The whole thing was so confusing now, Max had a throbbing headache. He bought copies of the Times and the Daily News, but their stories basically repeated the same information as the articles in the Post. The only good news, as far as Max was concerned, was that there was no mention in any of the papers of the police finding the incriminating cassette tape in Rosa’s apartment. But how long would it be before they did?
He had a feeling that his life was about to go down the shitter again.
At a deli on Lexington Avenue, he bought a bouquet of red and pink roses, then he took a cab up to the hospital. A different cop was on duty in front of Angela’s room. This one let him into the room without a hassle. Angela was sleeping. Max tiptoed up to the bed and woke her up with a soft kiss on the lips. Not his special, the hot one that never failed, but one with concern, damn it, plenty of real compassion in there. Angela’s eyes opened suddenly, like she didn’t know where she was, but then she saw Max’s face. There was a moment of horror at first and then her expression softened into a smile though her eyes still looked strained and unhappy. He figured he must’ve woken her out of a bad dream or something.
At work the next morning, Max had his receptionist get Andrew McCullough on the phone.
“I have another job for you,” Max said. “I want you to represent Angela Petrakos.”
“Angela Petrakos?” McCullough said. “You’re kidding, right?”
He hated the prick’s tone, like he thought he was so high and mighty because he was the lawyer and not the guy who constantly needed one. “Why would I kid about that?”
“Since when do you care what happens to Angela Petrakos?” the dick asked.
“Since I asked her to marry me,” Max said.
Max spent most of the day on the phone with his remaining clients, trying to shore up relationships. He also called some of the clients who had canceled their service agreements last week and asked for second chances. Most said they were sorry, that they were still going to take their business elsewhere, but he was able to sweet talk some into saying yes.
For the first time since before Deirdre was murdered, Max felt like his life was getting back on track. He was the kind of guy who worked best under pressure; it showed what he was made of.
He went to the gym in the morning, worked hard all day, then went to visit Angela at night. He was feeling healthier than he had in years. He felt a little bad about some of the things he’d done, but he also knew that somewhere inside him there was another Max Fisher, a better Max Fisher, and somehow he was going to let that Max Fisher out. He couldn’t wait to let the world see the new model. Hell, he might even start leaving tips.
Nah, no need to get stupid.
In the mirror that morning, he said to himself. “You’re a good person. Sure, you’ve had some tough luck, but suffering makes the man.”
He was pretty sure the Zen book would have this type of crap in it.
A minor hitch developed in McCullough’s case when the doorman at Bobby Rosa’s building came forward, claiming that Angela and Dillon had visited Bobby’s apartment on successive days. McCullough claimed that his client had been blackmailed by Bobby, and that she was at the building that night to ask for the sex pictures back. McCullough also speculated that Dillon was “the jealous type” and that he may have gone to confront Bobby, suspecting that Bobby and Angela were having an affair. As for the body in the bathtub, McCullough claimed that Angela was trapped in an abusive relationship and had killed Dillon in self-defense. The Drano was evidence of how desperate and illogical she had become. Angela’s cuts and bruises backed up the self-defense claim and several people at the office came forward and vouched that they’d seen Angela arrive at work with a nasty black eye prior to the murder. Regarding the other sticking point, the code to the alarm, McCullough suggested that Dillon had forced Deirdre Fisher to give him the code to the alarm the evening of the murders, which was why he was able to reset the alarm before he left.
Max didn’t think there was any way in hell the police would buy McCullough’s bullshit. They were going to indict Angela and then, under pressure, she’d break down and implicate him. But then McCullough called him at work with the incredible news. The police had held a press conference announcing that the investigation was officially closed – Thomas Dillon and Thomas Dillon alone had committed the murders of Deirdre Fisher, Stacy Goldenberg, and Kenneth Simmons. Apparently, although it was clear that Max and Angela were having an affair, the DA’s office didn’t think they had enough evidence against Max to pursue a case against him. They also felt that Angela, as a battered woman, would be viewed as sympathetic by a jury, especially after it was announced that Dillon was also linked to the vicious slaying of a Japanese tourist. According to an Op Ed piece in the Post, the Mayor may have urged a quick resolution to the case as well, the start of the summer tourist season being a bad time for stories about a tourist having his throat cut to be in the news.
Two days after the case was closed, Angela was discharged from the hospital. She was transported out of the premises in a wheelchair and then she stood up and limped into Max’s arms. Thanks to his Viagra he had a powerful hard-on, wanted to bang the living crap out of her right there. That night, he took her out to a romantic candlelight dinner at Demi on Madison Avenue and surprised her with a two-carat diamond engagement ring from Tiffany’s. It was worth every penny it had cost to see the way her eyes lit up when she held it. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness? Some dumb bastard who bought discount, probably.
Max started to go to the ashram a few times a week with Kamal. He listened closely as the swami talked about “the universal unconscious” and “the inner self.” He started to read books on Buddhism and Eastern philosophy and he did relaxation exercises and meditated two or three times a day. Hell, he was born for this shit. Even the itching had eased and the blisters were fading. That Buddha, he delivered, no question about it.
One weekend, Max took Angela to a yoga retreat in the Berkshires. They had a great time meditating, chanting, going to yoga and exercise classes, eating macrobiotic food, and taking long walks in the woods. When they came back to the city, Max felt completely cleansed. He felt as if he had been asleep his whole life and had finally awakened. The new Max Fisher was a kinder, more relaxed person who treated his newly hired employees with respect. He realized that for most of his life he’d been on the wrong path. His ego and desires had been controlling his actions while his true self was trapped underneath. Though he knew this didn’t justify or make up for anything he had done, he also knew the things he’d done weren’t his fault either. His ego had decided to kill Deirdre, and now that his ego was gone, the killer was gone too. He also felt a new sense of humility about himself and sensed that people understood he was a man who’d risen above great suffering to become even more compassionate. He knew it wasn’t just his imagination, people were looking at him differently. There was no use for false modesty now – he might as well display it for the goddamn world to see. He couldn’t wait to talk about his entire journey someday on Oprah.