CHAPTER TEN

 THE LAW OFFICES OF LEEMAN, JOHNSTON, AND AYERS WERE DOWNTOWN, overlooking the San Diego Harbor. A forest of masts and sails, moored to a labyrinth of docks, bobbed along the shoreline below Jason Ayers’ windows. Farther south, the arch of the Coronado Bay Bridge cut through his view of the marina and the ocean. At eye level, cumulus clouds looked frozen in place, back-lit by the late-day sun. For Ayers, the view was nothing more than an anchor, to keep his vision from floating around his office.

Usually law associates worked slave hours, billing clients at the rate of fourteen hours a day. Friday was the only day the firm tolerated—even encouraged—moderation. Most associates and partners left the building by six p.m. On this Friday, as Ayers pretended to be busy, Kate and two others remained in the outer offices, finishing projects deemed of sufficient importance to ignore Friday’s early-out-the-door rule.

Ayers jumped to his feet and began to pace. He staggered in the direction of the picture window, turned left, and shuffled towards a wall of built-in bookshelves filled with six-inch hardbound legal volumes. Along another wall, photographs stared down at him. One picture in particular stole his attention—a forty-year-old photo, framed and preserved. A boy, twenty-one years old, wore a grass- and blood-stained football uniform. Tucked under one arm, he held a battered helmet. The jock’s other arm draped around a grinning, skinny, bright-bore of a boy, dressed in a blue and gold sweater. That day, Matthew Neil had scored three touchdowns and caught eight passes for over two hundred yards. The last statistic remained a school record. Jason Ayers scarcely recognized himself as the geek in the photograph. He still recalled how warm he felt, being the best friend of the best player on one of the best teams in the country. Matthew had been his best friend. And what had it gotten his friend? Endless tragedy. And the duplicity had not ended. Not by a longshot.

“Nothing I can do, either,” Ayers said, as if explaining life’s unfairness to the ghosts of the two side-by-side buddies. Hidden somewhere, he suspected, were additional pages—and the life of anyone unlucky enough to discover those pages would become worthless. Peter Neil was the most likely candidate. Worse than that, if Peter became a target, so did anyone he cared for, including Kate.

“Insanity, Hannah. Why, Goddammit. Why?”

With exaggerated care, Ayers pushed an ice-cube floating in his drink. Licking the scotch off his index finger, he held up the tumbler, allowing the setting sunlight to plait through the light amber. He gulped, then set the glass down. With this last dose of courage coursing through his brain, he rang for Kate, wishing, more than anything else, Peter didn’t remind him so damn much of Matthew Neil.

When she entered, his resolve wavered. If only the stakes weren’t so high, he thought. “Sit down, Kathryn,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“This has to be quick, Father. Peter will be here in ten minutes. We’re having dinner with his friend Drew Franklin. He and his wife just found out she’s pregnant with their first child, and we’re celebrating.”

“That’s what I wanted to discuss. Do you want a drink? I think I’ll help myself to one.”

Kate shook her head. He took his cocktail tall and neat. Without turning, he said, “I do not want you seeing Peter.”

“Is something wrong with tonight?” she asked.

“Not tonight. Not ever. End it.”

Kate ran a hand along her temple, moving a shock of hair over an ear. “I don’t understand. You can’t mean what you’re saying.”

“He is no good for you. That’s all there is to it.”

“You’re the one who got him his job. You’re the one who told me what wonderful people his parents were.”

“I forbid you.” Ayers regretted the words the moment they flowed from his dry throat.

“You forbid it?” Kate’s face strobed red. “You have no right, no authority.” Anger and confusion laced her words.

“Listen, Sweetheart. I know what I’m talking—”

“You can barely get the words out of your mouth. You’re drunk, Father. You’ve been drunk most of your waking hours for over a month, and I’m going to chalk this conversation up to intoxicated dementia.”

“That’s not true.” Though he tried, Ayers couldn’t hide the fact that his speech was thick-tongued.

“Whatever’s wrong with you, Mom and I are praying it passes. And while I love you, and I am sympathetic to your problems, I will not have you dictate who I can or cannot see. I am not a little girl, and I do not need you to run my love life.”

“Please. Peter isn’t his parents.”

“No. He isn’t. But he has a conscience. He’s smart. And I think he cares for me. Maybe not love—maybe it never will be love—but I’m going to find out. I go back to LA next week, and that leaves me a small window to reach some kind of understanding.”

Ayers’ hands shook. He wished he could think clearly. Goddamn alcohol. What to say?

“Hannah Neil and I were lovers,” he blurted out. “I considered leaving your mother for her.” Ayers wondered if the lie showed on his face. “Peter could have ended up as your step-brother.”

The blood drained from Kate’s cheeks with the speed of sound. Her red-rimmed eyes burst with silent tears. “You’re making that up.” One tiny teardrop managed to escape and run down her cheek.

With the damage already done, Ayers elected to push for an end to Kate and Peter’s relationship. “No. It’s true. Ask Peter. He knows. He’s known all along.”

“She’s the one, then?”

The question threw Ayers off. What did she mean, the one?

Kate’s voice shook as she continued: “Mother and I knew there was someone.”

“You knew I was unfaithful?”

“How could you do this?”

“I was weak. I cared for—”

“I don’t mean the relationship with Hannah Neil. I mean, how could you call me into your office, and tell me these things in an effort to poison my feelings for Peter?”

“This is extremely . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to mention the danger.

“Peter practically gave his mother’s house to an indigent family—a man without a job, struggling with a wife and four kids. The man’s paying only a hundred a month for a place that’s worth a coupla thousand, but Peter said that, with his job, he didn’t need the money. Did you know that?”

“I never said he wasn’t a good person. But beware, Kathryn. He’s making more money than he ever imagined possible. He’ll be able to obtain anything in this world money can buy—and that’s just about everything. Where will you be then? Little, sweet, Katie Ayers? Beware. He will change—everybody who gets rich does. He’ll hurt you.”

“No. He won’t. If this doesn’t develop beyond friendship, that’s okay with me. But he will not hurt me.”

“He’s already paid fifty thousand for a new, sporty car. BMW, isn’t it?”

“So what? It’s only a car.”

“Now he’s moving next door to his trading partner, Stuart Grimes— into a three thousand a month condominium above the racetrack. Whitewater views—”

“How do you know that?”

“I know many things, Kate.” Ayers, near the window now, stood with his back to Kate and continued. “Peter slept with a salesperson from Gordon, Ashe—she’s ten years older than him and married.”

“I won’t listen to this.”

“You must listen. He’s going to get a substantial bonus after the first of the year—that’s after the forgiveness of his loan. Then next year, as he assumes some real responsibility and buys into the program—”

“What do you mean, ‘buys into the program’?”

“He’ll be just like the rest. It’ll sneak up on him . . .” Shit, Ayers thought. Shut up, you drunken fool. You’ll get yourself killed.

“You’re wrong. And all you’ve done is hurt me, not dissuade me.” Kate rubbed the dampness from her eyes as she shook her head. “If that is all, my date is waiting.”

The reverberation of the closing door sealed Ayers into a familiar tomb of wood, alcohol, and regret.

When he left the office, ten minutes later, Kate and Peter were gone— long gone.

Peter sensed Kate’s sadness. He asked, but she said it was nothing. The evening’s events, he hoped, might turn around her mood. She seemed excited about meeting Peter’s best friend and his wife, Monica, for the first time. Peter had explained to Kate that he and Drew had gone to UCLA together, roomed on campus together the first two years, then shared an apartment off campus until they graduated. At school, they pushed each other academically and attended each other’s athletic events. They partied together at the end of each term and, five years later, remained as tight as they ever had been. Hannah had been like a second mother to Drew, even throwing a surprise party when he got into medical school. Since Drew’s own mother lived on the East Coast, Drew Franklin had spent vacations with the Neils. At his friend’s wedding, Peter had been best man.

Once they got inside Drew and Monica’s warm one-bedroom apartment, Kate thawed some, especially with Drew’s white teeth smiling vividly against his black skin, his easy laughter deep and warm. When Drew told her about nicknaming Peter “White Bread” the first time they met, she laughed for the only time that night. She seemed happy for the couple’s good fortune and brought a pair of green knit booties for the baby-to-be. “Pink for girls, blue for boys, green for I-don’t-knows,” she had said. They applauded her good judgment.

Monica served lasagna—Peter’s favorite—salad, and bread with olive oil to dip in. Kate said she loved the food, yet ate next to nothing. She smiled in all the right spots, but the electric joy she brought to other occasions was missing. At one point in the evening, she announced that by the end of next week, she would return to UCLA, a couple of weeks earlier than originally planned. Maybe this change in schedule bothered her, Peter thought. But why? LA was a relatively short drive away—two hours or so. Easy enough to arrange a visit.

Peter worried in silence. He knew he cared for her. He felt part friend and part attraction, mixed with a healthy dose of respect for her heart and her intellect. When they said goodnight to the expectant couple and climbed inside his car, Peter decided to push for an explanation.

“Kate. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.” The powerful European engine hummed under his voice, the transmission sat in neutral, the parking brake keeping them from rolling down the gentle hill. “You’re upset. Tell me.”

“I don’t know if I can.” She looked out the side window, away from Peter.

“Look at me,” Peter urged.

She didn’t move.

He put a gentle hand behind her head and applied a guiding pressure. She allowed her head to rotate, but fixated on her hands resting on her lap. She still wore her work clothes—a dark blue jacket with matching skirt. In the way she dressed, she looked the part of bright young professional. With a quivering lip, swollen eyes, and shaking jaw, she exhibited a fragile ego that seemed ready for transition into monumental depression.

“Katie. We’re friends. More than friends. Tell me.”

“Are we, Peter? Are we more than friends?” she asked with more than just hope in her voice.

Peter understood she had meant the expression differently than he had. “Yes, we are,” he said, praying he would not regret the white lie.

“I had a meeting with Father this evening.”

“I saw you leave his office. He told you something?” Peter dreaded what she would say next.

“Yes. A few things . . .” She stopped. Her chest heaved.

“You know about the affair between my mother and your father.”

“Yes.” She nodded.

Peter turned off the engine. The vapid air had cooled and now bordered on cold. The light from a street lamp cast Kate’s silhouette against a row of trees sashaying in the moonlight. The couple remained parked at the curb, along a cul-de-sac.

“Are you hurt by knowing? Are you upset I didn’t tell you?” he asked.

“A little hurt, but not upset about you keeping it from me.” For a moment, the car held a pre-storm calm. Kate broke the silence: “Peter?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Do you feel betrayed by your mother?”

“I’m not proud of what she did,” he said, carefully considering his words. “Mom was in deep grief when my father died. He had suffered for two years with stomach cancer. In his prime, Dad was over six feet tall, weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds, and was the strongest man I ever knew. I mean, he was a man’s man. All-American wide receiver in college, a sprinter, and personally courageous. For me, Paul Bunyan and George Washington all rolled into one. Then, just before he died, he became so weak I had to carry him to the bathroom to use the toilet. He weighed nothing.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” she said.

“My father dreamed big dreams. He moved from business to business and failure to failure. Despite that, Mom wanted him to live forever, even if he’d been only a shell of the man she married. She reached out to your father, and I don’t blame anyone for their weaknesses—I’ve got enough failings of my own... So no, I don’t feel betrayed.”

“I don’t blame your mother,” Kate said. “But I do blame Father—he took advantage of a woman in need. I know what it’s like to be taken advantage of. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my feelings for people never go away.”

Peter said nothing and listened to Kate’s deep breaths. A few moments later, she began again: “There’s something else. My father’s confession had nothing to do with feelings of shame.”

Peter gave a puzzled look.

“Father told me these things because . . .”

The bucket seats restricted him some, but Peter turned as much in her direction as he could. His right arm draped across the divide created by the stick shift. His hand rested on her left shoulder. He squeezed.

“I need you to explain something to me,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

“Why did you rent your mother’s house to someone you didn’t know, for essentially nothing?”

“That’s a strange question.”

“Please. I need to know.”

Peter paused in thought. “I had to—that’s the simple answer.”

“Why?” she asked.

“A compulsion brought on by the spirit of my mother. She was compassionate and would have wanted her belongings to benefit someone in need.”

“Is that how you feel?”

Peter sighed and looked out the front window towards the lights of a nearby high-rise hotel. “I’ll try to explain, even if I don’t know why you’re asking.”

“Thank you.”

“I guess at first I felt sorry for the man—who wouldn’t? He’s an African-American father, with four kids, little formal education, and less than no money. He answered my rental ad. He expected a job to come through and planned to use his salary to move into a better neighborhood. He’d have paid his entire income to move his family out of Southeast San Diego. The drugs, the gangs, the violence. Clairemont isn’t exactly La Jolla or Del Mar, but as middle class neighborhoods go these days, it’s a hell of a lot better than where he was.”

“He didn’t get the job?” Kate leaned into Peter.

Peter shook his head. “It devastated him . . . No, I take that back. I think it humiliated him. And I had other reasons. I thought about Drew and his family. His father took off before Drew turned six. His mom went on welfare and hated it. If not for a football scholarship, he’d have been another victim of ‘no-thank-you.’ A black man with no hope of escaping the neighborhood. Now he’s in medical school. He’ll save lives and make a difference.” On a nearby street, a siren wailed. Peter waited until the sounds faded before continuing. “Then, when I couldn’t get a job, I would have been in deep trouble without your father’s help. I told Mr. Jefferson—that’s my tenant—he and his family could live there for free, but he’s a proud man. Said he’d pay me a hundred a month and work on improving the property. In the first two weeks, he’s already made good on his promise. In between looking for jobs, he spends his time fixing and sprucing . . .” Peter felt he had failed to explain himself. “This is a long-winded way of saying Mr. Jefferson is a good man and deserved a break.”

“You are special, Peter.”

“Not really, but thanks for the kind words. Mind if I ask you something?”

The way she said “No, I don’t” came across as maybe, maybe not.

“Why did you need to know these things?”

“Something Father said. It doesn’t matter any more.”

“What?”

“He said you’d change. Turn into . . . never mind, Peter. Take me home.”

Peter could see her head moving in the fractured light. He understood she was still upset. “Of course. We can be at your apartment in ten minutes.”

“No. To your apartment.”

“I . . . I don’t think we’re ready—”

“I don’t care if you don’t love me,” she said. “And I won’t tell you I love you. Hold me. If you don’t feel like making love, don’t. Just hold me.”

“I—”

“Please.”

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Peter’s apartment. When they entered, they had to weave their way around packed boxes.

“I’m moving tomorrow—I already told you that, didn’t I?”

She nodded.

Just then, Henry came sauntering in. When he looked up and saw a stranger, he stopped and cocked his head.

“That’s the infamous old man Henry,” Peter announced.

“He doesn’t look so old. Come here, you handsome devil.”

Kate bent down on one knee and put her hand out. Without hesitation, Henry strolled forward. Kate greeted him with a palm down his back. She then took a finger and began to scratch behind Henry’s ear. He purred and plopped on his side.

“You’ve made a friend for life,” Peter said.

“Are you talking about you or the cat?” she asked, half-seriously.

“I meant the cat. Us? We’re already buddies.”

“I’m glad I got to see your apartment before your move. I like it.”

Peter took her hand. “You won’t once I give you the tour. Excuse us, Henry.”

“I may have been born an L. L. Beanite,” she said, “but I like modest digs. And this qualifies as modest.” In a surprise, she laughed.

Peter felt relief. Messy apartments and lazy cats were good medicine, he decided.

“Here,” he said, taking her hand. “Let me show you the most disgusting bathroom in the history of bathroomdom.” In a successful attempt to create an abstract nightmare, Peter’s landlord had selected orange floor tiles, a blue toilet seat, and bright yellow walls. In addition, all the fixtures were a third too-small, making them look as if they belonged in a nursery school. “This”—he opened the door to his rainbow-outrageous bathroom “—is a bad dream, disguised as a bathroom. It’s suitable only for color-blind midgets.”

He flipped on the lights, illuminating the room and Kate’s face. “Oh my, God,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m having a hard time coming up with a word for this.”

“Dreadful,” Peter deadpanned.

“No. Wonderful. At least in a bizarre kind of way. Can two fit in that tiny bathtub?”

“I don’t know.”

Kate immediately stepped out of her shoes, dropped her shoulders, and gave a left-right shrug. Her jacket rolled off her back, piling at her heels. Before Peter could react, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out, displaying pantyhose and white cotton panties. She reached into the tub and turned on hot. Stretching her hose at the waist, she pulled them off in a smooth left leg, right leg march. Peter stared. She didn’t have former paramour Ellen Goodman’s perfectly sculpted legs, but they were smooth, white, and lovely. Kate also had narrower hips, with a less round backside. Maybe she wasn’t as beautiful as Ellen, but he found her infinitely more attractive. Without a word, Kate unbuttoned her white blouse. She clutched the garment in her hand and dropped it on top of her skirt. All that remained were her panties and plain white bra.

“We have two options, Mr. Neil,” she said, sounding professorial. “Either you get out of here in the next five seconds, before I strip and step into this tub, or you stay, take off your clothes, and we see whether or not this sucker will actually hold two adult bodies.”

Peter stayed.

From a sedan that had tailed them from the moment they left Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers, a stranger took telephotos of the couple. He had pulled to the curb across the street from Peter’s apartment and parked. Good, but not great stuff, he thought as his defrost fought to keep his windows clear enough to take unencumbered close-ups.

“Need to do better than this, George,” he had said to himself over the click-click of his camera. At under six feet, dressed in jeans, Adidas running shoes, and wood-cutter plaid shirt, he appeared intentionally unremarkable.

Ten minutes after Peter closed and locked the front door of his apartment, George slithered from his car, careful to keep away from the orange glow spraying from a solitary street light. The private detective approached the second-story apartment from an alley in the rear of the building, carrying a high-tech recording device—slung across a shoulder—as if it were an unused walking stick.

Where he stood, looking up at Peter’s lit window, he appreciated the indigo nothingness. His current location had no overhead lighting, no moonlight, and a six-foot fence dividing this property from the next. “Very good logistics,” he said in a low voice.

George twisted the five-foot pole, taking care not to bump the mounted microphone. He slid a link, extending the stick like a television antennae. He made this move one more time, producing a twelve-foot pole. He put a set of headphones over his ears, then positioned the mike at the window with billowing steam, escaping from a hot tub of water. He began to listen and tape-record just as the female voice said: “take off your clothes . . .”

For the next hour, George enjoyed the voyeuristic aspects of his job. When the couple moved to the bedroom, he repositioned himself and, though he hadn’t thought it possible, the show got even better. He guessed he’d get a bonus for this work. Too bad Peter Neil didn’t have a first floor apartment. He’d have loved to have a set of those pictures.

When the couple fell asleep around three, the private investigator left. On the way home, he replayed his audio tapes, fast-forwarding to the good parts.

For three weeks, Oliver Dawson and Angela Newman worked separately, and left the office separately, then met for dinner. If happiness were an earthquake, Dawson measured a ten on the Richter scale.

Intimacy, once it came, nearly overwhelmed him. In orchestrating that bold next step, he had trembled, afraid that Angela’s love wouldn’t manifest itself in the same achy physical way his did. When they entered his apartment that night, it was different from the handful of earlier visits. Relaxing classical music hung in the background, while muted light veiled the living room. He had spread a thick blanket across the floor and piled pillows against his sofa.

“I feel like an adolescent,” he had said. “I love you, Angela. How could we have been so afraid to tell each other for over a year?”

“People like us lose their courage. If others could see through our eyes, Oliver, they would understand beauty more fully.”

Every time she spoke, Dawson felt as if he were a student, learning lessons about life.

He took her hand and led her to the sofa. A smile spread across her face, giving him additional resolve. When guided to the floor, she had put a hand through his thinning hair and combed his scalp with her slim fingers. He closed his eyes, amazed at how wonderful the gesture felt. She leaned over and kissed his ear. He turned and looked at her through moist eyes.

It had begun slowly—like a ballet, he imagined. An hour later, she engulfed him and he felt only contentment. He had never imagined he might bring pleasure to another person. From that moment, they spent every night together.

Now, Saturday morning, a week into their new lovers’ routine, Angela’s head rested on Dawson’s slim chest. “You aren’t angry I went ahead with the transfer, are you?” she said.

At first Dawson had tried to talk her out of changing departments. Now he was glad he had failed. While nobody would care if two ugly duckling co-workers dated one another, it was easier this way. On the one hand, she was still in the building, so they could see each other on an intermittent basis during the day. On the other hand, their relationship was not the subject of lewd speculation.

“No,” he said. “I agree. It’s better this way.”

“Monday, I start my new job. I’ll miss being outside your office, but I’d trade that for seeing you, touching you, having you in this way, any day of the week.”

Her words aroused Dawson. As if she sensed his need, she reached under the sheets and touched him. “Oh my. I do believe you like me, Agent Dawson.”

Oliver Dawson spent the next hour proving her correct.