He followed her. “A minute,” he said, and inclined his head toward the restroom as he passed it.
“Less than a minute,” she answered.
He stepped into the bathroom, turned on the light and shut the door. He fought to control his breathing. He placed both hands on the sink, leaned forward and studied the image in the mirror. Be careful, he told it. He shook his head rapidly from side to side, as if trying dispose of its fuzziness by centrifugal force. Bad combination, Jack Daniels and testosterone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the Achilles Heel of most fallen CEOs: sex or money. He was one step from the edge.
Anneliese’s passion was set in an unnerving context of too many mysteries and too many unanswered questions. He wasn’t going to unravel them in her bed.
But overlaying all was the numinous presence of Karen. He knew it was foolish; foolish to be faithful to a memory, foolish to feel as if he were about to cheat on his wife. Yet the feeling was there, as palpable as if he had kissed Karen goodbye before he left for work this morning. For better or worse, he was still married.
He realized he could be banished from the ranks of manhood for what he was about do. But he also understood if he didn’t do it, he would be making a monumental error of judgment. There were just way too many pieces of a puzzle on the table, and none of them was fitting into place.
Anneliese’s voice floated down the hallway, intermingling with the music. “Dessert is early,” she said. Teasing. Luring.
He turned off the bathroom light and stepped into the hall, halting at the door of the bedroom. In the semidarkness he could make out Anneliese’s form in bed, draped by a flowery sheet. She raised herself on her elbows and looked at him. The sheet clung momentarily to her breasts, then slid away. Richard closed his eyes.
Anneliese giggled, the soft laugh of a woman, not the titter of a young girl. It was more suggestive than pejorative. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,” she whispered.
He opened his eyes. “I don’t mean to be impolite...” A battle raged within him—lust versus common sense—and he fought to get his words out. “I... we need more time for this, Anneliese. I didn’t come here with this in mind. I—”
“I know you didn’t. I didn’t either. It just happened.”
Did it? “Then let’s let it evolve from here. You’re an incredibly beautiful, desirable woman. This isn’t rejection. I’m just saying, let’s find out if we truly feel something for one another, give our passions a chance to simmer down and our emotions an opportunity to mature.” And give me a little more time to find out what the hell is really going on here.
She sat all the way up. The sheet crumpled to her thighs. “No,” she said, “it’s not that, is it? You’re concerned with propriety, aren’t you? CEO and his assistant. Scandal. Decadence. That sort of thing? It’s okay. This is between us. Two discreet adults. Not adulterers.”
Subdued light played over her exquisite topography, shading it in tones of pearl and peach. His resolve wavered. But countering that was a certain rigidness in her voice that hadn’t been there earlier, a hard edge to her words, as though they’d been touched by sleet. A warning light glowed brightly within his subconscious.
He backed away from the bedroom. “It’s not right, not yet.” He knew he had to get out of the apartment quickly or succumb to certain basic male instincts that were about to overwhelm him. In a physical sense, he really wasn’t a good candidate for sainthood or monkdom. He turned and walked toward the front door, grabbed his coat and tie, then paused. He faced back toward the bedroom. “Dinner tomorrow night, Ms. Mierczak?”
She didn’t answer, but appeared in the hallway, swathed in a terry cloth robe. “Don’t go,” she said. She hugged the robe around herself and padded toward him. “Don’t go.”
A tinge of desperation nuanced her voice, darkened her eyes, but Richard had no idea why. He opened the door and stepped out. “Sneak into my office in the morning and give me a kiss... if you feel so compelled.”
“Rich—”
He shut the door and walked quickly down the steps to his car. He leaned on the top of the Mini and drew a deep breath. Several. A thin smile of a moon hung in a muddy sky, and the cicadas sounded as if they were involved in raucous, symphonic warfare.
Richard couldn’t shed the feeling he’d just triggered a tripwire. But connected to what?
Chapter Twelve
NORTH METRO ATLANTA
THURSDAY, AUGUST 22
Richard arrived at work early the next morning. Except for a couple of cars, one of which he assumed was Anneliese’s left from the previous night, the parking lot was empty.
He remained disturbed by the events of the previous day, both his encounter with “Colonel” Landry and his rendezvous with Anneliese. A strange afternoon and a strange evening. He climbed the stairs and checked his watch. It would be another hour before Anneliese arrived, by taxi or with a friend perhaps, and he was glad for a period of quiet in which to plan his day. It was time to orchestrate some bold moves, and he welcomed a chance to analyze the possibilities.
He hadn’t gotten very far before a sharp knock rattled the office door.
Anneliese? Early? Richard stood and stepped from behind his desk, not knowing what to expect from her, not even knowing what he was hoping for. “Yes?” he said.
The door opened. Not Anneliese. A balding, middle-aged black man with the build of a gone-to-seed NFL tight end—his paunch more prominent than his chest—lumbered into the room. Dressed casually in jeans and a sagging white polo shirt, an unlit cigar in his mouth flopped up and down like a doll’s broken arm. He held out a wallet ID: a picture and a badge.
“Detective Lieutenant Jackson, Fulton County police,” he said. “The guard patrolling the parking lot escorted me up here.”
Richard examined the ID. It appeared legit. “Come in, Lieutenant,” Richard said. What now? Had the incident with von Stade at Mrs. Scarelli’s house caught someone’s attention?
The detective, with a surprisingly quick gait for his bulk, strode toward Richard and extended his hand. “Stoney Jackson,” he said. He didn’t crack a smile, but the oscillating cigar clamped between his lips probably made that impossible.
“Richard Wainwright. What can I do for you, Lieutenant Jackson?”
“Coffee?” The detective flopped into a chair without being asked and removed the cigar from his lips.
Richard returned to his chair.
“Normally I could offer you something freshly brewed, but my assistant is late this morning, and she’s usually the one that gets things going.”
Jackson surveyed the office, not paying attention to Richard’s response.
“Nice digs,” he said. “I could fit my entire squad in here. Guess I sure as shit chose the wrong profession. You been with BioDawn long, Mr. Wainwright?”
“Hardly. Think of me as a temp. I just started this week.”
“But you’re from around here? The Southeast, I mean.”
“No. In fact, I was called out of retirement from Oregon.”
“Long way from home then. Wife with you?”
What does this guy want? “I’m a widower.”
“Oh. You’re here by yourself then?”
“Not to be rude, Lieutenant, but I’m guessing you didn’t bypass half a dozen Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts because you heard BioDawn had the best coffee in town.”
Jackson placed his cigar on the conference table. “Sorry. I’m being a little too in-your-face. I’m told I get that way when I’m on a murder case.” He looked Wainwright in the eye.
Richard sensed something dark pass in the space between him and Jackson. Murder? “Murder?” It came out more an exclamation than a question.
Jackson reached into the back pocket of his jeans and withdrew a notepad. “Anneliese Mierczak, thirty-thr
ee, found deceased in her apartment at three o’clock this morning. Neighbors said she worked at BioDawn.” He paused, again fixing Richard in his gaze.
The words fell on Richard like a thunderstorm downburst. He felt himself blanch. His chest tightened, and he struggled to breathe. Without warning, the room became a whirling kaleidoscope of colors and hues. He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and tipped his head toward the ceiling.
Jackson waited.
Richard fought off the shock and opened his eyes. “She worked here, yes.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Ah,” Jackson said and waited again.
“She was my executive assistant.”
“So you’d known her only a few days?”
“Yes.”
“When did you see her last?”
“Yesterday.”
Jackson, his face creased, but something short of weathered, held his gaze on Richard. “A little more precise, if you could, please. Yesterday morning? Yesterday afternoon? Yesterday evening?”
Richard drew a deep breath. This is crazy. Over the top. A corporate jet crashes. The BioDawn welcome wagon is a German with a knife. Mrs. Scarelli disappears. A phony colonel defends a bogus project. My executive assistant tries to seduce me—and ends up murdered.
“You’re sure she was murdered?”
“You first. Yesterday morning? Yesterday afternoon? Yesterday evening?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“What time?”
“Your turn.”
“Don’t try to play hardball with me, Mr. Wainwright. You’ll lose. What time?”
Richard reached for his phone. “Time for my attorney, I think.”
“In Oregon?”
“He’ll know somebody here.”
Jackson put the dead cigar back in his mouth and rotated the stogie in uneven circles with his lips. He stopped after a few seconds and removed it.
“Put the phone down,” he said. “Ms. Mierczak’s throat was slit. Carving knife from the kitchen. No sign of forced entry. She knew whoever killed her. Let them into her apartment.” He tapped the cigar on the table in a staccato rhythm. “What time, Mr. Wainwright?”
“How do you know it wasn’t a suicide?”
“People who kill themselves slit their wrists, not their throats. Or they shoot themselves. Or take pills. What time?”
“Cutting a person’s throat. Sounds almost professional.”
“Let me be the detective. What time?”
“You know I was there, don’t you?”
“Witnesses reported seeing a man about your height driving a small, red and white boxy car leaving the apartments about ten p.m. When I arrived here this morning there was a red and white Mini Cooper parked in the CEO’s spot. Your spot, your car, I assume.”
“I had drinks with Ms. Mierczak last evening. I left about ten. She was very much alive when I left her.” Now there’s an understatement.
“Tell me about your visit.” He jammed the chewed-on cigar back into his mouth.
“You want me to light that for you? It’s okay if you smoke in here.”
“I don’t smoke. Tell me about you and Ms. Mierczak.”
Richard related to Jackson as much as he felt comfortable telling, omitting any reference to the attempted seduction, which he knew the detective wouldn’t believe anyhow. The attempt or his response to it.
After he’d finished, Jackson said, “There was a dinner ready to be warmed up and eaten, but it was untouched. Something Ms. Mierczak prepared for the two of you?”
“We talked, we drank, it got late. I excused myself.”
“Ah.” Jackson’s gaze flitted around the room again. “This place is like a furniture store showroom,” he said. “High-end stuff. I assume you do well as a CEO. Do you mind if I ask how much you make?”
“I do. But I’m well off.”
“Yes. I’d figured that out on my own.” Jackson chewed hard on his cigar and it almost tumbled from his mouth as he talked.
“Ms. Mierczak was wearing only a robe when we found her. A beautiful woman, yes? You’re telling me nothing else happened between you two? Just a little private happy hour?”
“Nothing sexual went on, if that’s what you’re intimating.”
“You guys are used to getting your own way—”
“‘You guys’?” The response was a bit more snappish than Richard intended.
“My bad. CEOs. CEOs are used to getting their way. Money. Power. Prestige. Heady stuff. Women are attracted to it. Maybe you misread Ms. Mierczak, tried to take things a bit further than she intended. Met with some rejection—”
“So I slashed her to death?” Anger replaced Richard’s shock.
“Don’t get bent out of shape, Mr. Wainwright. I’m just doing my job.” The cigar jumped up and down in his mouth like a tachometer needle on a Formula 1 racer. “Sorry if I come across as overbearing, but to be honest, I guess I do have a bit of a hard-on for guys who sit behind desks all day raking in multimillion dollar salaries, lucrative stock options and guaranteed pensions, while the peons, the people who keep the corporations afloat, bust their butts just to make ends meet. And then half the CEOs turn out to be crooks.”
“So, do I live down to your standards?”
Jackson stood. “We’ll see. Nice chatting with you. Stick around.”
Richard rose from his chair. “Am I a suspect?”
“For the time being, you’re just Mr. Wainwright. Let’s see what the crime lab guys come up with.” He moved toward the door. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Find some prints on the knife. Some blood under the victim’s fingernails.”
Jesus. The carving knife. My prints. An easy match with my military record. “How long?” he asked. He had to force the words out.
“How long what?”
“To check on... never mind.”
Jackson removed the cigar from his mouth. A slow, purposeful move. “Something you need to get off your chest, Mr. Wainwright? Something you want to tell me? It might go easier in the long run.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Well.” Jackson fit the cigar back between his lips. “Maybe you’d better call your lawyer after all.” He stared at Richard’s face. “Nasty looking scratches.”
“Holly bush,” Richard said.
“Yeah,” Jackson answered. He turned and left.
Richard sank into his chair, a convoluted amalgam of emotions swarming over him: shock, anger, sadness, fear, confusion. For once in his life he didn’t know what to do next. As a CEO he had always had Plans B, C and D in his back pocket, always understood if he needed to apply more yin or more yang, always could adjust to new circumstances. But now he was just the driver of an automobile in an uncontrolled spin on black ice, along for the ride, in control of nothing, waiting for a crash.
Intuitively, the bizarre events of the past few days seemed interconnected, but he had no idea how. He recalled the words of a classmate at North Carolina State, a Cherokee Indian, who once told him, “The raindrops from where we stand seem random. If we could stand somewhere else, we would see order in them.” But Richard had no idea where to stand, could see order in nothing. He was Alice in Wonderland, lost in a looking-glass world.
He attempted to sort through the confusion, structure it, fit it together in a way that made sense. By noon, he gave up. Only Picasso-like, Cubist images of von Stade, Anneliese, Colonel Landry, Detective Jackson and the block house behind the razor wire fence bounced around in his head. He had to get away from the office to clear his mind, settle his feelings, focus his thinking. He needed someone to talk to, someone he knew, someone he could trust.
He made a quick phone call.
Then, sunroof open, air conditioning off, he lit out in the Mini, hurling it w
ith abandon through dense lunchtime traffic. The sharp bark of the car’s exhaust spurred him on. He envisioned Karen seated beside him, hair flying, her melodic laughter challenging the wind. But the specter of his late wife morphed into that of Anneliese, and he winced at the indelible image of an exquisitely beautiful woman, gone. What did you get yourself mixed up in, Anneliese?
He approached a sharp right-hand turn onto a quiet looking two-lane road and downshifted hard, sliding the car through the corner. He up shifted and accelerated into a leafy, green tunnel of kudzu-draped sweet gums and oak. He slammed the car into high gear. Then he saw the sign:
NORTH FULTON UNITED METHODIST CHURCH
MARTY DE LA SERNA, SENIOR MINISTER.
Chapter Thirteen
NORTH METRO ATLANTA
THURSDAY, AUGUST 22
Richard pulled the Mini into the church’s main parking lot. He remained in the car with the engine idling while he debated entering the church. He wasn’t a religious man, at least not deeply so, but after Karen died he’d often found peace in conversations with the minister of a small Congregational church in Bend. Pastor Tommy Offenbach had been simultaneously comforting, nonjudgmental and intellectually challenging.
The stifling midday heat seeped into the Mini and Richard closed the sunroof and turned on the air conditioning. He reviewed, for perhaps the hundredth time, the events of the past twenty-four hours. He couldn’t accept the position he was in. He’d always attempted to live his life in a manner above moral reproach, a cut above the diminishing ethical standards now accepted by an increasing number of high-profile CEOs and political figures.
He believed strongly that his education, his accomplishments and his accolades entitled him to nothing except responsibility, and demanded that in all actions he remain above suspicion. And yet, here he was, if not a full-fledged murder suspect, at least a man who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and probably under the wrong circumstances. He needed to talk with someone about that face to face. Someone like Tommy Offenbach.
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