Given the people Gary knew, given whom he worked for…
“And I guess I signed off on this deal?” she asked. The question tasted bitter.
“I guess you did. And you were real happy to, apparently. Cause you know, you hated the idea of leaving people out all that money because of your husband’s poor business decisions.”
The truth was, she hadn’t even thought about those people, not since she’d become someone else and they were no longer her problem.
“And now you’re ready to start over fresh. With a clean slate.”
Which in a way, she’d already done. Only it hadn’t lasted.
She could call her old attorney to confirm some of this. He had to have helped draw up the hedge-fund deal. He must have thought she’d agreed to it.
“So, how did you do it? Faked some emails from me? Forged my signature?”
“Something like that.” Gary studied her face, without his usual leer or threat. “Don’t you want to be Michelle again?” he asked. For once, he seemed genuinely curious. “Have your old life back?”
She hesitated. Actually thought about it. How she’d lived, back in Los Angeles. How she’d lived the last two years.
“Not really.”
“The interview’s just a formality. You’ll be meeting with Porter Ackermann, the executive director of Safer America. He’s already heard all about you.”
“All about me?”
“Well, what he needs to know. That you’re the right person for the job. That you know how to handle the kinds of situations you’ll find yourself in.”
She hoped he meant fundraisers and cocktail parties.
“After that, you’ll see Caitlin. That won’t be a problem. She’ll go along with whatever Porter tells her to do.”
She knew there was a big piece of the puzzle missing, and that Gary wouldn’t tell her what it was if she asked him. But she decided that she might as well ask. Maybe something in his reaction would give her a clue.
“There’s another thing I don’t get, Gary. Why do you care about this?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Caitlin and her foundation. Why is it so important to you and your friends?”
“What, you think we don’t care about a safer America?”
No clues. Just his typical shit-eating grin.
He raised his hand to call the waitress. “Anyway, that’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Which in her experience meant she should worry about it, a lot.
“When do I get paid?” she asked.
“Your official salary’s seventy-five K annually, so expect your first check in a week or two.” He reached into the pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a sealed 5” x 8” manila envelope. “Here’s some walking-around money to get you started. Five thousand.” A little smirk.
Five thousand was what he’d given her the first time, in Mexico.
She tried not to shudder as she took it from him.
“And the rest?”
“Four payments. What the hell, I’ll make them fifty K each. That’s a little more than we agreed on, but let’s just call it a bonus. A third of your salary’s going to taxes anyway. We’ll get the first one to you in a couple of days.” He started to rise, and then added: “You might want to put some thought into how you’re gonna manage all that cash in the meantime.”
It was true. She hadn’t considered that at all.
“Oh, better not forget this.” He retrieved another envelope from his sports coat. Thicker than the first. Something solid inside. Gary slid the envelope across the table. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Inside was a wallet. Her wallet. A black leather Gucci that had been a gift from Tom.
The one she’d lost in Mexico, the night she almost died.
“New credit cards,” Gary said, “since you cancelled the old ones. Address for those is your sister’s place in LA. But the rest of your old stuff’s there.”
She took a quick look. Driver’s license. Auto Club. A new AMEX and Chase Visa. Pilates and yoga studio memberships. A photo of her nephew and her sister. Another of her parents.
x x x
Safer America’s office was in a section of Houston called River Oaks. “Close to where Caitlin lives,” Gary had said. “She doesn’t like having to go far when she comes into the office.”
The office was across the street from a mall topped by condos. The anchor store there was a place called Tootsie’s. “Oh, yeah, that’s where all the rich ladies shop,” the cab driver told her. Michelle had never heard of the store. She made a note on her iPhone to check it out. She needed to figure out how things worked here, in Houston, what the landscape was like, what the different neighborhoods meant. She’d known all that stuff in Los Angeles, but this wasn’t Los Angeles.
She paid the driver and got out. Stood on the sidewalk and immediately started to sweat in the dead heat of the afternoon. Stared up at the innocuous office building in front of her, where Safer America was.
She’d worn her black Armani suit, which she’d brought in case she’d needed to go to court. She didn't have many nice things like this any more. A little black dress for parties, a couple of decent sweaters and blouses, a few good skirts and pairs of slacks. She mostly wore jeans and cardigans. Long-sleeved T-shirts. Sweats. Even thermals.
Sweat trickled down her back. If I get the job, I’m going to need to buy some new clothes, she thought briefly. Hardly any of her Arcata wardrobe would work for Houston, especially not this time of year.
Stupid, she told herself. Stupid to even be thinking this way. Danny was right. She shouldn’t have agreed to this. She should have called Sam, seen what he could do.
But she didn’t know if she could trust Sam.
I will call him, she thought. But this way, going along with Gary for now, maybe she’d bought a little more time, for her safety, and for Danny’s.
“You come highly recommended.”
Porter Ackermann sat behind a large walnut desk. He was middle-aged, in his late fifties, Michelle guessed, heavy, squat and immobile, like a piece of expensive furniture.
Overall the headquarters of Safer America were as modest and unassuming as the building in which they were housed. A receptionist in a vestibule decorated with bland corporate art. A small suite of offices grouped around a short corridor. Still, there were signs of money. Porter Ackermann’s desk. Porter Ackermann’s suit.
“That’s good to hear,” Michelle said.
“Yes, very good, because from your résumé, well, we’ve had other candidates who on paper would seem to be better qualified.” Porter glanced at the résumé sitting on his desk, the résumé Gary had provided, and then looked up at Michelle, managing a flick of a smile. He had a pear-shaped face, with a wide jaw and heavy jowls, and kept the remains of his gray hair short.
“I know my résumé looks a little thin,” she said. “But I’ve had a lot of experience managing the kinds of social situations that Ms. O’Connor has to deal with.”
“So I’ve heard.” He made a show of studying her résumé. “Well, I for one weigh your references very heavily. But it really is all about the kind of personal connection you have with Caitlin.” He smiled again, an action that seemed like a mechanical arrangement of facial muscles. “Why don’t we head on over to her place and see if the two of you hit it off?”
Porter steered his Escalade down a broad, quiet street. “River Oaks is mostly old money, in Houston terms. Oil and real estate.” He chuckled. “Of course, Houston is a relatively new city.”
Michelle could certainly see the “money” part of the equation. The houses they passed were on the order of estates. Some of the older houses had charm, sturdy-looking American Colonials and Tudors, modest when you compared them to the newer mansions going up. Others were faux plantations. Colonials on steroids. Even a castle or two.