The Bequest

by Nancy Boyarsky

  “Yes,” Nicole smiled. “Lucky me.”

  Seventeen

  Nicole walked into the waitress’ break room. Her only thought was to take a long, hot shower. She undressed, starting with her shoes, which she hadn’t taken off since she’d changed at the motel the day before. She was surprised when she took off a shoe and something dropped to the floor. It was one of the flash drives with Robert’s files. She’d forgotten all about them. She stuck them in the toes of her shoes while she showered and washed her hair. Then she put them back in the zippered compartment of her backpack. Feeling a little better, she lay down on the couch and thought about all that had happened and everything she had to do to get clear of the mess she was in. She must have dozed off. The next thing she knew, Trudy poked her head in and said, “Your boyfriend’s here!” Then she was gone.

  Nicole was only a few feet from Josh before he recognized her. “Wow,” he said, “that is some disguise!” He put an arm around her and hustled her to the door. She turned to wave at Trudy, mouthing her thanks.

  Once they were in the car, Josh put his arms around her and kissed her. “I’ve been so worried about you,” he murmured into her hair. “It was like I’d just found you, and you completely disappeared.”

  Nicole looked out at the parking lot. A couple of Inyo County Sheriff’s cars were driving in. Maybe they were just stopping for coffee, but the sight of them made her nervous. She scrunched down in her seat. “I think we’d better get out of here,” she said.

  Josh followed her glance and, spotting the patrol cars, gave her a puzzled look. He started the car and took the nearby onramp to the freeway heading west. Nicole lay her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

  “So, are you going to tell me what happened?” Josh said. “Where you’ve been?”

  “It’s a long story,” Nicole said. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “How about this,” he said. “Explain why we can’t tell the police you’re safe, so they can stop looking for you. Does this have something to do with Blair’s murder?”

  “Yes,” she said, trying to think of a way to simplify the story into a few sentences. She explained there was a hit out on her, and she couldn’t trust the police because the police chief was in on it. She also told him about Pizer’s involvement. “Pizer? The billionaire philanthropist—and the chief of police?” Josh said. “Holy shit!” He turned to look at her. “But if we can’t call the police, what are we going to do?”

  “There’s a reporter at the L.A. Times whose been following the story,” she said. “I think he can be trusted. I’m going to give the information to him. Once it goes public, no one will dare touch me.”

  “OK,” he said slowly. “But until you get that nailed down, you’re going to stay with me, inside my house, right? You’re not going to disappear again. Will you promise me that?”

  “I promise.”

  “And when you meet up with this guy from the Times?” he said. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Now,” Josh said, “tell me everything from the beginning.”

  By the time they reached his house, it was past 10:00 p.m., and Nicole was fast asleep. He opened the car door, released her seatbelt, and was starting to pick her up when she awoke. “It’s fine,” she said. “I can walk.” She grabbed her backpack, which was resting at her feet, and the two of them went into the house.

  Josh gave her one of his T-shirts to wear to bed. It reached her mid-thigh. She was freezing. She cuddled against him, and he put his arms around her. Warmed by his body, she promptly fell asleep.

  Nicole woke a little past 8:00 a.m., and he was gone. She located her clothes, folded on his dresser, and put them in the washer. Then she saw a note on the kitchen table. Written in neat block letters, it said, Went to the office to pick up work to do at home. Will stop for groceries. Back around 9:00. If you need anything, give me a call. He’d added his cell number and, under that, Love, Josh.She read the last line twice.

  She went back to bed and dozed until she heard the door close downstairs. After a few minutes, she got up and put on a white terry cloth robe she found hanging in his closet. It was so big it almost reached the floor. She padded barefoot down to the kitchen, and there he was, putting away groceries.

  He was all smiles. “Good morning,” he said. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, accepting the cup of coffee he handed her.

  She watched what he was doing, smiling to herself. She loved this about him. He was, in fact, the first man she’d been with who actually knew how to cook and seemed to enjoy it. She thought of her ex, Brad, and the few times he’d gotten stuck preparing a meal. He was helpless in the kitchen, coming out every few minutes to ask her where a pan or an ingredient was. It was clear he was thinking, “If I screw this up badly enough, she’ll never ask me to do it again.” As for Reinhardt, he had a beautiful kitchen, all stainless steel appliances and black marble countertops. But as far as Nicole could tell, it was never used, except to make coffee and drinks. When she was with him, and they were staying at his place, they invariably went out for meals.

  After breakfast, she helped Josh with the dishes. Then, while she shifted her clothes from the washer to the dryer, he disappeared into his study. Nicole went in to watch. He was working on a drawing of a house he was designing.

  “This is a schematic,” he said, “a preliminary sketch of a house I discussed with my clients.” She watched him draw for a while, surprised that this part of the work was still done with pencil and paper instead of a computer. He explained that it was just a quick sketch, but she was impressed with his skill at drawing. He made it look easy.

  She set up her iPad in the dining room. The battery was depleted, and she had to wait a bit before she could fire it up. She used the time to look at the LA Times, which had been delivered to Josh’s front porch that morning.

  The front page led with an article about Earl’s death, and the spin they’d put on it made Nicole laugh out loud:

  Suspected Killer of

  Murdered Ex-Cop Found Dead

  Los Angeles police officer Earl Murray, the prime suspect in the Robert Blair murder case, was found dead, an apparent suicide, late Sunday night in the victim’s cabin in the Owens Valley. Murray had once worked with Blair on the LAPD vice squad.

  Another body, found at the scene, was that of Thomas Green, a local resident who apparently had been making rounds for the neighborhood watch. Pending the outcome of forensic evidence, police speculate that Murray shot Green, then shot himself.

  At an impromptu news conference late Sunday evening, Police Chief Ray Spalding said that the police had been searching for Murray since Friday.

  According to Spalding, Blair had been blackmailing Murray for years based on Murray’s misconduct when he was a member of the vice squad. Blair had evidence that Murray had pocketed money and drugs he took from suspects he arrested. At the press conference, Spalding said, “As for motive, it appears Murray was no longer willing to pay blackmail.”

  “After killing Blair, Murray took property from Blair’s house,” Spalding said, “including the key to Blair’s Owens Valley cabin. When Murray realized we were searching for him as a suspect in Blair’s murder, he went up to the cabin. He used his service weapon to kill Green, who had found him hiding in Blair’s cabin, before committing suicide. The area is under the jurisdiction of the Inyo County Sheriff ’s Department, and the LAPD is cooperating with Inyo County on the investigation.”

  Chief Spalding said, “We are happy to announce that we are closing the Robert Blair case. The people of Los Angeles, especially in the Sunset Hills residential area, can be assured that the murderer is no longer at large.”

  There was more, mainly a rehash of Blair’s murder. It took Nicole several readings to digest this and fully grasp the disparity between the information in the newspaper account and what had actually happened. When it was clear to
her, she realized that the prediction she’d made to Rick had come to pass. The firm had managed—no doubt with the help of the LAPD—to cover up the facts of the case, including Rick’s involvement. The whole Robert Blair affair was tied up in a neat package, solved in a way that was convenient for them all.

  A shorter story, at the bottom right corner of the front page, bore the headline, “Nicole Graves Still Missing.” A kicker above the headline read “Day Four.” The story was a rehash of her connection to the case and the fact that two missing persons reports had been filed after her disappearance, putting her on a national search database. A police spokesperson said they had opened a “tip” line, but so far had no solid leads as to her whereabouts.

  She went into Josh’s study, where he was still at work, and handed him the paper. “Here,” she said, “take a look at this. Oh, and what’s your Wi-Fi password?” He told her, then unfolded the paper and held it up, apparently mesmerized by the banner headline.

  Nicole went back to her iPad, joined Josh’s network, and pulled up XHN. The site had the story about Earl’s “suicide.” A video of the police cars gathered around Robert’s cabin ended with the scene of two covered bodies being loaded into coroner’s wagons.

  The second story, which occupied a good amount of space, led with the headline, “Where’s Nicole?” Under it was a cartoon map of the world, patterned after the “Where’s Waldo?” series. The map was distorted, squeezed into a box to show Los Angeles, London, and Majorca, with not much space in between. Tiny cartoon figures were crowded into each destination. She scrolled past the graphic and encountered a list of places where she’d supposedly been spotted since her disappearance, as reported on the XHN “news tip” bulletin board. It was a long list. She’d been seen everywhere from Juneau, Alaska, to Hong Kong, to (of course) Majorca, with plenty of sightings in Los Angeles and London. One person reported seeing her near Roswell, New Mexico, being escorted by two men in black suits. The men, according to the tip, had pointed ears. She couldn’t tell if this was meant to be a joke.

  Nicole next went onto the Los Angeles Times website, looking for a phone number for Greg Albee, the reporter who’d written the only nice story that had ever appeared about her. No phone numbers were available for Times staff members. There was a “news tip and ideas” form, which required her to state her identity and news tip, with the caveat that the paper did not acknowledge each tip. Great, she thought, just what I need—to have this story disappear into the void.

  The only way to contact a Times reporter, it appeared, was to send an email message to the address listed at the end of each story. She was stumped. How would she do this without giving away her identity? After a bit of thought, she established a new email account as wendybarrett@quicklink.com. Wendy had been her best friend in high school, and it was the first name that came to her. In her message to Greg, she wrote, “I can get you an exclusive interview with Nicole Graves. Please answer this message so we can make arrangements.”

  Almost immediately, she got an answer. But her heart sank when she read it. “Greg Albee is on vacation through Monday, November 23. If this is urgent, please contact Derek Schiff…” She groaned, then looked at the calendar. Today was the 23rd. My god, she’d completely lost track. She could try him again tomorrow, if he hadn’t responded by then. Maybe he checked his messages when he was out of the office. She imagined reporters might be compulsive that way. And she was offering him an incredible scoop, which would become a lot bigger when she handed over Robert’s files.

  At that moment, Josh appeared in the doorway of the dining room, holding the paper in front of him, a puzzled look on his face. “You’ve got to explain this to me,” he said. “What’s going on? You said you shot that guy, but the paper says—”

  “It looks to me like my firm, on Pizer’s behalf, got the whole thing covered up and sanitized. It solves Robert’s murder and, at the same time, explains Earl’s death in Robert’s cabin. As for Rick—the attorney who helped kidnap me but tried to talk Earl out of killing me—they must have cleaned up any evidence he was there. He’s Di Angelo’s stepson and protégé, so they wouldn’t want him implicated in this. I guess I’m in the clear, too, although I only shot Earl in self-defense. I’m sure Rick would testify to that.”

  “Does this mean you’re safe? They’ll call the dogs off?”

  “Not a chance,” she said. “I know too much. I’m the remaining loose end. They wouldn’t want my version of the story to get out. Here, come look at what XHN posted about my whereabouts. It’s pretty funny.”

  They both read it, laughing and shaking their heads at the things people had written on the bulletin board. There were hundreds, if not thousands of people who claimed to have seen her just about everywhere. When they grew tired of reading them, Josh went back to his work. On a living room bookshelf, Nicole found a copy of The Way We Live Now. It was one of the few Trollope novels she hadn’t read. She got it down and settled on the couch with it.

  Still tired from her ordeal, she found herself dozing off. She put the book down, got up, and went into Josh’s study. She put her arms around his neck, her cheek against his. “I’m sleepy,” she said. “I’m going back to bed.”

  He turned to look at her. “You want company?” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she said, nuzzling her face against his neck. “I can see you’re way too busy.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said, dropping his pencil on the desk and getting up. He raced her up the stairs, both of them laughing, until they reached Josh’s room and fell into bed.

  Later, Josh got up and went back to his office to work. Nicole fixed dinner: macaroni and cheese—a special favorite of her ex-husband’s—and a green salad. After the nightmare she’d just lived through—so little sleep, so few meals—she was enjoying the quiet moments of domesticity with Josh. He always seemed to be in a good mood, always ready for a chat, always interruptible. And she loved the quiet of his house.

  They talked companionably at dinner, lingering over a glass of wine. Then Josh went back to his office to work on his project while she lay on the living room couch watching mindless TV. Finally, around 11:00 p.m., she got up. She stuck her head into his study. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Are you coming?’

  “I can’t,” he said. “I have to finish this. It’s due tomorrow morning, and I promised the clients I’d have something to show them along with an estimate.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea. I shouldn’t have interrupted your work this afternoon.”

  Josh smiled at her. “Do you hear me complaining?” he said. “No worries. I’ll get this done, but I do have to meet these people in my office tomorrow morning at 11:00. I’ll be home around 1:00. You all right with being alone for a bit?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll fix lunch and wait for you.”

  “You’re becoming quite the little housefrau,” he said.

  “You forget,” she said. “I have long experience being a housefrau. I was somebody’s wife for a number of years. I’m an old hand at this. After all the insanity I’ve been through, it’s great just hanging out, doing practically nothing.”

  At some point in the night Nicole felt Josh climb into bed and put his arms around her. But when she woke at 7:00 a.m., he was already up.

  Eighteen

  Before getting up, Nicole took her iPad from the night table and checked her new email account for a reply from Greg Albee. There was none, but this was his first day back from vacation, and she had no idea what time reporters got to work. She sent him another message, typing the words “Urgent! Re: Nicole Graves” in the subject line.

  She put on Josh’s robe and went downstairs. She found him already dressed and in his study, hard at work. She’d solved her lack of wardrobe by washing her jeans, T-shirt, and underwear at night and putting them in the dryer during breakfast, using Josh’s robe and T-shirts while her things were in the wash. If this went on much longer, she thought, she’
d have to order some clothes online.

  She got busy in the kitchen, fixing scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. Since Josh was still working, she located a tray on top of the refrigerator and brought his breakfast to his study. He looked up from his work, surprised. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “I can take a few minutes to eat with you.” He took the tray from her and followed her back into the kitchen.

  During breakfast, the two of them shared the front section of the L.A. Times, holding it up so they could both read the latest on the Robert Blair case. The paper had more details about the alleged murderer’s “suicide.” There was also a reaction story consisting of comments by the police commissioners, the mayor, and members of the city council about the case’s implications. Some were interested in reviving the failed plan to monitor the bank accounts of members of “high temptation” police units, like the vice and narcotics squads. The article also included pro-and-con quotes from experts in the law enforcement field, as well as from privacy advocates. A small story at the bottom of the front page noted that Nicole Graves was still missing. It said that police had investigated an apparently solid tip that her body was buried in the desert outside Lancaster but had failed to turn up anything.

  The articles occupied a good part of the front page and two pages inside. A row of photos ran along the bottom of one inside page, a rogue’s gallery of people, dead and alive, mixed up in the case. Nicole herself was shown in the often-used bikini pose.

  She checked her email again. Then, still finding nothing, scrolled through the tabloids. XHN quoted several experts in criminology who thought it “highly likely” she was dead, based on the period of time she’d been missing, and that her body might never be found. It mentioned several prominent, unsolved missing-persons cases, as well as cases where murderers had been convicted even though their victims were never found.

  The tabloid also had a man-on-the-street reaction story, which analyzed online responses from readers about Nicole’s possible fate. Choices included: “in-hiding,” “kidnap victim,” “suicide,” “murder victim,” or “amnesia victim.” There was also a box where readers could fill in another possible fate for, as the tabloid put it, “this enigmatic figure.” Seventy-five percent of the respondents thought she’d been murdered. Among the write-in votes, five percent thought the whole thing was a hoax.