No Accident (23 page)

“I get it. Maybe you’re right.”

“If you’ll do me one favor, just think some more about the things holding you back.”

“That’s pretty much all I think about.”

“Fair enough.” She sipped her coffee, then made what was an obvious effort to brighten her tone and change the subject
—for both of their sakes. “So tell me about your family,” she said. “I’ve obviously met your brother.”

Alex didn’t feel like sharing any more personal details with her, but she’d agreed to help him and, anyway, he could still be civil. “It’s just us and my mom.”

“Your father left?”

Alex paused before answering. “Yes, then he passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I wasn’t an orphan or anything. I was in high school.”

“I’m still sorry. Were you close to him?”

“Hadn’t seen him for a few years when he died. He died in prison.”

Her look grazed the ceiling, as if she was trying to make sense of this revelation. “It’s funny—sorry, it’s not funny—but you don’t seem like the son of hardened criminals.”

“I’m not. He was a bank president, and a so-called friend lied to sav
e himself. My dad appealed, but . . .”
But
, Alex thought. But nothing came of it. Bad choices, shitty luck and a quixotic search for redemption. Must run in the family. “What about your family?” he said.

“My family? Don’t see ’em much
 . . . Anyway, I’ve always focused more on the future than the past.”

“Guess you won’t need a very big boat,” he said.

They both laughed a little at that. “Thanks for the surfing lesson,” she said.

“Anytime. You know, you’re all right.”

She stood up, pleased at the compliment. “Mind if I use your bathroom? I’d like to shower before I go.”

“Of course. I’ll show you where the towels are.”

While the shower was running, Alex wondered what the hell that conversation had just been about. Sheila was showing him a way out, a way to shut off the skipping record of self-reproach. Right before she walked away herself. She was a piece of work.

*
* *

Del came home late that night. He’d stayed at Alex’s house enough nights now that even with a beer buzz he easily found his way in the dark to the couch where he slept. He awoke early the next morning to the smell of coffee coming from the nearby kitchen.

“Well, dude,” he called out, “she was pretty hot, but you’re better off without her.”

Sheila stepped into the living room holding a coffee pot and a mug. She was already dressed. “What do you take in your coffee?”

Del sat up and blinked a couple of times. “How ’bout some Irish whiskey?”

She smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Alex shuffled into the living room in sweatpants and a rumpled T-shirt. Sheila handed him the mug of coffee and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Alex, can I talk to you?” Del said.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Sheila said, and she stepped back into the kitchen. Alex shook his head vigorously at his younger brother. He didn’t need Del shooting off his mouth right now.

Del spoke in a softer voice, “Alex, I really need to talk to you.”

Sheila instantly returned to the living room with her eyes narrowed in a steely squint. “And what will you tell him? That I’m no good? That he can’t trust me?” She turned to Alex. “I’ve got to go.”

“Sheila—”

“No, I’m leaving.” She took her purse from the kitchen and left by the front door.

Alex watched her go. If anything, the second night with her had been more pyrotechnic than the first. They’d been more relaxed, and better rested, and better acquainted. And now Del had driven her away before breakfast. “Del, what did you do?” he said.

“Me?”

“Couldn’t you even wait until after coffee to insult her?”

Del stood up, looking offended, even though Alex knew him too well to take him seriously. “She’s right,” Del said. “I don’t trust her.”

“You don’t even know her.”

“Neither do you.”

Del always had strong opinions about Alex’s girlfriends, even while he jealously defended his own prerogatives for seeking debauchery and indebtedness in Vegas or anywhere else someone was willing to take his money. But Alex didn’t feel like another schoolyard debate with his brother. “I think it’s time you found someplace else to stay.”

Del blinked a couple of times. Then, without a word, he took his suitcase out of the closet, collected his toiletries from the bathroom in a matter of seconds and swept back into the living room. He looked around the room, found Alex’s keychain, and removed one of the keys.

“What are you doing?” Alex said.

“I’m moving into the vacant house. You know, the one I helped you buy.”

“Then you can start paying me rent.”

Del gave Alex a look of disgust, shook his head and left, slamming the door behind him.

As soon as the door closed, Alex wished he could take it all back. Del’s heart was in the right place, and with all Del’s personal problems, what he needed from Alex was to keep him grounded, not drive him away. What Del needed was a big brother, and those were in short supply about now. Alex sat in the kitchen with his head in his hands, the mug of coffee by his elbow. A minute later, there was a loud knock on the door.

“Come in, you idiot.”

Another knock. Alex went to the door and threw it open. There he found a large man who slapped a sheaf of papers against his chest.

“Alex Fogarty, you’ve been served.”

Alex scanned the top lines of the papers. They were for the loan on his truck, the one that Del had reported stolen.

The process server cocked a finger up toward the porch light, which Alex hadn’t turned on in weeks. “Your light’s burned out,” he said. Then he walked away.

After weeks of hiding, Alex finally had his ruse exposed. He decided to give Sheila and Del equal blame for that. And now that this guy had found him, Alex knew that collectors for his other debts would soon be knocking on his door—literally.
That’s great
, Alex thought,
just great
.

Then, pleased with his sudden ingenuity and excited to have an excuse to call her, he thought,
Maybe I can crash at Sheila’s place for a few days
.

The morning Luke testified before the grand jury, Crash dutifully arrived at Luke’s house to pick him up. When Luke and Petra had emerged bleary-eyed from the house half an hour after they were supposed to, they found Crash waiting patiently for them in the SUV. Petra tried to gauge Crash’s mood. If Crash still harbored resentment for Petra’s interference the night before, he didn’t show it. They entered the car to find that the cup holders for the back seats held their favorite coffee drinks.

When they arrived at the courthouse, Luke resisted Petra’s offer to accompany him.

“I need to focus,” he said. Standing in daylight by the open car door, he leaned into the dark cabin and gave Petra a chaste kiss goodbye. They were both tired. He promised to call her when it was over, and she nodded.

Luke shut the heavy car door, and the car became a dark cave again. With the tinted windows, all that Petra could see of Crash in the rearview mirror were the glossy sparkles of his eyes looking back at her.

“What?” she said defensively.

“You can’t let Luke adopt Dmitri,” Crash said.

“That again? Look, you want to stop the adoption, you talk to Luke yourself. But it won’t do you any good. He’ll believe
me
. You know he will. Now take me to Beverly Hills. I want to go shopping.” With that, Petra pulled out her cell phone and began texting friends.

When she next looked up, instead of palm trees she saw planes landing. They had come to a stop near a runway at LAX.

“Crash, you idiot, where are we?”

Crash didn’t turn around, but his eyes found Petra’s in the mirror. His face looked perfectly serene. “You won’t lie to Luke about me. You won’t lie to anyone ever again.”

Petra’s eyes widened and her face went slack, then she gasped—a sharp, shallow inhalation—and threw open the car door just an instant before she heard Crash flip a switch to lock the car up. She took her high heeled shoes in her hands and fled in bare feet.

Outside, she found that Crash had parked the SUV on an isolated gravel road. The road ran through an empty field that lay between the airport and the sea.

Crash chased her through the tall, brown winter grass. The sky overhead churned with white and gray clouds tumbling in from the ocean. They ran against the wind.

There was no path to follow, only pebbles and sharp stones that came too fast to avoid. Up ahead Petra saw the beach, a thin beige band that, with each pounding step she took, bobbed teasingly above the brittle grass and bushes before her. Even if she could reach the sand, on a cold day like this would there be anyone there to save her? Petra cursed herself for running into the field instead of back down the gravel road, and then she felt Crash’s thick fingers paw her shoulder.

Just three of his fingers catching the edge of her shoulder were enough to spin her around, and she let herself be spun. She let the momentum swing her outstretched arm like a hammer, and she aimed the heel of the shoe in her hand at his large white head.

The heel punctured his cheek, and he grunted. As Petra fell to the ground she saw him stagger. Then the back of her head hit the ground hard, and she lost a moment. The next thing she knew, Crash was balanced on both feet and looming over her, moving in with those big hands. She snapped her body up from the shoulders like a mousetrap and landed both feet on his chest, which knocked him backward and left a narrow bloody footprint on each lapel.

The move got her a moment back, but it wasn’t enough. She scrambled to her feet, but three steps later he was upon her again with his arms around her chest, and he smothered her into the rocky ground. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his breath on her neck. They were panting like dogs.

“Don’t kill me. I’ll leave if you want, I’ll run away.”

Crash turned her onto her back and sat up on top of her legs. “If you really loved him, you wouldn’t want to leave.”

Petra started crying softly.

Crash took a large rock from the ground. He raised it overhead.

From the ground, Petra waved her hands in front of his face as if trying to flag down a speeding car from a crosswalk.

“Wait!” she shouted. “Our son—promise you’ll take care of Dmitri.”

A troubled look passed over Crash’s face, and his hands sagged just an inch with the weight of the rock. From the sea, the sound of a jet airplane coming in to land split every atom into two.

“Promise!” Petra strained every muscle to be heard over the jet engine.

She saw Crash’s mouth form the words, “I promise.” Crash looked like he was shouting, too.

She saw the airplane pass like a surfacing whale over Crash’s shoulder, close enough to touch if it had gone a little slower.

She shut her eyes.

Alex waited several hours to call Sheila, and led off by apologizing for how Del behaved. She was gracious about it. Toward the end of the conversation, he mentioned the process server, as in “what another rotten piece of luck.” Sheila took the cue and offered him a place to stay for a few days if he needed to get away from his own house and the bill collectors lurking around it. After some token resistance, Alex agreed.

She and Alex spent the next couple of days together
—working. There was a conspiratorial energy to their long conversations. Alex wasn’t sure if his excitement was about her or the mission. Probably both. Hopefully both. He was sure about the mission, in any case.

She was excited about the mission, too, which was striking when compared with her prior ambivalence. For Alex’s investigation from the inside to be effective, he had to know in advance as much about Liberty’s inner workings as possible, and Sheila educated Alex about the procedures and all the internal politics at Liberty as only a former head of H.R. could do.

There was time for sex, too. If anything, their shared anticipation for Alex’s undercover foray made the sex more intense than before. But the job was more of the focus—for both of them.

During their conversations Alex asked for, and Sheila gave, grudgingly at first, more background on Luke and the ongoing divorce. She told him about Brad Pitcher’s blunder in asserting that Luke was Dmitri’s father, and about Luke’s bluff in proposing to adopt Dmitri.

She spoke with bitterness about Luke’s attempt to “starve her out,” as she called it, by refusing to pay her any alimony, and how her numbskull lawyer had finally done something right and gotten her alimony to pay her living expenses until final disposition of the case. Looking around Sheila’s luxury high-rise apartment, Alex didn’t think she was anywhere near starving, but he didn’t argue the point. She expressed her hope that Luke’s upcoming deposition would turn the case around for her, and that Brad was finally hitting his stride.

They saw stories about Petra P’s murder on the news. The police didn’t suspect Luke or, if they did, they weren’t revealing that to the press. Alex wondered if Petra had become inconvenient to Luke. What if Luke really was the kid’s father, and he had to get rid of Petra to avoid paying child support? Alex was intrigued by the idea that Luke killed Petra, but it didn’t square with the fact that Luke was now looking after the child, and had previously said he wanted to adopt him.

“Do you think it was Luke?” Alex asked Sheila.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I hope not.” She noticed the concern on Alex’s face and said, “Why so glum? You already thought Luke was a murderer, didn’t you?”

“Sure,” Alex said, without much conviction. He still believed Luke had orchestrated the accident—but that sort of crime, setting up a van to explode in an accident, was almost an academic exercise compared to bashing Petra’s head in with a jagged rock.

“Murderers murder people, Alex. You should know what you’re going up against.”

“But you don’t think Luke killed her.”

“I don’t know who killed her,” Sheila said. “But I sorta wish it had been me.”

“Sheila!”

“Sorry,” she said. “Bad joke.”

* * *

On his first day at Liberty Industries, Alex, as Al Franks, was sent to a room for orientation along with a half dozen other new and recent hires. He signed some papers and ignored a series of speeches by H.R. and other supervisors. After an hour, he was sent to the daily morning meeting of Liberty’s security department.

The room was on the first floor of an older building, with a row of large wood-framed windows that looked out onto the company parking lot. Alex found a dozen or so security employees there, tall and short, but all with weight room physiques. They bantered with each other about sports and women while they waited for the boss to show up. The boss was Alvin “Crash” Bailey. Alex took a seat and stretched his legs out and waited.

After hearing so much about Crash, Alex couldn’t wait to meet him
—especially because Alex suspected that Crash and Luke were in cahoots with the man with the birthmark on his hand. Alex thought about Beto’s trembling fear of Crash and about Sheila’s description of him. Violent, decisive, yet faultlessly polite and almost deferential to the company executives—it was hard to imagine everything he had heard applying to a single person.

A man in a business suit entered the room and everyone else ambled to their seats. He was a young, thin man with dark hair. His stiff manner and serious expression poorly masked his nervousness. Alex whispered to the man sitting next to him, “Is that the famous Crash Bailey?”

“Hell, no,” the man whispered. “Crash has been AWOL for the last two days.”

The boss called out Alex’s alias in a tremulous voice. “Is Al Franks here?”

“Here,” Alex said, and he raised his hand.

The man nodded and began reciting Al Franks’ duties for the day. The other men drifted into conversations among themselves, until one of them called out, “Dude, someone’s trying to steal that truck.”

Alex rushed with the men to the windows, where he saw a man inside the cabin of a pickup truck—his uncle Hugh’s truck. The man’s hands were beneath the dashboard, but his shoulders and elbows were a whirl of motion above it.

“I can’t believe it,” Alex said.

“I saw him jimmy the door open,” one of the men said.

“He’s stealing my truck!” Alex said. His new coworkers looked at him in disbelief. Then Alex heard the ignition engage, trying to turn the engine over. The thief sitting inside his uncle Hugh’s truck pumped a fist with delight. The security crew around Alex groaned. He couldn’t let himself be the second Fogarty brother to have a truck stolen out from under him.

“You just lost your truck,” one of them said.

Another said, “Just give me your tag number and we’ll call it in.”

Alex imagined them making that call, and then imagined having to explain to his coworkers why the truck that he claimed to own was registered to someone named Hugh Fogarty rather than Al Franks.

“The hell I’ve lost it,” Alex said. He took the heavy wooden frame of the window in both hands and heaved it upward. A coat of paint that held it down let go with a sharp crack. To the cheers and hollers of his new coworkers, he sprinted across the parking lot.

Alex reached his truck just as the thief had got the engine running and put the transmission into reverse. Alex managed to grasp the driver’s side door handle. Chasing the truck backward, he hurried his feet as if he had been dropped onto a treadmill. The truck backed out of the parking space and then stopped suddenly—and Alex’s momentum threw him to the ground. From there he looked up helplessly at the truck’s tailpipe.

Alex instantly scrambled onto his hands and feet and grabbed hold of the truck’s rear bumper
—it was a rash gesture and should have brought him injury. But the thief struggled to put the truck into drive, and Alex had time to clamber over the tailgate and into the pickup bed. There he rose into a low wrestler’s crouch. The truck lurched forward. Alex’s feet went out from under him and he found himself hanging over the tailgate and staring once again at the tailpipe.

Working against the momentum of the accelerating truck, Alex crept forward again. It was like trying to run in a swimming pool. When he finally reached the cabin, he gathered his weight and slammed his elbow into the rear window
—his left elbow. Alex wanted to save his right arm to beat the thief senseless.

The window didn’t break. The thief, startled, hit the brakes. That launched Alex into a cartwheel over the roof of the truck
—a sky with puffy white clouds wheeled across his field of vision. He landed on the hood with a belly flop that knocked the wind out of him. Alex felt himself begin to slide forward, his legs dangled alarmingly over the grille, and he flung his arms toward the windshield in desperation.

Almost by accident his left hand touched one of the windshield wipers, and Alex held on tight. The thief steered the truck erratically down one row of parked cars, then another. All the while Alex gripped the wiper rod, while his right arm waved free, jerking spasmodically with the truck’s movement the way a flag snaps in the wind. Alex now faced the windshield and saw the thief’s face for the first time
—he was a white guy, probably a teenager, and looked as scared as Alex felt. How would their tango end? Alex figured the kid wouldn’t have the sense to slow gently to a stop and flee on foot.

Alex was right. The thief turned on the wipers, and the motion flung Alex across the hood
—now his feet dangled over the front left headlight. How fast were they going? Alex couldn’t tell. But even at twenty miles an hour, falling off could be deadly, and Alex knew they were going faster than that.

The truck tumbled over a speed bump
—hard—and the wiper rod snapped off in Alex’s hand. The force of the bump launched Alex over the side of the hood. His heels hit the asphalt off to the side of the truck, and he backpedaled furiously to keep his balance until he fell sprawling onto the hood of a parked car. There he lay, stunned and motionless, like a frog on a dissecting table.

From that vantage point Alex watched the truck squeal to a stop in front of two Liberty security cars that blocked its passage. Alex rolled out of the dent he had made and, waving the windshield wiper overhead like a lasso, ran yelping toward the action. There a knot of his coworkers surrounded the thief. They shouted conflicting commands and tossed him to and fro like a medicine ball.

With another agenda in mind, Alex ran past them and jumped into the cabin of his truck. He swiftly grabbed anything with his name or his uncle’s out of the glove compartment and threw it under the seat.

*
* *

When the cops finally came and took the kid, he looked relieved to be out of the custody of the Liberty security team. The whole team was pumped all day, and they took Alex to their favorite bar after work, where Alex felt compelled to buy them a round. His new friends then reciprocated with rounds of ever more exotic and vile liquors, and by the time Alex returned to Sheila’s apartment he was in bad shape. She wanted to know all about Alex’s first day at Liberty, but Alex couldn’t string two sentences together. She stormed off to her bedroom, offended that Alex had gotten so drunk. Alex followed to try to explain that he had to drink in order to ingratiate himself with the rest of the security team, but in his liquored state he couldn’t say “ingratiate.” At that, Sheila rolled on the bed in laughter, and Alex knew she was all right. The last thing he remembered was kissing her neck, which tickled her and made her laugh even more. He woke up still wearing his clothes. Over coffee and eggs, he told her all that had happened the first day. She thought it was a good start. Alex did, too.

At the office, the nervous fill-in supervisor pulled Alex aside before roll call.

“The chief wants to see you.”

Alex’s heart leapt. “You mean Crash?”

“No,” the supervisor said. “Mr. Hubbard.”

* * *

The windows of Luke Hubbard’s personal office were framed by heavy ballroom curtains that were drawn almost fully closed. The shadows and dark wood made Alex feel like he had stepped out of a bustling office and into an old fashioned social club.

Alex had no inkling why he had been summoned. He hoped that it wasn’t because someone at Liberty had figured out that Al Franks was a fake identity.

Alex stepped stiffly into the office, keeping his weight off an ankle he’d twisted a little when falling off the truck. Luke asked if his ankle was hurting him. Without booze, it hurt like hell, but Alex said he was managing fine and, to Luke’s evident surprise, Alex immediately accepted Luke’s invitation to prop his ailing limb on a coffee table. The tabletop was fashioned from a single cut of teak.

“I heard about your adventure yesterday and I wanted to meet you,” Luke said.

“Thank you, Mr. Hubbard.”

Luke told Alex to call him by his first name. It felt more like an instruction than an invitation. Luke sat down across from Alex and asked him a little about his background. Alex told the truth, just with the names changed. Alex found Luke simultaneously charming and aloof. Luke struck Alex as a stereotypical businessman—focused, practical, social, not given to uncompelled self-reflection. But would planning the murder of the employees in the van have been possible at all without some reflection during the process? Alex wondered how this man with perfect hair and manicured nails would have rationalized that bloody business to himself.

As they spoke, Alex got the sense that Luke was sizing him up, too. “About yesterday,” Luke said after a while. “Is it true what I hear, that you’re not going to press charges against that boy?”

“That’s right.”

“But
—just put aside the theft—the way he drove, I hear you could have been killed.”

Alex shrugged. He obviously wouldn’t be revealing to Luke why he needed to prevent discovery of whose name the truck was registered in. “Sure, I could’ve been killed,” Alex said. “But I wasn’t, and chasing after him was my choice anyway, and not a particularly rational one.”

Luke chuckled. Alex could see that Luke was responding well to his understated approach.

“Anyway,” Alex said, “he’s just a kid, and I know the whole thing got him scared shitless
—excuse my language—no need to ruin his life over it.”