A Wrongful Death

1

The New York branch of the Farrell Publishing Group had six offices, a small reception room and enough books and manuscripts to fill a space triple the size it occupied. Much of the overflow was in Elizabeth Kurtz’s tiny office. Boxes were stacked on boxes and the filing cabinets were so packed that they were seldom opened, since it was almost impossible to remove a folder to examine its contents. On shelves and on the floor were stacks of dictionaries, science reference books and pamphlets. A bulletin board held so many overlapping notes and memos that some of them had yellowed and curled at the edges. The small sign on her door read: Elizabeth Kurtz Assistant Editor. That door had not been closed all the way in the three years that she had used the office on Mondays and Thursdays. The door would start to close, then stick, leaving a three-or four-inch gap. It had bothered her in the beginning, but she never thought of it any longer, and paid little attention to any activity in the hall beyond it.

That October day she was frowning at a sentence she was trying to unravel, something to do with paleontology, she assumed, since that was the subject of the manuscript.

The door was pushed open and Terry Kurtz entered and tried to close the door behind him. When it stuck, he gave it a vicious push, to no avail.

What are you doing in here? Get out! Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying, Elizabeth snapped, half rising from her chair.

I have a proposition for you, he said, and tried again to close the door. He cursed and kicked it when it stuck.

I’m calling security, she said, reaching for the phone. He rushed around the desk and grabbed her wrist, wrenching her hand back.

Just shut up and listen, he said in a low voice, keeping an eye on the door, holding her wrist in a numbing grip. I just came from the hospital. They’re going to operate on Dad in the morning, emergency open-heart surgery, and they don’t think he’ll make it. He told me something. Mom left us alone for a couple of minutes and he told me. Taunted me with it.

Elizabeth felt no more sense of loss or grief than Terry was showing. She tried to pull away from his grasp, and he tightened his hold and leaned in closer, whispering now. When he found out you were pregnant, he assigned a share of the company to us, in both our names. He was going to hand it over when Jason was a year old and I was thirty-five, a present to celebrate my birthday, our marriage and a grandchild, but you spoiled it when you got on your high horse and kicked me out. He put the assignment away somewhere. It’s still valid, except Mom will get her hands on whatever that document is and she’ll shred it faster than she’ll order his cremation. I’ve got his keys, and I intend to find it first. You have to help me.

I don’t have to do anything, she cried. Get out of here and leave me alone!

Voices in the hall outside her door rose as the speakers drew nearer. Terry released her wrist and straightened up, and she jumped from her chair and stepped behind it. Neither spoke until the voices faded, then were gone.

If you touch me again, I’ll have you arrested for assault! she said.

That assignment means a hefty income for the rest of your life and Jason’s if you sell it back tomorrow. And when the company sale goes through that amount will triple, quadruple! No more dingy office where the door won’t even close. You have to think what it will mean for our son.

Our son! she said furiously. As if you care a damn about my son. How many times have you even seen him? Three! Goddamn you, three times in five years!

But it still hurt, like a phantom pain from an amputated limb, she sometimes thought. A year of magic, the princess and her incredibly handsome prince, playing, making love, seeing the world like two wide-eyed children with fairy dust in their eyes. Then her pregnancy. He had walked out when she was just under five months pregnant, and he had not returned until Jason was six months old. She had met his return with divorce papers.

He was still the incredibly handsome prince, with curly dark hair, eyes so dark blue they appeared black until the light hit his face in a particular way and they gleamed with an electric blue light. Muscular and lean, athletic, with the perfect features of a male model, he had won his princess without a struggle, but while he still lived in fairyland, she had put illusions behind her and regarded him now with loathing.

You can sell your share tomorrow, easily a million dollars. Hold it for six months, and that figure rises astronomically. Two million, three, God knows how high it’ll go.

He was whispering again. I have his keys to the office files, and to his home files. Mom will stay at the hospital for now, but if she finds out that I lifted his keys, she’ll head for wherever that document is. The office, or the condo. And we have to get that paper before she gets to it. She knows where it is, and she’ll get it, believe me. You can take the condo, and I’ll hit the office files. We’ll find it first.

She knew he was right about his mother. Sarah Kurtz felt about Elizabeth the same way Elizabeth felt about Terry. She shook her head. I can’t get inside the condo or the office, so forget it. Go search by yourself.

I’ll take you to the condo. I can get in, and I can take you in with me and leave you there while I go over to the corporate office. But, Goddamn it, we have to do it now! Before she realizes I took the keys.

In a cab minutes later, sitting as far from him as the seat allowed, Elizabeth asked, What sale are you talking about?

I don’t know, he said, almost sullenly. They don’t tell me anything. I just know it’s in the works, a Swiss conglomerate. They’re doing the preliminary investigation, whatever that means.

She did know they told him nothing about the business. The playboy son had never wanted a thing to do with the business of prosthetics that had made his family wealthy. Then his hasty marriage to a half-breed Spanish dancer, was how Sarah Kurtz had put it when she found out. He had deserted Elizabeth, but Sarah had her own spin on that as well. Elizabeth had snared him, enticed a rich, innocent American boy, got herself pregnant and kicked him out to bring in her real lover, another woman. Elizabeth’s lawyer, a savvy, hard-faced woman, had hired a detective to track Terry down on the Riviera, then photograph him frolicking on a nude beach with a movie starlet. The divorce had been a piece of cake, she had told Elizabeth. There was a very good settlement, and Sarah Kurtz would never forgive Elizabeth for threatening to besmirch the family’s spotless reputation. Attorneys had handled the whole affair and, as far as Elizabeth knew, not a word had ever been printed about the matter.

In the cab, Elizabeth, gazing out the side window, seeing little of the passing scene, knew she was going along with this as much to strike back at Sarah as for the money itself. Not for how they had treated her, but for the way they treated Jason. No one in the family had ever seen Jason except Terry, who had visited his son twice after the divorce and wouldn’t recognize him unless he was wearing a nametag.

Elizabeth had been in the condo several times before, the last visit had been for dinner, when she had told the family that she was pregnant. Joe Kurtz had been delighted. She remembered that scene, as she looked about the luxurious suite, decorator-perfect and lifeless, like an illustration from a glitzy magazine. Now, he’ll settle down, Joe had said that day. You’ve turned our boy into a man, a family man, by God!

Fat chance, she said under her breath, following Terry to Joe’s home office. There was a kidney-shaped desk with a black mirror-smooth surface, two file cabinets, black-leather-covered chairs and a tub with a palm tree. She left her briefcase by the door and took off her sweater.

Here’s the key, Terry said, handing it to her. It will open them both. If you find it, call my cell. I’ll give you a call if I find it. He handed her a card with his number, and she told him her own. He hurried out, and she opened the first file cabinet.

At three-thirty she had finished one cabinet, and was midway through a drawer in the second one, when she pulled out a file labeled: Knowlton. After a glance, she replaced it and reached for the next file, then paused as a faint memory stirred. Knowlton. Something. She took it out again and looked more closely at the contents. She saw drawings of prosthetics, joints, arms, legs, things she didn’t recognize. Slowly she walked to the big desk and sat down, gazing at the drawings. She caught her breath as the memory took shape. Knowlton had sued the company, accused them of stealing or something. The file was thick, and her fingers fumbled as she picked up and put down papers after scanning them hastily.

Oh, my God! she said.

Moving fast, she closed the file folder and ran back to the cabinet to close the drawer, then hurried across the office to where she had put down her briefcase with the manuscript she was to edit. She stuffed the file folder inside, put on her sweater, snatched up her purse and left the beautiful apartment.

Her cell phone rang as she stood on the street and hailed a cab. She ignored her phone. Outside her bank minutes later, she made a call of her own.

Leonora, something urgent has come up. You have to collect Jason and take him home, then pack a suitcase for him, and one for me. We have to go somewhere. I’ll explain when I get there. Leonora wanted to know what was wrong, and impatiently Elizabeth cut her off and said, Just do it. I’ll tell you when I get there. Do it now.

At the bank she made out a withdrawal slip for ten thousand dollars from her savings account. When the teller looked puzzled, she said, as lightly as she could manage, A friend is selling her car, but she has to have cash. It’s a sweet deal. No hassle, she thought. Just don’t give me a hassle. The teller asked her to wait a few minutes, and while she waited, she made plans.

She would need a computer, a laptop. Pay for it with a credit card, but no more credit card purchases after that; they could find her through them. No cell phone, possibly they could trace her through it. But she needed the computer and, later, possibly a printer. She had a lot of research to do. She’d sell her car, buy something less noticeable and use cash for everything…

Leonora had done exactly as Elizabeth had told her. She had collected Jason from kindergarten and packed a suitcase for him, and was still packing for Elizabeth when she arrived home. It was a spacious apartment, shared by Elizabeth and Terry for several months, until his departure, and then retained by Elizabeth. Her attorney had insisted that she should be awarded enough not to have to make any drastic reductions in her living arrangements. Leonora, her friend from childhood, had moved in to help out during the pregnancy and stayed on afterward.

Leonora’s mother had left her abusive husband when her daughter was twelve and Elizabeth’s mother had taken the child into her own household and the two girls had become sisters in most ways. Elizabeth’s father, a State Department employee at the UN for years, had died in a boating accident when she was eleven. Her mother had remained in the States to see her daughter safely enrolled at Johns Hopkins, where she had been an honors student, and then had gone back home to her native Spain. The two girls had shared a bedroom, worn each other’s clothes, then had drawn apart when Leonora married early and Elizabeth had gone to university. They had drawn together again when Leonora had come to realize she had married a man very like her own father. After two stillbirths and several beatings, she had left him, and had maintained a close friendship with Elizabeth ever since.

That day her face was drawn with worry as Elizabeth said, I have to get Jason out of here and have a little time to think about something I came across. I’ll call you in a few days and tell you what it’s all about, but not now. I want you to go get my car. I’ll finish packing up. A pillow case, that’s what I need, for some toys. She rushed through the apartment, looked in on Jason watching television. He waved and said, Hi, Mama Two. There was a mischievous gleam in his eyes those days when he called whichever one was with him first Mama One, and the other Mama Two. Until recently they both had simply been Mama. Elizabeth ran to the bedroom, with Leonora at her heels, and began tossing things into her own suitcase, rushing back and forth from her closet or dresser to the bed and the open case. After we’re out of here, you’d better go somewhere and stay a few days, maybe even a week. They’ll want to ask you questions, and it’s best if they can’t find you. I’ll call your cell phone.

For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth! What’s going on? Are you in trouble? Who will ask questions?

Just go get the car! Her voice was shrill. She swallowed hard. I can’t stop to talk about it now. Just get the car. Please! Terry and his mother. They can’t find me here!

Leonora’s face hardened, and she nodded. On my way.

At six-thirty Sarah Kurtz entered her condo where Terry was sprawled on a white sofa with a tall drink in his hand. He raised the glass as a greeting. How’s he doing?

He’s sedated. They said he’ll sleep all night and for me to come on home. The surgery is scheduled for seven in the morning. She looked tired. Every year for the past ten or fifteen, she had put on a few pounds, never much at a time but never lost again either, and the accumulation had become close to obesity. Her hair was as blond as ever, and would continue to be that color no matter how many more years she had to enjoy. Normally her complexion was good, her cheeks a nice pink, but that day her face looked splotched with red patches.

What are you doing here? she asked, taking off her jacket.

Waiting for you. Miss Dad’s keys yet?

What are you talking about? What keys?

To his filing cabinets here and those at the office. I took them today. And you didn’t even notice. I’m surprised.

She had been moving toward the bar across the room, but stopped to look at him. What are you up to?

I found the share assignment, he said lazily. Thought it would save you a little trouble if I did it myself. Elizabeth helped me look. Thought you’d like to know that we can still cooperate if necessary.

You let that woman look at his files?

Not at the office. While she looked here, I found it at the office. See, cooperation.

Sarah Kurtz’s face became noticeably more mottled as she stared at her son. Wordlessly she turned and hurried to the home office. Terry got up and followed her. The key was still in the lock. Sarah yanked open the file drawer and riffled through the folders.

I told you, I found it, down at the office. She didn’t find anything.

Abruptly Sarah swung around, and her hand flashed out in a sharp slap across his face. You bloody, blithering idiot! Go get her and bring her back here! Now!

She won’t come. I told her I had the assignment. No reason for her to come back. He rubbed his cheek and stepped out of his mother’s reach.

Bring Jason! She’ll come! Go get her now!

2

The first time Barbara Holloway entered the office of Dr. Marjorie Sanger, she had been restless and wary, and spent minutes prowling about the office, examining books on shelves, a series of miniature paintings in a frame, a globe. She had not expected to see the doctor. Being given the time because there had been a cancellation had taken her by surprise, but driving from Eugene to San Francisco she had promised herself to make the call, to seek help in untying the tangle of messy knots she had made of her life. Her own attempts to unravel the knots only succeeded in drawing them tighter.

Are you going to tell me why you’re here? the psychologist had asked after a few minutes.

I’m trying to decide where to begin, Barbara said. It’s difficult. In her mind she was trying to decide not where to begin, but if she would begin, or say it was all a mistake, excuse herself and leave.

Yes, it often is. But let me start you. You’re a professional woman facing a crisis of some sort. You’ve never consulted a therapist in the past and you rarely talk about personal difficulties.

Barbara paused her restless wandering and looked hard at her.

No, I didn’t look you up. Hardly time for that, was there? But you’re guarding your reputation. You asked my receptionist for the charge in order to bring enough cash. No insurance record or credit card. No paper trail. Outsiders often seize any opportunity to paint us all as unstable, don’t they?

She was a wizened little woman, hardly more than five feet tall, and she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. Her hair was gray and frizzy, natural, Barbara assumed, since no one would get a perm like that and live with it. Indeterminate age, fifty-five, seventy?

The doctor smiled. People who are garrulous have no trouble at all in starting to talk. Often about inconsequential matters, but they can no more resist talking than they can stop breathing. Many others seek out a neutral figure, one who knows nothing about them, another form of guarding the self, and quite often they find they don’t know if they want to talk at all. And it’s a crisis for you, or you wouldn’t be here. See? Simple.

She laughed, and Barbara sat down opposite her desk.

On her next visit the doctor had said, Every professional person faces the crisis of faith, crisis of belief, of personal integrity, something, and each one of us has to decide. No one can do it for us. You understand that you’re suddenly on the tipping point of a life, your own or someone else’s, that what you decide will determine someone’s fate. It isn’t just a minor nuisance, but a life-altering fate, and how you tip the scale is irreversible. It’s a heavy weight to bear.

The next time Barbara had come, she again moved restlessly about the office, unable to sit still.

What happened, Barbara? Dr. Sanger asked. Something has changed for you, hasn’t it?

Tiredly, Barbara sank into a chair and nodded. It seemed simple. He would accept that I’m not the right one for him and get on with things, and I would get over it. People do.

And now?

He wants to marry me. I got an e-mail with a proposal. She jerked to her feet and went to the globe, gave it a spin. I’ll end up hurting him. It wouldn’t work. Why can’t he see that? She returned to her chair.

Perhaps he is looking at something you don’t see.

An ideal. He’s looking at an ideal, and I’m looking at myself, the person I know I am.

I asked you what you’re afraid of. Have you arrived at an answer?

Barbara nodded. I’m afraid I’ll hurt him desperately. I’m afraid it would come to that eventually.

Dr. Sanger said gently, I think you can come up with a better answer than that. But consider this, Barbara. Consider if there are ever two people who are truly equal. Aren’t there always daily accommodations that must be made by real people? If they become too unbalanced, tension rises, perhaps an irreconcilable difference, but how can one know in advance if such will be the case? And what may be seen by one as a major hurdle, to the other may appear to be almost insignificant. Again, accommodations are made. Or not.

You aren’t going to give me any advice at all, are you?

No, Barbara. Only you can decide your own fate. You won’t be coming again, will you?

Barbara shook her head. I have to think about my own fate, make a few decisions. Thank you, Dr. Sanger. She stood up and put on her coat, walked to the door, where she was stopped by the psychologist’s voice.

Barbara, if ever I find myself in a terrible situation, accused of criminal activity, I’d want you to defend me.

Barbara turned around and regarded the other woman, then said, Will you answer a question for me?

Dr. Sanger nodded.

Have you ever considered quitting, leaving it all and just quitting?

For a moment Dr. Sanger didn’t move, then she nodded again. More than once, she said.

Thank you, Barbara said in a near whisper and walked out.

She walked until city lights came on. Cars rushed by, a fire truck screamed through an intersection in front of her, boys on skateboards zoomed past, other pedestrians clustered at corners and she paid little or no attention to any of it. One hand held her purse strap, the other was in her pocket clutching the e-mail from Darren. She felt stupid for carrying it around, especially since the words had become imbedded in her brain, but she carried it in her pocket where she could feel it.

When her thighs began to burn, she knew it was time to stop walking, to get something to eat and then return to her studio apartment. She would make notes of today’s conversation with Dr. Sanger, exactly the way she always did after talking with a client or a witness. After that, she had to start from the beginning of her notes and give some thought to what she had said, what the doctor had said on various visits. But not in the city, she thought then. There was no need to remain in San Francisco. Someplace on the coast where she could watch a storm blow ashore and have peace and quiet enough to think through everything she and Dr. Sanger had discussed. And make a final decision about practicing law, and about Darren Halvord. Especially about Darren.

For weeks Joseph Kurtz had hovered between life and death, in a state neither one nor the other, in a deep coma following a stroke that occurred twenty-four hours after his surgery. That morning he had slipped into death.

Sarah Kurtz and her brother Lawrence Diedricks were in the living room of her condo and she half listened as Lawrence and her personal assistant Lon Clampton discussed arrangements for the next few days. The jet would be ready to leave in the morning, Clampton had said, whenever the family got there. He had arranged for removal of the body to the plane. The funeral would take place on Saturday, with only the family present, and a memorial service on the following Tuesday. Sarah’s jaw was clenched with frustration and rage, and to her surprise even grief. They had been married for forty-three years, after all.

The voices droned on until she felt she might scream. Finally she broke in, Clampton, what about that woman in Austin? Do they know yet?

Another false alarm, he said easily. Lon Clampton had been with her for more than twenty years, but he was not in her confidence and had no idea why she was so obsessed with finding Elizabeth Kurtz, only that she was, and that she was spending a fortune on private detectives. He didn’t much care about why, not his job, but he was responsible for hiring the detective firm, and she took it out on him every time a false lead ended up at a blank wall.

Lon Clampton was a large man, broad shouldered and heavy without being fat. He worked out regularly and was proud of his well-developed body. He liked his job, even if Sarah Kurtz could be a bitch to work for at times. It was not demanding for the most part, and the pay was good enough to make up for a lot of her bitching. Arrange this party, see to the invitations, have the car ready, the plane ready to go, be on call presumably for twenty-four hours a day, but that was misleading. She rarely called in the evening and almost never on weekends. Now that Elizabeth Kurtz had come up again as a concern, he was ready to do whatever was required. More publicity, he could fix that. More rumors, he knew where to get them started. This time she had ordered absolute silence. Not a word to be leaked, not a hint they were looking for her. But finding her had proven to be a sticking point. Although the detectives really were some of the best, they had failed so far. And she blamed him more than she blamed them.

Sarah heaved herself up from a chair and cast him a venomous look. If that crew of scumbags can’t do the job, get some who can. I’m going to lie down.

At the door of the living room she paused to give her brother an equally scathing look. Tell Moira that plane will take off at eleven whether she’s aboard or not.

Now, Sarah, don’t you worry about Moira. We’ll be there. You go on and have a rest.

Your wife has never been on time in her life, she said. She’ll be late for her own funeral. Eleven.

Lying down, she realized she was grinding her teeth and forced herself to stop. It was too much, she thought, just too damned much. Where could that bitch be holed up?

In the beginning they had reassured her. She can’t hide with a little boy, she’s an amateur, she doesn’t know how to cover her tracks. Now, weeks later they were still chasing shadows. Only three people had known about that file—Sarah, Joe and Sarah’s brother, Lawrence. And now that bitch had it. Joe should have burned it, she thought then. She should have let him burn it when he first proposed doing so. But she had known it was priceless and said to lock it up. We’ll find a use for it. And they