Mortal Faults (19 page)

Tess shook her head slowly. “I just don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Google the survey and read it for yourself.”

“I mean about Dylan Garrick.”

“Is that the guy’s name? Feels weird to put a name on him. Makes him more of a person.”

“He
was
a person.”

“A bad person.” Abby’s eyes were hard. “I’m not shedding any tears for some lowlife who tried to whack me.”

“I can see that. You aren’t lying to me about this, Abby—are you?”

Abby smiled. “Tess ... you know I never lie.”

30

You know I never lie
.

Abby ordinarily had no qualms about lying. She did it all the time. It was an integral part of her job. In a certain sense, it
was
her job—pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

But she didn’t like lying to Tess. It felt like a betrayal. Abby had been on the wrong side of betrayal once or twice. She didn’t like putting Tess in that position. But she had no choice.

The lie, of course, had been only a stopgap measure. It would buy her time, but not much. Tess wouldn’t take long to find out that Dylan Garrick had left Fast Eddie’s in the company of a woman matching Abby’s description. Once Tess knew about that, things would get ugly.

Tess was a sort-of friend now. Soon she would be an enemy, and no sort-of about it. A dangerous enemy.

As she’d told Reynolds last night, she was in a jam. Still, she had a possible way out. It entailed risk, naturally. She wasn’t afraid of risk. Desperate times, desperate measures, all that jazz.

She drove back to her condo and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. It took her half an hour to manufacture a press pass for the congressman’s barbecue. There was nothing very complicated about it. She used a graphics program to paste her photo below the word MEDIA. The name Wanda Klein, along with Wanda’s particulars, was printed beside the photo. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Height: 5’7”. Weight: 125 lbs. She cheated on the date of birth, shaving three years off her age. She added a long string of random digits that served as her ID number, and left a blank line for Wanda’s signature.

The reverse side of the tag was taken up with a lot of authentic-sounding legalese about rights and liabilities, along with a phone number that supposedly could be called to verify Wanda’s fake identification number. Abby wasn’t expecting anyone to call the number, which was good, since it actually belonged to a Thai restaurant down the street.

She printed out the designs, glued them to the front and back of an old luggage tag, signed Wanda’s name, and laminated the tag with a gizmo she’d picked up at an office supply outlet. The faux press pass slipped into the clear plastic pouch formerly used for the luggage tag. The pouch had prepunched holes, through which she threaded an extra-long shoelace. With the shoelace knotted behind her neck, and the tag dangling over her sternum, she would be a bona fide member of the Fourth Estate. Or as bona fide as she was ever likely to be, anyway.

The barbecue didn’t start until noon. She had extra time before she had to head down to Newport, and she knew how she wanted to use it.

She had to talk to Andrea again.

***

At ten a.m. the phone in the kitchen rang. Andrea had reattached the phone jack after the media left, and so far she hadn’t heard from them. Now it seemed her luck had run out. Well, she would let it ring. She wouldn’t answer.

This strategy worked until she had counted fifteen rings, at which point she went into the kitchen with a sigh.

“Yes?” she said, prepared to hang up instantly if it was a member of the press.

“Ms. Lowry, this is Abigail Bannister at Williams-Sonoma. The item you ordered has just come in.”

She recognized Abby’s voice immediately, even before she registered the name. Obviously some kind of subterfuge was in play. “The item ...?” she said cautiously.

“Your garlic genius. You can pick it up at our store in the Beverly Center at your convenience.”

“My garlic genius.” The term meant nothing to Andrea. “I see.”

“I hope we’ll see you soon.” Abby put a subtle emphasis on the last word.

Andrea got the message. “Yes, I’ll be right over. Thank you.”

She hung up and stood in the kitchen, frozen in place. The ruse Abby had employed—there had to be a reason for it. And the only reason Andrea could think of was that the phone was tapped.

She didn’t think Jack Reynolds could tap her phone. Even a congressman’s powers didn’t extend that far.

But the FBI could do it.

They couldn’t be eavesdropping on her. Could they?

And if they were, did it mean they knew more than they’d let on?

They might know who she really was. They might know everything.

And if they had tapped her phone, what else might they have done? They had been all over her house. They could have installed hidden cameras. They could be watching her right now.

A shiver ran through her. For a moment she was back in the hospital. People monitoring her twenty-four hours a day. No privacy. And no way out.

She’d thought she had escaped all that. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe there was never any escape. Not for her, not ever.

No. she refused to think like that. Those thoughts were dangerous. They would lead her back into insanity. They would twist her mind into chaos.

Nobody was watching her or listening. Nobody.

She found her purse and left the house through the carport door. When she motored down the street, she kept her gaze on the rearview mirror, alert for anyone who might be following.

31

“Where were you last night, Jack?”

Reynolds looked up from his morning coffee, which he had brewed at the unusually late hour of ten a.m. after a restless sleep, to see the unsmiling face of his wife.

“Went for a drive,” he said evenly.

“You go for a lot of drives.”

“It’s how I relax. You know that.”

“Yes. I know that. It’s what you’ve always told me.”

He didn’t answer. He was scanning the
Orange County Register
for news on the incident in San Fernando. He’d already checked the
L.A. Times
and found no new information, only a rehash of the details televised on the late local news.

The
Register
’s story was given even less prominence, since the attack had taken place outside Orange County. The brief item appeared to be a patchwork of wire service reports augmented by a few local touches—chiefly references to the growing trend of home invasions in the region. There was nothing new.

“Why didn’t you come up to bed after your drive?”

He was surprised Nora was still in the room. He’d assumed she’d already left the breakfast nook. They never took their meals together anymore.

“I fell asleep in my office,” he said.

“Were you drinking?”

“I may have had a nip.”

“You’ve been taking your share of nips lately.”

“Campaign season. It’s tiring.”

“You know you’re a shoo-in to get reelected.”

“Still takes a lot out of me.”

“Yes, hours of schmoozing. I know how much of a strain that is on you.”

He disliked sarcasm. It implied that he was not being taken seriously. He put a sharper edge on his voice. “I guess it’s easy for you. That’s why you need your triple dose of Xanax to get through the day.”

“I’m not on Xanax anymore.”

“What is it now? Valium?”

“At least I have a prescription for what I take. I don’t think any doctor prescribes a pint of Scotch as a cure-all.”

“I could probably find one who would.”

He started to fold the paper, then noticed a last-minute item pasted in near the home invasion story. A member of the biker club known as the Scorpions had been found in his Santa Ana apartment, dead of “multiple gunshot wounds.” The man’s name was Dylan Garrick.

Reynolds didn’t know any Garrick. But then, he knew almost none of the younger Scorpions. His contacts were with the old guard, the men he’d known when they were boys growing up with him.

Interesting that a Scorpion would be killed on the night of the failed hit on Andrea. If Garrick had something to do with the hit, he might have been aced as a penalty for failure.

“You know, Jack, if you find campaigning so stressful, perhaps you should give it up.”

He was astonished that Nora was still present, still talking. This was turning into the lengthiest conversation he’d had with his wife in the past month.

“I’m not giving anything up,” he said with a prickle of rage. “I earned everything I’ve got, and I intend to keep it.”

“Even if it’s driving you to drink?”

He got up, leaving his coffee half finished. “You don’t understand me.”

“I suppose not.”

“Take your pills and get dressed. We have company coming.”

He walked out of the breakfast nook and climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom, where he slipped off yesterday’s clothes, then showered and changed.

Give it up, she’d said. Give up his job, his position. Give up everything that made him who he was.

In a couple of hours he would have two hundred of Orange County’s wealthiest power brokers gathered in his backyard for hot dogs, burgers, and potato salad. They weren’t coming because they liked him. They were coming because they needed him. They needed his pull, his influence, his ability to do favors and cut through bureaucratic obstacles. Secretly they might despise him—most of them probably did—but they would show up anyway, wearing broad smiles and offering firm handshakes. They were his courtiers, fawning and kowtowing, laughing at his jokes, grateful for his hospitality, eager to please.

And Nora wanted him to abandon all this—and do what? Practice law? Sit on corporate board? Play golf and watch his life go by?

Never. He would never give it up. He would do whatever was necessary to preserve his place in the system. He’d proven it many times—most recently when he’d ordered the elimination of Andrea Lowry.

He would prove it again soon, when he met with Abby Sinclair.

His cell phone rang. He answered and heard Rebecca’s voice.

“I’m not coming to the barbecue, Jack.”

Both of the women in his life were giving him trouble today. “Why the hell not?”

“Because of what you did to me last night.”

He barely remembered doing anything. He’d driven to her place, had a little fun with her, worked out his aggressions. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m all bruised.”

“You know I like it rough.”

“Yes ... I know what you like.” Her voice was a whisper. “This is different. I’m
all
bruised, Jack. I’m black and blue all over. You really
hurt
me.”

“How’s your face?”

“My face?”

“You know, the thing that looks back at you from the mirror. Any bruises there?”

“No.”

He always took care to avoid the face. “So what’s the problem? You know what they say, clothes cover a multitude of sins.”

“My arms and legs—”

“Wear long pants and a long-sleeved shirt.”

“It’s August. It’s eighty-five degrees outside.”

“So it’s eighty-five fucking degrees. Big deal. Break out your winter clothes.”

“It’s
summer
.”

“I fucking
know
it’s summer. People wear long sleeves in summer. No one is going to notice. Your problem is you think everybody’s focused on you. People don’t give a shit about anybody but themselves.”

“Jack, you left me on the floor. I could hardly move—”

“I had some issues that were eating at me. I got a little out of control. It won’t happen again.” This was as close to apologizing as he would come. Somewhere he had picked up the motto of tough old John Wayne, who had an airport in Orange County named after him.
Never apologize and never explain; it’s a sign of weakness
.

Rebecca’s voice hardened. “I’m not coming, Jack. I don’t want to see you today.”

“You don’t want to
see
me? The people at the barbecue are my constituents. They know you. They expect you to be here. And you
will
be here.”

“Tell them I came down with something. Goodbye, Jack.”

“You hang up the phone, and you’ll regret it.”

He said the words very softly, without melodrama, the way any serious threat should be delivered.

She stayed on the line. “I’m not coming,” she said again, but with less certainty.

“You’re going to put on your long-sleeved shirt and your long pants and whatever else you need to look pretty, and you’re going to be here with a smile on your face, telling my constituents how good it is to see them, and remembering all their names.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You think I hurt you last night. You don’t know what hurt is.”

Silence for a moment. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said finally.

“Yes, you are. Now get dressed and haul your ass over here. I haven’t got time for this bullshit. I have real problems to contend with.”

He ended to call and stuffed the phone into his pants pocket.

Bruises. Jesus.

So he’d gotten her a little marked up. It wasn’t like he’d broken any bones. Bruises would heal. In a few days, a week or two at most, she’d be wearing her summer clothes again.

Unless he decided to pound on her some more, teach her a lesson for her disloyalty, her lack of respect.

Maybe he would. But he had other lessons to teach first, starting with Andrea Lowry.

And after her, Abby Sinclair.

32

Andrea had never been inside the Beverly Center. Shopping malls were always so bright and so crowded, and years of darkness and isolation had left her afraid of places like that.

The drive there took thirty-five minutes. She left her car in a self-parking area and rode a dizzying series of escalators that climbed the outside of the building, enclosed in Plexiglas tubes. Were there FBI people somewhere behind her on the escalators? If so, she couldn’t spot them when she glanced over her shoulder.

A map of the mall showed her the way to Williams-Sonoma, a store she had never visited in her life. As she entered, she caught sight of Abby browsing in the kitchenware section. In what she hoped was a casual manner, she sidled up next to Abby and pretended to look at a ridiculously overpriced toaster.

Abby spoke in a low voice without looking at her. “Thanks for coming.”

“What’s this is about?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Is somebody watching me? Or listening—”

“We’ll get into that. Right now I want you to pick up the item at the counter. It’s already paid for, and it’s in your name. Then go up to the food court on Level Eight and meet me in the ladies’ room.”

Andrea swallowed. “Okay.” She almost moved away, then hesitated. “What exactly is a garlic genius?”

“It’s this little handheld metal doohickey that minces garlic cloves. No household should be without one.”

Andrea found it easier to obey than to ask any more questions. She accepted the package from the salesclerk and carried her shopping bag out of the store. Abby, she noticed, was already gone.

On the eighth floor, near a food court called Cafe L.A., she found the ladies’ room. It was empty except for Abby, who handed her a cell phone as soon as she entered.

“Keep this turned on and with you at all times. It’s how I can contact you and speak freely.”

“So ... someone
is
listening to my calls?”

“Yes.”

“And watching my house? Following me?”

“Yes.”

“Who? The FBI?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, God. They know who I am.” It was not quite a question.

“I’m afraid they do.” Abby glanced at the door. “There are two agents tailing you now. I saw them window-shopping near Williams-Sonoma when I left.”

“I didn’t see anybody.”

“You’re not trained to see them. The good news is, they’re both male.”

“How is that good news?”

“If there was a woman on the detail, she might come in here. Our gentlemen friends will probably be discreet enough to stay outside.” Abby gave her a discerning look. “You seem pretty frazzled. How are you holding up?”

“Not too well. I hardly slept at all, and when I did, I had these terrible dreams. I dreamed the men were breaking in again, with ski masks and guns, and you weren’t there to protect me...” She ran a hand through her hair, pulling distractedly at the locks.

“You don’t need worry about that now,” Abby said. “No one’s going to get into the house again. Not with the FBI looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me.” Andrea almost laughed. “Yes, sure. Until they decide to arrest me for using a false identity.”

“You won’t go to prison for that. And although the FBI may be somewhat interested in you, they’re a lot more interested in Congressman Reynolds.”

Andrea felt a rush of blood from her head. She held on to a sink to steady herself. “But they can’t know ... they can’t ...”

“They do.”

“How can they? Nobody knows. I never told...”

“Don’t worry about that now. They know about it, and so do I. But you need to tell me something about your relationship with Reynolds.”

“What?”

Before Abby could answer, the door opened and a woman walked in. The two of them busied themselves at the sinks, taking an inordinate amount of time to soap up and rinse off their hands before drying them. Finally the woman left. Abby picked up the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

“Any significant detail. Something that only you and he would know.”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“Don’t ask for whys and wherefores. I’m asking you trust me. Which I guess you do, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes. I do trust you.” Andrea realized this was true. It was the first time in twenty years that she had trusted anyone. The thought seemed to lighten her burden just a little. “All right. When he and I were ... dating, we used to meet a lot of times on his boat.”

“Where was the boat?”

“In the marina at Newport Beach.”

“What was the name of it?”

“
The Mariner
. It was an old boat he bought secondhand, and he used to call it the ancient
Mariner
. Funny how I remember that. I haven’t thought of it in a long time.”

For a moment the old days came back to her, the liaisons at the marina, hours of intimacy in the cramped quarters below deck, then the quiet time afterward when, in darkness, they would share a drink under the stars and watch the water ripple against the mossy pylons of the dock.

She caught Abby watching her with sympathy. “We always have nostalgia,” Abby said in a low voice, “even for the things we regret.”

Andrea nodded.

“Thanks for the info,” Abby added more briskly. “Now get a bite to eat at the food court. Otherwise your friends may wonder why you came up here. Then go home and stay put. And keep that phone close to you. I’ll be calling later.”

“You have some kind of plan, don’t you?”

“I always have a plan.” Abby hesitated. “In this case, I may need you to act fast.”

“To do what?”

“To get away from the watchful eyes of the federal bureaucracy. Don’t worry. It’s easier than it sounds.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, eventually. In the meantime you’ll just have to go on trusting me, if you can.”

“I can. It’s just ...”

“Just what?”

“I’ve done such bad things. I’m not sure I deserve your help.”

“We’ve all done bad things. I know I have.”

Andrea met her eyes. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Abby didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“Did they deserve it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that makes it all right, then.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Andrea looked away. “The ones I killed ... they didn’t deserve ...”

“I know.”

“What I did—it’s something you go to hell for. I think about that sometimes. Being in hell.”

“Seems to me you’re already there.”

“I’m only punishing myself, that’s all.”

“That can be the worst kind of punishment.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s enough. I don’t know if anything can ever be enough.”

A beat of silence passed between them. “Andrea,” Abby said quietly, “can I ask you something? You could’ve told the world about Jack Reynolds, ruined him, ended his career. But you never did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“He got to me while I was in the hospital. He was the D.A., and he used his credentials to get in and talk to me alone.”

“And he threatened you?”

“No. What did he have to threaten me with? I’d already lost everything.”

“Then what ...?”

“He told me—he told me he still loved me.” Her voice broke on the last words. “He told me he’d been wrong to break up with me. That he’d been planning to take me back—until everything happened.”

“Did you believe him?”

She heard the skepticism in Abby’s question. “I know what you’re asking. How could I be so naive?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, I
did
believe him. He said he forgave me for the children. He said it was all right. He said I hadn’t been myself when I did it. And that I shouldn’t blame myself or think of it as a sin.”

“I see.”

“He’s the only one who said anything like that. To everyone else I was the devil incarnate. Medea, the witch. But he told me it was all right. And they were
his
children. He’s the last person who should ever have forgiven me—but he did.”

“Yes.” Abby’s voice was very low. “He did.”

“It wasn’t just talk. He helped me, too. He arranged it so I was declared incompetent to stand trial. If I’d been put on trial, I would have been sent to prison for life. As it was, I went into the hospital, and I was out in twelve years.”

“Yes.”

“I never would have survived prison. Do you know what they do in there to—to people who’ve killed children? He saved my life.”

“I guess he did.”

Andrea sighed. “I’m sure you think I was just manipulating me. That he didn’t want me in a courtroom because I might say too much. But you’re wrong.”

“Am I? Then why did he send those thugs into your house yesterday?”

She knew the answer to that. “Because I screwed up.”

Abby looked at her. “You?”

“I started going to his events. I didn’t think he would recognize me, not after all these years, with a wig and dark glasses. But he did. I broke the rules.”

“What rules?”

“He promised to help me only if I gave my word I would never try to see him again.”

“If you gave your word, why did you start ...?”

“Stalking him?” Andrea almost smiled.

“Attending his campaign rallies,” Abby said diplomatically.

“I don’t know. Something made me want to do it. It didn’t make sense. It was like—like I couldn’t stay away. Like I just
had
to see him.” She was touching her hair again—a nervous habit, but one she’d never noticed before.

“Did you hope to get back together with him?” Abby asked.

A shudder coursed through her. “No. No, of course not. I knew that could never happen.”

“Then ... why?”

“I don’t
know
, Abby. I just
don’t
.”

“Okay, okay.” Abby reached out to steady her. “Sorry I pushed. It’s an occupational hazard for those of us with a psych degree. We keep trying to peel the onion.”

Andrea wiped her eyes. “Peeling onions makes me cry.”

“Yeah, I got that. But at least now you can mince garlic with no problem.” This was a joke, but Andrea couldn’t find the strength to smile. “Look,” Abby said more seriously, “go home, lie down, close your eyes. Just keep that phone nearby and turned on.”

“Okay. I still don’t understand, though. I don’t see what you could possibly need me for.”

“It all comes back to you, Andrea. Everything comes back to you.”

That was true, of course. Reynolds and the killers who invaded her home, and the FBI people watching her and tapping her phone, and Abby’s involvement—all of it came back to her, and to what she had done twenty years ago, her ineradicable past, which she could never escape.

Abby seemed to catch her mood. She smiled. “Hey, no worries. I’m on the case. I’m handling everything.”

“I wish I could be as confident as you are.”

“It’s a gift. Now get going. Those G-men must be getting antsy. And don’t do anything to show you’re on to them. Just act normal.”

“Normal.” This time Andrea did smile. “Yes, that’s me.”

She left the restroom, taking care not to look for the FBI men, as Abby had warned. But they were there, anyway. She knew it now, knew it even without seeing them.

They would always be there.