Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(79)
It was almost two years ago that the mal, the evil had begun. She would see the young women, the pretty girls, smiling as they walked past her area to the executive offices. When they came out, the smiles had been replaced by tears, eye makeup running, blouses in disarray. Often alone at that hour, she would call them to her, hold them while they sobbed, sometimes even rock them on her lap. She would redo their makeup and hair to help them recover a little piece of their dignity.
Most of them would leave the company, their spirits wounded, the optimism that comes with being young having been ripped from them prematurely.
She had been tempted to meet with the reporter, had even sent another email, but of late the mal had stopped. She thanked God for taking care of the problem and not forcing her to put her family at risk.
85
After checking in, Gina drove around the side of the hotel and was fortunate to find a parking spot opposite her first-floor room. Pulling her suitcase behind her, she used the electronic key to open the door and flipped on the lights. Her first glance confirmed that she had received what she had requested. Two double beds. She wanted as much surface area as possible to spread out and go through the papers. She took a few minutes to unpack her bag and put her toiletries in the bathroom before making four separate trips to the car to lug in the boxes.
A wide yawn reminded her of the very early start she had had that morning. She was grateful that she had chosen a late afternoon flight to return to New York the next day. Even if she ran out of energy tonight, she would still have several hours tomorrow morning to conduct her search.
She sat on the bed and rubbed her eyes. She had never met Paula Stephenson, but that did not prevent her from experiencing genuine heartache over her fate. Through sheer will and determination Paula had not only survived but thrived in a household with two alcoholic parents. She was ultimately driven away by her father’s attempt to sexually assault her. After escaping halfway across the country to begin a new life in New York, what was her fate? Being sexually assaulted. It’s no wonder that Paula succumbed to the disease that had ravaged her family, Gina thought.
The familiar question about how much information to share with family members again weighed heavily on her. In her conversation with Lucinda, they had spoken about Paula’s death but neither of them mentioned the word “suicide” or alluded to Paula taking her own life. Although Gina had been tempted, she had held back. In her own way Lucinda had come to terms with losing her daughter. What good would it do to rip open a scab, to create uncertainty by introducing the possibility that she was murdered? I have no right to do that, Gina thought, at a time when I don’t have answers for her. Or for that matter, when I don’t even know if I’m about to walk away from this investigation.
Gina looked around the drab hotel room, with its cheap window blinds, worn carpet from another era, and disposable cups wrapped in cellophane atop the desk. The glamorous life of a journalist, she said to herself as she pulled the desk chair next to one of the beds, used her car key to slit open the first box, and dumped its contents on the dingy bedspread.
* * *
By seven-thirty the next morning Gina was back at it. She had managed to go through two boxes the previous evening before being overtaken by fatigue. Feeling refreshed after eight hours of deep sleep, she had jogged on a treadmill in the fitness center, showered, and gone to a room off the lobby for a continental breakfast.
Paula may have been a “neatnick” in her early days, but the habit did not carry over to her recordkeeping. The boxes Gina had gone through included three-ring binders and bound documents prepared by legal firms related to her investment in Capriana Solutions. Presumably, that was the boyfriend’s company. Randomly among the pages were old phone and utility bills. Paula had the habit of writing unrelated messages in the margins and on the back of the pages of the Capriana documents. Wanting to be thorough, Gina examined the front and back of every page. Paula’s spidery, hard-to-decipher handwriting further impeded progress.
At eight-forty-five, Gina stood up and stretched. Three down, one to go, she thought, as she looked at the cardboard boxes.
Her cell phone rang. The electronic screen identified the caller as Empire Review. Surprised, Gina answered.
“Hi Gina, I hope I’m not calling too early. Are you home?” It was Jane Patwell.
“Actually, Jane, I’m in Xavier, Nebraska, watching the corn grow. What’s up?”
“Sounds exciting,” Jane said. “Two things. I received your expense summary. I approved it and sent it to Accounting. But that’s not why I called. Did you hear the news?”
“No, but I’m all ears,” Gina responded, smiling.
“Geoffrey Whitehurst resigned yesterday.”
“Oh my God! I had no idea,” Gina said while wondering if this was an aftershock following the loss of the Friedman business.
“Neither did anybody. We’re all stunned. He already cleaned out his office and is gone.”
“Any idea who’s going to run things until they find somebody else?”
“None. It would have been Marianne Hartig, but she just went out on maternity leave.”
Gina knew the deputy editor from the time they worked together on the fraternity branding iron story.
“Thanks for calling, Jane. I’m as surprised as you are. Out of curiosity, do you know where Geoff’s headed next?”