No One in the World (6 page)

“Does he have proof that I did?”

“Does he need it? Or will the accusation be enough to have people suspecting that you're gay, something that you have not admitted. But
worse, it will have people questioning whether you are an at-work sexual predator. Then what happens to your future plans to one day be attorney general?”

My sister stood and took me by my elbow. “I know this stinks, and if karma is really real, that little fucker will pay dearly at some point in his pathetic life. But for now, let's just save ourselves the anguish of it all and pay the fool the fifty thousand dollars he's asking for. I'll have a confidentiality agreement drawn up protecting you from any more of his bullshit.”

“Fine,” I said, agreeing but still not wanting to. “But he comes to us, and I'm the one handing him the check. Understand?”

“As you wish,” Sissy said.

Two days later, Kendrick Dunstan Wilshire walked on crutches into my sister's office at Winslow corporate, wearing a jacket and tie, like he was about to be picked for the NFL draft. That would never happen, because he was wearing a knee-to-toe cast protecting, as I had read on ESPN.com, a career-ending injury. I guess Sissy was right, and karma was not only real but swift.

Beside him stood his attorney, a woman named Lilith Banner. Coincidentally, she had been a year below me in law school; she now worked for a small firm out of Orland Park.

She had a copy of the confidentiality agreement we had sent to her office. She acted as though she didn't know me, and I played along.

Lilith set the contract on Sissy's desk.

Kendrick hobbled over on his crutches.

Lilith pulled a pen from her suit jacket pocket, gave it to Kendrick, and instructed him where to sign.

He glanced up at me with what I once thought were eyes the color of a beautiful green sea but now looked like the color of infant diarrhea. He signed the page, gave the pen back to Lilith, and rose up smiling.

“Mr. Winslow,” Lilith said.

I walked over while Kendrick stumbled his crippled butt out of the way and signed the contract as well.

“Excellent,” Sissy said, in an overly cheery voice. She grabbed the cashier's check that had been made out to Kendrick for 50K and gave it to me.

I stepped up to Kendrick, leaving not a foot between us. He beamed, obviously excited about his payday. I gave him the check, then held out my hand.

He took it, and we shook.

“Sorry about your injury,” I said. “You would've gone high in the draft, maybe even number one.”

“It's okay,” Kendrick said, confident. “I've still got the legal profession.”

With a vengeful smile, I said, “I hope you don't intend to practice here or anywhere else in the country. I put the word out about you. Have a nice time trying to find a job.”

O
ver the past three weeks I had devoted almost all of my attention to finding Eric. I had been checking the mailbox every day for any information from the Social Security Administration. Nothing. I had been on the Internet, night and day, searching for any clues. I had even been actively searching obituaries.

It seemed like a hopeless cause.

Last night I told my sister what I had been doing. She was appalled.

“You don't even know this man. What if he's crazy, or worse? What if he's poor?” my sister said, pacing back and forth in front of me. “You're part of Winslow Products. What do you think it would look like for you to have a homeless brother, living on the streets?”

“Who said he was homeless? He could've accomplished what I have. He could be a physician, the head doctor at some hospital somewhere. Maybe a teacher or something.”

“Cobi, just drop it. Please. We have other much more important things to take care of, like finding you a wife.”

“How's that going?” I said, still not certain if what Sissy was suggesting was the right way to go.

“I found someone in serious financial need. I hear she's not quite as cultured as many of the society women I know, but she might have to do. You know Priya Parks, formally Priya Parks-Frazier. Married to—”

“Winston Wallace Frazier, the investor that swindled all that money?”

“Yes. The one they call the black Bernie Madoff. She's the one.”

“But I thought they were very well off.”

“They were, till the feds came and took all of their money and threw Frazier in prison. The poor woman is lucky she didn't go, too. Now she's broke and looking for someone to save her. The meeting is tomorrow. Let's hope that someone is you, Cobi.”

The next day, I was trying to appear as though I was not staring at Priya Parks as she sat in my living room across from Sissy.

Priya was much more attractive than the pictures I had seen of her in the newspapers and tabloids. Her hair was long and parted down the middle. She had a small mouth, big eyes, and wore a diamond stud in her nose. She wore a dark dress, as if just coming from a funeral. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, listening to my sister.

“No one can know that this marriage has been arranged. You will be free to divorce only after two years, and you must live here at the Winslow Chicago residence for the duration of your marriage,” Sissy said. “Any questions?”

Priya Parks glanced over at me. I quickly looked down at my hands. This was the most ridiculous idea I had ever heard.

“You said there would be financial compensation?” Priya asked.

“Yes,” Sissy said. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars annually. Plus room and board. All your expenses will be taken care of, to include a car if you need one, so the full five hundred thousand will be yours to do with as you please.”

Priya chuckled a little as she sat up in her chair. “I thought I heard something about his inheritance being twenty million dollars. I'm sorry, miss, but you're going to have to do a little better than that.”

I wanted to laugh at how shocked my sister looked.

“Really, Ms. Frazier, all you'll be doing is lying around here collecting a check.”

“No, sweetheart. There won't be much lying around, considering your brother over there is gay. And didn't you say something about me not being able to see other men?”

“No, you can't see other men,” Sissy said. “How would that look if you got caught?”

“How would it look if you caught me jackin' off on a vibrator every night. A woman has her needs, and the dick is one of mine,” Priya said with a snap of her fingers. She stood, grabbed her purse, and straightened her dress. She walked over to me and held out her hand. “I'm sorry that I can't be the one, Mr. Winslow.”

I was smiling, almost laughing. “Me, too. But I appreciate you coming out. Is there anything you need for your time and trouble?”

“No. I'm fine. But thank you.”

Still holding on to Priya's hand, I added, “I trust this will remain between those in this room.”

“After what I went through with my husband, having my business put out in the streets for all to hear, I would never think of doing that to another human being. Your secret is safe with me, honey.”

I walked Priya Parks to her car. When I stepped back in the house, Sissy was standing in the middle of the room, her arms folded, looking betrayed.

“I guess that gets me off the hook.”

“Don't even think about it. We have approximately three weeks left till your birthday. You're getting married by then,” Sissy said, grabbing her keys off the end table. She headed toward the door, but stopped and turned around. “There's another person I've been considering. I promise I'll thoroughly vet her.”

I
t was early. The sun was out, and it was going to be a beautiful day.

But for Austen Melrose Greer, it was already starting horribly.

Austen had jet-black hair brushed back in a ponytail and beautiful, flawless Hershey Kiss–colored skin. Her eyes were almond shaped, and her lips were the shade of rose petals.

Austen pulled the key out of her car's ignition and exhaled deeply as she sat behind the steering wheel. She had loved this car. It was a 2008 Jaguar XJ8. It was silver with dark gray interior. She had bought the car in late 2007. It had just hit the dealership, and the housing business had still been great to her.

As a Realtor, she had heard grumblings about awful things to come in the market, but like so many of her friends in the business, she ignored those warnings. At the time, Austen was still selling downtown Chicago properties as fast as she could list them.

But not three months into 2008, things started to change drastically. There was talk, then evidence of a recession. People stopped buying houses, then houses started to go into foreclosure. Folks started losing their jobs, the value of properties dropped, and the stock market did things Austen never thought possible.

By the time 2009 rolled in, Austen had lost almost all of her savings and hadn't sold a property in over six months. With each month that
passed, it became harder and harder to scrape together the money to pay the mortgage on her very expensive Michigan Avenue condominium located in the heart of the Gold Coast.

Austen flipped open the armrest between the seats of the Jaguar and set the key inside it. She leaned over, checked the glove compartment to make sure she hadn't left anything, then climbed out and closed the door.

She stood in the Jewel grocery store parking lot, as mothers dragged their kids by the hands, and pushed their carts past her.

Austen felt like crying as she turned and walked away from the vehicle.

After climbing in a cab, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and dialed the 800 number of the finance company she was giving her car back to.

“Yes, this is Austen Greer,” Austen said. “The car is in the Jewel Foods parking lot on North Clark.” The cab driver glanced up at her. She cut him an evil look, then went back to her conversation. “But if you don't pick it up by closing, I'm sure it'll be towed.”

Austen disconnected the call and settled back into her seat for the remainder of the ride home.

When she walked through the heavy wood-and-glass doors of the aging but beautifully kept condo building, the uniformed attendant stood from behind the counter. “Ms. Greer, this man is here to see you,” the attendant said, gesturing to a blond man wearing shorts, topsiders, and a baseball cap.

Austen hooked a finger over the top of her glasses, pulled them down a bit. She looked the man over suspiciously.

“Hi,” the man said, extending a hand. “I'm Ken. I came to look at the—”

“This way, Ken,” Austen said, cutting the man off before he could put her business out for the entire building to hear.

On the elevator ride up to the twenty-third floor, Austen kept her eyes down.

The elevator doors slid open with the
ding
of the bell.

“This way,” Austen said, stepping out first.

Austen pushed open the heavy wooden door of her 2,000-square-foot condo. She walked in first, Ken following behind. Her heels clicked loudly across the immaculate hardwood floors and echoed through the huge space; it was practically empty.

There was a beautiful Asian antique dining room set in the dining
room, and a burnt orange antique leather sofa with claw feet in the living room.

“So that's it, huh?” Ken said, walking over to the sofa, his fists on his hips.

“That's it,” Austen said, hating the fact that she had to sell it.

Austen had once been so successful that she would fly all over the country looking for furniture to decorate her new condo. When she found the perfect piece, no matter the cost, she'd buy it and have it shipped home.

The sofa was a piece she had found in San Francisco and just had to have. It was in flawless condition. She happily paid $12,000 dollars for it, and now had it sitting on Craigslist for a quarter of that.

“I like it,” Ken said, his arms crossed. “I want it.”

Austen was both relieved and disappointed. Once the sofa was gone, all that would be left was the dining room set and her bed.

Ken sunk his hands into his pockets. “Will you take fifteen hundred?”

Austen almost choked and thought about smacking the baseball cap off the man's head. “If I'm not mistaken, it's listed on Craigslist for three thousand.”

“Okay, how about two thousand.”

Austen stared at the man through her dark glasses. “That antique is in perfect condition.”

Ken smiled. “I know. That's why I'm offering two grand.”

Her teeth clenched, her hands in fists, her long nails digging into the flesh of her palms, Austen walked briskly to her front door and yanked it open. “Get out.”

“Ms. Greer, I don't mean to offend you, but times are tough for everyone. I know the value of what you're selling, and I also know you want to sell it or you wouldn't have it listed. I'm here right now with two thousand dollars cash. If you let me, I'll give you this and send someone back to pick up the couch tonight. If you let me.”

Austen thought about her situation. No one else had called about the sofa. Over the last week, she had relisted it four times. She wasn't penniless, but she was damn close. She needed the money. She looked over her glasses at Ken. “Twenty-five hundred,” Austen said.

Ken smiled. “Deal.”

T
oday had been a rough day for me. By the time I pulled the Mercedes into the drive at home, I felt as though I couldn't deal with another single thing.

I had driven up to Joliet State Prison earlier to meet with another attorney and his client. The client, a man named Roger Finch, was in prison on charges of attempted murder. Last week a policeman had been shot. There was a sketch of the suspect splashed across every news channel, and this Roger Finch said he recognized the guy. Finch said he knew the man's phone number, who his friends were, and where he lived. He would be willing to part with that information in exchange for a shot at a reduced sentence. I heard the man out and told him I would have to get back to him.