“And Robert was actually stalking me. He broke into my place and stole my underwear. That’s really sick. How could I bear to spend that money or live on it? My lawyer said I could give it to charity. That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Right.” Stephanie sounded disappointed. “The money is just a big pile of trouble for you.”
“Exactly,” Nicole said.
“So what about this new guy?”
Nicole hesitated before answering. Then, “I really like him, Steph. He’s fun, and he gets me. He really gets me.”
“I’m guessing Reinhardt doesn’t.”
“Exactly. Like, sometimes he can’t tell when I’m joking. I have to explain. And, basically, he’s a very serious person.”
“Like what’s-his-name in Wuthering Heights?” said Stephanie.
“Heathcliff? Oh, god, no. Reinhardt isn’t moody and brooding. But I always have the feeling he’s thinking deep, serious thoughts when we’re not talking or interacting in some way. He’s not much into small talk. With Josh, I have his undivided attention, and we never run out of things to say. Of course, after just two dates, I can’t pretend I really know him. But what strikes me about Josh is that he’s a real grownup. Maybe the first truly grownup man I’ve ever been with.”
Stephanie laughed. “Grownup, Nicole? What do you mean? We’re all grownups. Even Brad was a grownup.”
“No, he really wasn’t,” Nicole said. “The only reason he married me was because I gave him an ultimatum; I was going to leave him if he didn’t. He never did get to the point where he wanted kids. And he was always dreaming up get-rich-quick schemes. Do you know how immature that is? He had a successful career, but it wasn’t enough. He had to up the stakes, look for shortcuts. And Reinhardt, with his cloak and dagger routine—that’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it? A refusal to live in the real world like everybody else, an excuse to avoid responsibility and commitment.
“On the other hand, Josh knows who he is and what he wants out of life,” Nicole went on. “He loves his work, and he’s ready to settle down and have a family. He was engaged, but his fiancée cheated on him, and they broke up. But he really does want marriage and children. Of course, it’s way too soon to know if we’re really a match. And there’s Reinhardt—”
“I thought you were through with him.”
“Right,” Nicole said, “but there are moments when I’m still conflicted. Like: What if he called and had a good explanation for failing to show up in London?”
“Like he was kidnapped by space aliens? Give me a break.” Stephanie’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “No matter what happens with this new guy, you’ve got to dump Reinhardt. You’ll never make a life with a guy who,” she paused and started counting on her fingers, “lives in another country (one finger), won’t commit (two fingers), puts his job first (three), stands you up in a foreign country (four), doesn’t bother to call and explain or apologize (five), refuses to tell you where he works (six), and—oh, yeah—is a spy (seven).”
“We don’t know he’s really a spy,” Nicole said. “He never said that.”
“Of course he is, dummy,” Steph said, with great certainty. “Why else would he keep disappearing like that? Even if he isn’t a spy––what about the rest?”
“You’re right. He’s a lost cause,” Nicole said. “But that Josh—I mean, wow!”
Stephanie laughed. “I think that’s great,” she said. “Good for you!”
Later, when they retired to their rooms for the night, Nicole got out Robert’s envelope and sat on the bed—a single bed disguised as a couch with a fitted red-and-blue slipcover and matching cushions. She poured out the contents of the envelope. Inside were two smaller tan envelopes. There was also a white letter-sized envelope with her name written in Robert’s neat hand and a small, light-blue drawstring pouch with Tiffany printed in silver letters. She could tell that it held a small box.
The blue pouch caught her eye, but first she reached for one of the tan envelopes. It held a printout of a map with an X marking Robert’s house and the address written at the top of the page. It also held a set of keys on a key ring. It was just like the key ring she’d taken from his desk. Stapled to the map were five pages, the first of which was a floor plan of the house, which Robert had rendered to scale, he’d noted, on graph paper. The other pages were what appeared to be a detailed inventory of each piece of furniture and its value, as well as an explanation of the house’s other special features, such as the intercom and security system. She leafed through it quickly and stuffed it back in the envelope.
The second envelope held keys and a printout of a map of the Owens Valley, which was about 250 miles east of L.A. The map had an X marking the location of his cabin. An address was noted at the top of the sheet. She felt something else in the envelope and reached in. It was a photo of Robert, holding a fishing pole with some kind of fishing-gear backpack hanging from his shoulder. Behind him was an A-frame cabin, probably a prefab—cream-colored with red trim. She stared at the picture of Robert for a long moment. He looked so harmless, and she’d thought he was her friend.
She figured the cabin in the photo must be his place in the Owens Valley. It looked nice. She couldn’t really imagine Robert enjoying himself in the out-of-doors—fishing, of all things. And who had taken the picture? Perhaps he’d used a tripod. Had the police taken a look at the cabin? Did they even know about it? Did the murderer? Maybe it would bear checking out.
Finally, she opened the white envelope containing Robert’s letter. In a way, it wasn’t as crazy as she’d expected. It was coherent and written in his usual careful hand. But it also showed how delusional he was. It said:
Darling Nicole:
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead, and all of my dreams for the two of us will have come to nothing. As for the ring in the box, I was going to give it to you as soon as your Brit-cop boyfriend was out of the picture.
The unspoken words between us made me understand that somewhere, deep inside, you knew we were destined to be together. That’s why I took the step that put my life in danger. I was playing some dangerous games, and I had to bring these projects to a conclusion and cut all ties, no matter what the risks. Otherwise, you could never be mine.
I want you to have my house, my cabin, and my money. As for the computer you’ll find at the house, please erase the hard drive, remove it, and destroy it. You can burn it or bash it in with a hammer. Either will work. Then dispose of it somewhere far from my house. Above all, be sure it never falls into anyone else’s hands. I don’t need to tell you to be discreet about this. You’re an intelligent and practical woman, Nicole. Those are just two of the things I love about you.
–Robert
After putting the letter back in its envelope, Nicole shoved all three envelopes into the big one, leaving just the small Tiffany pouch on the bed. She picked it up, and pulled out a small blue jewelry box and a folded piece of paper. She held the box away from her, as if it might explode, and forced herself to open it. The box was lined with royal blue velvet, and the ring was breathtaking. It held a huge, brilliantly sparkling diamond set in yellow gold, the classic Tiffany solitaire. She closed the box, then unfolded the paper. It was a sales receipt, dated six weeks before. The diamond was two and a half carets, it said, and had cost $41,000. If the ring had been from anyone else, she would have tried it on. But she didn’t want anything to do with Robert’s obsession. She put the receipt and the box back in the pouch and shoved it into the large envelope and closed the clasp. Then she put it back into her tote bag and the tote bag into the closet.
Nicole lay awake most of the night, thinking about the letter. Around four in the morning—even though she knew it was crazy—she began to wonder if Robert had something to do with Reinhardt’s disappearance.
Ten
She’d set her alarm for 7:00 a.m. to get ready for work but was jolted awake at 6:30 by loud knocking on her door. It was Stephanie. “Holy fuck, Nicole,” she ca
lled. “Get up! You’ve got to see this.”
Nicole struggled out of bed. Arnold, who’d been sleeping with her, jumped down, too, and they both followed Stephanie down the hall to the small dining room where Stephanie had set up her computer. She pointed to the screen.
“The tabloids know about your inheritance. Look!”
Nicole sat down in front of the computer, where XHN’s headline screamed “Murdered Ex-Cop Leaves Millions to Nicole.” It showed a picture of Nicole and Stephanie from the night they went to her condo for her things. She was carrying her suitcase. The photo’s position, right under the headline, suggested she was toting away some of the loot. The caption read, “Nicole Graves, newly named heiress to mysterious fortune of murdered ex-cop, Robert Blair, leaves Westwood condo with sis, Stephanie Graves.”
Nicole paused and reread the caption, noticing the error in Stephanie’s name. It was Stephanie Barnes, not Graves. Barnes was Nicole’s maiden name. Graves was her ex-husband’s name. This was a bit of luck. The tabloids would have a hard time tracking down Stephanie if they didn’t have her right name.
The story claimed that the details of Blair’s will were released exclusively to XHN. It mentioned the value of Robert’s two properties—although it didn’t give the location of his cabin—along with the amounts he had in his bank and retirement accounts.
Nicole was horrified.
“How did they get this stuff?” Stephanie asked.
“I have no idea.” Nicole paused and thought about it. “The only ones who knew about the will were you, me, and Robert’s attorney, maybe his secretary. You didn’t tell anyone, right?”
“Of course not. I promised.”
“Then it had to come from Freeman’s office. He made a big show of locking the file up in his safe.” She looked at her watch. “I wonder what time his office opens.” She quickly typed in Freeman’s name and occupation on Yelp, pulling up his office information. It didn’t open until 9:00 a.m.
“OK,” Nicole said. “I have to get dressed and leave for the office. Damn. All those reporters will be back. I’ll call Freeman from there, not that it will do much good. Now the whole world knows about the bequest.”
As she was leaving Stephanie’s, Nicole remembered she’d left Robert’s envelope in the closet. She thought of Stephanie’s boyfriend and realized it might not be a good idea to leave it unattended, especially with that huge diamond ring inside. She retrieved the envelope, still in the tote bag, and put it in the car. She planned to lock it in her desk drawer. That way she’d be sure it was safe.
Nicole was on edge as she drove to the office, watching for the gray SUV that had followed her the previous day. It was nowhere in sight. It occurred to her that the man might be driving another vehicle, but no one seemed to be following her.
She slowed down when she turned onto Avenue of the Stars and saw what was waiting in front of her office building. It was the biggest media circus yet—about fifty foot soldiers armed with cameras plus five TV vans. The paparazzi were blocking the valet lane despite efforts by three of the valets to force them onto the sidewalk. As soon as the men with cameras spotted her car, they rushed at it. She kept it moving slowly, forcing them out of her way. When she reached the valets, one of them summoned two security guards, who helped her out of the car and cleared a path for her. Meanwhile, the paparazzi were shouting things like, “How does it feel to be an overnight millionaire?” and “What did you have to do to get him to leave you everything?”
Surely, she thought, they didn’t expect answers to such questions. Nevertheless, when she reached the door, she turned and recited her litany yet again, referring them to her attorney. This time she made no effort to look sorry she couldn’t stop and chat.
She secured Robert’s envelope in her desk drawer. That done, she called Sue’s office. She hadn’t arrived yet, so Nicole called her cell. “I’m just on my way in, dear,” she said. “Terrible traffic. What’s going on?”
Nicole explained, and Sue was quiet for a moment. “Well, that’s a shame. I was hoping we could keep this matter quiet. You’ll probably have that police detective calling you again. Remember, now: You’re not going to talk to him. Tell him to call me. I’ll deal with him. And don’t talk to the press.”
Next Nicole rang Freeman’s office. She didn’t have to explain why she was calling. “I’m so sorry the media got hold of Mr. Blair’s file,” he said. “My office was broken into last night. As far as we can tell, his was the only file taken.”
“But you had it in the safe.”
“The safe was open when I got here. I was sure I’d locked it. You saw me do that, didn’t you?’
“Yes.”
“I keep the combination on my computer. But that’s password protected.”
“Do you know how easy it is for someone to hack into a computer?”
“I guess I do now,” he said. “I never thought it would come to this. Now I have reporters in front, wanting to talk to me, and my phone has been ringing off the hook. I’m sure it’s much worse for you. I’m really sorry.”
“I know you are,” she said. And she could see he really did feel badly about the media frenzy he’d stirred up.
Around 10:00 a.m. there was more bad news. It was delivered in a call from Stephanie. “Look at XHN now!” she said. “Oh, my god. It was Becka. I know it was her. I’ll bet she called and gave them that information. Maybe she sold it to them.”
Nicole was already pulling up the site on her computer. The top story had been pushed down to second place. Now it led with the photo of her on the beach in Majorca. She looked awfully bare in her bikini. Then she realized they’d retouched the picture to make the swimsuit look even skimpier than it was. It was the same photo the police had found in Robert’s house. But in this one Reinhardt had not been erased; he was sitting next to her. The headline over it read, “Nicky, Brit, and Murdered Cop in Love Triangle?” She hated the way they’d taken to calling her “Nicky,” as if they actually knew her. Under the photo, the caption read, “Just a few months ago, Nicky was sunning with an unidentified man on a Majorcan beach.” Her scalp prickled, and she felt suddenly chilled.
But as she looked more closely, she realized it would be pretty hard to identify Reinhardt from this photo. He was always camera shy, and she’d yet to get a good picture of him. In this one, he was wearing sunglasses and a Panama hat, its brim shading his face. In addition, his head was tilted in her direction, and he was grinning broadly, as if she’d just said something funny. The angle of his head, the glasses, the hat, even the smile, made him fairly unrecognizable.
As she read the story, it was clear XHN had no idea who he was. But they had done a good job digging up dirt about Nicole, herself. The story repeated the news of her divorce and her ex-husband’s time in a British jail. It said, “One source disclosed that Nicole is romantically involved with a man living in England.” They didn’t have his name or occupation. Thank god for that, she thought.
The article disclosed the details of her most recent trip to London, explaining that she was supposed to rendezvous with her British lover on October 25th, but he had stood her up. “She returned to L.A. a week later,” the story went on, “several days after Blair’s death.” It identified her as the office manager of the law firm where Blair worked and repeated that she was the one who discovered Blair’s body and called the police.
“Nick, are you still there?” Stephanie said. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I mentioned your romance to Becka, and I should have known better. She’s a tabloid junkie, but I never dreamed she’d do anything like this. You’ve been living such a glamorous life, and she was always asking about you.”
“You didn’t tell her about the inheritance, did you?” Nicole said.
“No, I didn’t mention that to anyone. I promise,” Stephanie said. “I just told her you were involved with a Brit you met in London, but I never said he stood you up. I swear. I don’t know where they got that.”
“Wait,�
�� Nicole said, after considering it a moment. “They must have hacked my phone. They didn’t need anyone to tell them about Reinhardt. That’s where they got the photo. When Reinhardt didn’t show, I kept messaging and emailing him. But I never use his full name in messages—he asked me not to. I just used ‘R.’ His phone has no caller ID, and the location function is blocked, so at least they didn’t get an inkling who he is. The people I work with know I have an English boyfriend, and at least one of them is a real blabbermouth. It probably wasn’t your friend at all. They hacked my phone and pieced it together with scuttlebutt from my office.”
“I’m so sorry, Nick.”
“So am I. I just hope this doesn’t get back to Reinhardt’s bosses, whoever they are. You can be sure this story and the photo will turn up in the English tabloids. And it wouldn’t help his career.”
After they hung up, it occurred to Nicole that in all of her misadventures in the UK the year before—she’d been assaulted, kidnapped, and nearly killed—her name had never made its way into the news. She hadn’t even considered the possibility or realized how fortunate she’d been, at least in this regard.
She spent the next hour going over various tabloid websites, then looked at the Associated Press, which had a more restrained version, leaving out the suggestion—never embellished upon—of a love triangle.
The Los Angeles Times’ coverage came as a surprise. The reporter, Greg Albee, had been struck with an original idea. He’d contacted a couple of people who worked under Nicole. They refused to be identified because they weren’t authorized to speak for the firm—in other words, they were afraid they’d get fired for talking to a reporter. They spoke highly of her, with comments like, “Nicole is great to work for. I consider her a friend,” and “I don’t know anyone in the office who doesn’t like and respect her,” and “I never saw any indication she was mixed up with Blair. She was nice to him because nobody else could stand him.” Apparently he hadn’t contacted Mindy, the office gossip.
The Bequest Page 10