Final Masquerade (22 page)
Authors: Cindy Davis
Paige sat in the office of T. Harrison Berkeley, Esquire in a battered faux Queen Anne's chair. Its mate sat beneath the floor to ceiling bookshelves across the room, dirty imprints of a pair of large shoes etched on the upholstery. She rose and leaned her forehead against the window. Rain splattered against it, so hard she couldn't see more than shadows on Marquette Street four stories below. She'd been waiting nearly twenty-five minutes. Normally she would have left after someone was rude enough to be so little as fifteen minutes late, but she kept telling herself she'd wait until the rain let up. She sighed, turned, and nearly fainted when she saw him standing there.
"My word, you nearly gave me a coronary. How long have you been—"
"One and a half seconds,” came the deep-throated reply. “Harrison Berkeley, at your service, although unforgivably late.” He placed a battered leather briefcase on the carpet beside his desk and shook the rain from his hat and raincoat as he hung them on a hook behind the door. He reached forward to shake her hand.
"Angela?” His grasp was firm and dry, even though he'd just come in from the bitter rainy afternoon. “I'm usually very good with names and I seem to recall Lawson was the surname."
Paige nodded.
"Please sit down. Please call me Harry. I understand you're interviewing attorneys?"
Her head bobbed once more.
"Why don't you tell me what type of lawyer you're looking for and I'll tell you if my expertise is within your request. And while I'm doing that, feel free to wander around. Interrupt to ask me questions, etc. Nothing formal, just two friends talking. I find that's when people learn the most about each other."
She took a breath and leaned forward, looking deep into his Saint Bernard face. “Harry, I need quite a lot from you. The biggest thing is honesty. No ... don't shake your head and tell me how honest you think you are. I need someone who is dead-bang honest. So honest that if I ask you to squeeze just the smallest amount more than is rightfully mine, you point a finger in my face and tell me ‘wait just one minute, that's not how it works'."
She stopped for another breath. Harry tilted back in his chair waiting for her to continue.
"I need someone who's strong willed. Someone that if people come and try to get information from you, you will be able to convince them you've never even met me, never even crossed the street beside me."
She ran her hands up her forehead and back through her hair. “You know what? Never mind. I just realized how much I'm asking from a single person. It's more than..."
He pushed forward, face grave. “Just what kind of trouble are you in?"
Paige rose abruptly and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I have to go. I'm sorry I bothered you,” she whispered and ran from the room, not turning when he called, “Please don't go. Give me a chance to help you."
Book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, Paige reclined on the sofa in a rose colored sweat suit, bare feet up. She'd read just a few pages of
Bookmans Price Index
when the phone on the side table rang.
"Miss Lawson, this is Quentin at the front desk. I'm sorry to bother you, but there's a gentleman asking to see you."
Paige's throat clenched so tight she was unable to respond. Burt? No, not Burt. The man with Quentin yesterday.
Or Chris?
"Miss Lawson? Are you there? Is everything all right?” Quentin's voice took on a tremulous tone. “Miss Lawson?"
"Yes. I'm all right. Can that gentleman hear what you're saying?"
"Yes."
She tried to recall the man she'd seen him talking to. “Is he kind of short and round?"
Quentin's laugh echoed up the telephone line. “No, not at all."
While she was devising a new question to ask, his muffled words came through the receiver, “Sir, stop. No. You can't—"
"Just give me the phone,” came a deep and somewhat familiar voice. “Miss Lawson? Angela?"
Paige's grip tightened on the receiver.
"This is Harry Berkeley. Could I come up to see you? We didn't finish our talk this afternoon."
Paige was silent, thinking. “Give me ten minutes. I'll come down and we can get a cup of coffee or something."
"Very good."
It took fifteen minutes to rid herself of her comfortable clothes and fix her makeup, but Paige appeased herself that Harry had kept her waiting nearly twice that amount of time. He rose from a flower-patterned chair and extended his hand to welcome her. “Would you like to go somewhere private so we can talk? Maybe find a diner ... for a cup of coffee?"
Paige glanced around the nearly empty room. Quentin puttered behind the desk, occasionally casting apprehensive glances in her direction.
"I know you're in some kind of trouble.” Harry stopped talking, obviously waiting for her to meet his soft, brown eyes. “Maybe I can help."
"I'm beginning to think no one can help me."
He inched forward till he was perched on the edge of the chair. He ran a well-manicured hand through thinning hair that she could tell had once been dark brown. He put a palm on her knee. “Why don't you tell me? We can hash it out together."
"Let's go upstairs."
They rose. As Paige passed the desk, she nodded at Quentin who returned the nod. She knew if Harry didn't return downstairs within a reasonable amount of time that Quentin would bring the cavalry running.
Harry must have seen the exchange because he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
"You can put your coat anywhere,” Paige told him when they entered her room. “Would you care for a glass of wine?"
"That would be nice.” He tossed the raincoat on the back of the sofa, then settled himself at the end nearest the overstuffed chair.
Paige poured two tumblers of merlot and placed them on the end table. “Sorry, I don't have wine glasses."
"Tastes the same whatever the glass.” He took a sip then set the glass on the table. “Very nice. You know your wines."
Harry waited until she was nervously seated on the edge of the chair, wringing her hands between her knees. He leaned forward, her cue to speak.
"The past couple of months have been, er, very difficult.” She laughed. “It's funny because I thought my whole life to this point had been hard. Up till recently, I thought it couldn't get much worse."
Harry glanced at his glass but didn't reach for it, probably wanting a sip but not wanting to destroy the quiescent mood that had settled over the suite. Regardless, it was several minutes before she could arrange the words in her mind, words that didn't seem to want to be heard, but ones that needed to be said.
"My fiancé was Stefano Santangelo,” she stated.
Harry's only reaction was in his cocoa brown eyebrows, which nearly disappeared in the wrinkles on his forehead.
"I'm on the run. There are a lot of really bad people chasing me—Stefano's people."
Harry nodded. Now that the words were safely out of her mouth with no turning back, he picked up his glass.
"They want to bring me back to Santa Barbara or kill me trying.” Paige wrung her hands and closed her eyes. “What started the whole thing—I saw Stefano shoot one of his associates in our den."
"Where was this? When?"
"Santa Barbara. A little more than two months ago. Anyhow, he and Vito took the body out.” Something tickled her cheek and she realized tears were streaming down her face. She didn't bother brushing them away. “I don't know where they took it—him. Probably tossed the body off the cliffs into the Pacific."
She tipped the glass up, waiting for the last drops to slide into her mouth, then thunked it back on the coffee table. “I knew what he did for a living. Oh, not the killing. I knew he was in the Syndicate and that they rousted people for money and all that. In the beginning it was exciting to think he had so much power. And more money than the pope. What am I saying? I went with him to spite my father. There. I said it."
"All I know about that life is what I see on television. I gather that once you're in the family, you're there to stay,” Harry said.
"Exactly."
"But when you saw the murder, that was more than you could take.” He reached across and took her hands in his. “What is it you want me to do?"
"Two things. When I left Santa Barbara I took some of Stefano's money. What I need is for you to draw up a will leaving it all to my mother. I want to be ready in case Stefano's men find me. I don't care what happens, but I'm not letting them take me back."
Harry scowled, his Saint Bernard jowls tightening. His eyes were dark brown, a few shades darker than his brows. His lips were full and well shaped. Paige wondered if he was married. He was—a gold band was embedded in the flesh of his left ring finger.
He nodded. “Go on."
"I would like to settle somewhere,” Paige continued. “Buy a house and live the rest of my life in peace and quiet. I need some legal way to disguise my identity.” She poured them both more wine. “Can it be done?"
Harry stood and, moving his bulk with the grace of an eagle, paced behind her sofa. His suit was well kept and of moderate quality, maybe off the rack at JC Penney's.
"I read once that the biggest mistake people make in trying to lose themselves is that they keep the same habits,” she said. “You know, like buying the same kinds of cars, keeping the same hobbies.” She changed position in the chair, tucking the other leg underneath her. “I changed everything about myself. Everything. And they still keep finding me."
Once she'd begun, Paige couldn't stop the torrent of words. She related the story of her flight across country, about the albino and Habib, Chris and the red sweat-shirted woman, right down to Burt and his mysterious partner.
She gave a nervous laugh. “Hearing it put into words makes me sound like a paranoid fool."
Harry went back to his chair and finished his wine. “It does sound straight out of a Sopranos show, but I believe every word you've said.” Harry laced his fingers together over his paunch. “We have our work cut out for us, don't we?"
"We? You mean you aren't making a run for the hills?"
He smiled, his jowls hanging around his mouth. The more she looked at him, the more comforted she felt. “Believe it or not, when you were in my office this morning, I assumed your secret was something along these lines."
"You're joking."
"Not the mob stuff, but I've seen people in a variety of emotional stages, and you, little one, topped them all. It didn't take long to rule you out as the nervous Nellie sort. Most people are dying to talk about their problems, and with a few preliminary theatrics, they usually blurt everything out. When you didn't, I knew something catastrophic had happened. What's your real name?"
She didn't hesitate before saying, “Paige Carmichael.” She laughed. “I've used so many names and disguises that when I pass a mirror I hardly recognize the person staring back at me."
"Well Paige Carmichael, it's truly nice to meet you. I look forward to a long and successful relationship with you.” He dug a business card from his wallet and scribbled on the back. “Here's my home phone number. It's unlisted so don't lose this. I want you to call if you need
anything."
Harry pressed the card into her hand, then moved his sleeve and glanced at his watch. “It's getting late. I promised to take my wife to dinner. Besides, I'm anxious to begin mulling over our dilemma. Let's meet tomorrow for lunch. Do you know
Samson's
?"
"No, but I'll find it."
"Great. I'll give you my ideas and we can do some brainstorming. How does that sound?"
Harry put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Don't worry. See you at noon."
"Where have I heard those words before?” she said to the closed door.
The torrential rain from the previous day had stopped, but the sky remained threatening, the air dismal. Paige exited the hotel onto 8th Street wishing she had her Highgate raincoat from her closet in Santa Barbara, but regardless of the weather, her step was giddy and liberated, so much so that people turned to stare from under their umbrellas as they passed her on the sidewalk. Rather than hail a cab for the five block walk to the agreed upon lunch rendezvous, Paige opted to walk, thankful she'd left early because three blocks down Marquette Avenue, she spotted a book store. Its attraction was stronger than that of a teen girl to a teen boy, she entered.
This shop was night and day different from that of two days previous. One floor up from the main street, it was well lit and organized. Magic marker signs were stapled to the ends of each row of shelves, which crisscrossed in the small room like the laser beams of a museum's security system.
The proprietor, a cocoa skinned woman of possibly Jamaican descent, greeted her warmly from between the rows of romances and westerns. Her gathered skirt was a colorful rainbow display as she swished a feather duster along the shelves. “Good morning, sweet pea. I'm LaVerne Stern. Almost didn't marry the man when he told me his last name.” Her laugh was deep and uninhibited. “Feel free to browse as long as you want. I'm going to the next shop to chat for a moment or two. Just knock on the wall right here if you want something and I'll be back in a flash."
Paige glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have an appointment in a half hour, but I simply couldn't resist stopping in to see what you had. I'll just look around for ... oh my word,” Paige said as a book in the glass case beneath the pocked wood countertop caught her attention.
Her collection of bracelets jangled as LaVerne slipped a key off a hook on the wall and unlocked the cabinet. She handed Paige the selfsame copy of
Carrie
she'd purchased from Max Baumgartner.
"I bought a copy of this book just yesterday,” Paige announced, opening the front cover with the tips of her fingers. “But, my copy is signed and in mint cond—"
LaVerne's black eyes showed white all around. “Would you let me see it, sweet pea? I think I can make you an offer on it."
"I really didn't buy it with the intention of—"
