Rosato and Associates: Legal Tender Part 15

She looked at Mr. Zoeller, who looked at his fingernails. "Gus? Should I?"

He turned his fist over, making her wait.

Tick, tick, tick.

"Gus?" she asked again, and it occurred to me there are many forms of domestic abuse. "Honey?"

"Up to you. He's your son."

She turned back to me. "More coffee, dear?"

"I'd love some," I said.

And she smiled.

Tick.

Chapter 20.

I got back in the bananamobile with my written directions and Mrs. Zoeller's homemade map. Bill was holed up in a cabin his uncle owned and kept for hunting. The Zoellers thought it was untraceable to them and also that Bill hadn't told Eileen about it. I wasn't so sure. I had to believe Eileen knew about it, and had maybe even been there. A young man and a young girl, not shacking up in a shack? This was still America, wasn't it?

I studied the map. The cabin was at the G.o.dforsaken frontier of the state, probably seven hours north of here and as far west as Pittsburgh. I needed gas, food, and more coffee. I ended up getting it at a minimart far from the Zoellers' farm, in case there were any cops around.

"Nice car, Jamie," said the teenaged attendant, who also sold me two bloated hot dogs.

"Jamie?"

"Your license plate."

"Oh. Right." I kept my head down, hurried back to the car, and took off.

I drove through tunnels blasted out of stony mountains and around corkscrew highways carved into gra.s.sy hills. It began to rain, and I sped by strip mall after wet strip mall. By the time I had gulped down the hot dogs and terrible coffee it was the worst storm the radio disc jockey had ever seen. Thunder rumbled in the western sky and my stomach rumbled, too, but not from the provisions. Finally I couldn't stand it anymore and made a call on my cell phone.

"Is she okay?" I asked, when Hattie picked up.

"What? Bennie? Is that you?"

"Yes. Is she okay?" Gray rainwater pounded on the winds.h.i.+eld. Between the storm and the static, we could barely hear each other.

"She's fine! Fine!"

"When does she have the ECT?" The signal broke completely, and I waited for the crackling to subside.

"-Sat.u.r.day morning, eleven o'clock! Bennie? You there? You okay?"

More crackling. It was maddening. When it stopped I yelled, "Why so soon? Can't it wait until I'm there?"

"You worry about yourself! Your momma's fine!"

"Make them wait, Hattie! You can't do it alone!"

"She can't wait!" she shouted, before the signal broke for the last time.

It was inconceivable that cops had followed me here, I couldn't have followed myself here. I was utterly and completely lost. I sat in the bananamobile with the ignition off and the car light on. Rain pelted the roof, and I turned the homemade map this way and that. As best I could tell, I was in the middle of the woods, in the dark, in a thunderstorm.

There were no streetlights in the magic forest because there were no streets, just skinny, unmarked roads that snaked through the woods. I'd pa.s.sed a nature preserve an hour ago, but since then the roads meandered around forgotten ponds and alongside endless stretches of trees. Trees were even less help than corn, and they all looked the same. Brown with green at the top. I wished for a match.

I grabbed the Keystone AAA map I'd found in the glove box and held it next to Mrs. Zoeller's map. I would've called her if not for the cell phone records. I didn't want to leave a paper trail, especially one consistent with the cops' theory of me as Eileen and Bill's accomplice. Besides, I should be able to figure this out myself. I stared at one map, then the other. d.a.m.n. I should be close.

f.u.c.k it. I felt like I was close; I'd rather drive around and find it. I threw the maps on the mustardy hot dog wrappers, snapped off the light, and slammed the car into reverse. When I clicked on the high beams, they shone on a tiny sign through the trees. 149. What? I rubbed a hole in the foggy winds.h.i.+eld with the side of my hand. 149 Cogan Road. That was it! The cabin. Holy s.h.i.+t!

I turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car, covering myself with an Eddie Vedder CD. Rain spattered through the tree branches and onto my suit. I tramped through the underbrush in leather pumps, finding my way in the darkness with an outstretched hand. If I planned ahead I would've kept the headlights on, but if I planned ahead I wouldn't be wanted for a double murder.

Light shone like a yellow square from the cabin through the trees, guiding me as I trudged on. Luckily there were no creepy animal noises. I like my wildlife on leashes, with faces you can kiss. I picked up the pace and b.u.mped into a branch, pouring rainwater onto my padded shoulder.

s.h.i.+t. I stepped over a fallen log, shoes soggy and shrinking at the toe. I was in sight of the cabin, but could make out only its outline. The block of light looked bigger, closer. I slogged through mud and wet leaves and in ten minutes arrived at a clearing. There it was. The cabin. It was made of wood, weathered and ramshackle, and stood one story tall and barely twenty-five feet wide.

My heart lifted. I would see Bill and get to the bottom of this. I went to the door, also of wood and bearing a Z brace it clearly needed. I stepped on the ratty doormat and knocked.

"Bill?" I called softly, too paranoid to shout even in Timbuktu. There was no answer.

"It's Bennie. Let me in." I knocked again, louder this time. Again, no answer.

"Your mom sent me. I want to help you." I reached for the doork.n.o.b, but there wasn't one, just a metal latch and hook that had rusted years ago. I gathered security wasn't an issue up here in the wholesomeness.

I pressed open the door. Suddenly, something clawed at my ankle. "Aaah!" I yelped. I flailed and shook it off. The CD clattered to the ground.

"Miaow!" came a thin, high screech, and I looked down. Cowering in the yellow slice of light from the room was a tan kitten with a spiny back. Jesus. I swallowed hard, picked up the kitten, and told my heart to stop pounding. I went through the door and inside the cabin.

"Bill, look what the cat dragged in," I called out, but there wasn't a sound except for the rain's patter on the roof. I stood motionless in the living room, which was empty and still. It contained a tattered couch, a lamp with a dim bulb, and a spartan galley kitchen. Hunting fatigues hung on an industrial rack against the wall. There was no TV, phone, or radio. Bill was nowhere in sight. n.o.body was. Nothing looked out of order, but I was getting the creeps.

"Miaow?" The kitten jumped from my arms, her tail curled like a question mark.

"Don't ask me, cat."

The kitten padded into a dark adjoining room I presumed was the bedroom. I followed, edgy, and groped on the bedroom wall for a light switch.

I flicked it on and gasped. The sight was horrifying. There, stretched out on the bed in shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt, was Bill.

Dead.

Chapter 21.

Bill's eyes were wide open in a face that looked frozen, and his skin had the unmistakable gray-white of a corpse. Blood caked in a parched river from his nose and dried over his child's freckles, staining his s.h.i.+rt brown and soaking stiff a shabby plaid bedspread. I couldn't believe my eyes, even as they moved down his body.

A twisted pink balloon was wrapped around his upper arm like a tourniquet. It was jarringly out of place, cheery and bright, next to a lethal syringe still stuck in the crook of his arm. The balloon was still taut, so Bill's forearm was the only part of his body that had blood in it. It was red and grotesquely swollen to the size of a club, rendering his fingers shapeless and puffy. Lying beside him on the bed was a plastic Baggie.

I backed against the bedroom door. My eyes smarted but I couldn't look away. Bill, on drugs? An overdose? Was it possible?

"Miaow?" asked the kitten. It had jumped to the bed and was futilely rubbing against Bill's too-pale leg.

Bill hadn't been the type to do drugs. Had he just become despondent, or made a mistake? Maybe whatever happened with Eileen and the CEO had set him off. I remembered Mrs. Zoeller. Bill was her only child. If only I'd gotten here sooner. If only I hadn't gotten lost.

Why had he died?

I forced my brain to function. I flashed on Bill at the station house, his arms flabby and white in his jumpsuit. Weren't his arms clean when I saw them? I'd had a client, a former heroin addict, and he'd showed me his arms once. They were so b.u.mpy with scar tissue they looked like Amtrak's eastern corridor.

"Miaow?" said the cat, pacing back and forth on the bed.

I fought back my emotions and leaned over Bill's body, catching a scent of blood and feces. His arms lay stiff at his sides, and I squinted at them. No needle tracks on either one. It didn't make sense. Was it the first time Bill had tried heroin? How likely was that? What about Eileen, did she have something to do with this? Who else did Bill know?

"Miaow!"

I looked around the bedroom. There was a bare night table and a cheap dresser with some paperbacks on top, next to an Ace comb. There was no sign to reveal what had happened. Beyond the dresser was the bathroom, and I crossed to it and peered inside. A tube of toothpaste and one of Clearasil sat on the tiny, dirty sink. There was no medicine chest, just a toilet and an old frameless mirror, its silvering wrinkled.

I faced the bedroom and poor Bill's body on the bed. My heart felt heavy, my chest tight. From all outward appearances, he had sat at the end of the bed, mixed himself his first hit of heroin, then flopped backwards, dead of an overdose.

"Miaow! Miaow!"

"Oh, shut up," I shouted at the animal, instantly regretting it. It was Bill's, after all. I picked it up from the bed. It felt frail and bony, but I found myself hugging it. It gave more comfort than I expected, or knew I needed. I took one last look at Bill and a fruitless look around the cabin, then retrieved the CD and left.

I struggled back through the woods with the kitten's flimsy claws stuck in my suit. Rain drenched us until I finally got a bead on the glow-in-the-dark Camaro. I headed toward it herky-jerky, confused and distracted, thinking about Bill. I'd have to call Mrs. Zoeller. To h.e.l.l with my cell phone records, her son was dead. I dreaded how she'd take the news. I reached the car, pried the kitten off, and dialed the Zoellers.

"Murderer!" she screamed, as soon as I told her.

"What?" I asked, stunned.

"Murderer!" It came out like a scream of anguish.

"No-"

"You killed him! Bill? Bill? Oh G.o.d, Bill!"

"No, wait. I didn't kill him, n.o.body killed him. He overdosed, I saw the needle!"

"Overdosed? Bill never took drugs a day in his life! Never! You killed him and made it look like he did drugs!"

"No! He must have-"

"Never! With a needle? Never!" She burst into sobs. "Bill fainted ... when he saw blood, all his life! They couldn't ... put anything in his arm without him lying down first, even the school nurse!"

My heart stopped in the cold, dark car. She was confirming something I hadn't allowed myself to suspect. Mark murdered and now Bill? Where did the CEO fit in? I felt sick inside.

"His stepfather always called him a ... sissy on account of it, but he wasn't! He wasn't! You killed him! You said you were going to help him but you went up there to ... to ... kill him!"

"Mrs. Zoeller, why would I do that? It makes no sense!"

"Bill knew you killed that company president! He was gonna tell the police ... and you killed him! Gus? Gus, call the police! Call 911!"

I hung up the phone, my hand shaking. I slammed the car key into the ignition and roared out of there.

I had to get away. Fast. Faster. I careened through the woods, tearing up the road I hoped led out. My high beams swung in an arc on wet tree trunks as I took the curves. In time the dirt and rocks under my tires turned to asphalt and I was rolling. Out of the woods. Gone. The rearview was clear and the hammer to the floor.

The next few hours were a dark blur of rain and fear as I sped down the slick highway. I watched the rearview for cops, trying to wrap my mind around what I'd seen and heard. Bill fainted at the sight of blood and there were no needle tracks in his arms. It was a murder set up to look like an overdose. Who had done it? Was it connected to Mark? I sensed it was, but didn't know how. It made me more determined than ever to find out what was going on.

I clicked on the car radio for the news. Would they announce the murder? They didn't have enough to charge me with, did they? I accelerated despite the yellow caution signs. I knew where I was going, I had decided almost as soon as I started the car. I'd felt out of place the whole time I'd been out west. The country, the woods, inland. I got lost out here. I didn't fit in, with my tailored suit and pumps. I was out of my element, a rower out of water.

I needed to get back to Philly. It was the most risky place for me, but it was also the only place I had any leverage. I'd lived there all my life. Knew its neighborhoods, its ways, its accents. I could disappear there, I knew how. What place is more anonymous than a city? What person more forgettable than a lawyer in a suit?

Going where the weather suits my clothes. I drove into the night and the storm and the fear, Midnight Cowboy with an att.i.tude.

Chapter 22.

It was 6:15, Friday morning. I had driven all night.

I took inventory in the underground parking garage of the Silver Bullet building. My hair, suit, and shoes were dry. I had a briefcase, a cell phone, and a kitten. Also a master plan.

I finger-combed my new hair, threw on some eye makeup, and grabbed my phone and briefcase. "Wish me luck," I said to the kitten, who didn't. I shut and locked the car door.

6:20. I knew the rhythms of the Silver Bullet from my days at Groan & Waste. The security guard would be at the desk upstairs, his s.h.i.+ft started at six o'clock. I reached the elevator bank and punched the up b.u.t.ton. I'd have to stop at the lobby floor and sign in, since the elevators didn't go all the way up. The guard would be the first test of my redheaded persona.

I stepped into the elevator and when it let me out I took a deep breath and entered the lobby like I was sleepwalking, which wasn't much of a stretch.

"Miss!" called the guard. A young black man with handsome features, he was sitting behind the front desk.

"Yes?" I turned in character, looking confused, exhausted, and beleaguered. In other words, the typical oppressed a.s.sociate in a major law firm.

"You have to sign the book." He waved at a notebook on the desk.

"Oh, sorry." I walked over and dragged my heels loudly on the white marble floor. The desk was also of white marble and surrounded the guard like a corporate cavern. On the cave walls were the scratchings of modern man: flickering security screens and a computer directory for the building. I wouldn't be on it; I'd have to fix that when I got upstairs. "I'm not awake yet," I said sleepily. "Got a pen?"