The sun was hot, and she had been lying in it for two hours, chastising herself for all the damage she was doing to her skin. She used a thirty sun block, heavily, but didn’t kid herself. Her problem was that the heat on her skin, the quiet hush of the ocean, and the salt air was an addiction, and since it lay just outside the door to her house, Morgan Hannah found it difficult to resist. Her relationship with the sun and the heat was cleansing on a spiritual level, but it was also sexual. She loved the feeling of the little rivulets of perspiration that coursed down her arms, between her breasts and down her thighs. It was a purification, quite sensual.
It was surprising to her that at her age her body had developed a new level of eroticism. During the courting years and her marriage, sex was always enjoyable; Ben Hannah was not unskilled and it had never been a problem. Now, however, she seemed to be operating with a new-found freedom. She was more adventurous, open to new things and saw her body as a source of pleasure. Without reason, the restrictive boundaries in all areas of her life had disappeared and that made life sweet.
She was considering an offer Bill Reichert made to her on Wednesday to go to Las Brisas in Acapulco for a few days. He had business in Mexico and could use the resort as his base. It would be a vacation, no heavy thoughts or decisions, and, other than the work he had to take care of, they could do whatever she wanted. The idea was exciting. It was strange that with all the traveling she and her husband had done, they had never been to Mexico. Ben was afraid of running into Mexican bandits, being kidnapped or, on a less serious level, getting sick from bad water. What she knew really held him back was that he couldn’t abide seeing the poverty of the country. He had heard devastating horror stories from friends, and Ben Hannah possessed a well-maintained guilt about being successful and wealthy. Lying on the beach, she made up her mind that when Bill called, she would agree to go. Maybe, for once, he could relax into several days of pleasure.
Morgan was just opening her eyes to get up and gather her beach gear when a shadow fell across her.
“I hardly ever see you and now twice in a couple of weeks,” Charley Clay said. “It’s quite a pleasure. How are you?” he asked as she sat up.
“Hello, Charles.” He was wearing white shorts and a blue denim shirt, unbuttoned all the way down the front.
“Do you do this every day?” he asked.
“Most. I know it’s not good for me, but what can I say?”
“I can’t see that it’s done any great physical damage.”
“Not yet; wait a few years. You must be spending more time out here. I don’t think I saw you at all last year, just heard rumors of your existence.”
“I hope the rumors were good ones,” he said.
“Well, now, if they were good, would you want them to be rumors?”
“Point taken. You think logically, too. I believe I’d better consider you dangerous, Ms. Hannah.”
“I hope so.” She smiled. “Everything I’ve heard has been good, Charles. You didn’t answer my question: Aren’t you spending more time out here? Seems I’ve not only seen you, but I’ve seen your car in the driveway more than usual.” “Guess I’d better start using the garage; looks like I’m too easy to account for.” He laughed at their parrying. “And, yes, I have become a little more at ease about being out here. It’s a lovely place. I had almost forgotten.” His mind wandered elsewhere for a moment.
“Yes, it is. Would you like to come in for a drink?” she asked.
“I would love to. Unfortunately, I have to get back to town. You know, Morgan, may I call you Morgan?”
“Of course.”
“I have to be honest with you; I didn’t come out on the beach by accident.” She could see the discomfort growing in his face.
“That sounds ominous,” she said.
“Not really. I just thought you might help me with something.”
“And what is that?”
“Bill Reichert.” It wasn’t a surprise that he knew about their relationship; many people did, but it was the first time someone she didn’t know ever faced her with it. And why Charles Clay?
“I don’t want to pry, though I guess that’s what I’m doing. Bill and I do a lot of business together, and I’ve noticed he’s been kind of on edge lately, a little short-tempered, hyper. You know. He’s also a good friend, and I just thought you might give me some insight into what’s bothering him. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”
His statement threw her. She sat silently, not knowing what to say. There was no way to know whether Charles Clay was aware that Bill had invited her to Mexico, and she didn’t want to get
Bill in trouble with a business partner. Answers were difficult to come up with. Oblique attack.
“What kind of business do you all do?” she asked.
“Oh, just banking stuff. You know how it works: he does the banking for me; I do legal work for him. Normal stuff, but he’s a friend and I’m concerned.”
“I don’t know of anything, Charles. I haven’t seen as much of him lately as I used to. He gets that way, you know. The bank. Isabel.” Bring it out in the open.
“I guess it is something like that. Just thought I’d ask.”
“Can’t help you, I’m afraid,” she said with a smile that put an end to his questioning.
“By the way, how’s that friend of yours I met?”
“Friend? Oh, Brad Coleman. Haven’t talked to him since that day.”
“He was interesting,” she said smiling.
“I’m sure he would say the same about you. Well, I must be going. Good to see you again, Morgan.”
“You too, Charles.”
“That was interesting,” she said to herself as she gathered her things to go back into the house.
She had only been inside for a few minutes when the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” Bill Reichert said. “I tried earlier, but you must have been on the beach.”
“I just came in,” she said.
“Have you thought it over? The trip?”
“Yes, I think it would be fun. Three days?”
“Actually four nights and three days. We’ll get in Tuesday night and leave on Saturday morning. I’ll come over tonight and give you all the details.”
“Not tonight, Bill; I already have plans.”
“Do you want to explain that?” he asked, obviously angry.
“No. I have plans for this evening, that’s all. I thought we agreed—”
“Fuck. I invite you to a world-class resort for a few days of living the high life, and you’ve got ‘plans’ you can’t tell me about? I don’t believe you, Morgan.”
“I think I went a week without hearing from you.”
“You know what that was.” His anger was growing, which fomented her own.
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t because I didn’t ask. Look, let’s forget it. It was a bad idea anyway. You go and do your business and call me when you get back.”
“No, godammit!” I don’t want to go without you, but I have to go.” There was silence on the line. “I’m sorry, Morgan. I’m sorry. I want you to go with me. I won’t ask about your plans; just say you’ll go.”
“I want to, Bill, but I won’t be curtailed by any relationship. It’s for fun, remember? That’s what you said when it started, and that’s what I told you a couple of weeks ago. I’ll go and we’ll have fun, and maybe neither of us will be able to walk when we get back—I hope so—but please, please don’t get possessive. That will end it all faster than you can dial my telephone number.”
“I’m sorry. Look, can I call you tomorrow? I’ll have times and flight numbers and all of the information.”
“Why don’t you just come out tomorrow and tell me. Bring some brochures, if you can. I’d like to see where I’m going. Four o’clock?”
“Four,” he said. “I love you, Morgan.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Morgan Hannah put down the receiver. She didn’t hear Bill Reichert throw his telephone across his office, putting a hole in the wall.
Isabel Reichert was smiling. It was a beautiful day and she was working in her yard. She enjoyed the feel of the earth on her fingers as she weeded and mulched the flower bed that lined the walkway to her house. It was good therapy. Old jeans, a sweatshirt and a bandanna covering her hair, planting flowers, no district hassles; it was all good, but it wasn’t the reason she was smiling. Bill Reichert had made a mistake.
Earlier in the week, he had informed her of an upcoming trip to Salt Lake City for a banking conference. She could accompany him, but he didn’t ask, and she had been to enough banking conferences in her life. Strait-laced accountant types and old men flaunting their dishonesty and net worth. The idea of going did not appeal to her at all. San Francisco, New York, L.A. maybe, but not Salt Lake City, Utah.
Then she picked up a call on the answering machine from a clerk at the Las Brisas Resort in Acapulco. It seems they had lost his office number, and an aggressive clerk had sought out the home phone of the only William Reichert in Covington, South Carolina, to determine if he had received the confirmation and information regarding his upcoming trip. Las Brisas was a long way from Salt Lake City.
She didn’t know what she would do with the information, but the possibilities were exciting. She had time to think about it. Regardless, it would provide her with another kick in the balls for the arrogant bastard. Putting that aside, she began to think about herself, her freedom and male possibilities of a future.
After their one evening together in her townhouse, Karen Chaney’s job forced a postponement of any further trysts with Sam Larkin. It wasn’t the way she wanted it; she had replayed their time together a number of times to the point that some of their most intimate moments invaded her dreams and caused her to awaken warm and moist. They spoke on the telephone without shyness or hesitation—on her part anyway. The Monday after, she was assigned an undercover operation in cooperation with the US Fish and Wildlife Service in Myrtle Beach to expose an illegal clamming operation. Posing as an outlaw clammer’s wife, she sold clams taken from illegal beds to seafood suppliers. The takedown was successful, and she returned to Covington on Thursday.
Sam had not called. She had been at odds with herself all afternoon, and it was now past eight o’clock. She would wait another hour.
The ring of the fax machine brought her out of her thoughts. She went to the closet, unlocked the door and watched the paper feeding out of the top of the machine. When it stopped, she tore it off.
FROM: Commander Buck Link, Louisiana State Police
To: K. Chaney
Karen:
I received a follow-up call from my friend at Vital Statistics. It appears the subject of your inquiry was married to a Celine Aguillard in Lake Charles, LA on February 3, 1975. They Divorced in November of 1976. No other details. Hope it is helpful. I’m counting on that dinner you promised.
Buck
Karen felt her knees go weak and sat down on the floor. Married. Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t it come out in their conversations. More rationally, had she told him about her personal life? It was different; she was working. No, it wasn’t different. He appeared as closed in his everyday life as she was undercover. She read the name again. Celine Aguillard. Maybe a check on her would reveal something. Link could do it, but she didn’t want to be too beholding. Dougherty could, but she was nervous about where that might lead. It was almost nine and Sam had not called.
“Shit!” she said, went to the phone and dialed.
“Dougherty,” came the voice on the other end.
“Hello, Blue.”
“Belle. Been wondering about you. What’s going on?”
“How many times a day do you ask that question?” she asked.
“I have no idea. What’s happening? I haven’t heard from you.”
“I’ve been buying clams undercover up in Myrtle Beach. Takedown went smoothly and I’m back.”
“I guess clams is a start. One small step for clams; one giant leap toward a drug bust.” She could imagine his grin.
“Don’t be sarcastic. I made an arrest this week, have you?” she asked.
“If you’re trying to hurt me, you did. Anything else to report? Any progress?”
“Nothing specific. Listen, I need some information. A name came up. I don’t think it means a thing, but I’d like to check it out. No alerts to anyone because I don’t think there’s a chance she’s involved in anything. Just want to make sure.”
“Boyfriend’s girlfriend?”
“Fuck you, Neil. No. The name came from an undisclosed source, and I’d like it quietly checked out without ruining her life. Write it off to curiosity or good investigation. Take your choice.” She was angry, but that happened every time she talked to Dougherty lately.
“Name?”
“Celine Aguillard.” She spelled the name. “The only location I have is Louisiana. Maybe around Lake Charles.”
“Louisiana?”
“People move around.” She said it flatly.
“See what I can do and call you.”
“Thanks.” She hung up the phone, went to the sofa and lay down. She was tired, wondered if it were depression and closed her eyes.
The nap on the couch lasted less than an hour. When she awoke, it was only ten-thirty, and her mind was a collage of thoughts, all centering on Sam Larkin and Celine Aguillard. Thinking about what she had accomplished in her investigation, she could come up with nothing. So much for being a government agent. Unless Sam Larkin turned out to be a bad guy, she had pretty much neglected her duty.
Questions and recriminations kept her awake most of the night. Reading didn’t work, soft music and sinking into the comfort of the sofa didn’t bring rest, and the bed brought Sam back into the picture. It was miserable. When she went for a run at five-thirty, it was still dark.
She ran to the marina, sat briefly on a swing at Riverfront Park and then jogged back. She took a shower, fixed some fruit for breakfast, read the paper and waited for someone to call and tell her what to do with her day. Then she went back to bed.
At three-thirty she was awakened by the telephone.
“Hello?” she said, trying to wake up.
“Did I wake you?” Neil Dougherty asked.
“I guess you did; I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. Just one of those nights.”
“Is the information you asked me to get enough to keep you awake?” he asked.
“Just an inquiry, I said. Nothing critical.” Oh, how the lies roll off the tongue, she thought. “I can’t imagine that you’ve found anything this quickly.”
“Never underestimate a Blue Duck. Hold on a second.” She could hear him shuffling papers and Wilson Pickett singing in the background. “Okay, here we are. You owe me for this one, Belle. I’m working in the dark here. I like to know what I’m looking for, makes it easier to find. But I did find something interesting. Confusing really.”
“So kill the foreplay and tell me what you found.” Her hand began to shake.
“Celine Aguillard. Spelled it right by the way. Celine Aguillard married a Samuel T. Larkin in Lake Charles, Louisiana, on February 3, 1975, and divorced him in November of the following year.”
“What grounds?”
“Desertion. He pleaded nolo contendere.”
“So he didn’t admit or deny it, and she agreed to no further action.” Desertion didn’t sound like the Sam Larkin she knew. “No settlement?”
“That’s the interesting thing. Nothing then. Not a dime, but four years later, according to her 1040, she listed sixty-eight thousand dollars of income designated as alimony.”
“Where in the world did that come from?”
“Be patient and I will tell you, my love. It wasn’t real difficult to run the banks in Shreveport, where she now lives, and locate her accounts. It was, however, difficult to get the bank to run a record of her 1977 accounts without getting a warrant, which I could not have done in any case, since I am not involved,” he said with a note of sarcasm.
“Put a lid on it, Neil. So, tell me, how did you do it?”
“You don’t want to know, but it took less than an hour. I’m good.”
“Give,” she said.
“In February of 1977, she made a single deposit to her savings account of sixty-eight thousand dollars. Of course, a deposit of that amount had to be reported, as well as the check—if it was a check—being copied. Guess what?”
“What?”
“It was a check, and it was drawn on the account of...ready?”
“Damn it, Blue.” It was his game; a carryover from childhood, she often told him.
“The United States Treasury Department.” There was a stunned silence.
“Wait a minute; I thought you said it was alimony,” Karen said, her voice reflecting her confusion.
“That’s what I said.” She knew he was rejoicing in her bewilderment.
“So you’re saying the government paid her alimony.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone being divorced from the government, although I do knowa few people who are married to it.” They both laughed. “What does it mean?”
“I have no clue, but I do have a couple of ideas.”
“Would you like to share them?” she asked.
“Not yet. Give me a couple of days.”
“Don’t panic, Blue.”
“Maybe someday you’ll be confident enough to confide in me. Watch your back, Babe.”
“I will,” she said and put the receiver down. She looked out the window and saw what looked like a thirty-eight foot sailboat heading toward the marina. For some reason, the slow movement of the sailboat and the useless lethargy she had been experiencing coincided and forced her to make a decision.
She put on a pair of white shorts, an open-collar shirt, sandals And headed for the city dock. All the way there she wondered if she were making a big mistake. He might not be home. That would not be a big mistake, just a waste of time. He might not want to see her, not invite her in. Humiliating. A mistake. He might have someone else there with him. Very big mistake. None of those cautionary thoughts made her turn around, however. When she started the boat and began easing it out of the slip, her adrenaline was surging. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
She was nervous as she pulled into Sam Larkin’s dock. There was no movement that she could see, nor any indication that he was at home. For a moment, she thought about turning around and heading back to Covington, but she had come this far. Her legs felt weak as she climbed the stairs to his deck. Facing the sliding glass doors, she became totally confused as to what her next step should be. She leaned away from the sliders to eliminate the glare, so she could see into the sun room. There was no one there.
She waited a moment, giving anyone, who might have heard her coming up the stairs, time to make their presence known, but there was nothing—no sound, no movement. The doorbell button stared at her, but she was reluctant to push it. Who knew what might be going on in the rooms she couldn’t see into? The more she thought, the more paranoid she felt. She pushed it, and there was no response. It was a relief. As she turned to leave, Sam came down the driveway in his running clothes. He carried a towel in his hand and had slowed to a cool-down pace before he saw her.
“Looks good from here,” she said, leaning over the railing. She felt the blood come back into her legs and her heart rate begin to slow.
“Hey. I didn’t know you were back; I thought you’d call,” he said.
“I thought you’d call to check. I’m tired of chasing you, Larkin.”
“Well, if that’s what it takes,” he said with a grin and a shrug of his shoulders. His clothes were soaked with perspiration. “You don’t want to touch me, but if you’ll make yourself a drink and let me get cleaned up, we can talk about dinner.”
“I’m in a state boat, Sam.”
“Not planning on going home, are you?” She looked at him and smiled.
“I guess not. Get in the shower.”