Deceived (6 page)

"You go to
school here?" Meg asked.

"No. Michigan.
Yourself?"

"NYU
undergrad, Wharton grad, remember?"

The résumé. "Oh
…
yeah."
Good, Nick. Real good.

They rode in
silence, both staring straight ahead, as if mesmerized by the rhythm of the
wiper blades, until Nick said, "I'm sorry I won't get much of a chance to
work with you
…
after the Yünnan Project audit, I mean."
That
didn't sound like a come on, did it?
The way she looked at him, he
wondered.

"Me
too," Meg said.

Nick's mind
whirred, but he could think of no follow up. His foot began to tap rapidly of
its own accord. Finally the cab pulled onto Wisconsin.

"Driver,"
Meg said after a couple of minutes, "could you drop me off over on the
right
…
end of the block."

Meg reached for
her purse as the cab pulled to the side of the street.

"Forget it,
Meg, I've got it."

She removed a
few crumpled bills, but Nick held out a hand to block her. Their hands brushed
briefly
—
electric. "Really," he insisted, "it wasn't out
of my way."

Meg tipped her
head. "Thanks." She opened the door and popped her umbrella. From the
street she yelled a last "thanks" then shut the door.

Nick had the
cab wait a few moments, until Meg entered the apartment house, then slumped
back in his seat, intoxicated and knowing it was more than the alcohol.

Nick's eyes
opened, just a slit, long enough to catch an irritating flash of light from the
bedroom window. He clamped his eyelids quickly shut against the cruel invasion.

Morning,
already.
It seemed he'd just gone to sleep. He moaned, then pressed the
heels of his hands hard against his eye sockets. Suddenly he bolted upright and
reached for the alarm clock.

Five-forty. Five
minutes left to sleep. Not a crisis.

Nick snapped
off the alarm, circumventing the impending irritation, then relaxed and let his
head sink back to the pillow, shut his eyes. He groaned once, for nobody's
benefit but his own
.

It had been a
crazy three weeks. Carolyn had warned him, but
—
He had had no idea. Meetings
took up most of his day, then, finally, at six when the bulk of the employees
left for home, he would begin his real work
—
the pile in his in-box that
just kept growing and growing throughout the day
.

He had
finished, on schedule, the report to the Department of Education on the
National Direct Student Loan Program. It had meant working through that first
weekend and a string of near all nighters, but he flopped the report on
Carolyn's desk the morning it was due. She called him that afternoon, extremely
complementary. Nick remembered her words: "You deserve the rest of the
day, and the weekend, off, you really do, unfortunately, some things have come
up
…
"

More projects,
more impossible deadlines, always a staffing shortage. Four hours of sleep a
night, if he was lucky.

Funny, tired as
he was, once at work he'd take that first phone call or start in on that first
report and the sleepless nights seemed to fade in memory, like an annoying
background noise one gradually became conditioned to. Judy, his secretary, had
warned him he couldn't maintain the pace he had set for himself, but so far he
had kept his head above water, if only barely, and would continue to. And if a
few things went by the wayside in the meantime
—
he had not done his
laundry since the promotion, or met Scott for their weekly outings, or paid his
bills
—
that was the price he had to pay
.

When people
doubted him, when impossible deadlines loomed, that's when he had always been
at his best. Things would settle down, it would just take time. No way was he
giving up. Not even Carolyn had made assistant comptroller at thirty-five.

Nick grabbed
the corner of the covers and threw them toward his feet. He forced himself to a
sitting position, poised on the edge of the bed, head cradled in hands. The
fatigue held him from deep inside, but had started showing itself in his
washed-out complexion and the dark circles forming around his eyes.

He felt like
absolute crap, and chastised himself for acknowledging as much.

Nick looked
down at his slowly spreading waist and, to no great effect, tried to suck in
his gut. What had happened? In his twenties, even early thirties, he couldn't
eat enough, showed off a washboard stomach, now
—

An exercise
program. He really needed to get on an exercise program before he lost control
of the situation, before he was just another stout middle-aged accountant. Just
as soon as he got the new job under control, he would begin taking care of
himself. Three healthy meals and regular trips to the weight room
.

Why had he
started to think about exercise and his waistline? He knew the answer, and only
half-successfully pushed the image of Meg Taylor from his mind. How was she
doing, he wondered.

Nick made a
beeline for the coffee machine in the kitchen, taking in his functional but
cold apartment. Empty walls; shelves stacked with case work.

He poured
himself a cup of coffee
—
already made, set on a timer. He started toward
the bathroom, but his mind shifted to work, to the quarterly reports, and the
fisheries audit, and the food stamp restructuring, and the dozen other similar
crises that would demand his time within the hour. He hoisted his briefcase
onto the kitchen table, snapped the lock open. Just a few things to look at
before his shower.

A half-hour later he looked to the wall clock and jumped to his feet. Great,
he thought, now I'll be late. He started to the bathroom, but on the way veered
to the coffee pot and refilled his cup.

"Judy?"
Nick called.

She appeared at
his office door.

"What time
is my meeting with Carolyn?"

"Four."

Nick checked
his watch. "Okay, can you make sure Greg will be there. Oh, and I left the
Jenkins file on your desk. Could you make copies and distribute them to the
working team. Come up with the usual cover memo and I'll sign it."

"Anything
else?"

Nick snapped
his finger. "Yeah, I need the new draft of the food stamp recommendations.
You finish the changes yet?"

"Hours
ago," Judy said sarcastically, hands on hip. "I managed to finish it
in between running to the copy machine, making a dozen odd phone calls,
preparing
—
"

Nick held up
his hand, recognizing his blunder. "Sorry, Judy. As soon as you can get to
it, okay?"

Judy glared at
him, arms now crossed in disapproval. "Why did I ever agree to transfer
departments with you?"

Nick adopted a
hopeful grin. "Because we're a team?"

"My
husband is starting to think so
—
I spend more time here than at
home."

No return
smile, Nick noticed. "I appreciate all you've been doing, Judy. You know I
do."

Judy shook her
head slowly. "I saw Scott in the cafeteria last week. He said he hasn't
seen much of you."

In answer, Nick
gestured to the papers on his desk.

"He looked
a little down," Judy continued. "That's not like him."

Nick nodded. "It's
the Yünnan Project audit."

"What
about it?"

"Dennis is
calling the shots now."Dennis had been right all along. Since his
promotion, Nick, always desperate to meet some deadline or called away to some
meeting, had found no time to devote to his old cases, including the Yünnan
Project audit. Dennis, as agreed, had stepped into his shoes.

"Evidently,"
Nick went on, "Dennis has been telling Scott how to conduct the audit
…
what
to look at, what not to. You know Scott, he doesn't think much of authority and
thinks even less of Dennis. Pissed him off. He thinks Dennis is glossing over
the whole case, missing the boat. He started telling me about the things he'd
found but
…
"

"But you
didn't have time for him, right?"

Nick sighed. Couldn't
people understand that with his promotion had come greater obligations? Sacrifices
came with the territory, and that meant he hadn't seen as much of Scott or, for
that matter, Meg, as he would have hoped. "Judy, I don't even have time
for myself, right now. Things will change, I promise."

Her face didn't
soften. "Can't you do anything?"

"About
Dennis and the Yünnan Project? If I can clone myself, yes, otherwise no. Right
now my primary responsibilities are to the Government Division. I can't turn my
back on those responsibilities. I just can't."

Judy frowned. "You're
supposed to be best friends." She started to leave, and Nick finally set
down his pen.

"C'mon,
Judy," he pleaded, "we are, but
…
I've got less than six months
to prove myself to Carolyn. She expects a lot, and I'm going to give it to her.
Scott understands that; I know he does." He tried another smile. "I
just think you miss his obnoxious voice."

Judy looked out
the office door, then answered wistfully, "Honestly, I do. Everyone in
this division is so
…
So stuffy."

"Like me,
huh?"

"No,
you're not actually stuffy, you just act that way most of the time."

Was that
supposed to be a compliment?
Nick threw up his arms. "Okay, okay, the
hell with it. The work goes to the side for awhile. Get Scott on the line. I'll
invite him down and we'll
…
I don't know
…
play hooky. Go to lunch,
all three of us. How's that?"

"Now?"

Nick nodded. "Let's
do it. To tell you the truth, I sort of miss his obnoxious voice too."

Judy ran
eagerly to her desk. Nick heard her voice, muffled from the other room. He
reached for his phone on her return a few minutes later. "Is he on the
line?" Nick asked.

Judy shook her
head, crestfallen. "No.
…
He's on vacation
—
two weeks."

"Two
weeks?" Nick repeated. Scott's usual m.o. was a long weekend in the
Caribbean, time enough to check out the local watering holes and catch a nice
burn. "Where'd he go?"

"His
secretary doesn't know. He didn't leave a number and he hasn't called in."

Nick scratched
the side of his face with his knuckles. It surprised him, even bothered him a
bit, that Scott hadn't filled him in on his plans. Then again, he hadn't made
time for Scott lately. Why would he expect Scott to make time for him? "Maybe
something came up, some emergency."

"And he
didn't tell us?"

Nick hit on the
answer. "He probably met some girl. Flew her off somewhere on the spur of
the moment."

"You might
be right."

"Sure,"
Nick said, his thoughts already veering back to work. "He didn't tell us
because he didn't want to get ribbed. When he gets back I'm sure we'll be
treated to all the juicy details. In the meantime, I have a pile of work to
finish. I've got to get back to it."

Judy watched
him for a few minutes, until she saw that his mind had returned to the world of
figures, then slipped from his office.

The silver BMW
slowed, then angled to the right into a parking space. Scott Johnson did the
same, four spaces back. Three days of surveillance had emboldened him: he
didn't bother circling the block
.

The BMW's door
opened, and Andrew McKenzie
—
early forties, average height, athletic and
well dressed
—
got out. Scott watched him disappear into a bar across the
street.

Scott monitored
his wristwatch. He let five minutes pass, then exited his car and started for
the same bar. A stream of guys and girls, all twenty-something, hit the
entrance a few steps before him; he joined them, losing himself in the group.

 On entering,
Scott spotted McKenzie almost immediately, his back to a wall, a drink in hand,
his gold Rolex set off by a deep tan. By himself, for now. McKenzie looked in
Scott's direction, but only for a split second
—
checking out the women
that had entered with him, Scott guessed. Only an idle glance, nothing more.

 A stool stood
empty on the opposite end of the bar from McKenzie, and Scott claimed it. On
the neighboring stool, a rail-thin kid with a sparse red goatee did nothing to
acknowledge his presence. Scott ordered a bottle of Miller from the curly
haired bartender, then arranged it and a fold of currency on the bar, staking
out his territory.

He took a sip
of beer while appreciating his surroundings: a popular place in the Five Points
area of Birmingham, but with some history, as evidenced by the wood bar stained
dark by beer and time. A world apart from D.C.
—
not a blue blazer in
sight. Only a few blocks from UAB, the University of Alabama-Birmingham, the
bar was loaded with co-eds, McKenzie the exception.

All and all,
not the worst place to blow a few days of vacation
.

Scott had
latched onto McKenzie three days earlier and had stuck with him ever since. The
guy was amazing. He had an office downtown, but since Scott began following
him, had visited it only once, and then for all of about thirty minutes. McKenzie
slept late, till almost noon, then played tennis or lounged by the pool. The
nights he spent in places like this, working the co-eds, trying to cut one from
the pack. A big-time sleaze. Even worse, a successful sleaze, two times in as
many nights.

So far Scott
had little to show for his surveillance. Just two mornings of hangovers, and a
rudimentary knowledge of Birmingham
.

Maybe I'm
wasting my time.
Maybe I'd be better off forgetting McKenzie and making
my own play for one of the college girls at the bar.

Patience, Scott
scolded himself. Remember what brought you here: evidence. Maybe not concrete
evidence, but solid enough to raise a host of suspicions, at least in his mind.
Dennis, on the other hand, dismissed all his findings. Then ordered Scott to
stop his review of the Yünnan Project subcontracts entirely. "Extraneous
to the investigation," Dennis had stated, before cutting off debate
.

Extraneous,
hell. Scott ignored Dennis's orders, and before long stumbled across McKenzie. The
man smelled dirty; his company smelled dirty; his subcontract with Smith Pettit
smelled dirty. So he planned a little vacation.

A drive to New
Orleans with a stop on the way in Birmingham to check McKenzie's business. But
the business stood idle, no sign of employees, no sign of manufacturing. Something
didn't add up. So Scott hunted down McKenzie and started tailing him, was still
tailing him. He'd have his answers, perhaps by the end of the night.

Scott wished he
could have confided his plans to Nick, but Nick was too much of a straight
arrow. Just being here under the guise of a vacation was a gross act of
insubordination, and tonight Scott planned something far riskier. Nick would
have freaked.

As Scott
watched, McKenzie scanned the bar, lingering over a table of women well on
their way to inebriation. McKenzie then motioned to the bartender.

Scott had seen
this before, the last two nights. McKenzie would send over a round, and then
another, and another. As long as the women kept accepting, he would keep
buying. Sooner or later they would ask him to sit down.

Tonight it took
only two rounds. McKenzie pulled up a chair between the two prettiest girls;
within twenty minutes his hand had crept to one's thigh, and when she didn't
object, crept higher.

Scott fingered
the shiny new key in his breast pocket. A lock smith had cut it for him earlier
in the day. Simple: you gave him the master key code, he gave you a key, no
questions asked.

Getting the key
code had been easy. Scott accessed a national registry of phone numbers over
the Internet; it listed two numbers for the company that managed the apartment
complex where McKenzie lived. The second of the numbers connected him to the
management company's computer. There had been no security procedures, no pin
numbers to enter, nothing. He had gained access in a matter of minutes. A
simple search had lead him to McKenzie's name under the heading "Apartment
8E." A quarter page of information had followed: lease term; monthly rent;
McKenzie's place of employment; the cost and date of apartment repairs; the
age, make and model number of the refrigerator, the stove, and the dishwasher;
and finally, sandwiched between a bank account number for McKenzie's security
deposit and a parking spot number, the master key code to his apartment door.

When would
people learn that a file cabinet guarded by a two dollar lock was safer than an
unprotected computer system
.

Scott finished
his drink, laid a dollar on the bar, and started for the door. By the looks of
things, McKenzie would be busy here, at least for an hour or two
—
more
than enough time.

A memory
flashed through Scott's mind. The specifics he had withheld from Meg that had
led to his probation
—
his temporary ban from field work. A few months ago
he had broken into an executive's office. It wasn't the first time he'd ignored
the rules and the necessity of a warrant, but it was the first time he'd been
caught. Not red handed, but Nick had gotten a pretty good inkling of what Scott
had done, and had been furious, even though the evidence Scott had discovered
had made their case.

And now he was
about to break the rules again
.

If he was
discovered, he would lose his job. He could even end up prison. But he had no
second thoughts. First, he wouldn't be discovered. Second, unorthodox measures
were called for. Sometimes, in the pursuit of justice, rules had to be broken
—
his
dad had taught him that. And third, truth be known, the danger excited him
.

As Scott
started to his car, the lyrics from a classic Lou Reed song popped into his
head. He started quietly singing. "Hey, babe, take a walk on the wild
side." A particularly fitting song, he decided.