Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(25)

Satisfied with his preparation, he repacked his briefcase, went into the living room, and turned on the television.

REL News at ten o’clock was just beginning.





29





Knowing tomorrow would be a big day—a huge day—for him, Michael Carter went to bed at eleven o’clock, an hour earlier than usual. It didn’t do any good. He was awake to see the soft glow light of the alarm clock register twelve o’clock, then one o’clock, then two o’clock. The speed at which his mind was racing easily overwhelmed any feeling of fatigue that would have eased him to sleep. He resisted the temptation to take an Ambien. The last thing he wanted was to spend the day battling a drug-induced hangover.

He opened his eyes and saw that the normally dark room was light. His wife, Beverly, was no longer in the bed beside him. He glanced at the alarm clock. Seven-fifty-five! Bolting out of bed, he headed for the shower. Grateful for the extra sleep, he made an effort to calm himself down. There was still plenty of time to take care of what he needed to do.

Dressing quickly, he chose a collared shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of running shoes. He wanted to blend in, to look like what he was: a young professional putting in a few extra hours at the office on Saturday.

When he entered the kitchen, Zack was at the table halfway through the French toast he had for breakfast every day of the week. Beverly was at the stove. Her exaggerated greeting was “Well, good morning, sleepyhead.”

Zack laughed uproariously, looked at him, and yelled, “You’re sleepyhead.” He turned to his mother and repeated, “Daddy’s sleepyhead.” They both laughed even louder at the newly assigned nickname.

How did I marry such a ditz? Carter asked himself as he poured a glass of orange juice. And how can I keep Zack from turning into one? “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” he mumbled to himself, quoting Scarlett O’Hara’s famous line from Gone with the Wind. My plate for today is full.

“Are you going to come to my soccer game, Daddy?”

“I hope I can,” Carter said, realizing he had forgotten about it. “What time is it?”

“He has the late game today,” Beverly answered. “Two-thirty in the Park.”

“Something came up at the office yesterday and I have to go in and work on it today.” He glanced at his watch. “If I leave now, I should be able to finish it in time to make it to the game.”

“You don’t want any breakfast?” she asked.

“I’ll pick something up on the way to the office,” he said as he leaned over and kissed Zack. He gave Beverly the mandatory kiss on the top of her head and five minutes later was out the door.

His first stop was at the Starbucks two blocks from his apartment. It was eight-forty-five. Sherman should be awake by now, he thought.

Busy during the week, the coffee shop had few patrons on Saturday morning. Ten people, all of whom appeared to be alone, were sitting at the tables in the center of the store reading newspapers or staring into laptops while sipping their drinks. Carter identified the one he wanted.

“I’m very sorry to bother you, but I lost my cell phone. Could I possibly borrow yours to make a quick call?” As he finished asking the question, Carter dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter beside the young student in the NYU sweatshirt who had looked up from his laptop.

“You will stay in the store, yes?” the young man with a foreign accent asked.

“I’ll be right over there,” Carter said while pointing to a quiet corner.

“You don’t have to pay me,” the student said in heavily accented English as he handed over the phone.

“It’s all right,” Carter said as he retreated to the corner. After one last glance around to be sure no one was taking notice of him, he dialed the number from memory.

“Hello” was the answer, in a distinctly grouchy tone.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Richard Sherman?”

“Yes. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Michael Carter. I’m an attorney in Human Resources at REL News—”

“Never heard of you. You better have a good reason for calling me at home on a Saturday.”

“I do, sir.” He had repeatedly rehearsed the words. “Unless appropriate action is taken immediately, REL News is about to be sued by a young woman employee who has proof that Brad Matthews molested her in his office. There is a narrow window of opportunity to contain the situation. I don’t want to say more on the phone. When can we meet?”

Several moments of silence followed. “Can you come to Greenwich?”

“Tell me where and when.”

“Do you know the Greenwich train station?”

“I’ll be coming by train.”

“I’ll be in a black Mercedes S550 parked at the northern end of the lot. Twelve o’clock. Be on time.”

The call ended before Carter could signal his agreement. He exhaled, having made it over the first hurdle. Without thinking, he put the phone in his pocket and started walking toward the door. He looked across the store to see the student waving and pointing to his empty hand. Stay focused, he thought to himself as he returned the borrowed phone.





30





The Greenwich station was sparsely populated. Michael Carter proceeded out the front door and glanced toward the northern end of the mostly empty parking lot. He didn’t see what he was looking for. No point standing out there like a jerk, he thought. He walked back inside and took a seat.