“Pssst, Tyler! Are you awake?”
He’d had this dream before.
“Tyler...!”
It was no dream. She sat over him on the study’s foldout, her delicate frame swallowed by his flannel shirt. Had a new intimacy crept into their relationship? “You look like a clown in that shirt.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“For what?”
“You love clowns so I assumed it was a compliment; I’m sorry for my behavior last night.”
“Why were you so upset?”
“The JBs and Jams.” She tugged nervously at an errant shirt thread. “And Robes of Vengeance.”
“What the hell are JBs and Jams?”
“Jawbreakers and Jordan Almonds,” she replied.
“Let me get this straight.” He sat up against the pillows. “You were upset because I bought your favorite candy and the novel you’ve been dying to read? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
She studied him wistfully. “Maybe you will one day.”
And he wanted to. But now there were more compelling matters to address. “Where was the Crenshaw suit filed?”
“Naples, Florida. Why?”
“Because we need to get our hands on the case records.”
“And how do you propose doing that?”
“Well, since Lamp isn’t likely to turn them over, I guess we’ll have to go to Naples and get them ourselves. Tell me what you know about the case.”
“That shouldn’t take long.” She folded her arms. “Crenshaw was the redneck sheriff of some Tennessee county who, after turning in his badge, moved with his fortune into a cozy Naples retirement. Then I assume after buying a fancy condo, he spent his golden years watching Gulf Coast sunrises, as he plotted how to keep his no-good kids from inheriting his ten-million-dollar estate. See, that didn’t take long.”
“Ten million dollars,” he marveled. “That’s a lot of speeding tickets.”
“Obviously he didn’t amass his fortune from traffic fines.”
“Extortion,” he mused. “The kind Morris was playing with Lamp, maybe with the same deck of cards. If so, where did Morris stumble upon it — Minnesota?”
“Something lured him up there,” she nodded. “And huge for him to cut his vacation short. Money, obviously; it’s what lured him into probate work in the first place. The larger the estate, the larger his fee.”
“Let’s assume the Minnesota trip was related to Crenshaw. And instead of completing his vacation, Morris returned to New York to cash in on his discovery, using the same blackmail scheme that had made Crenshaw a multimillionaire. Let’s also say Lamp was the target. Morris would’ve contacted him the moment he returned Sunday, or for that matter may have already been talking to him from Minnesota.”
“The phone records would prove it,” she said. “Let’s assume they do and that Morris demanded money. Did Lamp pay?”
“He certainly had the resources. And his payment would explain Morris’s urgency to catch the first flight to Margaritaville. Still,” he paused. “Before financing Morris’s exile, he must’ve considered the alternatives, one being how much cheaper it would be to just eliminate the pest from the planet. Certainly Morris was aware of this and after coming to his senses, realized he’d gotten in over his head.”
“And that possibly he was being watched,” she added. “That’s why he couldn’t drive or take a cab to the airport. He was afraid of detection.”
“So he called me, then you when I wasn’t home. No one would recognize our cars. We’d slip into the garage, pick him up then leave again right under their noses.”
“But Lamp might recognize our cars,” she pointed out.
“Lamp wouldn’t be the one watching.” He sprung up to stretch his long body. Out the window the sun had begun its rise over the East River. “He’d pay someone else to snoop then kill Morris; someone like your brother, Lucky.”
“The Lips,” she sighed. “Why can’t you get that straight?”
“What was he like growing up?”
“Kind, trustworthy. I loved him very much.”
“And?”
“He grew up. And I learned that neither he, nor anyone else, could be trusted.”
“What about your father?”
Glancing at her knotted hands, she turned away. “I don’t want to discuss this.”
Would the time come when she would? “Mayson, if you ever want to talk, I’m here to listen.”
Slowly her eyes lifted. Yes, she’d remember; the day would come. She wanted it to. As she glanced at his boxers, he smiled sheepishly. “It’s your home,” she said. “Dress as you want.”
He studied her now, sitting perfectly content on the foldout, her legs bare below the flannel shirt. New ground had been broken. “I should’ve bought you a gown to sleep in.”
“The shirt’s fine. And you can have your bed back tonight. I’ll be perfectly comfortable in here.”
“We may not be here tonight,” he said ominously.
Alarm widened her eyes. “We’ll need more than a day to plan our escape.”
“Who says we have it?”
Anxiously she watched him leave.
He found her later in the kitchen, spatula in hand, sleeves rolled up as she labored over the stove. She looked up at him, all dressed for Wall Street. “I hope you don’t like your eggs sunny side up. It may be too late for that. How do you like them?”
“Scrambled.” He inspected the frying eggs.
“You would,” she sighed. Transforming the spatula into an instrument of destruction, she shredded the eggs to his specifications. “There,” she said. “Scrambled.”
Sitting at the table, he noticed the lone place setting. “You’re not eating?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Of course I’m nervous.” She deposited the sausage and eggs on his plate. Grabbing the muffins, she joined him at the table. “If you weren’t such a dope, you’d be nervous, too.”
“Dope? What happened to idiot and gavonne?”
“They’re too mean for you.”
He watched her swat her hair again - a mussed, but lustrous mane that regrettably would have to go. Tonight, if the arrangements could be made. “Who says I’m not nervous?”
“You just aren’t. Why, Tyler?”
Sipping his juice, he dug into the breakfast, a luxury rarely bothered with. “So you really can cook.”
“Then you won’t answer me?”
“Hell yes, I’m nervous. If not as much as you, maybe it’s because I don’t care about what I’m leaving behind. I don’t belong in New York. I never have.”
“Then where do you belong?”
Once he could’ve answered this without thinking. Now he had no clue. “Castlewood, my family’s home, I guess...”
As he said this, she noticed his saddened eyes. Was his life painful, empty and colorless like hers? Did something haunt him, too? “Tyler, even if we get out of New York you’ll have abandoned your life and everything in it. And if I have no family, you do - one that will worry itself sick. I can’t ask you to do this.”
“You’re not, Mayson. I’m helping because I want to.”
“Well if you insist on throwing your life away, at least tell me why. Otherwise I have no intention of going anywhere with you.”
“I’d better get downtown.” He got up.
“Tyler, you can’t just walk away from this.” She followed him. But he already had; he was leaving her with so many questions unanswered, so many lonely hours to face once the door closed behind him. She was so confused. She cared, but didn’t want to. She didn’t want him to throw away his life, yet no longer had the strength to face hers alone. She didn’t want to be responsible for his family’s grief, but even that seemed beyond her control. “Tyler, you have to answer me sooner or later. The question won’t go away, I assure you.” She watched him open the door. “Was there a girl at McDougal’s last night, one of yesterday’s ‘panters’?”
“No ‘panters,’ just the Molson’s.” And Rebecca, the Bellevue resident - refreshingly Virginian and beautiful. He’d declined an invitation to her place on the grounds of morning depositions when insanity was the proper plea. He’d been too worried about Mayson to enjoy himself. “Don’t forget to call the remaining area codes for Robert Hunter.” She nodded sullenly, her toes digging into the carpet. “Something’s on your mind, obviously. Do you plan on telling me or not?”
Slowly her eyes lifted. “I cried last night because emotions I’d thought dead ambushed me. I didn’t know how to deal with them and so, well,” she shrugged. “I just cried.”
Glancing at her drooping shirt cuffs, he imagined her hands knotted inside. “Good or bad emotions?”
She studied her toes like busy worms in the carpet. They were alive; she was alive, and it terrified her. “Tyler, can you imagine what it’s like to be dead inside, to feel nothing at all? To hear only the terrible silence when voices, laughter, music, once filled your ears? Can you possibly understand that?”
“Perfectly,” he nodded.
She’d been right, his solemn eyes confirmed. He was or had been in pain. Was he still? Should she help? Did he want her to? Is that what this was all about? “Tyler, if the time comes when I want to talk about my life, I mean, I’ve never done it before. I’ve been much more interested in forgetting than remembering. But I’m beginning to sense...” Her throat tightened suddenly. She brushed at fresh tears. “If that day comes... if I asked...”
“You don’t have to ask, Mayson, I’ve already said that. When you’re ready, just start talking and I’ll be there. Is that plain enough?” When she nodded, he kissed her hair and then slipped out.
His world had never seemed more threatening than on the drive downtown. Every shrieking horn in the thick traffic, every car that crept into his mirror sent a shiver up his spine. NYPD units were everywhere, and so were the ubiquitous Feds, who’d recently hit the streets. In their dark suits and glasses, their faces expressionless, they were easily identified clones as they huddled on street corners and climbed in and out of dark sedans. Why were they here? Did they know who’d killed Morris?
It was almost nine when he reached his office. Closing the door, he quickly checked his messages. Lauren had called twice, Bilbro three times. Poster Boy would be a nuisance right down to the wire; that was clear. On his way out, he grabbed the ringing phone.
“I told you not to kiss me,” Mayson snapped. “Don’t do it again.”
Didn’t she realize someone might be listening to this asinine conversation?
“Lauren just left a message,” she explained. “If you don’t call by noon, she’s going to the DA.”
As the line clicked, he checked his watch. Lauren was the key. If she didn’t agree to the plan, they were doomed. Taking the elevator to sixty-four, he hurried down the hall. An intense Frieda looked up from her PC. She was assigned to Bilbro now and if Poster Boy played his cards right, he would also soon have Morris’s prestigious corner office. “I see Ed has you slaving away already,” he said.
“He’ll take some getting used to,” she muttered.
“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “After Morris, GI Joe should be a piece of cake.”
“You overestimate my abilities.” She offered a toothy grin.
If only her parents had put braces on her teeth, she’d be pretty or close enough. “Have you gotten Ralph’s birthday present?”
Nodding, she reached under the desk for a jewelry box. Inside was a sparkling gold watch and chain. “Do you think Ralph will like it?” she asked hopefully.
“He’ll love it,” he nodded emphatically. “Wasserman’s, huh?”
She beamed. “You might get one yourself?”
“I’ll definitely look.” And if he’d planned to be around, maybe he would. “So where’s dinner?”
“Lutece. Saturday night.”
“I’ll see that Ed gives you plenty of overtime. You’ll need it after this weekend.”
“Ralph’s worth every penny.”
“The man’s lucky as hell.”
“Tyler, stop!”
Not if it made her grin like that. He slipped into Morris’s office, with its prestigious glass walls and handsome furnishings. Once galvanized by the partner’s frantic, gesticulating presence, it was now a cold, sterile mausoleum - dead, like him. His personal possessions had been meticulously removed; with a few boxes and can of air freshener, the senior partner had been effectively erased. All that remained were his files, the only stuff that mattered in the world of Wall Street Law.
He began his search with little expectations. Still, they weren’t in a position to leave any stone unturned. Whoever had purged the office could’ve gotten sloppy.
Finding no scrap of Crenshaw in the desk, he moved on to the file cabinets. He’d been through them before when preparing the inventory, but then he hadn’t been looking for Crenshaw. He’d almost gotten through the last cabinet when the floor creaked behind him.
“There you are. Didn’t you get my messages?”
Closing the drawer, he looked up at an impatient Bilbro. “I haven’t been to my office yet.”
“What time do you normally get in?”
“Seven-thirty,” he rose now.
“Then you were late this morning.”
“I had a doctor’s appointment. I strained my knee jogging.”
“It looked okay when you were kneeling over that drawer just now.” His eyes dropped to the cabinet, “You’re not still looking for that Crenshaw case you mentioned last night, are you? I planned to ask Lamp about it this morning.”
Tyler froze. “Then you haven’t?”
“No, he’s in D.C. through the weekend,” Bilbro explained. “Anyway, I need some motions prepared for a Boston prelim tomorrow in the Breckinridge suit. I didn’t know about it until sorting through some stale correspondence. Now I must postpone the Garrison depositions and fly up to Boston in the morning.”
“Can’t you get the prelim continued?” Tyler asked.
“Morris had continued it twice already. Judge McCarthy said two continuances were enough.”
Was this the opportunity he needed? “I could fly to Boston and cover for you.”
“You know the firm’s policy: no unsupervised court appearances for first-year associates.”
Yes, he knew. He’d graduated from Harvard, passed the Bar and clerked for the U.S. Supreme Court, only to arrive at Lieber Allen and discover he had the equivalent of a learner’s permit. “Ed, that stupid rule is broken every day.”
“Yeah? Well I know another rule you’re not particularly fond of either, the one about dating firm employees. Now come on, let’s get down to my office so I can brief you on those motions.”
It was almost eleven when he returned to his office. Head spinning, he shut the door and dropped behind his desk. They had to get away. He had to avoid the slightest wrinkle or rumble of suspicion and then when heads were turned, magically disappear. Meanwhile, time was slipping away. How could he squeeze the Breckinridge motions into what was left? All these obstacles... He grabbed the ringing phone.
“Honestly Tiles, why have voice mail if you don’t check your messages?”
‘Tiles.’ Must his sister continue calling him that? “I’m sorry, Stafford, there’s a lot going on.”
“So we’ve heard. Do you know this Mayson Corelli and the lawyer she murdered?”
“I knew them both but not well. And Mayson didn’t murder Mendelsohn.”
“How do you know that?” Stafford asked.
“Just a hunch.” He checked his watch. He couldn’t push Lauren past her noon deadline. “Stafford, things are really hectic...”
Childish squeals pierced the line suddenly. “Anne Randolph, give your brother his ball!” Stafford scolded. Then she explained, “The academy’s closed for a teachers’ conference. Remember how we loved those days? Well I dread them now.”
“Stafford, I’m late for a meeting.”
“Okay, but don’t forget Schuyler’s birthday Saturday.”
He’d sent a package last week with instructions not to open it until this Saturday. It was a hunting jacket his father would love, almost as much as having his son at Gobblepatch when he wore it.
“Tiles, you never forget Schuyler’s birthday,” she confessed now. “You know why I called.”
Of course he did.
“Do you still hate New York?” she asked.
“More every day.”
“To the point you’ll quit and come home?”
“I’ll give it a while longer.” Hours they were now talking about.
“You don’t plan to miss another Castlewood Thanksgiving?”
Missing was the problem. At Castlewood he missed everything. Not from a distance but up close, where the memories gripped him so tightly that he could see, hear and feel everything that had been, and never would be again. “I’ll try to make it this year.”
“Just do all right?” She sighed. “Imagine what it would mean to Schuyler if you joined him in Gobblepatch for the hunt Thanksgiving morning.”
A lump crept up his throat. He might never see his sister again. “I love you, Stafford. You’ve...”
She gasped at his faltering voice. “Tiles, it’s worse this year, I can tell. Please come home. I... have to...” Her tears flooded the line as she hung up.
Eyes misting, he checked his watch. Four minutes to noon. Nothing like cutting it close. He called the Manhattan DA’s office. “Lauren Belli, please.”
“Miss Belli’s in with the DA. May I take a message?”
She wouldn’t... not without talking to him first.
“Lauren Belli,” a breathless voice now responded.
“She said you were with the DA.”
The line instantly chilled. “You sonofabitch!”
“I have an explanation.”
“Don’t all you Virginia boys, with your charming drawls, manners and thoughtfulness. What bullshit! I see she relayed my noon deadline, which proves she’s at your apartment.”
“Let’s have lunch. I’ll explain everything.”
“I’m too disgusted to think of food. This explanation - you have thirty seconds before I return to the DA’s office.”
“Goddamnit Lauren, I can’t explain it in thirty seconds and you know it. Come on - Guido’s in the Square, your favorite pasta and my explanation.” The line’s silence deepened. “Come on, if...”
“Twenty minutes, Tyler. Don’t be late.”
Hanging up, he slumped at his desk. The day from hell, and it was only noon. Eight Breckinridge motions. Stafford. Lauren. The Italian tempest in his apartment. Reaching for his personal stationery, he scrawled the note he was certain to forget later:
Hunter Leigh, Schuyler,
I’m sane - I think - although I have no idea why I’m doing this. Leaving at least was in the cards before. I’d planned on giving my notice this week. Now I think I’ll just slip off quietly. I hate Wall Street. I don’t belong here and the truth is I’m not sure where I belong. I haven’t since — well, we all know when.
I just got off the phone with Stafford. Please make sure she knows how much I love her. I’m afraid I’ll miss another Thanksgiving but hope that in a minute you’ll understand why. I also hope you can read this. My mind’s blazing, my fingers barely limping after it.
Mayson didn’t kill Morris Mendelsohn no matter what you’ve heard, and I plan to help her prove it, although at the moment I don’t know how. She doesn’t have anyone else and spending five minutes with her, you’d understand why. But I suspect there’s a reason, just like there’s a reason for the way I am. I hope she’ll open up soon.
Anyway, I know you’re going to worry and I’m sorry for that. Just believe in me as you always have. Mom, Dad, I know it sounds crazy, but suddenly I have a destination and it feels good. I’ll explain it all when I return. And Schuyler, Happy Birthday. And good hunting! Your loving son, Tyler.’
Slipping the note into an envelope, he added a stamp and address and, tucking it in his jacket, left. Minutes later, he dropped it off in the box outside the building and hurried for Guido’s across the square. Not spotting Lauren, he grabbed a window table to wait. The waitress soon appeared to take his order. “Two pasta specials, a coke and... iced tea, unsweetened.”
She offered a gum-popping grin. “I’m sure the lady will be impressed you remembered.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Lauren, a statuesque blond, entered and finding him, briskly strode over. Heads turned at the busy counter, eyes following her long, shapely legs. Her gray suit was professional, the skirt too short as usual, the heels, high. Lauren on display - she was gorgeous and knew it. Rising, he greeted her with a smile, which she coldly brushed off.
“I’ll get your iced tea,” the waitress winked. “Unsweetened.”
As she left, Lauren snapped, “That down-home charm snows them all, I see.”
“You’re one to talk.” He dropped back across the table. “I’ve already ordered. I’m sure neither of us has time to burn.”
“Oh, you’ll burn all right. Count on it.” The waitress brought their drinks then left again. “You said your interest in the case stemmed from your close relationship with Mendelsohn. As he was your mentor, you felt a special duty to bring his killer to justice. ‘Lauren,’ you pleaded, ‘just tell me if a suspect turns up at the firm.’ When I said one had, Mayson specifically, you said you’d suspected her, too, and that if she was the killer, you couldn’t let her escape prosecution.”
She paused to study him, quiet and expressionless - polite, deferential to the lady talking. If he was interfering in the investigation, he’d first resolved the moral issues, convincing himself it was justified. What hurt the most was that his justification involved another woman. Mayson Corelli. “You’re good, Tyler, I’ll give you that. I took the bait - hook, line, and sinker. I actually thought I was recruiting you to watch Mayson in exchange for my classified information. I could’ve had Duke tail her, but you were right there, ready, willing and able. And you certainly were — to help that cold Sicilian bitch, not the law, as I learned to my humiliation Tuesday afternoon.”
He studied her intently. “Even cold Sicilian bitches don’t deserve prison for crimes they didn’t commit. Whatever you or I think of Mayson, she didn’t kill Morris Mendelsohn.”
“Oh? And how do you know? Let me guess; she told you?”
“Why would Mendelsohn call her for help Sunday night if he thought she wanted to kill him?”
Lauren replied, “If victims knew these things in advance, Mr. Contracts Lawyer, there’d be a helluva lot less murders.”
The waitress appeared with their pasta specials. “More Coke?” she asked him. “It’s extra, but I can make an exception.”
“This is Wall Street,” Lauren’s eyes shot up irritably. “Don’t you recognize a millionaire when you see one? You don’t make exceptions for them; you charge double. Didn’t they tell you that when you got off the bus?”
The waitress’s chin ducked into indignant wrinkles as she huffed off. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Tyler snapped. “That was way out of line.”
“So was your conduct in this murder investigation,” she whispered harshly.
Digging into his pasta, he became aware of the curious eyes at the counter. “Morris’s Minnesota trip is connected to the murder. I’m surprised neither you nor Duke picked up on that.”
Unable to force her fork into the pasta, she set it down. “I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on the fact that Mayson owns a .38 - the one that killed Mendelsohn. Or did her big eyes make you forget that part?”
“Morris borrowed the gun from her several months ago for protection against muggers.”
She scoffed, “And naturally you believe this explanation.”
He was establishing himself as a material witness, but he needed to rehabilitate himself in her eyes. And besides, he had nothing to lose. He’d either gain her confidence or go to jail. “Lauren, she went to Morris’s in response to his call for help. Don’t you see? She wouldn’t have been there if I’d been home to take his call. And she arrived after the murder. After his apartment was trashed.”
“If she’s innocent,” Lauren asked, “why slip off like a guilty rat instead of reporting the crime?”
“Because it was her gun in his apartment and his fresh corpse at her feet as sirens shrieked outside. Everyone knew she hated his guts. What would you have done in her place?”
She pulled away from his intense eyes. She wasn’t required to put herself in Mayson’s shoes or ask what she would’ve done. That wasn’t the issue... it was... was it possible Tyler was right about that night?
“I know what I would’ve done,” he said. “The same as you if you weren’t too stubborn to admit it: slipped off and hoped nobody saw me. Which, as we know in Mayson’s case, they did.”
“Even so, Tyler, it was wrong.”
“I know that. But only the most nave person in the world would believe they could explain away circumstances like those.”
“Her brother’s a killer. Why couldn’t she be, too?”
“That’s a cheap shot, Lauren. Lucky was a Mob assassin. Mayson climbed the ladder the hard way, the honest way. And because of that she wasn’t about to throw it all away by murdering a loudmouth prick like Morris Mendelsohn.”
“Her brother is The Lips,” she replied. “And Morris the Prick? Then you’re saying he wasn’t really your mentor? And you said you hated Mayson. Obviously that was bullshit, too.”
“My feelings for Mayson have nothing to do with this.”
“Now who’s being nave?” she laughed.
“Lauren, why is the FBI involved in this?” he asked. “And Special Services? What kind of jurisdiction does the Justice Department claim in a Manhattan homicide?”
Good question. And he wasn’t the only one asking. The official line, she explained, was that Mendelsohn’s murder was linked to Mayson’s activities within the Bertolucci family; however, because of the threat to Federal agents involved in the undercover operation, the details couldn’t be disclosed.
“And you believe that?” he asked.
“It’s not my job to question the legitimacy of FBI operations. Enforce the laws of New York. That’s what I’m paid to do.”
“In other words, you think it’s bullshit, too,” he said.
“What if I do? That doesn’t change anything. The Feds want Mayson, the same as the DA.”
“So what are you saying? You don’t believe Mayson’s innocent or you just don’t give a shit?”
The growing desperation in his eyes was difficult to confront. Yet he and that Sicilian bitch were the villains, not her. So why did she suddenly feel like the bad guy?
He sighed. “At least now I know how you feel.”
“Like hell!” she shouted. “You have no idea.” As the nosy waitress stopped wiping a nearby table, she whispered, “Tyler, why can’t you understand that what I feel or think isn’t the issue? She’s wanted for murder. Nothing I say or do will change that. Furthermore, when the smoke clears, the fact remains that you lied to me. You used me, you sonofabitch.”
Reaching for his wallet, he rose. “I think we could use some air.” Leaving the waitress a generous tip, he paid the cashier then escorted Lauren out to the square where the lunch crowd had thinned. “Walk with me a minute. There’s something I’d like to say.”
A minute? He’d crushed her and yet she’d give him a lifetime of minutes if he’d only ask. They’d met two months ago at McDougal’s the evening after the Boris Clansky murder trial. Victorious but exhausted, she’d been on her way out when their eyes connected. For her it had been love at first sight. She’d slept with him that same night, something she’d never done before. Certainly there’d been other women in his life, but he’d treated her as if she was the only one, and it had been so easy to believe. They’d spent other nights together when she could track him down. Quickly she’d discovered his pathological restlessness. He and his eyes were in constant motion.
He gave yet wanted nothing in return. Even with sex, all the moves were for her. But she’d also wanted to please him. She loved him and thought in spite of everything, he’d come to love her, too — until Tuesday afternoon. She’d been ready to castrate him. Now suddenly it was Thursday and she was here in the square, ready to give him minutes and so much more.
The November air chilled them as they strolled, the gusting wind sweeping the lunch crowd’s litter across the empty square. She hated Mayson Corelli. She envied her. Finally he turned to her with the full burden of his emotions. “Lauren, I’m sorry for using you. It was wrong, I know that.”
Choking back her feelings, she replied, “You can’t imagine how stupid I felt to learn that I, an assistant DA, had unwittingly conspired to help a murder suspect escape the same law I’d sworn to enforce. You ripped my heart out, Tyler. And yet rather than going to the DA, I returned to you praying I was wrong, that you’d reassure me you had nothing to do with Mayson’s escape.” She smiled sadly. “You knew I was bluffing; I’d never turn you in. You knew the way I felt... feel...”
He held her as she began to cry. He cared about her but she cared more about him. It was the same sad story, over and over again, a futile attempt to recreate the love he’d felt just once in his life - one whose promise had been infinite and so, too, he’d discovered, had its pain. Desperate and clawing for options, he’d seen Lauren not as a person but a resource to exploit. The realization sickened him. “Lauren, I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry.” Reaching for his handkerchief, he dabbed her eyes. “But I couldn’t let her go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit.”
“But why is she your responsibility?”
Mayson had asked the same question. He still had no answer. “I picture her sitting alone in a jail cell, no family or friends, facing a murder charge for which she’s innocent but without the means to prove it. I see her forced to appreciate the career she’s worked so hard for is suddenly gone and she’s helpless to prevent it. I imagine her spending the rest of her life behind bars - not the years but the hours, days, weeks. I imagine her pain until it hurts too much to think about; I have to do something.”
She was drawn again by his eyes’ intense glow. He was convinced of Mayson’s innocence and prepared to take on the world to prove it. That it was a hopeless cause didn’t matter. Simply for her vindication, he was prepared to throw his own life away. He had the world and it wasn’t enough. He must have Mayson, too. But he wasn’t greedy or stupid. He wouldn’t sacrifice himself for a murderer. Yes, Mayson was innocent, she conceded now. As a prosecutor, she knew mistakes were made, and somehow one had been made in this case.
“For Mayson,” he said, “it’s always been her against the world, and right now she’s not doing so well. Still, she’s having trouble admitting she needs help. But she must trust someone or she doesn’t stand a chance. And that someone, I guess, is me. I don’t see any other volunteers around.” He smiled as a maintenance man pushed by with his broom. “You must think I’m the craziest fool in the world.”
“No,” she smiled ruefully. “Just in love.”
“My personal feelings for Mayson have nothing to do with this.”
“You’re in love with her, Tyler, admit it. You’re acting crazy even if you aren’t. You’ve acted selfishly but you’re not that, either. You’ve hurt me, when in your right mind you wouldn’t hurt anyone. If that isn’t love, what is?”
He frowned. “It’s heaven one minute and hell for the eternity that follows. It’s like an addiction. One minute you’re soaring, the next you’re on your knees with a burning obsession to return to the sky. But you never do. And because I’ve been there I have no intention of returning, for Mayson Corelli or anyone else.”
“But can’t you see, Tyler, you already have. You love her. If you don’t realize it yet, you will later.”
“No, Lauren,” he shook his head firmly. “I control my own feelings.”
“Yes, we’ve just been through that, haven’t we? The ‘you hurt me but didn’t mean to’ line.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly, “She’s in your apartment at this very minute, isn’t she?”
“She had nowhere else to go,” he nodded. “But it’s no longer safe. We have to leave New York.”
Lauren watched his restless eyes scale the Old Dame. “Tyler, don’t press your luck.”
He studied her intently. No, he wouldn’t do that. “Thanks for coming, Lauren. Whatever you decide, I’ll understand.”
As he started away, she called, “Wait! You can’t leave without explaining your proposition.”
He turned, “But you just said...”
“I know what I said. And I’ll enjoy rejecting your proposal, whatever it is. Now tell me.”
His eyes hardened with deliberation as he led her into the afternoon shadows, stopping behind a large planter. “There’s something much larger than Morris Mendelsohn and Mayson Corelli going on here. Something so vast it scares the hell out of me. And whatever it is, Mayson and I are caught in the middle. Think about it,” he said. “Mayson’s been a fugitive for all of forty-eight hours and already the two largest law enforcement agencies in the country are looking for her. By the size and intensity of this manhunt, you’d think she’s Public Enemy Number One. Why is that, Lauren? Why is an army of cops turning Manhattan upside down for one frightened woman named Mayson Corelli?”
“I can’t explain it,” she sighed. “You know that.”
“I’m beginning to. Morris stumbled upon something huge. And whoever killed him ripped up his apartment looking for it.” He explained, “The files of one of his Florida probate cases have been missing since the murder. Greg Lamp asked Mayson about them Monday morning after her questioning. When I inventoried Morris’s office later, they were gone. I mean, every reference. It’s like they never existed.”
“Maybe they didn’t,” she said. “But if they did, you think they explain Mendelsohn’s murder? A document perhaps that someone would kill for, but not Greg Lamp: the National Bar President, director of a half-dozen Fortune 500 companies, the Dean of Wall Street Law, Lieber Allen’s Managing Partner. Need I go on?”
“You see his achievements. I see a big reputation to protect.”
“Come on, Tyler. Lamp murdering his law partner? That’s a huge one to swallow.”
“The truth is sometimes.” He did his best to convince her. “Lamp’s choreographed this investigation from the start, even providing the murder motive. The memo that conveniently surfaced... shit, if Morris had had dirt like that he wouldn’t have put it in a memo, stuffed it away and then gone fishing. He’d have used it to blackmail Mayson for sex. That was his game. Only the memo never existed. Lamp manufactured it to frame Mayson... Look,” he sighed. “If you can’t accept my murder theory, at least give me the chance to prove I’m right. Justice, Lauren, what we lawyers swear to serve. Now unless Morris’s murderer found what he was looking for, it’s still out there. Maybe Mayson and I can find it.”
“And maybe you can get yourself killed,” she said.
“Lauren, we’ve got to get out of New York.”
“And how do you propose doing that when the city’s been sealed off? Radio the Starship Enterprise and have Scotty beam you up?”
“I had another idea.”
“Ah,” she nodded. “This is where I come in, right? Now that I’ve helped Mayson avoid arrest, you expect me to help you two get out of New York.”
“I have no expectations,” he said. “I’m up to my ass in suspicions at the moment.”
“Are you asking for my help or not?”
“No... I mean I was. But after the way I’ve treated you, I can’t. We’ll just have to find another way. There’s one thing I will ask, however. That you not turn us in, especially since we don’t know what the Feds are up to.”
“Why should I turn you in? You said Mayson’s innocent.”
His eyes widened. “Then you believe me?”
She nodded. “You’re not stupid enough to fall in love with a murderer. No, I won’t turn you in.”
“Thank you,” he sighed. If he couldn’t get what he’d hoped for, at least he could eliminate a threat. “I guess that’s it, then.”
Her conscience began whispering furiously as he started off. Mayson was innocent. He was left to prove it. What if he was killed? What if Mayson was killed and he spent the rest of his life in prison? She couldn’t allow it. She hated Mayson but loved Tyler more. “Wait!” She hurried after him. “What is it you want me to do?”
He turned back. She’d help. But could he really ask? “Lauren, I have no right.”
“You’re damn right you don’t. Now tell me.”
Again his eyes scaled the Old Dame. Poster Boy must be going nuts over an absence ticking now into its third hour. “Come on.” He led her away, explaining the plan as they walked. Refusing to downplay the risks, he emphasized them instead. When he finished, they stood at the corner of William and Pearl.
“I make a reservation tomorrow morning for a departing friend or relative,” she summarized. “The flight is to Naples, Florida; the fewer connections, the better.”
Buying a paper, he looked at the front-page headline, MANHUNT CONTINUES. “Then what?”
Wistfully, her eyes slipped over the congested intersection, the air gray and stale, like the endless granite. What was so crazy about wanting to leave? Sometimes she wished she’d never left Iowa. “Then I make a one-week reservation for my friend or relative in a Naples hotel, preferably a common chain. Both it, and the flight, will be charged to my credit card, which fortunately has a squeaky clean balance.” As the light changed, he led her across the busy street. She resumed. “Tomorrow morning I drive to a certain Park Avenue apartment building, where my friend or relative will be waiting for me to transport her to La Guardia. There, shielded by my well known prosecutorial presence, she’ll slip undetected through the police checkpoints and safely board her flight.” She looked up, “That’s it, I think.”
He smiled. “It’s all I’ve told you so far.”
Reaching the First South Bank, he headed for the closest ATM and completing his transaction, ushered her out again. As they started back, he pressed a wad of cash into her palm. “This should make your card squeaky clean again.”
“How much is it?” She slipped the bills into her purse.
“With this last of a dozen ATM withdrawals over the past week, six thousand dollars.”
“What?” she gasped. “That’s three times what the reservations will cost.”
“If you do this, you’ll have earned far more than the difference between six grand and the costs.”
“Tyler, I’m not doing this for money.”
Stopping, he pulled her under the eave of a building. “I know why you’re doing it, just like I know that all the money in the world can’t buy a friend like you. Still,” he smiled. “If you’re rich, it’s a nice way to show your appreciation.” As they started off again, his conscience grew heavy. “Lauren, if the plan fails, you’ll be in as much trouble as I am.”
“It won’t. Who’ll suspect an assistant DA of escorting a murder fugitive to the airport? Isn’t that why you asked me? Just make sure she’s well disguised.”
What a difference a few tumultuous hours made. “You wouldn’t happen to have a friend or relative living in Florida, would you?”
“No, but my cousin, Deborah, lives in Atlanta. She visited last summer while her husband was on a golfing trip with his buddies.”
“Does she look like you?” he asked.
“To some extent, only her hair’s shorter. Bobbed, I guess you’d say. And she wears granny glasses. I’ve told her to get contacts but she won’t listen.”
“Is she your size?”
“Smaller, and thinner.”
So was Mayson: five-four, a hundred pounds of Italian fire. “Then let’s use an Atlanta connection in case someone questions your companion’s identity. That is, if Deborah will lie for you.”
Lauren hunched against the chilling wind, her hair swirling in her face. “Deborah won’t be a problem. But what about you? Will you drive or fly?
“Fly. They’d have my car pegged before I left Manhattan.”
She smiled. “After all the build up, I won’t get a ride.”
“Sure you will. Just ask Duke for the keys after he’s seized it.”
“At least you’re going some place warm.” She shivered against another icy gust. She’d never felt this way before and wasn’t sure she wanted to again. “Tyler, please take care of yourself.”
An idea grabbed him suddenly. “That Iowa horse farm you’re always talking about... are you serious about it?”
“It’s been my dream since I was eight. Maybe when I’m sixty, I’ll be able to afford it.”
“With the land, you’d need stables, storage buildings, a home and of course some exquisite Virginia thoroughbreds. What kind of money are we talking about?”
“A half-million dollars. Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Because I don’t want you to wait until you’re sixty to have your dream. I want you to have it now.”
She gaped at him, speechless.
“My assets will be frozen this time tomorrow,” he explained. “But this mess won’t last long. Days, weeks, whatever; it’ll end. Successfully, thanks to you. And when it does, you’ll have your horse farm.”
“Tyler, I can’t! I mean, it’s because...”
He embraced her as her face crumpled with tears. Yes ‘because.’ Nothing else needed to be said.
Seconds passed before her misty eyes lifted. “Tyler, I said a half-million, but the farm could easily cost more.”
He lifted her chin firmly. “Not so much that buying it will present a problem. I’ll enjoy picturing you on horseback as the morning sun creeps over some lush Iowa meadow.”
“Then you’ll have to be alive.”
“I will.” He kissed her now, sweetly, honestly, without promise or expectation. A postscript, she thought. ‘Fondly yours, Tyler.’
Starting across the square, he turned back suddenly, “Your hair — what color is it?”
She laughed. “Blonde, Bozo, what else?”
“I mean the shade — if I was to look for it in a store?”
“Ash, I guess.” She now remembered the question she’d meant to ask before. “Tyler, the one time you were in love, it ended badly. That’s obvious. Did she hurt you?”
The wind gusted, the leaves swirling across the cold, empty, square as a deep sadness crept into his eyes.
“She didn’t mean to,” he replied, then turned and left the square.