The Pact (24 page)

D
awn had fully broken by the time I made my way back down the stairs, dressed in an old pair of Levi’s and a sweater against the early morning chill. I’d felt more than a little bit cranky as I searched my bag for something fresh to wear. It would have been nice if Peter had planned ahead a bit better. Why couldn’t he have arranged to kill Richard in New York? It would have been easier to divert suspicion from himself in a city of eight million people, not to mention a lot more convenient for those of us who were stuck here for the weekend with a limited set of wardrobe options.

It was hard to believe that it had been barely twenty-four hours since I’d come into the kitchen in desperate search of some orange juice with which to address a hangover, filled with dread in anticipation of a wedding that would never take place. Much less that it had been merely six hours since I had started mentally planning my own wedding to Peter, complete with seating charts and color schemes.

I was sleep-deprived and grouchy from the emotional roller-coaster of the last several hours. Perhaps it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but it didn’t seem fair that I was only allowed to love for the short time between Peter confessing his love for me and discovering that he was a murderer.

The kitchen was empty, and when I saw the phone on the wall it occurred to me that I should check my voice mail, but I sent that thought packing as soon as it slithered into my conscious mind. I didn’t have the stomach right now for more urgent messages from Stan waxing enthusiastic about the Smitty Hamilton deal and detailing the list of tasks he wanted me to get done in advance of our Monday morning meeting. I was too depressed already, although getting the deal done would surely be a lot easier with the CEO of the takeover target locked up behind bars.

There was coffee brewed, but the very thought set my stomach churning, so I took a chilled Diet Coke from the refrigerator and made my way out to the porch. I drew up short when I saw Luisa and Hilary huddled in a pair of wicker chairs, their heads close together. I didn’t feel ready for socializing quite yet, but I forced myself to announce my presence with as cheery a “Good morning” as I could muster.

“Hey, Rach, the next time you call in O’Donnell, could you at least give me a little advance warning so I could brush my hair or something before he arrives?” said Hilary by way of greeting.

“Sorry, Hil. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly. So, what was it like?” asked Hilary.

My synapses were fried from my sleepless, angst-infused night. I looked at her blankly. “What?” I asked. “What was what like?”

“Sex with a felon, of course,” said Hilary.

“Hilary, be good. Rachel had a rough night.” Luisa scolded her halfheartedly and then smiled up at me. She was dressed in slim navy pants and a sleeveless white sweater, her hair neatly pulled back into its trademark chignon. Twin spirals of steam and smoke rose from her coffee and her cigarette, respectively. “How are you?” she inquired in a sympathetic tone.

“As well as can be expected,” I answered. “And, just for the record, I didn’t sleep with him,” I added with a pointed glare in Hilary’s direction. She crossed her long legs, which were completely bare except where they met her cropped shorts. I sank into an empty chair.

“So what
did
you do?” she asked, uncowed.

“We made out. That’s all, Hil.”

“Just kissing? That’s it?” Hilary made no effort to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“That’s it. Sorry.”

“What’s his problem?” asked Hilary. “Didn’t he want to sleep with you?”

“Of course he did,” I answered. “We just thought we shouldn’t rush into anything. Which was just as well, given how things have turned out.”

Hilary didn’t buy that. She had no point of reference for not rushing into sex. “Maybe he’s gay,” she mused.

“If so, he does a masterly imitation of a heterosexual,” I replied, only a tiny bit indignant. “Almost as masterly as his imitation of somebody who doesn’t go around murdering his oldest friends,” I added bitterly.

“Lay off her, Hil,” said Jane, who’d come out onto the porch and joined us. She perched on the arm of my chair.

“Yes, Hilary. Lay off,” said Luisa.

“No offense meant. I was just curious,” said Hilary.

“Right,” I said, popping open the can of soda.

“Okay, if I’m not allowed to ask about the sex, am I at least allowed to ask about what made you blow the whistle on Peter?” she continued.

“Yes,” asked Jane. “What did you find out, Rach? I’m completely shocked. Peter seemed so nice. I mean, Sean and I were a bit suspicious of what might have happened to you out at the beach, but we never really thought Peter could have done anything like that.”

“Like what?” asked Hilary. “What are you talking about?”

I quickly filled her and Luisa in on my head’s encounter with a blunt object. Then I told them all about finding the splinter in my hair that had convinced me I’d actually been attacked.

“And you think it was Peter? He hit you with an oar?” Luisa sounded incredulous, but her natural speaking voice was usually laced with skepticism anyhow.

“I guess so. I think he realized that I would find out soon enough that his company was the target of a takeover and that I would put two and two together. He was talking about how hard it was to find cash to keep his company going, and I mentioned that I was working on a takeover of a tech startup.” I told them about finding the faxes as well, the one he’d sent, talking about having secured financing, and the one I’d received about Hamilton Tech’s launching a hostile takeover of his company. And then I told them what I hadn’t told O’Donnell, about the steps of someone in the hallway and the turning doorknob.

They all had questions, especially Hilary, who was particularly curious about whether or not O’Donnell slept alone. She was pleased to hear about the use of the first-person singular on his answering machine.

“That’s outrageous,” said Jane after I concluded my tale of sleuthing and woe. “Killing someone for money. I would never have guessed Peter could be capable of such a thing.”

“Well, neither did I until I found the evidence.”

“That fax sounds like it was pretty damning,” said Luisa.

“It was. And then when he tried to break into my room…” My voice trailed off as I stifled a shudder.

“What a treacherous weasel,” mused Hilary. This was as close to sympathy as I could expect from her.

“It’s so sad,” said Jane. “I had high hopes for the two of you. I thought you’d be such a good match.”

“At least I figured it out before we were married with three kids, a joint checking account and a mortgage,” I said, trying to comfort myself. The cycle time on my relationships was getting shorter and shorter.

“I’m surprised by how he did it, though,” said Jane.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you’d have to be pretty stupid to think that the police would buy the accident scenario. The authorities were going to find out sooner or later that Richard was drugged or poisoned and then shoved into the pool. Anybody who watches
Law & Order
or reads any sort of crime novels would have to know that they’d do an autopsy and find out that he hadn’t just drowned,” she pointed out. “I guess I judged Peter all wrong, but he didn’t seem like he could be that naive.”

“That’s not naive,” protested Hilary. “I, for example, never watch
Law & Order.
I don’t think it’s syndicated overseas.”

“Nor do I,” said Luisa. Her tone was defensive. “We don’t get it at home.”

“Relax,” Jane said. “What’s the big deal? It’s Peter I’m insulting, not the two of you.”

Luisa looked at Hilary. “I thought you told them.”

“No, just Rachel. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Jane.”

“Well, Jane should know, too.”

“You’re right. Here’s the thing,” began Hilary.

“Oh, no,” interrupted Jane, holding her hands up in front of her as if to ward off evil. “I don’t know if I want to hear this.” I didn’t say anything. I was enjoying seeing Hilary on the hot seat after the ribbing she’d given me.

“Don’t be silly, Jane. You know we didn’t kill him,” said Luisa. “What are you so worried about?”

“I don’t know, but it scares me to think about what the two of you could get up to when nobody’s watching.”

Hilary told Jane the story she’d told me, about how she and Luisa had found Richard dead and pushed him in the pool in a misguided attempt to safeguard Emma.

“So,” I said to Jane, “that’s one question answered. Peter wasn’t stupid enough to try to pass the entire thing off as a drowning. But the two of them were.”

“What else should we have done?” demanded Hilary. “We didn’t think it was Emma, but it didn’t look good. We were just trying to protect her. You’ll have to excuse us if we don’t spend as much time watching silly TV shows and reading trashy novels as the two of you.”

“It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time,” added Luisa, somewhat sheepishly.

Then I realized something else. “You also managed to destroy the evidence that would have proved beyond a doubt that Peter did it,” I said, referring to the glasses, which had probably had Peter’s fingerprints on one and the dregs of Richard’s tainted last drink in the other.

“We didn’t know that at the time,” said Hilary. “And, fortunately, you figured it out anyhow.”

“True,” I said. At least I could congratulate myself on that front. But an undefined something continued to worry me. It was sort of like the feeling you get that you may have left the iron on, because you can’t remember, precisely, turning the iron off. At least, I assumed it was the same sort of feeling. Personally, I didn’t own an iron. There seemed to be no point to engaging in such undertakings when there was a perfectly nice dry cleaning establishment on the corner of Seventy-Seventh and Lexington that pressed my clothes beautifully and then delivered them right to my door.

“So, it’s all wrapped up now,” said Luisa. “With no harm—at least, no serious harm, to Emma. Even though all of the evidence is circumstantial at this point, the police will probably find something more tangible now that they know which direction to look.”

“But, poor Rachel,” said Jane. “I was so convinced that Peter was Mr. Right.”

“Let’s just remember about all of the other Mr. Rights,” I said, trying to be stoic about the matter. “At least this one was unmasked before I’d used up any hard-earned frequent flyer miles jetting out to San Francisco to visit him.”

“But I felt so good about him,” continued Jane, her brow furrowed. “He seemed so perfect for you.”

“You’re not making me feel any better,” I countered.

“Perfect is as perfect does,” said Hilary.

“That’s a completely inane thing to say,” said Luisa.

“I guess so,” she replied. “I couldn’t come up with a good cliché. But stop your fretting, Rach. It will give you wrinkles.”

“That’s not making me feel any better, either,” I said grumpily. “I’m doomed. I’m going to die an old maid.”

“Better an old maid than a murderer’s accomplice,” said Jane.

“That’s easy for you to say,” I replied sadly.

W
e sat out on the porch talking for a while, my friends doing their best to soothe my battered heart. They’d had lots of practice over the years, but I was too tired and shell-shocked to feel anything but bleak. Eventually I excused myself. I might as well go do some work, I told them. I was going to be miserable no matter how I spent my time. It wasn’t as if anything could darken my mood further at this point.

I trudged up the stairs to the second floor, retrieved my heavy briefcase from Emma’s room and padded down the hallway to Mr. Furlong’s study. Resigned, I seated myself behind the sturdy walnut desk and began sorting documents and files. Immediately I gave myself a nasty paper cut, drawing a thin line of red blood on my index finger. Par for the course, I reflected irritably, just another battle wound to add to the others I’d racked up that weekend.

Usually, burying myself in work was a sure way to make me feel as if I were in control of my life. I was good at what I did, even if I wasn’t much good at anything else. Dissecting tangled financial statements, crafting intricate negotiating strategies, structuring complex mergers—all these activities usually gave me a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. Today, however, I merely felt like a gerbil caught in a Habitrail, scampering through a maze of tunnels and treadmills that I’d traveled before and would travel again and again, with nothing exciting or unexpected to look forward to.

I desperately needed a pep talk, but my well of pep, never the deepest of inner resources, was entirely depleted. Instead, I forced myself to call into the office and clear the voice mails that had accumulated since I’d last checked in. As expected, there were several from Stan, detailing how he thought we should handle our meeting with Smitty Hamilton the next day, along with assorted pithy thoughts on other deals we had underway. I took careful notes before deleting the messages.

The takeover of a privately held company was a far easier task than the takeover of a public company. We wouldn’t have to worry about tender offers or proxy fights. And a hostile acquisition of Peter’s company looked indeed to be a piece of cake, much as Stan had claimed. Once Peter defaulted on the loan his company had outstanding, all Hamilton Tech had to do was purchase the note to gain control. Given that Smitty Hamilton had already initiated discussions with the bank in question, and given that the bank would be relieved to sell the note rather than trying to liquidate the company to recover its loss, all that was left for Winslow, Brown to do was facilitate the negotiations and help Hamilton Tech secure the best possible price on the deal. That the CEO of the target company was a felon was unlikely to complicate the situation significantly; if anything, it would make our job a lot easier.

I quickly drafted some documents for the meeting, writing in longhand on a legal pad. First, I created an agenda listing the topics we needed to cover. For our own background, we would require a thorough record of the discussions Hamilton Tech had already had. Then we would need to craft a negotiating strategy and a plan for how the acquired company would be integrated into Hamilton Tech’s existing corporate structure. We would also have to develop a list of questions to probe in the due diligence phase and set up the actual due diligence process. Next, I took a copy of the template for an engagement letter, the document by which a client officially retained Winslow, Brown and agreed to pay for services rendered. I tailored the wording as appropriate for the transaction, being sure to specify a hefty fee and trying not to think too hard about the fact that I actually had a client, a grown man nonetheless, named Smitty.

I called OS to let Cora know that I’d be faxing the pages in to be typed up by the word processing department, asking her to fax back the finished product so I could check for any mistakes. She assured me that she’d take care of everything right away. I loaded the pages onto the machine and sent them through, remembering as I did that I still hadn’t recovered my locket. I resolved to go back to the beach and find it as soon as I received the faxed pages back from Cora.

I had some more busywork to occupy myself—there were other deals underway that I had to review, a performance evaluation that needed to be written for an associate on one of my teams, a presentation that I was expected to put together regarding the department’s plan for recruiting new MBAs for the upcoming year—but I didn’t have the heart or the concentration for any of those tasks. After several minutes of staring blankly into space, I turned my attention to the bookshelves, looking for something to distract myself while I waited for Cora to fax back the typed-up documents.

None of the titles seemed to be calling out my name, so I found myself returning to the retrospective of Jacob’s work that I’d looked at the previous day. I’d curled up on the sofa and was idly turning the shiny pages with their vivid illustrations when I heard the fax hum into motion. I was pleased; I guessed that Cora had kicked my work to the front of the queue. Even so, the speed with which it had been completed was unprecedented. I crossed over to the fax machine and took the pages from the output tray. I grabbed a pen and sat back down on the sofa to read everything over, using the book I’d been leafing through as a hard surface on which to write.

But it was with an eerie sense of déjà vu that I realized that the fax wasn’t for me.

I did have a brief pang of guilt; after all, it was reading other people’s faxes that had only so recently made such a jumble of my love life. However, another part of me pointed out, it was a blessing I had snooped before—otherwise I’d probably still be snuggling up to a criminal. I was in for a penny already—I might as well be in for a pound, I reasoned. So, with some trepidation, I read on.

The cover sheet was addressed to Peter and on the stationery of a hotel in Katmandu. This had to be a joke, was my first thought. Did they even have hotels in Katmandu? Much less fax machines? Where was Katmandu, anyhow? It seemed like it should be near Timbuktu, or Kalamazoo. According to the address, however, it was in Nepal. Was Peter doing business with the Nepalese Mafia? I wouldn’t put it past him, assuming there was such a thing.

I was flipping to the next page when I did a double take. I rubbed my eyes to make sure that my vision was clear. Just in case Katmandu seemed too far-fetched, in the space for the sender’s name were two words: Sam Slattery.

Sam Slattery? I nearly said the name aloud in a combination of awe and disbelief. Could it be
the
Sam Slattery? The man who was to technology what Warren Buffett was to investing? The savvy entrepreneur, venture capitalist, and mysterious recluse who made Bill Gates look like a pathetic also-ran? Sam Slattery was a legend, a pillar, a god. Companies he had funded from mere seedlings now made up half the value of the NASDAQ, practically. His touch was better than that of Midas when it came to startups. Whereas most venture capitalists were like lemmings, jumping onto whichever bandwagon was most trendy at any given moment—e-commerce, optical networking or biotech—Slattery was known for ferreting out revolutionary technology companies that delivered real value.

My trembling hands caused the fax to shake as I turned to the second, and only other, page. It was a handwritten note, printed in bold, block letters.

I read it over again. And again. But the words stayed the same, and their implication was only too clear. Peter hadn’t been counting on Richard’s money to keep his company afloat. He had someone much better lined up, and he’d known that on Friday, way before Richard had been murdered. I let the pages fall to the floor and buried my head in my hands.

A mean little voice inside my head was singing a jubilant chorus of I-told-you-sos. Another voice was singing with joy that Peter was innocent. Yet another was moaning in pain. The three-part medley was a discordant cacophony.

Could Peter ever forgive me? There was no reason he should. What a complete and utter fool I’d been. And what a mess I’d created, the mean little voice chimed in.

Poor Peter had been dragged out of his bed and hauled off to the police station, all because I’d leaped to conclusions. I’d roused O’Donnell and Paterson in the middle of the night to send them chasing after a false lead. I’d told my friends that Peter had attacked me and left me for dead, something he clearly had no reason to do. And the worst of it was that I’d definitely ruined any chance of a successful relationship. He’d hardly be feeling too affectionate toward me when the police brought him back, as they undoubtedly would once they’d heard his explanation. Unless the fax I held was a clever forgery of some sort, which seemed unlikely.

I lifted my head from my hands and groaned aloud. “Good Lord,” I cried. “Rachel, you are a moron. A dense, brainless, imbecilic, irrational moron.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I think you’re cute.”

This time I couldn’t help it. I shrieked, a pathetic, girly shriek. As if I’d seen a mouse, or been pinched in an unseemly place on the crowded Lexington Avenue subway.

I vaulted up from the sofa and whirled around to face Peter. All my embarrassment and self-recriminations were temporarily forgotten. Anybody would be justified in suspecting that a man who insisted on sneaking up on people like this could be a murderer. Self-righteous indignation coursed through my veins.

“Why—why,” I spluttered. “Why is it that you can’t enter a room like a normal person? Have you ever considered knocking? Or perhaps clearing your throat to announce your presence? I’ve had it with you! You should be belled! Belled like a cat, so that you can’t sneak up on unsuspecting birds!”

Peter didn’t even have the grace to look abashed. Instead, he just grinned. “Let me get this straight. I’m a cat and you’re a bird? Now, were you thinking Sylvester and Tweety? Because, I certainly have the wrong coloring, and Tweety most definitely was not a redhead.”

“You planned this!” I accused him. “You plan it every time. What’s with all of your sneaking around? Is it some sort of West Coast mating ritual? Instead of flowers and chocolates, you creep up on unsuspecting females, trying to startle their wits out of them so you can see how they look when panicked?”

“You’re very attractive when panicked,” he assured me, seating himself on the edge of the desk. “But what’s with the paranoia?” Typical male. He looked so confident, so entirely charming, that I wasn’t sure if, when I lunged toward him, I wanted to kiss him or slap him.

Fortunately, he answered that question for me. He kissed even better in the morning than he did at night. I was glad I’d taken the time to brush my teeth.

“You’re a bit edgy sometimes, aren’t you?” he asked, some moments later.

“Only when caught unawares,” I replied with what little dignity I could muster, detaching his hands from around my waist.

“So, even though you’re not apologizing profusely, I guess I’ll forgive you,” said Peter. “I’m sure you’ll get around to saying you’re sorry at some point.”

A hot blush spread across every inch of exposed skin. “Oh, dear,” I said.

“It’s okay. I know you saw the fax, and I assume that you read it. It’s the only explanation as to why you went from hot to cold on me in the space of a couple of hours last night and then called the police. You saw the fax, and you thought I’d killed Richard for his money. If I were you, I would have come to the same conclusion. It would have been nice if you’d given me a chance to explain, or at least waited a few more hours to call the police, of course, so that we could have all gotten a bit more sleep.”

I sank down onto the sofa. “Peter—” I began, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. It’s just that I didn’t know what to think. And, I’ve made so many mistakes before when it came to men. Even though my gut was telling me that you couldn’t be guilty—”

He interrupted me. “It’s all right. I completely understand. Besides—won’t this make a great story for the grandkids? How grandma thought grandpa was a murderer when they first met?” He sat down beside me and touched my cheek lightly with his hand.

“Let’s not worry about the grandkids just yet,” I said, as he leaned in to kiss me.

“So,” he asked when we came up for air, “even though I’ve explained everything to the police, why are you so suddenly convinced of my innocence? At least, I’m assuming you’re convinced since you’re willing to let me touch you.”

“Very willing,” I confessed, shamefaced.

“But I haven’t explained a thing to you. I tried to come tell you everything last night, but your door was locked.”

I remembered with a pang the terror I’d felt when I saw the doorknob turning. “Is that what you were doing? I—I thought you were coming to…” I was too embarrassed to complete my sentence.