“This has nothing to do with what you deserve. Fairness isn’t bankable. Right now, the guy may be rethinking your payment schedule because fear has an exact dollar value. He’s a pirate, not an entrepreneur.”
I put my arm around her waist, and we continued toward the parking garage. “You’re saying he’ll want more money after the wedding.”
That’s what I was thinking. She was marrying Michael Jonquil, a third-generation Swiss-American whose family was regal, Lear jetwealthy, and politically connected-Michael was running for a state house seat in the fall.
I replied, “Possibly. Depends on the fear factor. That’s why you have to be honest. I don’t need details. Just a realistic understanding of how much leverage the man has.”
“Fear, huh?”
“Isn’t that what business negotiation is all about?”
“Guilt’s more like it. Or shame.” She was talking about herself.
I said, “Then let’s hope he didn’t keep a copy of the tape.”
Randy Wayne White
Black Widow
2
It wasn’t until we were in Shay’s toy-sized convertible, traveling west, top down, that she spoke again. The long silence suggested a prelude to confession-not without reason.
“Remember the first e-mail demanding money? I told you he sent video samples as an attachment.”
I remembered. It was eight days ago. Less than a week after Shay and friends returned from Saint Arc, an island only a few miles from Saint Lucia, off the coast of South America. Shay had downloaded the video files, but the files were corrupt, she said. The clips wouldn’t open.
I’d urged her to contact the FBI, but she refused. I should’ve insisted. I didn’t.
I asked, “What about the files?”
“They weren’t corrupt. What he filmed was corrupt-things the girls and I did on Saint Arc. I trashed the clips because I knew you’d want to see everything when I asked for help. Like it was evidence.”
“It was that bad?”
“Bad enough. Michael and I won’t be getting married next week if he gets hold of the tape. Beryl and Liz’s wedding plans will be wrecked, and Corey’s husband-he’s such a violence freak-he’d kill someone if he finds out. Maybe he’d kill Corey. And she didn’t even do anything. Not really. Just the fact she was with us, he’d go orbital.”
Shay paused to turn south, downshifting as she slalomed between slower vehicles, picking lanes then accelerating: a decisive female whose driving mirrored her personality-not always good in an overpowered, undersized car. I no longer lectured her on the dangers of tailgating and accelerating through intersections. Putting my hands on the dash had become my way of saying Slow the hell down.
When traffic thinned, though, she lost her edge. She sat back and let the night sky tunnel above us, thinking things through before giving me her attention.
“Who’m I kidding. Of course you’re right. I wouldn’t let someone con that much money if all we’d done was smoke and play kissy face with the local cabana boys-which would’ve been bad enough as far as Michael’s family is concerned. I was too embarrassed to give you the details. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It was the smart way to deal with it. At first.”
“Really?”
“Sure. There was no reason for me to know. But now-”
“Okay. So that’s why I’m telling you. Truth is, the three guys in the video? We all ended up in the swimming pool. Naked-except for Corey, but even she took her top off. The cameraman must’ve been hidden on the hillside above our rental house. It looked like jungle, but that’s where he had to be.” Shay lowered her voice to a whisper. “Doc, you’ve got to swear you won’t tell a soul about Corey. Ever. Vance is nuts. Seriously.”
I’d never met Corey’s husband. He was a bodybuilder; a sometimes actor. I’d heard the stories of his steroid rages and cocktail-party dramas. His temper had gotten him fired from his job as a firefighter.
I said, “Don’t worry.”
Shay nodded, concentrating on her driving again. “There were only a couple shots of Corey, but enough to make him crazy. Beryl and Liz took their suits off, too. But most of the close-ups are of me. In fact, the asshole cameraman made me the star.”
Before I could catch myself, I said, “If your girlfriends were nude, why pick on you?”
If the question offended her, she didn’t react. Or maybe she was confident enough to be unfazed. Shay was no longer the pinch-faced teen I’d met eight years ago. The adolescent brown hair was now a luxurious maple, the baby fat was gone, the clothes stylish. She was attractive in a solid, assertive way, but our instinctual perception of beauty has to do with symmetry and proportions. Shay’s facial proportions were off-nose a little too thick, lips too thin, and the columella, the divider that separates her nostrils, was creased.
Her maid of honor, Beryl Woodward, though, was an auburn Grace Kelly who radiated ice when she entered a room, then slowly filled the space with heat. Her bridesmaid Liz made extra money modeling swimsuits. Corey was about to sign a film contract when she met the domineering man who became her husband. Yet the voyeur had singled out Shay?
“Maybe it had something to do with the guy I was with,” she said. “He was the leader… that was my impression. He wore a pirate bandanna and was a little too good-looking. Like a fashion model, but nice-or so I thought. He was younger… twenty-one. We flirted. He was a good dancer, and dancing is something I never get to do since I got engaged.
“In the pool, he and I… the two of us drifted off into a corner and… we played around for a while, then… and then the three guys got dressed and left. And that’s all that happened.”
She was having second thoughts. This amended version had been assembled as she talked.
There was a bottle of water in the cup holder. I took a long drink, then opened my briefcase and began to separate travel documents from travel trash. We were on Summerlin Road. The causeway that links the mainland with Sanibel was ahead, the new skyway bridge arching into summer darkness. To the south, Estero Island was a yellow necklace of condo lights. We were through the tollgate, halfway across the bay, before Shay broke the silence.
“Why don’t you say something?”
“I was waiting for you to finish.”
“I did. That’s the whole story. Nothing sexual happened because that’s a line we didn’t cross. None of us girls did. Not technically sexual, I’m saying.”
“Technically sexual,” I repeated.
“You know what I mean.”
“Nope, I’m a biologist, and I wouldn’t attempt a guess. But it doesn’t matter. If the blackmailer kept a copy of the video, how much power does it give him six months from now? Or a year from now if Michael’s elected to the legislature? Or in six years if you start a company, and it’s about to go public?”
“Jesus Christ, what a nightmare even to think about.”
“Maybe. But it’s better to deal with it now.”
“Why? I just told you-we didn’t do anything wrong.”
“All right. In that case, there’s no reason to worry.”
“You say that like you don’t believe me.”
“I choose to believe you because you’re too smart to risk giving me bad information. I just explained what’s at stake.”
“You don’t believe me!”
“I’m discussing security. You’re fixating on morality. Why? That’s not my engagement ring on your finger.”
“Don’t be nasty.”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit, buddy-ruff. If you want to draw blood, you need heavier ammo. Maybe you forget I come from redneck country, the toughest and nastiest sort. I’m not bulletproof, but the small-caliber stuff bounces off.”
I smiled. “Oh, I see. So now I’m talking to the real Shay Money. Not the faker who earned scholarships, graduated cum laude, won umpteen awards, and is fast becoming the administrative darling of a Sanibel clothing company.”