Go-Between (6 page)

Michelle studied a photo of the family. One of those corny studio portraits against a backdrop of hand-painted blue-gray muslin. You'd think with their money they could have done something more interesting, she thought, and then she pushed that thought away. I'm a horrible person, she told herself. This was a tragedy, after all.

She made herself look at them. At Paul O'Connor, brown hair, square jaw, broad smile, in his suit and tie, staring up and to the right, per the photographer's direction, no doubt. At then toddler Alex, blond, burbling on his father's knee.

At Caitlin.

Blonde, like her son. Big hair, but not ridiculously so. Small frame, cheerleader pretty. Smiling, like her husband, at some beautiful and amusing vision to the upper right.

“The only thing you
can do when you have something like this happen to you is to try and keep moving.”

Her voice was soft, well modulated. Quiet enough that you found yourself leaning forward to listen. Or in Michelle's case, holding the iPad closer to her face.

“So, you founded Safer America,” the interviewer prompted. Some cable news channel flack. Along with the articles, Gary had sent a collection of video links in the body of his email.

On screen, Caitlin nodded. It had been four years since the attack. Seven since the family studio portrait. Her blonde hair was now cropped closer to her head. She'd lost that cheerleader prettiness. It had turned into something else, something more fragile, almost ethereal.

That can work for you, Michelle thought. Lots of people found vulnerable-looking women attractive. They weren't threatening. They needed protection.

“Yes. I felt that not enough attention was given to the victims of violent crimes. So we try to act as advocates for them.”

“But you push for stronger public safety measures as well.”

“Well, that goes hand in hand with supporting victims.” Caitlin sat on a couch in what might have been her own home. An expensive cream-colored sofa in a large living room. Michelle couldn't make out many details the way the shot was framed, but she thought that the sofa might be a Barbara Barry.

“When people have been victimized, they are desperate to have their sense of safety restored. And by knowing that violent offenders will be locked up where they can't hurt anybody else, they get just a little bit of their own security back.”

She smiled. A sad, tentative smile.

It wasn't just that she looked vulnerable, Michelle realized. If anything Caitlin was beautiful now, instead of merely pretty.

“Drugs have taken over
our cities.” A deep, bourbon-voiced narrator, who Michelle was pretty sure also did trailers for Hollywood movies.

Grainy black and white shots of addicts drawing on crack pipes, white smoke swirling around their pockmarked, skeletal faces. Graffiti-bombed street corners, with furtive dealers exchanging brown paper bags of contraband.

“Yet Felix Gallardo insists that drugs aren't a problem.”

A shot of a politician at an impromptu gathering—outside a courthouse? City Hall? Surrounded by news mikes. “Drugs aren't the problem,” he said in quick staccato rhythms. Michelle wondered if the bite had been edited. “We're spending too much money on law enforcement solutions—”

A freeze-frame on his face, his expression caught so that he appeared to be half-drunk. A crawl of text with statistics, with the narrator reading highlights: the percentages of violent felons with illegal drugs in their systems, drug-related traffic accidents, the crimes committed by addicts, the number of kids who'd smoked pot last year, rolling by so quickly they were hard to read.

Then, a smash cut to a young black man wearing prison scrubs, sitting at an institutional aluminum table, clasped hands resting in front of him. “I was so high I was crazy,” he said, staring at his awkward, knobby hands. “So, yeah, I shot them. I killed them.”

Back to the freeze-frame of the politician and the voice-over artist.

“Drugs aren't a problem. Really, Felix?” The shot fading to a black screen. “Paid for by Safer America.”

Michelle picked up her Emily iPhone and called Gary.

“I do have a few questions. Are you free tomorrow, for breakfast?”

Chapter Six

“So, if it doesn't
say ‘organic,' and it uses canola oil, doesn't that mean it's genetically modified?”

“Probably.”

“And same thing with soy?”

Michelle gritted her teeth and nodded.

“What's the world coming to, when you can't even trust tofu?” Gary said with a sigh.

“Just coffee,” Michelle told the hotel waitress.

“Yeah, me too.” Gary settled back in his bucket chair. “I've been doing intermittent fasting anyway.”

They sat in a corner of her hotel's coffee shop, underneath a painting of an offshore oil rig done in Day-Glo colors, which looked to be part of a series also decorating the adjoining bar and lobby.

“So, I want to make sure that I understand the situation,” Michelle said. “Caitlin's actively involved with fundraising for this foundation of hers. Right?”

“Right.”

“And the foundation contributes to political campaigns.”

Gary nodded.

“And there's a national election coming up in November.”

The waitress arrived with their coffee and a white ceramic pitcher and a matching container of sugar and sweetener. Gary took a sip of his coffee and made a face. “Is that half-and-half?” he asked. He winked at Michelle. “I'll risk the bovine growth hormone.”

“So Caitlin's going to be in the public eye a lot,” she continued, after the waitress left.

“Yeah. That's one of the reasons we need you for this job. She can go a little overboard on the cocktails, and we can't afford to have that happen on the national stage.”

“And I'm her babysitter.” Michelle had a sip of her coffee. He was right; it was pretty bad. She poured a little half-and-half from the pitcher into the cup. “How does that make sense?”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a boyfriend in jail on pot charges,” she said in a low voice. “Odds are I'm going to get questioned by, by the FBI, or whoever's investigating this at some point. Even if I'm just standing in the background, things like that get found out. So if you really want this to work—”

He snorted. “Oh, I see where you're going on this—I should get Danny's case dismissed. Actually, I have a better idea.
Emily
might have a pot-smuggling boyfriend.
Michelle
doesn't.”

It took her a moment to get what he meant.

“Wait
. . .
you want me
. . .
you want
Michelle
—?”

“Sure! We can work that tragic widow angle. Maybe you and Caitlin can do some bonding over it.”

Sucker punched again.

Stupid, she told herself. You're so stupid. He's already thought two steps ahead of you.

She sipped her coffee, which tasted even worse as it cooled off. Thought about Gary's move. And realized, it still didn't quite make sense, not on the surface, anyway.

“I guess I don't get why that's better,” she said. “So Danny's a pot smuggler. My husband
cheated
investors. If he hadn't died,
he'd
be in jail.”

“Well, we've been doing a little cleanup on your late husband's business. He still doesn't come off great, but more like, incompetent and in over his head, rather than an outright crook.” He pointed at her, grinning. “
You,
on the other hand, were safely out of the loop. Which is the truth.” He leaned closer. “Right?”

She felt her cheeks flush. She knew what he was implying. He'd accused her of being Tom's accomplice before.

She hadn't known. But she'd suspected. And she hadn't done a thing about it.

“Right,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

“And your motivation is, you're trying to move beyond the pain of the loss by helping others. Plus, you need the money.”

“Where have I supposedly been for the last two years?”

“Mexico, and then you traveled. You know, looking for meaning, or romance, or what have you. Like in all those books you women love. Not staying in any one spot for too long. India, China, Vietnam, Bali
. . .
all places you've been, don't worry about that.”

“Places I've been a long time ago. Gary, this, this is
. . .
”

Crazy.

She stopped herself from saying it. “Crazy” was how Gary operated.

“Yeah, maybe skip China,” he muttered. “Too many changes.”

“Problematic,” she said.

“It'll work. Everything will check out.”

“I left some loose ends. The lawsuits—”

“Fixed. Turns out a little hedge-fund group came in and bought up the remaining assets of your husband's business. As a part of the deal, they settled with the original investors.”

She hadn't thought there
were
any remaining assets. Just the shell of Tom's company and ownership on paper of a project he hadn't been able to develop, the one that had taken their house, taken their savings, that had bankrupted his business. As far as she'd known, anything left had been hopelessly encumbered when she'd gone to Mexico over two years ago, for her five-day vacation.

Given the people Gary knew, given whom he worked for
. . .

“And I guess I signed off on this deal?” she asked. The question tasted bitter.

“I guess you did. And you were real happy to, apparently. Cause you know, you hated the idea of leaving people out all that money because of your husband's poor business decisions.”

The truth was, she hadn't even thought about those people, not since she'd become someone else and they were no longer her problem.

“And now you're ready to start over fresh. With a clean slate.”

Which in a way, she'd already done. Only it hadn't lasted.

She could call her old attorney to confirm some of this. He had to have helped draw up the hedge-fund deal. He must have thought she'd agreed to it.

“So, how did you do it? Faked some emails from me? Forged my signature?”

“Something like that.” Gary studied her face, without his usual leer or threat. “Don't you
want
to be Michelle again?” he asked. For once, he seemed genuinely curious. “Have your old life back?”

She hesitated. Actually thought about it. How she'd lived, back in Los Angeles. How she'd lived the last two years.

“Not really.”

“The interview's just a
formality. You'll be meeting with Porter Ackermann, the executive director of Safer America. He's already heard all about you.”

“
All
about me?”

“Well, what he needs to know. That you're the right person for the job. That you know how to handle the kinds of situations you'll find yourself in.”

She hoped he meant fundraisers and cocktail parties.

“After that, you'll see Caitlin. That won't be a problem. She'll go along with whatever Porter tells her to do.”

She knew there was a big piece of the puzzle missing, and that Gary wouldn't tell her what it was if she asked him. But she decided that she might as well ask. Maybe something in his reaction would give her a clue.

“There's another thing I don't get, Gary. Why do you care about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Caitlin and her foundation. Why is it so important to you and your friends?”

“What, you think we don't care about a safer America?”

No clues. Just his typical shit-eating grin.

He raised his hand to call the waitress. “Anyway, that's nothing you need to worry about.”

Which in her experience meant she should worry about it, a lot.

“When do I get paid?” she asked.

“Your official salary's seventy-five K annually, so expect your first check in a week or two.” He reached into the pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a sealed 5” x 8” manila envelope. “Here's some walking-around money to get you started. Five thousand.” A little smirk.

Five thousand was what he'd given her the first time, in Mexico.

She tried not to shudder as she took it from him.

“And the rest?”

“Four payments. What the hell, I'll make them fifty K each. That's a little more than we agreed on, but let's just call it a bonus. A third of your salary's going to taxes anyway. We'll get the first one to you in a couple of days.” He started to rise, and then added: “You might want to put some thought into how you're gonna manage all that cash in the meantime.”

It was true. She hadn't considered that at all.

“Oh, better not forget this.” He retrieved another envelope from his sports coat. Thicker than the first. Something solid inside. Gary slid the envelope across the table. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Inside was a wallet. Her wallet. A black leather Gucci that had been a gift from Tom.

The one she'd lost in Mexico, the night she almost died.

“New credit cards,” Gary said, “since you cancelled the old ones. Address for those is your sister's place in LA. But the rest of your old stuff's there.”

She took a quick look. Driver's license. Auto Club. A new AMEX and Chase Visa. Pilates and yoga studio memberships. A photo of her nephew and her sister. Another of her parents.

x
x
x

Safer America's office was
in a section of Houston called River Oaks. “Close to where Caitlin lives,” Gary had said. “She doesn't like having to go far when she comes into the office.”

The office was across the street from a mall topped by condos. The anchor store there was a place called Tootsie's. “Oh, yeah, that's where all the rich ladies shop,” the cab driver told her. Michelle had never heard of the store. She made a note on her iPhone to check it out. She needed to figure out how things worked here, in Houston, what the landscape was like, what the different neighborhoods meant. She'd known all that stuff in Los Angeles, but this wasn't Los Angeles.

She paid the driver and got out. Stood on the sidewalk and immediately started to sweat in the dead heat of the afternoon. Stared up at the innocuous office building in front of her, where Safer America was.

She'd worn her black Armani suit, which she'd brought in case she'd needed to go to court. She didn't have many nice things like this any more. A little black dress for parties, a couple of decent sweaters and blouses, a few good skirts and pairs of slacks. She mostly wore jeans and cardigans. Long-sleeved T-shirts. Sweats. Even thermals.

Sweat trickled down her back. If I get the job, I'm going to need to buy some new clothes, she thought briefly. Hardly any of her Arcata wardrobe would work for Houston, especially not this time of year.

Stupid, she told herself. Stupid to even be thinking this way. Danny was right. She shouldn't have agreed to this. She should have called Sam, seen what he could do.

But she didn't know if she could trust Sam.

I will call him, she thought. But this way, going along with Gary for now, maybe she'd bought a little more time, for her safety, and for Danny's.

“You come highly recommended.”

Porter Ackermann sat behind a large walnut desk. He was middle-aged, in his late fifties, Michelle guessed, heavy, squat and immobile, like a piece of expensive furniture.

Overall the headquarters of Safer America were as modest and unassuming as the building in which they were housed. A receptionist in a vestibule decorated with bland corporate art. A small suite of offices grouped around a short corridor. Still, there were signs of money. Porter Ackermann's desk. Porter Ackermann's suit.

“That's good to hear,” Michelle said.

“Yes, very good, because from your résumé, well, we've had other candidates who on paper would seem to be better qualified.” Porter glanced at the résumé sitting on his desk, the résumé Gary had provided, and then looked up at Michelle, managing a flick of a smile. He had a pear-shaped face, with a wide jaw and heavy jowls, and kept the remains of his gray hair short.

“I know my résumé looks a little thin,” she said. “But I've had a lot of experience managing the kinds of social situations that Ms. O'Connor has to deal with.”

“So I've heard.” He made a show of studying her résumé. “Well, I for one weigh your references very heavily. But it really is all about the kind of personal connection you have with Caitlin.” He smiled again, an action that seemed like a mechanical arrangement of facial muscles. “Why don't we head on over to her place and see if the two of you hit it off?”