Layover Rules

Chapter Fourteen



I woke in the morning to an empty bed. Sam was gone. No sweet note on the pillow. He’d lived up to the Layover Rules once again.

By 4:15 that afternoon, I was back in New York, riding in a cab to Mr. Rantham’s office.

When I called Alicia and told her what was going on, she said, “The FB-f*cking-I? Are you in trouble?”

“My lawyer doesn’t think so.”

“Wait,” she said. “Hold up. You have a lawyer?”

“Friend of my dad’s. I’m on my way to his office right now.”

“I’m so sorry, Blair. Do you want me to come with you?”

My throat tightened and I started to well up when she offered to meet me—a combination of the stress of the situation and gratitude that I had such a great friend in Alicia.

“No,” I managed to say, choking back tears. “I’ve got this.”

“I know you do. Call me later or I’m coming to find you.”



. . . . .



The law firm was on the 29th floor, and it was the longest elevator ride of my life. This was my first time talking to a lawyer, and if this part was so nerve-wracking, I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to handle the “interview” with an actual FBI agent.

Mr. Rantham’s law firm took up the entire floor. Exiting the elevator, I saw a large waiting area with black leather couches, and oak and glass tables with dim lamps providing soft lighting.

I approached the receptionist, a woman who looked to be in her forties, dressed in a black pantsuit, her dark hair pulled tightly into a bun. She smiled and asked if she could help me.

Yeah, I thought. You could pose as Blair Dyson and go meet with the FBI. That would really help me.

What I said was, “I’m here to meet with Mr. Rantham.”

“Ms. Dyson?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Rantham’s expecting you. I’ll let him know you’re here. Have a seat anywhere you like. It should only be a few minutes.”

I thanked her and walked over to one of the couches that probably cost more than all of the furnishings in my apartment.

Men and women passed through the waiting area, all giving off a vibe of urgency.

Finally, an older man, about my dad’s age, came out through a couple of wooden doors and said, “Blair?” He wore pinstripe dark suit pants, a crisp white shirt, and a vest, no coat.

I stood. “Yes.”

He extended his hand and I shook it.

“Bob Rantham. Nice to meet you in person. How was your trip back?”

He had an easy, calming smile and I felt better knowing that he was a friend of my father’s and that he was on my side.

“It was fine, but with all of this happening—”

“I completely understand. Can I have Kathy get you something to drink? We’ll go into my office and get this sorted out.”

“Sure. A diet anything would be fine.”

The woman at the reception desk stood. “I’ll bring it in for you.” When she walked past me, she touched my shoulder, a small reassuring gesture, which I very much needed at the moment.

Mr. Rantham’s office was much like I had expected, sporting the décor you see on TV shows involving lawyers. One wall held his diplomas and various citations and awards in impressive wooden frames, but the other three were all lined with bookshelves, packed with law books. There was a sitting area in the middle of the office with two high-backed brown leather chairs and a matching loveseat, all arranged on an large circular dark red rug, around a coffee table that had a copy of the Bill of Rights framed under the glass section in the center.

When we were seated, he took out a legal pad and placed it on his lap. “We’re going to have to run through this quickly, so if you could give a quick summary of what’s going on, that would be great. Then I’ll probably have some questions, and if you could keep your answers as brief as possible, we’ll get a lot done before the agent gets here.”

“He’s coming here?”

He grinned. “When you lawyer up, they’re almost always willing to come to you. And I like to have them on our territory, when possible. It kind of levels the playing field.”

I liked how this guy thought.

We started going over what he thought the FBI agent would ask me. He reassured me that the interview was probably only a formality and that most of the questions would be about what, if anything, I knew about Trevor’s business that may have indicated he was up to something illegal. There was nothing I could think of, and Mr. Rantham said that would probably make for a short interview.

I was beginning to detest that word.



. . . . .



Kathy at the reception desk buzzed Mr. Rantham a half hour later and told him Agent Cooper had arrived.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, standing. “Just sit tight.”

A few minutes later, he came back in with Agent Cooper.

I’ve watched a lot of TV crime dramas, and Agent Cooper looked nothing like what I’d expected based on those shows.

I had expected him to look like one of the agents from Criminal Minds or Without A Trace. He didn’t. Agent Cooper looked to be in his sixties, tall, with strands of gray hair molded into place across his head, comprising one of the worst comb-overs I’d ever seen. He wore thick glasses that rested halfway down his bulbous nose, and he had what I’d heard people refer to as a “pelican neck”—loose, droopy skin from his chin to the base of his throat. He’d probably make a good undercover agent because he looked more like a retired school librarian than a guy who carried a badge and a gun.

He introduced himself to me, then put a digital recorder on the table, halfway between us, and got right down to business. “Agent Dwight Cooper.” He looked at his watch, said the time and date. “First interview with Blair Dyson, in the matter of United States versus Trevor William Baker, case number US-98274933.”

The formal, official tone of his voice was making this worse than I thought. And what was with the “first interview” thing? How many of these would there be?

The interrogation began with the basics. He asked where I went to college, what my major was, where I had worked in the past and where I was currently employed, and how I met Trevor.

After about twenty minutes, he finally got to questions that were more relevant to the investigation.

Agent Cooper said. “Tell me what you know about Trevor’s business. Whatever he told you, whatever you discovered on your own, everything.”

I took a deep breath and looked at Mr. Rantham. He simply nodded once.

“Almost nothing.”

Agent Cooper looked at me, a deadpan expression on his face.

I looked at Mr. Rantham. He was looking at Agent Cooper, and I looked back at him as well. I shrugged. “Other than the fact that he was an investor, that’s really it.”

“How long were you with him?”

“Almost a year.”

“And how long did you live with him?”

“Eight months,” I said.

Where was he going with this?

He opened a folder and shuffled some papers around. “At any time did you have access to any of Trevor Baker’s accounts?”

Agent Cooper would have no way of knowing just how absurd that question was, so I had to stop myself quickly after a short laugh escaped involuntarily from my mouth.

I cleared my throat, an awkward transition, and said, “Trevor barely told me anything. And I mean, anything about anything.”

Agent Cooper searched my face, presumably trying to judge whether I was telling the truth. After some very long seconds of looking at me, he looked down at his papers. I wondered what he thought.

“Did Trevor Baker ever give you money?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never a huge amount,” I said, realizing that it now sounded like I’d just tried to get away with a lie.

“How much and how often?”

“Twice,” I said, shifting in my seat. “He paid for me to break my lease on my old apartment, and then he paid my cell phone bill one time. That was it.”

There was a silent pause in the room for several seconds and then I remembered something.

“He also paid for me to get Lasik surgery. I almost forgot.”

Agent Cooper wrote that down, then moved on. “Did he ever buy you clothes, shoes, anything like that?”

Shit.

I felt my face flush, and my neck actually got hot as the blood rushed to my face. “Yes.”

“What else did he buy you? Jewelry?”

“Yes.”

“And what were those items?”

I ran through all of the pieces of jewelry I could remember Trevor giving me. There was lots of it, mostly earrings, because he knew I loved to collect them. “But I don’t have any of that anymore. I didn’t bring any of it with me when I left.”

Agent Cooper removed his reading glasses. “How about a car?”

“No. I’ve never owned my own car.”

“What else did he buy you?”

I thought for a moment, trying to make sure I had my answer straight, and that it was the entire truth, so I wouldn’t be caught looking like I’d lied by omission again. “Other than paying for food—”

“That’s not what I mean.” Agent Cooper put his glasses back on and picked up a sheet of paper. He looked at it while we sat there silently and I wished like hell I could see what he was reading. Was there something I had forgotten?

I looked at Mr. Rantham, who had a reassuring look on his face.

I turned back to Agent Cooper. “Nothing. It was just clothes.”

“Do you still have those clothes?”

At that point, Mr. Rantham jumped in. “Are you going to charge my client?”

“With what?” Agent Cooper shot back.

“That’s what I’m asking. Apparently, the answer is no.” He stood. “I’m going to end this now.”

Agent Cooper maintained his poker face.

Mr. Rantham said, “If you have anything further, contact me.”

Once Agent Cooper was gone, I said, “Do they think I’m involved?”

He shook his head. “Based on the questions, I doubt that very highly. He was trying to find out if Trevor was hiding assets anywhere. Buying expensive things—like jewelry—and having someone hold it for him.” He looked at me.

“I’m not. I swear.”

Mr. Rantham nodded. “Okay, I believe you. But I have to tell you, if there’s anything you think I should know…”

I shook my head. “There’s not. Honestly. He’s so gone from my life. I don’t have anything he gave me. I don’t have anything I bought with the money he gave me to go shopping. Not even a pair of socks. I donated almost all of it to charity right away and the few items I did keep are gone now. I threw them away.”

Mr. Rantham said, “Good.”

“Are they done with me?”

He was silent for a moment before saying, “You know you’re going to have to testify.”



. . . . .





I texted and called Alicia repeatedly on my way to her apartment. When I got there, I still hadn’t heard back from her. I went into her building and sat in the small lobby. After thirty minutes, I decided I probably should have gone home.

Just as I was about to leave, she finally called me back.

“I’m in your lobby. I really need to see you.”

“Blair, I’m so sorry. I had my phone on silent and just saw the texts and missed calls. I’m almost there.”

We weren’t in her apartment more than ten seconds before I raided her refrigerator. I had eaten a banana for breakfast, and nothing since. I was famished, feeling clammy, almost shaking because my blood sugar had gotten so low.

“Wine,” she said. “We need wine and I have…” She picked up a bottle. “None. Why do I tease myself with empty wine bottles on the counter? I’ll be right back.”

She headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Across the street,” she said, as she stepped out into the hallway. “I’ll be back in five minutes, tops. Just eat.”

Later, I was stuffed from the food I’d taken from her fridge—leftover mashed potatoes, a small piece of grilled chicken, some hummus that she’d made—and I was also drunk on the wine. Alicia had brought back three bottles, saying that should get us through the night. I reclined on her couch, Alicia at the other end, letting me put my legs across her lap.

“Worst day ever,” I said after finishing the story.

“So, what are you going to do?”

I was looking up at the ceiling. The fan wasn’t on, but to me it looked like it was moving a little. “I guess testify. I don’t have a choice.”

“I know I probably shouldn’t bring this up, but have you told Sam anything about this? It’s kind of a big deal now.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am. It’s a federal—”

“No,” I interrupted. “You were right about thinking you shouldn’t bring it up.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s fine.” I sat up and put my hand on the arm of the couch to stop from feeling like I was tipping over. “I’m going to have to tell him. He’ll find out. You know what’s going to happen? I’m going to be all over the news. Former lover of Trevor Baker, Wall Street criminal. Goddamn, I hate him.”

Alicia didn’t say anything.

I leaned over and fell onto her, my head resting in her lap. “Can I ask you a favor?”

She brushed the hair off my face and out of my mouth. “Anything.”

“If I give you, like, fifty bucks, will you kill him?”

Alicia laughed so hard she spilled some of her wine on my shirt. “Sorry.”

“Hey, this shirt cost more than fifty bucks. Now you have to kill him for free.”

That’s the last I remember of that night.



. . . . .



My ringing phone woke me up the next morning. I saw Sam’s name on the screen and answered it.

“Wow,” he said, “did I wake you from the dead?”

“Do I sound that bad?”

“Not bad,” he said. “Tired. But sexy, as always.”

I smiled. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven-thirty. I wanted to catch you before you got to work.”

“Ugh, I have to get up.” I sat up and stretched, and it was only then that I realized I was still at Alicia’s. Must have been some night of drinking.

Through the phone, I heard noise in the background, a loud truck of some kind, then a lot of horns blowing.

Sam raised his voice over the noise. “I just wanted to check on you. Things were looking pretty bleak when you left San Francisco.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re okay.” He repeated it with a skeptical tone.

“Uh huh.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I got up and stumbled into the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and chugged it. “I think I’m dehydrated.”

“From what?”

“Drinking,” I said.

“That’s not good. Meet me somewhere later and I’ll buy us lunch. Or if you’re just thirsty, I’ll bring you some Gatorade.”

I smiled. “Rules, Sam. The rules are still in effect.”

“It was a good try. You have to give me that.”

“Granted. Good try.”

I walked to the couch and pretty much collapsed on it. Every muscle in my body was weak and aching. I swore to myself that I’d never drink again. Ever.

Or at least not for another week or so.

“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?” he asked.

“No. It’s…just don’t worry about it. It’s going to be fine. I’m just caught up in the middle of something.” That wasn’t good. It was too much of a tease. “With work,” I lied, thinking I should probably keep my voice down so I didn’t wake Alicia. “It would bore you to tears, trust me.”

“I’m not the crying type.”

“I didn’t figure you would be.”

“Well, there was this one time,” he said. “I was eleven, playing on a little league team. That was the first time I’d ever played organized baseball. I played in the neighborhood before, but that was mostly whiffle ball style. I wasn’t used to the weight of a real baseball. I was one of those kids who never played catch with his father. In all of our three practices before the first game, I missed every ball that was hit to me. They’d roll through my legs and the coach would shout for me to put the glove on the ground and let the ball roll into it. Or there’d be a fly ball and I’d run around like an idiot trying to get dead-center under it, but it would fall next to me and I’d hear this thunk sound as it hit the ground.”

I laughed. “Sorry.” And by now he had me fully awake, loving hearing the story he was sharing with me.

“No, it’s okay. It wasn’t funny then, but it is now. Fast forward to our first game and needless to say I’m nervous as hell. I just know I’m going to miss a ball if one comes my way. The coach tells me I need to get used to how a ball feels in the glove, just to build some confidence, I guess. Our team is up first. Three batters, three outs, so I didn’t have to go to the plate. I sat in the dugout, holding this ball in my glove, concentrating on it. I wasn’t even paying attention to what was happening on the field.”

“Oh, don’t tell me.”

“What? You’ll never guess.”

“Okay, then. Go ahead.” I was going to guess that he didn’t run out on the field because he wasn’t watching what was going on. But it was much worse than that.

“I take my place out on the field when the other team is up. My first real game. You’d think I would have been excited, and all the other kids seemed to be happy and having fun. But I was out in right field—that’s where they put the players who are the worst fielders—just hoping and praying that no one hits the ball to me.”

“But they did.”

“First pitch. I hear the crack of the bat and see the ball making this huge arc in the air, coming at me. I mean, right at me. I barely had to move. I put my glove up to catch it, the ball comes down, I feel it in my glove and then two balls fall out of my glove and hit the ground.”

“No way. You brought the other ball out there?” I covered my mouth, speaking through my fingers. “So what did you do?”

“I ran. Just took off running, all the way home.”

I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically, picturing a little Sam running away. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. “I’m sorry.”

He was laughing right along with me. “I was crying by the time I got home. That’s my crying story.”

“Where were your parents?”

“My mom was at the game. She got home a few minutes after I did. I think she was driving around looking for me, but I had run through the woods in our neighborhood.”

“And your dad?”

“He was at work. Like always.”

Sam’s tone changed a little when he said that. I didn’t want to pry, so I let it go.

“Oh, God, that’s funny,” I said. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Any time you need a laugh at my expense, just let me know.”

“I just might take you up on that.”

“Oh,” he added, “that’s in the book, by the way. So now I know you still haven’t read it.”

“If you keep bugging me about it, I never will.”

It was a great conversation, a perfect way to start the day.

At least until he said this: “By the way, I wasn’t really trying to get you to break the rules by meeting me for lunch. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

I was struck by his sincere, sweet comment. Until he continued….

“I have a meeting with my lawyers, anyway,” he said. “More dealing with this investment bullshit. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. They’re comparing him to Bernie Madoff. Did you follow that case?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, no. Well, I mean…a little. It was hard to miss.”

“That guy ripped off Sandy Koufax. Know who he is?”

“Uh, no.” My mouth was feeling dry again, this time not from the morning-after effects of drinking, but from nerves. All my good feelings from Sam’s story were gone, just like that.

“I didn’t think you did,” Sam said. “He’s in the baseball Hall of Fame, great pitcher, played for the Brooklyn Dodgers and then in L.A. when they moved to California. Madoff also ripped off Kevin Bacon and Steven Spielberg. Lots of famous people, actually. So I’m in good company, depending on how many famous people this Baker guy swindled.”

I was speechless after listening to him talking that much about the case.

“Did you fall asleep,” he said.

“No, I’m here.”

“Oh, that’s right. You only fall asleep when you’re trying to read my book.”

I managed a little smile, but it was kind of forced. I’m not sure why I did that. We were on the phone, so he couldn’t have seen it. I must have been forcing it for myself.