Kiss and Tell (13 page)

E
manuel Macklin paced frantically around his palatial home in Olympic Ridge, his son's recent unbelievable words still ringing in his ears. According to Adam, after all these years, his ex-wife Mary had surfaced. Surfaced with a vengeance, according to Adam. Blessed with a phenomenal memory all his life, Manny, as he was known to his friends, peers, and the media as well, recalled every syllable of the words his son had left on Manny's voice mail.

A worm of fear crawled around inside Manny's belly. He needed to call his son. Needed to have a long talk with him. Adam was cracking. He could sense it, see it, feel it. His son had almost lost it a week ago when two major investors dumped their accounts. Not just two accounts but two major, multimillion-dollar accounts, one of which had only recently been opened. Right on top of another megamillion-dollar account several months earlier. High rollers. The kind who talked to other high rollers like themselves. More cracks. The whispers were starting, he could sense that, too. The economy was in the toilet. Investors didn't want to hear that. All they wanted was the 20-percent return on their investment that he'd promised. The high rollers wouldn't cut him an ounce of slack. It was the little investor, the mom-and-pop investor with two kids in college, who took it on the chin. Because they pinched their pennies, they kept watch on the economy and understood that investing was a gamble. They also didn't complain when they were getting dicey returns. They might grumble at the downturn, but he'd stake his life on the fact that none of them would go to the SEC. If they even knew what the SEC was.

Maybe it was time to set the wheels in motion. Go to ground. Something Adam had been advising for over a year now. He'd refused to take his son's advice back then, instead setting about to recruit new investors, and he'd succeeded in getting the teachers' union to sign on. The sudden influx of megadoses of money had enabled him to carry on for the past six months. But he was back now to robbing Peter to pay Paul. Keeping the high rollers happy was the name of the game.

Macklin brightened momentarily when he thought about the velvet-lined box nestled in the bottom of his golf bag. The contents of that particular box alone could set him up in the lap of luxury for the rest of his life. And the best part was, no one knew a thing about it. A fortune in diamonds he'd been squirreling away for over fifteen years. And he knew just how to get them out of the country, too.

Then his mood darkened. Mary. How in the name of God had she come back into their lives? Mary knew exactly what was going on. Always had, or so he thought, but Mary was loyal. She would never betray him or her children. Instead, she had just walked away. No one had been more surprised than he was when she had just disappeared and never blew the whistle on him. He tried to bring a vision of his ex-wife front and center, but the truth was, he couldn't. All he could remember was that she kept a clean house and was a good cook. She had never made demands, didn't enjoy living like the rich and famous. Mary was a gentle, loving, sweet soul without a mean bone in her body. He hadn't been devastated when she left. All it meant to him was that he had to hire a full-time live-in housekeeper to see to his and his children's needs.

Over the years, the kids had asked him to try to find her. He'd pretended to but never did a thing to find his ex-wife. He dummied up investigative reports showing he'd tried to no avail. After that, Mary's name was never mentioned again—until just the other day.

Manny stared out at the snow. He had to get out of here before he went crazy. The question was how? Dog sled? He didn't have one. Four-wheel drive? He didn't have that either. Limo? Impossible. Damnation, he was stuck until the roads were cleared. Possibly twenty-four hours before he could get out of here and into town to talk to his son. By that time, he'd be stark raving mad.

In times of stress, the only thing that could calm him was to go through his beloved ledgers. With that thought in mind, he heaved his bulk around and headed for the small elevator that would take him to the third floor, where he kept a fully equipped office of which one section was a private living area with an entertainment center. Hell, he could live up there for months if he had to. He might starve, but he could live in this one gigantic room that ran the whole length of his ten-thousand-square-foot home. Once he went through all his snacks and soft drinks, there was every possibility that he might well starve.

The special closet with the latest high-tech security alarm he'd installed himself after the house was built beckoned him. There was a special floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that he'd crafted himself as well as installing the hydraulics that would slide the shelves to the side so he could access his secret closet. Inside were shelves and shelves of ledgers, from the day Macklin Investments was just a gleam in his eye. He felt himself relax almost immediately as he reached out to press an ornate curlicue he'd added to the trim on the bookshelves. The monster creation slid soundlessly down the wall on its well-oiled track, which was all but invisible to the naked eye.

This, then, was his special place, his port in the storm, so to speak. It was the only place where he could think, plot, and scheme. The place where the long lines of dollar signs made him feel invincible.

He reached for a double set of books and carried them over to his favorite reading chair. But first he opened a can of Diet Dr Pepper. For some reason, when he held and read his ledgers, his throat always went dry.

Manny perched his reading glasses on his nose and leaned back as he let his gaze sweep the room. It looked just like any business office except that it had two of everything so that on the rare occasions when his son came all the way out here, the two of them could work side by side. Two computers, two fax machines. Two landlines. Two paper shredders. Everything was operational but the computers. While they were hooked up, they were rarely used. The only things done on both computers were household expenses, mortgage payments, tax payments, mundane things everyone these days committed to their computers. There was no smut, no searches on anything to come back and haunt him. No way in hell was he ever going to put anything of importance on a computer. Only a fool would do something like that, and he was no fool. No siree, he was the darling of Wall Street, the Magician who made financial dreams come true. Definitely not a fool.

Adam had tried to convince him that converting everything to DVDs was the way to go if they had to cut and run. He had pointed to the shelves of ledgers, and said, “Pop, how do you plan on carrying those out of here? And what do you plan to do with the thousands of boxes of carbon copies that are stacked to the ceiling in storage?”

He knew that Adam was right, but he simply could not bring himself to do what his son wanted him to do. Now he wondered if Adam hadn't done it anyway. His insides started to rumble at the thought. Maybe it was time to destroy all those copies. But how?

Manny closed his eyes. He knew deep in his gut that he was never going to reach his imaginary goal line of being called The God of Wall Street. The cracks and the whispers were a warning. And, of course, he had to think about Mary. Should he act, or was it already too late?

He set the ledgers aside and got up. He really needed to do something about his weight. He really did. He started to pace, his thoughts all over the map. There was something wrong somewhere. He swore then as his thoughts took him way back in time to the orphanage, where he'd spent so many happy days with Marie and Sally. He'd had his whole life ahead of him back then. He thought of the promises he'd made to the two little girls he'd protected. Wherever they were, he wondered if they ever thought of him the way he thought of them. He could truthfully say a day didn't go by when he didn't think of little Marie and his special feelings for her. If he had any regrets in life, they were about Marie. How he'd loved that little slip of a girl who looked up at him with her big blue eyes. She was so trusting, and he could see in her adoring gaze that she felt about him the same way that he felt about her. But they were too young back then to do anything about those feelings.

He thought about the years he'd searched for her when he didn't have the money he needed to hire private detectives. Then, later, when he did have the money, their trail had gone cold. The realization that he was never going to see his two old friends again was the hardest thing he'd ever had to accept in his life.

Manny stopped in front of the closet and stared at what he called his life, the stacks and stacks of ledgers. Maybe he should burn them. Even he was smart enough to know there was no safe place where he could hide or bury them. As much as he hated to admit it, Adam was right. They should have put all the information on disks, then destroyed the ledgers. Impossible now. He reached for the Dr Pepper and drained it in one long gulp. He tossed the can into a decorative trash can and popped another one.

The allure and the comfort he usually got from his ledgers was gone. He slapped the two ledgers he was holding onto the shelf and closed the doors before pressing the curlicue to reset the bookshelves. He needed to
think
.

Manny paced then, faster and faster because the walls were starting to close in on him. How could he get rid of the ledgers? How? The faster he paced, the faster his thoughts ricocheted inside his head. He could call a packing company, have them boxed up. No, no. Then they would know what it was. He would have to box them up himself. Maybe crate them, then call a freight company to pick them up and ship them . . . where? Someplace far away. He did have a private Gulfstream. But the pilot would be forced to tell that he flew cargo at his behest to somewhere in the world. Was there a way around that? He was smart enough to know he couldn't trust anyone but himself. There was a time when he'd sworn he could trust his children, but not anymore. Both of them would sing like canaries at the first mention of prison.

There was a solution to everything. He just needed to find it. A solution without a paper trail. What he needed was a magician. What he really needed to do was to calm down and think logically. Easier said than done.

Manny walked over to his lavatory and stood in front of the mirror. He really did look like Santa Claus. He really did. Maybe it was time to shed all the excess hair and some of his weight. He'd look totally different. But did he really want to look different? He was vain enough to like all the complimentary things the media said about him, how benevolent he was, how he played Santa and talked about his philanthropy, which was known far and wide. Who was he kidding, he
loved
it when they paid tribute to him.

If he had to run, how would he do in some third-world country? Not well, he thought. Maybe he could get rid of the hair, the beard, the girth, and have plastic surgery in some far-off place where no one knew him. He'd create a new identity and live happily ever after. But that wasn't going to happen either, and he knew it.

Well, goddamn it, he had to do something, and sooner rather than later. He looked outside the lavatory window and cursed the snow, his son, his daughter, the faceless Peter and Nan Anders, and his ex-wife Mary.
I need to get out of here.
And then he had an idea.

Manny walked over to the phone and dialed 911. Earlier, he'd heard that the only vehicles permitted on the roads were emergency vehicles and ambulances. He made his voice sound hoarse, filled with pain, and managed to gasp the words, “I need help. Send an ambulance.” He whispered the address, then slammed the phone down and raced to the elevator, which took him to the first-floor foyer. There, he unlocked the door and curled into a ball on a thick, beautiful, one-of-a-kind Persian rug. As soon as the EMS people got him to the hospital, he would have a miraculous turnaround. Of course, he would send a magnificent donation in thanks. He didn't give one iota of thought to the fact that he would be using an ambulance someone might actually need to stay alive.

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

It was because he was so brilliant, he knew, that he got the big bucks.

D
ennis West straightened his tie and shrugged his shoulders so that his suit jacket fell into place. He looked around at the guests in the little chapel. Four; five if he counted himself. Maggie, Ted, Espinosa, and Nikki Quinn. He was surprised to see the lawyer and wondered how she'd gotten here, but then he remembered this chapel was only a block away from where she and Maggie lived—the main reason he'd chosen it in the first place when Maggie pointed it out to him.

He didn't like the smell in this little chapel in front of the mortuary. The scent of flowers and incense was making him light headed. The minister caught his eye and nodded, which meant the service he'd arranged for was about to get under way. He looked around and sat down, his hands clenched into a tight ball in his lap. He listened and wondered how this strange minister knew so much about the two women he was talking about. Maybe Nikki Quinn had told him. She was, after all, Sara and Tressie's attorney. Yes, that must be it. How could she not know personal details about her clients?

The voice droned on and on, a steady monotone of goodness. And then it was over. His hand was being shaken, and the portly man disappeared through a side door. Another man entered the room, the mortician, in his somber-looking dark suit, pristine white shirt, and plain tie. His hand was shaken too. And then, in a hushed voice, the man, whose name was Cedric Davidson, asked if Dennis wanted to take the deceased with him or come back later in the week. Dennis looked over at a sideboard, where two urns stood side by side. He swallowed hard and said later in the week would work better for him. Mr. Davidson nodded agreeably and withdrew through the same door the minister had left by.

“Dennis, do you think you could come with me for a few minutes? I spoke to Mr. Davidson earlier, and he said we could use one of the small offices. I need to speak with you about . . . about Sara and Tressie. You guys don't mind waiting a few minutes, do you?” Nikki asked, addressing the three newspaper people. They all shrugged, moved to the back of the chapel, and sat down, their eyes on the two urns on the sideboard.

“What's up?” Dennis asked curiously, as Nikki closed the office door. “You aren't worried about paying for this, are you? I already paid, and I have the receipt.”

“No, no, not at all. Perhaps I should have waited and made an actual appointment, but I knew I would be here and you would be here, so this just seemed logical to me. Especially with our current weather, and they say more snow is coming. Relax, Dennis, you look nervous. The reason I asked you in here to talk privately is, I want to read you Ms. Overton's and Ms. Weber's wills. Sara and Tressie, as you knew them.”

“Oh, that's okay, Nikki. It was just an honorary kind of thing. Them being my granny and aunt, I mean. It was nice at the moment, but I don't think I should hear about their wills. Isn't that private?”

“Actually, Dennis, I would have called you to come to the office if you hadn't scheduled this memorial service. If you'll just take a seat, this won't take long.”

Dennis, a frown building on his forehead, sat back and laced his fingers together. His thoughts were on the two urns in the other room and where he was going to put them when he took them home once the weather cleared. Was he supposed to display them, or did one put them in a closet, never to be looked at again? Neither of the options sounded right. Clearly, he was going to have to research this a little further. He couldn't help but wonder what his sleep would be like at night if he took the ladies home with him.

“Dennis, did you hear what I just said?” Nikki asked gently.

“Yes. You said they were of sound mind when they made their wills.”

“I mean after I said that?”

“I'm sorry. I was wondering . . . I guess I was woolgathering. My mother always says that when I don't pay attention.”

“The ladies, your honorary grandmother and aunt, left you their entire estate aside from some charitable bequests.”

Dennis blinked; and then he blinked again. He grew so light headed that he slid off the chair he was sitting on. He shook his head to clear it. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

“I did, and it's all right here,” Nikki said, tapping the will in the blue binder.

“But why? They don't . . . didn't even know me.”

“You paid for their . . . funeral arrangements. Not many people would do that. I should tell you that both women had a provision in their wills concerning their burial needs and costs. It is standard procedure in a last will and testament for the deceased to make provision for his or her remains. That's why I'm here. Well, one of the reasons. Under the circumstances, the estate will, of course, reimburse you.”

“No. I don't want to be reimbursed. I did all this”—Dennis waved his arms about—“because it was the right thing to do.”

Nikki smiled. She liked this young man. Annie was right—he was a gem. “It was a kind, generous thing you did. You might not know this, but Sara and Tressie told me that they got their start in life from a lady who left her estate to them. They told me they took care of her in the nursing home where she was living. They never forgot her kindness to them. That's why they left their estate to you. You are a very wealthy young man, Dennis. You're going to need some financial planners and some wise moneymen. When you're ready, I can help you with all that. For now, I'll take care of all the legalities, and you think about what you want to do in the future. Deal?”

“You're right. Sara did tell us about how they got their start, working at a nursing home, and how a lady they took care of left them her money. I think she said it was something like fifty thousand dollars, which was a lot in those days. How much, ah, money are you talking about here? When you need financial people and wise moneymen, it has to be over a thousand dollars, right? I suppose it might even be as much as fifty thousand dollars, like they inherited. I'm just not into those kinds of numbers.”

Nikki couldn't keep herself from laughing out loud. “Dennis, let's just say that it's a little less than a billion. That's billion with a B. Believe it or not, they still own more than 50 percent of WELLMED. At today's stock price, those shares are worth over $900 million. When everything else is taken into account, you come to just under $1 billion.”

“I don't believe this. Why me? Why didn't they just leave it all to charity?”

“Look at it this way, Dennis. Neither Sara nor Tressie—and that's how I've always thought of them, not as Marie and Sally—were planning on dying the day they made their will. They actually had a will, they just changed it the day they passed on. I guess they saw something in you that made them do it. You now owe it to them to use it all wisely and for a greater good. Nothing has to change in your life unless you want it to change. You do understand that, right?”

Dennis didn't trust himself to speak so he just nodded.

“Unless you have some questions, I think we're done here.”

Dennis shook his head. “Well, maybe one question. Is this a secret, or can I talk about it?”

“It's no secret, Dennis. You can tell anyone you want. Before long, when I file the will for probate, I'm sure every hawk on Wall Street and every reporter in the District will be wanting to talk to you. I don't think either Sara or Tressie would want you revealing their real identities. They worked very hard to remain anonymous.”

“I understand. I won't tell anyone except the guys . . . You know.”

“Good. Good. Okay, well, if you think of anything, anything at all, just call me. I'll say good-bye now, Dennis. I'm glad you picked this particular mortuary since I can walk home from here.”

“Okay. Thanks. I think . . .” Dennis mumbled.

Back in the waiting room, Dennis stared at his colleagues. He flapped his arms like a wounded bird trying to get off the ground. He tried to make his tongue work, but no words would come out of his mouth.

“What's wrong with you, Dennis?” Maggie demanded.

“Spit it out, kid!” Ted growled.

“Are you okay, Dennis? You look peaked,” Espinosa said softly.

“Peaked?”
Ted exploded. “What the hell is ‘peaked,' with two syllables?”

“Shut up! Everyone just shut up! I'll tell you what's wrong with me, but first you have to shut up.”

The room went silent. “Okay. My new granny and my new aunt left me their entire estate. I own most of WELMED. The estate is worth a little less than a billion dollars, that's a billion with a B. That's why I look like I look, and I'm babbling here like an idiot.”

For the first time in their collective lives, the three intrepid newspeople were at a total loss for words. All they could do was stare at their colleague.

“Nikki read their wills to me. They changed them the day they . . . the day they died. Nikki said the reason they did it was because someone had done the same thing for them a long time ago. Of course, we already knew that, so what she said about the why of it did not come as a surprise. But that they would actually do it, that is unbelievable.

“That's all I know. I have to . . . to meet up with some money people sometime soon to make decisions. Whatever it is you do when you inherit . . . a lot of money.”

“I don't get it, kid. Why aren't you jumping up and down? All that money! You should be over the moon,” Ted said.

Dennis squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't cry. “Maybe . . . maybe I would if this happened thirty years from now. I didn't want those ladies to die. I didn't . . . don't want to inherit their money. I'm just a kid, as you point out to me on a daily basis. I haven't even lived yet. I want to do it all the right way. Corny as this may sound, I want to work at something I love. I want to get married and have a mortgage and car payments. I want to save for college for my kids. I don't want all that money. I didn't do anything to earn it.

“So knock it off, okay? I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit either. If you want to fire me, go ahead; I'll just find a job somewhere else. And if it's all the same to you, I'll walk home.”

“I'll walk with you, Dennis,” Maggie said. She swatted Ted on the side of his head to make her point.

“Yeah, I can't wait to slog through the snow,” Espinosa said. “If nothing else, we can pull each other out of the drifts.”

“Wait a damn minute!” Ted bellowed. “What the hell did I say that was so wrong? Whatever it was, I'm sorry. Dennis, I would never disrespect you. I guess I was just as stunned as you are . . . were. I admire you. I really do. I wish . . . I wish I was more like you. That's not bullshit either. I can't fire you, only Annie can do that, and she thinks you're the
Post
's secret weapon.” He held out his hand, his face miserable.

Dennis nodded and grabbed Ted's hand. He pumped it up and down with gusto. “Just so you know, Ted, I'm not someone you can trifle with. I want you to remember that.”

“You know what, ki—Dennis, I just figured that out. Breakfast's on me.”