The Syndrome (15 page)

The truth was: when you got right down to it, it wouldn’t be unfair to say that he didn’t remember a soul. Not really. Not at all.

Adrienne sat at her hopelessly cluttered desk and yawned. The yawn expanded and deepened until it became painful, and tears seeped into the corners of her eyes. God, she was tired. She took a piece of candy corn from the little plastic jack-o’-lantern on her desk (courtesy of Bette), and bit off the white tip, then ate the orange section, finishing with the kernel’s yellow base. Maybe the sugar would help wake her up.

The Amalgamated case was in the deposition phase—with each side conducting what amounted to pretrial examinations of potential witnesses. She now knew far more than she had ever wanted to know about asphalt, thanks to working fifteen-hour days for ten days running, trying to keep up with everything Curtis Slough had been throwing at her.

Nikki had been cremated more than a week ago, and Adrienne had yet to pick up her ashes. The funeral home had called three times. If she didn’t come in soon, Barrett Albion informed her, there would be “a storage charge.”

The idea of her sister’s ashes incurring “a storage charge,” as if her funeral urn had been towed for unpaid parking tickets, was unthinkable. She
had
to get down there and pick up the urn. And she had to do it today—despite the fact that she and Slough were scheduled to prep Ace Johnson, a key witness that the opposition was determined to depose. Slough would expect her to have lunch with the two of them, but—they’d just have to do without her.

Mr. Johnson was of interest for having signed off on a memo estimating the costs, in time and materials, of the road-work that Amalgamated proposed to undertake in the District. Unfortunately, the memo contained a handwritten notation that Mr. Johnson had written in the margin: New mix?

The notation was a problem because, at the time of the bid, Amalgamated was known to have been developing a new asphalt mixture. This “new mix” used a less expensive form of asphalt cement, the black, sticky stuff that held pavement together.
Unfortunately, as Amalgamated’s own test documents showed, the new mix tended to crumble at low temperatures. Worse, at the time Amalgamated bid the D.C. job, the new mix was experimental and not approved for use. Thanks to the words scribbled in the memo’s margin, the District of Columbia was suspicious.

His full name was, improbably enough, Adonis Excellence Johnson. He was thirty-seven years old, and one of Amalgamated’s “junior vice presidents.” Adrienne had expected Mr. Johnson to be black because, in her experience, most of the boldly named citizens of the world
were
black. In reality, however, Adonis Johnson was a heavy white man, with chalk-colored skin and eyes as blue as a new pair of Levi’s. Large and unstylish glasses clung to the bridge of a nose pitted with acne scars. Ushered into the plush confines of Curtis Slough’s office, he looked terrified.

Even so, they practiced his deposition for nearly two hours, with the last thirty minutes spent on the memo with the putative notation.

At about 12:30, her boss suggested they go to lunch at the Occidental Grill.

Adrienne affected a crestfallen look, and demurred. “I can’t! Remember? I have an errand.”

Even though she’d prepared him for the fact that she had to skip lunch, Slough rolled his eyes. “An
errand
?
”

She knew what he meant: he didn’t want to have lunch with Ace Johnson—not alone. What would they talk about? Asphalt?

“It’s just that … I’ve been putting in so many hours, I haven’t had time to—”

“Well, Ace and I are
very
disappointed.”

She could see her stock falling, but she’d be damned if she’d use her sister as an excuse. And so she shrugged, repeated how sorry she was—and left them there, staring at each other. (Johnson looked hungry. Slough was aghast.)

The Albion funeral home was in Anacostia—she’d chosen it alphabetically, not because it was handy—and the cabbie
got lost. When she finally got back to the conference room, an hour and a half had gone by, and she was carrying the urn in a little wooden crate at the bottom of a shopping bag.

Slough glanced at the bag as she rushed in, and raised his eyebrows.
Shopping?
Adrienne felt her face go red.

For the next three hours, they continued to prep their witness. At no point did either of them ask if Amalgamated had actually
used
the new mix. They simply and repeatedly wondered how anyone could be expected to
remember
what he’d been thinking
six years ago.
Was it possible that Mr. Johnson had been, well—
doodling?
Or thinking of some other responsibility?

At about four p.m., a light dawned in Ace Johnson’s dungaree eyes. “Y’know,” he said, leaning forward with a confidential air. “I’ll be honest with ya. I don’t remember
what
the hell I was thinking about when I wrote that.”

Slough smiled.

Five minutes post-smile, she was back in her cubicle and four hours after that, she was still there, feeling enervated, ragged and bored. Her sister’s ashes were in the corner, on the floor beside the shredder, beneath the hat rack that held her coat.

She yawned, put aside the list of questions she’d been preparing, and pulled out her organizer.

Before she went home, she’d have to finish the commentaries that went with each of the questions, print out the file, and leave it on Slough’s desk so it would be there when he got in tomorrow morning. Other items on the list included
Call Ramon re Jack.
The doorman had promised to take him on Saturday—which reminded her: Jack probably had to go out. In fact … She took a deep breath and geared herself up to call Mrs. Spears. It was either that or go home, and she couldn’t go home—not yet. So she tapped in the number.

“Hiiiiiii …”
she exclaimed, drawing on the last dregs of “perkiness” that remained to her. “I’m at the office, and—there’s a teeny
problem?
With
Jack?”
She hated herself when she talked like this, but—“Oh, you’re saving my
life
Mrs.
Spears, I just don’t know how to thank you, you’re an
angel!
No, really! I mean it!”

When she hung up, she sat back in her chair, and swiveled, left to right. Her eyes fell on the urn, and she told herself for the hundredth time that she had to do something with Nikki’s ashes. Scatter them on the Potomac … or
something.
But where? And how? Did she just stand on the river bank, and sort of …
dump
them out? Or should she do it from a bridge? And
which
bridge? Or rent a canoe …

With a sigh, she looked at the next entry on her to-do list: Duran

That son of
a bitch …

She flipped her pen over and bounced the end of it against the corner of her desk.
Duran.
Her threat was turning out to be an idle one. Other than running into his office and shouting at him, she’d done … nothing. Too busy.

She was still thinking about Duran when Bette came in with half a dozen little white containers from Tasty Thai. Digging into a heap of Green Curry Noodle, Adrienne remarked that she was going to crucify the shrink who’d killed her sister.

“Well, maybe,” Bette said.

“‘Maybe’? The way he twisted her around? What do you want to bet he’s got a list of complaints against him a mile long?”

“You think?”

“I’d bet on it,” Adrienne told her. “And if I’m right—I’m going to ruin him. I mean it! Nikki may have been spacey—”

“Ummm …
Scout:
‘Nikki may have been spacey’?”

“Okay, so she was very spacey. But this fantasy about child abuse—that’s why she killed herself. And it had absolutely nothing to do with reality.”

“You know that? I mean, you know why she killed herself?”

Adrienne nodded. “It was in her will. Which was what she left instead of a suicide note. And this guy, Duran—who she
names
in the will—invented it all. And then—he makes
her
believe it.”

Bette winced.

“It was all she could talk about. And that’s supposed to be helping her!?” She dipped into the carton of Pad Thai, tasted it judiciously and shrugged. “Mine’s better,” she decided.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Nail him.”

“How?” Bette asked.

“How do I know? I don’t even have time to walk the dog.”

“So why not let the city investigate him?”

Adrienne scoffed. “The other day … I made a call to the Board of Medicine—they’re the licensing authority for clinical psychologists—and you know what they told me? They said I should be wary—they actually used the word ‘wary’—about the pitfalls of ‘outcome-based malpractice suits’ (that’s also a quote) in the field of mental health.”

Bette rolled her eyes.

“Like I need their legal advice!” Adrienne exclaimed, gritting her teeth.

Bette’s chopsticks delivered a morsel of Pad Thai to her mouth, while Adrienne renewed her attack on the curry. Finally, Bette asked, “Why don’t you hire Eddie Vanilla?”

Adrienne frowned. Looked up.

“Isn’t that what he
does
?” Bette asked. “I mean, isn’t that
exactly
his kind of thing?”

Adrienne shook her head slowly. “I guess, but … I can’t afford that! How much does Eddie charge, anyway? Fifty bucks an hour?”

“Well, there’s your sister’s money—you’re the executor, aren’t you? Under the circumstances, I think you’d be within your rights to hire an investigator.”

The idea hadn’t occurred to Adrienne, who was so used to being poor that she’d never thought
of hiring
someone to do anything she could do herself—even if she didn’t have the time. “Maybe you’re right,” she conceded.

Edward Bonilla, who was perhaps inevitably known as “Eddie Vanilla,” was a retired Army guy who’d spent much of his life as an investigator for the CID. A few years earlier, he’d
become a licensed P.I. in the District, listing himself in the
Yellow Pages
under “Bonilla & Associates.”

Who the “Associates” were, was anyone’s guess. But he’d done pretty well, serving papers, doing asset searches, divorce work, and handling due-diligence investigations for law firms involved in mergers and acquisitions. By all accounts, he was good at tracking down recalcitrant witnesses and doing public records research, though his interviewing skills were considered suspect. (One of the lawyers at the firm called him “Eddie Gorilla”—but not to his face.)

He might be perfect, Adrienne thought.

And he was a neighbor, too, working out of a townhouse on Park Road, just a block from Adrienne’s English basement. He was a fixture at Mt. Pleasant neighborhood association meetings. A maven on security issues and a hard-liner where property values were concerned, Bonilla had been instrumental in organizing the Mt. Pleasant Neighborhood Watch. “My posse,” he called it, leading bands of orange-vested homeowners on their evening patrols.

“Have some more,” Bette said, offering her carton.

Adrienne shook her head, and offered her carton in return. But Bette wasn’t interested. Getting up, she dumped her trash in the wastebasket. “Back to the grindstone,” she said, and headed the way of her cubicle.

Adrienne sat back in her chair, and had a few more bites of curry. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea of hiring Eddie Bonilla. There wasn’t any downside that she could see, and there was no way she was going to let this guy, Duran, get away with what he’d done. A little scrutiny would be very much in order. And Bonilla would be perfect. Flamboyant, but still a pro. And even though he was busy as hell—the firm was doing two or three M&A’s a month—she knew he’d find the time for her. They were, like, friends. Not really—but sort of.

A year ago, he’d come to her door (this was shortly after she’d moved in), escorted and introduced by Mrs. Spears. “Adrienne, I’d like to introduce Mr. Bonilla.”

Her first thought had been that Eddie Bonilla was a trip. He was a short, skinny guy, somewhere in his fifties—who looked like he was still
living
in the Fifties. He wore khakis, but called them “chinos.” His hair was slicked back on both sides, while a pompadour crashed and burned on his forehead. Like Elvis, he had magnificent sideburns. Most curiously of all, his clothes seemed slightly too small for him—despite the fact that he was thin—as if he was a kid who’d just gone through a growth spurt.

“Eddie Bonilla,” he’d said, peering past her into the apartment. Then his hand shot out, and she shook it. “I make it a point to know who’s movin’ in.”

“Nice to meet you,” she’d said.

“I already practically know you—you work down at Slough, Hawley, right? You’re the one they call Scout.”

This had surprised her. “How do you know that?”

“I know everything,” he told her, with a corny wink and a heh-heh cackle. Then he explained who he was and what he did. “I’m one of your ‘resources.’”

“Why do they call you ‘Scout’?” Mrs. Spears asked.

Adrienne was embarrassed. “I don’t know. It’s just a nickname.”

Bonilla scoffed. “She’s being modest,” he said. “See, this law firm where Adrienne works, it’s stuffed with Georgetown grads. And the way I hear it, there was this big shot professor—”

Adrienne blushed. “I don’t think Mrs. Spears—”

But Bonilla held up a hand and gave her a look. “There was this big shot professor who teaches—what? torts or something, right?”

Adrienne sighed. “Right.”

“So one day he’s not happy with the class, and he’s giving them a lot of grief. ’Cause they didn’t do dick—you’ll pardon my French. Like they weren’t
prepared.
Except for Scout here, who’s always prepared!”

Mrs. Spears blinked, uncertain if that was the end of the anecdote.

“Get it?” Bonilla asked. “‘Always prepared.’ Like a Boy Scout, except—”

Mrs. Spears lit up with a smile. “Oh!” she said.

“So naturally, the name sticks.” He gave Adrienne a fond look. “Scout,” he said.

Adrienne shook her head. “You really
do
know everything.”

He shot a finger toward her and pulled the trigger. “Better believe it.”