A Girl's Best Friend (19 page)
“Daddy?” I call and hear myself echoing off the travertine. “Daddy?” His papers are strewn about the floor near the phone, and I gather them up, stuffing them into a briefcase that’s beside the phone. “Mrs. Henry?”
The elevator dings again, and two firemen stand there alongside Poppy.
“He’s gone,” I say. “He’s not here.”
“I’ll check the hospitals,” Poppy says, rushing to the phone and putting it back on its cradle. The fireman, always the first to arrive, check out the bedrooms, just to ensure that I’m correct.
Sticking out of the briefcase, I see the following heading on a long, ghostly sheet of legal paper: “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA VS. MORGAN MALLIARD. At all times relevant to this information, the defendant, Morgan Malliard, was a resident of California.”
What?
I search for my father’s name on the papers, but instead find only count after count naming me as the defendant. My eyes scan the paperwork, falling on the number “$2, 546, 750.” My stated income for the year. Hello? I definitely would have bought more shoes if I made that!
I feel myself fall against the couch and look up to see two men in suits enter into the penthouse, flashing some type of badge at me.
“Morgan Malliard?”
“Yes, do you know where my father is?”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do—”
“What?” I ask, totally flustered, and yet partially relieved they aren’t from the morgue.
“We have a warrant for your arrest for charges of tax fraud and tax evasion. You have the right to remain . . .”
As they spout their mantra, I allow the two burly men, whom I can only assume are federal agents, to clip shut the handcuffs around my wrists. When I was talking about accessories earlier? This is not what I had in mind.
“Help me, Poppy!” I wail as I’m herded into the elevator while the cop continues to shout my Miranda rights.
W
hen we arrive downstairs, it is to paparazzi snapping off pictures in rapid succession, shouting horrible questions at me. Clearly, they were forewarned about the agents’ coming.
“Where’s your father?”
“How much do you owe?”
“Where’s the money gone?”
“Did you overcharge rent in Union Square?”
It’s clear that the feds purposely parked outside the garage. It occurs to me that once again Lilly’s clothes will be featured on the front page, and I’m starting to get suspicious. I wear her clothes, I end up in some scandal. This time in handcuffs. But I’m more numb than anything. I have no idea where my father is, or if he’s safe, and that’s my priority. The truth is I’d rather be seen in handcuffs than a wedding gown I haven’t used for marital purposes. Neither event is a great Christian witness, but what’s a girl to do? I imagine the handcuffs are doing nothing for my job prospects either.
When I’m hustled into a Town Car between the two agents, I finally speak. “Do you know where my father is?”
The man, a middle-aged suit without a speck of expression or emotion says, “No, miss.”
“He’s not under arrest somewhere else?”
The man shakes his head ever so slightly. I feel like I’ve been abducted and these aliens lack what we humans know as personality. “He will be arrested when we find him. You’ll appear before a grand jury to have the charges read in detail.”
My heart plummets in a freefall. At least if he were in jail, I’d know my father was safe. “Can I call my lawyer?”
“He’s already been made aware of your situation. He’ll meet you at our office.”
“I’m not going to jail?”
“Not yet, miss. We have questions for you.” I can tell the man is trying to be kind, as best as his type can, but white-collar crime is not something that speaks to the heart of the masses, and I’m already on shaky ground. I always wanted to be Martha Stewart but not really in this capacity. I was hoping I’d know how to whiten antique linens or something.
We drive to an ominous cement building, and I’m escorted out of the car with one man at each elbow. Once inside the building, the suit removes my handcuffs, which were apparently just for the pictures. It’s the criminal’s version of theme park photos of you screaming before the roller coaster thrusts you over its edge. Smile for the camera.
Inside the building, George Gentry is pacing outside the office I’m heading towards with my escorts. His perfect abs are covered by a well-made European suit, which tells me more than I want to know. Lawyers in good suits are expensive, and if I need an expensive lawyer, things do not look good. Of course, I imagine my name on an indictment and getting carted off in handcuffs should have been my first clue.
Well,
I think.
This is it. I truly can’t sink any deeper now.
George Gentry grabs me by the arm, ever so gently. “I’ll need some time with my client.” He pulls me into a room, and I focus on his perfect teeth. I wonder if they’re paid for. They’re not horse-sized like the fake ones, but they are definitely white. Hauntingly so.
“I just had them whitened, is that what you’re looking at? Too much coffee and late-night studying. On to the next thing, all right?”
I cover my mouth as I laugh, and I can only imagine from his frown that it’s coming across as hysterical. Which, in fact, it is. “I’m in some major trouble here, aren’t I?”
“Tax evasion is very hard to prove. The burden of proof falls on the government. Had I been hired earlier in the process, I don’t think we’d be here. We can prove your innocence by a lack of motive and lack of knowledge of certain bank accounts. You just hired me late.”
“I didn’t hire you at all. George, my father may be sick. I know this is serious in terms of what kind of trouble I might be in, but my father’s health is more important. Is there a way I can find out where he is?”
“I’ll do what I can, but Morgan, we need to focus. I don’t think I’m going to be able to represent both you and your father. I’ve looked over the paperwork, and I think if you are both listed, the burden of proof is much easier against your father.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe my father made a mistake and took a write-off he shouldn’t have, but people don’t go to jail for mistakes.”
“They do, Morgan. Every day. I think we need to separate these cases.”
“Are you firing me?”
“No.” He looks around the room. “I’m firing your father. Did you know about the offshore bank accounts?”
Now, how do I answer this without looking like a complete idiot? “Daddy gave me a Visa, and access to the Bank of America account. So I used an ATM. Is that what you’re asking?”
He sighs huskily. “I need to know where these earnings went, Morgan. Over two million dollars last year alone. Where is it?”
I just shake my head and shrug. “I never made a salary that I know of, George. I spent money, and my father paid the bills. He kept money in my checking account, and I just never thought to ask.”
“How did you get the car?”
“It was my birthday present last year.”
“Is this your signature?” He shows me copies of the backs of checks.
“It is, but Daddy put it straight in the bank. My dad’s not going to go to jail, is he? He wouldn’t do anything illegal.” Of course, as I say it, I think about the black-market incident that landed him in a Russian prison and put him at the mercy of Marcus.
“I think we need to worry about you, Morgan. Your father’s lawyer will have—”
“You are my father’s lawyer. He hired you, so I’m assuming you’re the best. Take his case. I’ll find someone else.” I stand up, only to have George stand and press on my shoulder.
“Sit down. I don’t know where you think you’re going, anyway. You’ve been arrested. You just can’t walk out of here.” He pulls out my Visa statements, or rather copies of them, and there it is, in black and white. What I spend in a month totaled out for the year. Ouch.
“You spent nearly $148,000 last year, Morgan. There’s a lot of money missing here for me to believe this story. You made over two million. Where is it?”
“I have the right to remain silent, is that right?”
“To the police, Morgan. Not to your lawyer if you want me to help you. Morgan, where is that money? It’s imperative you tell me so I can get you out on bail and back home tonight.”
I have no idea where the money is, none whatsoever. And if my father is lying in a hospital bed, I’m certainly not going to send him to jail over something as mundane as money. “I assume it’s in some of my offshore accounts,” I say emphatically, trying to sound like I have some idea of the offshore accounts.
George leans back, looking as though I slapped him. “I thought you didn’t know anything about those accounts.”
“I know Daddy believed in diversifying.” In my brain, I’m thinking,
How can I get to my father’s paperwork? How can I find
out where he’s hidden the money and pay it before any of this gets
any worse?
“Is there an amount I owe? A number the government is naming?”
George rifles through the indictment and comes to the last page, where an amount is stated. “You alone owe $640,000 in back taxes, but the fraud investigation could net them more, especially with added fines. I’m sure the newspapers will be happy to let us know what that is. Your father owes a small percentage of that. But the chance of them letting you out of here when we don’t know where your father is—” He shakes his head back and forth. “It’s very slim. His absence makes you a flight risk.”
“I have to get home, George. I’ll find out where my dad is. Just make them let me out.”
“What do you have for collateral?”
“I have the deed for the penthouse.” I wither at this statement. “But it’s in my father’s name. Wait!” I lift up a finger. “I have the Beamer. It’s brand new, all paid for, and the title is in my name.”
George nods. “Do you have any cash to live on? If you’re set free on bail, your accounts will be frozen.”
“I’ll be fine.” I swallow hard at the amount they say I owe. I couldn’t possibly owe that in the last year; I didn’t even have a job. Never did, even though the paper trail tells an entirely different story. But I know Daddy wouldn’t leave me out to dry like this.
Oh Lord, let him be all right so I can kill him when all this is over.
I
’m thinking I really deserve my own bed at the next Spa Weekend. George Gentry is bent over the mounds of paperwork, and he’s loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his business shirt. This is not what a person in trouble with the law wants to see out of her lawyer. I want him to look up and say, “Oh, big mistake. I’ll get you out of here immediately.”
No wonder our country is in debt. Did they really need that much paperwork to come after
moi
? The occasional sigh emanates from George, and he shows his frustration by gazing up at me and shaking his head in repulsion. He’s not looking nearly so handsome at the moment. I’m just seeing him as annoying and somewhat arrogant.
Still, I’m glad my dad got me a gorgeous lawyer because he is the only thing to gaze upon here in this gray government office. How do people actually work in government offices? There is not one iota of personality in the building, and I’m thinking it explains why the feds are so stereotyped. They live in a colorless, bland world. They’re the human equivalent of potato soup without cheese, cabbage stew without meat. Imagine what it would be like to not realize paintings or surroundings affect the personality. It’s like
The Wizard of Oz
in here before the color part.
“Are you almost done?” I ask.
“Are you in a hurry to get to prison?” he shoots back.
Now that was rude. “You haven’t even tried to call my father,” I accuse.
“Morgan, I’m your lawyer; I’m not a babysitter. I don’t know where your father is, and I don’t have time to track him down. Have you noticed the size of your indictment? I have enough to do right here.” He lifts up the mound of paperwork and drops it to the desk with a loud thump. “I’ve got a call in to the partners to take on your father’s case.”
“If your father was out there somewhere in the hospital, you wouldn’t care if he was alive or dead? You seem to think I’m somehow not human here, George. This is my father, not some defendant.” I start to pace the small, boxy room.
Another big sigh from George. “All right.” He slaps his hand against the table. “I’ll be back.” He
stands up and leaves me alone in my stark quarters. There are windows in the room that I can’t see out of. I suppose this is an interrogation room. It would be really cool if I wasn’t under arrest. I can picture myself in
Alias
mode, kicking some booty and crashing my way out of the building.
Yeah, that would be cool.
They took my cell phone away. I can live with a lot of humiliations, but that one is beyond annoying. I feel absolutely powerless in this sterile room with no one here for support. I suppose that’s their point. I should be more worried. I guess I just trust my father to get me out of this, even if the fact is he got me into this. I know he won’t leave me or forsake me. He may not be the best taxpayer, but he’d never do something illegal. Not on purpose, anyway. There’s a perfectly good explanation for this, and I’m just expecting my Bowflex lawyer to find it soon.
There’s a knock at the door, and George comes back in.
“What did you knock for? Did you think I was in a dressing room or something? There’s a window right there.” I have to say I’m tempted to check my makeup in the makeshift mirror. But I refrain. I figure vanity will do me no favors at this point.
“I was trying to be polite.”
If he was polite he would have found out about my father two hours ago. “Look, George, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but you know I didn’t have anything to do with this legal mess. Can’t you just get me home? I’ll go to Lilly’s if they’re seizing the properties.”
George sighs again, and I’m getting annoyed.
“I’m not stupid, George. My job consisted of going to events in certain jewels and making my father’s store the talk of an event. It’s not exactly in the classifieds for a job, but it was legitimate. I’m sorry it doesn’t impress you.”
“Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law. These charges aren’t going to just let you leave here and shoe shop when we’re done, Morgan. These are serious charges, and quite frankly, you look guilty from the paper trail. Your signature is on everything.”