A Conflict of Interest (22 page)

“Can you service me again tonight?” she asks in a husky voice, like she’s channeling Mae West.

“It will be my pleasure to be of assistance,” Ohlig says, apparently not so busy at work that he can’t take some time out to talk about his sexual prowess.

“That’s all I wanted to hear. Go back to work. I won’t bother you again until tonight, but then I’m going to bother you a lot.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Ohlig says.

“Michael,” a slight pause, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says and hangs up. There’s static for about ten seconds, and then McNiven’s voice saying that this is the end of the recording and that it took fifty-seven seconds.

“Do you think that Pavin mixed up the number?” Abby asks. “Maybe he was thinking about another tape.”

“No,” I say. “This is the right tape.”

“Then I don’t get it. Why does Pavin think this is so important?”

“Because,” I say with a sigh, “the woman on the tape isn’t Michael’s wife. She’s my mother.”

My mother was in love with Michael Ohlig, that much seems clear. It isn’t hard to go from there to the idea that he promised to leave his wife for her, and my mother got caught in the oldest lie there is. By Thanksgiving she must have realized that, one way or another, either because Ohlig was going to stay with Pamela or maybe because he might go to prison, she was going to end up being alone, and she decided that just wasn’t the way she wanted to live.

Anger consumes me, rushing in a thousand directions. How could she be so selfish? Or so stupid? How could I have not noticed that she was suicidal? Why didn’t I go to Florida for Thanksgiving?

But there is a special place of rage where it is most warranted. Michael Ohlig is responsible for my mother’s death.

I
tell Abby I need some time to process and go back to my office. Once there, I shut the door and dial Ohlig’s number. In as matter-of-fact a voice as I can muster, I tell him to come to New York on the next flight. I explain that there’s something on one of the tapes that we need to discuss in person.

I can hardly imagine anyone else who would not be beside himself upon hearing, a week before trial, there was a problem with the case and he had to meet with his lawyer immediately. Ohlig’s only response is to tell me he’ll take an early flight out tomorrow morning and, barring traffic, he’ll be at my office by one. He doesn’t even ask me what the problem is, but at this point it would have been more surprising if he had expressed some concern.

I head back down to the war room, finding Abby once again amidst the binders.

“What did he say?” she asks, a smile revealing that she’s proud of how well she knows me.

I could play dumb, but there’s no point. “We didn’t really talk. I told him I needed him to come up to discuss a recent development, and it has to be in person. You know him, he acts like it’s nothing, as if I’m calling to set up a golf game or something.”

“You want me in the meeting?”

“You know I do, but I think I should do it alone.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding a little disappointed.

“Where are OPM’s phone records?”

“Maybe I can help. What are you looking for?”

“I’ll tell you when I find it.” A response designed to convey that I’d like some privacy.

“They’re boxed over there,” she says with a sigh, pointing to the far wall, adjacent to the wall where the box containing tape 17 was located. There are about twenty-four boxes lining the wall, six rows, each
four boxes high. “Fortunately for you, we’ve put them in chronological order. What time period are you looking for?”

“What’s the most recent we’ve got?”

“Through the indictment are in the boxes on the end. On top, I think.”

“And after that?”

“We don’t have any. Through the indictment is all that’s been produced.”

“And what if I wanted to see who Michael called more recently?”

“Like during our prep right before Thanksgiving, for example?” Abby clearly knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Yes, like then.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“Don’t go through his records. Check your mother’s. Her cell phone will have a call log, both incoming and outgoing. See if she was the one who called Michael.”

“Her cell phone is down in Florida,” I say. “I could probably get someone to FedEx to me, but I really don’t want to wait.”

“You’re the executor of her estate, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I bet you can get the phone records from the phone company.”

At last, a reason to smile. “That’s why you earn the big bucks. Thanks.”

Sure enough, getting my mother’s phone records is only slightly more difficult than accessing my own. She used the same carrier for both her cell and her land line, so I have to call only one phone company. I explained that my mother had recently died and I wanted to pay off her bills in full; however, before I made the payment, I needed to verify the charges. The customer service rep, a woman with an Indian accent, was more than happy to oblige me. She told me that if I emailed her the documentation indicating my appointment as the executor of my mother’s estate, she’d email me back the phone records.

Less than an hour later, I’m in my office with the door closed reviewing the last phone calls my mother ever made.

I look at her land line bill first. It isn’t itemized and contains only the overall service charges and an indication that she made forty-two local calls. That makes sense. On the rare occasion that my mother called me or anyone else out-of-state, she’d use her cell to avoid long-distance charges.

The cell phone records have what I’m looking for. November 23 at 4:52
P.M
.: a three-minute and twenty-seven-second call to Ohlig’s cell phone. The timing matches up with the call in our conference room because I remember that I was thinking at the time that Ohlig would have trouble getting a cab at five. The three-minute duration also seems to be about right.

She called Ohlig again at 5:35, no doubt to confirm he was actually coming to see her as he had promised. At 6:19, there began a string of one-minute calls, every fifteen minutes or so, which I assume were her compulsive efforts to reach him before the plane took off, but he must have already turned off his phone. She finally made contact at 9:07, a two-minute call.

I don’t know why it simply hadn’t occurred to me before that moment to check my mother’s voicemail messages. Getting her password won’t be quite as easy as obtaining the phone records, but it’s not impossible either. Before contacting the phone company again, I decide to try a more low-tech solution. I dial my mother’s cell phone number. I hear my mother tell callers to slowly leave a name and number at the beep so she can return the call as soon as she’s able. Hearing her voice, a wave of sadness crashes over me.

I press the pound key, getting the prompt to put in her password, and then repeat. Sure enough, my mother never programmed a password. The default still worked.

She had only one unheard message. It was from me, a call I had forgotten I made. Thanksgiving day, at 11:49
A.M
., according to the computer voice. “Mom, it’s me. Just calling to wish you a happy Thanksgiving. I’m sorry about how things turned out this year. Next
year Elizabeth, Charlotte, and I will definitely come down. Call me.”

My mother never heard that message, and so it makes little sense I’m as upset as I am, but I wish I had said I loved her. When was the last time I said it to her?

She also had one saved message. My mother always claimed we were the same and, at least in this regard, we are. It’s from Ohlig and more than two months old. I can only assume she saved it for the same reason that I save Abby’s messages—to be able to hear it over and over again.

“I love you,” he says. “Last night was wonderful. A dream I wished I’d never wake up from. I can’t wait until we’re together again, and not just for a few hours, or even a night, but forever and always.”

A
lex?” Abby is standing in my doorway. She closes the door behind her without my inviting her in. “I know this is very upsetting to you. Would it help if we talked about it?”

I sweep my arm, gesturing that she should sit down. Abby settles into my guest chair, her face full of concern.

“It’s not just the affair,” I say without further prompting, “although that would be more than enough. I just hope to God my father didn’t know.”

I’m about to tell her my theory regarding the connection between the affair and my mother’s death, but stop just before the words come out. I don’t want to tell Abby that sometimes affairs with married men end up that way.

As if she’s reading my mind, she says, “This is a subject that will be aided by alcohol, don’t you think? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

We agree to meet up at the bar at the Mandarin Hotel in the Time Warner Center. I don’t make any comment about her selecting a bar on the top floor of the hotel, meaning there’s little chance of someone seeing us who isn’t also selecting a clandestine spot for a drink, and she doesn’t say anything about my request that we not be seen leaving the firm together.

The hostess tells me that my party has already arrived, and instructs me to follow her. Abby has secured a table in the corner, by the window. Outside is a panoramic view of Central Park. She has a glass of white wine in front of her, nearly finished.

I’ve barely sat down before someone arrives asking for our drink order.

“What scotch do you have?” I ask.

He points to the list on the table, which actually sets out about six or seven different varieties, ranging in price from $20 to $250 a glass. I
order the $20 glass. Abby says she’ll have the same, and downs the rest of her wine.

When the waiter leaves, Abby leans close to me and says, “Alex, don’t be mad at me for saying this, and I know that finding out about your mother and Michael is very upsetting to you, but parents are people too, you know? Don’t be too hard on your mother without knowing what she was going through.”

“I know, Abby. Believe me, I do. I mean, who am I to throw stones, right?”

She could pretend that she doesn’t understand, but Abby doesn’t insult me in that way. I half-hope that she’s going to comment that I’ve stayed on the right side of that divide, but what she says makes clear that she considers that to be a distinction without a difference.

“I guess that’s my point. Until you know what was going on with her, you really can’t judge her. My parents had a very rocky marriage, and so I learned a long time ago that there’s nothing lonelier than being with someone you don’t love.”

“Would you provide the same defense for Michael? Because I won’t. I’m furious with him.”

The second round passes quickly, our banter covering our favorite books (Abby surprises me with her love for
Wuthering Heights,
while she tells me that I’m nothing if not predictable for liking
The Great Gatsby
) and the fact that neither of us has seen a movie since the summer. When I hear myself asking for a third scotch, there’s a sloppiness to my words. Also, the conversation has turned to superheroes, which reminds me of the first time Abby and I were out drinking.

“I have one for you,” she says. I can tell by her smile she’s pleased with herself. “I’ve been thinking about your theories about Batman, and I have a real problem with them.”

“And what’s that?”

“You claim that Batman is really Batman deep down, and he created Bruce Wayne as a persona, but that’s not really who he is, right?”

“Yes, that is my thesis.”

“Then riddle me this: Why is he Bruce Wayne at all? Why isn’t he Batman twenty-four-seven?”

I want to come up with a quick and pithy response, but none comes to me. I’m not sure if it’s because of the alcohol taking effect or she really has me stumped.

“Wouldn’t people wonder where Bruce Wayne went?” I finally say.

“Maybe he died. Or moved to Memphis.”

“Do you equate the two?”

“Have you ever been to Memphis?”

“Fair enough. But how’s this—I think he keeps the Bruce Wayne persona to protect those he loves.”

“Nice try,” she says dismissively. “But who does Batman ever love? There’s no female, unless you count Catwoman, and we both know that relationship isn’t going anywhere. Face it, Alex, Batman is a loner. He might as well be Batman all the time.”

“That’s so sad,” I say.

Perhaps I also look sad because Abby changes her expression too. Her smile recedes and she looks at me intently. She brings her face closer to mine, and then she kisses me. At first lightly, and then more deeply.

“Please,” she moans, our lips still pressed together. “Please come home with me. It’s time, Alex.”

From the moment we enter the cab, we’re kissing like teenagers. Neither the cab driver nor anything else matters. We don’t stop until the cab does, at which time I pull out a crumpled twenty dollar bill from my pocket to pay a fare that is less than half that, and slam the door behind me.

Abby’s building has no doorman. She unlocks the front door without looking back, but I scan the empty street to make sure no one sees me enter.

As soon as we cross the threshold we’re kissing again, my hands running down Abby’s body. Without saying a word, Abby breaks our embrace and takes my hand. I know this is really happening, but there’s a part of me that feels like tomorrow I will awake to realize it was all a dream.

Abby does not turn the light on in her bedroom. She steps out of her shoes and for the first time she seems small to me. My lips leave hers and I begin kissing her neck, working my way down to her now bare shoulders. When she lets out a gentle sigh, I know my life will never again be the same.

I want this moment never to end, and knowing that’s impossible, I want to remember every detail—the smell of her hair, the way her breasts feel in my hands, the softness of her lips—so that when we’re not together, I can relive it.

As I’m about to enter her, I hesitate. I’m not exactly sure why, to freeze the moment perhaps, a way of marking before and after. Or perhaps it’s to remind myself that I could stop.