“But she must have said something to him.”
“I have no idea.” Murdock shook his head. “She just didn’t seem like the kind of person who would lose her head. I mean, she was a tough politician’s wife. Wealthy New Yorker, sophisticated, savvy. I think Steele must have figured out something was up and confronted her. That’s only a guess. But when a woman walks into your office and tells you she wants a divorce and then turns up dead a few days later, I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out they’re connected.”
“No,” I spoke softly, looking at the diplomas on the wall. “I don’t suppose it does.”
“Like I said before,” Murdock went on, “I thought a lot about it. But who knows what really happened? People can do all kinds of things in the heat of the moment.”
I finally felt compelled to say what had been weighing on me most, “So if he did it, a guilty man has gotten off.”
But Murdock surprised me. He pursed his lips slightly, mulling it over, and said, “I suppose that’s right, but the man did do twelve years. That ain’t exactly scot-free. But I hear you.”
“But it’s the wrong result.”
He laughed a little and shot back, “There’s a big difference between what the law ought to be and what the law is. The right result only exists in law school or philosophy classes. In the real world, the right result is the result you get.”
I had nothing more to say. I just sat there, surrounded by a silence so complete it left my ears ringing. I thought about Dan Kelly again. I believed everything he said. Steele too. Kelly could have been lying. He could have merely been mistaken. I stared off into space trying to sort through it all, trying to put my thoughts in order. I realized I hadn’t blinked my eyes for several minutes.
“Well, shit,” Murdock finally broke the silence and stood with an expectant look. I stood as well, and followed him back out front.
Murdock picked up the file and handed it to me. “Like I said, I’d just as soon never have to think about this thing again. So, between you and me, you found this thing.” Murdock smiled.
I took the file and tucked it under my arm. “Thanks for meeting with me. This has been helpful.” We walked to the front door and paused while Murdock leaned against it, hesitating.
“It’s funny,” Murdock said, turning back toward me and glancing at the file under my arm. “The things that come back to haunt you.” He shook his head and put his sunglasses on. “You just never know.” Murdock smiled, pushed the door open, and was consumed briefly by the brilliant glow of the afternoon sun. I followed him into the light and was blind and nearly dizzy in the overwhelming heat. Late-August in Palm Springs. Brutal. Murdock locked the door behind us and we headed across the parking lot toward the cars.
I thanked him again. Murdock turned and walked swiftly back to his white Audi, dressed in his light tan outfit, looking like a man heading cheerfully out to a tennis match.
I lingered in my car after Murdock drove off. I debated opening the file then and there, but decided to wait rather than risk misplacing something or having it fly out the window on the drive back. Better to leave it all sealed just a little longer. I pulled out onto the street slowly, slightly disoriented in the suffocating hot of the day, waiting feebly for the air conditioning to cool.
By the time I reached Cabazon the air had lost the harsh desert heat and I debated pulling off to put the top down. As I eyed the exit, I checked my mirrors and noted a black Taurus a dozen car lengths behind me. Cabazon, with its massive complex of factory outlet stores and little else, sits on the edge of the desert and traffic was still light, even for a Sunday afternoon. I thought nothing of the black car, other than how unfortunate a color like black was in the heat.
Heading west, I passed the split in the freeway that would take me south on the sixty to Riverside and instead remained on the ten, heading for Los Angeles. The traffic rushed along the wide concrete artery at a brisk eighty miles per hour, but by San Bernardino there were noticeably more cars on the road. Traffic was nearly bumper to bumper going seventy and I was certain that things would slow down as I got closer to the city. I put the window down and felt the air. It was perfect. I got off at the next exit to put the top down.
I pulled into a parking space directly in front of the glass doors of a Circle-K, put the red file folder down on the floor of the passenger’s seat, and went in to buy something to drink. Though I thought my fear of theft was unrealistic, paranoid, I kept an eye on the car the entire time I was in the store. It was a quick stop, less than a minute out of the car, but anything could happen, I supposed. But of course, nothing did.
On my way out through the doors, I paused and took in a deep breath, enjoying the final day of my summer break as much as I could. And it hit me only then: that this was it. The summer was over. I thought briefly about the classes I had yet to prepare for, shook the thoughts from my mind and took a long drink of the fizzy Seven-Up, wishing I’d bought water instead.
With my head tilted back, my eyes fell on a black car parked next door at a Burger King. I watched a bald man with a moustache sitting in the driver’s seat. I felt a surge of energy. He looked incredibly familiar. He did not appear to be getting out of the car, did not appear to be eating, and did not appear to be leaving.
I got in my car and put the top down, glancing over my shoulder at the black car and the man inside. For a second, I thought I saw the man looking at me and quickly looking away when I turned toward him. Where had I seen him before? I finished putting the top down and looked back again. I told myself I was crazy, paranoid. I felt an urgency to get home. I needed to study. I needed to stop thinking about Steele and Andersen and get back to my normal life.
On the freeway I turned up the radio and tried to pick up speed and lose myself in the act of driving, but it was impossible. The hoards flowing back into the city were bringing traffic to a frustrating thirty or forty miles per hour. The carpool lane was nearly empty and I watched several cars filled with people cruise by me while my foot alternated between gas and brake.
It was hopeless. I turned the radio up louder and tried to think about nothing at all. But the reason I was stuck in traffic kept coming back to me. The folder slid around on the floor with every act of acceleration and braking. I imagined Steele confronting his wife. I could almost hear her threaten him. She knew everything. She was going to leave him, take the children, and leave him open to questions. And suddenly, Steele could see his life unraveling around him.
In a hot moment he gives in to his rage. He attacks her. Once it is over, Steele realizes what he has done. He is covered with blood. He is unsure what to do. He calls his lawyer. There is a conversation. But about what? Maybe he confesses, maybe he makes up a story as he goes along. He locks his four year old in a room. He calls 911. He calls his lawyer back, worries that his daughter will be home soon and then, from out of the panic, it hits him. The daughter’s boyfriend. The kid his wife hated. By the time the police arrive he has his story.
He never tells anyone about the calls to Andersen because they make him look guilty. Andersen never tells anyone because it’s a privileged conversation. Andersen doesn’t investigate Bishop because he knows it’s a lie. But why let Steele take the stand and tell his story? Why let Steele perjure himself? I struggled with these and other questions, avoiding the obvious one that I was afraid to focus on: what do I do now?
Steele was enjoying a resurgence of popularity. Carver was a hero. The firm had a new, high profile client with a lot of potential for bringing in business as people lined up to get on the Steele bandwagon. I didn’t want to think about waltzing into Carver’s office to tell him that we might have gotten it all wrong.
Then there it was in the mirror. I could see the black Taurus speeding up the wide-open carpool lane. When the Taurus slowed, I focused on the license numbers, repeating them in my head to remember them. It merged in two cars behind me. I could see the man driving. He was alone. Not only should he not have been in the
carpool lane, but if he was really trying to get somewhere, why get over and merge back in with traffic? And suddenly I remembered where I’d seen him. He was sitting in Andersen’s office when I was walking out. And then I knew I’d seen him other places too. Parked on the street somewhere. Was it really the same guy? Was Andersen having me followed? And if so, why?
My eyes scanned the traffic. It was plodding along with no real end in sight. I eyed the empty carpool lane and decided to press my luck. I jerked the wheel to the left and stomped on the gas. The BMW bolted from the lane, the roaring torque propelling me back into the seat and launching the car up over a hundred in an instant. The cars on the freeway rushed by like fence posts and in less then twenty seconds I was a half mile ahead.
I watched the empty lane behind me. Nothing. I pushed it some more and blew down the carpool lane for another mile until I was finally trapped behind a mini-van that was barely going faster than the rest of the traffic. I merged back into the bumper to bumper cars and felt relief come over me.
The black car never appeared behind me. I turned the radio up nearly all the way and laughed out loud. I was going crazy. It couldn’t have been the same guy I saw in Andersen’s office. I wasn’t really being followed. I was just losing it. Everything was getting to me. I was seeing conspiracies everywhere. I had to relax. Everything was going to work out. Somehow.
23
By the time I got home, I had managed to convince myself that I’d been making it all up, imagining everything, and letting my paranoia get the better of me. I was sure that no one had been following me. I told myself there were lots of bald guys with moustaches around. But when I climbed the stairs to my apartment and found the door ajar, it all came rushing back.
I stood and stared through the inch wide crack where the door hung open. There was no damage, it had not been kicked in. Had I forgotten to lock it? I listened and heard nothing. Adrenaline pumped through me. My face felt hot. I pushed at the door and called, “Hello?”
The door swung back. There was no one inside, but there had been. The couch was upside down in the center of the room, the cushions had been slit open and there was stuffing everywhere. All of the cupboards had been emptied, all the books thrown from the shelves. Nothing was left untouched or undisturbed. Someone had been thorough, had taken their time, methodically looking under and inside everything. The floor was completely covered with the remains.
I slowly crept through the rooms, surveying the devastation. Every package of food had been emptied, everything in the refrigerator dumped out, my mattress slit and turned inside out, my clothes taken from each hanger, even the lamps and pictures on the wall had been broken and torn apart.
It was so complete that I hardly recognized it as my own apartment. I gawked at it — slack-jawed and stunned — as though I’d stumbled on the aftermath of some horrible accident. I saw the light on the answering machine and touched the button. I heard Murdock’s voice come through, leaving a message with his name, phone numbers, subject of the call, and the suggestion that we get together tomorrow. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to put it all together.
I looked everything over with an odd detachment. As I spread the shards of a lamp around with my foot, I saw a small metal thing glinting in the pile. When I picked it up, it looked like a tiny microphone mounted on a pin. I’d never seen a bug before, but I immediately knew what it was. I remembered coming home to the lights on in my apartment, seeing the shadow in the window from the parking lot. How long had it been going on? What was going on?
It was only at that moment that I truly understood. I was being followed. Someone was after me, or something I had. They could be watching me right now, they could be coming up the stairs, they were probably dangerous people. I thought about Murdock’s story. I thought about the call to Andersen and the guy in the black car. My trashed apartment was a not so subtle message that they could get to me easily.
In an instant, I was down the stairs and out in the street. My eyes darting everywhere. Where could they be? Who could they be? How could I get away from them if I did not know what they wanted? Not knowing what else to do, I walked south six blocks with my briefcase in my hand and the file I’d gotten from Murdock under my arm. I walked quickly, looking over my shoulder, trying not to draw attention to myself, looking thoroughly suspicious in the process.
I dialed the firm on my cell phone and left a message for the librarian, asking him to run whatever he could on the license plate number. After six blocks, I bounded up the steps to Liz’s apartment. I knocked on the door, looking back over my shoulder, my body bouncing from anxiety and adrenaline. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon ran through my head. Even mere seconds felt like an eternity.
I could hear her voice inside, “Coming!” she said. I could hear her footsteps. The lock turning, the door cracked open and I bounded through it, forcing her back.
“What the fuck are you doing?” She was yelling at me. I went straight for the window and peered out before jerking the curtains closed. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” She prattled on, standing in her sweatpants and tee shirt with the door open, demanding that I leave.
Instead, I rushed to her and forced the door closed and locked it. My eyes scanned the room. Liz watched my frantic movements, hesitant and jerky, as I paced around making noises but saying nothing. She fell silent and watched me for a moment, her anger receding and her concern growing.
“What’s going on?” she finally asked.
I stopped and looked at her, as if noticing her for the first time. Then I leaned over the couch and peeked out of the curtain as I spoke. “Someone’s after me. Someone’s following me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“On my way back from Palm Springs there was this car. I think it’s because—” I wasn’t sure where to start.
“Is there something wrong with you? Will you slow down? Why are you here?” Liz was unsure what to do with me. Finally, I sat back on the couch, my muscles went slack and I stared toward the opposite wall, but saw only the images inside my head — like puzzle pieces in a windstorm suddenly landing, and interlocking.
“Do you have any beer? Anything to drink? I need a drink.”
“Are you crazy?” Liz responded, the incredulity dripping from her voice.
“Look.” I began in a tone both frightened and forceful. “I got home today, about five minutes ago, and my apartment was trashed. I mean gutted, like in a movie or something. On my way home I thought someone was following me, now I’m sure of it. I think I’ve gotten myself involved in some serious shit and I have no idea what it is.”
“What do you mean trashed? Someone broke into your place?”
“I mean trashed.”
“Well, apartments get broken into.”
“No—” I cut her off. “Not like this. I didn’t stay long because it scared the hell out of me, but I didn’t notice anything missing. It wasn’t a burglary. Someone was looking for something. They went through everything. They cut the couch open, they dumped out cereal boxes, cut pictures open. They went through every square inch of the place. I don’t know who these people are. I don’t know what they want.” I stopped talking and just shook my head, my mouth open but no words coming out.
Liz got two beers from the fridge and gave me one.
“I’m scared” I finally said. Then I remembered the bug and set it on the table. “Here, this was in my lamp.”
Liz picked it up and studied it. She gave me a disturbed look. “Some kind of bug?” She squinted. “Why would someone be after you?” Liz sat in the rocking chair across from the couch. Finally, she set the bug down on a side table and asked, “What do they want?”
I took a drink from the beer and stared at the door, resisting the urge to look out the window again. “It’s connected to Andersen and Steele. But I don’t know. Something’s terribly wrong.”
“With what?”
“With the case, with Steele, everything.” I took another drink. “Look
, I left work early on Friday,” I began. I told her about the check to Murdock, the cell phone calls, and Andersen’s threats. She watched me polish off my beer. I could see the concern come over her as the pieces fell in place. When my beer was gone, she got up and got me another. When she handed it to me she hovered over me and squeezed my shoulder. I forgot about everything for a moment and looked up at her. No words came to me, but she seemed to understand and accept the reason why.
I finished the story and my second beer and she got us both another round. When she came back to the room, she pointed at the file folder I’d dropped on the coffee table when I barged in. “So what’s that?”
“Shit, I dunno.” I shook my head and stared at it. “It’s a file the lawyer in Palm Springs gave me. He said he didn’t want to be involved, he figured I could do whatever I saw fit with it. He figured he’d held onto it long enough.”
“Have you looked at it?”
“Naw, shit, it could only be more bad news. Besides,” I said, as I sat back on the couch, “I haven’t had time.”
Liz knelt down and removed the rubber band that held it shut. She flipped it open and thumbed through the files inside. There were notes on a legal pad as well as a thick, sealed Fed Ex envelope.
“What’s in here?” She asked, almost to herself, as she pulled the envelope out of the folder.
“I don’t even want to know.”
Liz tore it open and pulled a thick stack of papers from inside. “There’s a cover letter from some private detective agency.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering Murdock’s story. “The lawyer said she’d hired some guy to follow Steele. You know, to get some proof that he was cheating on her.” I leaned forward, growing more interested and resigned. Might as well learn whatever there was to learn.
Follow the Money Page 17