“That’s an outrageous lie and I won’t stand for your contamination of this witness, Carlson,” Garfield growled.
“Dr. Reece, Mrs. Tully filed a police report making such a claim. If after you’ve read the transcript you want to talk with her, please call me for her new phone number. Mr. Garfield’s position is obvious from his cross-examination. I’d like you to be able to comment on this incident.”
“By all means, Dr. Reece, read the entire transcript, especially the section where I ask Mrs. Tully about her infidelity. I think that behavior is relevant to the children’s best interests.”
“Dr. Reece, I’m sure you’re aware of Brown. Adultery is not synonymous with unfitness,” Carlson countered.
“I’m aware of that. There are all kinds of adultery.”
“Exactly, Doctor.” Garfield was back on. “I’m sure you’ll find Mr. Carlson’s clumsy effort to advise his client to take the Fifth Amendment very interesting. What does she have to hide? What kind of man has she taken up with? Is it a man? Maybe she’s a lesbian. I’m sure you’re aware of the Bottoms case. These matters require that you investigate. If she refuses to answer your questions, I think that’s very important, Dr. Reece. She’s putting that relationship before your pursuit of the children’s best interests. That speaks loudly to me, Dr. Reece, and will to a judge and you know it.”
Carlson came back again. The conversation was like a dog race. Each animal straining to get its nose ahead, barking once or twice, then falling behind and struggling to catch up.
“To correct Mr. Garfield’s hyperbolic distortions, my client has not taken the Fifth Amendment. Nor did I advise her to do so. I mentioned it to the judge as part of an objection to Mr. Garfield’s questions. I will reiterate my point here for you, Doctor. Adultery is a crime in Virginia. An individual is entitled to the protection of the Fifth Amendment. In addition you may not draw the adverse inference from the use of the Fifth Amendment. You cannot conclude that she has anything to hide or that she has done anything wrong.”
“Like hell, you can’t.” Garfield shouted. “That’s a ruling directed to the judge or a jury, not an evaluator. I don’t give a good goddamn who she’s sleeping with, but if she is not completely candid with you in this evaluation, I bloody well want to know that. So will the judge. If you don’t pursue this matter as vigorously as you do any other in this case, I’ll move to have you replaced, Reece. Do you understand me?”
Morgan Reece tried to fix the face of Tommy or Tina Tully in his mind as an antidote to the venom he felt soaked in.
“Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen? If not, it’s been a real pleasure talking with you. I look forward to seeing you soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Morgan Reece stared at the phone. What did he want to say? Did he really want to learn to climb rocks? Conquer his fear of heights? Maybe just injure it a little, he thought. He knew that he always felt better after he challenged himself, more alive than before. That was the key. He wanted to feel more alive than he did now.
What could go wrong, anyway? He calls, gets a name. If he changes his mind, he doesn’t have to show up. This is foolproof.
This is pathetic, he concluded. She hangs from a cliff by her fingers and you can’t pick up a telephone. Maybe that was what was attractive about her. She seemed brave, braver than he was. More alive, less afraid. Sounds like a lite beer commercial, Reece thought, and picked up the phone.
“Rocky Mountain High. Lindsay Brinkman speaking.”
“Yes, this is Dr. Reece, uh Morgan Reece.”
“Hi, how are you?”
“Um, fine, thanks. I was just thinking that I’d take you up on that idea about learning to climb. You know, get over my fear of heights.”
“That’s great. What about this Sunday? There are some novice classes out at Great Falls on the Virginia side. Very easy climbs, 5.0s, you can almost walk up them.”
“Okay. Where do I go?”
“Just drive to the park, go to the climbers’ lot; the instructors meet everyone and take it from there.”
“What time?”
“Early. By eight a.m. The rocks get pretty crowded after that.”
“How much does this cost?”
“Introductory climb is thirty-five dollars.”
“Do I need to bring anything?”
“Bug repellent, sunscreen, sunglasses, lunch. Wear shorts. The instructors will provide the rest. Good shoes make a world of difference. You should stop by the shop and rent some climbing shoes.”
“Okay. Maybe I’ll stop by tonight.”
“Great. It’s gonna be fun.”
Reece hung up. Like he thought. Foolproof.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Fifth Down was packed when the grey haired man came in, pulled off his gloves and surveyed the scene. Against the far left wall, speakers the size of Fijian totems hammered the eardrums of the young and the buffed.
The bar was as crowded as a Metro platform at rush hour. The bartender he had talked to was at one end pouring out some sticky, blended drink for a pinheaded monster he recognized as Leon Broadus, one of the Fifth Down Club. Broadus handed the drink to a brunette he could have used as a swizzle stick.
Two other bartenders were also on duty, moving up and down the length of the polished hardwood surface, keeping everyone’s glasses full. Waitresses wedged their way in and out behind the shields of their trays. A huge TV set suspended from the ceiling was showing highlights on ESPN. Stools and small round tables sprang up from the floor like mushrooms. Most of them were occupied by men and women, laughing, talking and eating. Off to the left of the TV screen was a platform set up for arm wrestling matches.
Don Blake found an empty stool at an out-of-the-way table, unzipped his jacket and waved to a waitress. While she swam upstream, he looked at the menu.
“Can I help you?” she chirped.
Blake looked up. The waitress was dressed like a man from the waist up. White shirt, cufflinks, black bow tie. All softened by the stray wisp of hair that escaped being pinned up. From the waist down she was unquestionably female. Short black skirt, patterned stockings and ankle boots.
“Yeah, a mug of whatever’s on tap, a plate of buffalo wings and plenty of napkins.”
“Sure thing.” She spun away and headed for the window to the kitchen.
Blake nursed his beer and wings and watched the crowd for Tiffany Ames. An hour later she came into the bar. The bartender had described her perfectly. Her tiny face was hidden in a mass of frosted curls. About five feet tall, jeans tucked into cowboy boots and a short white fur coat. When she took off the jacket, the whole room watched and breathed, part gasp, part sigh, as she stood there in defiance of gravity and proportion.
Blake watched her flit around the room, looking to see if there was anything new and exciting. He made sure that he appeared bored and that their eyes did not meet. Twenty minutes after she arrived, two other women struck up a conversation that interested her.
“That’s him. I’m sure of it,” the taller one said to her friend.
“No. Really?” her friend asked before downing half of her alcohol-free drink.
“Yes, it is. I remember seeing photos of him when he played in New York. That’s ‘Crash’ Carmichael. He was their middle linebacker when they won all those championships. Hall of Fame, everything.”
The little blonde followed the tall woman’s eyes across the room to where Don Blake sat. He looks like on owl, she thought, no, maybe an eagle. The grey hair swept out and back from his widow’s peak. Large intense eyes that never seemed to blink. A sharp hooked nose. His eyes scanned the room. His head turned slowly but the barrel chest never moved. She could feel the power inside him. Perched on a limb, ready to strike. Tiffany sought his eyes with hers and followed with a smile.
As he walked over towards her, she heard the tall woman whisper to her friend, “Here he comes; what should I say to him?”
Tiffany positioned herself i
n front of the other two, pointed her chest at Blake and cooed. “I know you. You’re Crash Carmichael, the linebacker. I’m a big fan of yours.”
Blake smiled graciously, eyed her with mock delight and said, “And I’m a big fan of yours, little lady. Can I buy you a drink?”
The other women skulked away and left the bar a half hour later. In their car they waited to see if Tom Tully would show up.
The shorter woman, Rachel Pincus, looked at her friend and colleague. “So what do you think? You worried at all?”
“No,” Crystal Cassidy said. “He likes his women tall. But I know what perfume she wears. Eve’s Secret. I can’t stand it. You smell like fruit cocktail. If I ever smell that on him, I’ll cut off his ‘you know what.’”
Tom Tully did not arrive before “Crash” Carmichael and Tiffany Ames left in separate cars to rendezvous at her apartment.
“What do you think he’ll do?” Rachel asked.
“He’s a professional. Whatever it takes,” Crys answered glumly as she turned the Porsche over and followed them out of the lot.
CHAPTER FORTY
Tiffany lived on the second floor of a garden apartment complex ringing an office park visible from the Dulles Access Road. Blake parked his Z3 next to Tiffany’s Audi TT. He opened the door and stepped into an arm lock from Tiffany, who smiled adoringly into his Hall-of-Fame face. His cover story worked better than he’d hoped. He just wanted to attract her attention and create the possibility of a date. The office would do a background check on her while he felt her out for information about Tully. Instead he was walking across the grass in the moonlight with her holding his arm tighter than a cast.
Sometimes investigation was methodical, well planned and carefully executed. Sometimes it was all improvisation, riffs and solos. Jazz detection.
Tiffany let them into the apartment, put her bag down on the sofa table in the hallway, turned and held her finger up to her lips.
“What’s the matter?”
She pointed down the hall to a closed door.
“You got a kid?”
“Yeah, he’s a real sweetheart. You’d love him. Don’t want to wake him though. Then I’d have to explain who you were. We can do that in the morning.”
Tiffany leaned up and kissed him lightly and bounced away to shuck her fur jacket.
“Gimme your coat. I’ll hang it up.”
Blake pulled off his gloves, stuffed them in the chest pocket, and unzipped his jacket. The living room was all high tech and ultra modern. White leather seating faced an electric fireplace. Spindly halogen lamps that looked like Giacometti’s men wearing helmets provided the lighting.
“The den’s over there. How about I get two drinks? What would you like?”
“Irish Whiskey, if you got it.”
“Is that Jameson’s or is that a Scotch?”
“Jameson’s is fine. Straight up.”
“Okay make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right in.”
Blake watched her disappear into the darkened dining room. She turned right and light poured out from the kitchen. The dining room table was a glacier of frosted glass sitting on a pair of stalactite legs. Blake felt anxiously awkward around furniture like that. How did the kid feel, he wondered.
The den was an electronic temple. The altar was a huge television bracketed by cabinets of stacked tuners, receivers, pre-amps, CD and DVD players, striated like a cross-section of the sediment layers of technology in this century. Huge speakers were the end pieces.
The wall to the right was covered in collages. Selected highlights from Tiffany’s life. Blake searched for the child. He found him in the arms of one man as a toddler, then with another, and finally a third. The most recent picture was a school photo with the mandatory faux marble backdrop and cringe-smile.
Blake sank into the loveseat and waited for Tiffany to return. She came in, wearing her blouse and blue jeans but now barefoot. Tiffany handed Blake his drink and as he tipped it back, she climbed astride his lap and began to undo the buttons of his shirt. Blake looked for a place to put his drink as Tiffany enclosed him in a frosted blonde canopy while they kissed. Eager to show off her perfect breasts, Tiffany began to unbutton her blouse.
Blake wondered when to put an end to this and decided to wait until she was partially naked. That would leave her feeling more vulnerable and easier to manipulate. At least that was the reason he gave himself.
Tiffany unhooked her brassiere and presented herself to him. Blake tried to speak, but failed. He raised his gaze and found his voice.
“Tiffany, we’ve got to talk.”
“Later, right now I’m gonna leave you speechless.”
She lifted her hips and began to wriggle out of her jeans.
Blake turned to roll out from under her and wound up on his hands and knees with Tiffany, arms and legs locked hanging from him like a tree sloth.
“Now. We gotta talk now. Enough’s enough.” The edge in his voice cut right through the dreams and the deceit. Tiffany let go and fell back on the sofa.
“The kid. How old is he?”
Tiffany relaxed. That was sweet. He was worried about Alex waking up and seeing them in action. “Don’t worry. I’ll lock the door.”
“No. How old is he?”
“He’s eight. Why?” Tiffany tried to scoot away by pulling her legs up.
“Why? Why? You were out in that bar for two hours with me. We come back. There’s no sitter here. The kid’s by himself. First time we meet, you bring me right into the house. Ten minutes later I got your tits in my face. The door ain’t locked. I know I’m not the first. You didn’t hesitate for one second once you decided we were gonna spend the night.”
“Who are you? Did Roland send you? That son of a bitch. Well he can’t have Alex.”
“Lady, your ex is the least of your worries. I’m not gonna call Roland. I’m calling the county. They’ll have somebody out here in a heartbeat. With what I tell them, Alex will wake up in foster care.”
“You bastard. I’ll tell them you followed me home, wouldn’t take no for an answer, forced your way in and tried to rape me.”
With that, she tried to rip her blouse. Blake reached over, grabbed one hand and began to press her knuckles together. The pain shot up her arm.
“Don’t make this any worse. My partners are right outside. They followed us here. They took pictures of us coming in. They’ve got cameras on us, right now, through that window there. And microphones that’ll pick up sound right through the glass. It’ll never fly. I’m not interested in taking Alex away from you. I will if that’s what it takes to get you to help. I don’t care who gets him, Roland or the county. It don’t make me no never-mind. You help me and I’m out of your life. You don’t, and I smell a shit-storm coming. A big one. What’s it gonna be?”
Placating him would be the straight-line answer. And Tiffany was a straight line kind of girl.
“Okay, what do you want?”
“I want Tom Tully. Tell me everything you know about him.”
“I tell you what you want to know and you won’t report this to anyone?”
“That’s the deal.”
“Promise.”
“Yeah, I promise.”
She holstered her breasts, and began to button her blouse.
Blake reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a microcassette recorder and set it in front of her:
“Who are you?”
“You’ve got this all wrong, Tiffany. I ask the questions, you answer them.”
“Are you a cop? I want to see some identification.”
“No. I’m not a cop. That doesn’t help you any, though. Tell me about Tom Tully.”
Tom was fun, but this was trouble. Avoid trouble was the prime directive. Tom was replaceable. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Start at the beginning.”
“I met him at the Fifth Down. I don’t know, about a year ago. No longer, cause they hadn’t gone to training camp yet. He’d be
en seeing another girl then, Brenda Sturgis, off and on.
“We hit it off right away.” Tiffany stopped. “Your name isn’t ‘Crash’ Carmichael, is it?” Tiffany shook her head in anticipation of the answer.
“No.”
“You aren’t even a football player, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, God.” Tiffany looked away, as if sex with a nonplayer was the worst of perversions.
“So you hit it off. What does that mean?”
“Christ, you’re thick. We had a good time together. We liked to party.”
“Did you know he was married?”
“So what? If she’d done a better job, he wouldn’t have been out with the Fifth Down Club. He said she was such a nag. He used to call her a cling-on. Get it, like Star Trek, Klingon.”
“I get it. How long did you two stay together?”
“Most of the season. He decided to cool it in the off-season. Something was up with the wife. He was watching her. I don’t know maybe she was finally getting wise to his late hours and ‘scouting trips.’ She must have had her head in the sand something fierce.”
“What about ‘scouting trips,’ the late hours?”
“Tom’d tell her he was up at the park, watching films. He’d come over here instead and watch them with me. The guys in the Fifth Down always cover for each other. They’ll call each other, get their stories straight. Nobody gets wise. Scouting trips, Jesus. The woman didn’t even know that they’ve got scouts for that. Coaches don’t do that. He’d tell her he was scouting some college guy. We’d go away together for a few days. Same thing with away games. He’d get me a ticket to the game and airline tickets. Tell the ball club they were for her. I’d fly out, go to the game, stay in the same hotel with the team. Lights out, I’d go up to Tom’s room and spend the night. Pre-season I’d go up, Tom’d get me a room in town. After practice and meetings he’d come by. If they had a day off, we’d go out to Atlantic City. Tom loved to play cards, slots, you name it.”
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