Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(49)
Checked out her family. Parents retired in Palm Beach. Deep pockets. One other sibling in Boston.
Ryan has apartment in Atlanta and working for magazine publisher. Her trust fund in excess of three million dollars. Doesn’t need our money. That makes her more dangerous. Will continue to update.
Satisfied with what he had written, if not with his progress, he pushed SEND.
53
Carter had just finished an early dinner with his wife and son. It felt good to be home, he thought to himself. Beatrice was getting to be more trouble than she was worth. A nice dinner and a hotel were no longer enough for her. Every time they got together of late she wanted him to schlep all the way to Brooklyn and be out until midnight at one of the several dance clubs she frequented. The people there were idiots, and the music was so loud that he was beginning to worry about hearing loss. Beatrice had done the impossible: she had made him miss being with his wife.
He had even volunteered to do the dishes. His son went to his room to start his homework while his wife settled in front of the TV in the living room to watch REL’s evening news. He declined her offer to come and watch with her. He had seen enough of Brad Matthews to last a lifetime.
Carter went to the kitchen table, pulled his laptop out of his bag, and turned it on. The apprehension he had experienced following Paula Stephenson’s death had finally begun to fade. There had been no inquiries from the Durham police, no raps on his door in the early morning hours. He had convinced himself that he had let his imagination run wild. For whatever reason, Stephenson had committed suicide. End of story.
The beat goes on, he sang to himself remembering the Sonny and Cher tune. How will she react if I just show up? he asked himself. The she he was referring to was Cathy Ryan. She was in Aruba now and he knew where she was staying. Before she said anything, she would probably demand to know how he found her down there. The truth, that he was monitoring her credit cards, would not do. Was there a plausible reason for him to be in Aruba, aside from, of course, the sun and the sand?
A search for Aruba’s daily newspaper brought up Aruba Today. He scanned several articles about flower festivals and social gatherings. He hit the icon to take him to the Local section. There he came across the headline, “JET SKI TOURIST DIES IN ACCIDENT.” Curious, he clicked on the link.
Twenty-six-year-old Catherine Ryan died when the Jet Ski she was operating plowed into a boat off the Arenas Blancas Harbor. Ryan, from the United States, was part of a tour group that had just finished lunch. Police would not confirm whether or not alcohol played a role in the tragedy.
Carter leaned back, his head spinning. He went over to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of vodka, poured a generous shot, and returned to the table. He felt himself calming down as the alcohol burned in his throat and down to his stomach.
I did it again, he said to himself. I set them up. He’d given Sherman all the information he needed to go down, or send somebody down, to Durham to get rid of Paula Stephenson. And he did exactly the same thing with Cathy Ryan, right down to the hotel where she was staying.
He wondered why he hadn’t learned about this sooner, why it hadn’t been reported in the media. Then he quickly realized why. North Korea was back to test-firing missiles, Saudi Arabia and Iran were one step short of a shooting war, the trade war with China was accelerating, and another Boeing plane had crashed. The news of an American tourist dying overseas had been lost in the shuffle.
It might be time to talk to a criminal lawyer, he thought to himself. The irony was not lost on him. He had spent the better part of the past two years convincing women that they did not need to consult a lawyer. Now, at the first sign of real trouble, he wanted a lawyer, another lawyer besides himself, in his corner.
Have I broken any laws? he asked himself. Using settlements to silence women who had been victimized by Matthews might have allowed Matthews to keep going. But was that a crime? He didn’t think so.
He hadn’t always been truthful with the women as he strong-armed them into settlements. Was that a crime? No. It was hardball negotiating.
But the police would want to know how he learned where Cathy Ryan was staying in Aruba. They’d delve into every dollar that flowed into and out of Carter & Associates. How many times had he paid his buddy at the credit rating agency to get him somebody’s credit card records? Eight, maybe ten times? And paying to get the phone records of several of the victims? Those were crimes.
A close examination would reveal that he had charged a long list of personal expenses to REL. There would be little sympathy for REL, but in using the company’s money to pay his personal expenses, he was guilty of tax fraud.
And what about the bags of cash Junior had him delivering to anonymous sources? I was only the delivery boy, might work as a defense for a bicycle messenger. He knew, as a lawyer, he would be held to a higher standard.
And if he got disbarred, obviously that would be the end of his sideline practice helping wrongful termination clients. What would he do to support himself and his family?
Clearly, he had to keep going, but he had to do it in a way that was no longer empowering Sherman.
54
Meg Williamson sat on the couch with her feet up on the coffee hassock. It was nine o’clock. The TV was now off. A few minutes earlier she had been channel surfing and landed on REL News. And him. His easy smile. His signature blue blazer, white shirt, and red-and-blue tie.