Defiled Page 6

  A young man said, “Your alarm is sounding”

  “How come?”

  The young man probably wanted to say, “Duh!” but instead he said, “It’s been tripped. Can you check the doors and see if they’re secure?”

  “What? Why would I endanger myself? You guys are supposed to protect me.”

  “All sorts of things can trip the alarm, sir. Just have a look around before we file a false police report.”

  I shook my head to clear it. “I’m out of town, so I can’t do your dirty work for you. Which sensor was tripped?”

  “Number three. Know which one that is?”

  My voice rising, I said, “No, I don’t know which one that is! Don’t you?”

  “Calm down, sir. Let me pull up your security map.”

  After forty-five long seconds, the young man said, “The door between the dining room and the screened porch on the back of the house.”

  “Sure, an intruder would be out of sight back there, so it’s not a false alarm.”

  “It’s almost always a false alarm, sir. I’ve disabled your siren so it won’t disturb your neighbors.”

  “Don’t we want to alert the neighbors, get them to investigate?”

  “No sir, that wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Then call the cops before the robber gets away.”

  The young man gave a little huff and said, “Okay, stay by your phone, and I’ll call you back after the police check it out.”

  I put my head down on the desk and considered all the possibilities. Only one seemed likely: Carrie had let herself into the house. But why? To let me know my protective order wouldn’t stop her if she wanted to get to me? To steal something she had forgotten to take with her? I nodded off. Over an hour later, my cell phone woke me again.

  The young man said, “Your house is secure. No sign of forced entry, all doors locked.”

  “So it was a false alarm?” Carrie has a key.

  “Yes sir, like I told you. Now you’re unprotected until you can reset the alarm.”

  With all the sarcasm I could muster, I said, “Golly gee whiz, I feel so exposed without your protection.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I had convinced my partners that it wasn’t productive for me to work from the company office in Norcross—too many interruptions, too many meetings to attend. My job required deep thought, mathematical modeling experiments, and analysis of model run results—tasks better performed in the solitude of my homes in Florida. On the other hand, I missed the social aspects of working in an office. I enjoyed seeing my partners and the other employees when I came to Atlanta, and this Wednesday morning was no exception. I walked the halls, shaking hands, trading barbs, catching up on events in personal lives. I did not mention my divorce to anyone. My colleagues were acquaintances, but other than Jerry Louks, they were not close friends.

  My focus today was the status of the IPO, so I met with Bob Platt, the CEO, and Richard Barker, the CFO. They assured me that the IPO would happen according to plan. The seven partners would all be rich—on paper—within a month. The good news was that the IPO was on track; the bad news was that it would happen before my divorce was final. I challenged the timing—gently, not wanting to raise any suspicions—but my partners were firm in their drive to get the IPO done.

  In the afternoon, I endured a two-hour demonstration by my team. They wanted me to see how the end product was now taking shape. My mathematical models were embedded in an application stored in the “cloud” and used by medical staff to predict the future health of their patients. The latest delay in the IPO had occurred when the bankers insisted the application be demonstrable to investors before taking the company public. The team could now demonstrate the end product. It was too late to change the IPO date.

  The money I would earn from the IPO was important only as a means to an end. Unbeknownst to my partners, I had no intentions of working for a commercial business for the rest of my life. After the IPO was completed and my patents were approved, I would cash out and resign so that I could travel the country lecturing on the use of predictive modeling and analytics to solve medical issues. Maybe write a book. Maybe become an adjunct professor at a university with an affiliated medical center. My company, AMA, held a free perpetual license to my patents and would continue to commercialize the models while I proselytized. After a respectable period of time, I would issue free licenses to research universities so that the technology would become accessible to everyone and not just to those who could afford to be healthy. Carrie had objected to this plan, saying, “I’m not ready for retirement.” What she had meant was that I was too young to stop funding her exorbitant lifestyle. She wanted me to work for AMA until I reached retirement age so we could reap the commercial value of my inventions. I argued that we could live nicely on two million dollars plus honorariums, but she would have none of that.

  The chief information officer and the chief marketing officer, my closest working associates, treated me to a long lunch and then I headed back to Florida.

  Hours later, Tony called as I passed Gainesville and the University of Florida campus.

  “I was in court filing motions for you today. We went two for three with a sacrifice.” He sounded excited.

  “Pretty good if we were playing baseball. Which one was the strikeout?”

  “The subpoenas. Her Honor Phyllis Matthews-Bryant said, and I quote, ‘You’re not going to turn this civil proceeding into a criminal case,’ unquote. De Castro argued that since you are legally separated, Mrs. Marks’s records are her personal property and not community property. The judge agreed. Of course, it is reciprocal so they can’t ask for any of your records either.”

  “They can have all of my records, Tony. Her records would prove she’s been unfaithful. How are we supposed to get justice if we can’t use the facts?”

  “Whoa, buddy. Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay. This is business as usual for you, but it’s once in a lifetime for me. When you lose a fight in court it has dire consequences for my future.”

  “This is the way it works, Randle. Cases are assigned sequentially to a roster of judges, and de Castro got lucky when Matthews-Bryant was assigned to us.”

  “So luck will determine my fate, not your good work?”

  “We won more than our share today. The judge ordered mediation as soon as possible and gave us the privilege of choosing the mediator. De Castro was upset because she knows I’ll choose Ross Smallwood, a guy I’ve dealt with who has a reputation for being sympathetic toward male defendants. I’ll get us on his calendar tomorrow.”

  “Alright. And the other hit was …”

  “The judge ordered your wife to allow you access to the house so you can move your things. De Castro objected on the grounds that you have a home of your own and you’re under a restraining order, but I informed the judge that Mrs. Marks had the foresight to remove property from the beach house before she filed her complaint. Then she blindsided you with the filing and you left Cortes County with just a suitcase of clothes. Your wife’s behavior annoyed the judge so she approved our motion. The judge also noted that if Mrs. Marks wanted to protect the privacy of her records, she had to allow you to move your records to protect their privacy.”

  “Well done, Tony, but of course my records and everything else I own are in Carrie’s care until I move the stuff. When do I get into the house?”

  “That was the sacrifice. Mrs. Marks is to give us three dates that are convenient for her, but not later than thirty days from today.”

  “Thirty days! Tony, it’ll be like a sale at Filene’s Basement—everything will be picked over. So much for protecting my privacy.”

  “Calm down, Randle. The quid pro quo is that we’ll have agreed property inventories before the moving date.”

  “The way the court supervises divorce cases is ludicrous.”

  “Bloated as the government is,” Tony said, “there aren’t enough bureaucrats to closely monitor every
litigant. We have to assume you and your wife will follow the rules, behave yourselves.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, and filed that information away for future reference.

  “Next thing I have to do,” Tony said, “is get a ruling on the stock options—are they in or out—so we know what we’re dividing at mediation. Any word on the IPO?”

  “Still on schedule, unfortunately.”

  “Okay, I’ll get us back in front of Her Honor next week and schedule mediation as soon as possible.”

  Despite the ponderous pace of activity, Tony seemed pretty pleased with himself. Lawyers have different standards of performance than businessmen.

  When I reached the beach house, I checked all the doors and windows and found them secure. Inside the house, nothing seemed to be missing—my iPod lay on the bedside table, my pistol was in its drawer, my lonely TV posed invitingly on its stand—so my intruder had not been a common thief. Carrie may have been surprised that I had changed the alarm code and may have escaped before irate neighbors discovered her. However, the screaming alarm siren had not prompted any of the neighbors to alert the police. With my car sitting in the front drive, I doubted Carrie would make another attempt, but I loaded a clip into my pistol and laid it on the bedside table. Just in case.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On Saturday, I put on my happy face and decided to enjoy living alone. I wasn’t comfortable in bucolic Cortes County and wasn’t adept at sharing space and time with another person. Since I had no schedule to negotiate with Carrie, I ate when hungry, napped when tired, and floated on a raft in the pool until I was pruned from head to toe.

  The alternating rain and sunshine in Florida produces weeds as fat as your wrist and as tall as a fourth grader. Chop them down this week, and they’re back next week. I was chopping them down on Sunday, in the row of hibiscus bushes between my yard and the neighbor to the left of me, when a little girl’s voice said, “Hey you, with the plumber’s crack. Can you spare me the nasty visual?”

  As I turned toward the voice, I saw that a tall, slender, attractive woman, just turned fifty, had slipped through the side gate. I said, “Are you Jehovah’s Witnesses? Got a bunch of brochures under that blouse?”

  “I’m the welcome wagon, dummy. Got cookies and milk under this blouse.”

  I chuckled, and she walked around the pool to meet me in the lower yard. Glenda was smoking, so I guessed she was more nervous than she looked. She wore Bermuda shorts and sandals and a slipover top with a lot of sparkly stuff on the front. Her hair was pinned up haphazardly with strands pointing in every direction, like those signs that say Dubai is ten thousand miles one way and Hong Kong is twelve thousand miles the other way.

  I stood to meet her, bareback and sweating. She wasn’t deterred. She walked into my arms, put a hand behind my head to hold me in place, and kissed me like she meant it.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said.

  “I hate to destroy the mood, but were you followed? White panel van?”

  “He’s still on duty?”

  “We can’t let him catch you here. I’m going to take a look out on the street, and I’ll open the garage door so you can pull your car in.”

  I started to walk away, and Glenda said, “Randle, this is crazy. You can do anything you please. Screw ’em.”

  I grunted and nodded but walked through the gate and around the side of the house to get a look at the street. No white panel van. Screw ’em. In the backyard, I found Glenda sitting on a chaise lounge chair. She said, “Get me a drink?”

  “White wine okay?”

  “If it’s cold as a witch’s titty.”

  When I returned, I also carried a frosty beer for myself. Glenda was smoking again so I got an ashtray off the screened porch, took a seat on the chaise lounge chair next to her, and lit a cigar. Saluting her with my bottle, I said, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”

  She cocked her head and gave me a rueful smile. “Casablanca—our movie, like most couples have a song that’s just for them.”

  I smiled back. As Glenda took a sip of her wine, I admired her. Bright green eyes, fire-engine-red lips, fingernails, and toenails, hair as bright as a stoplight, and skin as white as new snow on a ski slope. She was well kept and tastefully polished, but less artificial than Carrie—sort of the difference between a cold glass of water and a syrupy soda.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Jamie gave me your address and phone number long ago—in case of an emergency.”

  “Do we have an emergency?”

  She looked directly at me so she could see my reaction. “Minor emergency. I’ve left Wesley and moved in with my mom.”

  “Oh no, Glenda. I’m sorry to hear that. I know Jamie really liked him.”

  “Jamie didn’t have to live with him. It takes unbelievable courage to help an alcoholic through each day, and I’m not Mother Teresa.”

  I wanted to avoid all the funeral parlor sympathy clichés, so I said, “I wish you didn’t have to go through the pain of a divorce. Do you need a lawyer?”

  “Our divorce won’t be contentious like yours. I don’t want anything from Wesley. He can keep his momma’s house and his rental properties. All I want is my store and my freedom, so I hired Sam, the guy who did our divorce.”

  “Well, then I’m envious. Where will you live after the divorce?”

  She gave me a mischievous grin. “I don’t know, but this is certainly nice.”

  Please don’t go there, Glenda. “We’re a lot better at fooling around than we are at cohabitation, sweetie. And I have this private dick watching me.”

  She lit another cigarette. Exhaling, she said, “That makes it all the more interesting.”

  “Still a danger junkie?”

  “Actually I’ve changed a lot in the seven years we’ve been divorced. You must have changed too.”

  I grimaced and slowly shook my head. “Not sure I’ve changed much, but I have learned a few things. I know to stay away from country girls with big tatas.”

  She howled. “They’re not real, are they?”

  “No, no—store bought, but high quality.”

  “Did you buy them for her?”

  “No, her second husband made that investment.”

  “Mine are just average, but they’ll still look good when I’m sixty-five. In ten years, she’ll have to tuck hers into her panties.”

  We shared a laugh, but she turned reproachful. “Was that the attraction? Her body?”

  Why do women always pry into places they shouldn’t go? “Sure, I fell for the honeytrap.”

  Glenda pointed an accusatory finger at me. “She was a little piggy, and you liked it.”

  I shrugged. “She thinks it’s okay to catch a man by being a little piggy and then not keep him happy after the ceremony. And she has mental health challenges I can’t cope with. I’m not Mother Teresa either.”

  Glenda stared at me a long time before handing me her glass. “Can you get me another one?”

  I took the glass into the house and poured a refill. When I returned, I found Glenda standing at the edge of the pool with her back to me. She stepped out of red thong panties and flipped them with her foot onto her tiny pile of clothes. Naked, she grinned at me over her shoulder and said, “I’m tired of talking about Wesley and Carrie, aren’t you?” Then she dove into the pool.

  Damn! I set her glass on the Cool-Crete and picked up my own. Standing at the edge of the pool, I waited for her to surface. She turned toward me and dug chlorine out of her eyes.

  “Come on in. But drop those shorts first. You can’t have a free show.”

  “Come on out, Glenda.”

  “You ever do it with her in the pool?”

  “No, she said it was uncomfortable.”

  “Poor thing. What about the hot tub?”

  “Nope.”

  She batted her eyelashes at me. “I can be your little piggy, Randle. It’s one way
I’m different now.”

  “We can’t do this, Glenda. Get your divorce and I’ll get my divorce, and then we’ll date like normal people. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds old-fashioned,” she said in a disappointed voice, but she was already wading toward the side of the pool.

  I went into the house, grabbed a beach towel, and got back to poolside as she started up the steps. That’s when I spotted the kid.

  “Get back in the water! Duck down!” I shouted.

  She obeyed without question, half-squatting in water up to her chin. Her eyes sparkled as she said, “Are the neighbors watching?”

  She’d have liked that! “It’s the kid with the camera,” I said.

  He stood in a center console fishing boat floating slowly down the inlet just beyond my dock. He had the camera to his face, presumably snapping pictures every few milliseconds.

  “Stay where you are.”

  I picked up my cell phone and jogged around the pool, down the yard, and onto my dock. Feet spread for stability on the floating dock, I snapped pictures of the PI snapping pictures of me. Having gotten enough, he waved, took the helm, and slowly cruised back up the inlet toward the Intracoastal. Looking back at the house, all I could see was a fuzzy red splotch on the surface of the pool. There’s an outside chance he didn’t get any full-frontal nudes of the only white woman in Pinellas County with a red Afro.

  I walked back up the yard and waved Glenda out of the pool. I spread the towel like Superman’s cape and held it for her. She walked into my embrace and said, “I’m sorry, Randle. Are you upset with me?”

  “He must have seen your car turn onto my street. We’ve got to get you out of here before he comes around the front taking pictures of your license plate.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure.”

  Glenda picked up her clothes and padded into the house. I relit my cigar and paced alongside the pool. I wondered how much damage this indiscretion would do to my claims that Carrie had been unfaithful. After Glenda had been gone a long time, I went inside to investigate. In the bathroom, I found the blow-dryer in the sink. On the counter, my hairbrush was clogged with red curly hairs. The wet towel was lying on the floor. Just like being married. The medicine cabinet was standing open. Checking to see if I’ve got a stock of Viagra? When I closed the cabinet door, I saw that Glenda had written a note, in lipstick, on the mirror.