The Nosy Neighbor (6 page)

After she tidied up the kitchen, Lucy made her way to the living room to wait for Frick and Frack’s “superiors” to show up. Before she sat down, she threw some logs on the smoldering embers and watched the fire spring to life. She felt just like the fire, like her body was crackling with something…
electricity.
To prove her point, she ran the palm of her hand up and down her arm and heard the little snicks that told her she was right. Again, she wondered what it meant.

Precisely at one minute to three, both Coop and Sadie raced to the door. A second later the bell rang. Lucy calmed the dogs as she dragged her injured foot across the carpet. At one point, she thought she saw sparks on the carpet.
I must need glasses,
she thought as she opened the door. Coop reared back and howled. Sadie barked her disapproval. Neither dog moved, but both of them tucked their tails between their legs. A clear sign to anyone who knew dogs that meant don’t mess with me or anyone close to me.

The two men and one woman stopped in their tracks as they eyed the two golden dogs. “Stay,” Lucy said to Sadie. She knew Clueless Cooper would do whatever Sadie did. She motioned for the trio to follow her into the living room.

Lucy offered them nothing more than a place to sit. “Let’s skip the small talk and cut to the chase. I told your two agents I know nothing about my fiancé’s affairs. I don’t see how I can possibly help you. What is it you want from me? Just so you know, I am not one bit happy with what is going on. Until yesterday, I had a nice life, and you and your agents are turning it inside out.”

The agents stared at her, obviously paying little if any attention to what she was saying. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the tallest of the three said. “I’m Agent Harry Mason, this is Special Agent Sylvia Connors, and the man on my left is Agent Thomas Lawrence. Fine animals you have here. Very protective, I see. That’s a good thing when a woman lives alone.”

Lucy nodded. She wasn’t giving up anything, even if it was the mating habits of dogs. She stared across at the agents with unblinking intensity, wishing Mason would get on with it so she could take a nap. She blinked, then rubbed her eyes. For just a second the room was fuzzy, slightly distorted.
Concussion.
The thought made her heart race.

“Miss Baker, Agent Conover’s report indicates he’s explained our suspicions concerning Leo Banks. You, of course, know Leo Banks as Jonathan St. Clair. I’d like you to look at these photographs and tell me if the man you know as Jonathan St. Clair is the man in the photographs.”

Lucy reached for the eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy prints of her fiancé. How handsome he was. She nodded. “Yes, that’s my fiancé.”

“Now, I want you to look at these pictures. This is Leo Banks at his high school graduation, his college graduation, random pictures taken over the past three years by one of our agents. Do you agree they are pictures of one and the same man?”

Lucy sucked in her breath. There was no denying the likeness. She nodded again, biting down on her lip so she wouldn’t cry. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t help but stare across the room at the dining room table. The female agent followed her gaze and looked at her with pity in her eyes. Lucy felt faint with the realization that the agents hadn’t lied to her.

Anger at her circumstances rippled through her. “A lot of people change their names for a variety of reasons. That doesn’t necessarily make them criminals. What is it you
think
Jonathan has done?”

“Do you want the long or the short version, Miss Baker?” Lawrence asked coolly.

Lucy brought her hands up to massage her temples. “I want you to tell me everything,” she whispered.

Lucy almost jumped out of her skin when the reply came firm, hard, and cold. “Murder, drug dealing, money laundering. None of which we can nail him with. The list is very long. Your boyfriend is a very arrogant, respected, sophisticated businessman. He has his fingers in a lot of different pies. His legitimate enterprises are a front for a very sophisticated money-laundering operation that no government has been able to penetrate until now. In the last five years we suspect he’s moved three billion, that’s billion with a
b,
through his legitimate businesses.

“Where did you get the money to buy that ten-million-dollar house in the Watchung Mountains, Miss Baker?” Agent Mason demanded.

All Lucy could do was gape at the agent. “What ten-million-dollar house? I’ve never been anywhere near the Watchung Mountains in my life. This house you’re sitting in right now is the only property I own.” Before she could blink, a property deed was thrust under her nose.

Lucy skimmed the contents. Her throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow. “This isn’t mine. There must be some mistake. It’s not mine,” she said again, this time more forcefully. “I don’t care what that deed says.”

Agent Lawrence stared at Lucy with a jaundiced eye. “Mr. Banks leased that property for a number of years. It’s his home base. It’s where he goes when he’s here in the States. A little over a year ago, he bought the property outright and transferred the deed into your name. Without a doubt, it is a valuable piece of real estate. The security system alone is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. The whole place is loaded with motion sensors, laser trip wires, and tremor plates. Terrorists and drug dealers use devices like that. Now, to our way of thinking, if you’re a normal person who just safeguards his privacy, that’s one thing, but systems like the ones installed on that property make us wonder what Mr. Banks is hiding. Or what you’re hiding since the property is in your name. In addition, there are a half dozen very-high-end vehicles parked in the six-car garage. Six-car garage,” the agent repeated sourly. “They’re all in your name, too. A Bentley, a Mercedes, a Porsche, a Rolls-Royce, a Lamborghini, and a 1965 restored Mustang convertible. Not to mention the fleet of cigarette boats he has stashed in Florida. They’re in your name, too. Those cigarette boats raise your net worth considerably.”

“I don’t care. They aren’t mine. I don’t even know what a cigarette boat is. I think I heard the term once when I watched
Miami Vice
on television, but that’s all I know. I didn’t know about the cars until this moment. I drive a BMW. I make payments every month. It’s a leased vehicle, for God’s sake. I’m telling you the truth.” Lucy cringed at the desperation in her voice. Fear, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, rushed through her.

“What about these?” Special Agent Connors asked. Lucy watched in horror as brokerage statement after brokerage statement slid out of the manila folder Connors had been holding. Goldman Sachs, Prudential, Merrill Lynch, Smith Barney, Charles Schwab, and a few more she couldn’t read because they were upside down. “Your name is on every single one of these accounts. The account total in case you’re interested, is 21 million dollars. These statements make you a very wealthy lady, Miss Baker.”

A scream built in Lucy’s throat. “They aren’t mine! I can’t even begin to comprehend 21 million dollars. Check the signature. I never opened any of those accounts. It’s all a big mistake. You can check my income statements. What are you people trying to do to me?”

Another sheaf of papers fell out of the manila envelope. An amended tax return—bearing her signature. Agent Lawrence ignored her stunned expression when he said coldly, “We’re trying to get you to help us. Do we have your attention now?”

Lucy clenched her teeth. “Yes, you have my attention. I want a lawyer.”

Special Agent Connors snorted. “You are a lawyer, Miss Baker. All we’re doing is asking you questions. If you want to lawyer up, that’s going to make us think you might not be telling the truth. You don’t want to mess with an OOJ charge, now do you?”

Lucy felt light-headed. No one wanted to mess with obstruction of justice charges. At least no one with even minimal intelligence. She shook her head so hard she thought she was going to pass out from the pain.

“Good.” Special Agent Connors smiled.

“By the way,” Mason continued, “Mr. Banks, who began using the name Jonathan St. Clair a good many years ago, is the beneficiary on all those brokerage accounts. The real Jonathan St. Clair, by the way, died as a child, before children got social security numbers. So it was simple for Banks to steal his identity and get seemingly legitimate documents in the St. Clair name. He’s also the beneficiary on all the life insurance policies in your name. Twenty-five million that we know of. We don’t know for certain, but we suspect he has a quit-claim deed, signed by you turning the house over to him for the sum of ten dollars, all ready to go on the house in the Watchung Mountains in case…”

“In case of what?” Lucy snapped. “I only have a fifty-thousand-dollar life policy. I make quarterly payments. It’s a whole life policy. Prudential Insurance. You’re crazy, you’re all crazy!” Lucy snapped again. Although it didn’t seem possible for her head to pound harder, it was.
I’m going to explode right here in front of these people,
she thought.

“Your untimely demise.”

It was a nightmare, pure and simple. Things like this didn’t happen to people like her. They happened to other people. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was working its way up to her throat. The pounding inside her head was unbearable. She was going to wake up any minute and realize she was having a terrible dream. She pinched the inside of her arm but felt the pain. She was wide-awake, and this was no nightmare.
Your untimely demise.
She shuddered at the words, and a chill washed over her.

Lucy’s eyes snapped open. The three agents were staring at her with pity in their eyes. Agent Lawrence pointed to the pile of papers and the photographs on the coffee table. “We can make this all go away if you agree to help us.”

Lucy snorted. It was blackmail pure and simple. Her legal brain kicked in. “I want to see that in writing. My brother can handle the legal work. It’s that, or it’s no deal. You do not have my legal signature on any of those documents. Those are forgeries and you damn well know it. Yes, you can drag me down, but in the end, I’ll win because I didn’t do anything wrong.” Brave words that meant squat. She knew it, and the agents knew it.

The agents stood as one. “You look tired, Miss Baker,” the third agent said quietly. “We’ll be in touch. Soon. Don’t get up. We can see ourselves out.”

Asob caught in Lucy’s throat. “Take your junk with you,” she said, pointing to the pile of papers and photographs.

“They’re for you, Miss Baker. We want you to study them so when we contact you again, you’ll appreciate what a precarious position your fiancé has placed you in. We want you to think about what has happened and what can still happen. We’ll be in touch,” Agent Lawrence said, just before the door closed behind him.

Lucy cried then because she didn’t know what else to do. In the whole of her thirty-eight years, she’d never been so miserable. Lucy thought about Jonathan’s quick little visits, the weekend getaways, the little gifts he’d given her, the way he’d whispered in her ear, the way he’d kissed her. There had been no bells, no whistles, no breathtaking moments. She’d always been contented after sex, though. Her blood didn’t sing when she was around him. Did she love him? She thought she did. She liked him, or at least she had. Now, she couldn’t abide hearing his name mentioned. And yet she was going to marry him. Why was that? Because her clock was ticking, because her friends were all married. Because there wasn’t a line of men outside her door begging for her hand in marriage. Because it was time to get married. Well, she didn’t have to worry about that any longer. She wasn’t getting married to Jonathan or anyone else!

Her head pounding, her ankle throbbing, she hobbled into the dining room, every expletive she’d ever heard in her life spewing from her lips. With a sweep of her arm, she sent the pile of wedding invitations flying across the table and onto the carpet. The dogs twirled and pranced as they tried to catch the swirling invitations. When Lucy saw that there were four invitations left on the table she was like a maniac as she ripped and tore at them.

Both dogs, uncertain if this was a fun thing or not, jumped back into the fray, romping on the cream-colored invitations, then chewing at them.

Satisfied that the invitations were ruined, Lucy pivoted around on her good foot and hopped her way back to the living room, where she collapsed on the sofa. She was suddenly chilled to the bone, more proof that she was probably coming down with a bug of some sort. She reached for the colorful afghan Nellie Ebersole had made her for her birthday and snuggled under it.

The dream, when it came, was springtime in the Watchung Mountains. She was hosting a gala soirée to celebrate her appointment to the bench. Off in the distance, as she brought her champagne flute to her lips, she could see a man dressed in camouflage fatigues pointing a high-powered rifle directly at her. She screamed when the flute shattered in her hand.

Did the marksman miss?

Was it a warning?

Lucy opened one eye. “Sadie! Don’t bark in my ear like that. Oh, God, now what?” She rolled off the couch and hopped her way to the door. Expecting to see the federal agents demanding to be let in, she was stunned to see Wylie, his arms full of packages. Take-out for Nellie’s party. “What time is it?” she mumbled.

“Almost six o’clock. The party was canceled. Seems like everyone on the street has the flu or something like the flu. We’re going to have to eat all this stuff ourselves. You look like you have it, too. Do you?”