The next morning, at five minutes after nine, the phone on my office desk rang. I was bleary-eyed and bone-tired after a night of nightmares on the sofa, so I wasn’t at my sharpest when I reached for the receiver. But the mental fog cleared fast when the caller identified himself.
“The name’s Echo,” he said. “Mister Echo. Special Assistant to Mr. Whitfield, of the Internal Revenue.”
I felt the shock of fear. What did he want now?
He continued blithely. “This call is to inform you that we will be examining your returns for the last four years.”
I was so stunned, I couldn’t answer. Last night, he’d attacked me in my own home. He’d put a knife to my throat. Now, he was calling me at work and in the most civilized voice, threatening me with an audit. Scared or not, I had to speak up.
“How dare you! After what you did last night, how da—”
“Madam, Mr. Echo hasn’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. This is a courtesy call.”
Courtesy? I almost laughed out loud. Not that there was anything funny about this. It was insane and cruel. It clarified what Hilda and Mabel had warned me about—and what Esther had tried to escape.
“Mrs. Price? You do understand what I’m saying?”
Oh, I understood all right. “You can tell your boss that—”
“We want to see everything you have from 1922 onward,” the silken voice said. “For now, of course, it’s just a review.”
“This will not work. This will not stop me—”
“Now, a review could be all—or nothing. It depends on what we find. The decision to audit, to dig deeper, if you will—that would come from him.”
To hear his tone, you’d think he was referring to God.
He got downright chummy. “You know, he only has Mr. Echo make these kinds of calls on cases he really cares about.”
“Put him on the line.”
“No can do. He’s very busy.” The sound of papers being rifled came down the line. “You’re a journalist?”
“You know I am.”
“That’s nice. Got a column to write? Your deadline is today?”
“As a matter-of-fact, it is.” No need to mention that the column was already filed.
“Well, you’re going to have to miss it. We need your bills, receipts, checks, salary statements, etc. And we need it all today. We’re especially interested in your 1923 returns.”
Why ‘23? I wondered. Then it hit me, with a chill. Those returns would’ve been filed in ’24. That was the year I’d been so preoccupied, first with my mother’s illness and death and then the struggle to find a new job.
Had I even filed returns for ‘23?
Might stomach knotted.
Probably not, if they were asking for them. That meant they’d already done some checking. They’d gone looking for something to use against me, and thought they’d found it.
He was waiting for my response, for me to beg for more time, if not outright mercy. Realizing that I wasn’t about to give him the pleasure, he continued, his tone less silken and much more spiteful.
“Mr. Echo suggests you forget about that deadline. Do you hear? If you don’t, you’ll have to forget about your column, period.”
He had some nerve.
“Would you deliver a message?” I asked.
“Why, of course.” He sounded surprised at the civility of my tone. To be honest, so was I.
“Tell your boss that your call confirms my opinion of him. Tell him that it’s the early bird who catches the worm—and that this time, he wasn’t early enough.”
Before he could respond, I hung up. For a moment, I sat staring at my hands. They were trembling, the result of both fear and anger. I balled them into fists and took another shaky breath.
I couldn’t believe it: I was actually more afraid of the tax threat than the physical one. Maybe Whitfield's strategy of attack made more sense than I realized.
Keep thinking. Think. Had I or had I not filed those returns? I was at my mother’s bedside in Virginia. The world had seemed so far away. What had I done? Filed them? Forgotten them? I couldn’t recall.
In the normal course of things, not filing was no great sin. One could always file later. But given Whitfield's aptitude for spite …
I shivered.
It was time to remind myself that this was about Esther, and about Job. It was time to remember that Whitfield was no good. Of course, he was going to strike back. Buck up. Stiffen your spine.
It was quite simple, really: If I was determined to go out and slay dragons, then I’d better be prepared to get scorched.
I was tempted to call Whitfield, to tell him that threatening me with an audit was useless, and that the column was being typeset at that very moment. But why bother? He would find out soon enough.
So, I went to the staff kitchen to get some coffee instead. Sam was there, pouring himself a fresh cup.
“Want some?” he asked.
I rubbed my temple and nodded. He set down his cup, took another from the cabinet and filled it. He added milk and sugar, in the right amounts, without asking. I’d once told him in passing how I liked my coffee. That had been months ago, but he remembered.
“I hope you have lots of energy,” he said, handing me the cup.
“What for?”
“For tonight, of course—Lanie, you do remember?”
A blank moment and then it came to me. “Oh yes, the Savoy.”
“Look, if you don’t want to go …”
“Seven-thirty. Of course, I want to go.”
“Can I go too?” said a third voice from the doorway.
The scent of a musky perfume hit the air. I turned to see Selena standing in the doorway. She slinked in and slid between Sam and me, brushing her bosom against his arm, and held her cup out to him.
“Would you fill me up?” she asked, with a perfectly innocent expression. “Please?”
“Sure.” He took her cup.
When he offered it to her, filled with coffee, she said, “Oh, but you know how I like it, Sam. Sweet. Very sweet. And hot. So I can suck it down. Slowly.”
She was so obvious. I just wanted to shake my head, but Sam apparently thought otherwise. He was giving her an appraising look.
Men, I wondered. Are they really that simple?
“Time for me to go,” I said. “I have an appointment to keep.”
“Lanie,” he said. “You will remember, won’t you?”
I paused, tempted to break the date. But that would’ve been childish—and it would’ve been playing right into Selena’s hands.
“Sure.” I gave them both a wave. “Bye.”
“Bye-ee,” Selena cooed.
I started out, but couldn’t resist a backward glance. He was handing her back her cup and she was placing her hand over his. I turned away.
Men, I decided, were beyond simple.
Not all, of course. Not my Hamp. But he was one in a million.
And he was gone.
I phoned Ruth at her church. She sounded tired when she came to the telephone, but she perked up fast when I told her what I’d learned.
“It’ll all be in my column.”
“But shouldn’t you go to the police with it first?”
“I have no proof, just bits and pieces.”
“But don’t you think—”
“There’s still time to go to the cops. Actually, the cops might even go see Whitfield themselves. The column could serve as a wake-up notice.”
“I hope you’re right. I hope he don’t try to run off.”
“That’s not likely. He’s got too much to protect. And he’s not the running-away kind. Too self-confident.”
I went home early to dig around in my home files. After three hours, I gave up. There was no sign of my 1923 return. I was worried despite my determination not to be, and not because I had anything to hide, but because like most Americans, I’d been taught to fear the Bureau of Internal Revenue.
Whitfield's intimidation tactics were working, indeed.