Brainstorm (19 page)

My office was no longer a crime scene, so I decided to drive
over and take a peek at the upstairs, to see what it looked like, after the
police had torn up the floor. The route was ingrained in my muscle memory, so
even though my mind was going in a hundred different directions, I soon found
myself pulling into my parking space.

Yellow tape, with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS printed on it,
sagged across the front of the building and I ducked under it, unlocked the
door, and went in. An eerie quiet welcomed me. A layer of dust had settled over
everything, and the air smelled old and musty; I opened the windows and turned
on the ceiling fan. On the way up the stairs, I stopped in front of the small
window; I could almost feel Carl’s breath on my neck, his gun in my back.

I hurried the rest of the way up, wanting to get away
from the horrible memory, but then slowed, as I started down the hall toward
the room where the money had been stashed; the room Harley and I had slept in
while I harbored her from Carl. As I stood in the doorway, I was filled with
frustration at what had gone on in this room while I was oblivious. And what
made it worse, was that I had contributed! Those thugs had never had to worry
about their precious money; they’d had me on their team! Carl had hidden it
under the floorboards, and I’d paid good money to cover up his handiwork with
carpet.
What a joke!
I wondered how
often Harley had laughed about it, behind my back. What a fool she must have
taken me for.

At least a quarter of the floorboards had been pried up
and cast aside; the room was strewn with everything from full boards to
splinters of old, dry wood. From the looks of it, the demolition had been in
progress for a while, before I’d been able to point them in the right
direction.

I tried to picture Harley pulling up the carpet, removing
the floorboards, taking out the cash, replacing the wood and the carpet, and
hauling the three million dollars away; a big job, no matter how you looked at
it. When, exactly, had she pulled off the second robbery of the same damn
money? In the dead of night? And where had she kept it? In those suitcases the
whole time? She had to have kept them in a storage facility; she certainly
didn’t have them with her the day she left for Carrie’s.

Feeling a chill, I rubbed my arms. What was it Harley had
said back in California? She said she
had
the money. She didn’t say she
took
the money. I thought I might be quibbling over words, but the question
lingered. If I was confessing to the theft of something, would I say I’d taken
it? Or would I say I had it? I thought I would say I’d taken it. Maybe that’s
what had been bugging me.

My cell rang. Jack asked, “Where are you?”

“I stopped by the office to look at the damage your
brothers-in-blue inflicted on the place.”

“I was going to tell you tonight,” he said, “but I
couldn’t wait. The FBI just gave Rochester a heads-up on the money recovered in
California. It wasn’t all there.”

“What do you mean? I saw it!”

“Only two million was accounted for. One million is
missing.”

“Harley was sure she had it all!”

“It’s possible she hid the extra million somewhere, in
case she got caught,” said Jack. “She may have prepared for that possibility;
planned to cop a plea for immunity, and walk with the hidden money. Then
there’s the possibility that either Carl or Ferdy took it, without Harley
realizing it.”

“Carl? Hell no,” I said. “He would have gone into a rage,
if he’d found she had the money, beaten her within an inch of her life, and
taken it all. Ferdy, on the other hand, might’ve been more inclined to share.
But knowing him, he’d have confronted Harley, and in the end agreed to take
half, which was better than the third he was expecting.”

“I can’t think of any other scenarios. Can you?”

“No,” I said, “but we can talk about it later.” We said
goodbye, and I turned off my phone.

I went back downstairs and sat at my empty desk. In all
the years I’d worked here I’d only really seen the top of it once or twice,
counting the day the furniture company had delivered it. I looked over at Harley’s
desk. For the first few years I’d filled it with interns from SUNY Oswego and
SU. But about five years ago, my billing had reached a point where I could hire
an actual full-time employee.

My clients had wanted more and more website work,
Internet advertising, and a way to use social media to increase traffic, and
for that I’d needed an honest-to-God IT pro. While the interns were wonderful,
none had been ready to graduate and come to work for me full time, and it had
always been a process bringing a new one up to speed, at the beginning of every
semester. Hiring my first assistant had eliminated all of that, offered
continuity to my clients, and made them happy. But two years ago, she’d left
without a word, and I’d hired Harley. She’d jumped right in and handled the
transition smoothly. Talk about a Trojan horse.

The first wisps of depression, like a lace curtain in a
summer breeze, brushed across my mind, a familiar warning that a full-on brain
storm was on its way. I dug in my purse for the bottle of happy pills, and
swallowed one.

Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes and thought
about the two Harleys. The one who had been my friend, and the one who was a
thief, a liar, and worse. And the one question I still had, turned over, and
over, in my mind; when and how had the money left this building? Knowing that
the answer would not be forthcoming, at least not right now, I turned my
attention to the problem at hand; one pill wasn’t going to cut it. Despite the
last meeting I’d had with her, I put in a call to Dr. Steele. I was in trouble,
and I knew it.

Dr. Steele sat in her chair across from me, ready to write,
as usual, with a pen poised over her notepad and an inquisitive look on her
face. “I’m glad you called,” she said. “You were unhappy when you left here the
last time. I was afraid you wouldn’t return.”

“I wasn’t unhappy, I was pissed.”

“Understood,” she said. “So what happened that made you
reach for the phone? I was hoping you’d reconsidered my advice to take a break,
and work on your mental health issues,” she almost whispered.

“No,” I said, “although, as the trial draws closer, it
seems like a way to get out of testifying.”

She pointed toward my hand. “Jack gave you an engagement
ring?”

“Yes.”

“And marrying him will be a positive step for you?”

“I love him. More than I can ever remember loving
anyone.”

“The expression in your eyes says otherwise,” she said.
“What’s the problem?”

“I worry about him. I can be a handful.”

“He most likely has a sense of that already, being a
police officer and all. He’s most likely a good judge of character. You are not
a bad person, Audrey. We’ve been over that. You were not responsible for your
mother’s death. She didn’t die because you couldn’t find a nurse. You were six!
You deserve to be happy.”

“That’s the last thing Dr. Collins said to me, the day I
left Rochester.”

“What’s worried me since the day we met, is that I’ve had
the feeling you’ve been holding something back; that you haven’t been totally
honest. And that makes it difficult for me to actually help you, in a
meaningful way.”

“Like what?”

“Audrey, if I knew that, I wouldn’t have to ask. When I
read through your file from Dr. Collins, she had a concern that you might be
taking the anger you feel toward yourself, over your mother’s death, out on
other people. She felt you could possibly do physical damage to someone who
made you really mad. Or ultimately, turn the anger inward, and harm yourself.”

I smiled. “So, you must have been worried when I was here
the last time.”

“Not for myself, but be honest with me. Have there been
times when you wanted to harm someone else? Or took your anger out in an
inappropriate way? Real, or in your head?”

I thought about being lost in the thought of smashing
Carl against a wall with my vehicle. And as I looked at Dr. Steele, staring at
me with that inquisitive look of hers, I remembered reveling in the thought of
squeezing her throat with my bare hands until she died.

“No,” I answered. “Why?”

“Because if you’re given to violent thoughts, I can help
you. Why keep them to yourself when we could talk through those thoughts and
their triggers, and free you of them? Otherwise, Audrey, this could accelerate.
And under the right circumstances, it could mean a setback from which you might
not be able to recover.”

“No,” I repeated, “I’m not having those thoughts.” But I
could tell that she didn’t believe me.

“Would you like to bring Jack into a few sessions with
you? Since you’re going to marry him?”

“That’s the last thing I want to do.”

“So, you wanted to see me today,” she said, “but you’re
not willing to give me anything to go on – no specific reason – you just wanted
to come in?”

“I feel like I’m going to buckle under the weight of all
the drama in my life. Can I increase my meds?”

“Oh, so,
that’s
why you’re here,” she said. “I suppose I can increase your dosage a
bit
. But you have to be careful, Audrey.
And for heaven’s sake, do not take it upon yourself to stop cold turkey again.
The zaps you experienced before will be twice as bad if you do. They could be
debilitating. And listen to me. I still believe the best thing for you would be
to let me admit you for a while, to a place where you can participate in
therapy more consistently. I fear that you’re headed for trouble. You can’t be
thinking clearly these days. I don’t want you to snap and do something you’ll
regret.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Audrey, I’m not inside your head. But I
can
tell you that a supervised rest
would be the best thing for you and for your future with Jack.”

“You can’t say anything to Jack without my permission,
right? I mean if he took it upon himself to call you?”

“Not without your express permission, no.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Jack’s love had kept me from
going over the edge so far and I hoped that it always would. But there may be a
time when he too would suspect that I hadn’t told him everything, just as Dr.
Steele had, and try to find out for himself what was wrong with me. I didn’t
think he needed to hear the whole story of my mother’s death, or my violent
visions.

On my way back to Jack’s place, I dropped off my new,
stronger prescription, and diddled around the drug store while it was being
filled. In this more relaxed frame of mind, a thought occurred to me. Harley’s
arrival and the remodeling of the office bedroom had come at the same time. In
fact, other than getting her familiarized with client needs, it had been the
first responsibility I had given her. I remember being thrilled at having some
of the work taken off my shoulders and so impressed with how fast she’d learned
the ropes, that I’d taken a much needed three days off during her first month
there.

Soon I was home and pulling into my parking space, on a
mission to find out who Harley had used to install the carpet. I went inside
and waved at Dick, who was working the bar.

“Audrey? What the hell did you do to your hair? Did Lisa
do that to you?”

“Long story.”

“Okay, well, welcome home. Hang on, I’ll get your key.”

He was only gone a second when he reappeared and slid my
key across the bar. “Want anything? A beer? Something to eat? A mirror?”

“Funny, Dick. Nothing now, thanks, maybe later.” I
hurried up the stairs and unlocked my door. The moment I closed it behind me, I
relaxed. I lit a stick of Frankincense and then looked through boxes until I
found the one I wanted; receipts from two years ago. I carried the carton to
the coffee table and peeled off the tape. Although I sorted through every piece
of paper, the one I was looking for wasn’t there. I went through them all
again, but the receipt for the carpet simply wasn’t in the box.

I went back to a box of older receipts and pulled out the
ones for the first year I occupied the building; way back to when I was setting
up the office, had no clients, and could see the top of my desk. Thank God I
hadn’t thrown them away.

About halfway through, I came up with the receipt for the
carpet installation on the first floor. The company’s phone number was printed
under its logo and I put it into my cell. After a few rings, a woman came on
the line with a whole rehearsed message that finally ended with, “How may I
help you?”

I introduced myself and asked if she could tell me if her
company had installed the carpet in my upstairs. She asked me to wait so she
could check her computer and I listened to a recording of soft rock while she
did.

Soon she was back on the line. “I don’t have anything
listed for that address in the last five years and our records only go back
that far.”

“Nothing? You’re sure?”

“Positive. Sorry.” I thanked her and we hung up. So what
carpet company had Harley used? Where had she gotten that two-for-one deal
she’d bragged about when I’d returned after my three days off? I packed up the
papers again and re-sealed the boxes. Now I’d have to go in search of checks
from the same time period.

A knock at the door surprised me. “Who is it?” I asked.

A man’s voice said, “UPS.”

I opened the door to a delivery person, who was standing
next to two boxes I’d been expecting. He handed me an electronic device. “Sign
anywhere,” he said. He tucked the device back into his belt, then picked up the
first box and handed it to me. I took it inside and put it next to all the
other boxes I would soon have to move. Then I went back and got the second
. Soon there’ll be no room in here for me,
I thought.

“Thank you,” I said, as I pushed the door closed with my
foot. I carried the box to where I had put the first one, found a marker, and
printed KITCHEN on both, and underlined the word.

I had no sooner done that, when there was a second knock
at the door. “Who is it?” I asked again.

“Flowers for Audrey Dory,” a man said, and he held a
bouquet up in front of the peephole. That sweet Jack, I thought, and I opened
the door. “Audrey Dory?” the man asked.

“That’s me,” I said, grinning from ear-to-ear, as I took
the basket of flowers.

“Enjoy,” he said. Then he stuck an envelope under my arm.
“You’ve been served.”