Death at the Wheel (8 page)

"There's always something to do. Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to New Hampshire, I've got that meeting at Northbrook, so I have to be sure I leave you enough for two days."

"That's never a problem."

I was working frantically because I was avoiding thinking about Julie, languishing in her cell and worrying about her children. I assumed it was only a matter of time before her lawyer had her out on bail, but the hours must seem very long. My hours were flying. By eleven, I'd had a headmaster looking for advice on handling a pregnant student, another school where a Buildings and Grounds employee had exposed himself, and a third where a minority student had claimed discrimination after being disciplined for cheating. Just another happy day at EDGE Consulting.

Sarah stuck her head in, rolled her eyes, and announced, "Your mother is on the phone. Another crisis." Mom is a bit peremptory and Sarah often runs interference for me, so when she can't, I know I've got to take the call.

I pressed the button, said hello, and got an earful. "They're sending poor little Julie off to Framingham today and you've got to do something."

"Framingham? Why Framingham?"

"It's the only women's prison we've got."

"What about bail?"

"There's a problem... seems she told a guard the minute she got out she was grabbing her kids and disappearing." There was a pause. "You've got to do something," she repeated.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Find some way to get her out of there—some alibi or evidence or something."

"Mom, how many times have you told me to keep my nose out of other people's business and not get involved. To stay away from violence and murder?"

"Well, if you've got the experience, you might as well be useful," she interrupted. "It's not like I'm asking you to do something dangerous. And she needs the help. The poor girl has no one."

"The poor girl has her family and her friends. She has her brother. She has you and Dad... I hardly know her."

"I suppose you're too busy gadding about having tea with headmasters to help an innocent girl in trouble."

My teeth were clenched so hard to keep from screaming at her that I was afraid they'd crack. I thought of all the time I'd spent in the last few years helping people because of the "Thea will fix it" flaw in my nature. And all of the grief I'd gotten from her for living so dangerously. But I was a recovering nice girl. I was learning to say yes and no when I wanted to, not when other people wanted me to. "Mom, this is crazy. You don't know what you're asking. I am not going to get involved in this business. It's a job for the police."

"Yes, and we both know what kind of job they'll do, don't we?"

She has a talent for making me lose my temper. "I have to go." I choked back all the things I wanted to say, and slammed down the phone, fuming.

I was not going to let my mother push me around and I was not going to get involved and I couldn't explain, even to myself, why it was that I called up the Grantham Cooperative Bank and made an appointment with Eliot Ramsay, Calvin Bass's boss, for that afternoon.

It meant skipping lunch but what the hell, I'd had my chocolate doughnut, that ought to be enough for any girl. Suzanne had informed me that I couldn't call myself a woman unless I could think for myself, which wasn't what I was doing here. Suzanne. That was another problem I'd have to deal with sometime soon. She was not herself and I didn't think it was just postpartum depression. She had something on her mind she wasn't sharing. That always made her edgy. As soon as I had a chance, I was going to corner her and make her talk.

Praying for light traffic, I told Sarah I was going to get lunch and do some errands, and hit the road, arriving at the bank with five minutes to spare. There are people in the world who keep you waiting because they're busy and there are people who keep you waiting to establish their importance. Eliot Ramsay was one of the latter. Even though I could see through the partly opened door that he was busy rearranging his magnetic desk sculpture, he kept me waiting ten minutes. No skin off my nose, though. I enjoyed talking with his secretary, Sherry DuBose, one of those omnicompetent people who can answer the phone, type like Superman, send papers off in six directions, and still be pleasant company.

Because secretaries often know a great deal about what's going on, I was open with her about the purpose of my visit. She admitted she was shocked about the accusation and concerned about Julie's well-being. "I don't think she's had a very happy life," she said.

I was about to ask what she meant when the door opened and Eliot Ramsay emerged. Ramsay was a small, wiry man with graying dark hair and a dapper, controlled mustache. The hand he offered was manicured. His suit was well cut, conservative and expensive. Not a Ken doll but a Ken's boss doll. My impression was confirmed when he glanced at his reflection in the glass and gave the immaculate suit a tug. Appearances mattered to Eliot Ramsay. He ushered me into his office, asked the purpose of my visit, and expressed his deep sorrow both at the loss of a valued employee and at Julie's ordeal.

I asked him for a frank assessment of Calvin Bass, as an employee and as a person.

He leaned back in his maroon leather chair, tented his fingers, and stared at them as he spoke. "Cal was a very ambitious man. Very demanding of himself and others. Rather intolerant of mistakes and of people less driven than he was. Impatient. We didn't socialize much outside the office, so I can't really comment on his personal life, but he struck me as the classic work-hard, play-hard man. I expect he was as driven and demanding in his private life as he was in his professional life."

I resisted the urge to lean back in my chair and tent my own hands. I was struck by the fact that he wouldn't look at me when he spoke. "You say that you didn't socialize. No business lunches? No golf or tennis? Company parties?"

His laugh was perfunctory. "Well, of course we did those things. Men... uh… coworkers... professional coworkers do. I meant we weren't friends. I didn't know him outside a business context."

"You did play tennis and golf?"

"Squash and golf. But..." He hesitated, torn between a banker's discretion and his urge to say something bad about a man he hadn't liked. Meanness won. "It wasn't pleasant. Cal had a pleasant social veneer but he couldn't always conceal his cutthroat attitude. Winning was very important to him." He untented the hands and held them palms out in a defensive gesture. "Don't get me wrong. Calvin Bass was a hell of an employee. An incredibly hard worker, and he was tireless in his efforts to build us a portfolio of secure mortgage investments. Of course, we are a local bank and try to make our investments serve the community, but Cal took the lessons of the eighties to heart. He didn't like to take chances. He was very conservative. Very conservative. And very sure of himself." He said it matter-of-factly but there was a nervous flicker in his eye that suggested there was something more he wasn't saying.

"You approved of his practices?"

There was that flicker again. "Of course. They were the bank's policies."

"Do you know Julie Bass?"

"A lovely girl. I'm shocked they could even consider that she would do such a thing."

"Why is that?"

I caught him off guard. He'd assumed I'd be satisfied with his platitudinous declaration. "Well, uh, she's such a good wife and mother. A homemaker, in the old-fashioned sense of the word. And so delicate. It's impossible to imagine a woman like Julie doing such a thing. Even contemplating such a thing."

I let it go. I'd thought the same thing myself, but it seemed offensive coming from him. "How did Calvin Bass get along with his coworkers?"

He touched his mustache nervously. "Just fine. I'd say they admired or respected, rather than liked him."

"He wasn't very likable, was he?"

He touched the mustache again. Again the internal debate. Again malice prevailed. "No. He was too ruthless and demanding. And competitive. And critical. Very sure of himself." I heard it as arrogant and pigheaded. He looked quickly at his watch, uncomfortable, as though he'd said too much. "I'm afraid that's all the time I have. Good luck, Mrs. uh... Kozak. I hope you're able to help Julie."

I got up, too. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Ramsay. I just had one more question. Was Mr. Bass in any financial difficulty?"

He straightened his coat sleeves and didn't meet my eyes. "Not that I know of." I was firmly and inexorably led to the door and dismissed.

As I passed Sherry's desk, she handed me a piece of paper. "You dropped this, Ms. Kozak." On it she'd written "Call me at home tonight" and her number.

"Thank you," I said.

I was backing carefully out of my parking space when a blue Taurus SHO came from nowhere and missed me by inches. Eliot Ramsay, without even registering my face, gave me the finger and a blast of the horn and shot out of the lot in a cloud of dust. "And a hearty heigh-ho Silver to you, too, pardner," I muttered.

I went back to the office and put out a few more fires, then rushed to my club, struggled into some Lycra, and let Aaron put me through my paces. On the plus side, Aaron gives the best workout I've ever had; on the minus side, everyone thinks so, and his classes are getting overcrowded. I'm too big to move about safely in a crowded room. I have a wide wing span and when I kick out my leg, I really cover some ground. I've found that the right front corner is a good spot for me. Unfortunately, so has this uncoordinated little twit with raccoon makeup and bright red fingernails. I sometimes end up standing behind her when she squeezes in front of me at the last minute. She's always off beat and doing her own thing with her arms. If we weren't such a civilized society, I'd kill her and eat her.

On the way home I felt so righteous that I skipped my usual greasy burger in favor of a salad and flavored seltzer. I knew I'd feel virtuous until about nine, when I'd become ravenously hungry, but I'd be at home then, where there is nothing, tempting or otherwise, to eat. Lately Suzanne has been lecturing me about reforming my eating habits; any day now I expect a heart healthy cookbook and bags of quinoa and low-fat granola to show up on my desk.

I cruised in, pleased to see that the red eye of my answering machine was staring at me, unblinking. I shed my work clothes, putting them carefully on hangers just as my mother taught me to do, and put on shapeless old sweats. To celebrate the fact that it was Tuesday and my favorite TV program was on, I poured myself some Jack Daniel's, got the portable phone, and curled up on my soft leather couch.

Sherry DuBose wanted to get one thing straight from the start. "Normally, I would put office confidentiality first," she said. "I'm a discreet, well-trained professional secretary. I'm talking to you because I'm so damned mad at that jerk that I want to hurt him, so you may want to take what I say with a grain of salt."

I'll take it any way I can get it, I thought. "What did he do to make you so mad?"

There was a pause. A sigh. "I don't like to talk about my troubles," she said. "This is just so you'll understand. My daughter April was born with a congenitally short leg. It's not a tragedy. She handles it well. Wears a special shoe and it doesn't keep her from playing soccer like a fiend or riding her bike or anything. She's a real trouper. But it does need treatment. Anyway, she had to have surgery in the fall. One of several they'll have to do. I planned for it. Saved up my vacation and my sick leave and my personal days, made sure I missed the fewest number of days possible, so some days I was with her and some days my husband was. On the days I worked, I came in early and left late, so I wouldn't get behind...."

The anger in her voice was loud and clear. "Then she got an infection and had to go back to the hospital. She was terribly sick. I missed three days in a row and that bastard, who has always said he understood family came first and who knows I do the work of any other two people in that place... when he wrote up my yearly evaluation, he gave me a bad performance review because family demands had made me miss too much work, so I didn't get a raise."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Not as sorry as I am. I'd look for another job, but I provide the health insurance...." She left the rest unsaid. We both knew about insurers and existing conditions.

"Did Ramsay and Calvin Bass get along?"

"Not lately. Well, let me back up a bit. Calvin Bass didn't have friends at the bank, he had underlings and coworkers, and he treated his coworkers like servants or morons and he treated his underlings like serfs. He was very up front about it. It was clear that no one was as good or as bright or as hardworking as Saint Calvin. That wasn't Ramsay's style; he's more the underhanded, backstabbing type, smooth to your face, steal your ideas when your back is turned. You can't trust anything Ramsay says. At least with Cal, you knew where you stood. It might be low in his estimation, but he was honest about it. Ramsay never meets your eye."

"I've noticed."

"You're a quick study," she said. "What I wanted to tell you was that Ramsay and Cal had a big fight the week before he died. Something about mortgage applications. The FDIC inspectors are coming next week. I couldn't hear most of it, only when they raised their voices, but from what I overheard, it sounded like Ramsay was afraid the records might show lending discrimination. I couldn't hear Ramsay's proposed solution but whatever it was, Cal disagreed. Vehemently. And I heard Ramsay telling Cal not to... these are his words, not mine, 'fuck things up for everybody.' "

"Could Ramsay have disliked Calvin Bass enough to want to kill him?"

Sherry was silent for a minute. "You have to understand," she said, "that I can't imagine any situation in which one person decides they're justified in killing another, except to protect my child, though I realize from the news and TV that plenty of people do. Eliot Ramsay is devious, underhanded, and absolutely devoted to his own interests, but I don't think he's a killer. I don't think he has the guts. So my answer to your question is no. However, I will say that Cal Bass was a dedicated philanderer and a son of a bitch. He had a way of being critical that was very hurtful. Very personal. His disapproval could be devastating. If you don't believe me, ask Rachel."