False Accusations (12 page)

“You really think it’s that easy?”

“What do you mean?” Madison asked, his smile fading.

“Someone like this doesn’t merely just stop spreading rumors because she’s fired. Mark my words. It’s gonna get worse once she loses her job. Then it gets vindictive. Personal. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.”

They descended the last flight of stairs and stepped into the parking garage.

“Come on. What makes you think—”

“I lived through it. Ten years ago. We had a staff person with Concerned Environmentalists who was pissed off at being fired. Different circumstances, but basically what happened was that she started spreading rumors all over the community. Nasty stuff, mostly aimed at the president at the time. I was just a VP, so I didn’t catch much of it. But it was pretty ugly at times. And there was nothing he could do about it.”

“What happened?”

“Eventually, his term as president was up, and someone else stepped in. That slowed the assault. But every now and then he hears some weird rumor. He finally stopped asking where it originated.”

Madison grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. Stevens moved into the garage.

“I’m going to think positively,” Madison said. “This’ll be the last I hear from Brittany Harding.”

“Borrowing a page from Mike Murphy’s manual?”

“No, it’s the way it’s going to be.”

“Mark my words, Phil. This isn’t over. It won’t ever be over.”

Madison stood in front of his Mercedes in the brightly lit parking garage. Stevens lifted a tremulous hand, patted him on the back, and then walked off toward his car.

It won’t ever be over.
Madison kept replaying it in his head. Stevens was wrong. He had to be. If there was one thing Madison was sure of, it was that he could not spend an indefinite amount of time dealing with all sorts of rumors and false accusations. He knew what the result would be: an ulcer...a nervous breakdown, and a big fat divorce.

THE WAITER BROUGHT the check and placed it by Hellman’s elbow. Hellman picked up the vinyl case and opened it.

“In New York, he who picks up the cheek pays it,” Chandler said.

“I never heard that.”

“When was the last time you were in New York?”

“Ten years ago.”

Chandler flashed a crafty smile. “A lot’s changed in the past ten years.”

As Hellman pulled out his credit card, Madison pointed to the check. “He’s just going to add it to my bill.”

“You know it,” Hellman said with a grin as he placed his American Express card atop the check.

“So,” Chandler said, “I’m beginning to understand why you think that this Harding chick was responsible for framing you.”

Hellman held up a hand. “You haven’t heard the best part yet.”

“It gets better?”

“Or worse, depending upon how you look at it,” Hellman said.

“Tell me more.”

Madison sighed. “Well, I thought that Stevens was nuts. I thought I’d really be able to put the episode behind me. Actually, I was able to, it’s just that she wasn’t.”

They paid the check, parted company with Hellman, and the story continued in the car on the way home.

Madison had been pruning back the rose bushes in his expansive front yard. He had a gardener who manicured the grounds, but the roses were the one thing he insisted on doing himself. It gave him a few minutes out in the fresh air every so often, alone with his thoughts. It was a beautiful day, 70 degrees and a quiet, clear blue sky. Leeza was in the house; the kids had slept at their cousin’s and had not as yet returned.

This morning, Murphy had taken care of placing the last nail in the coffin of one Brittany Harding, put out to pasture with all of her delusional visions and phantasmal rumors. Madison took a deep breath of fresh air. “Free,” he said to himself as he exhaled.

Fifty yards away, out on the street; he could see the twirling spirals of a football being hurled back and forth. His neighbor, Matt Prisco, was playing ball with his son Scott, the starting quarterback for Rio Americano High.

A car pulled up at the curb and the horn started honking, brutally piercing the solitude of the moment. Through the slits in the trees and the stone wall beyond, Madison could see Matt talking to someone. A woman.

Brittany Harding.

She drove her car up the circular drive and stopped hard in front of Madison. Slammed the door. “You goddamned fucking son of a bitch!”

“Brittany, what are you doing here—”

“You liar!” she shouted. “You’ll get yours!”

“Liar? What are you talking about?” he said, taking a step toward her, the pruning shears still in his right hand.

“You said that if I slept with you I wouldn’t lose my job! All I’d have to do is sleep with you!”

She flung her purse at Madison and knocked the shears from his hand. He ducked and dodged another roundhouse swing, threw up his hands, and leaned backward. As she swung again, he grabbed her from behind, strands of her strawberry-scented hair flying into his mouth as she squirmed and struggled to wrestle free of his grasp.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Brittany,” he said, forcing air into his lungs as he kept her torso pressed tightly against his body. You need psychiatric help. Serious help...”

She swung free, out of his grasp. “You pig! I’m going to the police—tell them what you did to me. You’re gonna pay for this!”

She jumped back into her car and screeched off along the circular, driveway, leaving displaced gravel and a pile of dust behind her. Madison stood there, the trimming shears lying on the grass ten feet away, his mouth open, watching the car drive off. Matt Prisco and his son were standing at the entrance to the driveway, staring at Madison.

And Leeza was up at the third story window, crying.

LEEZA WAS IN TEARS for two hours before Madison could get her to calm down. He gave her a Valium tablet he kept in the medicine cabinet for those times when he needed to sleep following a particularly stressful day. He had been taking quite a few lately.

As she calmed down, he again assured her that nothing had happened between Harding and himself. But Leeza kept coming back to what Serena had told her: that he had had an affair with the woman. Now, after what she had witnessed, she was not sure what—or whom—to believe.

“Honey, I swear to you. I never laid a hand on her. I have never, ever even thought of getting involved with her.”

“Oh, come on, Phil. She’s gorgeous. You can’t tell me that you’ve never had fantasies about her.”

“Lee, she’s attractive. So are a lot of women in Sacramento. What does that mean?”

“Yeah, but you don’t go out to dinner with those other women.”

He did not like what he was hearing. She was adding up all the little tidbits of circumstantial occurrences, throwing them into the broth with the rumors she’d heard, and cooking them into a hearty serving of deceit.

Pausing for a deep breath, he realized that she, too, had been feeling the stress of recent weeks. “Lee, you’re just going to have to believe me. Nothing happened.” He looked at her and let his eyes penetrate hers. “She may be physically attractive, but she’s crazy—a nut job. Nothing could be more ugly than the type of behavior she’s been exhibiting.”

She dropped her chin to her chest and nodded. He knew that she needed some time to herself to unwind; he told her that he would take care of the boys for the afternoon, freeing her to drive over to the mall, where she could unwind for a few hours.

He spent the rest of the day with the kids—a rare day with just Dad—playing in the yard with them. Scalpel chased balls while he and the boys shot hoops.

He, too, tried to forget the incident with Harding. He called Hellman and relayed the sequence of events. His friend told him he was on his way out with his brother for the weekend, but he promised to call him back Monday morning unless he returned home early enough on Sunday night.

“Meantime,” Hellman said, “don’t worry about it. I know exactly what needs to be done.”

Leeza came home with a new dress and a couple of pantsuits from Nordstrom. Her spirits were better, but she was still quiet. He could tell that she had been crying during the day.

There was also a package from Victoria’s Secret, but he did not dare ask what was inside.

THE WEEKEND passed without further incident, with one exception. Madison ran into Matt Prisco late Sunday afternoon while wheeling the recycling and garbage bins out to the curb. His neighbor was polite, but wanted to know what had happened yesterday with “that looker.”

Madison, in turn, was curious as to what Harding had said to him before storming his driveway.

“Something about you being a pervert,” Prisco said. “I don’t know, Phil, she was raving mad. To be honest, with Scott standing right there, I didn’t want to provoke her. She seemed a bit off.”

Prisco was a psychologist, and although Madison didn’t know him professionally, he was impressed that he’d pegged her that quickly.

Madison’s face flushed deep red. “Honestly, Matt, I don’t know how much you saw or heard, but I haven’t got a clue as to what she was talking about.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

He explained in a few sentences who she was and the problems the Consortium had been having with her. Although Prisco listened intently and appeared to understand, Madison couldn’t help but notice something on his neighbor’s face that indicated a shred of lingering doubt. He knew what Jefferies must have been thinking: Harding might be “a bit off,” but that doesn’t mean that what she was ranting about didn’t really happen.

Madison made the long walk back to the house, hoping that Jeffrey would return to town in time to talk with him tonight. He wondered what course of action his friend had in mind.

Monday morning was overcast and unusually humid. As Leeza helped Elliott get ready for school, Jonah sat in front of the TV watching
Sesame Street
in the playroom on the second floor. Madison was knotting his tie when he heard a knock at the door. Leeza, thinking it was their car pool, allowed Elliott to answer the door. She was in the kitchen when she heard him shout to her. “Mommy, there’s a policeman at the door. And a girl, too.”

“A policeman,” Leeza said as she wiped off her wet hands and walked toward the entryway. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Madison?” asked the man in the suit, holding up a badge.

“Yes.”

“Detective Coleman, Sacramento Police Department. This is Detective Valentine,” he said, nodding toward his female partner. “Is your husband home? We’ve got a few questions for him.”

“Elliott, run upstairs and get your father. Hurry,” she said, giving him a slight push on the buttocks.

“What’s this about?”

“We’d rather discuss it with your husband. No offense, ma’am.”

“Offense taken,” she said, turning and walking back toward the kitchen.

Madison came trudging down the stairs, Elliott following closely behind, almost hiding behind his father’s legs.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Phillip Madison?”

“Yeah, what can I do for you?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions about Brittany Harding.”

He shot a glance at Leeza across the hallway, then looked over at Elliott, who was staring with fascination at the gun that was planted in the male detective’s holster inside his suit jacket.

“I have to get to the office, can this wait—”

“It’ll only take a few moments, sir.”

He sighed, reasoning that he was just as curious to find out what this was about as they were to ask him the questions.

“Come in here,” he said, leading them into his den. As they walked into the richly appointed room complete with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases and a matching desk, Leeza came over. He motioned with a nod of his head for her to look after Elliott, then settled into his large leather seat. “Please,” Madison said, gesturing to the guest chairs.

As they sat, the male detective said, “Mr. Madison, I’m Detective Paul Coleman and this is Detective Kimberly Valentine.”

“It’s
Doctor,
” he corrected, “and it’s good to meet you.”

“We have a complaint sworn by Brittany Harding. Do you know her?”

“Just what kind of complaint are we talking about?”

“Do you know her?” Coleman pressed.

“Yes.”

“Where were you on the night of September eleventh?”

“Why?”

“We’ll ask the questions, sir,” Valentine said.

“Not without my attorney present.”

Valentine glanced over at Coleman, an
I told you so
look on her face.

“Fine,” Coleman said. “Call him. We’ll see you at the station in a couple of hours,” he said as he handed Madison his card. They stood up and left, leaving him sitting behind his desk, staring at the card, pondering what wonderful surprises were in store for him now.

WHEN HE WALKED into his office through the back door to the orthopedic clinic twenty minutes later, he saw the red light blinking on his phone. He picked it up and retrieved his voicemail messages. Jeffrey had called, apologizing that he had not returned home earlier last night. He had hit three hours of traffic and did not get in the door until midnight.

As Madison moved a hand toward the phone pad to dial, his intercom buzzed. “Doctor, we have Jan Harvey, Bill McNally, and Loril Kennedy waiting. They’re in rooms and ready to go.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Thanks, Monica. I just need to make a quick call.” He glanced at the clock and, seeing that he was already running behind, buzzed her back. “Who’s first?”

“Jan. Room One.”

He walked out of his office and grabbed Jan Harvey’s file that was in the receptacle on the exam room door. He hated waiting, so he made it a policy not to do it to his patients. Their time was valuable, too.

He forced a smile and opened the exam room door. “How are we doing today, Jan?”

The busy afternoon was a welcome stimulant for him. It took his mind off his collateral personal problems, and it invigorated his spirits. Contact with his patients was one of the more rewarding parts of practice for him.