John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

“Can you look into something in the Boston area for me?”

“I’m pretty busy with a couple of other cases. What sort of something?”

Sally took a deep breath. “A personal matter. It involves a member of my family.”

He hesitated before saying, “Well, Counselor, that explains why you called an old warhorse down here, instead of one of those young, slick ex-FBI or -military-CID guys up there in the more rarefied atmosphere where you keep your practice. So, what exactly is it that you want me to, ah, do?”

“My daughter had gotten involved with a young man in Boston.”

“And you don’t like him much?”

“That’s putting it mildly. He keeps telling her he loves her. Won’t leave her alone. Pulled some computer crap that got her fired from her job. Screwed up her graduate-school work. Maybe more. Probably tailing her around. Maybe made some trouble for me, my ex, and a friend of mine, as well. More computer stuff.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Got into my accounts. Made some anonymous complaints. Generally speaking, screwed a lot of stuff up.”

Sally thought that she was minimizing the damage that O’Connell had probably done.

“So, he’s got some skills, this, what do you want to call him? Ex-boyfriend?”

“That’s good enough. Although it appears that they only had one date.”

“He did all this because of, what? A one-night stand?”

“Seems that way.”

Murphy hesitated, and Sally’s confidence was slightly shaken.

“Okay. I get it. Any way you slice it, sounds like this guy is a bad dude.”

“Do you have any experience in this sort of case? An obsessive type.”

Matthew Murphy was quiet once again. His silence made her feel increasingly uneasy.

“Yeah, Counselor, I do,” he said slowly. “Ran into a couple of guys more or less like the guy you’re describing to me. Back when I was in homicide.”

This was a word that made her throat go dry.

Hope’s mother had just come in from raking leaves when her phone rang. As was her custom, she reached for the receiver with a twinge of uncertainty.

“Hello, dear,” Catherine Frazier said. “This is a surprise. It’s been weeks and weeks since we spoke last.”

“Hello, Mother,” Hope said a little guiltily. “I’ve been busy with school and the team, and time has slipped away. How are you?”

“Why, just fine. Settling in and getting ready for winter. The locals all think we’re in for a long one.”

Hope took a single deep breath. Her relationship with her mother was marred by an underlying tension. While outwardly civil, it was as if it were constantly being tightened, like a knot holding a wind-filled sail, as the gusts around them increased. Catherine Frazier was a lifelong Vermonter, liberal almost to a fault in her political views-save one; the most important one to her daughter. She was a stalwart in the local Catholic church in the small town of Putney, which was adjacent to the more upscale, ex-hippie-populated, whole-wheat-and-granola town of Brattleboro-a woman who had survived the early death of her husband, never thinking about remarrying, who now enjoyed living at the edge of the woods alone. She still harbored considerable doubts about her daughter’s relationship with Sally. She kept these to herself, living in a state that welcomed civil unions between women, but prayed fervently on Sunday mornings for some sort of understanding that had eluded her year in and year out, which had hardened the connections between them. Sometimes, in past years, she had bought up these feelings in the confessional, but she had grown tired of saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers because they rarely made her feel any more comfortable.

Hope thought her failure to be normal and to provide grandchildren was somehow at the root of the tension, which grew in volume both when they did talk and when they didn’t, for the real subject that they should have addressed was never raised between them.

“I need a favor,” Hope said.

“Anything, dear,” Catherine replied.

Hope knew that this was a lie. There were more than a few favors that she might have asked for from her mother that might not have been granted.

“It has to do with Ashley. She needs to get out of Boston for a while.”

“But what could possibly be the matter? She’s not ill, is she? There hasn’t been an accident?”

“No, not precisely, but…”

“Does she need money? I have lots of money and I’d be glad to help out.”

“No, Mother. Let me explain.”

“But what about her graduate studies?”

“Those can be put on hold.”

“Dear, this is very confusing. What is the problem?”

Hope took a deep breath and blurted out, “It’s a man.”

When Scott first tried Ashley’s cell phone that night, he got a No longer in service recording, which pitched him into a near panic as he dialed her landline. When she answered, he felt a surge of anxiety. As he greeted her, he concentrated on keeping fear out of his voice.

“Hey, Ash,” he said briskly, “how are you doing?”

Ashley, for her part, was unsure what the answer to that question might be. She could not shake the sensation that she was being watched, that she was being followed, or that every word she spoke was being listened to. She was tentative when she left her apartment, wary when she walked down the street, leery of every shadow, every corner, every blind alleyway. Ordinary city sounds that she was so familiar with now penetrated her ears like some high-pitched whistle, almost painful in intensity.

She decided that she should partly lie. She did not want to upset her father.

“I’m okay. Things are just a bit of a mess.”

“Have you heard from O’Connell again?”

She didn’t exactly reply, except to say, “Dad, I’ve got to take some steps.”

“Yes,” he said far too quickly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“I’ve canceled the cell phone,” she said, which explained the recording.

“Yes, and cancel this line as well. In fact, I think you’re going to have to do far more than we ever anticipated.”

“I’ve got to move,” she said sullenly. “I like this place, but…”

“I think,” Scott began tentatively, “that you’re going to have to do more than just move.”

Ashley didn’t immediately respond.

“And there are some other steps-”

“What are you saying?” Ashley blurted out.

Scott took a deep breath and adopted his most reasoned, most flat and academic tone, as if he were discussing the flaws in a senior’s paper. “I’ve done some reading and research, and I don’t want to leap to conclusions here, but I’m thinking that there exists the potential for O’Connell to get, well, even more aggressive.”

“Aggressive. That’s a euphemism. You think he might hurt me?”

“Others, in similar circumstances, have been hurt. I’m just saying we should take some precautions.”

More silence, before she responded, “What are you suggesting?”

“I think you need to disappear. That is, exit Boston, go someplace safe, hide for a while, and then resume things when O’Connell has finally moved on.”

“What makes you so sure he will move on? Maybe he will just wait it out.”

“We have resources, Ashley. If you have to leave Boston behind for good, move to L.A. or Chicago or Miami, well, that can be done. You’re still young. Plenty of time to get where you want. I think we just need to take some significant steps, so that O’Connell can’t find you again.”

Ashley could feel anger surging within her. “He doesn’t have the right,” she began, raising her voice. “Why should it be me? What have I done wrong? Why does he get to screw up my life?”