Convicted - Romig Aleatha - Страница 18
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She saw the indecision sweep across his face. If he didn’t allow her to get up, it would look suspicious to the waitress. If he did, could he trust her? Claire spoke first to the server, “You know how it is when you’re pregnant. I know every restroom in Venice!” The young woman smiled as Claire turned to Harry and said, “When I get back, I want to hear what you were about to say.”
His expression eased as he stepped from the booth. The waitress pointed toward the hall near the rear of the tavern. Claire’s eyes scanned from side to side as her feet eased down the back hall. Seeing the exit, she glanced back toward Harry smiling down at the screen of his phone, and she prayed the door wasn’t locked. One last glance over her shoulder to see him still looking down, and Claire was again out in the cool autumn air. Reaching for her phone, she dialed. Keeping her face hidden from the wind, she hurried toward Hotel Danieli and listened for a response.
Phil answered on the first ring, “Are you all right?”
“I don’t think so. Something’s weird. Where are you?”
To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.
?George MacDonald
Each step down the west corridor seemed like a hundred. The call requesting his presence in Mr. Rawlings’ office was more than strange. First, the news hit the wires over twenty-four hours ago; Mr. Rawlings’ plane made an emergency landing. Eric wondered with each step who wanted to see him and what they wanted. If it were the police, he’d been advised to play dumb. After all, he’d used alternative identification to fly back East. That same identification was used to rent the vehicle he drove across the Canadian border. Yes, Mr. Rawlings also had alternative identification which no one else knew anything about. They’d had them for years and had used them on occasion. Through the years, Eric never asked questions. Yes, he was paid exceptionally well for his service and discretion; nevertheless, he knew too much, they’d been through too much together.
From the time they were both young, back when Mr. Rawlings was a budding entrepreneur—Mr. Rawlings asked—and Eric did. Maybe he didn’t ask. Was it really a request, if denying wasn’t an option? No matter—neither party ever questioned. It was the perfect working relationship.
Truly, Eric had planned on sleeping for the next few days. Meeting Mr. Rawlings, driving to Canada, seeing him make his way down the concourse on his way to Europe, and driving back to the United States, only to fly back to Iowa all within a forty-eight hour period wiped him out. No one at the estate should’ve monitored his activity, but if they did, Eric had a story for his recent absence.
During his long trip back to Iowa, Eric contemplated the activities he’d done, over the years, to help Mr. Rawlings. There’d been more than a few happenings which encroached upon the limits of the law. Abducting Ms. Nichols was, without a doubt, the most damning; however, Mr. Rawlings said he saw her statement to the police and there was no recollection of her travel to Iowa. Eric’s assistance was only known by his employer.
Since he hadn’t officially been informed of Mr. Rawlings’ disappearance, Eric planned to enter the office as he would on any given day. Unless he was told others were present, Eric usually opened the door without hesitation. He assumed Mr. Rawlings allowed this because there wasn’t much that Eric didn’t know. Years of overheard conversations and encounters gave Eric a database of information. Rarely had he opened any door to find something of surprise. On those numbered occasions, when the scene caught him off guard, staying true to form, Eric neither reacted nor later mentioned the incident. In Eric’s line of work, secrecy was a valued and essential commodity.
Standing before the grand double doors, he remembered the last time he’d been in the office. It was to retrieve the small key from the top right drawer. That, some cash from the safe, and the alternative identifications, including the Anton Rawls identification were Mr. Rawlings’ only requests. Eric never said no; therefore, when the call came in the middle of the night from a non-traceable phone, those requests—just like all before them—were carried out exactly as instructed. The last thing Mr. Rawlings told Eric, before he walked through security was to go back home and act like nothing happened. He instructed Eric to act like the last time they were together was in Provincetown. Eric didn’t question; instead he said, “Yes, sir. Stay safe.” Mr. Rawlings nodded in return. It was as close as they would get to an emotional good bye.
Opening the door and stepping inside the regal office, Eric caught the hard gray stare as Catherine rose from the leather chair and said, “In the future, I’d appreciate you knocking before you enter this office, just as you would for Mr. Rawlings.”
Although he had years of practice at maintaining a stoic expression, the scene before him incited a combination of shock and rage. His mind swirled with possibilities for Catherine to be behind Mr. Rawlings’ desk. None of them made sense.
Reigning in the emotion which threatened his impenetrable veneer, Eric stood before the grand desk and asked, “Catherine, where is Mr. Rawlings?”
“First, I’d like to know where you’ve been. I needed you two days ago and you were gone.”
“I talked to Mr. Rawlings about my aunt a week ago. He gave me a few days to visit her.”
Catherine sat again and nodded. “I see, an aunt. Have you mentioned her before?”
“I’ve mentioned her many times. I don’t recall you being present during those conversations. Where is Mr. Rawlings? Mr. Simmons said they’d be back.”
Catherine leaned back against the soft leather chair as her cheeks rose in a smile. In Eric’s opinion, it was neither warm nor comforting. She began, “That’s why I was looking for you. Haven’t you listened to the news?”
Eric relaxed his stance. “Why so many questions about my personal habits? No, I usually avoid anything that isn’t music or silence.” He went on, “Before you ask, there’s no real reason, I like quiet.”
She motioned toward the chairs near the desk. “Have a seat; we need to discuss a few things.”
Suspiciously, Eric eyed the chairs. “Before I sit, tell me what’s going on Catherine.”
Sitting straighter and squaring her shoulders, Catherine exhaled, “From now on, you and anyone else who wishes to maintain their position here on the estate will address me as Ms. London.” When Eric didn’t speak, Catherine’s eyebrow raised. “Tell me, do you wish to maintain your position?”
Honestly, he had enough money to walk away and live contently for the rest of his life. He’d invested well and had little to no living expense; however, Mr. Rawlings told him to go back to Iowa and act normal. Maintaining his current position would be normal. “Yes, Ms. London”—the title only hurt the first time. Eric Hensley was a man of service; as such, he’d accommodate whomever necessary—“I would like to retain my position.” With that, he made his way to the chair and listened as Ms. London informed him of Mr. Rawlings’ disappearance.
While she spoke about the plane and the emergency landing, he did his best to maintain his facade, while showing the appropriate amount of concern and shock. The best part of being a man of service was that silence was considered accommodating. He didn’t need to agree or disagree with Catherine. He only needed to maintain eye contact, nod occasionally and say, “Yes, Ms. London.” He had years of practice.
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