Fatal Flaw Part 18

"Probably. Look, Lat.i.tia, they've been asking us, in addition to the account information, whether there was a safe-deposit box in her name. We've got nothing here on that, but I understand she was living not too far from your branch, so I was wondering if you could check whether she had a box there or not."

"Of course, Tommy. Just wait a minute, I'll check the cards."

Long pause.

"Nope, nothing. Sorry."

"No, that's good, that's easier. Thanks, Lat.i.tia. By the way, I have to check out some other things, too. You know anyone in Wire Transfers I could get to help me out?"

"Kelly Morgan."

"She knows her stuff?"

"Oh, yes. Tell her Lat.i.tia sent you."

"Thank you, you've been great. Did I meet you at the Christmas party?"

"I was there with my husband."

"Why is it, Lat.i.tia, that all the good ones are already taken?"

ALONG WITH the key, I had taken Hailey Prouix's expired driver's license from the desk in the room of her murder. It was the only picture I had of her: guilt-ridden lovers don't take snapshots. In my office, the door closed and locked, I looked hard at the tiny photograph on the card, but it was like looking at a stranger. There had been a wonderful plasticity to her face, her mouth always teetering on the edge of a smile or a frown, her eyes widening or contracting, her face alive with the currents of emotion flowing beneath the surface, but all that aliveness was missing on the photograph. She looked plain, even mousy on the license, her hair pulled back, her gla.s.ses hiding the sharp ridges of her face instead of accentuating them. She looked like no one I had ever known. The raw statistics were there, birth date, s.e.x, her height was listed as five-two, her eyes blue, but she was missing. the key, I had taken Hailey Prouix's expired driver's license from the desk in the room of her murder. It was the only picture I had of her: guilt-ridden lovers don't take snapshots. In my office, the door closed and locked, I looked hard at the tiny photograph on the card, but it was like looking at a stranger. There had been a wonderful plasticity to her face, her mouth always teetering on the edge of a smile or a frown, her eyes widening or contracting, her face alive with the currents of emotion flowing beneath the surface, but all that aliveness was missing on the photograph. She looked plain, even mousy on the license, her hair pulled back, her gla.s.ses hiding the sharp ridges of her face instead of accentuating them. She looked like no one I had ever known. The raw statistics were there, birth date, s.e.x, her height was listed as five-two, her eyes blue, but she was missing.

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure her. I had been haunted by the specter of Hailey Prouix from the moment I discovered her corpse-it had driven me first to exact a punishment from Guy and now, having discovered his innocence, to search for the real killer-but just then, sitting at my desk between calls, I couldn't see it. The image was blurry. I thought I knew her, we were intimate in more than one way, I thought I knew her, better than her fiance, I was sure, but now her image was blurry. What was causing the distortion?

Every d.a.m.n thing. From the moment of her death I had been learning more and more about her. Detective Stone had said that of all those who knew her, the words "nice" and "sweet" had never been mentioned. Leila had told of her spitting out the most vile slurs. I always thought she was hard, but that hard? And then a slime like Skink thought he knew her better than I did, and I suspected he was right. Wheels within wheels within wheels. The final twist was Guy's own story, which showed how she had used Guy for her own corrupt purpose and then, for some other purpose, used me. It was as if whatever I thought I knew about her was shattered by the revelations of a darkness deep within her character that I had never before glimpsed. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure her and failed. Who was Hailey Prouix?

I suspected that behind that answer crouched a murderer.

"WIRE TRANSFERS."

"Hi, I'm looking for Kelly Morgan."

"One moment, please."

Soothing music.

"Kelly Morgan."

"Kelly. Hi. Tommy, Tommy Baker, from the Ardmore branch here. Lat.i.tia Clogg said if I had some questions I should get hold of you. Said you were the only one up there who knew what the h.e.l.l was going on."

"She's right about that. How are you doing?"

"Good, better than good. I got-let me see-five hours left and then I'm out of here for a week's vacation. And let me tell you, Kelly, I could use it."

"Couldn't we all, Tommy, couldn't we all."

"Here's my problem. Before I get out of here, I have to finish up a ream of paperwork sent to me by Legal. You ever get mixed up with that crew?"

"I try not to."

"I hear you, Kelly. Well, there's this account they've got questions about. It's that Hailey Prouix, you hear about her?"

"Not that I know of."

"Girl shot in the heart out here in Ardmore?"

"Oh, yeah, the boyfriend did it, didn't he? What was he, married to someone else and he shacks up with her and then kills her?"

"That's what they say."

"Nice guy. Sounds like the ones I end up with."

"Not you, Kelly."

"You don't want to know, trust me. What do you need?"

"Apparently she wire-transferred some funds out of her account on February eighteenth of this year. Account number 598872, wire transfer number WT876032Q. Legal wants to know where they went."

"Hold on a second, let me see here. Account number...?"

"598872."

"Yeah, I see it. Went to a bank in Las Vegas, something called Nevada One. Into account number 67ST98016. The branch address is Paradise Road in Las Vegas, 89109."

"That is so great, Kelly, thanks."

"Anything else?"

"No, this is enough to get Legal off my back."

"Enjoy your vacation, Tommy."

"Believe you me I will."

OUR LIFE stories are always lies. How could we be the heroes of our lives if all we told was the truth? We shade an incident here, invent a rationale there, leave out the telling detail that changes everything. Is there anything less reliable than the memoir? Eichmann was following orders. Clinton did nothing wrong. Our life stories are our great fictions, and so I knew to take, even as I was hearing it, Hailey's life story with a bucket of salt. Oh, I could fill in some of the gaps. Her high school years were probably not so idyllic-are anyone's? College was not the grind she claimed-college girls who look like Hailey don't live hermits' lives. And I could imagine that the affair with the partner at her first law firm was more torrid, more painful, and ended with more difficulty than she let on. Oh, I had no trouble believing that her life story was more fiction than truth, considering she herself told me not to trust anything she said. stories are always lies. How could we be the heroes of our lives if all we told was the truth? We shade an incident here, invent a rationale there, leave out the telling detail that changes everything. Is there anything less reliable than the memoir? Eichmann was following orders. Clinton did nothing wrong. Our life stories are our great fictions, and so I knew to take, even as I was hearing it, Hailey's life story with a bucket of salt. Oh, I could fill in some of the gaps. Her high school years were probably not so idyllic-are anyone's? College was not the grind she claimed-college girls who look like Hailey don't live hermits' lives. And I could imagine that the affair with the partner at her first law firm was more torrid, more painful, and ended with more difficulty than she let on. Oh, I had no trouble believing that her life story was more fiction than truth, considering she herself told me not to trust anything she said.

"Why do you care?" she asks me as we lie side by side in the bed where we pa.s.s our stories like kisses atop the pillow, the shades pulled to keep out the afternoon light, her scent swirling about me like a drug.

"I want to know you," I say.

"No you don't."

"I don't?"

"All you want is to confirm what you already believe. Last thing you want are any surprises."

"Are there any?"

"Do you want them?"

I think on that for a moment. Do I want the surprises? Do I want to peer at the sad, unvarnished hollows in her heart? It all comes down to what are we doing in that bed? Are we playing out a fantasy in our otherwise reality-drenched days, or are we looking for a piece of the real in a life of artifice?

"I don't know," I say.

"Then there aren't any."

And she laughs, as if my indecision justifies everything.

But now she was dead, and the mystery of her death had become my new reality, and I very much needed to learn every secret, every truth, everything she had never wanted me to know. It was time to go behind the lies.

"NEVADA ONE, Paradise Road Branch. How may I direct your call?" Paradise Road Branch. How may I direct your call?"

"Customer Service."

"One moment, please."

"Gerald Hopkins here."

"Hi, Gerald, this is Tommy Baker at First Philadelphia Bank and Trust. I wonder if you could help me. I have a client sitting right here at my desk who also has an account at your bank. She had us wire in some funds on-what was it?-oh, yes, February eighteenth of this year, and she wants to be sure everything worked out. Could you check that for us? Her name is Hailey Prouix and her account number with your bank is 67ST98016."

"What was the date of that transfer?"

"February eighteenth."

"All right. Let me check that out for you."

"What's the weather like out there?"

"Hot. Spring here lasts about a week. Okay, yeah, here it is. We got the transfer on February eighteenth. Money went in that day, went out a few days later. Everything looks fine."

"You have a balance on that account, Gerald?"

"Yeah sure. Twenty-seven thousand, six hundred and sixty seven."

"Good, that matches what she expected. One last thing, she wants to know if the fee on her safe-deposit box is overdue? She doesn't want to miss a payment."

"Let me see. No, it's fine. The fee was paid last month out of the account."

"Perfect. Thanks, Gerald."

"Oh, and Tommy. Give Ms. Prouix my regards. I remember her well, I personally opened her account for her. How is she doing?"

"Fine, great. I mean, I can't say anything about her personal life, but she looks like a million bucks."

"That she does."

"I'll send along your regards, Gerald. Thanks."

I STARED for another long moment at the picture of the stranger on the driver's license. It didn't look like Hailey, but it looked like someone. I didn't know who, but it surely looked like someone. I told Ellie I'd be right back and I stepped out of my building and into the bookstore right next door. From the rack of reading gla.s.ses I searched among the pairs until I found one that matched, somewhat, the gla.s.ses in the photograph. Then I went back up to my floor and entered Beth's office. for another long moment at the picture of the stranger on the driver's license. It didn't look like Hailey, but it looked like someone. I didn't know who, but it surely looked like someone. I told Ellie I'd be right back and I stepped out of my building and into the bookstore right next door. From the rack of reading gla.s.ses I searched among the pairs until I found one that matched, somewhat, the gla.s.ses in the photograph. Then I went back up to my floor and entered Beth's office.

"Do me a favor," I said. "Pull your hair back and bind it with a rubber band."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

She looked at me like I'd gone over the edge and then went into her drawer and took out a rubber band. Beth's hair was black and shiny and fell down about to her shoulders, so she was able to make a short ponytail of it.

"All right," I said, "now put these on."

She took the gla.s.ses and peered at them for a long moment. "What's this all about?"

"Humor me," I said.

When the gla.s.ses were on, I compared what I saw with the picture. It wasn't a perfect match by any means. Beth's eyes were green, not blue, and she was slightly taller. But there was a resemblance, an undeniable resemblance.

"How are you feeling, Beth? You a little tired?"

"No."

"Worn down by your frantic pace? At the end of your rope?"

"No."

"Are you feeling overwhelmed by life?"

"Not at all."