Porter steered his Escalade
down a broad, quiet street. “River Oaks is mostly old money, in Houston terms. Oil and real estate.” He chuckled. “Of course, Houston is a relatively new city.”
Michelle could certainly see the “money” part of the equation. The houses they passed were on the order of estates. Some of the older houses had charm, sturdy-looking American Colonials and Tudors, modest when you compared them to the newer mansions going up. Others were faux plantations. Colonials on steroids. Even a castle or two.
She'd had a nice house in Brentwood, but nothing like these places. River Oaks rivaled Beverly Hills, and to her eye the lots and homes were bigger here. Cheaper land, probably.
They followed the sweeping curve of the street around to the left. Out the window she saw a dog walker, a wiry Latino wearing all white, with two Dobermans pulling on a sturdy leash. She assumed he was a dog walker, anyway, and not the owner. His clothes, a short-sleeved white shirt and shorts, looked almost like a uniform. The dogs looked like guard dogs, their sleek coats showing the bunched muscle beneath.
Other than a lone female jogger, this was the first person Michelle had seen on these streets. The whole place felt like a ghost town. An expensive, well-manicured one.
“It seems very quiet here,” Michelle said.
“Well, a lot of the River Oaks set like to summer in Colorado.”
“But not Ms. O'Connor.”
“Not Ms. O'Connor,” he agreed. “She's a dedicated woman.”
He turned the car into a drive blocked by a black wrought iron gate, flanked by brick columns, the entire property surrounded by a high stone wall.
“Excuse me,” Porter said with a sigh, putting the car in neutral. He opened the door, swung his heavy body around and heaved himself out of the car.
Michelle watched as he walked to the gate, punched a number into a code box there. There was a surveillance camera atop the column, she noted. A sign for a security company that promised an armed response beneath it.
Well, it wasn't too surprising that Caitlin O'Connor would be concerned with security, Michelle thought.
By the time Porter returned to the car, he was beet red and sweating. “I'll tell you, this weather's almost enough to make a person believe in global warming,” he said.
Caitlin O'Connor's house wasn't one of the biggest ones Michelle had seen on the drive through River Oaks. The grounds weren't as extensive as the larger estates either. The house looked to be older, a comparatively modest two-story Colonial set back from the street by a neatly trimmed emerald lawn. Greek Revivalâwasn't that what the style was called?âwith four columns flanking the entrance. A portico? It had been a long time since her architectural survey class at UCLA.
Three old oak trees shaded the house and yard. There were flower beds, a few in bloom even in the late July heat, and big shrubs that rose almost half the height of the front door, surrounded by low hedges.
“Azaleas,” Porter explained. “They don't look like much now, but you should see them in the spring.”
“It's beautiful,” Michelle said. Not to her taste, but it really was.
Porter parked the car in the driveway, in the shade of one of the oak trees.
A middle-aged Latina woman wearing a white shirt and white shorts answered the door. “Oh, Mr. Ackermannâhow are you today?”
She immediately stepped aside so that Porter and Michelle could enter.
“Very well, thank you, Esperanza. Except it's too damn hot.”
“I think so too! Crazy, huh?”
They stood in the foyer for a moment. Michelle had the impression of white and beige: the tiles and walls, the staircase leading up to the second floor.
“This here's Michelle Mason.” Porter tilted his head in Michelle's direction. “I think Caitlin's expecting us.”
“She's waiting in the Great Room,” Esperanza said.
They followed her through the foyer and into the living room beyond.
A beautiful room, big, twice the size of her living room in Arcata and two stories high, with plush carpet, French doors, and a wall of windows, done in different shades of white, cream and beige, with dark brown accents. That and the cool air made Michelle think suddenly of an ice cream sandwich.
Caitlin O'Connor sat on the couch, the eggshell-colored sofa from the video that Michelle had seen.
She rose to greet them. She wore a cream-colored, cowl-necked jersey top and slightly darker linen slacks, both pieces expensive to Michelle's eye.
“Hi, I'm Caitlin,” she said, extending her hand. Her blue eyes and blonde hair were the brightest colors around, but she still blended into the room.
Michelle took her hand and clasped it briefly. “Michelle Mason.”
Caitlin's hand was cool. Nearly the temperature of the conditioned air. Her eyes seemed a little unfocused, Michelle thought. Or maybe she was imagining it, based on the seeds that Gary had planted.
“So nice to meet you.” Caitlin smiled and gestured toward the couch.
“Well, I'll let the two of you get acquainted,” Porter said as Michelle sat. He glanced at his watch, an expensive one, though she hadn't been able to catch the brandâPhillip Stein? “How 'bout I pick you up in, say, a half hour or so? Around four-fifteen.” He looked over at Caitlin. “That give you enough time?”
“I think so,” she said, smile still in place. She turned to Michelle. “I've already heard so many good things about you.”
“Well, I'll leave you to it then.” Porter lifted his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. Michelle watched him walk away, almost seeming to tiptoe, a big man remaining light on his feet.
“I'm an admirer of your work,” Michelle said, after he'd left.
Caitlin sighed out a chuckle, lifted her shoulders a fraction. “Would you like a glass of white wine? It's awfully damn hot out.”
Michelle hesitated. If this was a job interview, saying yes to a glass of wine might be the wrong answer. But if Caitlin was a drinker looking for someone to drink with her, then “yes” might be what she wanted to hear.
“Only if you're having one,” Michelle said, smiling back. “Otherwise, water is fine.”
“Oh, let's open the wine. Esperanza,” Caitlin called out. “Hon, can you bring us that bottle of chardonnay in the fridge?”
Esperanza must have been hovering within earshot. A minute or two later, she arrived with a bottle of Calera chardonnay and two glasses. As she started to open the wine, Caitlin said, “How about bringing out an ice bucket?”
So she wanted to drink the entire bottle, Michelle thought.
“I can open that,” she said to Esperanza.
Esperanza handed her the corkscrew. “I'll go get the ice.”
A nice waiter's corkscrew, thankfully. So many households used butterflies or Rabbits, and those just weren't as good as a decent waiter's corkscrew.
She cut the foil and popped the cork. Poured Caitlin the proper-sized pourânot too much, you didn't want it to get warm, but enough so that you could catch the nose.
“You look like you've had some practice,” Caitlin said.
“I've hosted a lot of parties. When they weren't big enough to hire a bartender, I was the stand-in.” Michelle smiled. As artificial an expression as what Porter had given her earlier. Could Caitlin tell? “I make a great margarita.”
She poured her own glass. A little less than what she'd poured Caitlin. Lifted it. “Cheers,” she said.
Caitlin smiled, and raised her glass. “Cheers.”
Michelle sipped her wine. Over oaked and heavy on the butter, but not bad.
Esperanza returned with an ice bucket. “I'll bring out some snacks,” she said.
She came back a moment later with a couple of cheeses, some crackers and a small bowl of nuts.
Caitlin cut off a corner of Brie and spread it on a cracker. Michelle took a piece of the Gouda and ate it alone.
“I understand you lost your husband,” Caitlin said.
Michelle wanted to laugh. She had the sudden image of having misplaced Tom, like you would your set of keys. “Yes. It's been about two and a half years.”
“Not so long, then.” Caitlin took a healthy swig of wine.
With everything that had happened, it seemed like forever, but Michelle couldn't really get into that. “It was unexpected,” she said, because that was what she'd gotten into the habit of saying.
Caitlin made a tiny snort. “I wonder if it's easier when you know it's coming. Something like cancer. When you have some time to settle things. To say goodbye. What do you think?”
How the hell was she supposed to respond to this?
“I think it would be,” she said. “I wish I'd
. . .
” She took another sip of wine, trying to figure out what to say. She didn't exactly want to confess all to this woman she didn't know, whose own tragedy made hers look small by comparison.
But Caitlin had opened the door. She obviously wanted to talk about it. Wanted to hear Michelle's story.
Maybe she was tired of telling her own.
“My husband left a lot of loose ends,” Michelle finally said. “It was
. . .
it was a real mess. His business
. . .
well, things were really bad. He made a lot of mistakes. And all I can think of was
. . .
that he was too embarrassed to tell me about it.” Her turn for a minimal shrug. “I wish I'd known. I wish we'd had a chance to talk about it. Not because I could have fixed it for him, just so that
. . .
”
She didn't have to fake the wave of emotion that closed her throat. “After he died, I finally just took off,” she said. “Left the mess behind and traveled for a while. It wasn't the most mature thing to do, I guess.” She looked up. Met Caitlin's eyes. Her somewhat distant gaze. “But now it's time for me to be a grownup. To get to work.” She smiled.
“So here you are.”
“If you think it's a good fit. This is about what
you
need.”
Caitlin poured herself more wine. “Well, I need someone to keep me on track, basically. Manage my appointments. Book my travel. Make sure I get places on time. Tell me who it is I'm seeing and why they're important. There'll be some event planning involved, most likely.”
All work that Michelle had done before, during her ten-year marriage to Tom (all those parties and fundraisers), her stint as “associate director” of the photo gallery before that (when a wealthy collector or artist came in the door, you'd better know who it was), the clerical and admin jobs she'd had during and just after college.
She nodded. “Those are things I have experience doing.”
“Also
. . .
” Caitlin hesitated. “I don't know how you'd feel about this.” She chuckled in a way that sounded almost embarrassed. “Porter tells me you
. . .
well, that you like going to the gym and doing yoga and that sort of thing.” She waited for Michelle's nod. “I guess I could use more of that. Everyone tells me I should. I just haven't
. . .
I'm not very motivated, I guess. And it's tough with my schedule, sometimes.”
“Well, I'm not a trainer, or anything. But if you want a workout partner, I'd be happy to do that. It would help keep me on track too.”
Nothing you can't handle.
“Good.” Caitlin smiled. Her eyes seemed to brighten. “There's times when you know you should make some changes. You just need a little push.”
“You and Caitlin seemed
to be having a nice sit-down,” Porter said, as they walked down the drive to his Escalade.
“I hope so. I really enjoyed meeting her.”
According to Gary, she already had this job. Porter had acted as though she'd needed to at least pass the test with Caitlin. Michelle thought that she'd passed, but she couldn't be sure.
“Where can I drop you?” Porter asked.
Michelle hesitated.
She assumed that Porter knew Gary. That it had been Gary's “recommendation” that had gotten her this far. But there could be a layer between Gary and Porter for all she knew.
Better to not make the assumption, at least not yet.
“I guess that depends,” she said. “If you think I'm a good match for the position, then how about the Galleria?”
“The Galleria?”
“I'll need some new clothes for this weather.” She smiled at him. “If not, my hotel's fine.”
Porter grinned back. It might have been sincere. “Well, I'll have to run it by Caitlin first. But why don't I go ahead and take you to the Galleria? You can try on a few things. See what you think about the fit.”
Chapter Seven
She bought a couple
of pieces at Neiman Marcus: a fitted shirtdress and a jacket by Burberry Brit, two simple silk tees from Eileen Fisher and two pairs of Stella McCartney slacks. A black leather Cole Haan tote with a padded laptop pocket. Things that were stylish but not flashy. She'd need another suit, but she wasn't going to spend that kind of money until she knew she'd gotten the job.
After that she stopped at the Best Buy and bought a new burner phone, just in case. Then treated herself to dinner at a “Contemporary American” restaurant close to the Galleria that had gotten a lot of good reviews: “pan-seared wild king salmon in red cherry barbeque sauce, with heirloom baby potatoes and broccolini drizzled with truffled lemon butter,” paired with a Washington pinot noir.
By the time she got back to the hotel, it was close to 9
p.m.
She smiled at the friendly desk clerks, took the elevator to her floor, unlocked the door to her room with the card key, hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. Tossed the bags of clothes on a chair. Kicked off her shoes, shed her Armani suit, hung it in the closet.
She put on a baggy T-shirt and fell back onto the bed.
This is insane, she thought. Danny is in jail, someone hurt him, and I'm eating truffled broccolini.
Her iPhone rang. The
Get Smart
theme. Fucking Gary.
“Hey, there. You do some shopping?”
“Yeah, Gary.” She felt exhausted. “I did some shopping.”
“Good. Looks like you'll need the wardrobe. I gather you made a good impression.”
“You talked to Porter?”
He chuckled. “Now, did I say that?”
“So, you talked to someone else? Why don't you give me a hint?” The rush of adrenaline lifted her up on her elbows. “You don't tell me things I need to know. Do you
want
me to fuck up? Is that it? Because I've thought a lot about what happened in Mexico. And the way it seems to me is, you don't really care one way or the other.”
For a moment, there was silence.
“Of course I care,” he finally said. “Mexico was different.”
“Different, how?”
“Well
. . .
in that situation, there were a couple of scenarios I would've considered a success.” A snort. “Not the one that ended up happening, as it turned out.”
“Such as?”
“If you'd gotten good intel on Danny and what he was up to? That would've been great. If you'd
. . .
served as a reminder to him? You know, of what his situation was? That would've been useful too.”
Don't scream, she told herself. Don't lose it.
“Oh, you mean that someone who was fucking him might be spying on him?
That
situation? Is that what you're getting at?”
“That, and what happens to people who don't do what they're told.”
He sounded very calm.
There it was, the threat. And the admission. That he'd tried to have her killed.
Of course, she'd already known that.
Gary's sigh rattled the speaker of her iPhone. “Look, try to see it from my point of view. I didn't know you back then. But I've moved beyond that, Michelle. I really have. Now I know you're too valuable an asset to burn that way this time out.”
She laughed. This was all such bullshit. “You're blackmailing me into this. Just like you did before.”
“Well, that's where you're wrong.” He sounded so calm she could almost believe that he wasn't a crazy man who'd once tried to kill her. “See, you could've walked away from this if you'd wanted to. This is about saving Danny's hide. Not your own. Still surprises me, to be honest.”
“And you wouldn't have tried something else if Danny hadn't worked? Threatened my family? Implicated me in my husband's scam, maybe?”
“Heh. Well, yeah. You're probably right about that.”
She took a moment to think. She knew a part of it was revengeâshe and Danny had gotten away from Gary before, and that wouldn't sit well with him. But the trouble he'd gone to, the money he was willing to spend
. . .
there had to be more to this particular op than just that.
“You seem really anxious to have me look after this woman,” she said. “What's so important about Caitlin O'Connor, Gary? And why me?”
A chuckle.
“Well, you know how it is, Michelle. It's really hard to find a reliable babysitter these days.”
I give up, she thought.
She flopped back down on the bed.
“So, Porter. What does he know? What can I tell him that's safe?”
A pause. “You've been recommended by several major donors. Porter's inclined to look positively on you.”
“And are you considered one of the donors? If I drop your name, is he going to recognize it?”
A longer pause.
“He'll recognize my name,” Gary said. “But not as a donor. I'm just
. . .
an intermediary. You know, a go-between.”
“Right.”
“Expect a call from Porter tomorrow.”
After he disconnected, Michelle lay on the bed for a while without moving.
“Major donors” who used Gary as “a go-between.”
This could not be good.
There were a lot
of things that she didn't know about Gary. But there were a few things that she did know. He was one of the Boys.
“Not everyone in the Company's dirty,” Danny had said. “Most of them aren't. It's mainly that group, and they've been fucking the rest of us over since World War Two.”
Them, along with several generations of very rich men. The Boys were their provocateurs, their shock troops. The ones who helped pave the way, who cleared the road of inconvenient obstacles.
The Boys did what they wanted, regardless of who was officially “in charge.”
“It's the Deep State,” he'd explained. “Finance and dirty energy. Oil, mostly. Defense stuff, like ordinance and high-tech weapons systems, private contractors. The drug money keeps things running, especially the black ops that are off the books.”
Michelle hadn't wanted to believe any of this. Why not just bring on the UN black helicopters and the tinfoil hats? That was how crazy it had all seemed.
But you get smacked in the head with the crazy hard enough, and what else were you supposed to believe?
The Boys liked to keep some separation from the guys who did a lot of their dirty work. Danny had been a contractor, an “asset.” Gary, a few steps up the food chain from Dannyâ“Not exactly an asset. Not exactly official,” Danny had said. The “major donors” Gary worked for
. . .
What did they want with Safer America?
“Welcome aboard.”
Porter extended his hand across his expensive walnut desk. Michelle took it. He squeezed a little too hard. She'd never understood that, why some men felt the necessity to show their dominance through grip strength.
“I'm really happy to be here,” she said.
“We'd like you to start as soon as possible. Today, if you'd like. But if you need a little time to wind down your other obligations
. . .
”
What had Gary told him?
“I do have a few things I need to deal with.” She kept her voice cheerful. Reminded herself to smile. “If I could have a week, that would be great.”
“That's fine.” Porter seemed distracted, maybe by something on his computer screen. “Make sure you talk to Carla in personnel so you can fill out the W-4.”
“Will do.” Great, she thought. Didn't you need an address for a W-4? What was she supposed to put down? She couldn't exactly use Emily's address in Arcata.
Her sister's condo, maybe. Where the credit cards Gary had given her called home.
“Do you have ideas about a place to live, here in Houston?” Porter asked suddenly. As if he'd read her mind.
“Not really.”
“Well, I've got a line on some corporate housing, if you're interested. Semi-furnished. Not too far from here. Convenient, especially with all the travel you'll be doing.”
Michelle smiled at him. “Thank you. I'm very interested.”
She needed to see
Danny one more time, before it got any more complicated. Better to go as Emilyâthat's how she'd gone before. Explaining Michelle's presence there would be more than problematic. And if she was accompanying Caitlin on her media events and availabilities, to her high-profile charity events, her parties
. . .
How easy was it to get known here?
On Tuesdays,
you could
visit between 4 and 9
p.m.
She waited in various lines. Put on a thin knit silk cardigan she'd brought for the refrigerated air. Avoided the horror that was the bathroom for the sixth floor visitors near Danny's pod. Gave the guard the white slip of paper with his information. Sat on a cement stool with no padding, and rubbed down the speaker grate with a wet wipe, the shouting and laughing and crying of everyone around her blending into something like a human version of an orchestral warm-up.
They brought him out. He wasn't cuffed this time, which was a relief. He looked okay, she thought. Tired, mostly. Managed his half-smile when he saw her.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
“How are you doing?”
He shrugged. Stood up and spoke into the grate: “The food sucks, the place stinks and there's a large contingent of assholes.”
“Other than that?”
He grinned. At least she could still make him smile.
“Are you still
. . .
are you having any problems?”
That look again, the fractional headshake. Don't ask.
This time, she gave him a look back. The hint of a glare. Tell me.
“One-time thing,” he said. “Just to let me know
. . .
what the situation was.”
That he was vulnerable here. That they could get to him, any time they wanted.
She'd suspected that. She'd known it, really. But still, it felt like a gut punch.
“Shit.” She sat back and closed her eyes. It was all too much, this whole thing. How was she supposed to handle it?
“Hey.”
She opened her eyes. She had to look at him. To face this. He gestured toward the speaker grate. She put her ear back up to it.
“Don't
. . .
don't worry. Just take care of yourself. I know you can do that.” His voice sounded warm, and urgent. She nodded.
“Did you call Sam?” he asked.
Her heart beat a little harder. She didn't want to have this conversation.
Couldn't
have it, more accurately. Not here.
“Not yet.”
He pulled away from the speaker, his expression once again weary. Studied her.
“Look,” he finally said. “I get it if you're done. I don't blame you. But I need you to make that call for me.”
“That's not it,” she said, “That's not it at all. It's just that
. . .
Derek can't?”
He shook his head. “These aren't people he talks to. It's better if you do it. You can probably explain things better.”
Things like Gary? she wondered.
She leaned forward. Spoke into the grate. “I'm just a little worried. Because of the job. I'm not sure if
. . .
” How to put it? That she didn't know if Sam was trustworthy? That she didn't know what might happen if she exposed one of Gary's operations to someone else? If Sam was working with Gary, then telling him was a problem. Gary hated it when people talked, and he'd punish her, or someone around her, if he found out. If Sam was on their side, could he get Danny out, or would he just make things worse? If he compromised her with Gary and didn't have the juice to get her away from him
. . .
“Gary's job?”
She nodded.
“I'm telling you, don't do it.”
She felt suddenly, irrationally angry.
“You know, coming from a guy who
. . .
”
She couldn't finish. Because the rest of the sentence was, “Got busted for flying hundreds of pounds of pot to Texas and never paid much attention to my opinions on taking those kinds of gigs.”
“Because it's a bad idea?” she asked instead. “Or because you're telling me not to?”
“Because it's a bad idea. You know it is.”
It was, and she did.