The Fox's Choice

by M A Simonetti

  A York chauffeur drove me to the Camarillo Airport in one of the black York Suburban’s. Jorjana came along for the ride. She brought a litany of questions to ask my father and lest I forget, she had them typed out on her personal stationery. The questions ranged from why jack Bennett never hired an attorney to sue for visitation to the best remedy for a dry cough. I tucked the list inside my tote bag and promised that I would return safely with the answers in hand. Not that she stopped there. Jorjana had endless ideas of what I should do to reconnect with my father, which explained my need of a fully packed suitcase. Thank God the drive to the airport was short.

  The Camarillo Airport is a former military base located just north of Malibu. It is a busy little place with thousands of private jets coming and going each year.

  The best part about flying privately used to be that no one else did. Nowadays, everyone and their interior designer can lease a jet if they want. Which they all do, which explained the congestion in the parking lot. Fortunately, we didn’t have to worry about parking. We did have to worry about which plane I was to board.

  “Do you know which jet Mr. Lafferty is taking?” This from the chauffeur.

  I did not. Richard has access to more than one plane and I didn’t remember if he had specified which aircraft we would take. Lining the runway was one identical white jet after another. I wondered if there was some sort of aeronautical law that required all private jets to be white.

  “Just let me out here,” I said. “I’ll text Richard from the lobby.”

  “You will call the moment you land?” Jorjana asked.

  “Yes, I will call as soon as we get there,” I promised.

  I gave Jorjana a kiss to the cheek and made promised one last time to call her when we landed. I scrambled out before she came up with more advice. Suitcase in hand, I waved as they drove away.

  The lobby was full of people impressed by the fact they would fly privately but annoyed that they had to wait their turn. Three young women stood behind reception desk with smiles plastered in place. They diligently noted ID’s and encouraged passengers to have a seat and could they bring them any coffee or water? I took a moment to marvel at how badly people dress when traveling these days before texting Richard.

  I ignored the nasty stares shot my way when Richard’s pilot came to fetch me. Well, actually, I kind of enjoyed it. But I am nothing if not well mannered so I followed the pilot to the plane while wearing my least smug smile.

  It turned out that we were taking Richard’s smaller white jet- the one with comfy seating for ten, not the one with the full bedroom and bath. The flight attendant greeted me from the top of the air stairs. The pilot whisked away my suitcase and I climbed into the plane.

  Richard’s smaller plane is designed for short business trips. Along the port side are areas designed for two with a table between the seats. Along the starboard side are seating areas for three, also with a table between. Richard’s planes are decorated in shades of grey and navy. The seats are upholstered in navy leather, which makes it easier to clean up if you spill your wine en route. Not a problem for me as I have never encountered turbulence bad enough to spill my Chardonnay.

  Richard sat in his favorite seat at the back of the plane. He preferred the aisle seat so he could stretch his leg out. He looked refreshed. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a suit. Not a sign of sneezes in sight.

  Richard was not alone. Next to him sat Jim Schilling.

  “Morning Alana!” Richard greeted me with a clear voice. His cold appeared to be abating. I gave thanks for that.

  “Buckle up and we’ll be on our way!”

  I hesitated. I am fickle about some things. I like my coffee black and hot and I like my Chardonnay cold and oaky. I hate invitations by email. I cringe every time I hear someone say “me and…”. And I don’t like backwards movement.

  Trust me, you never want to go to an amusement park with me.

  Richard and Jim sat facing forward. The next forward facing seats were two rows away from them. It is bad form to sit so far away from the person hosting your flight but I knew if I sat facing Richard, I would lose the contents of my stomach. And this time it had nothing to do with how much I drank at dinner.

  Thank goodness Jim Schilling noticed my dilemma. He moved to the seat facing Richard.

  “Sit here, Alana,” he said. “You can look out the window.”

  I thanked him, buckled up and we were on our way.

  The jet took off smoothly and headed inland. I watched the Pacific Ocean fade away and be replaced by the smooth coastal mountains. As we cleared low clouds, the flight attendant brought coffee. Hot and black.

  “My business in Sacramento may require me to stay overnight,” Richard said. “Does that work with your schedule or do you want to take the plane back earlier?”

  “Jorjana is convinced that my father and I will get along like a house on fire,” I said. “Her maid packed enough clothes for me to stay a week. But I would like to return home tonight.”

  “Best to be prepared,” Richard chuckled. “The plane will be ready when you are.”

  He was in a good mood. I chalked some of that up to the fact that he loves to fly. It is a joke in Malibu social circles that Richard would fly to the supermarket if he could. He is gone most weekends, taking a plane to one place or another. When I thought about it, his most recent party was to celebrate flying back from the Bahamas, which explained why I had led a conga line that night and lost my shoes. But it did not explain why I lost my underwear. I took a sip of coffee to beat back the headache I was developing.

  “Jim has some new developments for you,” Richard said.

  Jim pulled a laptop out of his briefcase and opened it. This surprised me because I usually fly on Jorjana’s plane and she forbids the use of electronics on board. What she thinks the pilot uses to fly the plane, I don’t know, but her cabin is screen free. I forget that the rest of the world has access to Wi-Fi at 20,000 feet.

  “I have the address to your father’s house here.” Jim said as he passed a slip of paper to me.

  It felt as heavy as forty years of lies in my hand.

  Jim had more. He pounded the keyboard to the laptop as if it could spit my money back out at me.

  “My guys are impressed with this Zane kid. Like I told you, my guys have traced him to other crimes in the last three months. All the victims were drugged and their bank accounts drained. Funny thing is, all of them woke up in their own homes. Nothing was taken but the money in their bank accounts.”

  “Did they get their money back?” I almost hated to ask.

  “No, which is too bad news for them but good news for you. Zane moved their money through the same channels as he moved yours. He set up accounts around the world and programmed transfers ahead of time. That’s why the transfers continued after he was killed. My guys said your money has stayed in the same places for a few hours now. I’m guessing we can make our next move soon.”

  “Do you know why he targeted me?”

  “We’re looking for where he stashed your money. Why he picked you isn’t our problem.”

  I felt like he slapped me.

  Richard took my hand.

  “Jim, can you give us some privacy?”

  Jim unbuckled his seat belt, gathered his laptop and moved to the front of the plane. He settled in with headphones over his ears and typed furiously. The attendant moved his coffee cup to his new seat and refilled it.

  Richard moved to face me. He still kept my hand in his.

  “He can be abrupt but he’s right. His job is to get your money back.”

  “He’s doing a lousy job,” I said. I knew I sounded ungrateful. I was decent enough to feel bad about that.

  “It hasn’t been that long, Alana. Sometimes this can take weeks.”

  “I don’t have weeks, Richard. All my money was in that account.”

  “What options do you have?”

  “Great lawyering, Richard,” I thought to myself. For all
the money I wasn’t able to pay him, why hadn’t he come up with some ideas for me? Again I was ungrateful. I felt bad again. But I didn’t linger on it. I had other things on my mind.

  I am not incapable of taking care of myself. I had taken time to determine what I needed to do. Despite the visits from new relatives, interrogation by the cops and losing sleep, I had seriously weighed my options while holed up in my suite at the York Estate. My next bills were due in a week and my property taxes shortly after that. I’d made a few calls, enough to know that Alan, my ex-husband, would not be able to meet his alimony obligations anytime soon. My only available asset was my beach house.

  “Until Alan can come up with the money he owes me, I think I will lease out my house and stay with Jorjana for a while.”

  There. Once I said it, I felt immensely better. A lease on the house would bring in about twenty-five grand a month. I could do a six-month lease. With first and last month payments due up front, I could cover my property taxes and expenses. Hopefully until my money was returned. Homes on my street were in high demand so I would have no problem finding a tenant.

  Richard was not as enamored with this idea.

  “That looks bad, Alana. Malibu is a small town. Think about what people would say.”

  “Why do I care about what people say?”

  “Because your reputation is all you have to draw on. Your clients hire you because they see you as wealthy and connected. What will it look like if you rent your house and move in with Jorjana?”

  He was right. I built my business from my connections and my connections only socialize with people in the same boat. That boat is made of money. I needed money to make money.

  “I don’t know what else to do, Richard.”

  “Take a loan from Jorjana,” Richard said. “I’ll introduce you to the folks that you, uh, missed meeting at my party. They have a great idea and you would be a big help to them.”

  “What folks…” I began and then remembered. When I picked up my shoes and other belongings at Richard’s house he had mentioned this new business venture. Apparently I had been too busy leading the conga line to chat with them. Of course, back then I didn’t need the money.

  Now I did need the money. And this time a drink wasn’t going to make everything better.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Two black SUVs met our plane at the Sacramento Executive Airport. Jim Schilling and his laptop went into one. Richard and I went in the other.

  “Where to Mr. Lafferty?” The driver was a big guy who looked like he had plenty of room to hide a gun in his navy blue suit.

  “Do you want some time or do you want to go directly there?” Richard asked me.

  “Let’s go there.” I handed the address to the driver before I changed my mind.

  The driver looked at the address, plugged it into the GPS and said, “We’ll be there in twenty.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to call ahead?” Richard asked.

  “No. I don’t want to give him any time to think up more lies.”

  The drive to my father’s house took us on freeways. Some lined by cement walls, some high above the streets. There seemed to be a lot of trees. There were a lot of cars on the road but none of them were luxury models.

  “What do people do here?” I asked Richard.

  “Well, this is the state capitol, so there’s that. After the war there was a boom here. There were two active Air Force bases and Aerojet, which went gangbusters during the Space Race. In recent years the town has grown to the north and to the east. Intel has a big plant out in the Roseville area.”

  “You know a lot about Sacramento,” I noted.

  “I’m here five or six times a month,” Richard said. Noting my surprise he added, “It’s the state capital, Alana. There is a lot of law here.”

  The SUV followed a turn in the freeway. I spotted a large river and what looked like a riverboat docked near a group of buildings.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “That’s Old Town on the Sacramento River,” Richard said. “It was renovated in the early ‘70’s as a restaurant and bar and shopping destination. There is a great railroad museum there but it fell on hard times. Sad, really, the location is perfect for development.”

  “There are tourists here?” I couldn’t think of one thing that Sacramento offered tourists although the river looked inviting.

  “Not really,” Richard laughed. “Even the brochures in the hotels advertise places to visit outside of town. The new airport is nice, though. A lot of people fly into Sacramento now on their way to wine tasting in the Napa Valley.”

  The driver exited the freeway and we were soon on a wide bridge that spanned another river. Richard said it was the American River. I remembered learning about the Sacramento Delta in grade school. I remembered the Delta had something to do with the history of rice farming. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time as my family grew almonds. This memory came from nowhere and made me uncomfortable. I had no idea why.

  The driver turned into a neighborhood with more trees than I had ever seen in my life. We passed a high school. I noted on the GPS that the American River flowed just past the school grounds. The homes in the neighborhood were ranch style with two car garages and wide fJimt lawns. They were not new homes but they had the manicured gardens that only money can buy. We passed a spacious neighborhood park before turning into a cul-de-sac. The driver pulled in fJimt of a house and parked.

  “Here we are.”

  I leaned over Richard to get a gander at my father’s house.

  It was a ranch style like the other homes in the neighborhood. It sat on a curve in the cul-de-sac, which afforded it a larger lot. A two and a half car garage anchored the house. It was painted white and sported volcanic rock accents and black shutters. The front yard had rose bushes and a hedge of gardenia bushes. It had an air of elegance without being off-putting. I liked it more that I wanted to.

  The garage door opened as I gazed at the house. An Audi station wagon zipped past the SUV, bumped up the curb to the driveway and entered the garage. A woman was alone in the car. I had never seen her before yet I knew who she was.

  “That’s That Woman.”

  “Don’t you know her name?” Richard was incredulous.

  I didn’t. Or if I did, I had long forgotten it. My mother, my aunts and my grandparents referred to her as ‘That Woman’ when they spoke of her at all.

  “Her name is Linda. Dr. Linda Bennett,” Richard said.

  “Linda.”

  The garage door closed and the house returned to its quiet elegance. I took a deep breath to calm the nausea rising in my throat.

  “Please come with me, Richard.”

  The doorbell on my father’s house rang happily as if it were glad that I came. There was a pause and then I heard footsteps and the door opened. And there she was.

  That Woman.

  She was in her early seventies. Her hair was shoulder length and its natural salt-and-pepper color. She was on the tall side and slim. She looked like she maintained her figure more by hiking than playing tennis. She wore capris, a cotton blouse and sandals. Her toenails were painted red. She looked about as happy to see me as I was to see her.

  “I had a feeling that you might show up. Bradley said he asked you to come. Your father isn’t here but you might as well come in.”

  She stepped aside and I walked in, in spite of myself.

  “Hello, Dr. Bennett, I’m Richard Lafferty, a friend of Alana’s.”

  Richard and That Woman exchanged pleasantries while I adjusted to the fact that I had just walked into my father’s house. My mother was likely turning in her grave. I was glad Richard was with me since I had no idea what to say to my father’s wife. I had come expecting to confront my father. Not that I knew what I intended to say to him, either.

  A hallway ran the width of the house with the living room just ahead of me. It was a decent space with a dining area at one end and a fireplace at the other
. The furniture was not new but not out of date. The floors were tiled and area rugs defined the dining and lounging spots. Sliding doors led to a covered patio beyond. The yard was big. I saw a vegetable garden and fruit trees beyond a swimming pool.

  I normally wouldn’t spend so much time looking at a home’s layout but I kept avoiding the elephant in the living room. The ‘elephant’ was a hospital bed complete with the accessories that to go with it. A bed tray, oxygen tanks and a contraption to hold IV lines aloft. The only thing missing was the patient.

  “Jack had a setback,” That Woman said. “The interview with the police yesterday was just too much for him. He’s back in the hospital.”

  She paused and then surprised me with “Can I offer you something to eat?”

  I came for explanations not lunch. The little voice told me to be nice.

  “I’d love something to drink,” I said.

  “Iced tea?” That Woman asked.

  “That would be fine,” I lied. If ever there was a time I needed a drink, it was that moment.

  She looked at the hospital bed for a long moment before saying, “Let’s go into the family room.”

  The house was laid out like every ranch style home ever built. A combo living and dining room in the center, kitchen and family room off the garage and the bedrooms on the other side. The family room at my father’s house was larger than most with two separate activity areas- one for watching TV and one for playing games. A half-finished puzzle lay on the game table. The kitchen ran one full width of the room and had been remodeled at some point since the house was built. I figured it was about five years away from needing an update. That Woman told Richard and me to sit in the TV area while she got the drinks. Two sofas and two easy chairs surrounded a coffee table. Richard and I sat side by side on a sofa.

  “This is a nice neighborhood, Linda,” Richard said. “I have colleagues that live here. Do you know the Swanson’s?”

  She didn’t but she and Richard went off on that who-do-you-know dance that always happens when you meet someone from somewhere else. Again, I was grateful that Richard picked up the slack in the conversation.