Authors: Margaret Fenton
“Alexander Madison is the owner and CEO
of The Madison Group. He started thirty years ago as a corporate accountant at
another firm, eventually working his way up the ladder to CEO, then left and
started his own. It’s grown from there. Why?”
I played with the straw in my Diet Coke.
“You know anything about his family?”
“He’s married. His wife’s name is Karen.
Two children, Alexander Junior, called Zander, and Kaylin. Why?”
“How come you know so much about them?”
Royanne took another bite, then scanned
the room quickly to make sure no one was listening. “You remember on the Fourth
when I said I’d just gotten this huge account?”
“Yeah.”
“Madison Accounting Services is trying
to buy another firm. They’d become the largest corporation of their kind in the
southeast. I can’t say anything more about it, but BFB is doing the loan for
the buy. If everything checks out. That’s not for public knowledge.”
“Hmm.”
“Now, why are you asking? And please God
don’t tell me that Alexander Madison is some raging pedophile child abuser.”
I laughed. “Not that I know of.”
“Seriously, then, why all the
questions?”
“I was more curious about his kids than
him.”
“Kaylin is still in high school. She’s
seventeen and just finished her junior year at ASFA.” ASFA was the Alabama
School of Fine Arts, a by-application-only public school for talented kids.
“Zander is twenty-two. He’s a sophomore at Auburn, majoring in finance. He’s
doing summer term.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise at that
last statement. “Oh?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. C’mon. I just told you
something in confidence. Now it’s your turn.”
“I can’t really talk about it.”
Royanne threw her fork down, hard. It
rang sharply on the stoneware plate, startling me and the couple at the table
next to us. They stared. Royanne turned red. Her voice climbed an octave as it
got louder.
“Shit, Claire! What the hell? You know
something that could make or break the biggest deal of my career and you sit
back and give me the but-I-can’t-tell-you bullshit? No way. I’m not putting up
with this. You tell me what you know now or I’m walking out of here and I’m not
talking to you ever again.”
Chapter Fifteen
I made a stammering attempt to answer
Royanne. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”
She snatched her purse from the back of
the chair, got out a five and some ones, and threw them on the table. Then she
stomped out.
Pablo, noticing the ruckus, hurried
over. “Everything is okay?”
“Sure. I just need our checks.” He
tallied them for me as I gathered Royanne’s money off the table. I took the
checks to the register and paid, getting change to leave a tip for Pablo. He
gave me a worried wave as I left.
Royanne was leaning against the
passenger door of my car, the butt of her skirt against the dirty white paint.
Her arms were crossed and her mouth was set in a tight line. She’d never been
this mad at me, not even during all the petty crap of junior high school. I
unlocked the doors. “Get in.”
We fastened our seat belts, then she
folded her arms again and stared out of the window. I pulled onto Green Springs
Highway toward downtown.
“Come on, Roy. This is ridiculous.”
She didn’t answer. A mile or so down the
road, I’d had enough. I pulled into a parking lot next to some softball fields
and stopped, facing the fence, leaving the car running. A children’s summer
league was practicing T-ball. The sweaty kids couldn’t have been older than
six. I watched as one baseball-capped kid whacked the ball off the T and ran
hell-bent for leather toward first base. The coach on the pitcher’s mound took
his time getting to the ball and lobbing it to the boy at first, who caught it.
The runner was already safe. I thought about what to say to Royanne, carefully.
“Did you see Michael’s obituary in the
paper Saturday?”
She wouldn’t look at me. “No.”
“They printed his whole name. Michael
Alexander Hennessy.”
She whipped around to face me.
“Alexander?”
“Yep.”
“He was Zander’s kid?”
I pursed my lips and didn’t answer.
“Does Zander have a drug problem? Like
Ashley?”
Again, I was silent.
She buried her face in her hands. “Oh
God. Are you telling me that my client and the head of one of this city’s most
powerful companies had a grandson by a crack whore who murdered him?”
“Hey now —”
“That’s what she was.”
Yes, that’s what Ashley was. She was
also damaged. Abused. Starting at a very young age. There but for the Grace of
God, as they say. Plus, her effort to straighten herself out was a journey
harder than any I hoped I’d ever have to make. I didn’t say any of this out
loud.
We stared absently as a pigtailed girl
hit the ball all of three feet and ran, arms pumping. Safe again. Royanne ran a
hand across her mouth and said, “Well, we’ll just have to deny the loan.”
It was my turn to look quickly at her.
“Why?”
“Are you kidding me? Alexander Senior’s
reputation
is
that company. If that’s destroyed, there go the investors. If this gets out —”
“It’s not going to get out. Nobody
knows. Alexander Senior doesn’t even know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Senior thinks he paid for an abortion.”
“Oh God.”
“So nobody knows, except me and you and
the two people in the room when Michael was conceived.”
“It’ll get out.”
“Maybe not.”
“Sure it will. You already said that
reporter — what’s his name, Mahoney — is on this story. Suppose he doesn’t let
it go? Suppose he finds out about the Madison’s connection to the dead kid? And
their son’s drug problem?”
At the mention of Kirk’s name, my
fingers went to my chin, then my lips.
“He’s done with the story, I think. And
I don’t know how he’d find out the connection.”
“You did.”
“Yeah, but that’s different. Michael and
Zander looked alike. I knew Michael and could put two and two together.”
“And Mahoney can’t? He’s a bird dog.
They all are.”
That was true. One whiff of a
newspaper-selling, circulation-building scandal and I had a feeling Kirk would
sell his mother’s soul to Satan to get it.
“Give me some time. Let me talk to Kirk,
see what he knows. If he’s done with it, then it’ll all blow over.”
“So he’s ‘Kirk’ now?”
“Kirk the Jerk.”
“I can give you a week. I can stretch
out the audit of MAS’s assets until then.”
“Thanks. I’d hate for Alexander Senior’s
company to suffer because of a grandchild he didn’t even know about.”
“You don’t know that.”
“What?”
“How do you know that Alexander Senior
didn’t know about him?”
She was right. It was an assumption on
my part that Zander had told the truth. What if Alexander Senior did know about
Ashley and Michael? What would he do to protect his company from the possible
scandal? Kill them both? Where would the head of a multimillion dollar company
get his hands on enough GHB to kill two people? From his drug-addict son,
that’s where. I chewed all this over in my head as the kids in the dugout took
the field.
“Do you know him? Senior?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t met him yet. I imagine I
will when we do the final deal. Mostly I’m working with his CFO and a couple of
VPs.” She started to laugh. “Whaddya want me to do, ask him about Michael? So,
Mr. Madison, your assets look good, you had a strong second quarter, and by the
way, did you know your coke-snortin’ son knocked up a crack whore?”
It was my turn to be pissed. “Knock it
off.”
“Why?”
“Ashley’s a person. So was Michael.”
She bit her lip. “You’re right. I’m
sorry.”
I reached over and squeezed her arm,
which morphed into a hug. “Me, too.” We broke apart and after thinking a second
I asked, “So what about Mrs. Madison Senior? What’d you say her name was?”
“Karen. She runs the Madison Foundation.
Does a lot of charity work. The golf tournament is only part of that. She’s
also done some stuff with Children’s Hospital, the homeless shelter downtown —
what’s it called — The Harbor. And,” Royanne snapped her fingers and looked at
me. “Our Mothers Have Wings.”
Our Mothers Have Wings, or OMHW, was an
organization I’d been very active in for several years. Founded fifteen years
ago by a woman who also lost her mother to breast cancer, OMHW’s mission was to
raise awareness about multigenerational disease and the importance of regular
screenings, mammograms, and genetic testing. I’d run their grief group for
daughters of breast cancer victims until six months ago when I had to give it
up as the business of buying my house interfered.
“Huh. I don’t think I’ve met her.” Not
unusual. OMHW had at least fifty regular volunteers. “I’ll call Kelsey this
afternoon, maybe see if I can wrangle an introduction.”
“Why?”
“To see if they knew about Michael.
Ashley was doing so well. I just can’t accept that she’s responsible for
Michael’s death.”
“Nothing is going to bring him back.”
“I know. But I owe it to him to find out
what happened. And why.”
I put the car in reverse and backed out,
then headed downtown. In front of the BFB building, Royanne gave me another hug
before exiting the car. “Be careful,” she said.
Back at work, my cubicle was quiet.
Russell was out. I could tell I had messages waiting by the small orange light
on the phone. No call from Flash. I called a client back, then phoned Kelsey,
the volunteer coordinator for OMHW. She was a pretty, petite blonde whose
super-bubbly, ex-sorority-girl personality made her perfect for recruiting and
retaining volunteers.
“Hey Claire! I’m so glad to hear from
you! How’s the new house?”
“Coming along. How’re you?”
“I’m great! I hope you’re calling
because you’ve got some time to volunteer. You know, we’ve had so many calls
about the grief group, I really think we need to start it up again.”
We talked about the logistics of that
for a while, and I promised to think about it, then asked, “So, what’s coming
up?”
“We’ve got an Angels Aware lunch
tomorrow at The Club. You want a ticket?”
“Who’s the speaker?”
“A radiation oncologist. He’s going to
talk about new targeted radiation therapies.”
Sounded like a blast. “How much are the
tickets?”
“Eighty bucks.”
Yow. That was a pretty hefty chunk out
of my paycheck for a lunch. Interpreting my silence correctly, Kelsey said,
“I’ll tell you what, if you’ll come early, say about ten thirty, and help
Marlie set up and run the registration table, I’ll give it to you for twenty.”
“Sold.” I made my next call, and
Detective Brighton picked up after the second ring.
“She pled guilty,” he said, after I
identified myself.
“I know, I was there.”
“What do you want? It’s over.”
“Just a quick question. Did Ashley have
a drug screen when she was arrested?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because A, we don’t have the facilities
to do that at the jail. And B, because the surrender of bodily fluids is
something we’d need a warrant for. Not many people will pee in a cup just
because you ask them to. It would be too time consuming to get warrants for
everyone we arrest. By the time we did, they’d be clean.”
“Oh.”
“Nice try, but it’s over. There’s no use
in defending her now.”
“Thanks, Detective.”
“Take it easy.”
So much for that. I might never know
whether Ashley was high the night Michael died. I consulted the thick phone
book in my desk, then punched in a new number.
Half of me prayed he wouldn’t be there.
Maybe I’d go straight to voice mail. But no, my typical luck held true, and he
picked up after the first ring.
“Mahoney.”
I froze.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Kirk, it’s Claire Conover”
“Hello.” Frosty, to say the least.
“I was calling to say I’m sorry about
what happened the other night.”
“No problem.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt —”
“Like I said, no big deal. Forget it.”
This was followed by a few moments of
awkward silence. I struggled for some way to bring up Ashley’s case without
being too obvious. “So, now that DHS is out of the spotlight, what are you
working on?”
“What makes you think DHS is out of the
spotlight? Your agency is never out of the spotlight.”
“Well, I meant now that Ashley’s case is
over.”
“I guess you’ll have to buy a paper and
find out. Later.”
He hung up.
Damn.
I cursed at the phone, which didn’t make
me feel any better. Before I forgot, I filled out a form to turn into Mac so I
could use comp time for the Angels Aware lunch the next day. As I slid it into
his box, he motioned me into his office from behind the glass. I retrieved the
form and brought it in with me.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching for
it.
“A comp time request. OMHW is having a
luncheon tomorrow and they need a volunteer. I’ll be back by two.” Mac knew I’d
volunteered with them in the past.
“You should take the day off tomorrow.
You’ve earned it with the week you’ve had. You’ve got plenty of comp time.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” I turned
to leave.
“Wait, Claire. I need to tell you
something else. Have a seat.”
I did, and he said, “Dr. Pope heard from
the state commissioner today.”
“And?”
“And the attorney general’s office wants
the Hennessy record.”
That cold, blood-rushing-to-my-feet
sensation again. Just like the day Michael died. “Christ.”
“Now, there’s no need to panic yet. They
just want to look at it. To look at our role, and the court’s. They’re worried
the reunification might have been rushed.”
The A.G.’s office would look at it, all
right. Then decide whether or not to hand it over to the grand jury, who could
pursue criminal charges of negligence against the agency. That could mean
indictments: of me, Mac, Dr. Pope, the judge on the case. Hell, everybody.
“Jesus,” I said, as if more blasphemy
would help.
“Claire, we’ve got an awful lot of
ground to cover before anything happens. If anything happens. I debated about
even telling you, but I thought you had the right to know.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. Just do your job like you
normally do. I’ll let you know when it’s time to worry.”
“Okay.”
With thoughts swimming in a sea of
anxiety, I went back to my cubicle. I tried to focus on my other cases and put
Mac’s revelation about the A.G. out of my head, but it didn’t work. A week ago
I thought being fired would be the worst thing ever. Suddenly it seemed like
the best-case scenario.
Chapter Sixteen
I worked late into the evening Thursday,
seriously considering Mac’s suggestion about taking a day off. After much
deliberation, I left him a note saying I wouldn’t be in Friday, then went home.
It was close to seven when I unlocked my
door, dropped my briefcase to the floor, and immediately ditched my work
clothes for denim shorts and a T-shirt. There was a message on my machine from
Dad. I returned his call and caught him up on everything. Then I fetched the
corkscrew and a half-decent bottle of Pinot Grigio. I parked myself in one of
the wrought-iron chairs on my patio and put my feet up on the other.
I stared absently at the whispering oak,
hickory, and pines in my backyard. Birds pecked seeds at my feeder, a colorful
parade of cardinals, blue jays, and chickadees. The sun went down, turning the
cloud-streaked sky pale gray, then pink, then orange. It wasn’t until I
finished the fourth glass of wine that the uneasy sensation started to subside.
As Mac said, it wasn’t time to freak out yet. I’d done my job to the best of my
ability. Michael’s return home hadn’t been rushed. Ashley tested clean for
eighteen months straight, a hell of a long time by DHS standards. The record
was all in order, with the exception of some minor details. Details that
wouldn’t have caused Michael’s death. No way they’d hold me accountable, right?
The problem was the political aspect of
the thing. As long as the public focused on this case, the politicians would
use it to make themselves look good. The commissioner would, for sure. So would
the attorney general. Maybe even Dr. Pope. Look at what we are doing to stop
child deaths in our state, they’d proclaim. We are cleaning up DHS. And I’d get
thrown under the bus. I hated feeling this way. I hated the constant anxiety.
Not to mention the cynical way I was viewing the world.
Maybe I should just chuck it in. Resign,
and join the ranks of child welfare workers who were victims of burnout. No
more long hours, angry clients, hurt children. The idea was tempting. But what
else would I do? I could do many things with the master’s degree I had. I
merely had to choose one and find a job. But I’d miss DHS. I’d miss Russell,
and Mac, too, on some level. And I still believed I owed Michael answers. I
deferred any career decisions, poured myself another glass of wine, and went in
to watch some TV.
After flipping channels for a while, I
gave it up and went to bed. I woke up Friday with a hangover. It took three
cups of coffee and a bagel to make me feel better. I dressed in a light pink
suit with white piping and fastened an inch-tall pin to the lapel, a gold angel
with wings spread open over the letters OMHW.
My first stop was the jail. I left my
purse at security as I had before and took the still-grungy elevator to the
second floor. Several other inmates were visiting with loved ones. I parked
myself on the last available concrete-footed stool and waited while the guard
brought Ashley to me.
She looked like a washed-out version of
herself. Her brown hair draped limply around her pale face. The neck of her
faded uniform hung so that her shoulder was exposed. She adjusted it after she
sat down. Whatever irritation I’d felt toward her dissolved.
She picked up the receiver on her side
of the cubicle. “Hey,” she said in a small voice.
“Hey. How are you?”
“Okay. You know. Like the Big Book says,
one day at a time.”
“I thought the service for Michael was
nice.”
“Me, too. Nona did a good job.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Zander?”
Her eyes filled with tears, which she
immediately wiped on her jumpsuit. “I hated not tellin’ you about him. But I
couldn’t. You know who Zander’s daddy is?”
“Yes.”
“Zander’s daddy didn’t want me to have
Michael. He gave us money to . . . anyway, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. That
was my baby.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve again. “I may not have had him
for long, but at least I had him.”
That got to me. I took a second to
gather my emotions and put them in their box. Then I said, “Zander said he was
at your house the night before Michael died.”
“He came by.”
“Did he bring the GHB?”
“No. He wasn’t allowed in the house if
he was high. I meant it, too. I wasn’t about to get caught havin’ nothin’ to do
with drugs again.”
“So he wouldn’t have hurt Michael? Or
you?”
“No way. I know Zander’s got problems,
but he was a good dad.”
I hated to think what rating scale we
were using if Zander Madison qualified as a good father. Probably the same one
that would rank Al Mackey as a good husband. I raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“No, really. He was. He’s got problems.
He’s an addict. I been giving him stuff to read about the Twelve Steps. He
tried to get straight before. He ain’t there yet, but he’ll get clean when he’s
ready. He was real good about bringing me and Mikey stuff. Sometimes he brought
me money or diapers or toys for him. That’s why we couldn’t never tell Zander’s
dad about Mikey. If he found out, he’d take away Zander’s money. And, well, we
needed it.”
Alexander Senior’s best move would be to
adopt a little tough love and cut Zander off altogether, but saying it wouldn’t
make any difference. It was also easier said than done. “Okay. If Zander didn’t
bring the GHB to your house, who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you have an idea. What’s Flash got
to do with all this?” I told her about my visit to his house. “Was he stalking
you again?”
Her eyes teared up again. “Claire,
really, just forget about it. I pled guilty. It’s over.”
“Not for me it’s not.” A hot stab of
anger wedged itself into my gut and stayed there. “I’m in serious trouble. Not
only have I been threatened, but I could lose my job. Or worse.”
“Why?”
“The State of Alabama is investigating
whether giving Michael back to you was a mistake. My mistake.”
“No —”
“Yes. I could wind up taking a lot of
the blame for this. If you know who killed Michael —”
“No! I —”
“Was it Jimmy Shelton?”
“Leave Jimmy out of this. He don’t know
nothin’. ”
“How can I reach him?”
“You can’t. Leave him alone.” This time
the tears spilled over, and she didn’t bother wiping them away. They made dark
speckled drops on one of the orange stripes. “Please. I’m sorry about your job.
I am. But knowin’ what happened ain’t gonna make any difference. Not for me or
Mikey.”
“Why?”
“Just leave it be.”
Nothing I said was making an impression.
I gave up. “Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Well —”
“What?”
“Zander’s supposed to be paying my bills
for a while. There was a power bill due when I got locked up. And the cable one
too. Could you run by the apartment and make sure Zander paid them? Make sure
there ain’t no mail in the box? Mamma said she could do it, but it’s way outta
her way to come into town.”
“No problem.”
“You sure? Please don’t be mad at me. I
promise, if I could tell you everythin’, I would.”
Her tear-streaked face was pitiful. “I’m
not mad.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll come back and visit after I check
on your mail.”
“Thanks.”
“Take care of yourself, Ashley.”
We hung up, and the guard, with one hand
firmly gripped on Ashley’s arm, led her through the door to the jail. I took
the elevator down to the lobby and retrieved my bag, then drove south on 20th
Street and over Red Mountain.
I passed the entrance to Vulcan Park,
memories drifting back to the Fourth of July and my date with Grant. I turned
onto a road that wound its way up the mountain, through the wrought-iron gates
of The Club, to a broad, covered driveway where uniformed valets waited. The
restaurant, with its carpeted lobby and gilded mirrors, was the polar opposite
of my last destination.
The hostess checked a list and waved me
through to the dining area. Marlie, a woman I’d volunteered with before, was
spreading a pink damask tablecloth onto a long trestle table. Boxes of pink
roses sat next to the table. Seeing them triggered thoughts of Grant, again,
and that I needed to call him to confirm our date for tomorrow.
Marlie and I chatted easily as we set up
the registration table, stacking piles of literature about Our Mothers Have
Wings next to brochures about breast cancer and breast health. We placed the
pink roses in bud vases on each of the round luncheon tables along with the
printed program for today’s talk. The entire back wall of the room was glass,
with doors that opened to a large terrace offering a spectacular view of
downtown Birmingham.
Back at the registration table, we organized
the name tags and the registration list and waited for the attendees to arrive.
I scanned the list of people coming, relieved to see Karen Madison was on the
first page of the forty or so names listed. At ten to eleven the first of the
women arrived, most of them dressed exquisitely in expensive suits. I greeted
people, handed out name tags, pointed out the rest room. Kelsey came in, with
the guest of honor in tow, and led him to the head table. At last, at eleven
twenty, I overheard a woman say to Marlie, “Madison. Karen Madison.”
I turned from the person I was checking
in to see a tan woman in her late forties. Maybe early fifties. Her hair was
dyed ash blonde and it looked like she had just stepped out of the salon. The
white silk suit she was wearing wouldn’t have fit me, even if I could have waved
a magic wand and lost at least ten pounds on the spot.
Five people were waiting behind her to
check in. Marlie thanked her for coming, marked her name off the list, and
handed her a pink-framed name tag. As she walked into the dining room, I said
to Marlie, “Be right back.” I grabbed my purse from under the table and took
off before Marlie had a chance to protest. I followed Karen to the table she
chose, near the back, and as she settled herself I hung my purse on the chair
next to hers. For good measure, I wadded up the delicately folded linen napkin
and placed it on the chair. Then I scooted back to the registration table.