Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel (13 page)

The cons were less ambiguous. To help Natalie effectively, he’d be breaking the law. Executing a frame-up had profound moral implications, too. Lock believed that in life, you were constantly in motion, either growing or regressing, either moving toward the light or toward the darkness. What would conspiring with Natalie amount to? Would crossing the line be justified, just this once, for a greater good? Was he being swayed by his paternal instinct, or was he in denial and yielding to garden-variety self-indulgence?

Franklin said he needed to make his list and let days go by before coming to a conclusion about the way to go, but Lock didn’t have the luxury of time. He wanted an answer, and wanted it then and there.

The sound of the shower being turned off distracted him.

“Lock! There’s nothing to dry off with in here.”

“I’ll be right there,” he said, heading to the stacked washer-dryer where he usually left the clean towels until he either needed them or had to do dry more clothes. He handed her a towel as she stood dripping on the bathroom rug. He glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror, but there was too much condensation on it for him to get a good view.

As the evening wore on, Lock and Natalie sat wrapped in a blanket in front of the wood-burning stove and watched the flames consume the split wood.

“I guess it never would have worked anyway,” Natalie said.

“What?”

“Framing Witt.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We will, I know. As long as there’s a ‘we,’ I’ll be okay. Witt’s gone a lot, so there’s no reason we can’t keep going on like this.”

Lock’s stomach did a slow roll. Sneaking around and never having the chance to be a parent? His mind raced at the thought of Natalie reconciling with Witt.
A couple of beers would be nice right about now
, he thought. He only needed a little alcohol in his system to relax. He didn’t need to get stumbling drunk, just a little. And that thought gave him clarity. If imagining Natalie and the kids staying with Witt made him want a drink, he knew it was no good.

Early the next morning, Lock got up, made coffee, and waited for Natalie to awaken. He brought a steaming mug into the bedroom when he heard her stir.

“Good morning,” he said. “Sleep okay?”

“Slept wonderfully,” Natalie said. “It’s always wonderful to fall asleep next to you.” She got out of bed naked, reached slowly to the ceiling, took a deep breath, and exhaled. She stretched her arms high and then gracefully swept them in a downward motion until her palms touched the carpet.

From her folded-over position, she spoke. “I had a dream,” she said. “We were married and had twin boys. We were walking in the city and it started to rain like a madman, and you whisked us all under a restaurant’s awning and kept us dry. That was the whole dream.” She stood up. “But somehow that little thing left me loving you even more.”

“That’s a sweet dream.”

“Yeah, Witt wasn’t in it.”

“Every time you start to think about him, replace that image with a mental photograph of Dahlia and Edwina. You’ll see. It really works if you stay at it.”

“Well, there’s a better solution, but you don’t want to help me.”

“Look,” he said. “Don’t get mad, but I changed my mind.”

“Did you. Again?” She was suspicious, and he didn’t blame her.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, Natalie, I know. It’s just…I need to do the right thing. Now I know helping you is the right thing. I’ll make it happen. Let’s move forward carefully, with extreme caution. No mistakes, no slip-ups, no small rooms. Okay?”

Natalie sprang forward and jumped up into Lock’s arms. She hugged him, squeezing as hard as she could.

Lock nodded but didn’t smile.

“You’re doing it for the girls as much as you’re doing it for me,” she said, releasing him. “With your help, I’ll be free. I love you. And now, I’m off to yoga.” She kissed him quickly and bounded down the stairs.

Natalie, sprawled in bed next to her lawyer, Jerome Freel. She sat up, leaned forward, and fluffed two pillows behind her.

“I feel like a cigarette,” she said.

“You don’t smoke, Nat.”

“Not anymore. Anyway, I wish you’d make the extra effort to pronounce two more syllables and call me Natalie. I’ve asked you that about a hundred times.”

Freel, in his early thirties and muscular, got out of bed and headed toward the bathroom on the far side of his enormous bedroom. He returned a minute later holding a black, leather toiletries travel bag and sat down on the bed. He put the bag on the nightstand.

“I agree with you,” he said. “There’s not much that could go wrong, and if it does, I want Lock Gilkenney to be the one who’s implicated. Not you.”

Freel unzipped the bag and withdrew a small prescription pill vial and a short aluminum straw. He opened the vial and carefully shook out a small mound of white powder. He put the straw up to one of his nostrils, leaned over, and snorted.

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” she said. “Lock’s plan is solid.”

Freel sniffled and held the straw out to Natalie.

Natalie shook her head. “No. I told you, it will screw up my yoga.”

“Good, more for me,” Freel said. “Anyway, I like his plan. Pretty clever. Sometimes I like that guy.”

“Me too,” she said, rolling over closer to Freel. “He brings out the best in me. When I’m with Lock, I want to be a better woman, a better mother. When I’m with you, I don’t even think about my kids. I don’t give a damn about anything. I want to be bad. It’s like there’s a light switch in my head. Flip it on, I want Lock, flip it off, I want you.”

“So I’m the dark side,” Freel smirked. “I love it.”

“And that ludicrous drug idea worked perfectly,” she said. “That was a stroke of genius. He hated it.”

Freel got back under the covers and rolled Natalie onto her side and spooned up against her. He draped his arm across her chest.

“Jerome,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Tell me you love me,” she said.

“I thought you said I was incapable of love.”

“I did. And you are. But I like it when you lie to me.”

“Nat,” he said. “I’m here to help you get out of a fucked-up marriage and get the most money possible. And you’re here to take care of me. That’s our deal, and it’s working out.”

“You forgot to mention your unconscionable fee. Three hundred thousand.”

“Plus expenses,” he said. “I told you, you owe me nothing until after you get your millions. If it wasn’t for me, you’d wind up with shit. So you should look at what I’ll get as a tip, not a fee. Plus, I’m looking forward to spending it all on you.”

“And what about after my divorce, what will happen?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’ll be a free woman. You’ll do as you please. As if you don’t already. I like the arrangement we have.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“I know you want me to lie to you, but I won’t.”

“You respect me,” she said. “That’s funny. You make me laugh.” She pushed him away from her. Then she pouted. “But on the other hand, I like you. A lot. So I guess I have to put up with what you are. Golf, sluts, coke and disbarred for insurance fraud. You know what they say—99% of lawyers give the other 1% a bad name.”

“Funny,” Freel said, raising a finger and grinning. “But I was suspended, not disbarred, and they couldn’t prove it. Besides, my suspension is up Friday. Fully reinstated and ready to make money.”

“But now you’re broke and living the partying life on credit cards. You can’t even pay the lease on your boat slip. I don’t know why I find that so appealing, but I do.” She shook her head.

“Living beyond one’s means is an art, and I’m a genius at it. Plus, I’ll have that three hundred grand in a month or two. And your attraction to me is just part of your low self-esteem and self-destructive behavior. I like it.” Freel ran his hand over her body.

She shrugged him off. “Maybe I’ll just stick with Lock,” she said. “He loves me.”

“Go ahead. What’s he make, forty grand a year? You wouldn’t put up with that for long.”

“Yes, but soon I’ll have all the money I need. So I can afford to be with someone who cares about me and my kids.”

“Like I said, you wouldn’t put up with that for long.”

Freel tried to grab Natalie again, but she rolled away.

“Get back here.”

“Too late,” she said. She grinned at him and got out of bed. “I’ve got to get to yoga.”

“Skip it.”

“No way. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

Freel sat up, leaned over the nightstand, and did another line.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m against anything illegal or unethical, so it’s my professional advice to abandon the plan to set up your husband.” He smirked again. “On the other hand, don’t forget—it’s Lock who has to be the one to put the sleeping pills in Witt’s drink, he has to be the one who drives Witt’s car into the tree, and he has to be the one who puts the baby in the back of the car. Not you. Understand? You’re just an innocent bystander. He bullied you into this. That’s the way it’s got to appear. Remember, in court, it’s not what’s true that counts, it’s what’s believed.”

Natalie pulled on her clothes and headed for the hallway.

“Yes, Jerome, I know. It’s the tenth time you’ve told me.”

17

Lock sat alone at his kitchen table, using a mortar and pestle to crush the last of six little orange-pink pills into a fine powder. He used an index card to guide the powder into a plastic drinking straw. He folded the straw in half and taped the ends closed. He tapped the straw with his thumb to see if the powder would stay put until he was ready to release it. It seemed to work, and he was satisfied that the crude device would serve its purpose.

Lock remembered the one useful thing his father had taught him—if you have an hour to cut down a tree, sharpen your ax for fifty minutes. Prepare, prepare, prepare. It was good advice, but it was ironic coming from him. As far as Lock could tell, his father spent fifty minutes thinking about sharpening the axe and then gave up and opened a beer.

But it was still good advice, and that was exactly what Lock was doing. He was thinking of everything. Every possible possibility. He had five pages of notes. Categories like things that could go wrong, places that could go wrong, people who could go wrong. Things such as Witt suspecting something, Candice suspecting something, being observed spiking Witt’s beer, being seen putting Witt in his car, being seen at the curve.

Everything—even the need for Natalie to give Dahlia just a tiny amount of prescription cough medicine to insure she’d remain asleep during the execution of the plan.

Lock reviewed his notes, running his finger down the list of risks and then explaining to himself how each one had been mitigated.

The waiter seated Abby and Lock at a dinner table in Foster & Zandt’s. Lock told the waiter that they were okay with water and didn’t need to see the wine list. The waiter shrugged and walked away, saying that he’d give the pair a few more minutes to decide on their meals.

Abby tossed his menu aside. “So, the Mannheim file is coming back to bite us, and it’s turning into quite a mess.”

“Do we have to talk about work, Abby? My mind needs a break.”

“Fine,” Abby said. “We’ll make small talk while racking our brains trying to figure out what’s going on with Natalie Mannheim and her husband. Fine. Let’s forget all that and talk about Phillies spring training.”

“Spring training is three months away, Abby. It’s just that the case is on my mind all the time. I can’t shake the worry that I closed it too soon.”

Abby tossed his menu aside. He looked around for the waiter, spotted him lingering by the service bar, and waved to him. The waiter sauntered over and brought a pencil point to the order pad.

“What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

Abner ordered steak, medium, and Lock ordered salmon. The waiter wrote it down and walked away.

After dinner, Lock drove Abby back to his car at the office parking lot and said goodnight.

Lock drove into town, feeling unsettled. He parked at a meter and entered Jake’s, a bar he had frequented during his drinking days.

He sat at the bar, drinking from a shot glass.

The bartender leaned against the counter, watching him. The adjacent restaurant had a handful of customers, but the bar was nearly empty. One lone couple, oblivious to Lock, sat at the far end of the bar, talking.

Lock caught the bartender’s eye. “Another one, Billy,” he said.

“Come on, man, get out of here,” he said, drying a glass with a cloth. “You know I won’t serve you alcohol, and drinking water like that is silly.”

“Humor me.”

Billy shrugged and removed the cap from a bottle of spring water. He filled another shot glass and slid it to Lock and looked him in the eyes.

“Whatever you’re trying to bury, that won’t do it. Why don’t you get yourself to one of your meetings?”

Lock tried to stare him down. Billy held his gaze. Lock reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet.

“Take your money back,” Billy said.

Lock downed the shot, then slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and stood up. He headed toward the exit. Billy called after him.

“Hey, Lock,” he said. “You’re really losing it.”

“Can’t disagree with you, Billy. I really can’t.”

Lock drove back to the carriage house and got into bed, and after fifteen or twenty minutes of tossing and turning, fell into a sound slumber.

When he awoke Thursday morning, he noted with some satisfaction that he had had a restful sleep, and he interpreted that to mean his conscience was clear and that his plan made sense and was justifiable. All his doubts about going forward seemed to have evaporated.

As soon as Lock arrived at CPS headquarters that morning, he was summoned to Abby’s office. Several others were seated around Abby’s cluttered desk when he entered the room. No one was smiling.

“What happened?” Lock asked, taking a seat.

Abby cleared his throat and addressed Lock. “One of Cohen’s cases. Drumbolt family in Brandywine Village. You know the file?”

“Never heard of them,” he said.

“Well, last night the father—there’s no mother—got plastered. Drugs or alcohol or both, I don’t know. But he managed to set the kitchen on fire. He’s dead. Smoke inhalation. Fire marshal says it looks accidental. Nevertheless, we now have two children, ages seven and nine, in the hospital.”

“How are the kids?” Lock asked.

“We don’t have all the information yet. Second- and third-degree burns is all I know now, but I don’t know how extensive. But what I do know is that we tried to get the kids removed from the residence but got blocked in court. And now, this.”

Fred Cohen, the investigator in charge of the Drumbolt file, sat grim-faced, his eyes filling up. He turned to Lock. “I knew that son-of-a-bitch was a threat to the children, but there was nothing I could do. I tried. I tried.” He slapped his hand on Abby’s desk.

“Alright, Freddy,” Abby said. “Take it easy. You’re not to blame. You did an exemplary job. Unfortunately, Drumbolt had effective counsel at the protective custody hearing.”

Lock walked to Cohen and put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, Fred. You did what you could. Too bad the judge didn’t know you can’t trust a drunk.”

“Lock’s right, Freddy. You can’t trust an active drunk. They’ll let you down every time.”

Lock felt terrible for Cohen and the kids and wasn’t unhappy to hear the fate of the father.

He couldn’t help but think of Witt and the kids he would inevitably wind up maiming—or worse—unless Lock took action now. And hitting Natalie…Lock knew that kind of thing tended to escalate over time.
I’m not going to sit here someday in a meeting like this, regretting my inaction. I’m going to do it. It’s the right thing to do.

Any fleeting doubts about what he was going to do to Witt were now relegated to the trash heap.