Stash (23 page)

She sat and ordered a glass of cabernet. “Is Jude here tonight?” she asked the bartender.

“He’s around. You want me to find him?”

“That’s okay.” She put her money on the bar. She looked around again. There was the table by the window where she’d had lunch with Jude in the winter.

“What time do you close?”

“When everyone leaves or two o’clock, whichever comes first.”

Every minute was an exercise in working up her nerve. She’d gotten this far. She left the house while her family slept. She drove and parked the car. She walked into Gull. She ordered a glass of wine and quickly finished half of it. She had considered calling Marlene to come with her, the one person she could phone at midnight, and construct the ruse of two women out for a drink to catch up, which would make it easier for Gwen to explain to anyone who wanted to know why she was out. Anyone except Marlene, that is. For her, Gwen would have to lay out the story. She’d have to reveal Jude’s identity, admit her purpose for visiting him. Marlene would object. Anyone would object.

She took another sip of her wine. A better idea than this was to get your priorities in order, return to your life, and let others deal with the consequences of their own choices.

She swiveled on her stool intending to get up and leave, but
there he was. He’d come up behind her while she was talking herself into making an exit.

He said, “I thought you said you were in bed every night by eleven.”

He smiled, like he knew something she didn’t. Then it vanished. “What happened to your eye?”

There was a pink line above her eyebrow from the healed gash and the first prickly sprouts of her eyebrow growing back in. The bruise lingered greenish yellow. During the day she hid the jaundice with makeup, but it didn’t seem right tonight, putting anything on her face that might make her look better, the way she had last time, as if she were trying to make an impression or get noticed or be kissed. That was not the task at hand.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I’m fine, I was in a car accident, that’s all.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He slid onto the stool next to her. “I hope everyone is okay.”

She’d been given the perfect opening: Jude asking about her eye, her responding about the car accident. Now tell him the rest of the story. Get it over with and get out of here.

She busied herself sipping wine.

He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. There was his cologne. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out already?”

“No, no of course not.” Although she had run out—the police had confiscated her bag.

He waited her out.

“I couldn’t sleep and wanted to get out for a drink.”

“You don’t have to be so nervous about it.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“If you clench the stem of that glass any harder it might break. I’d have to charge you for it.”

Gwen looked at her hand, white from her grip. She moved her hand away.

Jude motioned the bartender, who started to pour Gwen another glass of wine.

“I have to drive,” Gwen said. “I shouldn’t drink another.”

Jude waved the bartender away. “I’m not trying to get you in any trouble.” He asked how her trip up north had been.

“We had to postpone it,” Gwen said. “Things got hectic with our schedules, but maybe this weekend we’ll go.”

“Does your husband know you’re here?”

She didn’t respond.

He placed a hand on her knee. She held her breath, aware of her mistake now: a kiss like that is never just a kiss. It’s always, always something more, and Gwen knew it the instant he had kissed her, but she wouldn’t admit it.

She moved her leg and his hand slipped off, as if he didn’t care one way or the other, or maybe hadn’t even noticed that his hand had been touching her in the first place.

“That’s not why I’m here,” she said.

He shrugged, but his eyes locked to hers. “No, you told me. You couldn’t sleep.”

She tried again, but instead she said, “You must think I lead a pretty dull life.”

“Actually, I’d say your life has a little excitement to it if you’re slipping out at night to see me. Because I think that’s what you’re doing.”

“I did come to see you, but not for the reason you think.”

“Well, you didn’t come to ask me to get you another bag.”

“Is that what most people come to you for?”

He frowned, as if he didn’t understand her question. “Most people come here for a drink or to eat. And there are plenty of other places for that closer to your home. So I’m presuming you
have a different reason for coming here tonight.” He was smiling at her again, thinking this was a game of sorts.

“Excuse me, Jude?” A waiter in a white waist apron stood next to them. “The deuce at fourteen is insisting on seeing you. I opened a bottle of Cristal and they said it’s sour.”

Jude shook his head. Gwen let out her breath.

“Tell them I’ll be over,” he said to the waiter. He turned to Gwen.

“Maybe I will take that glass of wine,” she said.

“Excellent idea. I’ll be right back.”

The bartender returned and filled her glass. Jude excused himself and went into the dining room and beyond a row of booths and half wall. As soon as he was out of Gwen’s view, she got up and made for the door.

When Jude returned, he asked the bartender what happened to the woman sitting there.

The bartender shrugged. “I didn’t see her leave.” She’d left the change from her twenty. “Maybe she’s in the restroom.”

She wasn’t.

Jude couldn’t get an accurate reading on her, which troubled him. What had she come here for if not to start something? Why else would she have been so anxious? It puzzled him how Gwen’s comment about her “boring” life excited him, drove him to want her even more.

He looked up her number on his phone and called. After five rings, the phone was answered by a groggy male voice.
Hullo?

He disconnected. There was nothing he could do now, except keep the date he’d already arranged for tonight, the one he’d been ready to abandon for Gwen when he saw her at the bar.

He went upstairs to his office and got the manila envelope he’d prepared earlier. He told Simon to close up tonight and left Gull and drove across the bridge over Oneska Creek, slowing as he entered Morrissey’s residential neighborhoods. A cop often waited just over the bridge to catch people coming back from the bars, and, sure enough, Jude passed the cruiser lurking behind the roadside landscaping in front of the dentist’s office, lights off, radar gun pointing out the open window.

He turned at the signal on Delaware, then at Brighton, and finally on Van Buren, a long dead end that circled back toward Oneska Creek. Leni’s house was the last one on the right, an old farmhouse with several newer gables, a pool and hot tub in the backyard and a fireplace in the master bedroom. He was surprised to see other cars parked out front and in the driveway. Lights flooded the back of the house and music played.

He turned off his engine and sat in the dark for a few minutes, listening to voices and laughter and splashing. Then he called the house. An unfamiliar voice answered, “Party Palace, can I help you?”

He asked for Leni. When she got on the line, he said he was out in front.

“Come in, come in, you’re late, I’ve been dying for you to get here.”

“I can’t,” Jude said. You can’t be the guest that arrives ten minutes before the hostess puts out an assortment of drugs on a serving tray.

“Baby, did you bring me what I asked for?”

“I expected you’d be alone.”

“It’s just a few friends. It came about all of a sudden. Rick and Leslie called …”

“Come out and get it if you want it.”

“Don’t be mad, Judy.” She hesitated. “I’ll be right out.”

A few moments later she appeared from around the side of the house, her sandals snapping with each step. She wore an open cover-up over her bathing suit. She opened the door and got in beside him. He reached across and shut the door. She was wet and smelled of chlorine and alcohol. All smiles and smooches but he knew she’d tumble soon if that blow didn’t get up her nose.

“You’re pretty hammered,” he said.

“You used to find that attractive.”

“You used to handle it better.”

He handed her the sealed envelope. She didn’t open it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You probably think I’m a complete twit.”

This was the type of woman he’d been hanging with. A fading beauty, a homecoming queen, but you’d have to perform an archaeological dig to uncover that now. Today she was an alcoholic, drug hungry, divorced. Lost custody of the two kids who now lived with the former husband and his new wife. Dana had been right: he didn’t bring the women he dated around to the house, but not only because she might grow attached to them. Maybe when Dana was younger, yes, attachment might be the issue, but now that she was older she’d be repulsed by some of these women. Imagine telling Dana this was her new mother. Leni was starting to remind Jude of Claire, always jonesing, falling under the spell, too weak to maintain a semblance of control. Maybe that’s why he’d been thinking more and more of Gwen, had felt a deep thrill when he saw her in the bar tonight. She was the type of woman, or perhaps
the
woman, he should have been with all along. He wasn’t paying close enough attention years ago, and now it was probably too late. But maybe not. Things happen for a reason. She hadn’t worked up the nerve yet to take the next step, but by visiting him tonight she showed she was on the path, and it meant more to him than he would have guessed.

Leni shivered in the cool night air. She leaned closer and placed her damp face against his chest, an arm around his waist.

“Let me make it up to you,” she said. She began to pull at his belt buckle; he put a hand over hers to make her stop.

“I’ll make you forget all your little worries.” She tried again, getting his clothes wet.

“Stop it.”

“Then why did you come over?”

“You said you were going to be alone.”

“We’re alone right now, aren’t we?”

“Sit up,” he told her.

She did. She opened the envelope and took out one of the grams of coke. She unfolded the paper and licked the tip of her pinkie, stuck it in the powder, rubbed her gums. She folded the envelope again.

“Come on, Judy, come in and have some fun.”

“Go back to your party.”

He reached across and opened her door, wouldn’t look at her as she got out.

Brian had been in his office less than thirty seconds when Jennifer Stallworth walked in, slapped the
Times
on his desk as if she were swatting a fly, and demanded to know how the heck this happened. An already bad morning was about to turn worse.

“Heck” was Jennifer’s choice of words, her way of swearing. A native of Georgia, Jennifer’s singsong drawl came off sounding sweet and naive, whether she was chatting about her weekend of waterskiing or preparing to fire your ass for incompetence.

Brian didn’t need to look at the newspaper to know what this was about—he’d seen it online first thing this morning—but he picked it up anyway. Jennifer had folded the paper open to page three of the business section. Why in business and not health? Probably because recent drug industry legal woes posed a more significant risk for investors than for the health-care consumers who actually took the drugs.

The headline read:

How does Marta Everson do it? She even got the
Times
reporter to spin the story around her, referring to Dr. Everson as a “noted physician” in the headline.

When Brian offered no immediate response, Jennifer snatched back the paper and read to him.

Jennifer read a few more seconds to herself, her lips twitching as she silently formed the words. Then she thrust the newspaper at him, as if parrying with a sword.

Brian scanned the text. It was a short article, focused on Everson’s claims, a synopsis of Zuprone, the off-label prescribing for weight loss. General trends in off-label prescribing—on its way up and up. Not enough industry oversight. End.

It struck Brian as a weak article, a favor the reporter or editor did for Everson rather than significant news. A good story would have dug deep into the benefits and dangers of off-label prescribing, exploring on the one side the many consumers who were helped and on the other side the risks of unknown side effects and potential drug interactions. But even that wouldn’t be a new story. It had been making the rounds for years, flaring up whenever a big brand drug proved problematic.

“Since when are you a media contact for Caladon?”

Brian had known at the time he shouldn’t have been talking to a reporter—but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. The questions came and he answered and enjoyed answering until he realized the hole he’d dug.

“She called me and I happened to pick up the phone.”

“Who—Everson or the reporter?”

“Both, actually.”

“Gosh darn it, Brian,” Jennifer said. “This is a real mess. Stephen’s waiting for us right now.”

Brian hadn’t realized Stephen Jeffries was in town. If Stephen had made a special trip for this, then the situation was serious.

They met Stephen in the conference room. He was on the phone when Brian and Jennifer appeared at the door, but looked up and waved them in. Jennifer took a seat at the table across from Stephen. Brian remained standing, waiting for Stephen to finish his call. He was telling the person on the other end of the line—perhaps Hank Cutler, the CEO of Caladon; perhaps a riled FDA official—that a full investigation of the situation had already been launched. The situation being the one that Brian had created.