Wicked Game (36 page)

BOTTOMS UP

August 3

5:54 a.m.

I wake to the sounds of Jim signing off with the Stones’ “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll.” The song gives me the soul-deep inspiration I need to jump out of bed and begin the Day of Triumph. In the shower I wail it three times over, full volume.

I put on Elizabeth’s ice-blue suit, then bop down to the kitchen, where my dad sits with a cup of coffee and yesterday’s newspaper, still in his robe and slippers.

“Wish me luck?”

“You don’t need it.” He looks at me over his reading glasses. “I wish I could be there.”

I breeze past him to the refrigerator. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Gideon issues.”

“I hope they hurry up and neutralize that motherf— uh, that guy soon. This place is nice, but I want to go home.” I pull out the orange juice and the package of English muffins. “Ooh, honey wheat. My favorite.”

“It’ll all be over before you know it.”

“Then what? Will you stick around, or will the Control move you somewhere else?”

“Hard to say. Ciara, I’ve been meaning to ask, what church do you go to now?”

I put the muffin in the toaster and push down the lever, harder than I have to. “I don’t go to church.”

“So you have a purely private relationship with Our Lord?”

I snort. “Come on, you don’t really believe all that shit, do you?”

“Hey! What did I say about your language?”

“Goddamn it, Dad, your preaching days are over. Drop the act.”

“It’s not an act.”

“Have you forgotten? All those years, you and Mom weren’t really healing people. You were fooling them.”

“Their faith was real,” he says, “and that’s what healed them.”

“But yours wasn’t.”

“Maybe not at first.” His voice lowers and sobers. “But if you play a role long enough, eventually you become it.”

“In other words, fake it till you make it? I’ll try that. One day I’ll be a rich vampire owning a radio station. Maybe I’ll even get taller.” I pop the English muffin from
the toaster, even though it’s not done. I just want to get out of here.

“Ciara, I know you’re bitter over the lies you think your mother and I told—”

“That I
think
you told?”

“—but don’t take it out on God.”

“Can we talk about this later? I need to keep my head in the game.”

“Sure, honey.” He sits back in his chair, folds his paper, and sets it aside. “I want you to know, whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”

I turn toward the counter and fumble with the butter dish. My vision’s gone cloudy, and my knife misses the muffin and spreads butter on my thumb. “Tell me again at the end of the day, okay? Assuming you’re not bailing me out of jail.”

I blink back the wetness—for the sake of my mascara, of course—and finish buttering the English muffin. Then I set it in front of him on the table.

“Here, you’re too skinny.” I bend down to kiss his forehead. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

He grabs my hand as I move away. His face is strangely solemn. “Good luck, Angel.”

“Thought you said I didn’t need it.” I wave at him on my way to the garage, where my Control chauffeur awaits. Something makes me want to look over my shoulder at my father one more time, like a kid on her first day at kindergarten.

But I keep moving, straight ahead, a woman on a mission.

8:25 a.m.

Skywave’s regional headquarters looms like a glass Godzilla over the skyline of its Virginia suburb. As I walk toward it, followed by my entourage—and the Control goon at a discreet distance—I resist the urge to gawk at its gleaming facade like a tourist at the Empire State Building. I’m supposed to be here, after all, and I have to act the part.

My name is Elizabeth Vasser. I was born in Evanston, Illinois, on July 19, 1970. I graduated
magna cum laude
from the University of Chicago in 1992 with degrees in psychology and criminology. I play racquetball, poorly, and once won a Skee-Ball contest on the boardwalk of Wildwood, New Jersey. Pet peeves: men who curse in public and people who use the word “schizophrenic” to mean “of two minds.”

My name is Elizabeth Vasser.

8:30 a.m.

“Good morning, Ms. Vasser. Welcome to Skywave.” The young blond assistant holds out his hand in greeting as he strides across the lobby’s marble floor.

“Thank you so much.” I shake his hand with a warm, dry palm. “Let me introduce my staff. This is David Fetter, my general manager, and Ciara Griffin, our marketing director.”

His regard lingers on the latter for an extra moment before turning back to me. “I’m Jonathan, Sherilyn Murphy’s assistant. You can call me Jon,” he adds in Lori’s direction. “Ms. Murphy asked me to bring you up to the conference room.”

He leads us down a hallway lined with gold and platinum records on the wall. I catch Lori checking out Jonathan’s butt and give her a warning glare. It’s not as if they can go out, considering he thinks she’s me.

The brass-railed elevator displays a television screen running a music video by a new country/western band. On the top floor, we enter a lavishly decorated conference room, the walls of which are filled with autographed photos of recording artists.

Two executives await us, flanked by what looks like stacks of contracts. Between them sits a single windowed envelope.

A sharp-dressed brunette in her late thirties stands to greet us. “Good morning, I’m Sherilyn Murphy. We’ve spoken on the phone many times.” She points to my lapel. “Hey, great pin.”

I finger the silver brooch. “Thanks, I just love wolves.”

“Me, too. There’s something magical about them, don’t you think?” She gushes as if wolves are a rock star she would sleep with if she could.

A gruff, balding man in his fifties joins us. “Alfred Bombeck. Glad you could be on time.”

“I almost couldn’t get out of bed this morning.” I rub my eyes and smile at David. “We were up late watching the White Sox beat the Yankees in extra innings.”

Bombeck’s face lights up. “How about that bottom of the fourteenth?” His eyes narrow with sadistic pleasure. “I loved watching those bastards in the bullpen get pum-meled.”

Jonathan offers us coffee and Danish on the credenza. I resist the free food, taking only a small cup of coffee
before I sit. Near the contracts, three expensive-looking pens are lined up like a military color guard.

“Your station has acquired a bit of notoriety this summer,” Murphy says. “The vampire gimmick was very successful.”

Bombeck clears his throat. “Odd, but successful.”

“We’ve talked to our marketing folks,” Murphy says, “and they want to continue the vampire theme after the takeover. With our own radio personalities, of course.”

I give them a sweet smile to mask my utter hatred of everything they stand for. “Rather than waste your valuable time, I should be frank. We’ve decided to decline the buyout offer. I don’t want to sell the station.”

The Skywave folks gape at me. Bombeck sputters. “What? Just a week ago you couldn’t wait to take our money.”

“If circumstances have changed,” Murphy purrs, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Circumstances have changed.” I beam at David. “We want to leave the station as a legacy to our children.” I pull my left hand from under the table. “David and I are getting married.”

“Oh my God!” On cue, Lori squeals, rolls back her chair, and rushes around the table to hug David, then me. “I’m so happy for you!” She yanks my hand closer to her face. “I saw this ring earlier but didn’t want to say anything. I thought maybe it was one of those ‘pre-engagement’ rings guys give when they’re not ready for commitment but don’t want to lose the girlfriend.” She hugs me again and whispers, “How am I doing?”

“Perfect,” I whisper back. In my regular voice, I say, “Thank you, Ciara. It’s wonderful to have your support.”

Murphy coughs. “Congratulations. But I think we can offer your children an even better legacy.”

“Given the recent popularity of the station, we’ve raised the offer a bit.” Bombeck slides the envelope down the table to me. Through its plastic window I see the words, “Pay to the Order of Elizabeth Vasser.”

“Thank you, but no.” I try to slide it back, but Bombeck’s hand stops its movement.

“Please at least look at the amount,” he says. “You don’t want to walk away from this deal with your eyes closed.”

My hand wants to open the envelope, just to see, but my better judgment says,
Don’t even think about it
. It makes my hand push harder. “I’m sorry, but the station is priceless to me.”

Murphy cuts in with a strained smile. “We understand that, but if this deal breaks down, our bosses will want to know that we made every effort to convince you. If we tell them that you never even looked at the figure, it could make things difficult for our jobs.”

I calculate the risk of seeing the check versus that of pissing them off further. If I get them in trouble, they might investigate Elizabeth’s change of heart. “Just tell me how much.”

“It’s on the check,” Murphy says evenly.

I know where this is going. Seeing a check with Elizabeth’s (my) name on it will have more impact than hearing an abstract number out loud. I’ll imagine what I could do with all those zeros and commas. I want to push it away again.

More than anything, though, I want to get out of here. Things are running too smoothly. A con without a hitch
is a con waiting to implode. Maybe the check is the hitch, just a speed bump.

A piece of clear tape holds the envelope shut. It pops off easily. The check is a lovely mottled pink that complements the rubies on my ring.

$10,000,000.00.

I am Elizabeth Vasser. By the end of the day I’ll have a passport in her name with my picture on it. By the end of the weekend I’ll be in New Zealand. By the end of next week, the check will have cleared into a new offshore account, and I’ll never have to work again. No more ramen noodles and piece-of-shit cars and shoes with holes in their soles.

I’ll set up the DJs in fine fashion for years. Maybe they could start a new radio station. I’ll get Lori her Sherwood ghost tour business. I’ll support my dad, and my mom when she gets out of jail, and they’ll never have to cheat anyone again. The world’s overall misery level will actually drop.

My hands begin to quiver. I blink hard to break the spell the money is casting over me. My hesitation only weakens our position. If Skywave thinks Elizabeth can be bought, they’ll never stop trying.

Beautiful New Zealand. Land of
Lord of the Rings
.

And then it hits me. Taking this check means getting something for nothing, the mark’s dream. Who’s the sucker now?

Unless ...

An angry voice echoes in the corridor outside the conference room. The door bangs open, letting in a bedraggled ball of fury.

Jolene.

She points at me, hand shaking like she has the DTs. “Ciara Griffin, I’m going to kill you.” She reaches inside her bag and pulls out—whew, not a gun, but the detective’s report.

I look at Lori, whose face has locked into panic. I knew she wasn’t cut out for this. I stand and speak to Jolene. “I’m sorry, miss, have we met? Why are you calling me Ciara?”

Jolene stares at me. A lock of unwashed hair flops across her right eye. “What are you—? Of course we’ve met. You stole my shirt.” Her voice pitches into hysteria. “I bet that guy Leonard or Frankie or whatever is a friend of yours. He broke into my detective’s office to drug me and take naked pictures. You had him screw up my car so I’d miss the meeting. I bet you didn’t count on me running out of gas in front of a gas station.”

David rises and places a protective arm around me. I send Murphy and Bombeck a helpless look. “I’m afraid I don’t know what she’s babbling about. Does she work here?”

Lori gasps and grabs my hand. “That’s the woman I told you about, the one who’s been following me.” She stands and glares at Jolene. “Stop stalking me or I’ll call the cops.”

Jolene’s sedative-fogged expression drifts from indignation to bewilderment. “You’re not Ciara, you’re that barmaid. Why are you pretending to be her?”

“No one’s pretending anything here but you, apparently.” I put my purse on the table and retrieve my wallet. “I have identification.” I hold out Elizabeth’s new driver’s license to the Skywave executives.

Murphy waves it off. “That’s not necessary. Jolene,
please go back to your office. We’ll discuss this matter after Ms. Vasser and her staff leave.”

“But that’s not Elizabeth Vasser!” Jolene plops down the padded envelope and tears it open, showering the table with fuzzy gray packing material. “See? Read this. It tells the truth.”

Murphy gives us a nervous glance and tells Jolene in a low voice, “I already received this yesterday.”

“What?” Jolene shoves the thick document toward her boss. “No, this is it. I hired the detective, why would he send it to you?”

“Maybe because I sign his checks?” Murphy licks her finger and pages through the report. She puts a hand to her head like she’s got the world’s worst migraine, then slams the report shut. “There’s nothing here.”

“I saw it yesterday.” Jolene grabs the report and turns the pages so hard, some of them rip. “How can it be blank? It was all there, the real Elizabeth, the real Ciara—where is it?” Her face flushes an even deeper red.

“Wait a minute.” David stalks over and flips the report to the front cover. “You hired someone to spy on us? What kind of shady company are you?”

“It was all legal, I assure you.” Bombeck looks at Murphy. “This PI of yours was fully licensed, right?”

“That’s what I was told.” Murphy turns a glare on Jolene. “But I think I was told a lot of things that weren’t true.”

Sounds like my exit cue.

“I can’t believe I almost let your company buy my station.” In a fit of fake melodrama, I tear the check into tiny pieces and shove it back in the envelope, which I crumple in hands that shake with rage. “Good day.”

Jonathan stands quickly to escort us out through the other door, the one Jolene isn’t standing near. We head down the corridor, and I steel my legs not to run.