Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry(82)
“Not a word about what I’m working on,” she had warned Ted several times before the dinner. One of the partners at Ted’s bank sat on the board of the charity.
It was as if a light had been switched on in his brain. “Of course, that’s got to be it,” he said aloud. There was only one story that Gina could be working on that would make it impossible for her to trust him. Why? Because merely by letting him know what she was doing would put him in a compromised situation. It was clear as day. Gina had uncovered wrongdoing and was now investigating his bank!
88
Gina pulled on a bathrobe and slippers and, eyes filled with sleep, made her way to the kitchen. Her flight to Newark had been delayed by four hours. Bad weather on the East Coast followed by mechanical problems on the ground had resulted in her touching down at 2 a.m. It was after three-thirty that she finally fell asleep.
More out of habit than needing the guidance, she had used Waze during her drive to the airport in Omaha. It had completely drained her cell phone battery. She had resisted the temptation to use a charging station at the airport. A cybersecurity expert spoke at a dinner she had recently attended. He warned that airport charging stations could have devices implanted by hackers to download the information stored in the phone. Never, he stressed for the same reason, accept an Uber driver’s offer to charge your phone.
Under ordinary circumstances Gina would have been salivating to get to the meeting with her editor at Empire Review. She had what she considered to be proof that Paula Stephenson had reached out to REL to renegotiate her settlement. Paula’s life had ended at precisely the same time she had agreed to meet someone from Carter & Associates.
It was the time when she and her editor would talk strategy. At what point should they share what they know with the police? She had a contact number for Michael Carter. They would listen together on speakerphone as they called the number, shared some of what they knew, and tried to gauge the reaction of the person on the other end. The other scenario for them to consider was how to respond if Michael Carter contacted her. She had used her cell phone to communicate with Meg Williamson. Her number undoubtedly had been passed to Carter.
But at a time when she most needed the help, the editor’s chair at Empire was empty. An idea occurred to her. She could call Charlie Maynard, her former editor, for advice. She glanced at the clock on the refrigerator: 8:45. 5:45 was way too early to call the West Coast, particularly when the person was retired.
She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her bathrobe and plugged it into the charge cord atop the kitchen table. A small red line indicated the battery was working its way back to life. A vibrating noise announced the download of a text message. It was from Ted! How would he respond to her cryptic Please trust me message? His answer caused a wave of relief to wash over her. “Thank God,” she said aloud, as she stared at his reply, marveling that six letters could lift the shadow that had hung over her for weeks. Always was his response.
89
Michael Carter was grateful he had thought to bring an umbrella. What had started as a light drizzle had quickly progressed into a steady downpour. His wife and son had gone to bed early and were fast asleep. No explanation had been necessary regarding why he was leaving the apartment at 11:25 p.m.
It had taken Junior less than ten minutes to respond to his text. 11:30 tonight. Same place. He was tempted to walk back under the awning of his building when he saw a black Lincoln Navigator turn onto his block and slowly pull to the curb opposite where he was standing. Oscar stepped out and peered under the umbrella until he could see Carter’s face. Satisfied, he opened the passenger’s rear door. Carter shut his umbrella and slid into the backseat. Oscar closed the door behind him and disappeared.
“Sorry to bring you out on a night like this, Mr. Carlyle.”
“I should apologize. You’re the one who was standing in the rain. By the way, call me Fred.”
“Okay, Fred, I’ll get right to it. Three months ago Paula Stephenson who wanted to renegotiate her settlement all of a sudden commits suicide.”
“I’m aware of that. I read your email.”
“And then Cathy Ryan who was refusing to negotiate with us dies in an accident.”
“Both terrible tragedies,” Junior said, his voice somber.
“Tragedies with something in common. Both Matthews victims who refused to cooperate have left this world prematurely. Nothing happens to the victims who settle and keep quiet. But the ones who won’t settle or stick to the settlement, that appears to be very bad for their health.”
Junior exhaled loudly and buried his face in his hands. “What a mess!” he sighed. “Michael, I have a confession to make. Until tonight, I was concerned that you had something to do with Paula Stephenson’s death—”
Carter’s objection was immediate and fierce. “I assure you I had absolutely nothing to do with that. I can prove that I—”
Junior held up a hand to cut him off. “Michael, I know. You don’t have to convince me. I should have known better than to listen to Sherman.”
“While you’re at it, you should ask Sherman why he’s doing it. You and I know that the two deaths are not a coincidence. What’s going to happen when somebody figures it out?”