Saving Alice (25 page)

On Wednesday, during the funeral, Donna and Alycia sat on one side of me, Mom and Larry on the other side, while the minister spoke of a gentle man who didn’t resemble my father. Alycia sobbed nonstop, and I wondered if our divorce hadn’t contributed to her newfound vulnerability.

“She’s more fragile than you think,”
Donna had said to me.

It’s natural,
I told myself.
No one handles funerals well
. But in my heart, I knew there was something else going on.

Thursday my mother invited me out to the house. I drove the twenty miles in radio silence, and was relieved to see her surrounded by friends, seemingly in good care.

When I came in the door, her friends greeted me, and I lingered for as long as seemed appropriate, listening as the others engaged in painful reminiscing.

Excusing myself, I wandered around the house until I noticed, in the living room, a cardboard box resting on an old ottoman.

When it was time to go, Mom handed it to me. “Open it at home.”

I was tempted to protest, to buy some time, but instead placed it in the trunk of my car. When I got back, I pulled into the garage and shut off the engine. I pressed the remote and the garage door lumbered down.

In the dimness of the garage, I opened the trunk and stared at the box. Bracing myself, I lifted the lid and found my old softball and mitt, given to me by neighbors I’d long forgotten.

Slowly, I closed the box again, folding the flaps. Carrying it inside, I buried it in a corner of the basement, hoping I’d never see it again. When I ascended the stairs, it finally hit me. Strangely exhausted, my legs stiffening, my arms suddenly weak, I allowed myself to sink to the stairwell.

I’d already spent a foolish lifetime lamenting what might have been, and as I sat in the middle of the stairs, I now wept for what could never be.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY - EIGHT

O
n Friday morning, the doctor provided a preliminary diagnosis for Paul’s situation. What seemed to be a coma, they said, wasn’t a coma at all. “It’s severe brain damage,” the doctor said in his now-familiar clinical tone. “He’ll need to relearn how to talk, how to walk, how to eat.” A lifetime of physical therapy would be required, not to regain his former life, but to function merely like a five-year-old. “Even that’s somewhat optimistic,” the doctor told Clare, who was visibly shaken. We all had expected, hoped for, something far better.

Susan wasn’t around to hear the report. She’d already left for Minnesota to stay with her sister. She hadn’t even said good-bye, and I didn’t expect to see her for a long time.

In the meantime, I’d called my attorney to begin the bankruptcy proceedings, and while I waited for a court date, he suggested I attend Gamblers Anonymous. I looked for one, but the closest chapter was Sioux Falls, two hundred miles away.

Late morning, Alycia phoned me from school, and her mood was more dark than at the funeral. I tried to conduct a normal conversation, but getting her to open up was like extracting teeth.

“What a pair we are,” I cracked a fake chuckle, but she didn’t chuckle back.

“Let’s get some ice cream,” I suggested.

“I hate ice cream,” she said. “Always have.”

During the course of our remaining conversation, I continued to probe gently, but the more I did, the more distant she became. Finally, I asked, “Is there someone else you’d rather talk to?”

I meant it well, but she must have taken it wrong and hung up on me. An hour later, Alycia called back. She sounded as if she’d been crying again.

“Okay. Fine. I need to talk to you—in person,” she said.

“Of course, honey,” I replied. “But have you tried talking to Mom?”

“I
can’t
tell Mom,” she cried. “I need to talk to
you
.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Whatever it is, honey, we’ll get through it.”

I promised to pick her up after work, and once again, she hung up without saying good-bye.

Unfortunately, Larry had picked this day to release the bombshell I’d been anticipating for months. When he poked his head in the office, I nearly dropped my teeth. The patented affluent suit and incongruent tie had been replaced with jeans, a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and tennis shoes.

“What are you doing for lunch?” he asked in an offhand manner.

My initial inquiries were met with a hokey smile. We locked the office and took his car to Sixth Avenue. On the way, I tried to read his cheerful behavior.

“Going on vacation?” I asked him, sizing up his attire.

He turned to me and granted me another puzzling smile. “I’ll tell you everything in a few minutes.”

The Steak House was a semi-fine restaurant with no windows and plenty of private booths. A young man in a white jacket confirmed Larry’s reservation and then led us to the back, to what seemed like a padded cubbyhole.

Larry ordered wine, another first, and after perusing a selection of steaks, we ordered lunch.

He leaned on the table and swished the wine in his goblet. “I know you’ve been trading, Stephen.”

He said it as if I’d done something illegal, but I didn’t deny his accusation; at this point, admitting it would have been a mere formality. Besides, my poker face wasn’t up to par.

“That’s what you brought me here for?” I asked.

“I knew you would lose it all.” He took a sip of his chardonnay and continued. “It was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

I bit my lip and braced myself for what now appeared to be a rather abysmal lunch, but he switched gears. He asked about Donna and Alycia, as if he and I were mere acquaintances, not best friends, as if he had suddenly come to earth after having been gone for months.

When the waiter brought the food, my appetite had long since disappeared into a quagmire of irritation. I fixed Larry with a confused frown. “What’s going on, Larry? Surely, you didn’t bring me here to give me a lecture.”

This time he didn’t hedge. “We’re about to be indicted, Stephen, and I’m not sticking around for it.” Larry casually finished cutting off a piece of steak, stuck it in his mouth, and began chewing.

That simple.

“Indicted?”

Again, that goofy smile emerged as he chewed his food. He seemed to enjoy eating in a way I hadn’t seen in months. “Tax fraud,” he mumbled through a full mouth.

“Tax fraud,” I repeated.
Of course.

In an exaggerated casual manner, so casual I wondered if he wasn’t just making the whole thing up, he explained the situation. The more he talked, the more flabbergasted I became. Offshore trusts. Fraudulent charitable foundations. Diverted income to nonexistent foreign corporations.

He finished by confirming the obvious. “We’re ruined, Stephen. There’s no partnership anymore. Once they arrive, and I figure they’ll be here in days, no later than Monday, our assets will be frozen— what’s left of them, that is—and eventually the business will be dissolved.”

I leaned back in my chair and fixed him with a bewildered frown. Monday was only four days away. “Am I missing the punch line?”

He laughed, nodding proudly. With a dramatic flair, he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. “You beat me to it.”

I stared at it, confused. Opening the flap, I pulled out a small paper. It contained what seemed to be an account number, a random array of letters, and the name of a bank.

“Remember how you once walked me home after school because I was too scared to face my dad alone?” Larry’s expression bordered on the nostalgic, a new emotion for him. “ ‘For better or worse,’ remember?” Larry chuckled. “Your half, partner.”

“Half of what?” I asked.

“Just don’t lose the number
or
the password,” he said. “It’s your ticket out, Stephen.”

I stared at the number. “How much?”

“Two point four,” he replied without blinking.

I stared at him. “Thousand?”

He laughed. “Get serious.”

“Who does it belong to?”

“You.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Multi-multi-millionaires. All of ’em rich enough to absorb my fee without batting an eyelash. Thirty thousand a pop. And for that, I saved them millions.”

“You stole it.”

He shook his head with irritation. “Of course not. They paid us fair and square. They knew the risks. For my advice and expertise they took a chance. Most of them will survive unscathed.”

“Most?”

Larry nodded. “I’ve burned the paper trail. The files have been shredded. The hard drive has been wiped clean. Tax returns are all they have.”

It was all so glib. Another walk in the park. Another day at the zoo. Two million dollars. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

“Where is it?” I asked. “What country?”

Larry grinned proudly. “Guess.”

“Switzerland.”

Larry laughed. “Grand Cayman.”

I considered this. “So … what’s next?”

“I told you,” he replied, cutting the last piece of charcoaled steak, forking it into his mouth. “I’m leaving.” He finished chewing, dabbed his mouth with the linen white napkin, and wiped off his hands. Apparently, he was leaving now.

“Where?”

Larry tossed the napkin on the table and abruptly stood up. “Deniability, partner. I can’t tell you.”

“So … you’re leaving me here to answer the questions.”

“I’m paying you well for it.”

I looked at the paper again.

“Check it out,” Larry said. “They have an online Web site. Plug in the number, but erase your footprints once you’re finished.”

“I have to lie?”

Larry snorted. “Is that a problem?”

“They’ll give me a lie detector test.”

“So … fail it. Lie detector results are not admissible evidence.” He chuckled. “Besides, they can’t torture you.”

He’d thought of everything. Larry extended his hand. He looked me squarely in the eye, and I felt as if I was shaking with a stranger. After all these years, I suddenly marveled at how little I knew my own business partner.

Larry cleared his throat. “Sometimes, you’ve got to take care of yourself. I wish you all the best, Stephen. I’m sorry it came down to this. But we won, you know.”

He strolled out the door, left me with the meal tab for twenty- seven dollars and ninety-three cents and the number for an account containing nearly two and a half million dollars. I sat there dazed.

“We won,”
he’d said.

I paid the bill, left a generous tip, and wandered out into sunshine. I walked the two miles back to the office, my mind racing. The idea of keeping or not keeping the money hadn’t yet entered into the equation.

Slow down,
I finally told myself.
Start over
.

I started with the fundamental question:
What if I did keep it?

I’d have to leave town. My reputation couldn’t survive another hit, not like this. The newspapers would have a field day.
Stephen Whitaker has done it again!

I could give Donna a decent share, and I could help Alycia through college, but they’d have to leave town as well.

I pondered this all the way back. When I got to our building, I climbed the stairs slowly, lost in thought. Walking through our reception area, I went to Larry’s office, peeked in and discovered a nearempty room. The filing cabinet was bare, and the CPU unit to his computer had been opened. Obviously, as a precaution, he’d removed the hard drive.

I closed the door to his office and paused in the middle of the reception area. If everything he’d told me was true, the only point to returning here would be to close the books and send our clients on their way.

After taking another look around, I turned out the lights. The answering machine would handle the calls. For now.

I left the office, locked the door again, and flipped the sign—
gone until …
—to read:
gone until … tomorrow
—and began walking aimlessly along Main Street.
By Monday, at least,
he’d told me.

We haven’t personally defrauded anyone,
I told myself. And we certainly hadn’t defrauded anyone locally.

I never knew
would be my standard reply.
Larry kept me in the dark
.

How is that possible?
They would ask me.
He was your partner
.

I recalled Larry’s countless overseas trips. Sure, it had crossed my mind to wonder what he must have been doing, but I’d dismissed the suspicion. Straight-arrow Larry didn’t engage in illegal activities.
I provided the cover,
I thought.
My distraction provided the means
.

“Thirty thousand a pop,”
he’d said. I added it up in my head, and it came out to a mere one hundred sixty clients. One hundred sixty wealthy clients tired of paying exorbitant taxes and willing to take risks they did not fully understand.

In an effort to determine my degree of complicity, the IRS agents would ask me a series of questions, leading to the obvious:
Where did he go?
That would be easy.
I don’t know
.

Where is the money?
Just imagining the question caused me to break out in a cold sweat.
What money?
I practiced.

From this moment forward, everything I did would be backtracked and analyzed. My phone records would be dissected. Everyone I knew would be interviewed. And yet, even now, I had no direct evidence of a crime, only Larry’s word for it. There was no aiding and abetting. No complicity. For all I knew, Larry had made it all up. I didn’t even know for sure if the Cayman account existed.

When did you know?
the police would ask.

I never knew for sure,
I could honestly answer.
Not until you showed up
.

So what did you do after he told you he was leaving?

I waited,
I would tell them.

I made my way back to my car. I stood for a moment at its open door, looking up at the now-dark office windows. I shook my head, sighed, and climbed into the car. The piece of paper in my shirt pocket seemed to come alive.