Priceless : A Novel Part 5

Charlotte felt as if she herself could use some medical attention, or at least a Xanax or three, but she pushed it down. "Will it be someone we know or someone they bring?"

Arthur frowned. "I'm not sure."

In the end, the investigators allowed Jacob's own doctor to attend him, and once Dr. Levinger was finished, they allowed him to transport Jacob to a hospital for further evaluation.

Mallory was brusque. "Mr. Bedford, if this is your client's attempt to escape prosecution by feigning illness, then you should advise him that it hasn't worked for organized crime, and it won't work for him."

Arthur was starting to get his confidence back, now that his own shock was receding. He looked down his nose at the policeman. "Good grief, Detective, there's no need to be rude. Mr. Williams has suffered a great shock, and the doctor merely wishes to ensure that there isn't anything else going on. If he collapses while in your care, it wouldn't look very good for you, would it?"

Mallory said nothing for a moment, then, "I'm not sure you realize how angry people are about this. If I let him leave the building unguarded, he might not make it to the sidewalk."

Charlotte went pale. "What are you talking about? What people?"

"The people whose money he stole, Miss Williams. Did you think it was all faceless corporations and big banks? No, he took the life savings of couples who'd planned to retire, who'd worked all their lives and were finally about to be able to rest. He took the nest eggs of families with children. He took whatever he wanted, Miss Williams, and people tend to look askance at that kind of greed."

"You're wrong about him," Charlotte said, although inside she was feeling less sure. Her father had seemed so happy and normal and confident only the other night. Was it possible that everything she took for granted, everything she thought was certain, was actually a total lie? She'd have broken down if she'd had any tears left.

WHEN THEY LEFT the building, her father in a wheelchair, his doctor at his side, she saw firsthand what Mallory had been talking about. the building, her father in a wheelchair, his doctor at his side, she saw firsthand what Mallory had been talking about.

"There he is, there's Williams!" A small crowd surged forward, their faces twisted with rage. "You thief!"

Charlotte made eye contact with one woman, a normal-looking woman in her early forties maybe.

"You b.i.t.c.h!" the woman cried. "Your father stole everything I ever worked for. He's a f.u.c.king thief, and I hope he dies in jail, and you, too, you wh.o.r.e!"

Charlotte faltered a little, feeling as if she'd been physically a.s.saulted. As she paused, she felt a hand on her elbow, guiding her, and she managed to keep going. As she pa.s.sed the woman, she felt wetness on her face-the woman had spat on her. Charlotte stumbled, but the hand on her elbow was strong and kept her going.

"Don't stop, Charlotte. I've got you." The voice was low in her ear, but she kept going.

Someone threw something at her father, and he ducked his head. It smashed on the ground, a bottle.

Suddenly, the police formed a barrier between their small group and the larger crowd, and they got to the ambulance. As the doors slammed and it pulled away, Charlotte was propelled to another waiting car, and she turned to see who was helping her.

Scarsford. He didn't let go until she was in the car, and when he did, her arm felt suddenly cold.

Faces pressed up against the window, struggling with the police, fingers pointing, rage, anger, and ... loss. She could see sadness and panic on these faces and suddenly realized what her father stood accused of. And she realized in the same moment that he was guilty and that life was never going to be the same again.

THE SCENE WAS similar in front of her apartment building, although there were fewer police to protect her. Scarsford kept his arm around her shoulder, and she ducked her head, but she could still hear the insults and threats people were throwing. similar in front of her apartment building, although there were fewer police to protect her. Scarsford kept his arm around her shoulder, and she ducked her head, but she could still hear the insults and threats people were throwing.

Not to mention the photographers.

"Come on, gorgeous, they're going to love you in jail. Give us a smile."

"Over here, b.i.t.c.h, over here."

"Look up, Charlotte. Let's see you."

They wanted something to put on TV, just as Emily had said, and she was d.a.m.ned if she was going to give it to them.

And then someone said, "I hear you f.u.c.k your father for money, Charlie."

She looked up, enraged and horrified, and a million flash bulbs went off. That was the shot the tabloids would run of her. She looked terrible: furious, scared, but still hot as h.e.l.l. Editors ate it up all over the country. It was a shot that would haunt her forever.

Scarsford yelled at the photographers to get back, and they got close enough to her building for the doormen to step in. Suddenly, she was in the lobby, safe.

Scarsford took out a handkerchief and wiped her face. It came away red.

"Am I bleeding?" Charlotte was surprised.

A brief smile flickered across his face. "No, more traditional. Tomato. Someone threw one, I guess, and splattered you."

She looked down at her suit. Oh, yeah. All over her. "Just as well I picked navy."

Scarsford's phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. When he looked back a few moments later, she was gone, the distant chime of the elevator the only trace of her. The lobby guard was watching him expressionlessly, and after failing to come up with a legitimate reason to go after her, Scarsford left.

THE ANSWERING MACHINE was full, but the apartment was empty. was full, but the apartment was empty.

Greta and Davis had left, presumably to go home, but Greta had left her enough food for three dinners, and Davis had left a big note on her bed with his cell number and an exhortation not to go anywhere without calling him first.

Charlotte was glad to be alone. She needed to think.

She wandered upstairs and took a long shower, trying to relax and get rid of the smell of the downtown jail. Operating almost on auto pilot, she hot-oiled her hair and wrapped it in a warmed towel, then covered herself with pure shea b.u.t.ter warmed in her palms. A floor-length Turkish toweling robe and slippers made her feel almost cozy, and she curled up in her dad's chair in the den, flicking on the plasma and curling her fingers around a fresh cup of hot chocolate.

She flicked from channel to channel for a while but couldn't help herself. She turned to CNN. She spilled her cocoa.

Emily was on the screen, apparently standing in front of her building. The subt.i.tle said, "Family Friend," but Emily didn't sound all that friendly.

"Yes, Mr. Williams was always at work. We hardly ever saw him. Charlotte was basically raised by the servants."

Servants? Davis and Greta weren't going to like that at all.

"It really isn't surprising that Charlotte went off the rails like she did."

Charlotte's jaw dropped. Emily disappeared, replaced by the horrific shot of her from earlier. Great. She looked like that Munch painting. The announcer was talking about her.

"Jacob Williams has a daughter, of course, the socialite Charlotte Williams, who was nearly expelled from Yale a year ago for allegedly burning down a building in a lovers' spat." Then they showed a variety of party shots of her, a few of them quite risque. Where had those come from? Surely Emily wouldn't have- "At this time, Miss Williams is not a suspect in the fraud, but the authorities might well have questions going forward."

Charlotte turned it off. Somewhere in the apartment, her phone was ringing. Then the house phone started. Her phone stopped, then started again. Charlotte realized there was no one in the world she wanted to talk to. No one except her dad, and he wasn't taking calls right now. Unless it was him calling? She leaped up but didn't make it in time. Standing there, she hit the play b.u.t.ton on the answering machine.

Many of the messages were people yelling, which made her wonder how they'd gotten the number, but then she realized that they were her dad's investors, and he'd presumably given out the number himself. Note to self: Change the number. Note to self: Change the number.

Suddenly, a friendly voice came out of the machine, making her gasp.

"Miss Charlotte, it's Miss Millie here. I saw the news about your daddy, and I just wanted to remind you that G.o.d loves you, and so do I, and that you're special and good, and whatever happens, you need to remember that, do ya hear? I think of y'all all the time and pray for you every night. Give my love to Miss Greta and Davis and, of course, to your lovely self. Come to New Orleans if you need to. We'll be here! 'Bye now."

Other messages weren't so nice.

"Charlotte, this is Michael Marshall." Her dad's partner had surfaced at last. Charlotte went to pick up the phone, forgetting for the moment that it was just a message. Marshall had paused, but then he continued. "I ... uh ... I'll try you again later." Click. Click.

She called him back.

"Michael, it's Charlotte. Are you all right?"

He sighed.

It was a funny thing. When Michael Marshall had joined her father's firm, it looked as if his daughter, Becky, and she were going to be friends. They were the same age, went to similar schools, had similar hobbies. For the first few months, the two families hung out together quite a bit: dinners here and there, a trip to the beach. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Becky didn't return her calls, ignored her texts, unfriended her online. She'd been upset and tried for a while to get her to explain what had happened. Eventually, she'd given up. Now she had the sinking feeling she knew what had happened. Maybe.

"I'm fine, Charlotte. How are you? Were you able to see your dad?"

"Yes. He's pretty confused, I think. Did they question you, too?"

There was a long pause. "Charlotte, I have to tell you something." He sounded very old, and almost close to tears. "Your father was very good to me, and in many ways, he's one of the most honorable men I've ever known. But he was breaking the law, Charlotte, and I knew it. For a while, I kept quiet, hoping it would stop or blow over or change in some way so I could leave with my conscience intact. But it didn't. And I couldn't look my own children in the eyes anymore, because I was involved."

Charlotte's blood grew cold. "So you turned on him to protect yourself?" Her voice was soft.

"They were catching on to us, anyway, Charlotte, I could see it was just a matter of time."

"So you threw him to the wolves and presumably cut some kind of deal. That's nice, Michael. Loyal. My father would be impressed."

"Your father is a criminal."

"You would know."

"Yes, I would know. I was there, and I should have done something to stop it right away. I'm going to have to live with that forever."

"Well, that's comforting. At least you'll get to live with it somewhere nice and sunny, where getting raped in the shower isn't business as usual."

Michael's voice broke. "I'm sorry, Charlotte. I didn't feel I had a choice. He destroyed hundreds of people, maybe thousands."

"And you destroyed only one. Yes, I can see how that's much better."

Charlotte hung up and sank slowly onto the stairs. This was not the best day ever, by a long shot. The phone rang again.

"Yes, Michael? Thought of something else?"

"Who's Michael?"

Not Michael. Another voice, unfamiliar.

"Who's this?"

"This, Charlotte Williams, is the man who's going to kill you."

"I beg your pardon?" She looked at the number. Blocked.

"I'm going to kill you, Charlotte Williams, to show your dad how easily something precious can be taken away. He took everything I have, and I'm going to do the same to him. I doubt he cares about money, he has so much." The man laughed. "But he has only one of you, pretty girl, which is ironic, because you're going to be the easiest thing of all to take away."

Charlotte was shocked. His tone was almost friendly, conversational, and yet he then began describing in horribly graphic detail how he was going to kill her. One thing was for sure. It wasn't going to be quick.

SCARSFORD WASN'T THE first to arrive, but it was close. She'd been smart enough to call the police from the house phone, in the hopes that they could trace the call on her cell, and somehow he'd heard about it. Maybe they'd bugged the phone. first to arrive, but it was close. She'd been smart enough to call the police from the house phone, in the hopes that they could trace the call on her cell, and somehow he'd heard about it. Maybe they'd bugged the phone.

"Are you stalking me, Mr. Scarsford?"

She looked much younger now, still wearing her bathrobe. She'd washed the oil out of her hair as soon as she wasn't alone in the house, and it was still wet, darker from the water. The technicians had taken her phone, and a nice policewoman had taken her statement. She hadn't been expecting that, the sympathy. It was almost harder to bear than the cold efficiency the other policemen displayed.

"No. I'm just watching my case."

"And that includes me."

He nodded. "Did you recognize anything about the voice? Had you ever heard it before?"

He sat down across from her, looking tired. She'd never met a man like him before-he couldn't have been more different from the boys she grew up with. He was young, probably not much more than thirty, but he had an air of capability and strength that was very attractive. If he hadn't been using his skills to destroy her, she'd probably have wondered about his personal life. But now she had to trust him.

She shook her head. "No. At first, I thought it was Michael, because we'd just been talking. But this man's voice was much deeper."

"Michael Marshall?"

"I guess you know him already."

"He's been helpful, yes."

"Amazing what a cornered animal will do to protect itself."

Scarsford said nothing. Charlotte's bravado faded as quickly as it had appeared.

"Do you think that man is really going to kill me?"

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and he willed himself not to lean forward and brush it away.

"No. We're not going to let him."

"Why do you care, anyway? I'm a criminal's kid-all those people today hated my guts, and they don't even know me." She laughed suddenly, slightly hysterically. "Although knowing me probably wouldn't help."

"I think it would." He bit his tongue. But her claws were in.

"Thank you." She closed her eyes briefly. "You know, this day started out pretty well, but it's really been a downhill slide ever since breakfast."

He smiled at her, a real smile, and for a second, things seemed brighter. "Maybe tomorrow will be better."

But it wasn't. In fact, it was a h.e.l.l of a lot worse.