The Monolith Murders (18 page)

“Polish, you don’t understand. People are magnetically drawn to features that are out of the ordinary. When they see you, your hair and your mustache will become their visual focal point. I guarantee that, beyond those two aspects, they will not be able to describe you. Do you now understand?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Well, at least, you look fantastic in your prison uniform.”
 

“Polish, I’m not trying to make a fashion statement; it only matters if it looks real to the hospital administrators. Now I have to make one call and we’ll be on our way.”

Donna called the hospital, pretending to be the warden of the Fort Myers prison. She advised the hospital’s administrative office that she would be sending a critical medical case over within a couple of hours. The guise worked perfectly; her call and directions were accepted without question.

The entire plan went as calculated. Dr. Anderson was cooperative through the entire procedure. At one point, during the most critical phase of the operation, he thought about ending Donna’s life with a designed misplaced surgical cut. He knew, however, that if he attempted to do so, Polish would most likely shoot him in the head. In addition, he was still bound by the Hippocratic oath; and although he knew the depths of amorality of the person under his scalpel, he was still ethically bound to keep her alive.
 

Chapter 29

Three weeks later, as Maureen walked through the Sarasota-Bradenton airport terminal on her way to the San Diego gate, she noticed a well dressed woman sitting in the fast food court. The woman was wearing a muted gray business suit and was intently studying the Wall Street Journal. The paper partially covered her face; but based on the part of the fashionable outfit that she was wearing and the category of the paper that she was reading, Maureen guessed that she was probably successful in life.
 

That’s great, Maureen thought, when I was a child there weren’t that many successful women in this country. Now that number has multiplied so that many women are starting to make more sizable contributions to the family nest eggs than their husbands. Funny how quickly the world changes, she ruminated, as she pulled out her driver’s license and airline ticket in preparation to enter the serpentine security lines on the way to her boarding area.
 

After Maureen had passed, the woman made a quick check of her stock. Damn it, down again, she said to herself, when the water in the harbor goes down, so do all of the boats. Then, watching Maureen, Donna thought, she thinks she’s getting away but it’s just a matter of time. I believe I’ll murder her first and also take care of Atwell while I’m out there. Fred will be grief stricken when he learns that his dear wife is dead—good, I want that bastard to suffer just as much as I had for four long years. Maureen was out of sight as Donna got up to leave, still upset that her stock had plummeted for the third week in a row.

* * *

Maureen’s plane was on time; her trip to San Diego was uneventful. She grabbed a stale turkey sandwich at the airport terminal building, doused it with tangy mustard to obliterate its taste, and hailed a waiting cab transporting her directly to Atwell’s company.

She had the name of a reasonably priced downtown hotel if Atwell failed to accommodate her request. In such a case, she would be on the next morning’s first plane heading back to Sarasota.

As she entered Atwell’s office area, she noted a middle-aged receptionist whose thin weather-aged skin was pulled taut against her cheek bones. I wonder how many face lifts she has had, Maureen thought, but hey, this is California.
 

The receptionist smiled; but to Maureen it was an artificial smile, betrayed by the disdain exposed by the upper segment of her face. He voice was brittle and authoritative. She seemed to be the perfect fit for a tyrannical boss. When Maureen asked to see Mr. Atwell, the receptionist curtly asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but Mr. Atwell knows me and he will see me,” Maureen lied, not knowing if she was telling the whole truth or not. He knows me, she thought, but it’s entirely possible he won’t see me at all or he’ll kick me out of his office when he recognizes who I am. Maureen only provided the receptionist with her first name, hoping with luck that Atwell might know a Maureen and have had a positive relationship with her.
 

“Mr. Atwell is speaking with a client right now. Please sit down; I will buzz him when he’s finished. But I warn you, he invariably will not see anyone without an appointment; he’s a busy and important man and he just doesn’t have time—”
 

Her voice broke off, but Maureen knew what would have followed in thought, if not in words was—to meet with unimportant people like you.
 

Knowing Atwell’s strange powers, Maureen thought, there may be no need to buzz him at all; he probably already knows I’m out here.

Earlier that week in Sarasota, too distant for Atwell to mentally pick up on the conversation, Fred had filled in Maureen on just what to say to Atwell. Maureen, an experienced practicing psychologist, was amazed at Fred’s insight into Atwell’s psyche, and at Fred’s ability to craft a scenario that might just be effective.
 

In about half an hour, a smiling trim middle-aged man left Atwell’s office. Maureen didn’t know the price of the suit he was wearing, but she knew it was far above that of any suit in Fred’s closet. I guess Atwell has found his financial niche in life Maureen, thought. She impatiently waited another half hour with still no word from Atwell. She had to desperately use the bathroom but she didn’t want to be away if Atwell should agree to see her.
 

Eventually the receptionist said, “Mr. Atwell will see you now.”

So far, so good Maureen thought.

Atwell got up to greet Maureen; Fred had told her, “Whatever you do, don’t wear heels, and if possible dig a hole in the floor when you see him, so you can be somewhat near the same height. He might well be put off by your height.” Fred was trying to keep a serious situation as humorous as he could. Maureen closely resembled the actress Nicole Kidman, including her beauty as well as her height.
 

But as she entered Atwell’s office, Maureen realized that she still towered over Atwell even though she tried to slump as much as she physically could. The Hunchback of Notre Dame probably had better posture, Maureen thought.
 

She could see that Atwell was uncomfortable from the extreme angle of his face looking up at her. She asked, “May I sit?”

Before he could respond, she immediately grabbed a chair, positioning herself as close as she could next to Atwell’s colossal desk.

Atwell stared at her for what seemed like a solid minute; his facial expression conveyed no misunderstanding; he was not happy to see her. “What do you want?” he asked crisply.
 

“My life’s in danger, Mr. Atwell. And I know you’re the only man in the world powerful enough to protect me.”

Atwell was taken back; he couldn’t contain a smile. He noticed that Maureen was wearing a short low cut black dress. He stared uncomfortably long at her perky breasts and mentally felt his way slowly from there down to her long curvaceous legs.

Maureen was visibly uncomfortable with his mental undressing, but knew it was worth the price if she could get what she was after. Fred had briefed her about Atwell’s obsession with women while he worked at AU. Fred was also convinced that, with her psychological background, she could effectively keep him at bay.

Atwell attempted to probe her mind; the best he could determine was that she was telling the truth.

“You mean your nothing of a useless husband is helpless in protecting you from Donna?” he asked, seeking to get an unfiltered gut reaction from her.

“No,” she said, “he can’t. He and I both know that only you can.”

Fred had coached her well; she had visualized her meeting with Atwell several times, using mentally constructed images in her mind’s eye so that her responses would seem extemporaneous and legitimate. She knew that Atwell would pick up immediately on a contrived response. Rehearse, rehearse, rehearse, Fred had told her.

All his life Atwell had tried to compensate for his lack of height, and now it was happening. He was successful in business, tall women enjoyed dating him, and now even his former adversary was freely releasing his wife to his care. Life is good, he thought; he couldn’t let this opportunity pass.

“Let’s make this simple,” he said. “I don’t want sex from you. You can stay in my home, but you’re restricted to the use of the guest bathroom. I want you to make my meals, wash my clothes and do whatever else I decide that you must do to keep me happy. If that fails, you’re history. Do you fully understand and agree to those conditions?”

Atwell guarded his private life to an extreme. When the condo’s doorman had once asked for an extra key to Atwell’s private condo elevator in case of fire or an emergency, Atwell said, “No way.”
 

Atwell had also refused to give the doorman a key to the impenetrable steel door, which precluded anyone from taking the stairs to reach Atwell’s top floor unit.
 

The doorman said, “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s the one rule I have to enforce or I will have the authorities on my back.” Atwell thought for a second and said, “I’ll drop the keys off this afternoon.”

Atwell did drop off keys as he had agreed. Although they looked like his keys, neither would fit the penthouse elevator lock or the stairs door. Atwell didn’t want just anyone going to his 15
^th
floor penthouse; and in Atwell’s value system, the doorman was anybody.

Now, however, he was going to allow Harris’ wife to live in his condo. Well, she won’t be happy, he thought; and I’ll get my pound of flesh in the form of humiliation. I’ll make sure she stays only in her designated area.
 

Fred had even prepared her for Atwell’s probable response to her. Without hesitation, she acquiesced to Atwell’s demands. “Yes sir, no problem,” she said.
 

Maureen knew that, with Atwell’s powers she would be protected in the condo from Donna when he was home. But what about the daytime hours? So she added, “I would also like to perform clerical duties for you during your working hours.”

Atwell was stunned that a practicing psychologist with a doctorate degree was completely compatible with, in effect, being his housekeeping slave and even reduced to willingly doing his clerical work.
 

He called his receptionist in and said, “Maureen will be working for you—tell her what you want done. And if she gives you a hard time in any area, let me know and I will fire her ass. Oh, yes, order a desk for her, a very small desk. Make sure it’s not a new one, use the Salvation Army Thrift Store, Goodwill or some place like that to purchase it.”

Atwell’s secretary didn’t know what to make of this sudden change of events, but she always did as she was told, so she said, “Yes, sir.”

Maureen already felt violated and used; but at least she didn’t have to spend time in that god-awful, smelly sanitarium as she had in earlier years for protection from Donna. And as undesirable as her new confinement was, it wouldn’t be forever. Thank God, he doesn’t want sex from me, she thought.

Chapter 30

Maureen had arranged to phone Fred every Tuesday and Friday morning at precisely 9 a.m. Just prior to that time, Atwell predictably would take off in his private jet and fly to Vegas. He was an ardent gambler; and those were the days that he set aside each week to momentarily alleviate his addiction. However, he never gambled for more than five hours at a time; and, as was his practice, he returned to San Diego immediately thereafter. He was a stickler for structure and consistency; he always left for his return trip at the same time and uniformly used the same pilot that he had hired five years earlier. At 4 p.m. he invariably would return to his condo, make sure everything was in order, and go off to work for a couple of hours.
 

Maureen could count on the fact that at 9 a.m. Atwell would be on the San Diego airstrip in his private jet, either taking off or impatiently waiting in the queue. Fred instructed Maureen to place her calls to a number which rang in the AU conference room. Schultz had graciously made that area available for Fred during such times; Fred knew the phone line in the conference room was secure, even secure from Donna’s probing, he felt. The room was soundproof; no one could tap into the secure line because that was the line Schultz employed to do his business with the black world. At this stage, Fred didn’t even trust the security of the phone system in his police department office.
 

The communication process with Maureen had continued smoothly until now. But this Friday Fred sat in the conference room, impatiently waiting for a call that never came.

At first Fred thought that Atwell been delayed or returned unexpectedly to his condo for some reason, thus precluding Maureen from making the call. But Maureen had been insistent that the situation was inviolate; she would always phone Fred at the time they had set. She said Atwell was as predictable as southern Florida’s elevated humidity in the summer and extensive drought during the winter.

Fred restlessly waited another hour—still no call. Outside, an impatient Schultz used the conference intercom to buzz Fred. As Fred picked up, an increasingly impatient Schultz said, “Fred, our agreement was for one hour and no more than that. I have a meeting scheduled in there right now. I want you to get the hell out.”