Authors: Stephen Coonts
A half hour later she walked out the door with him. She paused by her car, a weathered VW hug. “I’m delighted you’ll be living here with us, Mr. Tackett.”
Henry Charon nodded and watched her maneuver the Volkswagen from its parking place. She kept both hands firmly on the wheel and leaned toward it until the moving plastic threatened to graze her nose. On the back of the car were a variety of bumper stickers: ONE wown FOR PFACE, CHILD BEFORE WARFAM, THIS CAR IS A NUCLEAR FM ZONE
On Wednesday afternoon Jefrerson Brody concluded that Jeremiah Jones wasn’t much of a lawyer. While Mrs.
Lincoln examined the original oil paintings on the paneled mahogany and the bronze nude that Brody had paid eleven thousand doll equals for, Jones looked over the legal documents, asked two stupid questions, and flipped through the two full pages of representations and warranties that Mrs. Lincoln was asked to make as seller of the business without taking the time to read them carefully. Jones was a sheep, Brody decided. A black sheep, he chuckled to himself, pleased at his own wit.
Mrs. Lincoln signed the documents while Brody’s secretary watched. Then the secretary notarized the documents, carefully sealed them, and separated them into piles, oh no pile for Mrs. Lincoln and one for Brody’s clients, whose identities were, of course, still undisclosed. The documents merely transferred the business to the ABC Corporation, which was precisely one day old.
“You understand, I’m sure,” Brody commented to Jones, “why my clients have not given me the authority to reveal their identities.”
“Perfectly,” Jones said with a wave of his hand. “Happens all the time.”
Brody produced the cashier’s check of a New York bank in the amount of four hundred thousand dollars. After Jones had examined it, it went to Mrs. Lincoln, who merely glanced at it and folded it for her purse.
Jones glanced at his watch and stood. “I’d better run. I have an appointment at my office and I think I’m going to be late. Deborah, can you get home in a taxi?”
“Of course, Jeremiah. Oh, why don’t you take this check and have your secretary deposit it for me? Could you do thatr’
“If you’ll make out a deposit slip.”
“Won’t take a minute.” Mrs. Lincoln got out her checkbook, carefully tore a deposit slip from the back, and noted the check number on it. Then she turned the check over and endorsed it. This didn’t take thirty seconds. She handed both pie equals of paper to Jones. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course. I’ll call you.”
Jones shook hands with Brody and left. “Well, Mr. Brody, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Deborah Lincoln said. “I’ll ask your secretary to call me a
taxi.”’@.
T. Jefferson stood. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Please call me Deborah.”
“Deborah. It’s such a shame that the tragedy to your husband … I hope the police weren’t too rough.”
she said with a slight grimace, “they certainly weren’t pleasant. Almost suggested I’d hired it done. They said it was a professional killing.” She tried to grin. “It certainly didn’t help that Judson was killed on the stoop of his bimbo’s house, if you know what I mean.” understand,” Brody said gravely and reached for her hand. She let him take it.
“You know, I’m not sure how to say this, but I have the feeling that things will go well for you from now on.”
“Well, I hope so. With the business sold and all. That certainly is a load off my mind. I know nothing at all of Judson’s business, Mr.-was
“Jefferson, please.”
“Jefferson, and your people paid what the business was worth, I believe.” She took her hand back and looked again at the paintings and the sculpture. “Such a nice office.”
“What say-how about I buy you dinner? Could I do that for you?”
She looked at him with surprise. “Why, Mr.-Jefferson. So nice of you to ask. Why, yes, I’d like that.”
Brody looked at his watch, a Rolex. “Almost four o’clock. I think we’ve done enough business for today. Perhaps we might go to a little place I know for drinks, then dinner afterward, when we are hungry?”
“You’re very thoughtful.”
The evening turned out to be one of the most pleasant that T. Jefferson Brody could remember. The beautiful black woman with the striking figure was a gifted conversationalist, Brody concluded, a woman who knew how to put a man
at case. She kept him talking about his favorite subject-T. Jefferson Brody-and drew from him a highly modified version of his life story. Professional triumphs, wealthy clients, vacations in Europe and the Caribbean-with a few drinks in him Brody waxed expansive. As he told it his life was a triumphant march ever deeper into the palace of wealth and privilege. He savored every step because he had earned it.
After dinner-chateaubriand for two of course-and a $250 bottle of twelve-year-old French wine, Jefferson Brody seated the widow Lincoln and her magnificent rack of tits in his Mercedes and drove her to his humble $1.6 million abode in Kenwoobledi
He led her through the house pronouncing the brand names of his possessions as if they were the names of wild and dangerous game he had stalked and vanquished in darkest Africa while armed only with a spear. Majolica plates from Rosselli, trompe-l’oeil paneling, Italian leather sofas and chairs, lesurum lace tablecloth and bed linen, two original Chippendale chairs, Fabergd eggs-they were trophies, in a way, and it would not be overstatement to say that he loved them.
After the tour, he led her back to the den where he fixed drinks. She had a vodka tonic and he made himself a scotch and soda. With the lights dimmed and the strains of a Dvorak CD floating from the Klipsch speakers, T. Jefferson Brody ran his fingertips along the widow’s thigh and kissed her willing lips, Three sips of scotch and three minutes later he went quietly to sleep. The remains of his drink spilled down his trouser leg and onto the Kashan carpet.
Mrs. Lincoln managed to lever herself out from under Brody’s bulk and find a light switch. She refastened her brassiere and straightened her clothes, then made a telephone call.
When Jefferson Brody awoke sunlight was streaming through the window. He squinted mightily against the light
and rashly tried to move, which almost tore his head in half. His head was pounding like a bass drum, the worst hangover of his life. “My God. .
His memory was a jumble. Deborah Lincoln, with the sublime tits … she was in-no, she was here. Here! In his house. They were kissing and he had his hand…and nothing!- Ther was nothing else. His mind was empty. That was all he could remember. What time is it? He felt for his watch. Not on his wrist. The Rolex! Not on his wrist!
T. Jefferson Brody pried his eyes open, gritting his teeth against the pain in his head. His watch was missing. He looked around. The TV and VCR were gone. Where the Klipsch speakers had stood only bare wires remained. His wallet lay in the middle of the carpet, empty. Oh God …
He staggered into the dining room. The doors to the china cabinet were ajar, and the cabinet was bare! The Spode china, the silver and crystal-gone!
“I’ve been robbed!” he croaked. “Godfucking damn, I’ve been robbed!”
He lurched into the living room. The Faberge eggs, the engravings, everything small enough to carry, all gone!
The police! He would call the police. He made for the kitchen and the phone on the counter.
A newspaper was arranged over the phone. He tossed it aside and picked up the receiver while he tried to focus on
the buttons.
Something red on the newspaper caught his eye. A big red circle around a photo, a photo of a fat, frumpy black woman. The circle-it was lipstick! He bent to stare at the paper. Yesterday’s Post. The picture caption: “Mrs. Judson Lincoln, at National Airport after her husband’s funeral, reflected on the many civic contributions to the citizens of Washington made by the late Mr. Lincoln, a District native.”
“Lemme get this straight, Tee. You paid this woman you was Mrs. Lincoln four hundred grand. You took her dinner. She slipped you a Mickey last night and cleaned out your house?”
“Yeah, Bernie. The papers she signed are worthless. Forgeries. I don’t know who the hell sheis, but I’m sitting here looking at a photo of Mrs. Judson Lincoln in yesterday’s paper, and the broad who signed the papers and took the money ain’t her.”
“Did she have nice tits, Tee?”
“Yeaand, but-was
Bernie Shapiro had a high-pitched, nasal he-be-he laugh that was truly nauseating if you were suffering from the aftereffects of a Mickey Finn. Brody held the telephone well away from his ear. Shapiro giggled and snorted until he choked.
“Listen, Bernie,” Brody protested when Shapiro stopped coughing, “this isn’t so damned funny. She’s got your money!”
“Oh, no, Tee. She’s got four hundred grand of your money! We gave you our four hundred Gs to buy that goddamn check cashing company, and you had better do just precisely that with it. You got forty-eight hours, Tee. I expect to see documents transferring title to that business on my desk within forty-eight hours, and they goddamn well better be signed by the real, bona fide, genuine Mrs. Judson widow Lincoln. Are you on my wavelength?”
“Yeah, Bernie. But it would sure be nice if you helped me catch up with this black bitch and get the money back.”
“You haven’t called the cops, have you?”
“No. Thought I oughta talk to you first.”
“Well, you finally did something right. I’ll think about helping you catch up with the broad, Tee, but in the meantime you had better get cracking on the Lincoln deal. I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Sure. Sure, Bernie.”
“Tell me what this woman looked like.” Brody did so. “This lawyer with her, what’d he look like?”
Brody described Jeremiah Jones right down to his shoelaces and bad teeth. “I’ll think about it, Tee, maybe ask around. But you got forty-eight hours.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do nothing stupid.” The connection broke.
T. Jefferson Brody cradled the receiver and picked up the ice bag, comwh he held carefully against his forehead. It helped a little. Maybe he should take three more aspirins.
He needed to lie down for a few hours. That was it. Get his feet up.”
But first he wandered through the house, cataloguing yet again all the things that were missing. If he ever caught up with that cunt he’d kill her. Maybe after he’d closed the Lincoln deal he could talk Bernie into putting a contract on her black ass.
In the hallway, as he passed the door to the garage, a sense of foreboding came over T. Jefferson Brody. He opened the door and peered into the garage. Empty. Hadn’t he parked the Mercedes in here last night? Or had he left it in the driveway’?
He hit the button to open the garage door. The door rose slowly, majestically, revealing an empty driveway. Oh no! She’d stolen the damned car too!
Why? Tell me why.”
“Because I wanted it,” Elizabeth snarled. “Is that too difficult for you to understand?”
Thanos Liarakos pinched his nose and stroked an eyebrow. His associates had seen him do this many times in the
courtroom, and they knew it was an unconscious mannerism to handle stress. If his wife knew the significance of the gesture, she ignored it now. She hugged her knees and stared at the hospital’s stenciled name on the sheets.
After a moment he said, “That stuff will kill you.”
She sneered. “What am I supposed to say to you? Should I talk about the kids? Should I tell you how much I love you? Should I tell you once again that you’re playing Russian roulette? And you are going to lose.
,eaI’m not one of your half-witted jurors. Spare me the eloquence.”
“You’re prostituting your soul for this white powder, Elizabeth. Prostituting your dignity. Your intelligence. Your humanity. You are! You’re trading everything that makes life worth living for a few minutes of feeling good. God, you are a fool.”
“If that’s the way you feel, why don’t you get out of here? I’m not going to sit quietly while you call me a whore. You bastard!”
“What do you want, Elizabeth?”
She glared at him and wrapped her arms around her chest.
“Do you want to come home?”
She said nothing.
“I’m going to lay it out for you in black and white. You’re a cocaine addict. When they discharge you in a few days you’re going back to that clinic. I’ve already made the phone calls and sent them a check.” This would be her third trip. “You are going to sign yourself in and stay until you are cured, finally, once and for all. You are going to learn to live without cocaine for the rest of your life. Then you may come home.”
“Jesus, you make it sound like I’ve got a nasty virus of a pesky little venereal disease. “When the pus in your vagina drys UP- * t, “You can kick it, Elizabeth.”
“You’re so goddamn certain! I’m the one that’s in here living it. What if I can’t?”
“If you don’t, I’ll file for a divorce. I’ll ask for custody and ru get it-You can whore and steal and do whatever else you have to to maintain your addiction, and when the people from the morgue call, the kids and I will see that you get a Christian burial and a nice little marble slab. Every year on Mother’s Day we’ll put flowers on your grave.”
Team ran down Elizabeth’s face. “Maybe I should just kill self and get it over with,” she said softly. But too late.
Her husband missed this histrionic fillip. He was already halfway through the door.
Before she could say anything else he disappeared down the corridor.
Henry Charon was at the apartment on New Hampshire Avenue at nine a.m. when the truck from the furniture rental company came. Grisella Clifton wasn’t home, and Charon felt vaguely put out. He showed the truck crew where to put the bed, the couch, the dresser, the chairs, and the television, then tipped the driver and his helper a ten-spot each.
At eleven o’clock he was at the apartment he’d rented in Georgetown when the truck from the furniture rental company in Arlington arrived, A-to-Z Rentals. The defiverymen had the furniture inside and arranged by eleven-forty. He tipped both those men and locked the door behind him as he
left.
At one he was at the apartment near Lafayette Circle. The telephone company installation persona woman showed up a half hour late. She apologized and Charon waved it aside. She had almost finished when the ftimiture arrived, this time from a rental company in Chevy Chase.