by Dana Killion
“Yes, it is. Any money that Mr. Wright appropriated stayed separate from marital funds.”
“In the course of that investigation, were there any unusual payouts or reoccurring expenditures that couldn’t be explained?”
“Our forensic accountant, Leon Rutkowski, looked into everything quite thoroughly, I assure you. He found that Mrs. Wright lived a lavish lifestyle, spending significant funds on clothing and the like. Entertainment, such as dining out, also appeared to be substantial line items in the monthly budget.”
I looked at the man, feeling the puzzlement etching my eyebrows. Interesting, I’d asked about Gavin. Why had he focused on Elyse? And his statement sounded judgmental. Judgmental because he thought her frivolous? Or their lifestyle frivolous? But if that were the case, why had he singled out Elyse? I jotted a note before continuing.
“And what about Gavin Wright? From what I could tell, he was a man who enjoyed nice things himself. Custom suits, for example, at five grand a pop.”
Before Bennett could answer my question, the phone in the conference room beeped. Victor picked up the call.
“I’m afraid I have to step out,” he said. “I’m sure the two of you can manage without me from here.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “I’ll speak to you soon.”
“Thank you, Victor. I appreciate everything you’re doing.”
“Where were we?” I said, turning back to Bennett. “Gavin Wright’s wardrobe. Are you suggesting that Elyse spent significantly more, or are you making a comment about the fact that she maintained her marital lifestyle after they separated?”
Bennett shifted in his chair and pulled a tissue out of his pocket, then dabbed at his nose. I couldn’t tell if I’d made him uncomfortable or if he was just battling a cold.
“You asked about unusual expenditures,” he said, this time with a little attitude in his voice. Perhaps I’d misread his body language. “Mr. Wright had an image to uphold. His expenditures in that area were necessary for his position. Women don’t have that same pressure. It seemed unusual to me. I figured she was one of those women who shop a lot.”
It took everything I had to bite my tongue and not tell this man what I thought of his comments. You could play out that little-woman-as-second-class-citizen fantasy in your home life, buddy, but it had no place in a divorce attorney’s office, particularly when your clients were often female. I didn’t know if the guy was any good at his job, but if I were in Victor’s position, I’d be keeping him away from clients or finding someone whose views on gender roles weren’t embedded in a previous century.
“Okay, they had a lavish lifestyle,” I said, putting emphasis on they. “Did you see any evidence that Gavin had been supporting a mistress?”
“We were looking at their finances. I don’t know how you expect me to answer that.” He tinged red around the collar and set his jaw.
He was either embarrassed by the question or playing dumb. Okay, we’d try it his way. Treating grown men like they were children was never my idea of fun, but it was a skill I could whip out if I needed to. I launched into a barrage of questions.
“Were there expenditures at jewelry stores? Were there reoccurring payments for an apartment outside of the home that Mr. and Ms. Wright shared? Were there expenditures by Elyse on a private investigator or a technology expert prior to the discovery of embezzlement charges? All of those financial scenarios could be suggestive of infidelity. It’s quite common, as I’m sure you know, for forensic accountants to be used when there are suspicions of adultery in a marriage. I’m sure this isn’t the first case you’ve been involved in here at Kirkland and McCullough where that situation may have come up.”
I was certain I sounded like some fuddy-duddy law professor chastising a first-year student on day one, but give me a break, this wasn’t the first divorce case the guy had been associated with.
“That is not my area of responsibility. I’m not sure why anyone would think buying a piece of jewelry means a man is committing adultery?”
I wasn’t here to lecture the man, so I let the insanity of his statements go and moved into prosecutor mode. “Let me rephrase the question. Did you or did you not discover expenditures that indicated housing, other than the family home, was being maintained?”
“No, we did not.”
“Did you discover any large lump-sum payments to individuals?”
“No, we did not.”
“Did you discover any payments by Elyse to private investigators or technology firms prior to charges being filed against Gavin?”
“None that I recall.”
“Great. Would I be correct in assuming that Gavin did not report the embezzled funds when he submitted the required financial disclosure documents related to his divorce?”
“Mr. Wright did not include those funds in his disclosures related.”
“And where was the money parked?”
It was a question I already knew the answer to from the trial, but this guy was pushing my buttons, and I didn’t want to let up on him.
“Mr. Wright had opened an account in the Cayman Islands. But we didn’t know that information at the time Mrs. Wright initiated her action. That only came to light as the embezzlement charges were brought forward.”
What? I sat up in my chair.
“Wait a minute. Let me clarify something. Are you saying that Elyse Wright initiated her divorce proceedings prior to the embezzlement charges being filed?”
“Yes, that’s correct. We learned of the embezzlement charges roughly three months after Mrs. Wright filed, and that’s when our forensic accountant was brought into the case.”
I stared at the wall, processing. If Elyse filed for divorce before the embezzlement charges, then two things were true. Their marriage was already in trouble, and Gavin had gone to great lengths to keep that money secret. The timing was not what I thought it was, or perhaps I had just assumed the charges were the final straw that broke the marriage. Did it matter? Depending on the conditions of the prenup, it was possible that Gavin would have walked away from the marriage with nothing. Was that part of his motivation for embezzling the funds? Or part of his motivation for killing Elyse?
19
Like it or not, my work on the Wright story was magnifying the chauvinism I saw in the world around me, sensitizing my intolerance of it in the process. Even in this day and age, with the progress women had made in business and in government, sexism was still alive and well, although the message was more blunted now than it was in the past.
Narrow-minded men were still forcing us to contain the boundaries of our lives. It was a power struggle and an ego play. The more insecure the man, the harder he fought when old-world order was challenged.
These were the thoughts rumbling through my mind as I walked from my apartment over to meet Ryan for dinner at Fig and Olive. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets as a harsh wind whipped down Oak Street off the lake. Luckily the snow was staying away.
I’d managed to get home for a few minutes after my conversation with Bennett, just long enough to feed Walter, send Michael a text letting him know I couldn’t make dinner, and then change into something more appropriate for my meeting with Ryan. But I’d agonized over what to wear. Looking too much like a banker wasn’t appropriate, but this wasn’t a date, and I didn’t want Ryan confused about my intent. I’d settled on a silk blouse and a skirt, ran a brush through my hair, freshened my lipstick, and then decided that walking the handful of blocks from my co-op over to the restaurant would help adjust my mood.
Arriving pissed off wasn’t the most prudent idea under the circumstances, but I couldn’t seem to let go. Even the crisp night wasn’t doing the job. The situation at work with Ramelli and Borkowski seemed to meld into the societal chauvinism of the Wright case, and I was in the middle of both.
I would also need to figure out how to have a conversation with Victor about Marcus Bennett. While his sexism was not as overt as some, it was a huge turnoff nonetheless and
, if allowed to continue, could only harm Victor’s practice. Perhaps Bennett had been on his best behavior in front of his boss, but the man had a front-facing role, and that kind of attitude could not be tolerated. Women got the short end of the stick in most divorce cases anyway; they certainly didn’t need to be dealing with an employee who viewed them as second-class citizens, too.
Stepping off the elevator and into the restaurant, I ran my gaze along the bar centered in the room. Soft jazz emanated from a live piano player near the window, setting a relaxed mood. Ryan sat nursing a drink. Lights glowed around him, highlighting the tree that anchored the bar and extended up into a skylight. Waiting for the hostess, I watched him, fighting memories of another night in a darkened room. His white shirt, open at the collar, and navy sport coat showed off his tawny skin and sun-kissed hair. Despite myself, I had to admit that the man distracted me in a way that could leave me conflicted, if I allowed it to. But there was nothing positive to come out of reigniting a romantic attraction, for me or for my relationship with Michael. I just had to keep reminding myself of that.
I checked my coat, took a deep breath, and walked over to join him. He stood when I approached, and the light from the overhead bottle storage danced against his jaw. I extended a hand, which he took, but then he pulled me in close, giving me a kiss on the cheek. His cologne lingered as I stepped back and extricated my hand. Not exactly the way one greeted most business associates. Ryan grabbed his drink.
“Shall we go to our table? That way we can hear each other talk.” He flagged the hostess, and we were led away from the noise of the bar toward a private table in the back. Suddenly I had the feeling he’d scoped out the seating accommodations and put in a request before I arrived.
I slid into the corner booth, adjusted the pillows at my back, then ordered a Cabernet, painfully aware of Ryan’s legs brushing mine. He exuded the quiet confidence of a man who knew what he wanted and nearly always got it. A devastating combination. And what was it he wanted tonight?
But then, did I know what I wanted? I’d thought so before I’d walked in the door, but sitting here next to the man, was I sure? The urge to flee washed over me, vulnerability and fear and memories were all tangled, and I couldn’t separate them. Couldn’t separate the business decisions I needed to make from the personal decisions, leaving avoidance as the most attractive option.
I suppressed my anxiety as we busied ourselves with choices from the menu and common courtesies. This was a business meeting, and the anxiety was of my own making, a result of too little sleep and the trauma of the week. “Get a grip,” I said to myself.
“Why are we here, Ryan?” I said after our waiter left, laying what I thought to be obvious on the table.
“What do you mean? You don’t like the restaurant?” Although he appeared to consider my question, a smile played around his eyes.
I lifted my glass and played along. “The restaurant is fine. A nice meal, just the two of us alone in the back corner booth. Is this a work conversation?”
“Since you’ve been too busy to meet with me during the day, I thought I’d try something else. We both need to eat. This way we can talk over a drink.” He smiled at me, teasing, pretending I was somehow responsible for the circumstances.
“All right, if you’re here to talk about work, let’s cut to the chase. What is your intent with Link-Media? I understand that you and Wade Ramelli have a history. Ramelli wants me out. How do you fit into that?”
Ryan twirled his glass, took a drink, then shot a look at me that I felt in the pit of my stomach.
“You and I have a history as well. How does that fit in?” he said.
“Our history is irrelevant, and I’m not the one using it to try to accomplish something. You and Ramelli, on the other hand, that’s what I’m not sure about.”
He laughed. “Still the prosecutor, I see. You are so suspicious. Not everyone has an ulterior motive.”
“Yes, they do. And I don’t believe for a moment it’s just coincidence, you stumbling into this gig.”
I tucked my hair behind my ear and lifted my glass while I watched his face, waiting for a response.
“And what is it you think is going on, Andrea? And how can you say our history is irrelevant? I’m offended. I’ve thought of that night, and you, often. My memories are quite vivid.” He trailed a finger along my wrist, his touch searing my flesh in the process.
I pulled back, trying to push the thoughts of that evening—and the memory of where else he had traced his fingers—out of my mind as best I could. But the nearness of him, the maleness of him, the sliver of chest exposed at the neck of his shirt all made that impossible.
Our server returned and set appetizers in front of us, thankfully dulling the moment and giving me time to adjust.
“I think Ramelli is going to get exactly the result he bought and paid for,” I said. “That he, that the two of you, have a plan and that this consulting scenario exists to accomplish two things. It will deliver the results that Ramelli wants it to deliver, to justify what comes next, and it will give you enough information about where we’re vulnerable to close off my options.”
“My dear, I love your directness, but you’re getting paranoid.” He grinned and leaned back against the banquette, slowly sipping a little more of the amber liquid in his glass. “You think the two of us are conspiring against you? For what purpose? A takeover? Are you that insecure about your performance that you can’t handle a little outside evaluation?”
“I think you and Ramelli are going to make a run at the business and that I’m just one of the obstacles you’ve been sent in to eliminate.” His smugness was beginning to grate on me, but I wasn’t going to learn anything if I didn’t control my temper. I quietly let out a breath and tried to modulate my reaction.
“That’s so very James Bond of you,” he said. “I didn’t realize you had such an imagination. I like it. It’s quite sexy.”
“Can you be serious?”
“I’m completely serious.” He smiled. “You’ve given me a great idea for dessert.”
I crossed my arms on the table and leaned forward. “Are we here to talk business, or shall I leave you to finish the mushroom crostini on your own?”
“They are good, but I’d prefer your company.” He paused, still smiling, then sipped his bourbon. “I really have only one question, Andrea. What do you want? What are you trying to prove by hanging on to Link-Media? You don’t need the money. Erik may have been your husband, but he didn’t treat you very well. Is this some misplaced loyalty to him? Are you trying to prove you’re worthy? Or are you just hanging on because more change is too overwhelming to contemplate?”
20
I buried my head deeper into the pillow and pulled the down comforter up around my chin. Through closed lids I was aware of the light in my bedroom, so I knew it was past sunrise, but I was too content in my wrappings to move. I breathed slowly, letting myself become conscious but I was still too groggy to be fully awake.
A furry paw tapped the side of my face.
I opened one eye and blinked. Walter sat next to me on the bed, purring, patiently waiting for me to show signs of life. I petted the top of his head, blinked the sleep out of my eyes, and looked at the clock. 8:30. No wonder he was serving as my alarm clock. Breakfast should have been served an hour ago.
I threw back the comforter, then grabbed my robe from the end of the bed. Walter jumped down from his perch and moved toward the door. I let him lead me into the kitchen, where I refreshed the kibble in his bowl, topping it off with a dollop of coveted stinky, wet fish mush. His priorities satisfied, I attended to my own and turned on the water for tea.
As I pulled out a mug and the accompanying accoutrement, my thoughts went back to my dinner with Ryan. His question about what I wanted had thrown me. I hadn’t been prepared, at least not to hear it from him. I’d blathered on with some nonsense about being thrown into the situation unexpectedly and now feeling that it was the best cho
ice for my life and my skills. Even to me, my response had sounded political.
But the question Ryan asked, whether he knew it or not, was far deeper than the answer I gave him and deeper than any question I had asked myself. It came down to what was I trying to prove? In my gut, I knew that question was at the heart of how I saw my future and the future of Link-Media.
But I still didn’t know how to answer it. Was I fighting to prove I was capable because Ramelli had a preconceived idea that I was in over my head? Was this about me, or was this about the business? Like it or not, that was indeed a question I would have to answer, if not for Ryan, then certainly for myself.
I finished assembling the contents of my morning ritual, Earl Grey with lemon and honey, then headed off to the shower. My master bath had weeks of remodeling to go before it would be useable, so I’d moved the essential grooming products to the funky old guest bath and boxed the rest. The shower head gave me a wobbly trickle and the cracked and stained tiles surrounding the tub made my germ meter swing, but it was better than decamping to a hotel or sleeping on my sister’s sofa.
Cai and I had arranged to meet for brunch at 11:00, and I wanted to spend some time outlining my thoughts on the Elyse Wright story before I left. Every news outlet, including my own, had covered the surface details of the case. I was becoming known for the deep-dive story, investigating the why and the how and the motivations behind the cases. Although CPD had Gavin in custody, there were still too many plot holes. And in my mind, many of them centered on the timing of the attack.
As I dried my hair, I shifted my thoughts away from my own situation to Gavin and Elyse Wright. Someone knew what had been going on in their marriage prior to Elyse filing for divorce. My takeaway from the trial and discussions with Victor had been that the embezzlement charges were the wedge issue in ending the marriage, but his paralegal Bennett indicated Elyse had filed before his embezzlement was known. Perhaps the timing of events was not as cut and dried as they seemed today, and if so, what other assumptions did I need to question?