Authors: Alan Jacobson
Chandler was shaking his head. “Not really. It doesn’t hurt them but it doesn’t help them, either. It takes about an hour for one drink to clear your system. But if you’d drunk six cans of beer over a period of time, the alcohol would’ve been completely out of your system in about four to five hours.”
“I was arrested, what, about five hours after those people were run down.”
“Exactly,” Hellman said. “Even if they claim you drank the entire six-pack, they’d have absolutely no evidence to support it. After five hours, the reading would’ve been zero. So blood alcohol levels won’t have any bearing on your case one way or the other. I doubt they’ll even bring it up.”
“Then all we have to worry about, “Madison said, “is the mountain of other incriminating evidence.”
“We’re not giving up,” Chandler said. “There are some things that have piqued my interest.”
“Oh?” Hellman asked as the server came over. The man was dressed in a tuxedo and was all smiles. No one at the table wore a face of cheer, and being the seasoned waiter that he was, he appeared to sense the tension and adopted a more serious, professional appearance. He introduced himself by name and recited the various specials for the evening.
A moment later, they placed their orders. The man collected their menus and announced he would bring the salads shortly. Madison turned to Chandler. “You said there were a few things that piqued your interest.”
“Your fingerprints aren’t on any of the beer cans. And the prints on the steering wheel are smudged.”
“Probably meaning that the driver was wearing gloves,” Hellman said.
“What else?” Madison asked.
“All the physical evidence proves is that the car was definitely at the crime scene. It doesn’t prove that you were driving it. Am I right?” He was looking at Hellman.
“Yeah, it’s all circumstantial. There’s no direct link. In fact, I wouldn’t be worried, except for the fact that Phil doesn’t have an alibi, and there’s no evidence pointing to any other suspect. Phil’s easy prey.”
“Let’s look at this from another angle,” Chandler said. “Who else could’ve done this? I mean, it’s not like some punk ran down a couple of people and fled the scene. This person broke into your garage, stole your car, drove it into the worst neighborhood in town, and then returned the car to your garage. He left a six-pack of empty beer cans in the backseat, and wore gloves. This isn’t the work of a common criminal or car-theft punk. This was a calculated plot designed to frame you, Phil. We need to start approaching this from a different perspective. Agreed?”
Hellman nodded, eyebrows straining skyward, as if to say,
I’ve got nothing better to offer.
“All right then. Was there anyone who hated you enough to construct an elaborate crime, kill two people, and then pin it on you?”
“Didn’t you tell him?” Hellman asked, looking at Madison.
“I hadn’t gotten to it yet. Your phone call interrupted us.”
Hellman shook his head. “I forgot that you take forever to tell a story.”
“I didn’t want to leave anything out. I thought Ryan should have all the details.”
“Fine,” he said, leaning back as the waiter served the salads. He poured a glass of Pinot Noir for Hellman, placed a Sprite in front of Chandler, and left.
“I take it that you mean Brittany Harding. The witch with a capital
B
,” Chandler said with a smile.
“The one and only.”
Chandler tilted his head and crinkled his brow. “I’m not convinced.”
“Maybe you should finish telling him the story, Phil,” Hellman said. “Then he’ll understand.”
Madison tossed his napkin on the table. “So much for fine dining.”
Madison picked up the story where he had left off: Harding had gone beyond reasonable and professional conduct in telling Chuck Nallin about the disagreement Madison had had with her at the Fifth Street Café. “It wasn’t as if it was an innocent conversation between friends,” Madison told Chandler. “She made a deliberate attempt to strike up a conversation with someone she barely knew, just to spread word of discord between us.”
A couple of weeks passed. After the incident at the gas station, Madison asked John Stevens to keep his ears open and to let him know if any other Harding rumors came his way. Stevens sympathized with Madison and graciously agreed to keep him informed.
Madison’s relationship with Harding was strained, at best. He attempted to minimize contact with her as much as possible, but it was time again to touch base regarding the up-and-coming board meeting. As he was about to call her late in the afternoon after a full day of patients, he retrieved a voicemail from Michael Murphy. The message lacked its usual verve. Although there were more pressing calls regarding patients and the total hip replacement scheduled for tomorrow, Madison phoned Murphy first.
Murphy began by relating a conversation he had had with a prospective client, a twenty-two-year-old mother of a four-year-old who had mental retardation. “She called to complain,” Murphy was saying, “because she was enraged by a comment Brittany had made during the intake interview.”
“What’d she say?”
“Brittany asked the mother what kind of drugs she’d taken during her pregnancy that caused her son to become mentally retarded.”
Madison leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me she didn’t really say that.”
“This poor mother was in tears, Phil. She’d been harboring enough guilt about having given birth to a child with Klinefelter’s...but to be subjected to such a question by the very organization that she came to for help...” His voice trailed off. Madison knew better than most that Klinefelter’s syndrome was a genetic disorder that had nothing to do with drug abuse during pregnancy.
“Brittany’s a time bomb waiting to explode, Murph.”
“I was beside myself, Phil. She represents the organization. The public doesn’t perceive her as just an employee. They look at her and see us.”
Madison rubbed his forehead. “How’d we get ourselves into this situation?” It was something he had asked himself a couple of weeks ago. “We should get together and discuss all this. I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner, but I’ve been swamped. A few things have happened recently that you should know about.”
“Good idea, ‘cause I just got a call from Donna’s husband. She’s not gonna be returning. Inoperable brain tumor.”
“Oh, Jesus. Did he say what kind it was?”
“All I heard was ‘inoperable.’ I kind of spaced out the rest of what he was saying.”
“I guess it all fits, especially the abrupt change in personality and erratic behavior.” He shook his head. “She’s only forty-nine. Her husband must be devastated. I should give them a call, express my condolences—”
“Just let it go, Phil. He said she’s deteriorated pretty rapidly. I let him know how sorry we all are.” Murphy sighed. “We need to talk. When are you available?”
“When are you going to be in town?”
“When do you want me to be?”
“Tomorrow night, around seven. My office.”
“Phil, we were going to spend tomorrow night together,” Leeza said with the phone propped on her shoulder as she cleaned up the chopped onions. Her eyes were tearing and she was sniffling. “We haven’t had a night alone in three weeks.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. I know we had plans. I was looking forward to spending time together. But I don’t know what to do. Murph and I have to meet and figure it out. He’s just gonna have to fire her before we have a replacement. I promise, once we figure out a plan of action, we’ll be rid of her and her psychoses and then you and I can get back to normal.”
“I don’t want normal. Normal is I don’t see you. The kids don’t see you.”
“It was better, wasn’t it? After we talked and I rearranged my office schedule—”
“Yes,” she said between sniffles, wiping her eyes. The onion was on her fingertips and only caused her eyes to tear more. “It was better. Not great, but better.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. It’s just been so damned stressful dealing with this nut. She’s got problems, Lee, and she needs help.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“I’m just interested in getting the Consortium back on track. Then things should ease. We’ll make reservations at that bed-and-breakfast we went to in Monterey, okay? Just the two of us, walking on the beach at night...”
“I got a call today from Blair.”
Madison’s assistant had walked in and handed him another two messages. He scanned them quickly.
“Phil, are you listening to me?”
“Blair. Your conversation with Blair.”
“Phil, you’re impossible.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot of things on my plate. I have six calls to return before I leave.”
“Blair said she heard a rumor that you and Brittany Harding were an item.”
“An item?” he asked. “What kind of item?”
“Having an affair.”
“Goddammit!” he said, crumpling papers that were beneath his right hand. “Blair’s your hairdresser, right?”
“Phil, just tell me it’s not true and I’ll let it go.”
“Honey,” he said, trying to compose himself, “it’s not true.”
“The first thing I did was laugh. I thought, when would he have the time?”
Madison sensed a definite lightening of her tone after his denial. “Leeza, honey, there’s nothing going on. Never has and never will be in a million years. You’re the only woman in my life.”
“It means a lot to hear you say that. I mean, I know that I am. It’s just that it caught me totally off guard. I thought it was a joke until I realized she was serious. Rumors like this spread quickly, people look at you funny. They think it’s true. And when you deny it, they think,
What’s she gonna say?
”
Madison was nodding, clenching his jaw. “Where did Blair hear this?”
“She was talking to Serena yesterday.”
“Serena. How’d she get involved?”
“Serena’s cousin’s niece is enrolled in the program at CCMR.”
“Serena’s cousin’s niece…how would a rumor like that get started?”
“Supposedly slipped out during a conversation she was having with Brittany Harding.”
“Slipped out,” Madison said. “Now do you see why Murph and I need to meet tomorrow night?”
“Let’s just get her out of our life, Phil.”
“I’m working on it, honey. I promise you I’ll find some way of ending this nightmare.”
He hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands. She seemed to handle it well and accept his denial without resistance. But as he was to find out, dealing with Leeza was the easy part.
HIS MEETING with Murphy was short and to the point. “Mr. Positive” was anything but, having heard one story after another of Harding’s systematic destruction of the Consortium from within. Madison’s recent experiences were just icing on an already glazed cake. It was no longer safe to have her around, controlling the inner workings of the office, Murphy was saying.
“She’s got to be let go now.”
Madison just sat there and nodded his approval. He could imagine how Murphy used to be, before he discovered positive mental attitude therapy. It was easy to lapse back into reality and good old pessimism when the stresses of life interceded.
“Am I wrong, Phil, am I wrong?”
“No, Murph. I agree with you, it’s got to be done. My only question is how we’re going to keep things running without a staff person directing and running the programs until we get someone hired.”
“I can be up here most of the time for a couple of weeks. We’ll just have to get someone hired within that time.”
“When are you going to break the news?”
“I need to speak with our attorney, but everything should be in order. I’ll probably talk with her on Saturday morning.”
“Do I need to be there?”
“No sense involving you in this mess. Do you have any reservations about—”
“None whatsoever.”
“Then it’s a done deal. Don’t worry, we’ll find someone to take over. Go home and spend some time with Leeza. And give her my regards.”
They shook hands and Madison left, feeling as if the monkey had been lifted from his back. In this case, King Kong—aka Brittany Harding.
IT HAD BEEN A GRUELING day in surgery: a total hip replacement that lasted six hours and an ankle pinning that was supposed to be completed in thirty minutes, but took three times that due to complications with the Achilles tendon. Madison showered, changed into his street clothes, then checked his voicemail before leaving the hospital. A message from John Stevens caught his attention. On the slight possibility that Stevens was still there poring over a budget or reading a report, he took the elevator up to the third floor.
Madison was about to knock on the door when it opened. Stevens stood there staring at Madison, his sports jacket draped over his left forearm.
“On your way out?” Madison asked.
“Yeah, you?”
“Just got your message, thought I’d catch you.”
“You in the garage?”
Madison nodded.
“Good, so am I. Why don’t we walk and talk?”
As they headed down the corridor, Madison said, “Your message mentioned something about Brittany.”
“You wanted me to keep my ears open,” he said. “Word is that you misappropriated some funds. Bought a boat or something, and that’s why the Consortium is having financial trouble. You don’t own a boat, do you, Phil?”
Madison shook his head. “Embezzlement?”
“That’s what she’s saying.”
“This rumor started with Brittany, I take it.”
Stevens looked at him, as if to say,
Did you really need to ask?
Madison smiled out of one corner of his mouth and shook his head.
“Is that funny?”
“What’s funny, John, is that she really believes this bullshit.”
Stevens looked at him as if he didn’t understand. “Yesterday she was spreading BS that she and I were having an affair.”
“Should I ask—”
“No, you shouldn’t. We’re not having an affair, John. This woman has a very active imagination.”
“Lost touch with reality, if you ask me. Delusional.”
Madison pushed through the door into the stairwell. “Yeah, well, just between the two of us, Friday’s her last day. This nightmare will be out of my life for good.”