The Shadow Box (23 page)

Nor were the drug makers alone in opening new hori
zons for counterfeiters. Aaronson went on to point out that dozens of prestigious brand names are copied all the time.
Cartier, Adidas, Christian Dior. Walk along Canal Street
in New York and you'll find Rolex and Patek-Phillipe
watches for fifty bucks each. At a glance, most people
couldn't tell an eight-thousand-dollar gold Rolex from the
fifty-dollar fake unless they compared their weights. The
real one would be much heavier. In the same block, he
said, you'll find counterfeit videotapes, music tapes, and
computer software. One company had the balls to run an
ad, he said, in
Women's Wear Daily
offering immediate
delivery of designer labels.

‘‘This is just the labels, you understand. You buy them
and sew them into a carload of dresses you picked up
in Taiwan.”

“Arnie
...
I keep asking. Where do you learn all this?”

“No secret. Some of it's gossip. But mostly, there's a
magazine called the
FDA Consumer.
You can't find a con
sumer who's ever heard of it but it's in any good-sized library.”

D
oyle scribbled a note.

“If consumers don't read it, who's it for?”

“It's more like a house organ. The FDA uses it to pat
itself on the back.”

He made another note. “What about AdChem? You
checked them out?”

  “No.”

“They weren't one of the seven? Why not?”

A long breath. “Because Michael worked with them,
Brendan.”

“So?”

“So I hear he skipped town.”

Oh, for Christ's sake.

“And I hear things about him.”

“From who? Lehman-Stone?”

A nod. ”I hear things about them too.”

“And Michael just might sue the shit out of them. He's
clean, Arnie. Word of honor.”

“Where’d he go? He still in the country?”

“Arnie . . . read my lips. He's dead honest, he's clean,
and he's not down in fucking Brazil. He's up buying some
dumb-ass hotel on Martha's—” He stopped himself.

A slow nod from Aaronson, then a quicker one. It said
that Aaronson believed him. He also pushed back his
chair, which said that this discussion was over.

Arnie still held his little sheet of paper. He seemed
about to crumple it but he hesitated, then placed it on the
edge of Doyle's desk. Doyle could see that it was a list
of names and numbers.

“Do me a favor, Brendan,” he said, rising. “You have
any more questions, ask them yourself.” He walked
toward the door, where he paused.

“Say hello to Michael, okay? Tell him my heart goes
out.”

Doyle said he would. He watched Aaronson go, saw his briefcase clunk against the door frame as Aaronson walked
through it. It sounded heavy. But Aaronson had never
opened it. He had fingered the latch a few more times.
But he never opened the briefcase.

Chapter 16

The rest
of Michael's week went by. Megan
never came back. Parnel never showed up again either.
When Sunday arrived, he did one more thing that he would never admit to anyone. He took another ferry ride.

He did not disembark at Woods Hole. He had sworn to
himself that he wouldn't. But he did stand at the railing
of the upper deck, looking for her. She wasn't there. The
slip was empty.

Michael was furious with himself. This was high school.
This was being so smitten by Mary Lou McCarthy that
he would take the subway up to Washington Heights just
to walk down her street and look up at the windows of
her apartment hoping to get a glimpse of her.

“
Michael
. . . ”

“Doc . . . just lay off, okay?”

By the time he got back, Harold and Myra Lovelace
had reported for duty. They were the full-time help and
had worked for the Daggetts, in season, for more than
twenty years but this would be their last. Their home was a trailer in West
Tisbury but Myra's mother had died and
left her an almost new double-wide down in Fort Myers.
They intended to retire there come October. Meantime,
Myra was the housekeeper. Harold was the handyman,
gardener, and bellboy, and had occasionally worked the
desk.

“I'm also what they call a concierge,” said Harold with
a grin.

“Oh. Really?”

“If I ain't heard of it, when and where it's happenin', head back to the ferry ‘cause you got the wrong island.”

Harold's grin was a permanent fixture. It was there
while he ate, while he changed light bulbs, and very proba
bly while he dreamed. Fallon had given them a raise and
an up-front bonus because they would be carrying more
of the load than usual while he learned to be an innkeeper.

“All it takes is a good heart,” Harold told him brightly.

“Head for figures don't hurt,” Myra added.

“Michael knows about figures. Big investor from New
York.”

“Ain't New York,” Myra reminded him.

Harold and Myra stayed for only two hours. They'd
come mostly to count the linens and draw up a list of
preseason chores. After that, said Harold, they'd be on
their way because Sunday night was Beefsteak & Bingo Night at the First Congregational Church in West
Tisbury.

They were at the front door. Harold helped Myra with
her coat.

“You're a nice-lookin' fella, Michael,” Myra told him.
“Break a lot of ladies' hearts, do you?”

“They're not beating down my door.”

”I know one who might. Pretty blond girl? Wears it
tied back?”

His expression darkened. “Does everyone on this island
know Megan?”

“That her name? I don't, but she's standing, all cow-eyed, right across the street.”

Megan hadn't moved.

Harold and Myra walked to their car. Megan watched
them go. She stood at the edge of the glow of a streetlight,
dressed in white jeans and a cable-knit sweater that was
at least two sizes too large and had one of those extra
wide necks. Her hands met at her chest. They held what
looked to be a bottle of wine. It was wrapped in blue foil.

Fallon watched her from inside the front door. He'd be
damned if he would open it until she made up her mind
whether to stay or go. If she turned and left, he would try
not to call after her.

At last, she heaved a sigh and stepped off the curb. He
waited. He made her come to the door and knock. He
opened it, saying nothing. She looked up at him, then
dropped her eyes.

“Hello, Michael,” she said very softly.

He tried to remember the words he'd rehearsed in case
this moment ever came. Like . . . Hello, Megan. Get lost,
Megan. Like
...
I figured out why you live alone. Your parents threw you out, right? They pay you to stay away
because it's cheaper than paying your shrink bills. You're
a neurotic, spaced-out, and manipulative little bitch. Did I
mention that I'm HIV positive?

But Fallon said nothing at all. She held out the bottle. He made no move to take it. She brought it back against
her chest and sighed deeply. She hunched her shoulders.
The neck of her sweater fell away, partly baring one of
them. She looked so very small. So vulnerable. Not at all
like the Megan who
...

Hold it, Michael. Don't even start.

“Megan . . .” he said quietly. “Enough is enough,
okay?’'

She glanced up North Water Street. Two young girls
were walking down in her direction. They were looking at her. One whispered to the other. Megan's color began
to rise.

“Do you have to humiliate me, Michael?”

Fallon saw the girls who were trying not to stare. They
knew rejection when they saw it. He stepped back from
the lights of the portico entrance and beckoned Megan to
follow. She hesitated, then stepped inside.

“Two minutes,” he said as he closed the door behind
her.

The remnants of a fire still glowed in the sitting room.
She walked toward it and stood near it, holding the wine.
She started to lower herself to the carpet.

“Don't get comfortable,''
Fallon told her. He remained standing at the sitting room's entrance.

She turned a part of her face toward him.

“If you feel the need to hurt me,” she said quietly,
“could you try to get it all out at once?”

Hurting
you?

Fallon could only blink. In your head, this is about
hurting you? But he said nothing. She turned to face
him fully.

“Michael, I can't make you understand what happened
the other night. Not in the time you'll give me.”

“Good, because
I don't want to hear it.”

Another sigh. She nodded slowly, resignedly. She
reached to place the foil-wrapped bottle on the mantel. The
sweater bared part of her shoulder again. She shrugged it
into place and walked past him toward the door.