by J W Becton
He didn’t flinch. Much.
“You gonna run my balls through with a screwdriver?” he snarled. “No one’s gonna believe a screwdriver to the testicles was an accident.”
“This?” She laughed and added pressure until he was sure she’d left a bruise. “This is just to make sure you’re paying attention when I explain what will happen if I send someone else. If that happens, I’ll make sure that every bit of evidence the cops find points right back here.”
He believed her, with or without the screwdriver to the balls.
“So you see,” she said, “I’ll make sure you’re busted whether or not you’re actually behind the wheel. The doc’s kid has to die. It’s going to happen. All you have to decide is if you want to do it yourself and cover up the evidence or wuss out and go to jail.”
He stood straighter, grabbed the boss by the shoulders, and shoved her hard enough to get her out of his face, feeling great satisfaction at seeing her stumble back a few paces.
But then she smiled that maniacal, manipulative grin that he had grown to despise. She had him, and she knew it. Even if the frame she built around him was weak, the cops would always be able to look at his juvie records, dig deeper into his past, and that would finish him off.
He felt himself sinking deeper into a life he no longer wanted, a life in which he was powerless. He growled at her and then stormed to his apartment upstairs.
Behind him, he heard the boss say, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Eleven
On Monday morning, I had barely managed to stumble downstairs, bearing down on my coffeemaker with serious sleep-deprived desperation, when the sound of the doorbell interrupted me.
With a look of longing at the inert coffee machine, I diverted my course with a sigh, but when I opened the door, a wave of caffeine-scented air drifted into the house.
Helena stood on the stoop with two travel cups of java and an expression of unabashed curiosity.
“I saw Mark Vincent’s truck in your driveway yesterday, saw you leave with him last night. I didn’t know whether to bring two or three coffees this morning,” she said, grinning and looking pointedly behind me as if I might have the man himself stowed somewhere in the house.
“You already noticed the lack of a truck in my driveway,” I pointed out.
“Well, yeah, but he’s some kind of security expert, right? Maybe he’s in stealth mode.”
I laughed and opened the door wider, glad Helena had stopped by even if her motive was to pump me for information about my non-date with Vincent.
“He’s good, but I don’t think he can make two tons of metal disappear.”
I gestured to the travel mugs. “One of those for me?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” she said as she transferred a mug into my eager hand.
“After the night I’ve had, I really need the caffeine,” I said, realizing belatedly that Hels was probably going to misinterpret my words to mean any number of Vincent-related activities.
I hadn’t come home that late from the stakeout, but I still managed to spend the intervening time until dawn twisting the sheets on my bed. Of course, this wasn’t because I’d had Vincent between them with me.
I’d been tossing and turning about Slidell.
I ignored Helena’s lascivious grin and indulged in a long drink, stopping only when I felt the caffeine skitter into my nervous system.
Meanwhile, Helena slipped down the hall and into the kitchen.
Over her shoulder, she asked, “Am I going to have to chide you about Vincent as usual?”
I closed the door, still clutching the coffee cup like a lifeline to wakefulness.
At first I thought about telling her the truth right away, that we had set up surveillance on Slidell, and then getting right to the part I wanted to talk about, which was my doubt about pursuing the case at all, but then an imp seized me.
“Yeah,” I said, grinning to myself, “I guess you’ll want to get on with the chiding and skip hearing about the kiss then.”
Silence echoed loudly from the kitchen, and when I finally made it into the room, I found Hels standing frozen at the sink, mouth drooping in surprise.
“Geez,” I said, laughing at her. “I think I’m insulted if you’re that shocked.”
Finally unfreezing herself, Helena grabbed my hand, pulled me toward the table, and tugged me down to a chair.
“Tell! I want to hear everything.”
I raised an eyebrow at her.
“Well, not everything,” she amended, giving me a look of mock embarrassment before adding, “Just the juicy bits. Now dish!”
“It—” I began, realizing I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I told her, “It surprised me actually, but it was amazing.”
Helena waited for more, but I wasn’t sure how to explain the day I’d spent with Vincent and just what his kiss had meant to me. I wasn’t even sure if I understood its meaning myself.
“Nothing went as I expected, and yet it was totally amazing,” I concluded, repeating myself lamely. “He came over late yesterday morning to—”
“I know,” she said. “I saw him. Mouthwatering.”
“Yeah,” I agreed and then stopped, frowning. “Wait. You were spying on me?”
“Of course I was!” she said with a distinct lack of guilt. “What kind of best friend do you take me for? I wanted to make sure this guy treated you right.”
“Whatever,” I said, knowing she was less concerned about how he treated me than she was interested in living vicariously through my romance. “But it wasn’t as if he came for a little afternoon delight. He came to work the fraud ring case, and then we pursued Tripp’s lead on Slidell.”
She narrowed her almond-shaped eyes at me. “What do you mean?”
“Oh,” I said, waving a hand at her. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I got a possible address for Marnie Jacobs and—”
“You and Vincent went to check it out instead of calling Tripp and the police to serve the warrant and taking your cute little hineys to a restaurant like a normal couple.”
“Exactly,” I confirmed, watching Helena’s face draw down in disappointment. “Only he kissed me first.”
Her eyes widened and she reached over and grabbed my hand. “Okay, focus on that last part. He kissed you.”
I blushed and looked away. “He said he was ready to stop waiting for the perfect moment.”
“Carpe diem,” Helena said with clear approval.
“And he pulled me against him—”
“Yum!”
“And kissed me.”
My vague conclusion didn’t begin to explain the scene nearly well enough, and Helena was clearly waiting to hear more.
But how could I talk about the depth of my feelings for Vincent when I wasn’t even truly ready to admit it to myself?
“Wow, you’re pretty sparing with the details,” she said, giving my fingers a squeeze before releasing them.
“I know. I’m breaking some sort of girl talk code here,” I said. “It’s just…well, I don’t know where we go from here.”
“Oh?”
“He seems to be leaving the next move up to me, and I don’t know if I’m ready to make the move that would change our whole relationship. Because everything would change.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know it because this thing with Vincent is not some booty call. It’s the real thing,” I said, not quite ready to give a name to the emotion between us.
“Then that’s all you have to say about it,” Helena said, her tone both smugly knowing and also somehow compassionate. “Now tell me about Slidell while you’re making breakfast.”
I didn’t bother arguing with her as I went to the refrigerator for eggs, butter, cheese, and a package of ham.
“I think I know where Slidell is, Hels,” I said, my back turned to her as I plunked a frying pan onto a burner and adjusted the heat, “but all of a sudden I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.
I spent all last night worrying about what might happen next. Seems like every choice I have has the potential to change my life and the lives of others in a big way.”
“And you’re afraid?” she asked from behind me.
“Well,” I said, turning around, spatula in hand, “yeah. I’m so close to getting what I wanted all these years, and now I’m terrified to have it. I think I might be losing my mind.”
I turned back to the stove and tried to concentrate on cooking an omelet as I rambled on.
“I mean, I am doing the right thing. Slidell deserves to pay for what he did, doesn’t he?”
“He does,” Helena confirmed. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences to bringing him to trial. It’ll be hard on Tricia—”
“And that’s the whole problem right there,” I said as I plopped a handful of cheese and ham into the eggs. “Tricia is doing so well right now. She’s sober, has a job waiting for her, and wants to rent her first decent apartment. When she finds out what’s happening…she may not want to press charges.”
“Mmmm,” Helena said thoughtfully. “You have to remember, in the long run, she may not have a choice. The DA may decide to press charges on behalf of the state.”
“Ugh,” I groaned as I slid the omelet from the pan to a plate and cut it in half. “See! The course of this has already been set, and yet I have the crazy feeling that I need to somehow protect Tricia from the very things I’ve done to help her.”
I sat down at the table and slid the omelet halves onto the waiting plates.
“I think I may require intensive therapy,” I said. “I’m not making any sense.”
Helena gave me a sympathetic look.
“Darlin’, I hate to tell you this, but you’re totally normal.”
I snorted as I sliced into the eggs with the side of my fork.
“I don’t feel normal. I feel like I’m about to cause a train wreck and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
After Helena left, I unceremoniously dumped the breakfast mess into the sink, deciding it would keep until after work, and ended up arriving at the office a bit late. I deposited my workbag and went to check in with Vincent before getting started on my own set of tasks. I entered his tiny office to discover him so engrossed in something on his computer that he didn’t even look up as I leaned against his doorframe. Usually so aware and in control, Vincent was difficult to catch off guard, so I both relished this moment to study him and worried about what his preoccupation might mean.
Still distracted, he ran his left hand across his jaw, and his “Hold Fast” tattoo peeked from beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeve.
I was willing to bet he was thinking of Justin, and I wondered if he’d heard from him last night, but I didn’t want to ask.
“Need something?” Vincent said, surprising me out of my thoughts.
I almost laughed. Maybe he wasn’t as off his game as I’d suspected. Maybe he’d been playing possum.
He clicked his mouse a few times while I cleared my throat and unstuck my feet from the carpet before crossing to the guest chair and scooting it toward the desk.
“I’ve got things rolling on the clinic visit,” I said, handing him a summary of my findings on the Kellers.
He glanced through it. “Anything special?”
“Nothing so far, and most of it we already knew,” I said. “The Accident Care Clinic is a sole proprietorship registered to Dr. Steven Keller. He’s married to Clair, who is employed at a nonprofit organization downtown. They have one child enrolled in preschool at Airington Academy, and they live on the green in one of those golf communities in North Mercer. I dug into his police records, just in case Ted neglected to tell us the full story about his beloved source.”
“Did you uncover anything useful?” Vincent asked.
“Other than a few driving citations, Dr. Keller’s record is clean, but his financial documents, on the other hand….”
“Debt?”
“Tons,” I confirmed. “A boatload of college and med school loans. Plus, his house is underwater, and his shiny new Cadillac Escalade is probably not helping his bottom line.”
“Hence, the fraud,” Vincent said, as if it were the obvious choice for any family heavily in debt.
“According to the doc’s balance sheets, until he joined the fraud ring, the Kellers were on the verge of losing everything. The ring was saving him, so I don’t understand why he contacted the DOI. The clinic was making a financial killing, and as far as I know, he was still flying under the police radar. No insurance companies had tagged his clinic as a potential source of fraud. There were no company fraud investigators on his tail.”
“So what made Keller come to us?” Vincent wondered aloud. “What made him suddenly develop a conscience? Why’d he contact Ted if he was making so much money?”
He handed the papers back to me with a questioning look.
“Ted said he wanted out,” I said, “but it doesn’t seem like we’re getting the whole story. We know Keller’s already withheld details of his contacts with the ring, so I’d like to talk with him in person at some point.”
“Agreed,” Vincent said. “I don’t like being privy to only a share of the information.”
I didn’t either.
“How are you doing with the lawyer?” I asked, causing Vincent to groan.
“I abhor dealing with lawyers. Nothing is ever straightforward. It’s all paperwork covered in incomprehensible gibberish, double talk, and exorbitant fees that are charged by the minute,” he said. “But Gina Cattaneo-Segretti appears to hail from a special lower circle of lawyerdom: the ambulance chaser.”
He turned his laptop around so we could both see Ms. Cattaneo-Segretti’s website. The banner at the top, cast in burgundy and orange tones, featured a headshot of a middle-aged woman with dark hair slicked back into a severe ponytail at the nape of her neck a la Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Presumably, this was Ms. C-S herself, standing in front of a wall of leather-bound law books. The banner’s tagline read, “Killed in a Car Wreck? Call the Cattaneo-Segretti Law Firm now!”
I glanced at Vincent’s wry expression.
“Catchy slogan, huh?” he said with a quick chuckle.
“Is this chick serious?”
“Sadly, it appears that she is. Look here,” he said as he scrolled farther down the page to reveal a long list of cases handled by the firm, mostly focusing on auto accidents, personal injury, and worker’s comp.
“She’s hitting all the popular moneymakers,” I said.
“I have an appointment with her tomorrow afternoon,” Vincent said. “Just so happens she had a slot open after lunch.”
“How convenient.”
“Isn’t it?”
Vincent silently clicked through a few pages and let me scan them. It seemed that the bulk of the site was dedicated to doling out tidbits of attractive bait: get the compensation you deserve, fight for your rights, get your dough. In addition, there was a twenty-four-hour live chat option and a form for a free case evaluation.
“I have a feeling that Ms. Cattaneo-Segretti will be suggesting a lawsuit against Ms. Aliff,” Vincent said after we had completed the online tour of her services.
“Yeah, her website kind of takes the mystery out of her legal predilections.”
“Of course, there is still the lingering question of what approach she’ll choose. Will I be suing you for emotional damages, pain and suffering, loss of consortium?” He shot me a wicked grin.
“I think that last one only applies if you’re married,” I said, purposefully avoiding eye contact and definitely not contemplating any kind of consorting with Vincent.
At all.
“Details,” Vincent said, shrugging. “I don’t think this woman is going to let a little thing like my marital status get in her way.”
I laughed, feeling a bit sad that the legal profession could descend to such clichéd depths.
Sure, I was all for people pursuing their legal rights and rec
eiving just compensation, but this woman had “frivolous lawsuit” written all over her.
“Looks like you’ll have fun with Ms. Cattaneo-Segretti tomorrow. Meanwhile, I get to go get poked and prodded at the Accident Care Clinic.”
Frankly, I didn’t know which of us had it worse.
But first we had to meet our adjusters.
Who says insurance fraud investigation isn’t exciting?
Twelve
The top floor of the parking garage served as a good neutral location to meet the adjuster. After all, I couldn’t exactly have her show up at the DOI and record my true place of employment on paperwork that the fraudulent mechanics might see. And after I’d had a bad experience mixing work and home life that ended in a shooting, I certainly didn’t want to bring work to my house again.
I pulled into a vacant space on the top floor of the parking deck and checked my watch. It was nearly noon, and I’d arrived ahead of the adjuster. I stepped out into the fullness of the gray winter day, walked to the railing, and looked out at the wilted city below.
That was the thing about winter in Mercer. The days could often be dreary and wet, but the weather never became cold enough for the ample moisture to turn to snow, so the season created a sort of mediocre suspension: not cold enough for snow and rarely bright enough to be truly cheery.
I zipped my coat higher around my throat to keep out the bite of the moist air and turned at the sound of another vehicle pulling into the lot. I watched the approach of a white four-door sedan with a removable sign advertising Mercer Loss Consultants stuck to the passenger door. A middle-aged woman with dark hair and cheekbones as sharp as knife blades stepped from the vehicle and smiled at me.
“Good morning,” she trilled as she looked behind me at my mangled sedan. “Janet Aliff, I presume.”
“Yes,” I said, extending my hand for the compulsory shake. “You must be Carla Sumler. Thank you for coming so promptly.”
She looked over the car quickly and then glanced back at me.
“Looks like the car’s not the only thing in need of repair.”
“This black eye!” My hand instinctively went to my face. “I tried to cover it, but obviously I should have tried harder.”