Body Politics (17 page)

After he’d listened to her message three more times, the hitch in her voice had grown in significance. When he called her home, the phone rang and rang and rang as if it had been unplugged. Her cell dumped immediately into voice mail.

Where the fuck was she?

Woe to her ass if he discovered she
had
flaked out and just had decided not to come. He’d paddle her until she couldn’t sit for a week. He almost hoped that was the case; better to think she’d acted inconsiderately than had been injured. What if she’d been in an accident?

He tried to convince himself he was overreacting, but he trusted his gut too much. So all he could do was cool his heels and wait for Stephanie to call. At the very least they were going to have a conversation about appropriate communication. “Something has come up” did not cut it.

* * * *

She couldn’t lift her head! Stephanie’s eyelids popped open in panic. Was she in the hospital? Had she been kidnapped and tied up?

With a hard jerk, she peeled her face off the pillow.

In the dusky dimness of the room, she stared at a dark splotch on the white pillowcase. Blood!

She touched her cheek. Her skin felt tight, crusty, but didn’t hurt.

What the hell had happened? She scrutinized the room; nothing appeared amiss. When she reached for the bedside lamp, she spotted the carton stuck between the headboard and mattress. She probed her face lightly, then tentatively licked one finger.

Ice cream.

She’d fallen asleep with a near-empty carton of chocolate mint. But near empty wasn’t near enough. It had melted and then dried on the bed and all over her.

Now she remembered. She’d spent Saturday alternately sleeping and staring at the television. At some point she’d removed her clothes but had left the bed only to pee. By Sunday morning, a dry mouth and a gnawing hunger had awakened her, so she’d padded naked to the kitchen, where she drank two glasses of water and searched for something quick to eat.

A container of ice cream three-quarters full served the purpose. She’d squeezed chocolate sauce into the carton, along with a generous squirt of whipped cream, then taken her makeshift sundae to the bedroom to eat.

And sleep with. Yuck. She touched her face again. She glanced at the bedside clock. Six p.m. It would be dark soon. Had everything gone as planned, she would have been returning from her trip to Kansas City with a sore pussy and most likely an even sorer ass. Nix that. There would have been no fun and games, because she would have cried day and night until Mark had gotten disgusted and gone to his seminars for a respite from the histrionics. She’d done the right thing to cancel.

She eased out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. She showered, dragged a comb through her wet hair, and defuzzed her mouth with a quick brush. When she returned to the bedroom, she replaced the icky sheets with fresh linen.

People hated Mondays because they had to go to work. She hated the thought of Monday because she had no work to go to. She tugged a nightshirt over her head and crawled into bed. With any luck she’d sleep until Tuesday and avoid it altogether.

Chapter Fifteen

Get off the fucking plane, people!
How the hell long did it take to grab a goddamn bag out of the overhead? Mark gritted his teeth while the passengers took their sweet-ass time disembarking. He had to call Stephanie again but needed privacy.

Once off the plane, he charged to baggage claim, where he waited with foot-tapping impatience for his suitcase to arrive. Fortunately, due to last-on-first-off, his luggage dropped onto the conveyor immediately. He grabbed his oversize duffel and strode out of the airport. He located his vehicle, flung the bag into the trunk, then slid into the driver’s seat.

When he hadn’t heard from Stephanie on Saturday, he’d tried to get a flight out on Sunday, but the planes were overbooked. Finally he’d gotten a standby in the wee hours of Monday morning.

Sitting in his car, he phoned her office. She wouldn’t miss her morning staff meeting.

“Women Act Now. This is Evelyn. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Deputy Police Chief Mark DeLuca. Please connect me with Stephanie Gordon.”

“I’m sorry, but Ms. Gordon is no longer with WAN. May someone else help you?”

“
What
?”

“May someone else help you?”

“Not that! Where is Steph—Ms. Gordon?”

“She’s no longer employed at WAN.”

Was it his imagination, or did the woman sound smug? “Since when?” he demanded.

“Since Friday.”

“She quit?” Impossible.

A tiny moment of silence. “Um…not exactly.”

“Well, what exactly?” Mark ground his teeth.

“Her employment was terminated.” Evelyn’s voice dropped conspiratorially, as if she was sharing a juicy piece of gossip.

What the fuck?
“Terminated as in fired?” He sounded like an idiot repeating everything the woman said, only in question format, but he was floored and had to verify the information.

“Uh-huh.”

“What the fu—for?”

“I’m not supposed to say…”

“This is WAN, right? Women Act Now? The organization Stephanie Gordon started? Who’s in charge now?”

“That would be acting administrator Bethany Laurent.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“Certainly. Please hold while I connect you.” Music filled the line.

Mark expelled his breath. He remembered the quiver in Stephanie’s voice when she’d left her message. She’d obviously just been canned.
Aw, kitten, why didn’t you come anyway? Why didn’t you let me comfort you?

The music stopped. “This is Bethany.”

“Mark DeLuca. What the hell is going on? What happened to Stephanie?”

Silence.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“I’m here.” She was scarcely audible. “You’re Steph’s boyfriend, aren’t you?”

That didn’t begin to describe it. “Yes.” He heard a sniffing on the other end of the phone. “Why are you crying?”

“It’s all m-my fault. I was supposed to do the c-c-class and didn’t, and Stephanie was resp-responsible, and she got fired. I told the board it was my fault, but they said it didn’t matter.”

Mark shook his head. “Class?” What class? Was anybody going to speak sense today?

“Communication training. Steph insisted we include men. I didn’t see it that way, so I put it off, and now she lost her job over it.”

Not just her job. The organization she’d founded, given her blood, sweat, and tears to.

This airhead was lucky she’d worked for Stephanie. If she reported to him and disobeyed a directive, he would have fired her ass for insubordination.

“Where is Stephanie now?”

“Home, I’d guess, but she’s not answering the phone. Will you tell her I’m sorry? I never meant for this to happen.”

“I’ll pass the word on.”

So he knew what had happened but not why. He had one more call to make before he went to Stephanie.

“Woodhue, Orson, Bernstein, and Jessup, Ms. Alexander’s—”

He cut in before the assistant finished her spiel. “This is Mark DeLuca. Put Liz on.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Ms. Alexander is on her way to court. May I take a message and have her call you?”

“You may tell her
now
that I’m calling,” he commanded.

Liz’s assistant oozed professionalism when she said, “I’ll check with her. Please hold,
sir
.”

Half a minute later, Liz came on. “Mark, what did you say to Regina to put her nose out of joint?”

“Why was Stephanie fired?”

“How much did she tell you?”

“She didn’t tell me anything. I’ve been out of town.”

“So how did you find out?”

“From a WAN staffer.”

“That’s totally unacceptable. That’s confidential information.”

Mark held his temper. “Liz, answer the question. Why was she fired?”

Liz exhaled heavily. “It was a debacle. One of her staff members caused a big to-do. The board had decided to fire Stephanie before she ever walked into the meeting.”

The tips of his ears burned with fury. “You didn’t stop it?”

“I’m only one vote, and I didn’t know. The board is aware I’m her chief supporter and didn’t include me until I showed up for the meeting.”

“What was the ‘to-do’?”

“She brought in one of those glasses from Bottom’s Up. You know, the ones the Bottom Burner comes in.”

“She got fired over a glass?”

“She was terminated because she’d butted heads with the board president too often. The glass offended one of Stephanie’s employees, and Gladys leveraged that to get the board on her side. Technically Stephanie was dismissed without cause. It protects the organization from lawsuits by preventing disgruntled employees from disputing the reason for their termination.”

“Have many employees have been fired?”

“Stephanie’s the first.”

“Shit.”

“She had the glass on her desk, and Evelyn, one of her staff members, took offense to it. She had put it away but left it at the office. Evelyn ran across it again it when she was looking for something in her desk, and then went over her head to the board president. Gladys and Stephanie have clashed since day one.”

“Evelyn? The woman who answers the phone?”

“Yes. She’s also the admin assistant and the office manager.”

“She’s the one who told me Stephanie was fired.”

Liz swore—something Mark had never heard her do. “I did a little checking on Evelyn.” She sounded grim. “She’s lodged several complaints against previous employers, but this is the only time her boss ended up getting terminated. I think this is worthy of some deeper investigation. I don’t know how much clout I have left on the board, but I’m going to do what I can to see justice served.” Liz sighed. “I called Stephanie all weekend, but she didn’t answer. I assume you’re going over to her place?”

“As soon as I hang up.”

“Let her know how sorry I am, and remind her about the position at Rod and Cane. She’d be able to develop and direct a brand-new program from the ground up.”

“I’ll tell her.”

Chapter Sixteen

The building manager opened his door wearing several days of beard, a stained wifebeater, and boxers. Mark flashed his badge and said the department had received a notification from a concerned friend that Ms. Gordon might be ill. The man didn’t ask why the police had responded instead of the more appropriate paramedics or express curiosity as to why the department would send the deputy chief of police to a routine call, but snagged a dirty robe and his passkey and shuffled to Stephanie’s second-floor apartment.

On the spot Mark decided Stephanie would move to a more secure place—his condo.

The manager let him in and left. Mark shut the door. “Stephanie? It’s Mark.”

A sad-looking cardboard box bulging with the kind of stuff people used to personalize their offices sat on the foyer table.
Fuck
. Of all the times for him to have been out of town.

“Stephanie?” he called again. Her car was outside. It was almost nine thirty. If she wasn’t home, where was she? Her purse was beside the box; she wouldn’t have left without it. He scanned the premises as he passed through the living room, noting signs of occupation in the kitchen: something dark spilled on the counter, a canister of whipped cream on its side next to it.

Her bedroom door was closed. He rapped twice, called her name again, and pushed it open.

She’d burrowed into the bedclothes until only the top of her head was visible, but it was enough. With relief came the full knowledge of how worried he’d been. He stared at her for a long moment, then surveyed the mound of sheets on the floor, the phone cord disconnected from the jack, an empty ice-cream carton and a spoon on the bedside table.

He tiptoed to the window and tilted the blinds to lighten the room, then moved to the bed. He sat on the edge and jostled her shoulder gently. “Stephanie, it’s Mark.”

She mumbled, and he shook her a little harder. “Wake up, kitten.”

She poked her face out from the blankets. He knew what she looked like when she woke up in the morning, and this wasn’t it. Bright eyes had dulled. “Tuesday. Already?” Her voice was just as lifeless. Relief evaporated.

“No, it’s Monday. I left the conference because I was worried about you.”

“Didn’t you get my message?” Her words slurred. He’d never heard her speak this way before, and it scared him.

“It was hardly adequate,” he said gently.

“I’m sorry I caused you trouble. I’m glad you’re home, but I need to sleep some more. Please.” She pulled the covers over her face.

He tugged on the blanket. “I know what happened at WAN. I’m sorry.”

She said nothing.

He flung off the covers and lifted her to a sitting position. She slumped as if she had only the merest hint of starch in her spine. A horrible thought knifed through him. He grabbed her chin. “Look at me!”

Slowly she lifted her gaze and focused.

“Did you take something?” he demanded, studying her eyes.

“What do you mean?” Confusion creased her forehead, then cleared. A tiny flash of anger sparked, and she wrested her chin out of his grasp. “No! How could you think that?”

The small glare she directed at him slowed his hammering heart, and he understood. She had folded inward, retreated into depression to escape her pain rather than confront it. But at what cost to her spirit and her body? Given her degree of lethargy, he surmised she hadn’t been out of bed since Friday night. Pain, anger, and grief were normal emotions when processed in a healthy manner. Curling into a ball and refusing to deal with them? Not so healthy.

She needed to face what had happened rather than hide from it.

“Talk to me.”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand but shook her head. “Don’t want to.” She grabbed the covers and flopped on the mattress. “I’m sorry I worried you and you felt you had to leave your conference to check on me, but I need to sleep.” She burrowed under her pillow.

Go away, she meant. And if he did, when he returned tomorrow and the next day, he’d likely find her no better off, maybe worse.

He stood up, yanked away the pillow, and stripped the comforter entirely off the bed. Her nightshirt had ridden up her thighs.