Over the edge, p.5
Over the Edge, page 5
For what if their fast-track romance had failed to reveal secrets that were now poised to not only come back and bite him but threaten the foundation of their brand-new marriage?
PROBLEM SOLVED—for the moment.
Eric Miller tipped back his beer as the anchor on the evening news continued to report on James Robertson’s murder.
Not an ideal resolution, but it should buy him time to fix everything. With all the upheaval this would cause at Robertson Properties, routine audits should be low priority for a while.
Long enough for discrepancies to be addressed.
His phone rang, and he picked it up off the end table. Scanned the screen.
Nolan.
No surprise the man was checking in.
He muted the TV and put the phone to his ear. “I figured you’d—”
“The cops dropped by.”
Not what he wanted to hear.
Eric set the beer can down and straightened up. “Why?”
“The wife gave them my name. Apparently she knew about my less-than-cordial relationship with her husband.”
“You didn’t tell them anything, did you?”
“Nothing incriminating. But I suggest you watch your back. I didn’t expect them to finger me, so who knows where else they’ll start digging? Depends how much the wife knows, or what the witness may have overheard.”
Witness?
“Someone saw the murder?” Eric muted the TV.
“According to my contacts in law enforcement, their personal chef was on-site. It doesn’t sound like she saw anything helpful or overheard Robertson’s end of the unpleasant phone conversation he initiated with me around noon. But if they go through his cell log, the call will show up. And that’s not a complication I need.” He blew out a breath. “I assume succession planning at the firm is in the works?”
Eric forcibly switched gears. “The officers are having an emergency meeting tomorrow morning. An email went out to the staff ten minutes ago.”
“Will you be there?”
He snorted. “A lowly accountant? Get real. Robertson never bothered to consult the peons who did the real work.”
“You’re not a lowly accountant. You’re a CPA and a manager. Besides, you won’t ever have to stew about Robertson’s attitude again.”
“True. So when is my payment coming?”
“After the smoke clears and I have the strip mall Robertson and I were both after. Until then, keep your ear to the ground in case the new management continues their former leader’s shady tactics.”
Eric frowned. “Transactions could be delayed because of what happened today, and I need that money.”
“With Robertson out of the picture, you should have a window to refill the coffers. No one will be doing audits during a management transition.”
“That wasn’t our deal. You said I’d have the money by mid-month.”
“You’ve only kept part of our bargain. As soon as I have the strip mall in hand, I’ll pay up.”
“What am I supposed to do if someone wants to review the books in the meantime?”
“Deflect and defer.”
“Easier said than done. I’m not the boss.”
“I’m sure you can find an excuse to drag out the process. It’s not that much money in the big scheme of things.”
Maybe not to Nolan, whose deals ran in the tens of millions. But if your bank balance was in the low four digits, fifty-thousand dollars was a fortune.
He forked his fingers through his hair.
High-end vacations, upscale restaurants three nights a week, and those crazy expensive purses his wife favored would have to go.
“Auditors won’t agree. They red-flag anything that doesn’t balance. The amount is irrelevant.”
“You’ll have the replacement money before that happens as long as you do the rest of your job. Going forward, let’s switch to burner phones in case the police keep me in their sights. Get one and call me with your number tomorrow night. I’ll get one too. And keep your ear to the ground. Company grapevines can be a rich source of information.”
The line went dead.
Slowly Eric lowered the cell and glanced back at the TV screen.
The evening news was still fixated on Robertson’s death.
Not surprising, given the man’s prominent position in the business community.
But he was no great loss. His methods were ruthless, and he didn’t tolerate mistakes. Giving Farley the controller’s job six months ago when the company’s longtime financial chief retired, instead of to the person next in line—namely him—had stunk. All because of the small, easy-to-fix error he’d made on a quarterly report. His fifteen years of dedicated service should have counted for something to the man pulling the strings.
Except they hadn’t.
So “borrowing” funds for an out-of-work brother who’d had major complications after an episode of anaphylactic shock put him in the ICU on a ventilator for a week had been a no-brainer. The money to pay the medical bills had to come from somewhere, and his sister-in-law needed every dime she could get her hands on to feed and house their three kids.
Besides, Robertson owed him after bypassing him for the position he’d deserved.
And with Nolan willing to pay handsomely for proprietary information about upcoming deals after Robertson colluded to jack up the price on that apartment building he’d wanted, repaying the unofficial loan should have been a piece of cake.
Maybe the cat-and-mouse game those two business rivals played had accelerated beyond his comfort level . . . and maybe he had a few regrets about his part in it . . . but no innocent parties had been hurt.
The only one who’d run into trouble since he and Nolan had made their deal was Robertson, who was far from innocent.
And truth be told, the world was better off without him.
Five
“THANK YOU FOR EXTENDING your office hours to see me, Dr. Oliver.” Lindsey rose as the psychologist, attired in his usual sport coat and open-necked shirt, greeted her from the waiting room doorway.
“I’m always happy to accommodate clients, especially in the aftermath of a trauma.” He ushered her through the door. “Would you like water or another beverage?”
“I’d love coffee, but that won’t help my sleeping problem. Water is fine.”
“Make yourself comfortable while I get you a bottle.”
He continued down the hall to the tiny kitchenette as she detoured to the familiar office where she’d spent countless hours over the past eighteen months. Though her visits had tapered off, having this resource to tap into after everything that had happened three days ago was a godsend.
“Here you go.” Dr. Oliver rejoined her as she claimed her favorite seat—a comfortable, cushy wing chair that wrapped its comforting arms around her.
She took the water and twisted off the cap while he sat in the more modern chair angled toward hers in the cozy conversation nook. “I’m sorry to keep you so late.” She motioned to the second-floor window that overlooked the tree-rimmed parking lot, where pole lights cast ghostly pools of illumination in the darkness. “That’s not the best way to start the work week.”
“I knew this wasn’t a nine-to-five job when I signed on.” His calm, welcoming manner imbued the room with tranquility.
The tension in her shoulders began to ease. She owed her therapist in South Carolina a huge debt for researching and recommending Dr. Oliver. Given his empathy, keen insights, and ability to guide without directing, it was amazing he hadn’t had a long waiting list of potential clients.
“I promise not to take up too much of your evening.”
“I’m in no hurry.” As if to demonstrate that, he leaned back and crossed an ankle over a knee. “It sounds as if Friday’s experience has set you back a bit.”
“More than a bit, based on this weekend.” She sipped her water and set it on the side table next to her. “Like I said on the phone, the nightmares are back.”
“Are they disrupting your sleep?”
“Yes.”
“How many hours have you clocked since Friday?”
“I don’t know. Nine or ten, total? Once I wake up, I can’t get back to sleep. None of my usual de-stressing techniques have worked—breathing exercises, progressive muscle relaxation, visualization.”
“That’s not surprising. Friday’s incident is very fresh. Why don’t you walk me through it, then we’ll talk about what you’ve been experiencing in the aftermath, and end with a guided visualization. Sound like a plan?”
“All except the retelling of Friday’s event.”
“I understand your reluctance to revisit that, but to best help you I need to have a sense of what happened. You don’t have to go into great detail. An overview of the situation would suffice.”
“Okay. I’ll try.” Linking her fingers, Lindsey launched into a topline of the story she’d told Detective Tucker.
Dr. Oliver jotted a few notes as she talked but otherwise gave her his full attention, as usual.
“So you were in close physical proximity to the killer.”
“Yes. At one point, three feet. All I could see was their legs, but I was terrified they’d s-spot me.” An echo of the mind-numbing fear that had clutched her as she huddled under the island swept over her again. “I knew I could be seconds away from death.”
“Like last time.”
“Yes.” She took a sip of water, holding the bottle with both hands. “I mean, how many people encounter one life-and-death situation, let alone two? The whole thing was surreal. Like lightning striking twice.”
“Yet you survived both experiences.”
“With major fallout.”
“Aside from dealing with the lingering shock anyone would experience after the situation you described, tell me your biggest concern.”
“I’m not certain.” She chewed on her lower lip as she pondered the question. “I guess . . . I guess I’m scared because this person is still out there. What if they find out I was in the kitchen? That I saw them?”
“Have you been publicly named as a witness?”
“Not that I know of. But what if that information leaks?”
Dr. Oliver sat back and tapped his pen against the edge of his notebook. “Let’s apply logic to this. From what you said, you weren’t able to tell the police anything that would help them identify the person. Even if that person finds out you were there, they know their features were masked. Is it possible your concerns are overblown?”
As always, Dr. Oliver was the voice of reason.
“Yes. And the left side of my brain accepts that. The right side, however, isn’t convinced.”
“Then let’s focus on the right side. Tell me about the dreams you’ve been having.”
“They’re strange and disjointed, with elements from both of the events I experienced.”
“Again, not surprising. In the mind, trauma is trauma. Events that evoke similar emotions can meld together. Tell me how the dreams have played out.”
Lindsey relayed the bizarre sequences that had kept sleep at bay for the past three nights. Shook her head. “I told you they don’t make sense. I mean, why would I put the guy’s scarred hand from the grocery store in South Carolina with the boots I saw at—” A vague image flashed through her mind, and she halted. Tried to bring the fuzzy picture into focus.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” She knitted her brow. “For a second, I thought I was remembering a detail about the killer’s boots—or overshoes—but now it’s gone.”
“It wouldn’t be unusual for details to begin to emerge as the initial shock subsides.”
“That didn’t happen with the South Carolina situation.”
“Every case is different. Or it could be that what you think you’re remembering is only part of your fabricated dream, with no basis in reality.”
She forced up the corners of her mouth and tried for a teasing tone. “Are you telling me I’m beginning to imagine things?” That was a scary thought.
“No. I’m suggesting it’s important to realize that trauma can mess with the brain.” He set his notebook aside. “In times of turmoil, routine can restore a sense of normalcy. I’d recommend sticking with your usual schedule as much as possible for the immediate future. Are you still rowing twice a week?”
“Yes—weather permitting. I didn’t row last week, but I’ll keep going as long as I can until it gets too cold on a regular basis.”
“And you’re running?”
“Every day I don’t row. But I didn’t do either this weekend. Other than church, I stayed home and locked the door.”
“Perfectly fine in the immediate aftermath of a frightening experience. A return to routine as soon as possible may be helpful, though.”
“I intend to pick up the running again tomorrow and the rowing on Wednesday. And I’m not planning to cancel my Horizons cooking class on Tuesday.”
“Excellent. Any concerns about going back to the scene of the crime for your job?”
“Some. I’m sure Chad Allen feels the same way.”
“The handyman you mentioned, who was also on-site during the incident?”
“Yes. I know him and his wife from church. And his wife is taking a cooking class from me. Nice couple. Probably as much in need of encouragement as I am. I’m trying to stay in touch, but it’s hard to offer reassurance when you’re on shaky ground yourself.”
“Then let’s do our best to get you off that shaky ground. Why don’t we schedule another session for Thursday and end today with the visualization I mentioned?”
“That works for me.” She settled back in her chair.
“I know you like to use your morning row as a visualization when you do this on your own, but today let’s travel to that white-sand beach you enjoyed on your trip to Antigua a few years ago.” He tapped an app on the phone beside him, calling up soothing music. “Go ahead and close your eyes. Concentrate on filling your lungs. Slow and easy. Now let the air out, slow and easy. Picture the stress leaving your body along with your breath.”
As Lindsey listened to his mellow baritone and followed his instructions—calling up an image of the turquoise sea, the taste of salt on her tongue, the caress of the warm breeze, the pliant sand squishing between her toes, the lulling cadence of the lapping waves—her tension melted away.
Fifteen minutes later, as Dr. Oliver brought her back to reality, the restless agitation that had plagued her had dissipated.
“Better?” He smiled at her.
“Much.”
“I’ll alert Margie you’ll be calling tomorrow and tell her to work you in on Thursday.” He rose. “Let me walk you out.”
Bottle of water in hand, she followed him to the door that offered clients discreet access to the hall in the professional building. “Thank you again for going above and beyond.”
“My pleasure. And remember I’m here anytime if you need to talk. Since the beach visualization worked well today, try it again tonight if you can’t sleep.”
“I will.”
Hoisting her shoulder tote into position, Lindsey left his office behind and strode down the quiet corridor that led to the outside door, mulling over the session.
What Dr. Oliver had said about routine being helpful made sense.
So beginning tomorrow, she’d do her best to forget those terrifying minutes in the Robertson kitchen and stop worrying about the possible repercussions of sharing a room with a murderer.
After all, as her psychologist had pointed out, the perpetrator didn’t know she’d been there. And if they did find out, she’d seen nothing that would incriminate them. They had no reason to target her.
She had to set aside foolish fears and get on with her life. She’d survived, and she was safe.
There was nothing to worry about.
“THANKS FOR BUMPING our dinner up a day, and sorry I’m late. A glitch at the scene delayed me, and I had a call while I was in the parking lot.”
As a breathless Bri slid into the chair across from him at their favorite neighborhood eatery, Jack sized up his sister. The long hours she worked as an investigator with the St. Louis Regional Bomb & Arson Unit sometimes took a toll, but tonight she was animated and energetic despite the tiring rigor of poking through a fire scene and the aftereffects of a job-related near-death experience nine days ago.
“From the sparkle in your eyes and the flush on your cheeks, I presume the call in the parking lot was from the new boyfriend.”
She waved his comment aside and picked up the menu. “You know better than to trust circumstantial evidence.”
“A preponderance of circumstantial evidence is compelling. Like reading the menu you know by heart from the restaurant we come to every other Tuesday.”
With a wry twist of her lips, she set the bill of fare down. “Fine. It was Marc. He said to tell you hello. You’re lucky he doesn’t hold that overprotective-brother act you pulled at your first meeting against you.”
“We reached an understanding. Besides, after I saw him in action when that nutcase went after you, he got my stamp of approval.”
“I’m sure he’ll be relieved to hear that.”
He ignored her droll tone. “You doing okay?”
“Yep. Other than a few bruises that are disappearing as we speak.” She tapped her cheek, where the black-and-blue contusion was fading to yellow.
“Getting back to the new man in your life—I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-oh. That could be dangerous.”
“Ha-ha. I’m trying to be serious here.”
She folded her hands on the table. “Lay it on me.”
“Now that Marc’s in the picture, maybe we should rethink our locked-in-stone every-other-Tuesday dinners. Be more flexible going forward.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
“In case Marc wants to see you on one of those nights. I don’t want to stand in the way of romance or alienate a potential future brother-in-law.”
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? We just started dating.”
“To borrow fire investigation lingo, I suspect this relationship will rapidly combust.”
