The Best Revenge Page 18

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Maybe I should set up another appointment. Something sooner than the one we have scheduled. I need some advice on how to handle myself so that I don’t get in any deeper.”

  “A big chunk of that advice will need to come from your lawyer, Tom. The part that has to do with the stress you’re feeling—you and I can do that. But first things first: Are you okay tonight?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I need to find someplace to stay. The police won’t let me back in the house until they’re done. I may just sleep here at the hospital. I don’t have any money with me.”

  Was he suggesting that I offer him a bed?My reaction to the prospect troubled me almost as much as did the image of Tom sleeping downstairs from my daughter. I knew there was no way I would invite this man into my home. Not only because he was a patient, but also because I now reluctantly realized that I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced about the events that had landed him in prison in the first place. I got lost for a moment considering the implications of my musings before I said, “I’m sure that your grandfather would be grateful that you stayed with him at the hospital. It will mean a lot to him to see the face of a loved one by his side when he wakes up.”

  Tom said, “Yeah, I guess.”

  I couldn’t tell whether or not he was at all convinced. I said, “I’m curious about something. How did you get my home number, Tom? Although this certainly qualifies as an emergency, as I explained to you during our first session I usually hear from patients on my beeper.”

  Without hesitation, he said, “I called Information. You know, four-one-one. They gave me the number.”

  “Oh,” I replied. “So you want to set up that extra appointment?”

  A moment later, as I hung up the phone, I entertained the possibility that it was Kelda who had given Tom my home number. I had no illusions that phone numbers that were unlisted to the rest of us were actually unavailable to curious FBI agents. I also considered the possibility that Sam Purdy had scribbled the number on the back of one of his business cards and given it to Tom.

  When he was in certain moods, Sam would have thought that such a prank was pretty funny.

  What I wasn’t entertaining was the possibility that Tom Clone had told me the truth about calling directory assistance.

  There was a time early in my career when I might have marched straight to my closet, changed my clothes, and driven across town to Community Hospital to check personally on Tom Clone’s emotional state. Most of the motivation for making such a humanitarian trip would have been the result of a grandiose sense of the psychotherapist’s purview—early in my career I actually functioned under the mistaken belief that part of my job was to provide comfort in its purest form.

  But two minutes after I’d hung up the phone, I wasn’t pulling on a pair of jeans and preparing to drive across town. No, I was back in my bed, focusing more of my mental energy on the violation I felt at having my home phone number compromised than I was directing it toward compassion for Tom Clone’s personal tragedy, or toward curiosity at the revelation that Tom Clone and Kelda James were developing a social relationship.

  I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I was beginning to regret picking up Tom Clone’s case at all. Why?

  I was no longer at all certain that he was the victim of the justice system that I originally thought he was. At first, I’d been willing, even eager, to offer him the benefit of the doubt.

  Now, no.

  But that wasn’t all. An honest appraisal would reveal that I was ambivalent about Tom Clone because he was tugging at me in ways that threatened my complacency. He needed me in ways that I didn’t want to be needed.

  What had Diane said to me?If you’ve started hating the bricks, maybe it’s time to reconsider being a bricklayer.

  Maybe it is time, I thought. Maybe it is.

  I fell asleep pondering the reality that, other than my therapeutic abilities, I possessed absolutely no marketable skills.

  CHAPTER 24

  After they finished their dinner on the Mall, Kelda and Tom had walked down Pearl Street and Tom had tried to recall what buildings had been demolished and identify what buildings were new in all the redevelopment that had taken place during the nineties in the blocks adjacent to the east end of the Mall. She thought it was an interesting exercise for someone trying to make sense of what had happened in the world during all his missing years. They had coffee at Penny Lane because it was one of the few businesses that Tom remembered from the years before he’d been arrested and incarcerated.

  While he stood at the counter picking up their drinks, Kelda turned her back to him and popped another Percocet into her mouth.

  A little bit after nine, at Kelda’s suggestion, they strolled back up the hill to High Street. She stopped when they reached her Buick, which was parked on the street, one door down from Tom’s grandfather’s house.

  He asked her, “Have you been limping?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I worked out hard this morning. My muscles get a little sore sometimes.”

  “That’s it? You’re sure? You got quiet, too, when you started to limp. After we had coffee and started walking, you got quiet.”

  She opened her purse and reached inside for her car keys. She was surprised that he’d noticed the connection between her pain and her distraction. She liked to think she made it invisible to others, especially to people who didn’t know her well. She replied, “I think you’re imagining that, Tom. It’s no big deal. My leg gets a little sore sometimes. That’s all.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s all that’s going on. Whatever, why don’t you come on inside? Maybe my grandfather will be awake. He really wants to meet you.”

  “No, thank you, I don’t think so. I’m going to head home. Maybe some other time.”

  He asked, “Why not?” and the resentful undertow in his tone caused her to step back involuntarily.

  “What do you mean, ‘Why not?’” She tried to force some playfulness into her voice. “I don’t need a reason. I just don’t feel like going inside with you. I’m tired, and I want to get home.”

  “I thought we were having a good time.”

  “We were.” She stressed the second word.

  “Is it whatever’s going on with your limp? Is that it?”

  “Tom, I said no. I don’t know what things were like for you when you went to prison, but in the twenty-first century when women say no—especially this woman—you would be wise to heed them.”

  “Because you have a gun?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was joking, but hoped he was. “I had a nice time, Tom. Good night.” She pressed the button on her key ring that unlocked her car door. She had to wait for him to step back before she had room to swing the door open. Her impression was that he forced her to wait an additional second or two. When he finally moved away, she lowered herself into the car.

  Her breathing was rapid. His wasn’t. She lowered the window and placed her left hand on the ledge of the door. “This was fun,” she said, hoping to defuse the tension she was feeling.

  “Yeah,” he replied, and leaned down so that his face was opposite hers.

  Don’t,she thought.Don’t try it.

  He lowered his head and brushed her fingers lightly with his lips. His touch was like an electric shock. She repressed a flinch. “See you,” he said, looking at her dashboard. “Hey, what time do you have?”

  She glanced at the clock. “It’s nine-twenty.”

  “Thanks. Good night,” he said. “I’ll call you. Assuming that’s still okay in the twenty-first century?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’s okay. Good night, Tom.”

  She made a U-turn in the cul-de-sac at the end of High Street and headed back toward Fourteenth. Her headlights were illuminating the silhouette of a Chevy Suburban that was parked along the curb on High opposite the grounds of Casey School. A man was sitting in the driver’s seat, but she couldn’t make out hi
s features. As she turned the corner she decided that the Suburban was an older model and that the paint was dull blue or gray.

  “Prehost,” she said aloud. She hit her brakes hard and brought the Buick to a stop. She hadn’t planned her next move. One option was to get out of the car and have a chat with the Park County detective, but she quickly decided against it. She wasn’t sure what a confrontation would accomplish. Instead, she took a moment to memorize the license plates on the Suburban, then she glided down the hill toward Mapleton.

  Four minutes later, as she turned onto Arapahoe to head home, Kelda used her cell phone to call Ira. “Hey, you,” she said when Ira answered his phone.

  “Hello, girl. I tried to get back to you earlier, but I kept getting your machine. I thought you might not be answering because you were freezing your legs. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, I’ve been out, I had some things I had to do.”

  “Is the pain okay?”

  “It’s been better. If you’re free now, I could sure use a massage.”

  He laughed. “Is that all I am to you? A good pair of hands? I’m not doing anything. Are you home? You sound like you’re on your cell.”

  “I am, but I’m on my way home. Give me twenty minutes.”

  “You got it.”

  Ira was sitting on the wooden steps that led up to her side door when she pulled her car under the elms. He had his ratty daypack beside him. That meant he was planning to spend the night.

  The next morning she parked her Buick in its usual spot at work and took the elevator up to the FBI offices. Bill Graves spotted her as soon as she stepped off the elevator. He took her by the arm and hustled her away from the reception desk. “Come with me,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  He checked the hallway around them before he asked, “What did you get yourself into last night, Kelda? The SAC is ready to take your head off.”

  She thought,Oh shit, he’s probably having a fit about the Rosa Alija anniversary piece on Fox. She’d forgotten all about it and wondered how it could have aired already. She quickly decided to deny everything. “I didn’t do anything last night, Bill. I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.”

  “Well, apparently there’s some Boulder police detective who wants to talk to you about an assault on Tom Clone’s grandfather that happened last night. He called the SAC at home and told him that Clone’s using you for an alibi. The detective wants permission to interview you.”

  She shook her head slowly and said, “Damn.”

  Bill took half a step back and asked, incredulously, “It’s true? You were with Clone last night?”

  “Not last night. A couple of hours yesterday evening. We had dinner. That’s all. That’s it.” She grimaced. “Shit.”

  “The SAC is going to string you up if you really did this. He doesn’t need this kind of public attention right now. The Bureau doesn’t need this kind of public attention right now. Everybody’s under orders to make sure that the only publicity we get is good publicity. And everybody includes you, Kelda.” Then, with obvious disdain in his voice, he added, “You had a date with Tom Clone? What the hell were you thinking? Haven’t you jeopardized enough with what you’ve done for that guy?”

  She didn’t answer. She said, “Thanks for the warning about the SAC, Bill. You’re a good friend.” And she walked away from him.

  A message in the middle of her blotter directed her to go to the SAC’s office as soon as she arrived. She mumbled another profanity and tried to figure out how she was going to finesse this with him.

  One word came to mind.

  Prehost.

  Ten minutes later she returned to her desk and grabbed her shoulder bag. She gestured to Bill Graves with a slight movement of her head. He stood and followed her to the elevator.

  “Let’s get some coffee,” she said.

  “Is it a good career move for me to be seen with you right now?”

  “Ha, that’s funny.” The elevator arrived and they stepped in. An Asian woman with an infant in a baby carrier was already in the car.

  “So?” he said.

  “Patience, Mr. Governor’s Cousin.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We’re not alone.”

  “I don’t want coffee, Kelda.”

  “Then at least wait until we get outside the building, okay?”

  “I don’t have much time. I have calls I’m waiting for.”

  “Shush, we won’t be long.” As the elevator opened she grabbed his hand and led him outside onto Stout Street. The Federal Building was on the edge of Denver’s downtown business district, and she turned toward the I. M. Pei–designed pedestrian mall that bisected downtown on Sixteenth Street.

  “I’ve never seen him so angry,” she said as they reached a red light at the corner of Eighteenth and Stout.

  Bill laughed and said, “The SAC? That’s because you weren’t involved the day that Smith and Jorgensen dropped that surveillance on the—”

  “No, you’re right, I wasn’t part of that. Listen, Bill, I need to ask you something. Has anyone been following you?”

  “What?”

  “Any strange phone calls? Hang-ups at your house? I’m talking basically since about the time that the press seemed to get wind of Tom Clone’s impending release from prison.”

  “Kelda, what on earth—”

  The light changed. Bill’s feet seemed permanently affixed to the sidewalk. She almost had to yank him off the curb to get him to cross Eighteenth Street. She lowered her voice. “I’ve been seeing this car, this old blue Suburban, and another car, a burgundy Toyota pickup, around me for the last few days. Since Clone’s release, maybe even a few days before. Thursday, the Toyota was on the lane by my house in Lafayette when I got home.”

  “Yeah? Anybody do anything threatening?”

  She thought of Prehost and the flat he caused on her Buick in the middle of nowhere. His badge in her face. The size of his biceps. “No, no. Nothing like that. What about you?”

  “No. But I haven’t exactly been watching for tails, either. Maybe I should.” He grunted. “And you’ve been getting phone calls, too?”

  “Hang-ups. A few. I’ve star-six-nined all of them. Nothing ever comes up. I’ve been guessing that this all has to do with what we did with the Tom Clone case.”

  “Why you and not me?”

  “I don’t know. My profile’s higher because of . . . you know, Rosa. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s just because I’m a woman and they think that makes me more vulnerable.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before this?”

  “I thought it was just crank stuff. Some of the same sort of thing happened to me after I found Rosa. In addition to a million wonderful notes I got from people thanking me, I also got some calls and a few letters that I’d prefer not to have received. It comes with the notoriety. It all faded after a while; I figured that this would fade, too.”

  “But?”

  “The Suburban was parked down the street from Tom Clone’s house last night. I saw it when I was pulling away.”

  “So you really did alibi Clone?”

  She nodded and said, “Yes, I was with him. I don’t really know any details of what happened to his grandfather—certainly couldn’t tell you what time the assault occurred—but I told the SAC that I was with Tom for almost three hours last evening. We had dinner, coffee. Went for a walk.”

  “And what time did you see the Suburban?”

  “Nine-twenty. I left his house at nine-twenty. I remember looking at the clock on my dashboard just before I drove away.” She also remembered that she’d looked at the clock because Tom Clone had asked her to. Kelda didn’t tell Bill that part. She noticed the pedestrian light change to “Walk” a hundred feet in front of them, and tugged Bill along with her so that they would have a chance to make the light at the corner.

  “Did you tell the SAC all this?”

  “Yes, I did. I even gave him a license plate number for the Suburban.�
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  Bill raised an eyebrow. “You got the license plate? You’re always thinking, Kelda. I like that.”

  They rushed across the intersection at Seventeenth Street.

  Bill said, “Why are we hurrying? Do you have plate numbers on the Toyota that followed you, too?”

  “We’re not hurrying, I’m just trying to be sensitive to your schedule. You said that you had stuff to do. And no, the guy in the Toyota had his plates conveniently caked with mud.”

  “Did you tell the SAC about the other times you saw the Suburban? And about the Toyota and the phone calls?”

  She took two more steps before she said, “Kind of.”

  He suddenly stopped walking, planting his feet so that she couldn’t pull him along. “What does that mean?”

  “What? What does what mean?”

  “You didn’t tell the SAC that you think you’re being followed?”

  “I . . . alluded to it. You know how he reacts to stuff like this, Bill. I can handle it myself. I’m being vigilant. I spotted the tails, didn’t I?”

  “Are you nuts? He reacts to ‘stuff like this’ because he doesn’t want any of his agents ambushed, Kelda. Jesus, I can’t believe you would . . . In case you haven’t looked at a calendar lately, it’s after September 2001. Way after.”

  “Bill, I—”

  “You spotted the tails, Kelda? And how do you know what tails you might have missed? You could be putting other agents at risk by keeping this to yourself. You could . . .” The expression on his face went from concern laced with annoyance to something decidedly less sympathetic. He leaned back against the wall behind him and placed the sole of one shoe flat against the granite face of the building and shook his head.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Are you dating this guy, Kelda? Do you have feelings for this . . . this accused murderer, this, this—”

  “Bill, it’s . . .” She looked away from him. Her weak protest hung awkwardly between them.

  “It’s what?”

  “It’s complicated.”