The group stopped before passing through the stairway door and stared at me with giant question marks in their eyes.
“My fault?” I asked, astonished anyone would think I’d stoop to something so juvenile and mean.
Thrusting a sheet of crinkled paper at me, she coughed and spluttered, but managed to say, “Whoever opened the door and…threw the smoke bomb, tossed this in first. Says right there, ‘Back off…Pinkie, or next time it’ll be a helluva lot worse than…smoke!’”
My earliest memory is when I was three years old and my dad ran over the cat. Mom loved that cat. I wouldn’t know that by observation because as I said, my first memory was when the cat went to the big litter box in the sky. I know Mom loved the cat because she talked about Blix for the next twenty-eight years of my life. Part of my hazy memory is Mom wigging out in the driveway, crying and accusing Dad of doing it on purpose, so maybe she just talked about the cat because it reinforced her opinion of my father. I don’t think he did it on purpose because he has a real soft spot for animals. A mean son of a bitch to people, but no way he’d run over poor Blix on purpose, even to piss off Mom.
All the same, I don’t think she ever forgave him. And I don’t recall Mom ever wigging out like that again.
Until Tiffany read the note from the Dog Doo Stalker.
While me and Mom and the rest of the staff, except for Sam, who stayed behind to check out the smoke bomb, tromped down fifteen flights of stairs, she hysterically asked questions in a shrill voice that was beyond unnerving. I answered all of them as truthfully as possible, well aware the staff was listening to every word. So much for my plan of keeping the Dog Doo Stalker on the q.t. I was already persona non grata to most people—the Dog Doo Stalker would reduce me to leper status.
Outside, in the late afternoon heat, we had to wait for the fire department and the Midland bomb squad to check the building. Being a captive audience, I had no choice but to take it while Mom hounded me for details, railed against me for keeping it from her, insisted I had to destroy the disk so “that maniac” would leave me alone.
I patiently listened and let her go off on me, until she said I had to destroy the disk. “Mom, you can ask me to do just about anything, but not that. As soon as I get the disk, I’m handing it over to the finance committee.”
Finally aware of our audience, Mom gave the staff the evil eye and they slowly moved away, although they couldn’t go home because the fire department had the parking garage blocked off.
“The disk isn’t that important!” she said in a stage whisper the firemen could probably hear on the fifteenth floor. “The SEC has enough for an investigation. Let them take care of it.”
“They can prove Marvel has a lousy accounting system, maybe even prove there’s some funny money involved, but it will all fall on the grunt people, the little guys who had to follow orders. I’m certain the Marvel execs and my firm have already destroyed any documents that could prove they set the whole thing up, that none of it was due to stupidity or carelessness. If I don’t turn over the disk, not one of the lousy bastards at the top will pay for what they’ve done.”
“Pink, you’ve always been so damn righteous! Is this whole Marvel mess worth getting yourself killed? It’s only money, for God’s sake!”
Anger threatened to overtake rational thought, but I managed to keep it under control. I’d like to say it’s because I’m calm, collected and handle myself with reasonable gracefulness, but the truth is, I knew I couldn’t win an argument with Mom if I got too pissed. The woman is amazing. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly and explained why I wasn’t going to mind her. “To you, it’s only money. To thousands of investors, it’s their life savings, their college funds, their retirement packages. Last year, the CEO at Marvel bought an island. An island, Mom! And the greedy crook bought it with other people’s money. If I witnessed a guy robbing a bank, would you want me to say nothing and let the guy go free? Because this is no different.”
“I might, if the bank robber was threatening to kill you!”
She looked ready to blow a gasket and I began to worry she’d pass out from heat and fury.
Sam came out the front door of the building and headed toward us, a policeman in tow.
“We’ll just ask Sam what he thinks,” Mom said. “He was with the FBI for almost fifteen years. He’ll tell you how dangerous this stalker person is.”
Lucky for me, Sam wasn’t personally involved. Unlike Mom, who clucked after me all the years I was growing up, who was now roaring like a mother bear, Sam couldn’t care less what happened to me. Well, that’s not really fair. I’m sure he cared, but obviously not like Mom does.
While the cop stood by and listened, nodding as though he agreed completely, Sam said to Mom, “This guy wants to scare Pink into giving up, but I don’t think he’ll cross the line and hurt her, or anyone in the office. He’s bluffing.”
“How do you know? Are you a mind reader?” Mom turned her anger and frustration toward Sam and I felt for him.
He shot a look at me, then focused on Mom’s very red face. “Because, Jane, if he wasn’t bluffing, she’d already be dead.”
After answering police questions for over an hour, I was finally able to leave. Mom said she had to pick up some tax information from a homebound client, so I had a brief reprieve from her nervous, worried looks and angry grumbles.
Relaxing a little, I drove to her house, anticipating a float in the pool. And the Corona. Maybe two. Or three.
It wasn’t until I drove up to her house that I realized I’d never gotten a key. Dammit. I parked in back, in the driveway, climbed through a window and hurried to shut off the security alarm before time ran out and the cops were called. But when I got to the control box, I realized the security alarm wasn’t on. The hair on the back of my neck rose up when I heard someone whistling. Stepping close to the door so I could haul ass if it turned out to be a burglar, or the stalker, I called out, “Hello! Who’s there?”
A medium-built man with a small beer belly and thick, brown hair stepped into the living room and smiled at me. “I’m Harry, the air-conditioner guy.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I smiled at him. “Hi, Harry. Mom having trouble with her air conditioner?”
“Just needed a little Freon.” He narrowed his brown eyes. “So you must be Pink.”
“Yes.”
“How’d you get a name like that?”
“Remember Pink Pearl erasers?”
“No.”
“Well, they’re erasers that are pink and they’re Pink Pearl brand and lots of accountants used to use them. When I went to work as an accountant, I got the nickname because my last name is Pearl and it just sort of stuck.”
He still looked confused, but I wasn’t going to discuss my stupid nickname any further.
“You don’t look like your mother.”
I sighed and leaned against the column. “No.”
“Does your dad have blond hair and blue eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Because your mother is dark, with dark hair and eyes. She almost looks Italian.”
I resisted being sarcastic and thanking him for telling me what my mother looked like. “Indian.”
“How’s that?”
“Her grandmother was Cherokee. She’s dark because of the Indian thing.” I turned away and said as politely as possible, “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll unload my car now.”
“Sure, sure. Do you need some help?”
“I’ve