When the Day of Evil Comes (21 page)

“No, thank you,” I answered, without looking at Molina.

Another moment of silence passed as Zocci waited for me to sit. This was a man accustomed to compliance. I sensed his unease and knew I’d found a small edge.

I finally looked at Sam Molina, who stood stiffly a few feet away, watching the tense scene. “What can I do for you, Sam?” I said.

He shifted uncomfortably. I could tell it bothered him that I called him by his first name. Like Zocci, he too seemed accustomed to deference, perhaps even servitude from the people around him.

“Mr. Zocci has some questions for you,” Molina said.

“He does? I would have appreciated your letting me know that before you herded me downstairs.” I reached into my wallet for the Ice Queen’s card and handed it to Sam. “If Mr. Zocci has some questions for me, I suggest he give—” I glanced down at the card—“Ms. Montgomery a call.” I turned to leave.

Zocci spoke at last. “Dr. Foster.”

I stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“I apologize if Mr. Molina offended you. I asked him to invite you downstairs. Clearly, I should have specified that he mention the purpose for our meeting.”

“Why don’t you mention it, then? Somebody ought to, don’t you think?”

“I’d like to speak to you about my son,” he said coldly. “I think I have the right.”

“You’re suing me, Mr. Zocci. I can’t talk to you about your
son. Why don’t you give my attorney a jingle? I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you about your son,”

“I don’t appreciate your disrespect, Dr. Foster.”

“Nor I yours, Mr. Zocci.”

We stared at each other.

“I do not appreciate your intrusion into matters personal to my family,” he said.

“What matters would those be?”

“The death of my son, Dr. Foster.”

“Which son, Mr. Zocci? Erik or Michael?”

Zocci flinched, almost imperceptibly. I’d scored a hit. A below-the-belt, dirty, nasty, unfair hit, for which I felt instantly ashamed. I would deal with myself later. For now, I sensed I was in a fight that needed to be won. No matter what the cost.

I glanced aside at Molina, catching a brief glimpse of surprise on his face. I suspected he knew nothing about little Joseph Michael’s death.

“My attorneys have issued a subpoena for your records,” Zocci was saying. “You are not to spend time alone, professionally or personally, with any student between now and the time this matter is resolved. You are not to breach the premises of the Vendome under any circumstances. And you are not to approach any member of my family, in proximity or via any avenue of communication.”

“This is America, Mr. Zocci. I don’t recall electing you to run my life.”

“I strongly recommend you do not test me.”

“Thank you for the advice. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. Truly I do.”

I shot my eyes over at Sam Molina, who looked as if all the blood had drained out of his head. “Sam, you’ve been a big help. See you soon.”

I turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind me.

I stood still for a moment, gathering myself and looking around the empty suite of offices. My legs were shaking. So much for not being easily intimidated.

The adjoining office door was open an inch or two, so I slipped inside and closed the door, leaving it cracked slightly. I seated myself on the floor behind the desk, hugging my knees, my back to the shared wall between the two offices, and strained to hear their conversation.

It was muffled, but from what I could make out, Zocci was chewing Molina out for letting me into the twelfth-floor suite. I caught a few phrases. “Unconscionable,” “breach of privacy” “unprofessional.” Molina was obsequious. Apologizing. Practicing the fine art of kissing up.

I heard the door open and the two men stepped out of the office. Zocci was still talking “—in a timely manner,” he was saying. “Alert hotel security. I leave for New York in an hour. I’ll leave the number with my secretary.”

The two men closed the suite door behind them as they left. I winced, hoping I wouldn’t hear the door lock, just my luck to get locked down here in the dungeon. I’d probably get myself arrested. Trespassing. Breaking and entering. My mind reeled with dreadful possibilities.

No click, though. I waited until I could no longer hear their footsteps in the hallway and then lunged for the door.

My plan for a quick exit was thwarted by the fact that I’d paid absolutely no attention while Sam Molina had led me into the catacombs of the Vendome. I could not find my way out. I trotted down several different hallways, dead-ending myself each time. I finally stepped into the women’s bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and tried to settle down.

My cell phone rang loudly, echoing around the tile in the small room.

I clutched my bag to my stomach, muffling the sound while I groped for the phone to silence it. I found the right button and brought the phone out of the bag to check the caller ID. It was my father.

The perfect ending to a perfect day.

I ignored the call and waited another few minutes before poking my head out the bathroom door. The hallway was still empty. I slipped out of the bathroom and hurried to the elevator at the end of the hall. The twenty yards or so between me and the elevator seemed like a mile. As I covered the distance, I saw the lighted numbers above the brass doors begin to descend from the second floor. In a few seconds, the elevator doors would open and someone would step into my path. My day’s luck would ensure it was Sam Molina.

I ducked behind a silk ficus plant as the bell dinged and the doors whispered open. Two black-outfitted hotel employees stepped off and walked past without noticing me. I waited till they were several feet down the hall, then slipped into the elevator just as the doors were about to close and pushed the button for the lobby.

As the doors opened on the first level, I found myself at the south end of the lobby. The concierge desk buzzed with activity as hotel guests made their evening plans. The bar had filled up as well, with businessmen occupying most of the wingbacks.

I shouldered my bag and kept my eyes focused on the revolving door, the brass gateway to my escape. As I passed the bar, I brushed past a waitress, barely sparing her tray of martinis. A quick glance around the lobby revealed a couple of security men engaged in an animated conversation with a suited man, the three of them laughing. Talking about football perhaps. That
sort of conversation. Neither of the uniformed men glanced my direction.

I breathed a prayer as I covered the last few feet, then turned to survey the room before I crossed the threshold to the street.

The only face I recognized belonged to Earl, the porter I’d met yesterday. He stood erect behind a wingback, watching me.

Our eyes met. He shook his head slowly, no.

I stopped, my head cocked in silent curiosity.

He shook his head again.

I looked through the glass just as Joseph Zocci ducked into the backseat of a black Mercedes, the driver shutting the door behind him, closing him in behind a dark curtain of glass. The car pulled out quickly. I watched it exit the circular drive and slide into the traffic on the street.

After I’d lost view of the taillights, I turned to meet Earl’s eyes again. He was gone, folded back into the late afternoon swirl of activity in the lobby.

Clearly the staff, or parts of it at least, had been briefed. I slipped out the door quickly. Why Earl had helped me, I had no idea.

My car was several blocks away, and I walked the distance uneasily, once again troubled by the feeling I was being watched. Paranoia in this situation was starting to make sense, though, so I tried not to make too much of it. Someone, I suspected Sam Molina, had ratted me out. And I’d come face to face with the enemy.

Though the possibility of being followed on the crowded streets of Chicago seemed absurd, I whipped around a few times just to make sure, making a thorough fool of myself and annoying the pedestrians marching along at my heels. But I saw nothing suspicious. Certainly no glance of Molina or Zocci. Or Peter Terry, for that matter.

My purple Neon looked downright gorgeous to me, I was so happy to see it. I slipped into the driver’s seat, locked the door, and then sat there for a good five minutes and cried, allowing myself a brief meltdown after a stressful afternoon. Then I blew my nose, wiped my tears, and picked up my cell phone.

Back in the saddle.

My first call was to Helene. She answered this time, and I explained as briefly and clearly as I could the situation with Gavin. She held her tongue, though I’m certain she was as appalled as I was about this recent development. Appalled on Gavin’s behalf, of course. But probably more so on mine. My mentor was being forced into a front row seat to view the demise of my career. Her anger and pain were palpable to me.

Our conversation was quick and to the point. She asked me how things were going in Chicago. I told her fine, but left out the details. Somehow we shared a tacit understanding that there were things better left unsaid for now. Hopefully, I could get to the bottom of all this and clear my name. And our mutual nightmare would be over.

I called my father next. Some sort of masochistic impulse on my part, I guess. And since he’d tracked down my cell phone number, he’d be calling me a dozen times a day until he got what he wanted anyway, so I might as well take the bullet now.

He picked up on the first ring, cuss words flying out of his mouth.

I started listening when he finally got to my name.

“… Dylan. I just cannot believe you. Just the height of irresponsibility.”

“You want to calm down? I’m thirty-three years old, Dad. I don’t need to check in from the movies anymore, okay?”

He let a few more fly, but his anger eventually ran out of steam. “So you’re okay, then.”

“Of course I’m okay.”

“Good. You worry me, Dylan.”

“You worry me, Dad. What do you need?”

“I had to call your brother to get your number.”

“Guthrie had my number?”

“Cleo did. Your sister-in-law knows how to get in touch with you. Your own dad has to call—”

“Dad, can we move on? What do you need?”

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“I don’t think I can do it, Dad.”

“I haven’t even asked you yet.”

“I do not want to be a bridesmaid.”

“Are you insane? I can’t have you in the wedding, Dylan. Kellee specified no family. No family at all. I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”

“Oh.”

Why was I hurt? I had spent days avoiding the man so he and his bubble-head fiancée wouldn’t ask me to be in their tacky, expensive, over-the-top wedding. And he’d just kicked me off the roster and now. I was hurt.

I needed therapy. Badly.

“Your mother needs a trustee,” he was saying.

“What?” Nonsense. The man was speaking complete nonsense.

“A trustee. Your mother’s estate. A trustee.”

“Dad, I don’t understand what you’re asking me. Use verbs.”

“The trustee,” he recited, “makes fiduciary decisions and handles all administrative responsibilities for the various entities of the estate.”

“You want me to manage Mom’s estate?”

“She needs a trustee. Someone to manage her estate. Yes. That’s it. That’s the favor.”

“Who’s doing it now?”

“I am.”

“So what’s wrong with you? Why can’t you do it anymore?” I knew what the answer would be.

“I think it would be better for Kellee if you did it.”

“Better for Kellee. You want me to do it because it would be better for Kellee.”

“Better for me, Dylan. It would be better for me.”

I couldn’t remember the last time my father had asked me to do anything for him. “Why me? Why not Guthrie?”

“He’s moving, his life’s up in the air. He and Cleo—those two could split up any minute. I just think … you’re the stable one.”

Except for the part about the pending malpractice charges, the lawsuit, and the looming unemployment. None of which he knew about, of course.

“Your mom would—”

“I’ll do it, Dad. I’d be happy to. No problem.”

“I’ll have Janet box up the files and ship them to you.”

“Ship them? How many are there?”

“Your mother left a sizable estate, Dylan.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Maybe four, five boxes.”

“What am I getting myself into?”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

We agreed to speak when I returned so he could go over it all with me. I hung up with the distinct feeling that I’d just stepped into a quagmire of paperwork and responsibility.

The meter had run out on my parking place. I sat there for a minute, trying to decide what to do next. I finally decided I was on a roll. Why not slay one more dragon before day’s end?

I started the car, shoved it into gear, and reached for my
map. I’d overheard Joseph Zocci say he was flying to New York tonight. If the traffic was good, I could make it to Lake County before dark.

O
NCE AGAIN, I HAD NO PLAN
. As I barreled north, breaking multiple laws of the state of Illinois—speeding, rolling through stop signs, talking on my cell phone while driving—I became fully aware that once again, I was acting on instinct. Impulsively throwing myself into a situation I was completely unprepared for.