No Reservations Required (15 page)

“Tell me about it.”

Rick stopped, watching Anika for a second. “I can imagine Andy isn’t always the easiest person to live with.”

She gave a small nod.

“Are you two okay?”

“Not really.”

“God. If there’s anything you want to talk about—”

“I can’t. ”

“I’m Andy’s best friend. Maybe I’m the right person to help.”

She was torn.

“How’s Andy’s back? That operation couldn’t have been easy on either of you.”

“He’s much better. At least that much has gone right.”

“What little back problems I’ve had in my life have really made me feel for the guy.” He sat forward. “Listen, while you’re thinking about whether you’re going to confide in me or not, you wouldn’t happen to have a couple of Tylenol around here, would you? Somewhere between New York and Minneapolis I seem to have developed a nasty headache.”

“I’ve got ibuprofen in my purse.”

He dropped his hand to his stomach. “I can’t handle the hard stuff.” He smiled.

“Andy uses Tylenol for the same reason. It doesn’t do a thing for me, but he swears by it. Give me a sec.” She rose from the couch and trotted up the stairs. In the bathroom, in one of the moving boxes, she found the large bottle of Tylenol Andy kept in the nightstand next to the bed. When she returned downstairs, she found Rick standing by the piano, holding a photograph of Bob.

“This guy was born with a military bearing,” said Rick. “Hard, blue-eyed gaze, the kind that says, ‘Hey, asshole, I’m a hell of a lot more prepared for what could happen than you are, but I’m so pumped that I don’t need to make a big deal out of it.’ ”

“You’re right. He was a lot like that. But he was also patient, and very kind. He loved his wife more than any man I’ve ever known. He just glowed around her.”

“He must have taken her death pretty hard.”

“And then some. Both Andy and I thought there was a chance he might take his own life after she died. Thank God, he didn’t.”

Rick looked at the photograph a moment more, then set it back down. “Ah, the Tylenol. Megasized, I see.” He opened the cap and shook a few out.

Anika saw a confused look pass over his face. “What’s wrong?”

“These aren’t Tylenol.”

“Sure they are.”

“Well, they don’t look like any Tylenol I’ve ever seen before. Do you have another bottle?”

“Andy carries one with him in his briefcase, but that’s all we’ve got. Look, they have to be Tylenol. What else could they be? Maybe it’s a generic form.”

“Maybe,” said Rick with a shrug. He slid them back into the bottle and replaced the cap. “I’ll wait until he gets home. I’m sure he can explain it.” Picking up another photo of Bob and Valerie, this one a picture of the two of them together on their boat, the one moored at a marina in Stillwater, he said, “I’m sorry Bob had to die so young. He was a good influence on Andy.”

Anika agreed, but only to a point. Bob had put a lot of pressure on Andy by encouraging him to come to Minnesota and take a job at the
Times Register.
Maybe too much.

“You know,” said Rick, surveying all the picture frames on the piano, “before Andy left Marquette, he told me he thought this job was his last chance to make something of himself. He said that Bob was like a father to him now, and he’d do anything in his power to please him. At the time, I realized it was a huge statement, but I understood. I had such hopes for him, and for you, too, when you left. I assumed Andy would be putting in a lot of overtime at his new job and that it might put a strain on your marriage. On the other hand, Bob was a decent human being, capable of
being
pleased—unlike Merle Gladstone. I knew Andy would work his tail off to make a success of his life here.” Rick glanced around the palatial living room. “It’s sad the way things had to work out, but it looks like he did just that.”

25

Chris knocked on the front door of the small, one-story house. As she waited, she tried to muster her courage. This wasn’t easy. She knew coming here might not exactly thrill Phil, but he’d pretty much ordered her to change the way she looked if she was going to make him happy. And this way, she could kill two birds with one stone.

When an older woman answered her knock, Chris got her first close-up look at Barbara Kerwin, Phil’s ex-girlfriend. Chris’s general opinion was unchanged. Barbara looked old and hard. But she did dress well, even if her makeup looked like it had been applied with a cake spatula.

“Can I help you?” asked Barbara. She had a pleasant voice. Sort of on the low side, but friendly.

“I hope so,” said Chris. She pressed her hands into the pockets of her leather bomber jacket. She’d decided to play this meeting close to the chest. Chris hated herself for doubting Phil, but if he hadn’t told her the truth about Barbara, she intended to find out. “My name is Chris Parillo.” She watched Barbara to see if there was any recognition in her eyes, but her expression didn’t change.

“Yes?”

“We have a mutual friend. Phil Banks.”

Now Barbara grew wary. “Yes?”

“He told me that if I ever needed help with my makeup, my clothes—you know, developing a classy look—that I should come to you.”

Now Barbara looked pleased. “Well, I’m glad to hear he has such faith in me, but—”

She was about to turn her away. Chris couldn’t let that happen. “Look, I know this is an imposition, but if you could just give me a few minutes, it would be so incredible. I can see Phil was right. You have tons of personal style.”

“Why . . . thank you.”

“So, just a couple of minutes?”

Barbara looked Chris up and down. “You
could
use some help. I don’t mean to be rude, but what happened to your eye?”

Chris touched her face. “An accident. I’m kind of a klutz. Will you help me?”

She hesitated. “Oh, I suppose it would be all right. I mean, I don’t know you. But you say you’re a friend of Phil’s?”

Chris nodded.

“Okay. Come in. But just for a few minutes. I have to be to work in an hour, and I still have to fix my face.”

My God, thought Chris. She was going to add
more
gunk?

Chris followed Barbara into her living room. It was a small room dominated by a large TV set in the corner. Except for the couch, which was retro ’50s modern, the rest of the furniture was antique. She glanced into the new addition, the bedroom Phil’s company had built for her. “You’ve got a nice house.”

“A lot of that’s due to Phil. We both like to antique and he loves to buy things for the house.” Before she sat down on the couch, she motioned Chris to a chair.

On the end table directly next to her, Chris noticed a framed photo of Phil and Barbara. They were sitting on the hood of Phil’s Corvette. That meant it had to be a fairly recent photo. He’d bought the car in June, a little more than four months ago. “There’s Phil,” said Chris.

Barbara beamed at the mention of his name. “We’re engaged,” she said, holding out her hand so Chris could see the ring.

Chris felt her stomach do a flip-flop. “You’re . . . going to be married?”

“In the spring.” She waited for Chris to make a suitable comment on the ring before she retracted her hand.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I think so, too.”

Fighting back a wave of nausea, Chris smiled. “When did you and Phil first meet?”

“Oh, it must be a couple years now. It was right after Terry disappeared.”

Terry was Phil’s second wife. “She . . . disappeared?”

“Oh, yes. Didn’t you know?”

“I never met Terry.”

“No, me either, but Phil was in a terrible way when she took off. I mean, they’d been divorced for several years, but you know Phil. He never lets go of someone he loves. He still tried to take care of her. But one night, when he dropped by her house, she wasn’t there. Her car was gone, and a bunch of her clothes. She must have just skipped town. Phil did his best to try to find her.” Barbara lowered her voice. “She was unstable, you know. Emotionally. Phil figured she was doing drugs, that she got in trouble with her dealer and split because she owed him money. She was always hurting for money, always asking Phil for loans. If it had been me, I would have cut her off, but Phil’s too kindhearted.”

“Yeah, he’s a peach,” whispered Chris.

“I wish he didn’t have to work so hard. We have so little time together.”

“You planning on moving into his house when you get married?”

“His house?” Barbara gazed at Chris somewhat oddly. “Phil lives in an apartment, that beautiful old one on Spencer and Fifteenth. We’ll either live here, or he’s considering building a new place for us.” She crossed her legs. “But if we’re going to talk about a makeover for you, we better get to it.”

Chris felt flattened.

“I think we should start with your clothes.” When Chris didn’t respond, Barbara said, “Ms. Parillo? Are you all right?”

“No,” said Chris, rising from her chair. “I feel a little sick.”

“I’m sorry.” Barbara rose, too. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water?”

Chris shook her head. “This was a mistake. I gotta go.”

“But—”

Chris made a beeline for the door. “Thanks for talking to me.”

“Look, Ms. Parillo—”

“That’s not my name.”

Barbara stopped a few feet away. “Then, what is it?”

“Banks. Mrs. Phil Banks.”

It was Barbara’s turn to look shocked. “What is this? What kind of game are you playing?”

“Phil and I are married.”

“That’s impossible.”

“If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

“You’re lying!”

“I wish I were,” said Chris, slamming the door on the way out.

For the next few minutes, Chris sat in her car crying her eyes out. How could Phil have done this to her? All his lies now seemed so blindingly obvious. She didn’t even know who he was anymore. The only thing to do was to go home and end it. Phil couldn’t talk himself out of his lies this time. He was in too deep.

The longer Chris sat there, the angrier she became. Maybe her uncle had been right. Maybe Phil
had
married her to keep her quiet. She hadn’t been totally up front with the police about the night Bob Fabian and Ken Loy had been murdered. She’d said Phil had been with her the entire night, but that wasn’t precisely true. If he’d lied to her about so much, what else had he lied about?

Fishing her cell phone and her small address book out of her purse, she scanned the names until she found Bram’s number at the station. Fumbling with the phone, she made the call, waiting impatiently for him to answer. But when the line picked up, instead of Bram, she got his voice mail. Damn it, of course. He was on the air right now. All she could do was leave him a message.

“Bram, hi. It’s Chris. I, ah, I need to talk to you right away.” She felt tears burn her eyes. Scraping at her cheeks, she continued, “My whole life is a lie. I could kill Phil with my bare hands. I mean it, Bram. I could kill him!” She sniffed a few times before continuing, “Look, I just found out Phil’s engaged to that woman we saw him with at the cafe, and that he’s lied to her just like he’s lied to me. God, I hate him. There’s got to be some way to make him pay for what he’s done.” She stopped, tried to staunch her fury long enough to say what she needed to say. “Listen, there’s something I need to tell you. I mean, I didn’t exactly lie to the police, but then again, I kinda did. It’s about the night Loy and Fabian died. Phil and me—we were at that movie together, but Phil didn’t like it. He fell asleep and started snoring. He was annoying the people sitting around us so I told him to go sleep in the car. So . . . that’s what he did. When the movie was over and I came out, he was in the Corvette, fast asleep. So, see, I figured he’d been there the whole time. Most likely, he was. But it’s like, I can’t be totally sure. I never told the police that part. Do you think I’m in trouble now because I didn’t tell them everything I knew? Jeez, this is just what I need. My marriage is a sham, and now the police will throw the book at me. I’m in a really bad place here, Bram. I just don’t know where to turn. So, I’ll call you again. Like I said, later tonight. Maybe you can help me figure out what to do. Right now, I’m about to drive over to Spencer and Fifteenth. Apparently Phil rents an apartment over there—an old, beautiful one, according to Barbara Kerwin, his lucky fiancée. God, but I hate him. We’ll talk. Bye.”

26

Andy slumped into Bob’s desk chair. It would always be Bob’s chair, always Bob’s office. No matter how hard Andy tried to pretend he could fill Bob’s shoes, the truth was, it would be easier for him to grow gills and swim in the ocean.

Andy felt drained. It was bad timing that Rick had chosen tonight to be in town. Andy was planning to spend the next few nights working late, getting everything organized. If that was possible. After the direct hit the paper had taken from the Irazarian debacle, it would take months, perhaps years, to put the
Times
Register
back on track. Andy was committed to that process; he just wasn’t sure he was the man to do it.

Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes, wondering if Bob’s sage advice, his “West Point Wisdom,” would ever seem like something other than condemnation.
Isolate the lesson. Every chapter of life is also groundwork for the next chapter. Minimize regret. Grit your
way through it. There’s no problem that cannot be
overcome through a combination of determination
and positive attitude.

Bob had been the number-three-ranked cadet in his 1968 West Point graduating class. The world was a solid place to him. He understood his role. He was a player, a strong guy who used every opportunity. He stood for things. Important, honorable values. When all was said and done, what would people say Andy had stood for?

Leaning forward, Andy ran his hand along the curved oak desk drawers. Thinking about his brother always created two reactions in him, both hard to handle. First, Bob’s big, bold, successful life made Andy feel small, ineffectual, reduced. But at the same time, Bob’s story inspired him, gave him something to shoot for, something to aspire to. Andy had tried as hard as he could to emulate his brother, but somehow it never worked. He could even use the same words as Bob, but coming out of Andy’s mouth, they seemed comical. The fact that he was a screwup, a failure as an editor, hadn’t truly penetrated Bob’s consciousness— not until the last few weeks before his death. When Andy saw in his brother’s eyes that he understood the depth and breadth of Andy’s betrayal, it nearly killed him.

Andy was weak. He couldn’t seem to get a grip on his world. He was a rotten husband, with a marriage that was on the verge of breaking up. Why couldn’t he confide in Anika? He knew without a doubt that she loved him, and yet when he was with her, he froze inside.

Well, thought Andy, rising from the desk, he’d better get home and face Rick. He couldn’t put it off forever. Not that Andy wasn’t happy that Rick had come to town, but in his heart, Andy knew that his pleasure was for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to show Rick that he’d finally made it. He was a success story, just like he always said he’d be. But Rick was a smart guy. It wouldn’t take him long to see through the facade. No matter how great Andy’s world looked on the outside, it was a disaster on the inside. And unless a miracle occurred, his entire life was about to blow apart. By this time next year, he’d probably be in prison. Perhaps, in the end, that had been his destination all along.

Just as he stood up and turned out the desk light, the phone rang. Andy stared at it, wondering if he should take the call. Oh, hell, he thought. If it’s more bad news, he might as well hear it now. He was so weary of hiding.

He picked up the receiver. It was probably just Rick calling to tell him to get a move on. “Gladstone,” he said, his voice dull with resignation.

“Well, well, Mr. Gladstone. Hard at work?”

The voice stopped him. “Del?”

“Miss me?”

Acid welled up in his throat. “What are you doing calling me here? We had a deal.”

“Didn’t some old wise man once say that deals are meant to be broken?”

“Where are you?”

“At the Cross Keys Motel.”

“Where’s that?”

“South Minneapolis. Just off 35W. It’s a dump, but it suits my purposes.”

“You’re still
here
? Jesus! I paid you two hundred thousand dollars to get out of town!”

“You know the drill, Andy. Once an investigative reporter, always an investigative reporter.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just quiet down and listen. I need to see you.”

“Are you crazy?”

“If I am, it’s your funeral. You’re a fluke, you know that, Gladstone? You didn’t get where you are because of talent or hard work. You got there because of a cosmic accident.”

Andy sank down in the desk chair. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, I need to see you. I want you to come to my motel.”

“Now?”

“Yes, asshole.
Now.
”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Just shut up and listen. I’m in room 33. I’ll only be here tonight. Tomorrow I move again. But before I do, there’s something we need to discuss. One hour, Gladstone. If you’re not here by then, I call the police. Are we clear?”

Andy took a deep breath. “We’re clear.”

The line went dead.

Twenty minutes later, Andy sat in his RAV4 in the parking lot of the Cross Keys Motel, his eyes fixed on Del’s room. There was a light on inside, but the curtains were closed. Del was right about one thing. The motel was a dump.

On the drive over from the Times Register Tower, Andy had only one thought. Del Irazarian was a thorn in his side, one that would never go away. Not unless Andy did something about it. With just one phone call, Del could single-handedly torpedo his world. As much as Andy hated himself, he hated Irazarian more. Del’s cocky self-assurance, his sweaty, fleshy body, and his swaggering belief that no rule ever applied to him—all twisted something deep inside Andy. There was only one way to deal with Irazarian. Perhaps it was a truth his unconscious had recognized months ago, but it had taken his conscious mind longer to grasp.

Opening the glove compartment, Andy removed the .38. His hand shook as he pressed it into the pocket of his jacket. There was no other way. It was a revelation, but Andy saw now that there was something more basic to his soul than self-loathing. Survival topped everything.

Sliding out of the front seat, Andy left the mini-SUV unlocked. He approached the motel room door with caution, looking around to make sure nobody was watching. Breathing deeply, he gave a soft rap.

“Hey, man, we’ve been waiting for you!” Rick put his arms around Andy and slapped his back. “We’ve already killed one bottle of champagne. We were about to start on the second. You got here just in time.”

Rick’s grinning face and boisterous welcome made Andy feel like he’d walked into a carnival. Lights and sounds assaulted him. He felt that Rick and his wife were leering at him, zooming in and out, like the faces in a distorted, fun-house mirror.

“Hey, pal, you look like you could use a drink,” honked Rick. Another slap on the back.

“Is something wrong?” chirped Anika.

Andy took off his coat. “A drink. Yeah. I’d like a drink.”

“The champagne’s right this way.” Rick disappeared into the living room.

“What’s that on your cuff?” chirped Anika, pulling him off balance, tugging his sleeve.

Andy looked down. “Nothing. I cut myself. It’s nothing.”

Jazz blared in the background.

Andy raised his hands to his ears. “Can you turn that CD down?”

“You okay?” honked Rick, adjusting the volume on the stereo. “God, it’s so good to see you! You’ve lost weight.” He cackled, his mouth opening wide like a braying mule’s.

“We ordered a pizza,” shouted Anika. The music swelled again.

Andy dropped into a chair. A glass appeared in his hand. He stared at it a moment before drinking it down like water.

“Slow down,” shrieked Anika.

“No, let him drink,” yelled Rick. “He needs to catch up.”

More champagne appeared in his glass.

The doorbell chimed.

“That must be the pizza,” shouted Rick. “The party has officially begun!”