Behind His Eyes - Convicted: The Missing Years (7 page)

Friendship multiplies the good of life and divides the evil.

—Baltasar Gracian

The cinder-block walls matched those from his memory. Only now, it wasn’t his grandfather who was led to and fro by a guard; it was Tony. This was different than when he’d been questioned by the FBI: at that time Tony had hope. He’d had hope of finding Claire, hope that the FBI would reveal something to him, and hope of being free. Sometime in the past year, his hope bloomed and blossomed. In paradise it was alive and well. During the last few hours, it wilted before his eyes and lay at his feet gasping for its final breath. Tony gathered the fortitude to fight the overwhelming cloud of doom that threatened everything he held dear.

He suddenly realized how simplistic his existence had been. Decision-making had been much easier without emotional attachment. Now, every thought process pointed in one direction—his family.

While in paradise, the arrogance Tony had possessed for most of his life transformed into something different, something deeper. Tony couldn’t explain it because he didn’t completely understand it. However, a year ago, Anthony Rawlings would’ve used every resource at his disposal to free himself from the Iowa City Police and clear his name. For what? The answer was simple and ingrained. He would have done it to maintain appearances. Never would he want to admit to the world or anyone else that he was capable of the heinous acts described in Meredith Banks’ book, much less the litany of crimes yet to be revealed.

Now, waiting alone for Tom and others from Rawlings Industries’ legal department to arrive, Tony wasn’t thinking about his own freedom, or even his own reputation. His thoughts were a blur with concerns about his wife and daughter as well as the mind-numbing blow of Catherine’s confessions.

His grandfather.

Tony could barely stomach the reality: Catherine Marie London, the woman he’d trusted like a sister, confessed to willfully poisoning and ultimately killing Nathaniel. He tried to grasp that new reality. His grandfather’s imprisonment and resulting death had been the catalyst for everything—every plan, every name on their list, and every consequence. Sherman Nichols and Jonathon Burke had collected evidence that led to Nathaniel’s conviction, but they weren’t responsible for his death, as Tony had believed for most of his life. It had all been a farce.

Tony recalled his dream…the envelope.

In his dream a year ago, Nathaniel had told Tony he’d failed. For the first time, Tony saw through the veil of crimson that had clouded his vision for so many years. Nathaniel never wished Anton a life of vengeance. Family, no matter how dysfunctional, had always been of utmost importance to him. He wished a full envelope for all of his loved ones. Never would he have wished harm to Anton, his wife, or his child, no matter who they were or to whom they were related. Even with Samuel’s testimony, Nathaniel never condemned Samuel to pay. Family was exempt.

In the still of the interrogation room, Tony’s memories screamed for attention as thoughts of his grandfather’s medical records clamored for recognition. When Tony closed his eyes, he saw Nathaniel in a room similar to the one where Tony sat. He remembered his grandfather’s voice, still strong and demanding, rambling about debts and children of children. Now, in the clarity provided by the new information, Tony wondered if any or all of those ramblings could have been brought on by the dementia-like side effects of the medication.

The person who ultimately deserved to pay for the crimes against so many was undoubtedly Catherine Marie. She took Nathaniel’s wishes, vindicated them, and orchestrated a life-consuming scenario. A red hue seeped from the corners of the small room within the Iowa City jail as Tony assessed the damage. Everything began with hate and lack of forgiveness. That said, Catherine wasn’t the only perpetrator. Samuel, Tony’s father, was also responsible. His hatred of Catherine influenced his decision-making regarding Nathaniel’s medication. That vengeance created the symptoms in Nathaniel that Catherine misconstrued as dementia.

Tony wanted to believe that Catherine’s poisoning of Nathaniel was the selfless act of a concerned wife, not the homicidal act of a psychopath, but he was done seeing her through his grandfather’s lens. Nathaniel had only been months away from release. Catherine Marie Rawls had had the proverbial world at her fingertips. She had a man who loved her, respected her, and promised her a future. Maybe Nathaniel’s wealth had dwindled, but at the very least, Nathaniel had the money overseas. If only she’d waited, taken him home, and allowed his medications to be re-evaluated.

Tony shook his head.
If only…

Wasn’t that the phrase of the day?

If only Nathaniel had lived. If only Brent hadn’t gotten on that plane. If only Derek Burke hadn’t found his way into Sophia’s life. If only Tony and Catherine had never complied their list of names. If only his life had crossed paths with Claire’s in another way…

Tony could go on for hours thinking about that list: Sherman Nichols. Tony remembered the first time he saw that name. It was during his investigation of Cole Mathews, Sherman’s alias. He remembered the pride he felt as he supplied Nathaniel with that information. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, what Anton knew Nathaniel was incapable of doing. Tony’s report didn’t only contain Sherman’s name, but the names of his family. It was more than his grandfather had requested, but that’s what Anton did—more, above and beyond. That report contained the names of Sherman Nichols’ wife, Elizabeth; son, Jordon; daughter-in-law, Shirley; and granddaughters, Emily and Claire.

Tony’s empty stomach twisted. Every time he pointed his finger at Catherine, four pointed back toward him. He couldn’t blame her for everything. Without his initial research, the entire Nichols family would’ve been spared. His face flushed. When Tony disclosed that list of names to his grandfather, Claire was six years old. A sickening feeling brought a bad taste to his mouth as he imagined what Nichol would be like at that age. What did Tony want for his daughter at that age? The answer was simple: security and innocence. Wasn’t that the same thing Jordon and Shirley had wanted for Claire?

Catherine not only murdered Nathaniel, but Sherman, Jordon, and Shirley Nichols. During her confessions, she’d admitted to singlehandedly eliminating an entire branch of Claire’s and ultimately Nichol’s family tree. Remorse and guilt took a backseat to red-hot rage as Tony remembered the scene at the estate and envisioned the determination and hatred in Catherine’s cold, gray eyes. She’d had the gun and had wanted to hurt
his
family. If she’d succeeded this afternoon, the entire Nichols line would be gone. The way she looked at Claire and Nichol. Hell, not only them: she had John and Emily locked in a suite with poisoned water. The bounds to her depravity knew no limits.

How had he been so wrong for so long? Had Samuel seen something in Catherine all those years ago that she’d somehow hidden from Nathaniel and Tony?

The door opened and Officer Hastings entered, bringing Tony’s thoughts back to the present. “Mr. Rawlings, we have a couple more questions for you.”

“Where are my attorneys?”

“They called and are on their way.”

Tony sat taller. “I believe I’ll wait. It’s in my best interest to postpone your questions until their arrival.”

“Mr. Rawlings, you aren’t calling the shots here. We want to know where you’ve been for the last six months?”

Tony’s jaw clenched in defiance as he silently stared at Officer Hastings.

“Perhaps you’d like to know about Ms. Nichols?” the officer baited.

“Mrs. Rawlings.” Tony glared. “Where is she?”

“Do you have proof of your marriage to Ms. Nichols?” Hastings clarified, “Your second marriage.”

Tony looked down at his left hand. Shit, he didn’t even have a wedding band, but Claire did. Their marriage was legal. After the ceremony on the beach, they’d gone to the city with Francis and completed the necessary legal documents. In an effort to remain hidden, they’d decided to not forward that information on to the United States government. That may make verifying their marriage more difficult; however, it didn’t nullify the legality of it. People married in different countries all the time.

Hastings taunted, “Without proof of your marriage, you have no claims or rights to information regarding Ms. Nichols.”

The thin veneer of control Tony had held on his decorum, splintered as his fist hit the metal table. The otherwise still room exploded with the echoing vibrations as his determined voice rose above the clatter. “Rawlings! Mrs. Claire Rawlings,” Tony said through gritted teeth. “Do not make me correct you again. And, no, I don’t have our marriage license in my damn pocket, but I can get proof. We remarried on October 27, 2013. Ask Claire.”

The doors once again opened and Tom Miller, the co-lead attorney at Rawlings Industries and Tony’s personal friend entered. Without a word, he stopped Tony’s rebuttal, silently warning him to say no more. Laying his briefcase on the table he turned to Hastings and politely asked, “Officer, I’m sure you’re not questioning my client after he’s asked for legal counsel, are you?”

“I’m not questioning him about the case. We need preliminary information.”

Tom leaned forward and slowed his speech. “His name is Anthony Rawlings. He is the CEO of Rawlings Industries. Unless you charge him with a crime, I will be taking him out of here today.” He lifted his brows. “What other preliminary information do you require, Officer?”

“Mr. Miller, at the very least, we need answers. Your client has been missing for the last six months. He needs to explain—”

“My client is a wealthy man,” Tom interrupted. “As such, he took an opportunity to travel and relax. I’m sure many people would like that ability. However, my client also oversees a billion-dollar company and therefore was never completely inaccessible.”

Tony spoke over the terse exchange, “Now that my counsel is here, I want to speak with him privately.” Tony suddenly worried that Tom’s speculations could further compromise his agreement with the FBI since he’d promised the feds he’d be completely inaccessible. After all, it was a very tangled web, one that would take days of explanations to unravel.

Biting back his rebuttal, Hastings glared toward Tony and replied, “This isn’t done. I’ll be back.” With that, he stood, knocked on the door, and left.

Once they were alone, Tony’s eyes widened. “Tom? Do you know about Brent?”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, this has been the day from hell. Bev went over to Courtney’s. She’s the one who told me that you and Claire were back, and then I got the call saying to come here. Where the hell have you been?”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “It’s a long story. Let me just start out by saying that Claire and I remarried. We have a daughter, Nichol. I’m going crazy here. I need to know that Claire and Nichol are all right.”

“I don’t know anything about your daughter. I’ve sent Stephens to the hospital to serve as Claire’s counsel. The last message I received before I turned over my phone was that she’s still unconscious.” Before Tony could reply, Tom asked, “What the hell happened?”

“I need to get to her, Tom. I don’t want anyone to make assumptions and hold anyone else responsible for my actions. I’ve been in contact with the FBI. There’s an agent—his name is Jackson—in Boston. If you contact him, he’ll corroborate my story and hopefully talk to the Iowa City police.” Unable to stay seated any longer, Tony stood and paced the length of the room and back. “Today was a train wreck. I came back,
we
came back,” he corrected, “because we were worried about John and Emily. We learned that they’d be at the estate, and we didn’t trust Catherine.”

Tom shook his head. “What? Wait. John and Emily? As in your ex-brother and sister-in-law, the same people who’ve told anyone and everyone that you were on the run after possibly killing Claire?”

“Yes, only no longer ex. I know what they’ve been saying. I also knew that if we contacted them they would stop. It doesn’t make sense, but I hoped that if they continued their allegations, it would keep them safe.”

“Safe? From…?”

“From Catherine!” Tony’s volume rose. “Tom, you need to pay attention. I said that before. Catherine London, she’s crazy. The woman is a psychopath. She’s responsible for so much.” He spun in a circle, as if his pacing was no longer sufficient. “Brent!” His movements stilled. “She’s responsible for Brent’s death.”

“Tony, calm down. You’re not making sense. You’re talking about the executor of your estate, the woman who’s worked for you for as long as I can remember, and one of the gentlest women I’ve ever known.”

The small room shrunk as the walls closed in, threatening to suffocate, to steal the very air from his lungs. Appearance—the lesson Tony had learned and the one he’d taught—was mocking his every move. He was perceived as the tyrannical businessman, and Catherine was the kindly housekeeper. Tony took a deep breath, sat back down, and steadied his voice. “Tom, I can’t explain everything right now. Just find out if they plan to charge me, and what those charges are. Then get me the hell out of here. I need to find out what’s happening with Claire and Nichol. I need to help Courtney, and I don’t want to spend another minute in this damn room, much less a jail cell.” His voice deepened with determination. “I don’t fuck’n care how much it costs. You’re my attorney. Get me the hell out of here.”

“You were gone for six months. I can’t promise that we can get a judge to agree to bail. They’ll consider you a flight risk.”’

“I’ll surrender my passport.”

Tom lifted a brow. “Did you use
your
passport the last time you left the country?”

Tony squared his shoulders. “We’re in Iowa for Christ’s sake. Any damn judge better grant me bail, or that judge will never achieve a higher bench in his or her whole damn career. I don’t care if they want to make the bail excessive for appearances. I’ll pay it. Just make it happen.”

Tom nodded. “What about the FBI? Are you sure they’ll corroborate this story?”

“Agent Jackson, with the Boston field office,” Tony bristled, “or Agent Baldwin, with the San Francisco field office. They’ve been our contacts. Get a hold of one of them. They knew where, or approximately where Claire and I were residing. They know more than I’m willing to—or have time to—say right now. Just make it happen. I need to get to my wife and daughter.”