The Fixer Upper Part 22

Carter Berryhill was sitting at the desk in the reception area of his office, frowning down with distaste at the computer there. His white hair was neatly combed, but his bow tie was slightly askew, and he was coatless, with the sleeves of his heavily starched dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. His gla.s.ses were perched on the very tip of his long, elegant nose.

"Oh, Dempsey," he said, when I walked in the door. "Thank heavens." He stood up and ushered me into his office.

He took his jacket from a wooden hanger on the back of the door and shrugged into it. "You'll have to excuse me, my dear," he said. "Scott, our receptionist, is late coming back from lunch, and the phone's been ringing off the hook, and my printer is out of ink, and I thought I'd just use his printer because I can't seem to replace my ink cartridge, but Scott uses some word-processing program that I cannot fathom."

He sat down behind his desk and straightened his tie. "Don't ever grow old, my dear," he said. "That's my advice."

"You're not old." And he wasn't, I decided. He was debonair and charming, well dressed, well read. And if I hadn't already developed a crush on his son, I probably would have fallen madly in love with Carter Berryhill Senior.

"Well," he said, "so you've finished the a.s.signment I gave you?'

"I have," I said. "If you'll show me where to set up my laptop, you can take a look at what I've written."

"Right over there," he said, pointing to a conference table in front of a picture window that looked out on the square. I plugged the laptop in and pulled up the doc.u.ment I'd ruefully labeled hoddergate.

"Why don't you let me take a crack at replacing your ink cartridge while you read," I asked.

"You're an angel of mercy," Carter replied. He handed me the ink cartridge, and we switched places.

It took me less than a minute to get Carter's printer working again. I sat back in his desk chair and watched while he read what I'd written.

"Hmm," he said once. And then, a few minutes later, he shook his head. "The swine!" he said. I couldn't tell if he was referring to Licata or Alex Hodder. Carter had a yellow legal pad, and occasionally he'd stop and scrawl something on the pad. It took him fifteen minutes to read everything, and when he was finished, he read it again, and took more notes.

"Interesting," he said finally.

"I guess you're wondering how a person with any brains at all could have been so stupid," I said, staring out the window to avoid meeting his eyes. Carter, I was sure, was smart enough to read between the lines-and to extrapolate all the stuff I'd left out of my tale of woe.

"No," he said slowly, tapping his pen on the legal pad, "I'm just wondering about that piece of paper Alex Hodder gave you with the ma.s.sage therapist's phone number. Tell me about that. What did the paper look like?"

I closed my eyes. "It was like, sort of a square, maybe lightweight cardboard?"

"Yes. Not really a slip, as you described the paper he brought back from the bar, when he had you set up Licata with the wakeboard instructor."

"No. Bigger than that."

"Good. Anything else?"

I squeezed my eyes shut tight again, and tried to put myself back in my hotel room.

"Alex had just come from the golf course," I said, picturing him in the bright green Lyford Cay golf shirt he'd worn that day. He'd had a matching green golf visor, and I could see the golf gloves sticking out of the back pocket of his pants.

"Did he write the phone number on something you had in the room?" Carter asked.

I had to think about that.

"No. He pulled the paper out of his back pocket," I said. "He'd already written on it."

I opened my eyes. Suddenly, I could see the paper quite plainly.

"It was his scorecard!" I told Carter. "From the golf course. It had his name, and Tony's, on the front, and I remember noticing that they'd quit playing after the twelfth hole."

"Tony's back was allegedly bothering him, you said in your notes," Carter observed. "Do you remember what you did with the scorecard? After you called to set up the 'ma.s.sage' for Tony?"

"My bathrobe!" I stood up and put both hands on Carter's desktop. "I think I shoved the card in the pocket of my bathrobe!"

Carter stood up too. "My dear," he said slowly. "Is there any chance it's still there? All these months later?"

Carter drove me back to Birdsong and waited in the driveway with the motor running. I burst in the front door and ran to my room, taking the stairs two at a time. I threw the closet door open and rummaged wildly through the garments hanging there. I grabbed my worn blue terry-cloth bathrobe from the clothes hanger and shoved my hand in the pocket.

Nothing. Unless you count a crumpled-up tissue and a tube of lip balm.

I could have cried. I threw myself down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. I'd worn that bathrobe almost every night since Christmas. Wouldn't I have noticed a folded-up golf scorecard? I squeezed my eyes closed again, and put myself back in that hotel room at the Lyford Cay Resort.

I remembered taking a long shower in the luxurious marble-tile bathroom, enjoying the hotel's grapefruit-scented soap. Afterward, I'd swaddled myself in the thick velvety bath sheet, and slathered myself with tangerine-scented moisturizer. And I remembered thinking I probably smelled like a fruit basket. I'd touched up the polish on my toenails-the color was called Tahiti Sweetie-and I was blowing my hair dry when I heard the room's doorbell ringing. It was that kind of hotel. Each room had a doorbell.

Then what? I'd grabbed the bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door, and belted it around me before going to see who was at the door.

Wait! I hadn't used my own shabby blue bathrobe, which was still hanging in the closet in the bedroom. I'd grabbed the complimentary hotel bathrobe. It was white and silky, and monogrammed with the hotel's logo.

I sat up on my bed and smiled. I got down on my knees and pulled my suitcase out from where I'd stashed it that first night at Birdsong.

My father wasn't a particularly religious man. Mitch Killebrew's religion was patriotism. He believed in the flag, he believed in the work ethic. He didn't believe in stealing. I was raised to believe in what Mitch believed in. I was honest, to a fault. It had gotten in the way several times in my career as a lobbyist.

But that weekend at Lyford Cay, when I'd been treated as a glorified gofer, I'd been so disgusted, so disappointed, I'd decided I was due a souvenir. I hadn't charged my resort wardrobe to Hodder and a.s.sociates, as Alex had suggested. But I had decided, in a last-minute fit of pique, while I was packing, that I would treat myself to a remembrance of that weekend. And that white, silky, monogrammed bathrobe would be just the thing.

I flipped the top of the suitcase up and began rifling through the clothing. I tossed aside all the suit jackets and business attire I'd packed away on my arrival in Guthrie. No need to dress for success if you were already a gold-plated failure. The heels and boots were tossed aside too-including those strappy gold sandals that I hadn't worn since that ill-fated night at Lyford Cay. On the bottom of the suitcase, I found the white bathrobe. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, and I could feel something stiff through the silky fabric.

I pulled the paper out. It was still folded in half. The ink had run a little, so that you could hardly see that Alex had birdied the fourth hole, or that Tony had double-bogeyed the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth holes. But on the back of the card, in the same handwriting as on the front, was the word "ma.s.sage" and a hastily scrawled phone number.

I touched the card to my lips and kissed it, tenderly, reverently, thankfully. Surely, this truly was my get-out-of-jail-free card.

33.

Camerin Allgood and Jackson Harrell walked into Carter's office unannounced. Carter glanced over and gave me a surrept.i.tious wink.

Agent Allgood dropped into one of the wingback chairs facing the desk, leaving Harrell to drag a chair over from the conference table.

The FBI agent was dressed in form-fitting blue spandex running tights and a baggy gray UVA sweatshirt. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail. Harrell wore running clothes too, although his consisted of loose gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved Falcons jersey.

Agent Allgood opened her briefcase and brought out the silver tape recorder again. She held it up and spoke into it. "This is Special Agent Camerin Allgood. Our location is Guthrie, Georgia. The date is March twenty-eighth, and Special Agent Jackson Harrell is with me in the law offices of..."

Carter handed her a business card.

"Carter Berryhill Senior," she said. "We are here to take a statement from Dempsey Killebrew, and her attorney is present for these proceedings."

"Turn off the tape recorder, please, Agent Allgood," Carter said pleasantly.

Her eyes narrowed. "That's not agency policy."

Carter folded his hands on his desktop. "Nonetheless, we won't be proceeding until you've turned off the tape recorder."

She looked at Harrell, who shrugged.

"Fine," she said. She punched the stop b.u.t.ton and tossed it into her open briefcase.

"You called us," she said finally, sitting back in her chair. "I'm a.s.suming your client has decided to a.s.sist us in our investigation."

Carter opened a manila folder and pushed it across the desk toward Allgood. "My client has come up with a piece of evidence you might find interesting."

Agent Allgood picked up the folder gingerly, using only her fingertips.

"Don't worry," Carter told her. "This is a copy. The original is in my office safe. Feel free to examine it."

Agent Allgood picked up the paper and read it without comment. She handed it over to Agent Harrell.

"A golf scorecard, from Lyford Cay Resort," Harrell said finally. "Alex is a decent golfer. Tony, not so much. In fact, it looks like Tony stunk the place up, especially the last three or four holes they played. What, they didn't finish the round because they were too busy hooking up with wh.o.r.es?"

"Check the back of the scorecard, why don't you," Carter suggested.

Harrell turned it over and nodded thoughtfully. He handed it across to Agent Allgood, who read the back, then turned the paper over to look at the golf score again.

"A scorecard, for Alex and Tony-which Alex and Tony, we're not sure about," she said finally. "And on the back, a phone number. Pretty convenient for Miss Killebrew."

"It's Alex Hodder's handwriting," I sputtered. "You can check it out yourself. Check with the pro shop at the resort. Alex and Licata played twelve holes of golf that Sat.u.r.day morning. I arranged the tee time myself. Alex Hodder came up to my room. He told me Tony's back was bothering him, and he asked me to call that number and book him a ma.s.sage."

"And you kept the piece of paper with the phone number," Harrell said. "Which you failed to mention until it started to look like you might do some serious jail time for bribing a public official."

"I'd forgotten all about the scorecard," I said hotly. "Until today. I just a.s.sumed I'd thrown it out, because I did remember throwing away the piece of paper with the phone number for the wakeboard instructor. But Carter asked me to write down everything I could remember about my dealings with Licata. I did that. I wrote it all down, and brought it over here earlier today."

"And I read what she'd written," Carter said, holding up the pages he'd printed out. "She was able to come up with more details about the trip to the Bahamas with Hodder and Licata. I asked her some questions about the evening Hodder came to her hotel room-"

Harrell sn.i.g.g.e.red. Allgood shot him a dirty look.

"Nothing happened!" I insisted. "He gave me the phone number and asked me to book the ma.s.sage session for Licata, in his room. We were supposed to have dinner together, but Alex said there'd been a change of plans. He left. I ordered room service. You can check with the hotel. Check the AmEx receipts, since you seem to have all of them. I ordered dinner for one. Caesar salad, mahimahi with mango salsa, half a bottle of white wine. And a piece of cherry cheesecake," I said, blushing. "It was my last night in the Bahamas. I decided to treat myself."

"Riiight," Harrell said.

Carter, bless him, cleared his throat. He looked from me, to Agent Allgood, to Agent Harrell.

"If you-all don't mind," he said slowly. "I'd like to talk deal." He handed both the agents a sheaf of paper, which I knew was the printout of my Hoddergate doc.u.ment.

"Miss Killebrew has gone into detail about her recollections of her dealings with Representative Licata and Mr. Hodder," Carter said. "You already have the AmEx receipts. And now you have her statement and more important, you have proof that Alex Hodder instructed her to call what she believed was a legitimate ma.s.sage therapist, to authorize what she believed was a legitimate therapeutic ma.s.sage for Representative Licata."

Camerin Allgood smiled, but not in a good way. Her small, perfect teeth reminded me of a carnivorous rodent.

"It's a start," she said.

"What more do you want?" I asked desperately, leaning forward until I was only inches from Camerin Allgood's sweat-beaded face. "I'm not Mata Hari, okay? I'm a lobbyist, not a secret agent. My boss gave me an a.s.signment. I did what he asked. I had no friggin' idea my boss, and his client, were bribing a United States congressman. I didn't think I was doing anything illegal, so I didn't get any notarized dossiers, and I didn't happen to have a video camera on me down there in the Bahamas. You can believe me, or not believe me, but that's the truth." I crossed my arms over my chest, just willing Camerin Allgood to push me one inch closer to a nervous breakdown.

She leaned back in her chair, and a moment later, I leaned back in mine.

"The scorecard is helpful," she said finally. "We already have samples of Alex Hodder's handwriting, so we should be able to authenticate the card."

"Thank you!" I blurted out.

She stood up. Harrell looked surprised. He stayed seated.

"Jackson?"

He stood, like an obedient sidekick. Or lapdog.

Agent Allgood threw the sheaf of papers in her briefcase and snapped it shut. "We'll need the original scorecard to give to the forensics unit," she said.

Carter nodded. "Fine. But before we surrender the original, we'll want a written agreement from the U.S. attorney's office stipulating that my client fully cooperated with this investigation, and that his office will drop any pending charges against Miss Killebrew."

"That's not how it works, Mr. Berryhill," Agent Allgood said, staring down at Carter. "We'll get a subpoena if we have to. Anyway, if your client wants to prove her innocence, she needs to stop obstructing this investigation."

"My client is obstructing nothing," Carter said, his tone still pleasant. "She wants this investigation ended, and more important, she wants her name cleared in connection with these odious charges."

Odious! I'd never heard anybody use the word before. Coming from Carter Berryhill, the word dripped filth. Odious was exactly how I felt about the whole stinking mess Alex Hodder had gotten me into. "Odious" could be my word for the day. The week, even.

"Before this incident erupted," Carter went on, "my client was a respected member of the bar. She had a promising career in public relations. All of that ended when your people raided Representative Licata's office. Somebody started leaking information to the press. All of a sudden, my client loses her job and her standing in the community. Her reputation is smeared. Stories appear in the Washington Post accusing her of bribery and solicitation. My client's father and mother read those stories, Agent Allgood. How do you think they felt, seeing their daughter's name dragged through the mud like that?"

"Leaks!" Harrell said. "We got nothin' to do with leaks. Don't try to put that c.r.a.p on us. We got no control over what some hack writes in the Post."

"Somebody talked," Carter snapped. "Somebody who had access to the evidence you people seized from Licata's office and from Hodder and a.s.sociates. That's why a reporter from the Post showed up on Miss Killebrew's doorstep down here last week."

He glared up at Camerin Allgood, who took a half step backward.

I wanted to cheer. I wanted to jump up and high-five Carter Berryhill Senior, who'd just forced the baddest bada.s.s fed to back down.

Instead, I kept my cool. I stayed seated, with my hands folded in my lap.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd get back to us by the end of the week with that written agreement," Carter said. "My client wants to get on with her life."

Allgood nodded curtly. She left as quickly as she'd entered, with Jackson Harrell jogging to keep up with her quickstep.