Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (35 page)

“The cock crows at noon. The sun shines on
the elevator shaft.”

“Emily.”

“Da. I’ve got ze microfilm.” Her Russian
accent was really quite terrible.

“I take it you got hold of Corby.”

“Da, he ees expecting to be auditioned at
high noon.”

I checked my watch: it was nine-thirty now.
“Perfect. You want to meet me up here, or at the bottom of the
hill?”

“Your place, please. I want to see the teeny
guest house I’ve heard so much about.”

“Done. See you when you get here.”

Being on the telephone reminded me that I
had yet to return Alex’s call. And, with everything I’d been
thinking about relating to Jackson’s package, I felt a sudden urge
to speak with him. I dug out his office number and dialed it
quickly, before I could change my mind.

“Hi Alex,” I said when he again answered his
own phone. “It’s Madeline Carter.”

“Madeline! It’s lovely to hear from you. I
enjoyed our dinner the other night very much.”

I flushed a little at that. His interest in
me was so obviously romantic. And, while I liked him well enough
and under other circumstances I might even have been interested, my
attention had been... diverted.

“I did too. Sorry not to return your call
sooner, Alex. I’ve been so preoccupied with a... with a business
matter that I’ve not been good about returning social calls this
week. Forgive me.”

“But of course,” he said instantly, and I
had to smile. There was this old world charm and courtliness about
him that was practically irresistible. Which wasn’t why I was
calling him.

“To be honest, Alex, this call isn’t
entirely to return your call, either. It’s the business matter I
was referring to. And I guess I mentioned it the other night, as
well,” I took a deep breath before I went on. Just say it,
Madeline, I said to myself. “I’ve become embroiled in something
rather ugly — criminal, I think — involving an old... school friend
of mine and a company he has recently been made CEO of and — how
can I put this...?” because it suddenly all sounded so ridiculous,
out loud and hanging on the telephone line between us.
Preposterous, really. And what did I think Alex could do? And
yet...

“You think this person is a corporate
psychopath?” Alex asked. And he didn’t sound skeptical or annoyed
or anything. Which gave me the courage to continue.

“I do. And, actually, from what you’ve said
and from... things that have been happening, I’m pretty sure about
it. Except one thing I wanted you to clarify, if you could, that
would be helpful to me.”

“If I can, Madeline, I will.”

“Well, the other night you mentioned a
‘career arc’ that is not unusual in psychopaths. You said they
might start with small things and then work their way up.”

“It is, I think, because of the boredom,” he
said, as though I’d caught up with him in mid-lecture. “When a
thing is done — accomplished as it were — it’s no longer
interesting to revisit. For the psychopath that seems to be true of
people as well as activities, substances and so on.”

“But is it true also for corporate
psychopaths? Or does it manifest itself in different ways?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you talked about the psychopath
starting with stealing from the corner store, then maybe stealing a
bike as a teenager and then graduating to larger ticket items. But
a
corporate
psychopath would have a different career arc,
don’t you agree?”

“I do, but go on. It sounds as though you
have a hypothesis. Let’s hear it.”

“Well, I think it’s all about environment.
Accessibility.” I thought of some of the stories Ernie had told me
when we were first together, during our honeymoon period when we
were just getting acquainted. Stuff that I’d maybe thought was cute
at the time, with the blinders of new love upon me. “Maybe he’d
start out by cheating at monopoly or stealing the money from his
brother’s piggy bank. Then maybe move up to manipulating his paper
route for his own profit, taking money from his mother’s purse,
cheating on high school exams, that sort of thing.”

“All of this is possible,” Alex agreed. “But
none of it conclusive.”

“But what I’m thinking is this: all that
truly separates the corporate psychopath from the other kind is
opportunity. Advantage. Perhaps intelligence, but also education.
But the regular, everyday psychopath mostly gets put out of
circulation. You said you thought prison psychopath populations
were as high as twenty-five percent.”

“That’s right.”

“But is that just because corporate
psychopaths behave in a manner that’s acceptable in their
environment? Acceptable and maybe even encouraged? Is it not even
possible that, to get to the top at a lot of big companies, it’s
almost
necessary
to display that type of behavior?”

“This is something I’ve noted as well. There
is even a theory that psychopathy as found in certain individuals
is a genetic influence, one that is perhaps there to help ensure
that individual’s survival.”

“Please, Alex. I don’t even wanna hear
that.”

He laughed. “Science is full of things none
of us want to hear, Madeline.”

“I see what you’re getting at, though. But
the career arc, Alex. On the surface of things, it sounds like your
average jail-bound psychopath is more dangerous than the corporate
kind. That the corporate ones will do ruthless stuff for
advancement, maybe have crummy marriages and terrible personal
lives, but the really awful stuff is left for other, commoner,
psychopaths. But that’s not true is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“In fact, Alex, I’m thinking the opposite
may be true. That because he is more cunning, more versed in the
way the world works and perhaps more practiced that — over that
career arc — the corporate psychopath could potentially be even
more dangerous than the non-corporate kind. Because he’s smart and
educated. I think — and this is why I’m calling — that sort of
corporate psychopath would be capable of... well... anything. Do
you agree?”

“And we’re still really talking
hypothetically, aren’t we Madeline?” Alex asked with the
professional caution of one who knows his way around the mysteries
of the ivory tower.

“Sure. Yes. Of course.”

“Well then, I’d have to say yes. I agree.
The corporate psychopath is capable of — as you say — anything at
all.”

Chapter Twenty-One

I had to find Arianna. When we’d met, I
couldn’t imagine why I’d want to call her, so I’d given her my
phone number and not asked for hers. Between that and the
forgetting-phone-numbers-with-Steve fiasco, I knew this was yet
another personal flaw that was going to require work.

Now I
needed
to talk to Arianna and I
had absolutely no way of getting in touch with her. And then I
remembered: A billboard across from the cafe where I’d met with
her. And then the back of a bus bench. A raven-haired woman,
beautiful in a carefully-preserved kind of way. I couldn’t think of
her name or the company she’d been with, but I had a feeling she’d
be The One.

First things first, though. Emily and I had
a date with a surfer, sort of. At exactly ten-thrity, Tycho chuffed
when he heard a knock at the door.

“Open!” I called from the bedroom.

Then Emily’s voice, “Is that a good
idea?”

“Please,” I popped my head out, and
indicated Emily take a stool, “don’t start with me on that one.
I’ve heard it all before.”

Being reminded of that made me think of
Jennifer and what we were about to do.

“Are we crazy?” I asked Emily as I joined
her in the living room. “Is this a crazy thing we’re
contemplating?”

“Of course,” she laughed. I could see the
signs of the short night on her face, but she looked excited at the
prospect of the adventure before us, “and that’s why I’m here: to
keep you from bailing. And you’re here to keep me from bailing. But
the two of us together can do this, no sweat.” If she was the least
bit apprehensive, she didn’t show any signs of it. I supposed I
probably looked the same: calm and resolved.

We both took our cars to the Malibu Center
Mall and parked within eyeshot of the entrance to the cafe with
fifteen minutes to spare. My car was closer, and Emily joined me
for our vigil.

We saw the green gold van pull into the
parking lot. If I needed further confirmation, I checked the plate
number on the van against the one Anne Rand had given me in
Redlands. A match. There could be no doubt: this was Corby’s
van.

“There he is!” Emily said needlessly.

“Oh shit,” I said as we watched him cruise
for a parking spot. “Jennifer’s with him.” This wasn’t something
we’d expected. “What if she goes in with him?”

“She won’t,” Emily said. “This is supposed
to be an audition, remember? He’ll leave her in the car.”

Emily was right. Corby parked the van on the
other side of the lot. We could see him give Jennifer a quick kiss,
and then practically skip into the coffee place. He was
excited.

“OK: change of plans. Em, you’re going to
have to go in and keep him there for a while.”

“What if he remembers me from Tyler’s
party?” She sounded slightly panicked.

“It won’t matter. It was mostly film people
anyway. You could even say you scouted him there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. And I wasn’t.
“Just go. If I’m not here when you come out, meet me back at my
place.”

I watched Emily go inside, counted to ten
while trusting she’d get Corby out of view of the window if he was
anywhere near, then left my car.

Reasoning that Jennifer wouldn’t be looking
out the rearview mirror, I skirted around the lot so that I
approached the van from behind. I could hear the baseline of a
noxious rock tune bleeding from inside the vehicle and, when I got
close enough, I saw that the passenger door was unlocked.

Because of the music, stealth wasn’t
required. I was quiet anyway. With my hand on the door handle, I
counted to ten silently — one, two, three... — as much to calm my
nerves as anything. At ten, I opened the door and snaked out my
arm, grabbing hold on Jennifer’s wrist while simultaneously
bringing myself around to face her. After all this, I didn’t want
her running away.

“Madeline?” she looked terrible. Wasted.
Bedraggled. And, I was relieved to note, in no condition to fight
me.

“Come on,” I said, practically heaving her
out of the van.

She followed me docilely enough at first.
“Where we goin’?” she asked as I led her across the parking
lot.

“Home,” I managed, moving her steadily
towards my car.

“I’m not going home,” shedding the docility
like a sweater and twisting away from me. The change in attitude —
from compliant to wildcat — took me by surprise and I felt
Jennifer’s dry, slender wrist slip out of my clammy grip.

“Jennifer!” I called after her as she headed
across the parking lot towards the coffee place; towards Corby. If
she heard me, she gave no sign.

It’s funny how time compresses in urgent
moments. From the time Jennifer slipped out of my grasp until I
rear tackled her near the entrance to the cafe could only have been
about twenty or thirty seconds, but so much happened in that
time.

I was running full out when Jennifer
narrowly missed being hit by a would-be shopper cruising too fast
looking for a parking space. Jennifer wasn’t watching where she was
going and jumped practically into the path of a white Audi
convertible. The driver had the top down and screamed, “Crazy
bitch!” even as he hit the brakes.

The sound of the car and the adrenalin-mad
driver caused Jennifer to hesitate for a couple of seconds. Not
very long, but it was enough. As she pulled herself back into a
running position — her eyes wide as she looked around like a wild
horse in the path of a predator — I launched myself at her, both of
us scraping our knees on the concrete walkway.

I have about five inches and at least twenty
pounds on Jennifer. Once I grabbed her, I knew she wasn’t going to
get away from me again. We tussled a bit, but I pulled her arm
behind her back in a half-nelson and began forcing her to her feet
with the upwards pressure on her delicate little arm. My concern
was two-fold at this point: get her away from the cafe before
boyfriend person came back out, while not breaking the girl’s arm.
The funny thing was, I knew in that instant that I
would
have broken her arm to prevent her getting away from me again. I
think she knew it, too, because the struggle seemed to go right out
of her.

“Is everything all right?” The woman’s voice
was cultured, soft. She had come out of the flower shop we’d landed
in front of and her well-made features showed two clear emotions:
fear and genuine concern.

“Call the police!” Jennifer screeched. “This
crazy bitch is trying to kidnap me!”

The woman looked from Jennifer’s wild,
hyper-dilated eyes, to mine with obvious concern. “Sorry to bother
you madam,” I said, trying to sound as controlled as possible. “The
girl is my daughter. She’s been running with a very bad crowd and
I’m just trying to get her home.” I didn’t wait for a reply to
either my words or Jennifer’s blue screams of denial, but started
half dragging, half pushing the girl across the parking lot towards
my car. The woman followed us for a bit.

“Can I help?” she asked, obviously believing
me.

“Yes, please. Can you open the back door of
that silver car right ahead of us?”

Once I was behind the wheel I activated the
childproof locks in the back. I wondered how I was going to manage
driving with a deranged teenage animal in the backseat, but I
needn’t have worried: the fight seemed to go out of her as soon as
the doors were locked. A few beats later Jennifer slumped into a
beaten heap. I looked over my shoulder at her: was she trying to
con me? But no: I could see she’d passed out.