CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Taylor loved the Japanese Tea Garden. She always had. It was her favorite spot not only in Golden Gate Park, but in all of San Francisco. She sat in the Tea House sipping herbal tea, her jacket buttoned against the late November chill. The waterfalls still flowed and the humpback bridges and pagodas were as unique as always, but the beauty of spring, when the cherry blossoms were at their peak, was sadly missing. The lack of color didn’t bother her. In fact, it suited her mood.

Twenty-six days had passed since the car had slipped over the cliff taking her husband to his death. Twenty-six nights sleeping alone. Twenty-six times dragging herself out of bed in the morning and trying to make some sense out of what had happened. The horrified look on his face as the car plunged toward the sea was forever etched into her brain. His eyes, so alive, so vulnerable. Then gone.

She sipped her tea, the warm liquid pleasing to her senses. Sometimes she seemed impervious to the cold; other days she couldn’t get warm even after a steaming hot bath. Her body was trying to tell her something, but she didn’t know what. But what was happening with her mind was clear. She was depressed. That was something she had never known. She had been furious when Edward Brand had stolen their money, and for a few days she had felt the long tentacles of depression reaching out for her, but she had not given in to the darkness.

This was different. A dark cloud covered her life, and although she tried to strip it away and let normalcy return, it was absolute and omnipresent. For the first time in her life she understood what depression was and why it was so ugly. Her heart went out to every person who suffered from the disease. To her this was new and horrific; to many others it was a life sentence. She wondered if she was now a member of that group. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, she saw a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase enter the garden. He looked to where she sat, and they briefly locked eyes. She tried to smile, but ended up just nodding. He started toward her.

The Mexican police had recovered the twisted remains of the car, but Alan’s body had been washed away by the currents. All of his body except his right hand, which had been torn off by the impact of the vehicle crashing into the surf. The divers who worked the crash scene had found his hand caught in the steering column, his fingers crushed between the column and the dash. But in one way that awful indignity had been a blessing. The doctors had run a DNA profile from the hand that had matched perfectly with Alan’s DNA on file at his doctor’s office. That identification allowed the insurance company to close the file on Alan’s death. The man who was now within a few feet of Taylor’s small table was the insurance company’s representative. In the briefcase was a check.

“Ms. Simons,” he said as he came within earshot.

“Hello, Greg,” she said. She had spoken with him numerous times in the past three weeks and had found him to be very professional and caring.

He sat in the chair beside her. “Nice place to meet,” he said, glancing about.

“I like it here,” she said, a sudden chill sweeping through her. She tried to pull her coat tighter against her throat, but it was already snug. “It’s peaceful.”

He was quiet for a minute, both of them watching a small group of tourists as they made their way slowly through the garden, stopping on one of the humpback bridges for a picture. Finally he said, “You’re very fortunate that you and Mr. Bestwick decided to have some of his sperm frozen. Without a body, the company probably would have balked at paying out the claim. But the positive DNA identification allowed us to move quickly. And to print this.” He handed her a check for just over a million dollars. “There’s a couple of thousand dollars interest on top of the policy amount. It’s paid retroactive to the day when Mr. Bestwick died.”

Taylor didn’t take the check, so the insurance rep tucked it under her teacup. It fluttered slightly in the wind. She could see the amount. It brought tears to her eyes. Was that the value of Alan’s life? It seemed so cold. So cut and dried. When the tears subsided, she said, “We had thought that maybe we’d try to have a child. But Alan had a very low sperm count, and the chances of me getting pregnant were slim. That’s why we opted to have some of his sperm frozen. Just in case.”

Greg nodded. “The guys at the lab had no problem getting a definite match. If it’s any consolation, Ms. Simons, lots of people aren’t adequately insured and have a very difficult time after their partner passes away. At least you were wise enough to make sure you had insurance.”

She gave him a weak smile. “I’d like to take credit, Greg, but it was Alan’s idea.” She was quiet for a minute, then said, “What should I do with my policy? I’ve got the same amount, a million dollars, in term life. But there’s no one to give it to now.”

“No family?” he asked.

She shook her head. “My parents passed away about three years ago. They were a bit older when I was born, and I was an only child. Dad was eighty-one and Mom was seventy-seven. Mom only lasted six months after Dad died.” This time she managed a smile. “I guess that’s true love. She couldn’t live without him.”

“Why don’t you give it a few months before you make a decision. Term life is cheap. You can always change your will and give the money to a good cause. A lot of people leave money to charity. There are plenty of very worthwhile causes.”

She nodded, a slow, almost indistinguishable motion. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” he said, shutting the clasp on his briefcase. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Simons.”

She looked in his eyes and saw real emotion. And for a moment she felt for him, always meeting with people awash in tragedy. Feeling their pain. She reached out and took his hand and simply held it for a minute. “You’re a wonderful person, Greg. Enjoy every day you have with those you love.”

“I will,” he said. He waited until she released his hand, then slowly stood and gave her a final nod. “You take care, Ms. Simons.”

“Thanks.” She watched him walk through the garden and out of the front gates into the park. Her tea was tepid, and she sipped it quicker now. When she finished, she took one last tour through the garden, spending a half hour in one of the pagodas. Then she returned to her car and drove home. The check was sitting on the passenger’s seat and when she was stopped at a red light she glanced down and read the numbers. A million dollars. In addition to the money left over from the sale of their house, she had well over one-point-five million in cash. Enough to buy a small house somewhere well outside San Francisco, where the property values were easier on the pocketbook, and still have the better part of a million dollars in the bank. The light turned green, and she looked back to the road.

A million dollars wasn’t a lot by today’s standards, but with no expenses for housing or a car, she could easily manage on five thousand a month, give or take. And the interest on a million dollars, wisely invested, would about cover that. If she were careful, she wouldn’t need to work again. But was that what she wanted? To sit at home in her little bungalow letting the world slip past? Maybe right now, but what about the future? She didn’t know.

Taylor pulled up in front of her house, collected the check off the car seat and went inside. It was dark, the curtains and blinds all pulled shut. She forced herself to open the window coverings and let in the November sun. It hurt her eyes, but that was crazy—she had just been outside without sunglasses. God, the mind was truly a powerful thing. She slid the check under the spine of a book on the fireplace. Another book caught her eye and she pulled it off the mantle. Picasso. She turned to page 108 and stared at the picture of Alan. With shaking hands she removed it, slid the book back into its slot and sat on the couch. God, she loved this picture of him. Every part of the man was laughing—his eyes, his mouth, his whole body. What had he found so funny, so wonderful, that he would be so happy.

If she could only rewind time.

She held the photo for a long while, the minutes melding together and slipping by without consequence. She gently kissed the picture and held it close to her cheek. Where was he when the picture was taken? Where, on this sometimes very large planet was he at that precise moment? She set the picture on the coffee table and stared at it. She had always thought that the buildings behind him looked European. But where in Europe? There was a sign of some sort on one of the buildings, but it was too small and blurred to make out the print. God, she wanted to know where he had stood at the precise moment someone had snapped the picture. She rose from the couch and walked over to the phone. The number she dialed was prefixed with a Washington, D.C., area code. When a voice answered, it was Kelly Kramer.

“Hi, Taylor,” he said. “How are you today?”

“I’m okay, Kelly. I went to the Japanese Tea Garden today. It was good to get out.”

“It’s November, Taylor. You dressing for the weather?”

“Of course,” she said. “Stop worrying about me so much. I’m all right.”

“You sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. Actually, I’ve got something I’d like you to do for me.”

“Anything. What is it?”

“I have a picture of Alan, but I don’t know where it was taken. I’d like to know. There’s writing on one of the buildings in the background, but I can’t read it. I thought you might have a computer program that could enhance it. Every movie I’ve seen with spies in it has that sort of technology.”

“We probably do,” he said, laughing. “I’m still too new to know what we’ve got. You want to mail me the photo?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll bring it myself.”

“You’re coming to Washington?” he asked, surprise in his voice.

“I think so. I’ll call you and let you know when I’m in and where I’ll be staying.”

“No way. You’re not staying at a hotel. I’ve got lots of room at my house. You need to be with friends right now, not in some hotel.”

She thought about the offer for a minute, then said, “Okay, Kelly. Thanks.”

“Call me when you confirm your flight,” he said.

“Okay.”

She hung up and stared at the phone. Why had she said she was coming to Washington? Where had that come from? She had no idea. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to distance herself from the picture by putting it in the mail. Maybe. Maybe she needed a friend right now. And Kelly was a friend—the one guy who had always been there for her. She trusted him more than anyone she knew. Maybe that was it.