Sweet Little Lies (18 page)

•

Hanson had a headache after reading Geneva Monroe’s rap sheet.

Born in Alabama, she was the middle of seven children. She dropped out of school at the age of thirteen and was fourteen the first time she was arrested for prostitution. She’d spent most of her adult life in jail for everything ranging from drug possession, robbery, fraud, and solicitation.

Mark Monroe had pulled himself up from dirt to become a hotshot sports lawyer—and it could be said—one who married up considerably with Kelly Ross; what would a rich lawyer with a rich wife be doing with a common criminal like Geneva? Why would he jeopardize his career like that? Had they been dating and gotten married because she got pregnant? Did they have some kind of strange addiction to each other? Was he planning to bump off Kelly and take the money and live happily ever after with Geneva? Hanson was now equally determined to not only catch Kelly Ross but also uncover Mark Monroe’s dirty little secrets.

G
eneva sashayed into Harvey Jackson’s office at nine a.m. sharp. She’d had a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs, biscuits, three slabs of bacon, two cups of coffee, and was raring to go. Harvey, however, looked like he’d had one too many bottles of Maalox that morning.

“Hey, Harvey,” Geneva said, cracking her Juicy Fruit gum. “What’s going on, baby? You don’t look so good.”

“I just got some bad news.”

Geneva frowned. “Well, don’t just sit there. What the hell is it?”

“A source of mine inside Chicago PD says Kelly Ross wiped out her personal accounts. Everything’s gone.”

Geneva gave Harvey a puzzled look. “What do you mean ‘gone?’ Where is it?”

He threw up his hands. “The hell if I know. Every single personal account the woman had has dried up. Nowhere to be found.”

Geneva banged her hand down on his wooden desk. “That kind of money doesn’t just up and disappear overnight! Where the hell is it?”

“I just told you, I don’t know. The good thing is, there’s time for the assets to be recovered before we file our lawsuit.” He stopped and looked at Geneva. “I do have some more good news.”

She leaned back against her chair, her arms folded. “It better be damned good.”

“Runway is without leadership. What say we go over there and rattle their cage a little bit?”

A wicked smile curled on Geneva’s lips. “See, Harvey? That’s why I like you. Always looking at the big picture.”

He chuckled. “It is one of my strong suits.” He stood and gathered up his briefcase, giving his Afro a quick pat with his hand.

The pair made their way down to State Street, and Harvey hailed a cab. Runway’s offices were located on the Magnificent Mile, and within minutes, they pulled up in front of the forty-story skyscraper. Harvey threw some money at the cab driver, and he and Geneva got out and headed into the elevator, neither of them saying a word on the ride up. The doors slid open, and they stepped out into the lobby, decorated with sleek, minimalist glass lines, wrought iron, and shiny maple. A tiny blonde receptionist looked up at them and smiled.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, I am Harvey Jackson, and this is my client, Geneva Monroe, and we have a pending suit against this company’s owner, Mrs. Kelly Ross Monroe, and we’ve filed an injunction to cease all operations.”

The receptionist gasped, and Geneva smiled, smug. She looked around the reception area. There was a massive headshot of Kelly hanging over a glass coffee table. Well, that would be the first thing to go.

“Just…just hold on a minute,” the receptionist said as she fumbled for the phone and dialed a few numbers, speaking in hushed, worried tones. She placed the phone back into the cradle.

“Someone will be with you shortly,” she whispered.

A woman strode out within in seconds, dressed in a black pantsuit with leopard stilettos, blonde Farrah wings fluttering behind her as a man dressed in a pink bowtie and navy suit with her worked to match her determined steps. She marched up to Harvey and held out her hand.

“Mr. Jackson? Marcy Chambers and this is Runway’s corporate attorney, Clarence Brown. What seems to be the trouble here?”

Harvey shook Marcy’s hand. “Ms. Chambers, this is my client, Geneva Monroe, and we are in the process of bringing a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the owner of this company, Kelly Ross Monroe, for the wrongful death of Geneva Monroe’s husband, Mark Monroe. We have filed an injunction against this company to cease operations.”

Marcy offered up a sweet smile. “Yes, I believe I heard something about that on the news yesterday.” Marcy looked over Harvey’s shoulder at Geneva. “And wasn’t she arrested last night for identity theft? Kind of funny, isn’t it? Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but as of midnight last night, Kelly Ross Monroe no longer owns this company. As stated in our company bylaws, should Mrs. Monroe be unable to perform her duties as president and CEO, ownership of the company automatically reverts to me, Marcy Chambers, Chief Operating Officer. As Mrs. Monroe is currently unable to perform her duties, I’m in charge. So, you can try and sue me to stop me from running this company, but since your lawsuit deals with Kelly Ross Monroe and her assets…well, I really don’t think you’ll get very far.”

Both Harvey and Geneva’s jaws dropped open, and Clarence slapped a piece a paper in Harvey’s hand and smiled.

“We won’t stand for this! We’ll take
you
to court!” Harvey said.

Marcy put up her hand and shot her index finger in Harvey’s face. “You try and challenge this, and I’ll take
your
ass to court.” She straightened up and smiled again. “Now…if you two will excuse me, I’ve got a cosmetics company to run. Have a good day.”

Marcy crossed her arms, shooting a defiant look at both Harvey and Geneva. “Goddamn her! Goddamn her!” Geneva began to scream.

“Ma’am, if you don’t leave, I’m going to have to call security. Sir, if you would please remove your client from our premises?” Clarence said, his own smug smile spread out over his face.

“Come on, Geneva, let’s go,” Harvey mumbled as he grabbed her arm.

“I’ll be back—she won’t get away with this!” Geneva managed to scream at Marcy and Clarence before Harvey yanked her towards the elevator and hissed at her to be quiet. Harvey jabbed the down button on the panel. The elevator opened, and Harvey hustled Geneva into it.

“You think I’m a let her get away with this?” she yelled once they were headed back downstairs.

“Geneva, please, calm down. Now listen, we’ll head back to my office to talk strategy—”

“You know what, Harvey? I’m tired of talking. Because of that bitch, my husband is dead, I’ve been arrested, and the po-lice can’t find her.” She crossed her arms. “It’s time I took matters in to my own hands.”

•

Marcy let out a breath and grabbed the reception area desk to keep from falling.

“How’d I do?” she asked Clarence.

“You were brilliant. Thank God Kelly called and we were able to drop that little bit of legal language in there.”

“No kidding.” Marcy straightened up, smoothing down the front of her Donna Karan pantsuit. “Well, that’s all the excitement I can handle for one day. Excuse me.”

Marcy turned on her three-inch heels and walked in the direction of her office.

K
elly woke up at four a.m., adrenaline coursing through her veins at breakneck speed. She felt like she used to whenever she was about to do a big show. She placed a plastic cap over her hair and jumped in the shower. She got out and quickly dried off, wincing as the rough white material brushed over her skin. She then pulled out the makeup she’d bought yesterday before she examined her face in the mirror. Three days of junk food along with cheap motel lotion and facial soap had wrecked her skin, as evidenced by the little dry patches she was seeing. She picked up a bottle of foundation that was about a shade darker than what she should wear. She’d always hated foundation. It was goopy, gloppy, got all over everything and, most of the time, just didn’t look natural, mainly because most women had no idea how to apply it. She didn’t carry foundation at her company. Instead, she had created a loose powder that worked just like a foundation, except it didn’t get all over your clothes and fingers, and it made you look like you had flawless skin. It was Runway’s most popular product. Seeing as how Runway was only sold at department stores, she couldn’t exactly go prancing into one for a compact, especially since the entire sales force knew who she was. She was forced to improvise.

So, for today’s purposes, a competitor’s foundation. She had considered getting one of those fake tan products but decided against it. Makeup, she knew; fake tans, she didn’t.

She expertly blended and contoured the foundation into her face and, using long strokes, worked it into her neck as well, including the nape, though that was a little trickier. She used a matte powder to set the look. Quickly, she outlined her lips with a reddish-brown lip liner and matching lipstick and filled them in with a golden honey lip-gloss. She rubbed her lips together several times to blend the colors before kissing a tissue to ensure her handiwork wouldn’t bleed. Kelly picked up the reading glasses she’d bought yesterday and slipped them on. She blinked. She looked completely different from how she’d walked in yesterday.

She looked down at her hands. For the first time since this whole odyssey began, she noticed her wedding ring. It was two diamond eternity bands connected on either side to her engagement ring, a platinum, twelve-carat emerald cut diamond. She held up her hand and watched her rings sparkle in the fluorescent lighting. Carefully, she slipped the set off her finger and dropped them inside the small zippered compartment of her purse, next to the key from Mark’s safe, and zipped the pocket shut. As she walked back into the bathroom, Kelly examined her nails. She’d just gotten a fill on Saturday and, as much as she hated to do it, with some effort clipped her nails short before she removed her pale pink polish. Her long graceful fingers looked foreign with the now-stubby ends. She repeated the same makeover on her hands that she’d performed on her face, making sure to work the makeup past her wrists and to her forearm. She looked in the mirror when she was done.

“Wow,” she whispered as she examined her face from different angles, checking for streaks and irregularities. It was perfect. No one would think she was Kelly Ross, former supermodel. She put on two t-shirts before pulling on a long sleeved black jersey cotton shirt, careful that the sleeves reached the bottom of her wrists. She stepped into a pair of dark jeans and cinched them at the waist with the cheap plastic belt they’d come with. She pulled on a pair of white socks and shoved her feet into some canvas tennis shoes she’d run a razor over and smeared with makeup in an attempt to make them look a little lived in. Following the motto Mark’s secretary, Portia, seemed to live by, she’d bought all the clothes about two sizes too big to disguise her thin frame. Kelly took one last look in the mirror, stunned at the transformation. She really had no idea who this person was.

Shaking herself back to the present, she scurried around the room, making sure she’d removed all evidence of having been there. She scooped up the plastic bag containing her clothes and ponytail and all the hair dye evidence. She sheathed her hands in yellow rubber gloves before she scoured the tub with some Ajax and a scrub sponge she’d bought to make sure there were no traces of black dye in the tub. She took the towels she’d used and dumped those in the plastic bag as well. She did a quick touchup job on her hands and face before taking one final look around, satisfied she had everything. She gathered up her purse and keys and slowly opened the door of the room.

I
t was still dark outside, and hardly anyone was out on the street. Kelly jogged over to her car and got in. She’d dump everything once she got where she was going. She’d looked in the phonebook the night before and found there was a Kinko’s in the Marriott on Higgins Road. She pulled into the parking lot, ran inside the lobby, and found it. She logged onto a computer, called up the American Airlines Web site and, using her AMEX, purchased a ticket for New York, leaving that morning at seven-fifteen. She then called up the Continental site and purchased a ticket for Miami, leaving at eight-twelve. A United flight to L.A. was leaving at nine and, because she liked round numbers, she bought a fourth ticket from Delta to San Francisco leaving at ten-thirty. She printed out the four itineraries and left, tossing the plastic bag in a trashcan in the lobby.

She got back in her car, hopped on the Kennedy, and started driving alongside the Blue Line. Rush hour was just starting, and Kelly kept glancing at the clock in the dash, her nerves stretched as taut as guitar strings. Finally, she exited, parking in a residential neighborhood near the Harlem station. She opened the glove compartment and threw the phone inside before she grabbed her purse and the large canvas tote she’d bought to schlep all her Wal-Mart purchases in, along with all of the financial papers she’d retrieved from Mark’s office.

Clutching her bags, she sprinted to the station, purchased an El card, and made her way down to the platform to wait for the train to take her to O’Hare. She arrived and blended in with all the other early morning travelers. She walked briskly to terminal three where American was located. She went to the ticket kiosk and checked in for the first flight. Kelly proceeded to three more terminals and checked in for three more flights. No TSA agent came running over to pull her off to the side, no alarms went off, no airline ticket agent came over to detain her.

Her luck held.

By the time the police figured out those ticket purchases were bogus, she’d be long gone.

She hoped.

Kelly ran outside and caught a cab for Union Station. She paid cash for a train ticket to New Orleans leaving at eight-thirty. She walked right by several cops, and none of them paid her any attention. She grabbed a muffin to nibble on, then went to the bathroom where she stayed in a stall right up until it was time for her to board the train. The train was running express to New Orleans and was supposed to arrive late afternoon, early evening. She’d purchased a club car berth and locked the door. Exhausted, she watched the scenery of the country whiz by her at a dizzying pace, not really seeing any of it. Kelly chewed on her newly short nails and thought to herself how relieved she would be when this was all over.