Joel Goldman - Shakedown

She sat on a sofa in the den, lost among large, decorative pillows covered in bright?oral prints that made her look smaller than she was. The room was large, one wall all glass, two layers of drapes drawn against the sun, the lights turned off, the room and her skin the same shadowy gray.

A decorator’s fingerprints were evident in the way each knick fit with each knack, furniture and fabrics blending and contrasting in muted harmony with the wall coverings and artwork. A plasma TV hung above the fireplace, the screen black and silent. It was a perfect, soulless show house.

There were different ways to conduct an interrogation. The choice depended on an assessment of the subject’s vulnerability. A good rapport made some people open up. They wanted to talk, to confess to someone they liked or whose approval they craved. A friendly smile, an understanding nod, and a humble acknowledgment that we’ve all stepped in the bucket at one time or another often opened the?oodgates.

The hard way was another way, but it was obvious that I wouldn’t have to go there with Jill Rice. She’d already gone there by herself, taken a self-administered beating, and was ready to talk. All I had to do was listen. I sat in a sleek, high-backed, black leather chair angled across from the sofa and waited.

“They won’t release Tommy’s body until next week,” she began.

It was the first time I’d heard her refer to him with any sign of endearment. “That’s a long time to wait to see him,” I said.

She turned her head toward the covered windows. “I’ve waited a long time. I can wait a little longer.”

“Have you made the arrangements?”

She nodded, studying the drapes. “It will be private. There’s really no one else but me. I’m having him cremated.”

“Then what?”

She looked at me, a gallows grin creasing her lips. “Then I’ll come home and pack.”

“Where are you going?”

Rice shrugged. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“You should talk with someone, maybe a psychologist, someone to help you get through this.”

She didn’t say anything, this time examining her nails. “Is that what the FBI recommends under these kinds of circumstances?”

“You were divorced, but it’s obvious you still cared about him. That’s a lot to work through.”

She grabbed a pillow and wrapped her arms around it. “I’ll tell you what’s a lot to work through. Killing him. That’s what I did, you know. I killed him.”

We both knew that she hadn’t, but there was no doubt that she believed she had. “He died in prison, not at home.”

“I sent him there.”

“He broke the law. It was a risk he took.”

“But,” Rice said, her eyes red and wet, “I turned him in.”

“He was a drug dealer. He deserved to go to jail.”

She looked at me like I was a simpleton, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t turn him in because he was a drug dealer. You see the way we live. Do you have any idea what this costs? I turned him in because he cheated on me. I caught him screwing our neighbor’s twenty-year-old daughter. She was home from college. He was working at home. I walked in on them. She thought it was funny.”

“What did he think?”

“That I would put up with it because of the money. That’s what he told me. I told him that I wouldn’t be his whore. It was all very dramatic.”

“How long had you known that he was dealing drugs?”

“From the start. Tommy was very good about business. He put together a pro forma and showed me how it would work. He said it was all about managing the risk.”

“That’s why he put the assets in your name.”

“Not everything. Just enough to take care of me if he ever got caught. He said he loved me and would do whatever he had to do to keep me out of trouble. When I caught him cheating, I was so mad I didn’t care what happened to him. After he was arrested, he said he forgave me. He said he’d gotten what he deserved for being unfaithful. Now he’s dead and it’s my fault.”

Jill Rice didn’t mind being married to a drug dealer as long as he didn’t cheat on her. Thomas Rice made sure he provided for his wife even as he betrayed her. He forgave her for turning him in, but she couldn’t forgive herself. Politicians argue about family values. I gave up trying to make sense of them a long time ago.

“Tell me about PEMA Partners. I ran across it when I looked at your tax records.”

“I don’t know much about it, really. I worked when we were first married. We didn’t need my income, so Tommy invested it. I gave him complete control over the account. Then he started putting his money into it. He was good at what he did. Even after he lost his license, he could still invest for me. One day, after he started the drug business, he told me he’d used the account to buy into PEMA. He said it would generate enough money to take care of me if anything hap

pened to him.” “Who are the other partners?” She shook her head. “No clue. Tommy handled every

thing. Why are you so interested in PEMA?” “My daughter is one of your partners.” “Maybe someone was trying to protect her.”

It had always been my job to protect Wendy. I’d done that as long as she had let me. I cautioned her about strangers when she was little. I embarrassed her in front of her boyfriends when I asked them about their intentions. I called her to ask where she was and why she wasn’t home even if it was only midnight and she was over eighteen.

As the anger and bitterness she’d silently harbored percolated to the surface, she lashed out at Joy and me, then drifted away, experimenting with sex and drugs. I tried even harder then, tried to pull her back, tried to protect her from herself. When Wendy finally came back to us, I held her close but not too close, having learned from my mistakes.

When she graduated from college and got her own apartment, I advised her not to rent on the ground?oor or near the stairs since that made her a potential victim for burglars and rapists. I engraved her name below the serial number on her computer in case it was ever stolen. After Wendy started her job, I told her to be honest and fair and that she could be disappointed, but not surprised, when others failed to meet her standards.

I spoke the language of modern parents, encouraging her in her education and career, championing her independence. But in my heart of hearts, I was a throwback to my parents’ generation. I wanted her married, cared for, and safe, ambitions I kept to myself because she would have heard them as sexist, though I would have wished the same for her brother, had he lived.

Jill Rice’s last comment rang in my ears as I drove away. Her husband had put his assets in her name to protect her from him. I remembered my conversation with Colby outside Fortune Wok earlier in the week when he intimated that he and Wendy planned on getting married. Maybe he had protected Wendy in the same way Thomas Rice had protected his wife. Then a greater likelihood hit me.

There are some things a daughter will tell her mother only on the promise that the mother won’t tell the father. I was afraid I’d stumbled across one of them.

Joy had moved into an apartment on Tomahawk Creek Parkway in a Johnson County suburb called Leawood. The three-story buildings were red brick with bright yellow trim. A jogging trail wound through the complex. I found her walking the dogs, reining them in from their pursuit of the geese that?ocked to the pond at the edge of the complex.

Ruby saw me first and jerked hard enough on the leash that Joy lost her grip. I crouched in the grass, letting Ruby run to me and jump in my face, taking a swipe at my nose. Roxy dragged Joy to our reunion, the dogs climbing over one another for a shot at my chin.