramp and Freed Metal Stamping had both called and emailed twice without a response. Precisely three mouse clicks later, Josie had returned to her task at hand: rockin’ to a homespun playlist on iTunes and “Googling” every conceivable variation and permutation of the name Stu Raymo.
Stuart James Raymo... Stuart John Raymo...
A mere twenty-three years old, Josie didn’t really mind her job. After nearly a year, she had discovered she liked the autonomy of it, the daily research challenges, changes in pace, hours, not to mention the serious lack of dress code to fit her post-punk proclivities. She was dyed and pierced, and tattooed with her favorite Looney Tunes characters, and when asked, would insist that Sex Pistol Sid Vicious was murdered by Britain’s MI5.
Stuart Raymo, Sr.... Stuart Raymo, Jr.... Josie had even grown to like the three-story, post-fifties office “cube” where Ben leased a fifteen-hundred-square-foot office suite. With its dungeon-like underground parking, switchback stairs, and an elevator reserved for deliveries and the handicapped, the 3rd Avenue building was, at first, a turn-off for the UCLA graduate. Strike one, she had thought. After all, it was Burbank. And Burbank was uncool. So working in Burbank would, most likely, be equally uncool.
Strike two for Josie was her interview with the safety-fixated, Ben Keller. Her initial impression was that he was anal, paranoid and unbending, but sort of funny in a dark way. She forgave Ben his obvious afflictions and annoying traits only because she was aware of her own front-office shortcomings. During their three meetings prior to her appointment, he hadn’t once made mention of—or reference to—her piercings and body art. Of course, since Josie Jones had taken the job Ben hadn’t stopped referring to, inquiring about, or needling her about her counterculture appearance.
Stewart Raymo... Steward Raymo...
In the end, Josie liked her job. And she was good at it.
“Safety Thirst,” answered Josie in a chipper tone. The LCD readout on the phone had shown that it was Boss Ben phoning from his mobile. She grinned widely to herself and waited to find out if he had heard her answer the phone right... or wrong.
“It’s me,” said Ben.
“And how are you today?” asked Josie.
“Did you just say Safety Thirst?”
“Thirst? As in Thirsty?”
“Yeah. Safety Thirst. Did you have dental work this morning?”
“No. Why would I have said Safety Thirst?”
“I dunno,” said Ben, shrugging off the bother. “Must be the cell connection. Did you get my email?”
“Stu Raymo. Got it.”
“You found him?”
“Oh… no,” said Josie. “Got it—as in the email. Not him. Sorry. Google’s got loads of Stu Raymos. If this is a new client,” Josie anticipated, “maybe if you gave me his business I can refine the searches.”
“Not a new client,” said Ben. “Just a favor for a friend. Work comp claim.”
“Why not give it over to Woody?” Josie asked.
Woody Bell was the private investigator Ben kept on retainer. Woody specialized in workmen’s compensation claims in work environments already under Ben’s consult. If there was fraudulence in a claim, Woody Bell would find it, document it, and serve it up cold.
“Woody’s too expensive for—”
“I thought Woody was on a retainer,” argued Josie, sounding altogether as if she was trying to pass off the chore. “Sorry. You gave me the job and I’ll do the—”
“Different kind of friend,” answered Ben. “That and Woody’s working on something else for me. Just see what you can find, what he does, where he is, boil it down to something I can read tonight.”
“Fine. But which Stu Raymo?”
“All of ’em,” said Ben before hanging up.
“No problem. Talk later,” answered Josie to the dead phone line.
She lowered the phone to the cradle and examined her nails. The punk-styled press-ons were hot-wax black. Each bore a skull and crossbones. Shit, she thought. Skulls were punk. But skulls with crossbones were abso-fucking-lutely not punk. Skulls with crossbones were all about pirates. Kid stuff, she thought. Johnny-Depp-Jack-Sparrow-Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-kid stuff. As Josie began ripping each plastic nail from her cuticles, she rewound the conversation she had just had with Ben. There was something off about her boss. Oh, and Ben was odd enough. She was certain of that. But he was never, if ever, rude. Ben always said, “Goodbye.” Ben always left her with a feeling that the glass was half-full.
Strangely, Josie’s stomach felt empty. And as suddenly as the craving for a glazed Krispy Kreme and coffee came over her, she put the phone on “voicemail” and skipped all hundred and forty-one pounds of herself out the door, down two flights of stairs, and paid little mind to oncoming traffic as she rushed headlong across 2nd Avenue to satisfy her urge.
Indeed. “Safety First” may have been Ben’s credo. But it wasn’t hers. Krispy Kreme, coffee, then find more Stu Raymos.
While Josie was digging up whatever she could on the cornucopia of Stu Raymos in the world, Ben was neatly trying to bury the idea of Stu Raymo deep into a more manageable part of his psyche. To accomplish the feat, Ben accessed his unfinished second book, Ben Keller’s Guide to Grief Relief, Version 9.0.
A coping counselor had once warned Ben that consuming all available information on the subject of grieving amounted to eating a battalion of African elephants with a single toothpick. Hardly Confucius, thought Ben, who was still undeterred in seeking the wisdom of others. Within the untold volumes of conflicting philosophies on coping, Ben was determined to find the answer to his uncertain solace. In time, he had absorbed so much written advice he thought he might add his own tome to what he had come to call the “Library of Lament.”
Chapter Eight. Subsection 22. Exercise.
The sleepless night that Ben had listened over and over to the unwelcome CD had been
followed by an early-morning exit. He had left a sweet note encased in a pink heart for Alex and the kids on the kitchen chalkboard. Pink was still Betsy’s favorite color. Ben had rolled the Volvo out of the driveway at dawn, drifted quietly out of the cul-de-sac, then surged down Tapo Street. He had bypassed his regular gym, the Simi Valley Fitness Club, in favor of the 24 Hour Fitness in nearby Northridge. There he could pay a daily fee and be pretty certain to avoid stumbling into someone he knew. Ben wasn’t emotionally prepared for conversations, bullshit or otherwise.
At the gym he had furiously pounded on a treadmill while sandwiched between what appeared to be an age-impeded rock musician and a reality TV wannabe. Ben had ignored the wall-mounted TVs with their closed-captioned early-morning news, tuned out the piped in pop music, and concentrated on squeezing out as much sweat as his body could muster. Ninety minutes and a steamy shower later, Ben was back on the freeway.
Chapter Seventeen. Subsection 7. Reboot Your Emotions and Make a Plan.
The plan had been formed long ago. All Ben needed to do was resurrect it and execute it in order to fully reorganize his emotional structure. By no means was he attempting to purge everything. This would be a mere spring-cleaning—sweeping the cobwebs out and gently placing the dark memories and sick feelings back in their respective closets. So Ben proposed for himself a day of spot-visits to some of his manufacturing clients.
It was a five-factory circuit. Ben would drop in unannounced, put on his former OSHA inspector’s hard hat, and conduct a surprise safety review. He called it ambush and frisk. And if it was good for clients, it was even better for Ben. The day would be all about number 2 pencils, checklists, ratings, flowcharts, subtotals, and final scores. Ben would even find good juice watching the Volvo’s odometer tick over each mile.
Five factories, five cities. There was the window manufacturer in Santa Clarita, the solid rocket fuel plant in Glendale, the hardware wholesaler in Monrovia, the freight distributor east of downtown Los Angeles, and the airline seat subcontractor in Van Nuys. The circuit took nine hours. Each plant scored a passing grade.
Chapter Five. Subsection 1. Feed Your Wounded Soul.
For Ben, feeding meant eating healthy. And eating healthy meant gathering, prepping, and cooking a large meal. Between ambushes, he had sent a text to Alex, informing her of his plan to cook that night. The text back was a vintage jab: about fucking time! She had later followed with another text consisting of nothing more than Xs and Os. Alex understood the general subtext of Ben’s occasional need to cook. After all, she had been there too. She had often joked they should coauthor a book and call it Coping with Cooking. That was until one Christmas when an unthinking relative gave them a glossy book bearing the exact same title.
Once again, Ben avoided running into anyone he might know by visiting a supermarket in nearby Moorpark. He packed his shopping cart with enough food to feed his entire cul-de-sac and drove back to his Simi Valley home where he busied himself in a kitchen that Alex had so well-appointed and stuffed with gourmet quality appliances it appeared ripped from the pages of Bon Appétit. Ben efficiently served a meal of herb-roasted chicken smothered in a pineapple and tangerine chutney, baby asparagus tips, a mixed green salad with glazed walnuts and mangos, and a wild rice pilaf. Of course, as an accommodation to young Betsy, there was also hot Kraft macaroni and cheese and steamed broccoli with Heinz ketchup.
Then came the post-dinner roundup of homework, baths, and bedtime stories. The rejuvenated stepfather energetically hummed through his routines, even clowning for his children with an impromptu impression of Pee Wee Herman. Ben lovingly refused calls for an encore and kissed the girls good night before retiring to the master bedroom suite and the thick manila envelope that lay on one of the twin fireplace chairs.
Alex was already at her nightly post, a corner desk built into a wall-length custom cabinet unit stuffed full of books, DVDs, and a built-in entertainment center. As the volunteer editor of the Simi Canyons Country School monthly newsletter, she was shuffling photo files on her widescreen iMac.
“You seem extra-chipper tonight,” said Alex.
“As opposed to...” prompted Ben.
“Last night.”
Ben lied, “Don’t feel any different.”
“Right. You’re the same exact guy.”
“Yup. That’s me.” Ben was peeling the tape off the large envelope, winding it around his fingers.
“You cooked,” said Alex. “Anything we need to talk about?”
“What’s to get? I needed to cook so I cooked.”
“And it was yum. Did I say thanks?”
“You just did.”
“Had a good day?”
“I did. You?”
“Usual.”
There was a quiet comfort in their conversational shorthand. A contained brevity that spoke volumes. Alex remained focused on her computer screen while Ben prepared to read. There was little, if any, eye contact. The comfort was in their proximity to one another and the quiet found in their respective chores.
Ben slid the printed stack from the envelope the courier had dropped off just before dinner. He didn’t count, but by weight he guessed it to be just shy of two hundred pages bound for easy perusing. With all her piercings and body art, Josie might look the part of a flake. But damn was she thorough. A born researcher.
He fanned the pages, stopping on occasion to browse the content. Clearly there were many Stuart Raymos, including variations on both first and last names. So Ben began skimming from page one. There was Stuart Raymo, the Cadillac dealer in Secaucus, New Jersey. Stuart Raymo, the author of military history texts. One Stuart Raymo in Michigan was listed as having scored a hole in one on a 137-yard par three at West Lakes Country Club. There were Stuart Raymos in Arizona, Mississippi, and South Dakota—all three, teachers. Two Stuart Raymos were listed as deceased, one of them single, the other a loving husband, father of four, grandfather to eleven, a twice-decorated Vietnam veteran, and loyal Notre Dame fan to his death.
Ben suddenly slammed on the brakes.
What followed was a sudden eye-peeling examination of one particular Stuart George Raymo and his arrest record. This Stuart Raymo had been arrested twice for sexual battery. He had served time in prison. The rapist, Stuart Raymo—according to Josie’s research—was born in Carson City, Nevada. He had a spotty arrest record dating back to 1985. He had last been arrested in Reno and was currently serving a twenty-two year sentence in a California state detention facility in Oakland. His last arrest was in 1998.
Ben drifted. Oakland. As an OSHA inspector he had spent a fair amount of time in the Bay Area. Oakland had a significant manufacturing base. In his mind, Ben drove stretches of road he could recall, searching left and right for any tall, barbed-wire fences he might have missed. A guard tower even. He tried to imagine what a modern prison would look like from the outside. Concrete and razor wire. Not unlike most Oakland industrial parks. He could have been next door to Stuart George Raymo without so much as a clue.
Included was a mug shot of the villain. Stuart George Raymo, as last pictured, had a drawn, jowly face, long ears, and an Adam’s apple large enough to stuff in the mouth of a Christmas pig.
Did you kill my wife and baby girls?
“What’d you say?” asked Alex?
Ben twisted in his chair. Alex hadn’t turned around, only queried from her perch.
“Did you ask me something?” asked Ben.
“I asked what you said.” Then Alex turned, looking directly into him. “Sounded like you asked me something.”
Ben hadn’t asked a thing. Not out loud. At least he thought he hadn’t.
“Must’ve been reading aloud,” said Ben.
“Bad enough that your lips move when you talk,” teased Alex.
Ben ignored her, masking his rush of guilt by flipping pages. It wasn’t verboten to speak of his ex-life. His deceased family. They weren’t forgotten. Just rarely mentioned. Not ignored. Just in the past. Ben had moved on.
Hadn’t he?
Ben stuck a mental Post-it to his brain. And before turning off the bedroom TV, he emailed Woody Bell and passed on his questions about Stuart George Raymo of Carson City, Nevada. When he finally closed his eyes, darkness closed in quickly and he was asleep before he could utter a prayer. Ben never felt Alex climbing into bed, nor heard her gentle belly laughs during Jay Leno’s interview with comedian Carrot Top. His sleep was hard and dreamless, interrupted only by the trill of his cell phone at seven-thirty.
“Yeah,” Ben answered, paying no mind to how groggy he was. After all, it was seven-God-damned-thirty!
“Gimme somethin’ harder,” said the voice. Woody Bell, Ben guessed. It wasn’t that Woody’s voice was so easily recognized. It was his unmistakable timing and manner.
“Just woke up,” grogged Ben.
“Seven-thirty, man. That house of yours? Everybody’s up but you.”
Ben rolled over. Sure enough, Alex was nowhere in sight. As his senses sharpened, he could smell bacon and oatmeal cooking. He could hear the distant whine of a gardener’s leaf blower. All that was missing was the sound of girls arguing.
“Ben?” said a voice from the doorway. Ben twisted and focused. Nina had her arms crossed. The middle child was about to tattle on one of her two sisters. Even Las Vegas odds makers would have had trouble determining the likelihood of which sister had harmed dear, freckled Nina.
But Ben guessed anyway. “Got a fifty-fifty shot. So lemme guess. It was... Elyssa.”
“Betsy!” stamped Nina. “She took purple markers and drew hearts all over my composition book!”
Ben was holding up his cell phone to Nina, twisting it in his fingers so the child couldn’t mistake his priority. It was the universal sign of stepdad’s-too-busy-to-arbitrate-your-silly-sibling-conflict-right-now.
“Fine!” said Nina. But instead of leaving the room and taking her argument elsewhere, Nina just stood her ground and waited.
“You still there?” asked Woody.
“What was too easy?” asked Ben.
The Safety Expert Page 3