Who Do I Lean On? (2 page)

A decent hand. But his four of a kind would beat it.

What the heck
. This is what made it fun. Philip matched the man's thousand and sat back.

Fifty-four hundred in the pot.

The second kid threw up his hands. “I fold. You guys are nuts.”

“That's it?” the dealer said. “Lay down your hands.”

Breaking into a wide smile, the bald guy laid down two hearts—a nine and a seven.
Humph, a flush. Just what I thought
. Philip gave the guy five seconds to enjoy his “victory,” then laid down his tens. “Four of a kind beats your flush,” he said, finally allowing a small smile.
Ohh, that was easy.
He mentally added the pot to the twenty-one hundred in chips he still had.
Seventy-five hundred
. Not bad for a twenty-minute game. Even after he repaid the four thousand he'd borrowed from the business account— Henry none the wiser—he'd still have thirty-five hundred in cool profit . . .

“Not a flush. A
straight
flush, buddy! Lookit that. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten—all hearts! Beats
your
four of a kind. Ha ha!” The bald guy started raking in the pile of chips from the middle of the table.

Philip stared. Why hadn't he seen it? He felt his face redden. Now he felt like a fool. Worse than seeing his winnings evaporate.

Well, he wasn't going to let this chump get the best of him. He still had twenty-one hundred to work some magic. He looked up at the dealer. “I'm in again. What's the minimum bid?”

Philip pulled the Lexus into his space in the parking garage at Richmond Towers on Monday morning and turned off the motor. He sat for several long minutes before opening the car door, a sense of dread pooling in his gut. The weekend at the casino had gone badly. He should've pulled out while his losses were minimal. But it would have been so easy to make it all right! Just one good win and he could've covered the withdrawal from the business account
and
made a profit. But it didn't go down that way. He'd taken out a couple thousand from his personal account, sure his luck would turn . . . and then had to do it a few more times. Now he'd lost ten thousand of his own money, and he still had four thousand to pay back to Fairbanks and Fenchel.

He got out of the car and retrieved his overnight bag from the trunk. Well, he'd take care of the business account and worry about the rest later. He'd make the transfer with his personal debit card and hope Henry wouldn't notice the withdrawal and deposit if the balance was good. Even if he did, he'd smooth Henry's feathers, just tell him it was an emergency. What was the problem if he put it back?

But now he was out nearly fifteen grand. He never meant to let his losses get that high.

Philip slid his security card through the keypad that let him into the residential elevators. He should have come home Sunday—maybe even Saturday—before he'd lost so much money. But the penthouse was so empty these days without Gabby and the boys . . . no, he couldn't go there.
Don't look back, Philip. What's done is done. It wasn't working
.

Stepping into an empty elevator, he punched the button for the thirty-second floor. Still, he spent as little time as possible in the penthouse. Everywhere he turned, it was like he expected to see them—the boys tussling over the remote . . . Gabby's mop of auburn curls on the pillow next to him . . .

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way! Gabby had gone off her rocker—dragging that smelly old bag lady home the first time Fenchel and his wife had come to dinner. Then she took that charity job at the homeless shelter without even discussing it with him! It was like she'd forgotten why they came to Chicago in the first place. Just decided to dance to her own music, never mind that it clashed with his.

But bringing her elderly mother and the mutt to stay at the penthouse had been the last straw . . . No, costing him the deal with a potential client—
that
was the last straw. He blamed Fenchel for that. Henry should have known better than to trust Gabby to deliver a phone message with sensitive information related to the business. She was so clueless about business protocol, she was like a loose cannon on a pitching ship.

The elevator dinged at the top floor of Richmond Towers, and the door slid open. Kicking her out had been drastic, but the situation had gotten intolerable. Maybe a few months on her own would knock some sense into her. She'd gotten a lawyer—some do-gooder from Legal Aid—but he knew Gabby. She wouldn't want a divorce. If he didn't rush things, if he worked stuff out with the boys, she'd come around. Let it pinch for a while.

Philip glanced at his Rolex as he crossed the marble foyer and pulled out his keys. He still had time to get a quick shower, change his clothes, and do the money transfer online before he headed to the office. Monday morning traffic into the city from Indiana hadn't been too bad. If he hustled, he could still get to the office by ten.

Intent on a quick in-and-out, Philip headed down the hallway to the master bedroom—but stopped as he entered. Something was wrong here. He scanned the room.

Gabby's dresser was missing.

He tossed his overnight bag on the bed and scanned the room once more. What else was missing? Had she said something about this? He flipped open his cell phone and scrolled down through recent calls. There . . . Gabby's new cell phone ID, dated last Friday. He hadn't bothered to listen to the message or return the call. Figured whatever it was could wait. But had she just—?

He turned on his heel and strode back down the hallway, jerking doors open as he went. Half the linens and towels from the linen closet—gone. Both the boys' bedrooms—cleaned out. In the kitchen, the breakfast nook table and chairs had disappeared. He opened the cupboards. Most of the dishes, pots and pans, and utensils still seemed to be there. Hard to tell. At least she'd left enough for him to function.

Philip crossed to the dining room . . . it looked untouched. Even their wedding china was still in the china cabinet.
Huh
. Why didn't she just clean him out while she was at it? Go figure.

Wait. His study.
She better not have touched my study!
Practically breaking into a run, Philip threw open the door to his inner sanctum. But everything looked just as he'd left it . . . no, wait. The bookshelves had been disturbed. The family photo albums were gone. And a bunch of books. And a file drawer was open. The one that usually held their medical records, the boys' school records—personal stuff.

He stood in the middle of the room. His computer, his papers, untouched. But something else seemed missing . . . what was it? His eyes roved the room, then settled on an empty spot on one of his bookshelves and realized what it was.

The framed photo of the two of them on their fifth wedding anniversary, cake smudges on their noses, Gabby's hair a halo of red-gold curls, laughing up at him mischievously
.

That photo. Happier times . . . Why had she taken it? Or had she thrown it away? A quick check of the wastebasket in the study and the kitchen trash can yielded nothing. But somehow the photo's absence yawned larger than the rest of the missing items put together.

Philip walked slowly into the living room. As far as he could tell, only one easy chair was missing, plus some framed photographs from the walls. That was it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan beyond, battling his emotions. Gabby had more
chutzpah
than he'd given her credit for. She'd been in the penthouse once before when he wasn't there—had left a glass with her lipstick on it as a calling card.
Huh
. He should've been warned. In spite of himself, a tiny smile curled one edge of his mouth. This raid was like the old Gabby—impetuous, daring—like the girl in the photo.

The tiny smile died. Now she was gone, along with her stuff.

It wasn't the things she'd taken that bothered him so much, but what it meant. He hadn't thought it would go this far! Was it too late to turn things around? She'd not only taken her stuff but everything that belonged to P.J. and Paul too!

An unexpected wave of loss swept over him . . . but it was drowned a moment later by a larger surge of anger.
No!
No way was she going to just take the boys away from him. He swore under his breath. Where were the boys supposed to sleep when they came to visit? And now he was fifteen grand in the hole! He couldn't just go out and buy new furniture for their bedrooms, not to mention CD players, clothes, sports equipment—all the stuff it took to keep two preteens housed and entertained. He didn't have time for this crap—

A vaguely familiar figure caught his eye thirty-two stories below in the narrow park that created a verdant buffer between the luxury high-rise and Lake Shore Drive. Looked kind of like the old bag lady Gabby had run into, the one who'd started this whole mess. She had a yellow dog with her this time . . .
Wait
. Philip leaned closer to the wraparound window and squinted. Not just any yellow dog. That was Dandy! His mother-in-law's dog—or Gabby's dog now that her mother had passed. What was that old woman doing with Gabby's dog? Stupid question. She probably stole him while Gabby was out in North Dakota burying her mother. Give those thieving street people a dime, and they'd rob you blind.

Well, the old bag wasn't going to get away with it!

With a reckless energy that surprised even Philip after his short night at the casino hotel, he strode out of the penthouse and back into the elevator . . . and a few minutes later he was half-running across the frontage road between Richmond Towers and the park. “Hey, you!” he yelled. What was her name? Couldn't remember it. “You with the dog!”

The old lady had sat down on a bench, but she looked up as he ran toward her. The dog made a low guttural noise. Philip stopped. “Is that Dandy? Martha Shepherd's dog?”

She looked him up and down, narrow eyes glittering between sagging folds of skin. “Was.”

So she was going to play games. He wanted to shake her. “Okay, so you know Mrs. Shepherd died a week ago. But that dog belongs to my wife now. Our son Paul is crazy about that dog. You—whatever your name is—you stole him. Give him back—
now
.” He thrust a hand out, ready to jerk the leash out of her hand if she didn't give it up.

The old woman stood up. “Well! Don't that just rot my socks. You sayin' you want the dog?” She took a menacing step in his direction. Dandy growled again, his top lip curling over his canines. Philip pulled his hand back. “
You
?” she hissed. “Mister high-an'-mighty Philip Fairbanks? Who don't even have the decency to give food an' shelter to that
wife
you mentioned two breaths ago. You kicked her out on the street, left her no place to go. Now you want a
dog
?”

She stabbed a finger in his chest so hard it hurt. Startled, Philip took a step backward. “And if 'n I got my facts straight, you don't even have time ta take care o' them two boys o' yours. Just packed 'em off to they grandfolks. Guess you thinkin' this dog can take their place.”

Philip felt his face flush. She had no right—

“Oh yeah. Almost fergot. You kicked poor Miss Martha outta your fancy digs too. But, hey.” The old lady shrugged. “Guess you figgered if ol' Lucy here could live out in the street, must be good enough for your wife and her ol' lady too. Why, I'm kinda flattered—for about half a second.”

She punched that stubby finger in his chest again. “But I
feel
for ya, Mister Fairbanks. Now that you don' got no wife, no kids, no mother-in-law ta take care of, must get kinda lonely up there in the sky. Guess you be needin' a
dog
to take care of. Ain't so hard. Just gotta take him for a walk mornin' an' evenin', and pick up his poops—they got a law, see, says ya hafta clean up after ya dog. Sign's right over there.” She jerked a thumb somewhere behind her. “So . . . here.” She held out the leash in her clawlike hand. “Guess he's yours. Go on. Take him.”

Philip stared at the old woman . . .
Lucy
, that was her name. The old bag was nuts! He suddenly felt foolish. What had he intended to do? Return the dog to Gabby, like a peace offering? Maybe . . . but mostly, he'd just been angry. Angry at everything. Nothing was going right.

He threw up his hands. “Look. I can't take the dog now. I have to go to work. But you . . .” He shook a finger at her, trying to regain the upper hand. “You have no business with that dog. An old lady like you can't take care of a dog living out on the streets. Just take the dog back to Gabrielle, wherever she is. If I see you around here again with Dandy, I'll . . . I'll call the police.”

Philip wheeled and walked stiffly back toward Richmond Towers. He gave a fierce shake of his head, but Lucy's words still burned in his ears.

chapter 1