Kristmas Collins (10 page)

“Hi Daddy,” she whispered.

“Hey there, sweet pea.”

“Did you find the policeman?”

“I did … you know what he said?”

“What?”

“That Susie better get some sleep, because she has a big day tomorrow.”

Edmund reached into his pocket and pulled out the flyer he found when they stopped at the post office to pick up their mail yesterday.

“Why is it gonna be a big day?”

He took another look at the flyer. “Because you’re going to meet Santa Claus.

____________________________________________________________

I hid behind the morning edition of the
New York Globe
, as I peered out at the suburban Ossining street from my Volvo SUV. Mothers stood at the ends of snowplowed driveways, waiting with their children for the arrival of the school bus. But there was one I was specifically interested in.

Her long red hair fell out her winter cap. Her heavy overcoat covered up an athletic physique that was the result of her training for her first marathon last year. But I worried that the sudden affection for distance running was her trying to run from the pain of the past. Her son, Peter, looked just like her with similar red hair and collection of freckles around his nose. His younger sister, Janie, reminded me very much of the twins. I thought they might hit it off if they met, but it was doubtful that would ever happen.

I questioned my sanity coming here. But after a day that included a return to the Wainwright estate, an FBI ambush, and almost being cookie’d to death by Gooch, I sought out the one person who always made me feel like the world was going to be alright. Not that she’d ever see it that way.

I first came in contact with Nicole Closs during the Kerstman trial, when her sharp wail interrupted my cross-examination of a witness. I turned, as did the rest of the courtroom.

“You’re a murderer!” Nicole shouted. “You killed him!”

While the courtroom was a new venue for these types of verbal assaults on Kerstman, the attacks were not. He had become the face of corporate greed, right up there with Enron and Madoff. As his lawyer, I pleaded with him not to be seen in public as the trial neared, but he continued to walk the streets of Manhattan and take his medicine from the angry public … and occasionally a fist.

But I quickly realized that Nicole wasn’t just talking to him—her comments were also directed to the man who was defending the evildoer. Her fiery eyes locked on mine as she cried out, “Did you use the blood money he paid you to buy your children Christmas gifts this year, Mr. Collins?” She then held up pics of Peter and Janie for me to see, adding, “There will be nothing under our tree this year.”

The next day the
New York Globe
led with the headline “Nothing Under Our Tree.” It included an artist’s rendition of our showdown in court, accompanied the caption: “Blood Money!” She became the face of the victims’ pain.

The story shed more light on the motive for her outburst, which went deeper than the usual animosity—her husband had committed suicide the previous day.

Our brief encounter changed me. I know it would be hard for people to believe that, especially after I went on to help Kerstman escape, and my failure to return the money. But when I looked in Nicole’s eyes that day, I saw my own life crumbling around me—their intense pain and vulnerability providing a glimpse into my grim future. But when I looked closer, there was also a twinkle of hope. A small diamond floating in an ocean of pain and destruction. It was that small flicker that had kept me going in the darkest days in prison. I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head since that day.

A clinking of metal on my window woke me from my daydream. I turned to see the barrel of a gun pointing right at me. Since I never took Alyson’s advice to get bulletproof glass installed, I rolled down the window.

“What are you doing here, Rudi?”

“I just came to wish you a Happy Festivus, Collins. Are you airing grievances or performing a feat of strength? Because from my vantage point, it just looks like you’re trying to get people hurt.”

“Speaking of which, put that thing away. There are children here!”

“If you were really concerned about their safety you wouldn’t have dragged the bullseye on your back down here.”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people … what if I had a gun?”

She began to laugh. “You wouldn’t have a chance against me. Or more importantly … Scroggie’s people.”

She pointed in the direction of a driveway, two houses down from where Nicole was standing with her children. “Does that mother look familiar?”

I squinted at the woman with short bob haircut and heavy overcoat, flanked by a couple of preschoolers. She looked like a typical Ossining soccer mom. “Should she?”

“Remember your friend Jacqueline from last night? And FYI—when she pretends that she’s taking pictures of her kids with her phone, it’s not a coincidence that she makes sure you’re in the background.

“I’m going to put an end to this—it’s harassment.”

“This isn’t a court case, Collins. The best move right now is to lay low.”

“She threatened Libby last night. That’s crossing the line. If she wants me, I’m here, but leave my family out of this.”

“Libby isn’t the Kris Collins love interest that I’m worried about.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re stalking the stalker,” she said, while glancing in the direction of Nicole. “And before long they’ll figure out who you’re stalking.”

“I’m not stalking anybody,” I said defensively.

Coming here might not have been the healthiest way to spend my morning, but I associated stalking with the sick and depraved. No matter what people think of many of my former clients, if they’d seen some of the threatening letters from their stalkers, or the photos to prove that they could get near their children, it would have been hard not to have empathy.

“Do I need to remind you, Collins, that you’re one slip-up from heading back to jail? And you know as well as I do that you’re committing fourth degree stalking in the state of New York, which will get you sent back—it doesn’t matter if you actually initiate contact. If you really care about this woman, walk away,” Alyson said.

She opened the door and pushed me over the console into the passenger’s seat, and climbed in. “How does she afford that house? I thought they lost all the life insurance money when the husband killed himself?”

“They did—it’s her mother’s house.”

She started the vehicle. “This is a nice piece of machinery. Can I have it if you go back to jail?”

She smiled, which clashed with her nose that looked like a piece of rhubarb pie topped with two very black eyes.

“You’ll have to ask Libby—she owns it now. I transferred all my belongings into her name before the feds could freeze my assets.”

“How about the Ferrari?”

“It’s stashed away in the barn on the Pound Ridge property. Although, rumor has it that it might be in danger of being evicted to make room for a couple of ponies.”

She began driving out of the neighborhood. I watched as Jacqueline Helada got smaller in the rear-view mirror. I wished it was that easy to get her out of my life.

“Where’s your car?” I asked.

“In Brooklyn.”

“Then how’d you get here? And come to think of it, how did you know I’d be here?”

“That’s a trade secret. But I will say that I heard you called in sick with a case of stupidity today. So this sounded like a place someone would come who was suffering with an ailment like that.”

“What’s
your
excuse for skipping out on work?”

“It’s a tradition for me to take off the 23rd to go Christmas shopping. I used to have a boss who would send me out two days before Christmas to get gifts for the staff and clients that he completely forgot about, even though his dedicated assistant reminded him at least ten times about it.”

I sighed. “So where are we going, Rudi?”

She smiled. “The North Pole.”

Libby Wainwright entered the midtown office of Wainwright-Collins & Rudingo on Monday morning. The office was still the same as when it was used by Kris Collins Esq. to impress celebrity clients, but the clientele was less glitzy these days, which suited Libby.

She was met by Joanne, the last remaining staff member from the time before Kris went to jail. He had kept a much smaller staff than most firms, worried about leaks involving his high-profile clientele. And a big reason why he could get away with being so understaffed was that Alyson often did the work of ten people.

With Christmas on Wednesday, most of the staff took the entire week off, and Alyson had taken a personal day to finish up her Christmas shopping. Libby planned to close the office around noon and surprise Joanne by taking her out to lunch. But first there was work to be done on the Morzetti case.

Before she could retreat to her office, Joanne hit her with the first surprise of the day. “Kris called in sick.”

This confirmed her suspicions. He was up to something, and using history as an indicator, that wasn’t a good thing.

Joanne read her confounded look. “I don’t know why you look so surprised—he always comes down with a fake illness the week of your parents’ party.”

“But if I recall, it was usually before the party, not after.”

Then came the second surprise, a much bigger one. “There’s an Agent Falcone from the FBI waiting in your office—said he had some questions for you about a case he’s working on. He was waiting at the door when I arrived this morning, and I got here at 5:30.”

Libby checked her watch and saw that it was 7:37. If he was willing to wait two hours it must be a high priority, which meant it must have something to do with Kris.

She stepped apprehensively into her office. Agent Falcone was younger, fitter and generally more attractive than she’d expected. He was standing behind her desk, his back to her, staring out the window at the busy Avenue of the Americas.

“This is a great view,” he said without turning. “You can see the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center from here. Can’t believe there were people lined up out there at six in the morning to get in.”

“Some people like to get an early start on the day … as do you, from what I gather.”

He pointed at a modern glass building on Sixth Avenue. “Isn’t that the old Kerstman Publishing building?”

“It is, or at least was. I think a dot-com took it over last year.”

Libby set her briefcase down. “Are you looking for a lawyer, Agent Falcone?”

He finally turned around, and their eyes met. “I’m actually looking for a billion dollars.”

“And you think I can help you with that?”

“I thought your husband could, but he mysteriously called in sick today.”

“I no longer have a husband, but I assume you are referring to Kris. And since there is a flu bug going around, I don’t believe ‘mysterious’ would be a proper description of his absence.”

“Maybe that was a poor choice of words on my part. I think ‘unexpected’ would be more appropriate, since he was out on the town last night, and seemed very healthy.”

He moved to the other side of the desk and took a seat. His expression told her that he was both exhausted and irritated. Not unusual for this time of year, or this time of the morning, but Libby felt a certain uneasiness in his presence.

When she took a seat, he slid a couple photos in front of her. The first one was of Kris arriving at Temple of Duma’s with Zee. The second one featured Kris and Candi Kane entering a club called Vida’s.

She looked up. “I don’t see why these would elicit a visit from the FBI.”

Falcone handed her another photo—it was Kris and Candi locking lips inside the club. Falcone grinned broadly, which Libby found rather insensitive.

“Maybe she passed him that flu bug,” he said.

“Kris is a grown man, and as far as I know a single one. So I’m not sure why these photos should be of interest to me … or you, for that matter.”

“The woman kissing him is the same one who broke up your marriage, correct?”

Libby’s shoulders tightened. It still hurt, no matter how much she tried to convince herself that she’d forgiven him and moved on. “It was one of numerous reasons for our split.”

“You ever hear the line—once a cheater, always a cheater.”

“As we’ve already established, Kris is free to kiss anyone he desires these days.”

“I wasn’t talking about your ex-husband. Candi Kane is the one who is currently in a relationship—one that she’s worked very hard to keep low profile. And we both know it’s not easy for Candi to keep anything low profile.”

He tossed more photos in front of Libby. In these shots, Candi was getting out of a limo with a slender, older man in a sharp suit. In one photo, she was kissing him. Libby wondered if her lips ever got tired.