by Ralph Zeta
“Mrs. Lowry will be with you shortly,” Maria said, smiling just so.
I thanked her, and when she left I wandered over to the bank of windows and took in the view.
A moment later, Gabriela Lowry, as exotic and elegant as before, appeared at the door. She approached me with Maria in tow. She smiled, I suppose, by way of acknowledging me, and then quickly asked if I cared for a cocktail, rattling off a few choices. I settled for a martini, dirty.
“I’ll have the usual,” Mrs. Lowry said to Maria, who went off at once to fetch the drinks.
“Please have a seat,” she said to me.
As we sat across the imposing coffee table from each other, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a full-body portrait of a young woman in a long gown. It was discreetly tucked in beside a gleaming grand piano at the center of an alcove facing the water. I quickly realized that the woman in the painting was a much younger version of Gabriela.
“Thank you for coming,” today’s version said.
Gabriela was dressed casually: dark slacks, a flowing silk top, and low black heels and, as far as I could tell, little jewelry and little makeup.
I nodded. “Sure,” I said, keeping my curiosity on a tight leash. I, too, had questions I needed answered.
Maria reappeared, bearing a large silver tray laden with a martini glass, a tall shaker, a dish of olives, napkins, and a half-filled glass of red wine.
“Thank you, Maria,” Mrs. Lowry said.
Maria carefully placed the tray on the table and asked if she should pour my martini. I accepted, and she did so with expert ease. She asked if there would be anything else. Gabriela said no, and Maria left the study.
“This is a rare Thursday evening at home,” Gabriela said. “My Thursday nights are usually spent with a small group of business associates. It’s a routine that started years ago and became a regular thing. Ours is a diverse group. Influential members of the community. Politicians, developers, businessmen, and the like. We do things for each other. Sometimes we even engage in profound discussions about significant topics. The group is so diverse and so well connected that as a group there isn’t much we don’t know or will soon know.”
I placed my martini on the coffee table and said, “So you’ve been checking me out?”
She smiled. “Did you expect otherwise?”
I didn’t reply and instead offered a token smile. My instincts said that with this woman I needed to tread carefully and that I should keep my cards close to the vest. And, of course, I couldn’t forget that I was in her home and this was her show. She had something in mind, and it would be best not to get in the way of whatever it was.
She glanced at me sideways. “You have me at a loss, Mr. Justice.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Mrs. Lowry.”
A light titter, then, “Why would a bright, good-looking man such as yourself abandon a lucrative law career and volunteer to serve his country after Nine-Eleven? Not once but twice, even after you had been seriously wounded.”
I didn’t know where the conversation was headed, so I said, “I had my reasons.”
She held my gaze, eyes probing.
“I get the impression it’s a subject you rather not discuss, yes?”
I wasn’t here to become the topic of conversation, so I got to the point. “Mrs. Lowry, why am I here?”
She studied me for a leisurely moment and then said, “When we met I asked if you were a gambler. You never gave me a straight an answer.”
It was a strange question, to be sure. “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity,” she said coyly. “And I always want to know what kind of player I’m facing.”
“In that case,” I said, taking a moment to finish my drink, “Thank you, but I have zero interest in games.”
I stood up, ready to leave.
“Please sit, Mr. Justice,” she said. “It was only a metaphor.” Her eyes drifted to the windows, and her face took on a reflective look that I found disquieting. Her scowl vanished, and so did the subtle lines that radiated from the corners of her mouth. It was as if her ironclad exterior had been momentarily withdrawn, and some other iteration of Gabriela Benitez Lowry—more fallible, almost humanlike—had emerged.
“It is the layers of guilt that complicate our existence, isn’t it?” she asked, her gaze still somewhere beyond the window. I let her talk. “Sometimes I even wonder why we do the things we do. Why it even matters.”
The bemused expression lingered. She seemed caught in some sort of internal struggle I couldn’t comprehend. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to either. So, out of an abundance of caution, I allowed the quiet to stand.
Eventually, she turned and faced me, the vacant expression gone. The hard, sharp, dark burnt-honey eyes were back, alert and focused.
“You still think Milton was murdered?”
“Unless what I saw was staged, then yes.”
“What about Lola Appel?”
“Lola Appel is alive and well. Her identical twin sister, however, is missing. A case of mistaken identity.”
She seemed genuinely taken aback.
“But it was Lola’s car at the airport.” In a low voice, as if wary of the answer, she said, “She wasn’t the driver?”
“Her sister Lisel drove the car that day.”
“That is terrible,” she said, then immediately checked herself. “Please tell me the truth. Milton had spoken of divorce. Is that why he reached out to you?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Please tell me, did he say anything else?”
I debated whether to speak of her husband’s suspicions that he was being followed. But the little voice at the back of my head insisted it was best to keep that bit to myself. “We never had a chance to discuss what was on his mind.”
She eyed me carefully, brought her
wineglass to her lips, then said, “I know you spoke with Jeffrey Daniels. And you’re also probing into my business dealings.” She kept her eyes on me.
“All true.”
“I want to know why.”
“I’m sure. But I don’t have to tell you.”
A hard glare. “Have you been retained?”
I didn’t answer. Not her business.
“I fail to see why you’d want to remain involved,” she said when she realized an answer wasn’t coming. “If Milton was killed, then there is no divorce, hence no need for your services.”
For some reason, the assumption that my practice was limited to divorce rankled.
“Mrs. Lowry, I am not here to indulge your curiosity,” I said. “So I’ll get to the point. I’m aware that you appropriated substantial assets from your husband’s accounts while he was incapacitated.” I said laying down the gauntlet. “Mr. Lowry’s discovery of the missing money is the reason Martha Rhodes referred your husband to me. Ms. Rhodes is aware of my, shall we say, expertise in recovering ill-gotten assets.”
She pressed her lips tightly together, and her cheeks flushed. I had hit a nerve.
She stood up, then slid her hands into her trouser pockets and walked to the bank of windows.
“It is all so meaningless. So temporary.”
“Pardon me?” I said.
“Just musings, Mr. Justice,” she replied.
She turned and plucked her wineglass from the table. Walked to the bar and poured herself another glass.
“Would you care for a fresh martini?”
I declined. I still had a long drive home.
“I never expected Milton would be gone so suddenly. Much less murdered. It’s all very unsettling. Most of us go through life—and I’m as guilty of this as anyone—never realizing just how fragile life really is, until something like this happens. But by then, it’s too late. One moment, we’re here; the next, we’re gone. And everything we’ve accomplished, everything we have built, will be forgotten within a generation.”
She paused. It had to be a rare moment of shared introspection. Gabriela Lowry didn’t strike
me as the sharing, intimate type.
“Mortality. The fact is no one ever escapes it. It’s hard to admit, but we are all so insignificant. It doesn’t matter how much we accomplish, or how virtuous or evil someone is. Time doesn’t slow down for anyone, and it isn’t kind. Even concrete and steel won’t last forever. I think that scares people the most. And it scares me. But no one ever wants to talk about it. Topics of polite conversation do not concern endings. In the meantime, we keep on keeping on, building, redrawing maps, increasing our footprint, sealing our own fate. And for what?”
“Money,” I offered. “Why stop at one billion when twenty or forty billion is so much better?”
She smiled and returned to the couch.
“Blind hope,” she said. “The naive belief in the immortality of our deeds. But it doesn’t work that way, does it? One day you’re on top of the world, and the next day, the world collapses right under your feet. You start thinking about the hundreds of things you could have done differently. That’s what desperation does. It forces action. Suddenly, lines you’d thought you’d never cross become the only viable way forward.”
She sipped her wine. I said nothing. She seemed to be working up to some sort of admission.
“In business, bad times always follow the good times. If you’re stretched too thin when the lean times hit, you’re all but done. So what did I do? What anyone in my position would have done: I survived. I was in trouble, Mr. Justice. The wolves were at my doorstep. So I married Milton. I knew the kind of man he was. But it didn’t matter; it wasn’t about love. I had a business to save. The marriage saved me. Saved my family. I will always be indebted to him.” She gave a sad smile. “He never said it, but I’m convinced he knew I married him for his money.”
“That was fifteen years ago,” I said. “I’m talking about the recent past. The money you withdrew from your husband’s accounts after you were granted custodial power over his affairs.”
“So I borrowed some money from Milton. So what?” she said with a challenging gaze. I returned it. “Milton was in a coma for months. Fifteen years ago, he knew I was in trouble and he didn’t hesitate to help me. He didn’t ask for anything in return. It was I who insisted we draft an agreement and stipulate a reasonable return. I repaid that loan in four years, a full year ahead of schedule. Including interest.”
“And you’re saying it is your intention to repay the money you took?”
She nodded. “Every penny. You see, Mr. Justice, the projects I was able to secure with his money are worth three times what I borrowed from Milton. His money is safe. The only difference is, this time Milton wasn’t aware I borrowed the funds. So yes, I took advantage of my position. But what choice did I have?”
Strangely, I believed her. “Anyone else aware you borrowed money from your husband without his knowledge?”
She hesitated, then said, “Stephen Klein. My sister’s husband. He was working for me at the time.”
To my surprise, Gabriela did not seem to be skimping on details.
“I understand your sister Norma and you are not on speaking terms.”
A stern look crossed her face. “No, decidedly not.”
“Stephen Klein betrayed you, didn’t he? That must have been costly.”
A thin smile. “It was. But not as costly as it was for him.”
“So if there is such acrimony between you and your sister, why rely on Henry Klein?”
“Convenience.”
“Explain.”
A big sigh, then, “Sheriff Powell called about the incident you reported at the farmhouse. That it was possible Milton had been the victim of foul play. Henry works for the State’s Attorney’s Office. The sheriff was short on details. I wanted more. I couldn’t think of anyone better suited. So I called Henry.”
“So despite what happened with his father, you remain in contact with the son of the man who betrayed you?”
Her eyes became slits. “My sister and I have had our fair share of disagreements. That’s nothing new. We have always quarreled. It’s what sisters do. Stephen’s betrayal—that was different. But I don’t hold the son accountable for the sins of his father. Stephen Kline went broke just as his son was admitted to Stanford Law. His parents couldn’t afford his tuition. So Milton stepped in, with a little encouragement from me, of course, and arranged to pay his tuition under the guise of a merit scholarship. When Henry passed the bar, I made a few calls and he landed a high-profile job. So you see, I’m not as bad as people make me out to be.”
I had to smile. I was fairly sure Gabriela didn’t do favors that wouldn’t ultimately benefit her. “You are aware that despite your intention to return the money to your husband’s accounts, in the eyes of the law, that money makes you a prime suspect.”
The sad smile returned. “Does Powell know?”
“He does.”
“Tell me, if you were my lawyer, what would you advise?”
“Same advice I offered your husband: I can’t help you.”
She reached under a stack of carefully arranged coffee table books and took out an envelope. She slid it across the glass tabletop toward me. Curiosity gnawed at me, but I somehow managed to resist the overpowering urge to reach for it.
“Go ahead,” she said, and sipped coyly from her wineglass.
“What is it?”
“A retainer.” She leaned back against the couch.
Before I could argue, she raised a hand and said, “I’m aware you have been helping Ms. Appel. I’m sure she could benefit tremendously from having someone like you at her side. And while you’re not interested in working for me, something tells me you will help her even though she can’t afford you. That’s where I come in. I’d like to help. Discreetly, of course.”
I found myself momentarily speechless. My facial expression must have betrayed me, because a smirk of satisfaction flitted across her lips. Perhaps Gabriela hadn’t played a part in her husband’s disappearance, and maybe she wasn’t the cold, calculating reptile she styled herself to be, but neither was she the type to go out of her way to help someone—unless she stood to gain from it.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re really after?” I asked, trashing the silence.
“Something priceless to me, Mr. Justice,” she said, and exhaled heavily. “Time. At the moment, I have a number of projects in critical phases of completion. Even the slightest whiff of scandal could scare away my partners. The check in that envelope is a form of insurance. A wager, if you will, that if you find out who is responsible for Milton’s disappearance, I may avoid an unmitigated disaster.”
I nodded. Gabriela Lowry was being refreshingly—and surprisingly—forthcoming. The notion was disconcerting in so many ways, it left me momentarily speechless. I wondered what she wasn’t telling me. A lot, was my guess.
“How did you find out about the affair?” I asked.
“It was expected, Mr. Justice. It’s who Milton was. Milton has a penchant for beauty. Beautiful women, in particular. If not Ms. Appel, it would have been someone else. But his illness transformed him. I barely recognized him. When he found out about the missing money, he became enraged. The next day, he moved out of the house. We hardly spoke after that, and then only through email and such.” She paused as if recalling something painful. “I hired someone to follow him. To keep him safe. That’s how I learned of Ms. Appel.”
“Lola Appel wasn’t after Milton’s money,” I said. “On the contrary, Milton came to her for help. He wanted to establish the illusion he was having an affair to convince everyone, including you, he was still the same man and in full control of his faculties.”
“Unfortunately, hindsight is never timely,” she said. “I’m not as heartless as I seem, Mr. Justice. I’ve learned my lessons. I’ve come to terms with my lapses in judgment. I realize that in my zeal to protect Milton, I made mistakes.”
Her remorseful smile would have been hard to fake.
“I overplayed my hand. And I drove Milton away. A pau
se then, “I think he came to despise me.”
Gabriela’s candid admission was another in a series of surprises. I never thought I would ever hear her admit to a mistake and, in the process, expose her vulnerabilities. I found myself again at a loss for words. For some reason, her contrition made me uncomfortable. I had to wonder whether it was real or I was being played.
“You said you hired someone to follow Milton?” I said. It was a significant disclosure and it jibed with Milton’s statements to me.
“I did.”
“Mr. Lowry mentioned he thought he was being followed.”
She looked genuinely surprised. “Did he say when?”
“No,” I said. “But I got the impression it was recent.”
She shook her head. “Impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I called it off weeks ago. When it became obvious he wasn’t going out at odd times or drinking heavily or getting himself in trouble, I ended it. It couldn’t have been my people.”
That caught my attention. “Can you verify that?”
She stood and excused herself, then went to a private corner of the study, where she spoke on the telephone for a couple of minutes. She came back.
“Forty-one days ago. No surveillance since.”
“Then someone else was watching him.”
“But who? Milton had no enemies.”
“What about you?”
“Me?” She raised an eyebrow. “You think this is about me?”
“It can’t be ruled out. I think this entire charade—the setup at the farmhouse, the taking of Lisel Appel, staging Milton’s disappearance—is a means to an end. Maybe that end is you.”
“For what purpose?”
I shrugged. “Payback comes to mind.”
My candor got me another hard look. “But if it’s me they’re after, why harm Milton?”