It took five rings for Maggie to pick up.
“It's me,” Michelle said quickly. “Is everything okay there? Just answer yes, or no.”
“Yes. Michelle?” Maggie sounded sleepy. It was almost 11:00
p.m.
, and she usually went to bed around now, so she could get up in the morning, make Ben his lunch, drop him off at school and get to the office on time.
“You're sure? There's no one
. . .
no one's making you say that?”
“
No
. Jesus. What is this, a spy movie or something?”
Michelle nearly laughed.
“Look, do me a favor,” she said. “Can you, can you just
. . .
take a few days off? Go somewhere. You and Ben. I'll cover the cost.”
“No, I can't âgo somewhere.' Lucia's on maternity leave, I'm covering her desk, they'd
kill
me. Seriously, Michelle, what the fuck is going on?”
Maggie sounded royally pissed. Michelle supposed she couldn't blame her.
“I can't get into it right now. It's
. . .
it's complicated.”
What could she tell her? If they were listening, what could she say that wouldn't make things worse?
“I'm glad everything's okay,” she said. “Just
. . .
if you have any problems, if anything
. . .
call me, okay? If the number doesn't work, email me.”
“Okay.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Look,” Maggie finally said. “Whatever's going on, just tell me. We'll figure out how to deal with it. This, this whole mystery act of yours, it's ridiculous. It can't be that bad.” She laughed, a nervous chuckle. “I mean, you didn't kill anyone, did you?”
Michelle took an Ambien.
She didn't like taking them, but the natural sleep aids, the melatonin spray, the herbs, weren't going to work tonight, and she knew it.
Chapter Three
Better a chemically induced sleep than none at all. You can't sleep, you can't think straight, and she needed to be able to think.
Even with the Ambien, her thoughts went in circles.
At 6:33
a.m.
, her
Emily phone rang. She might have been awake before it rang.
Danny had programmed her ringtones. She'd never cared about that stuff, but he liked doing it, and his choices made her smile.
“Lawyers, Guns and Money.” The ringtone for business.
Derek Girard. Their attorney.
Her heart pounded. If she hadn't been awake before, she was wide-awake now.
“Hello?”
“Emily? Derek Girard. Sorry to call so early. But we have a situation.”
Michelle pulled into the Evergreen parking lot just after 9
a.m
. She could have parked by Lady Jane's, but she needed to steady herself, and the walk would help. No matter how scared she was, no matter how angry, she had to play this right.
She cut across the green expanse of the Arcata Plaza, past the statue of President McKinley at its center, then down G Street by the Arcata Hotel, ignoring the panhandlers begging for change, or if not that, a joint. Normally she enjoyed lingering in the Plaza, with its mix of Settlement, Victorian and Craftsman buildings, wondering what previous owners of some of them had been thinking when they'd covered up historic buildings with modern facades, or, more happily, watching the progress of the latest restoration.
She was tempted to linger now. To put this meeting off, just a little while longer. But it was better to get it over with.
Better not to be late.
Her destination was a Victorian a few blocks off the Plaza.
Lady Jane's served breakfast in the garden when the weather was decent, Michelle knew, and it was nice enough today. Mid-sixties. Almost sunny. She missed the LA heat, sometimes. It was hardly ever really warm in Arcata.
At least the climate here is good for my skin, she thought, and then she wanted to laugh.
Gary sat at a table in the back of the garden, under a wicker archway threaded with ivy, his legs stretched out, feet propped on a chair in front of him. He wore a baseball cap, the first time Michelle had ever seen him in any kind of hat, and sipped from a teacup. He seemed to be staring at the fountain, though she couldn't be sure. The centerpiece of the fountain was an Indian-style Buddha. Not really a good fit with Victorian. She'd always wondered about that.
“Well, good morning, Emily.” He bowed his head a fraction and pinched the brim of his ball cap.
Michelle took in the logo. “The Humboldt Crabs?”
“Champions of the Far West League,” Gary said, grinning. “You know they beat the Healdsburg Prune Packers last night?”
Michelle pulled out the other chair and sat. “I missed it.”
“Right here in Arcata.” He shook his head. “I have to say, this town
. . .
it isn't really
you
, Michelle.”
“How would
you
know?” she snapped back.
“I'm actually a pretty good judge of character.”
The waitress approached. One of the owners: Jennifer. A few years older than Michelle. Patagonia vests, hemp skirts and handmade soft leather boots.
“Emily, so nice to see you!”
Michelle forced a smile, and nodded. “Great to see you too.”
“What can I get you?”
“Just coffee. Thanks.”
Gary watched Jennifer pick her way down the gravel path that led to Lady Jane's kitchen. “Interesting woman, don't you think?”
“Do not fuck with anybody else here, Gary.”
For a moment, he was silent. “Well, well,” he said.
Jennifer returned with coffee. “Is there anything else I can get you? We have fresh baked scones.”
“No thanks,” Gary said. “I have to watch my gluten.”
Michelle sipped her coffee. She made a better cup at Evergreen, but this wasn't bad.
“All right,” she said, when Jennifer could no longer hear. “What do you want me to do?”
“That's it? You're just gonna agree?”
He sounded oddly disappointed.
“No. I'm going to hear what your job is first. And then I'm going to think about it.”
Gary leaned back in his chair. “You know, I gotta admit, I was pretty surprised to see you and Danny still together. I never would've thought that would last.”
“Just tell me what you want.”
Now Gary smiled. “So you're willing to go to the mat for him? Who'd a thunk?”
You can't lose it, she told herself.
More to the point, you can't pull out your .38 and shoot him in Lady Jane Grey's garden.
“What's the job, Gary?”
“Babysitting,” he said. “I need you to look after somebody. She's rich. And tragic.” He shook his head. “Such a sad story.”
“Babysitting?”
“Well, she's gone a little overboard with the self-medicating, and she operates in the kind of social milieu that I figure you're familiar with. Fund-raisers and such.”
“What would I do?”
“Look after her. Manage her appointments. See if you can get her to take a yoga class or two.” He snorted. “Right in your wheelhouse.”
No way it could be that easy.
“That's it?”
“Well, there might be a couple other things. Nothing you can't handle.”
Great, she thought.
“So who is this woman, exactly?”
“You take the job, I'll tell you. Otherwise, you can pretend it's one of those gossip columns, where you're supposed to guess. â
This
wealthy socialite with a tragic past is known for her charitable efforts and social conscience. But when she's out of the public eye, she likes to drink till she pukes and take pills till she passes out. Friends fear she's gonna drown in her own bathtub.'” He chuckled. “I never can figure out who it is. Can you?”
“I don't try.”
Gary pushed his baseball cap back on his forehead and tilted his face up toward the sun, which had just managed to break through the coastal fog.
“Well, you take a day or two to think about it. Examine your situation, and decide what your priorities are. I'll be in touch.” He smiled. “You got a number you prefer for me to call?”
“There's no reason for
you to come out,” Derek had said, on that first phone call.
“I need to talk to him.”
“Look, we'll have the arraignment Friday, we'll hear the complaint, and we'll find out what the bail conditions are. Best-case scenario, he's back in Arcata in a couple days.”
“Worst case?”
“Well, there's a whole range of possibilities with bail, home detention, electronic monitoring, surrender of passport
. . .
”
He hadn't said anything about the court not granting bail at all.
“On what grounds?”
“They consider Jeff
. . .
a flight risk, apparently.”
“A flight risk.”
Michelle laughed. It wasn't a bad call.
She sat on a stool in her kitchen at home. Derek had scheduled the phone call for 9
p.m
., after his flight home to San Francisco, and she'd left Evergreen to take it. No way she wanted to deal with this at work, not even in her office.
“Look, I know this is all pretty scary. And it is serious, but it could be worse.”
“How so?”
“They're charging him with trafficking under a thousand kilograms. If it had been a thousand or above, he'd be facing a ten-year mandatory minimum. As it is, it's his first offense, so he's looking at five.”
“Five
years
?
” She could hear the edge of hysteria in her voice. But why was she so surprised by this? So flattened? She'd known the kinds of risks he was taking.
“At a minimum. On the high end, as much as forty.”
“Jesus.”
“Now, I don't think that's a likely scenario. My goal is to have Jeff spend as little time in jail as possible and to walk out of there with a clean record. But I'd be remiss if I didn't inform you of all the potential outcomes.”
Michelle tilted back the bottle of Napa meritage she'd brought home to sample and poured another glass.
“There's another thing we need to discuss. Odds are they'll get a warrant to search your house. And at some point, they're going to want to talk to you. I strongly advise you to not have any conversations without having an attorney present. A case like this, they're looking to find evidence of a conspiracy. And they love rolling up a girlfriend because she's holding cash or drugs.”
“I'm not holding anything,” she snapped.
“I know, I know,” he said quickly. “I just want you to be prepared.”
Was there anything in the house? Anything that could incriminate her, or Danny? She didn't think so. The gun she carried was legal. The cash they had on hand, well, there was about $5,000 in the safe, but that wasn't illegal, was it?
“Because of that, I'm going to ask you for an additional retainer up front,” Derek was saying, “in case your asset situation gets
. . .
complicated.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand if you can. That should be more than enough, assuming this doesn't go to trial.”
“Fine,” she said. “I'll take care of it.
“Try not to worry. I'll call you as soon as I have news.”
“I'm coming out,” she said. “I need you to arrange the visit. To the jail.”
“Emily, look
. . .
” There was a considered silence on the other end of the line. “Jeff feels
. . .
it might be uncomfortable for you to
. . .
present yourself to the authorities. It's
. . .
not a nice situation.”
Which probably meant, Danny was worried about their fake identities being exposed to too much scrutiny.
Too fucking bad.
“Just tell me what I need to do to see him,” she said. “And I'll be there.”
She found a late
afternoon flight from San Francisco that would get her into Houston just before 11:30
p.m.
on Saturday, with an unavoidable layover in Phoenix. The flight from Arcata to SFO wasn't much cheaper than the flight to Houston.
She had a few hours to kill at SFO. She sat in the Mission Bar and Grill, had a quesadilla, and drank a glass of wine. Watched the jets pull up to the gates, through the smoked Plexiglas windows.
She didn't know what Derek knew. How much he knew about Danny and his background. He knew about some of it, obviously. That Danny was involved in the drug trade, certainly.
Who Danny had really worked for before, who he was working for in Mexico?
Michelle didn't know if Derek knew that much.
When they'd set themselves up in Humboldt, Derek had been there. He'd arranged the payments to her father's nursing home. To Ben's college fund. “Untraceable,” he'd assured her. “I know that you have some privacy issues.”
Did he know enough to have sold them out to Gary?
The moment she stepped
off the plane and onto the jetway in Houston, she could feel the heat. Even at 11:30
p.m.
, it clung to her: thick steam perfumed with burnt jet fuel. Puerto Vallarta wasn't this bad, she thought. There was an ocean there, at least. This, this was some kind of malarial fever dream. Endless freeways looping around a flat plain, strings of Christmas tree lights marking the way. Houston was a drained swamp; she thought she'd read that once. No physical landmarks. No hills. No valleys. No ocean.
Strip malls. Condos. Warehouses and big-box stores. High-rises, clustered here and there like outbreaks, transplants from some other city.
She'd been the last stop on the Super Shuttle. She'd picked an inexpensive hotel that wasn't too far from the jail, but far enough away to get some distance from whoever might be watching Danny's visitors. Far enough away for her to relax, or try to, at least.
The hotel was nice enough. The room had a view of the freeway, and of a water tank on the other side of it. She thought it was a water tank, anyway. Shaped like a mushroom, painted a sea-foam green and surrounded by a spiderweb grid of wire.
Maybe it was a gas tank, she thought. This was Texas, after all.
“You can't bring anything
with you,” Derek had said. “No purse, no cell phone, no notebook, no pens, nothing. You have to put it all in a locker at the jail. The only thing you can bring in is the locker key. Be careful how you dress. No tank tops. No short skirts. Nothing see-through. And if you wear an underwire bra? Switch it out. You only get a couple tries through the metal detector. Oh, and don't forget your driver's license. They won't let you in without a valid state or federal ID, with photo.”