Follow the Money

23


By the time I got home, I had managed to convince myself that I’d been making it all up, imagining everything, and letting my paranoia get the better of me. I was sure that no one had been following me. I told myself there were lots of bald guys with moustaches around. But when I climbed the stairs to my apartment and found the door ajar, it all came rushing back.

I stood and stared through the inch wide crack where the door hung open. There was no damage, it had not been kicked in. Had I forgotten to lock it? I listened and heard nothing. Adrenaline pumped through me. My face felt hot. I pushed at the door and called, “Hello?”

The door swung back. There was no one inside, but there had been. The couch was upside down in the center of the room, the cushions had been slit open and there was stuffing everywhere. All of the cupboards had been emptied, all the books thrown from the shelves. Nothing was left untouched or undisturbed. Someone had been thorough, had taken their time, methodically looking under and inside everything. The floor was completely covered with the remains.

I slowly crept through the rooms, surveying the devastation. Every package of food had been emptied, everything in the refrigerator dumped out, my mattress slit and turned inside out, my clothes taken from each hanger, even the lamps and pictures on the wall had been broken and torn apart.

It was so complete that I hardly recognized it as my own apartment. I gawked at it — slack-jawed and stunned — as though I’d stumbled on the aftermath of some horrible accident. I saw the light on the answering machine and touched the button. I heard Murdock’s voice come through, leaving a message with his name, phone numbers, subject of the call, and the suggestion that we get together tomorrow. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to put it all together.

I looked everything over with an odd detachment. As I spread the shards of a lamp around with my foot, I saw a small metal thing glinting in the pile. When I picked it up, it looked like a tiny microphone mounted on a pin. I’d never seen a bug before, but I immediately knew what it was. I remembered coming home to the lights on in my apartment, seeing the shadow in the window from the parking lot. How long had it been going on? What was going on?

It was only at that moment that I truly understood. I was being followed. Someone was after me, or something I had. They could be watching me right now, they could be coming up the stairs, they were probably dangerous people. I thought about Murdock’s story. I thought about the call to Andersen and the guy in the black car. My trashed apartment was a not so subtle message that they could get to me easily.

In an instant, I was down the stairs and out in the street. My eyes darting everywhere. Where could they be? Who could they be? How could I get away from them if I did not know what they wanted? Not knowing what else to do, I walked south six blocks with my briefcase in my hand and the file I’d gotten from Murdock under my arm. I walked quickly, looking over my shoulder, trying not to draw attention to myself, looking thoroughly suspicious in the process.

I dialed the firm on my cell phone and left a message for the librarian, asking him to run whatever he could on the license plate number. After six blocks, I bounded up the steps to Liz’s apartment. I knocked on the door, looking back over my shoulder, my body bouncing from anxiety and adrenaline. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon ran through my head. Even mere seconds felt like an eternity.

I could hear her voice inside, “Coming!” she said. I could hear her footsteps. The lock turning, the door cracked open and I bounded through it, forcing her back.

“What the f*ck are you doing?” She was yelling at me. I went straight for the window and peered out before jerking the curtains closed. “Who the f*ck do you think you are?” She prattled on, standing in her sweatpants and tee shirt with the door open, demanding that I leave.

Instead, I rushed to her and forced the door closed and locked it. My eyes scanned the room. Liz watched my frantic movements, hesitant and jerky, as I paced around making noises but saying nothing. She fell silent and watched me for a moment, her anger receding and her concern growing.

“What’s going on?” she finally asked.

I stopped and looked at her, as if noticing her for the first time. Then I leaned over the couch and peeked out of the curtain as I spoke. “Someone’s after me. Someone’s following me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“On my way back from Palm Springs there was this car. I think it’s because—” I wasn’t sure where to start.

“Is there something wrong with you? Will you slow down? Why are you here?” Liz was unsure what to do with me. Finally, I sat back on the couch, my muscles went slack and I stared toward the opposite wall, but saw only the images inside my head — like puzzle pieces in a windstorm suddenly landing, and interlocking.

“Do you have any beer? Anything to drink? I need a drink.”

“Are you crazy?” Liz responded, the incredulity dripping from her voice.

“Look.” I began in a tone both frightened and forceful. “I got home today, about five minutes ago, and my apartment was trashed. I mean gutted, like in a movie or something. On my way home I thought someone was following me, now I’m sure of it. I think I’ve gotten myself involved in some serious shit and I have no idea what it is.”

“What do you mean trashed? Someone broke into your place?”

“I mean trashed.”

“Well, apartments get broken into.”

“No—” I cut her off. “Not like this. I didn’t stay long because it scared the hell out of me, but I didn’t notice anything missing. It wasn’t a burglary. Someone was looking for something. They went through everything. They cut the couch open, they dumped out cereal boxes, cut pictures open. They went through every square inch of the place. I don’t know who these people are. I don’t know what they want.” I stopped talking and just shook my head, my mouth open but no words coming out.

Liz got two beers from the fridge and gave me one.

“I’m scared” I finally said. Then I remembered the bug and set it on the table. “Here, this was in my lamp.”

Liz picked it up and studied it. She gave me a disturbed look. “Some kind of bug?” She squinted. “Why would someone be after you?” Liz sat in the rocking chair across from the couch. Finally, she set the bug down on a side table and asked, “What do they want?”

I took a drink from the beer and stared at the door, resisting the urge to look out the window again. “It’s connected to Andersen and Steele. But I don’t know. Something’s terribly wrong.”

“With what?”

“With the case, with Steele, everything.” I took another drink. “Look, I left work early on Friday,” I began. I told her about the check to Murdock, the cell phone calls, and Andersen’s threats. She watched me polish off my beer. I could see the concern come over her as the pieces fell in place. When my beer was gone, she got up and got me another. When she handed it to me she hovered over me and squeezed my shoulder. I forgot about everything for a moment and looked up at her. No words came to me, but she seemed to understand and accept the reason why.

I finished the story and my second beer and she got us both another round. When she came back to the room, she pointed at the file folder I’d dropped on the coffee table when I barged in. “So what’s that?”

“Shit, I dunno.” I shook my head and stared at it. “It’s a file the lawyer in Palm Springs gave me. He said he didn’t want to be involved, he figured I could do whatever I saw fit with it. He figured he’d held onto it long enough.”

“Have you looked at it?”

“Naw, shit, it could only be more bad news. Besides,” I said, as I sat back on the couch, “I haven’t had time.”

Liz knelt down and removed the rubber band that held it shut. She flipped it open and thumbed through the files inside. There were notes on a legal pad as well as a thick, sealed Fed Ex envelope.

“What’s in here?” She asked, almost to herself, as she pulled the envelope out of the folder.

“I don’t even want to know.”

Liz tore it open and pulled a thick stack of papers from inside. “There’s a cover letter from some private detective agency.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, remembering Murdock’s story. “The lawyer said she’d hired some guy to follow Steele. You know, to get some proof that he was cheating on her.” I leaned forward, growing more interested and resigned. Might as well learn whatever there was to learn.

Liz fanned through the papers. “Shit,” she said, “There are pictures in here.” She took a stack of eight by tens and spread them out on the table.

“Oh my God.” I uttered, catching my breath the instant I saw them. There were eight photographs taken from a distance, looking in through the window of a house. I picked up one of the photos. It was a medium shot of two men with their shirts off, one with his hands on the shoulders of the other. They appeared to be talking casually, holding each other in a loose embrace. The one doing the talking was Steele. The other, smiling in the midst of laughter, with his head tilted to one side and his hair disheveled, was Garrett Andersen.

“What?” Liz asked. “What is it? Who is it?”

“It’s Steele.” I sank back on the couch, defeated, running one hand through my hair and holding the photo out and away from me with the other.

“I know that. Who’s the other guy?”

“His lawyer, Garrett Andersen.”

“Noooooo!” Liz’s shock was palpable. She snatched up two of the photos and inspected them closely. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” And I was sure, but I could hardly process it all.

Liz looked each of the pictures over. They all appeared to be shot through the same window and at roughly the same time. The angle showed the bottom portion of a bed, and, though there was nothing explicitly sexual in the photos themselves, the import was obvious. These were the before and after pictures. It was undeniable. The ruffled blankets on the bed, the partially clothed bodies, the shirt draped over a chair in the background, the belt laying on the floor next to a wadded up pile that was likely a pair of slacks. The story was self-evident.

After several minutes of gawking, Liz turned her attention to the rest of the file. “My god, I wonder what else is in here?” She spoke aloud but mostly to herself as she arranged piles of papers on the table, being careful to set the photographs off to the side.

“What the hell am I gonna do?”

Liz stopped and gave me a funny look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what am I gonna do?” I’d already choked down my third beer and I got up and went to the fridge. I crouched down and dug around. “Christ. You got anymore beer?”

“What do you mean, what are you gonna do?” Liz called from the next room.

“About all this,” I responded, returning with a half empty bottle of white wine and two glasses. “I mean, I’ve got all this new evidence. All this information.”

“Well,” Liz was almost laughing at the obviousness of her solution. “You go to the police. I mean, what are you thinking about doing?”

I poured the wine and shook my head. “It’s not that simple. Look, these guys don’t want this coming out. I mean, they’ve got someone following me. They’re tearing up my apartment. If Steele really is the murderer, then why shouldn’t I think he’d do something to me?”

“Well, what good would doing something to you do if you’ve already told the police? I mean, it would be obvious who did it.”

“Thanks. I’m not interested in being Exhibit A at Steele’s next trial. I’m freaked out here. Andersen is obviously on to me. He knows who I am. He knows I called him. He had someone go through my place. He had someone follow me to Palm Springs. I mean, you should have heard him on the phone. He was very threatening. But he’s just going to deny everything. And what am I gonna say? I mean, at this point the only thing I can say is that someone broke into my apartment. And that I think someone was following me in a black car. I can’t prove anything. I’d sound like a nut.”

“But we’ve got these pictures, this file, the phone records, and the guy in Palm Springs. There’s too much information out there. It all points to Steele being the murderer.”

I filled my mouth with the cold wine and held it there, thinking. I swished the liquid from one cheek to the other and then swallowed. “I dunno. So Steele’s the killer. Maybe they arrest him, but I just think there’s something else here that we don’t know. Something we can’t see. I mean, why would Andersen be so pissed?”

“Well, he probably doesn’t want any of this coming out.”

“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal for him. I mean you heard that guy at the party, y’know, what’s his name. The guy you work for who said Andersen is gay. I mean, apparently everyone knows, so there’s no harm to him there. Besides, it’s not a big deal for a lawyer to be gay in Los Angeles. For Steele, it’s a bigger issue. So why is Andersen so involved?”

“Well, you don’t know for sure that he is. I mean, maybe he told Steele about your call and it was Steele who had you followed and who had your apartment turned upside down.”

“Hmmm. Maybe.” I emptied and refilled my glass. I was beginning to feel drunk. My face felt flushed and I rolled my head back on my shoulders, relaxing. It was all beginning to feel less real and more like an academic exercise. What do you do when your client turns out to be a murderer and is hunting you down? That wasn’t in the textbooks.

I went quiet. I could go to the police and get rid of Steele. Surely, based on this evidence, they would have to arrest and retry him, presumably to another conviction. But that still left Andersen. But maybe Liz was right. Maybe Andersen wasn’t really involved. And then there was my own career to think about. Would there be anything left of it if I turned Steele in? Did I care? I never wanted the job at K&C anyway, or so I thought.

“Wait a minute,” Liz broke the silence. “Did you say Sharon told the lawyer that she’d already started moving things out of the house?”

“Yeah.” I looked over to see Liz holding a sheet of paper.

“Well, this looks like a deed to a house. It’s signed by both Sharon and someone else and dated about a week before the murder.”

“Let me see that.” I held out my hand and took the paper. It appeared to be a deed dated five days before the murder and two days before Sharon’s meeting with Murdock. “Well, shit, it looks like she bought a house.”

“And this isn’t a copy either. This is the original.” Liz pointed at the face of the document and showed me. “Could she have paid cash? It doesn’t look like this was ever recorded.”

“I suppose, apparently she was loaded.”

“And look at this.” Liz leaned over and handed me a yellow legal pad with a list of things on it as well as a phone number and some other kind of number. “What do you suppose that is?”

“Well, she supposedly told Murdock that she’d already started moving things out of the house.” I read through the list. It had generic descriptions such as “four boxes from garage” and “clothes” as well as more descriptive things like photo albums, wood carving, chest, and computer. All together, there were about twenty things written in a column down the left side of the page. Across the bottom was an eight-one-eight phone number and a seven digit number labeled “confirmation.”

“Maybe this is her list of things she was going to move, or did move,” I mumbled as I flipped the page and then fanned through the rest of the pad. There was nothing else. It was empty. I tossed the pad back on the coffee table and set my head back on the pillow. There was no answer, no clear direction.

The conversation went on for another hour. We finished the bottle of wine and opened another. We went over and over the various ways it might all add up and what I should do about it. It was maddening. An endless calculus filled with nothing but variables. I finally sat up, exhausted, and rubbed my face with my hands.

“I just can’t think about any of this anymore. I keep hoping that if I just don’t do anything it will all go away.”

“But if Steele is the killer, you can’t just let him get away with it.”

I could feel a disgusted look come over my face. “Shit. Yeah, I dunno. Can’t I? I mean he did spend twelve years in prison. Maybe that’s enough.”

Liz looked flabbergasted at the suggestion. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“But I also have no obligation to endanger myself by coming forward. I just don’t know who’s out there trying to get me. I’m not going to just stand out in the daylight and say, ‘here I am, come and get me.’ I mean, what about my future? Sharon Steele is already dead. Nothing I do is going to change that. If society wants revenge, then it needs to do the investigation I’ve done. I don’t have to get myself killed.”

“Who said anything about you getting killed? Why would they kill you? I mean, if you gave them the file, they could destroy it and there’d be nothing left.”

“I’d be left, and that might be too much for some people to tolerate.” I looked around the apartment, confused for a second. “Shit,” I finally sighed. “I need someone else to tell me what to do. I just don’t believe I’ll be safe if I run into the police station waving my files around and I don’t think I’ll be safe if I don’t. Meanwhile, someone is out there right now wondering where I am.”

Liz watched my movements. They were hesitant, jerky, uncertain, and confused. At no time had we discussed what I had done to her and I could sense her resisting an intoxicated urge to confront me about it. But despite her anger over my behavior, I could see she remained concerned about me. It was in her movements, in her eyes and voice. I looked exhausted and frightened, and she knew I needed her.

We continued talking, going round and round over the same territory. Steele’s story, Kelly’s story, Murdock’s story, the documents from the credit report, the phone call to Andersen, the photographs of Andersen and Steele, the man in the black car, my trashed apartment, it all added up to nothing but confused suspicion and fruitless speculation. We finished the rest of the bottle of wine and started on another. Darkness came over the city and we talked without the lights on and late into the night.