"I don't understand what you're saying," Macy whispers, her gaze now fixated on her lap.
"I'm saying the government is taking your apartment and your bank account," I tell her gently.
"And they can do that?" she asks meekly... so fucking lost.
"Yeah," I say with frustration as I skim my fingers through my hair and scratch at the back of my neck. I immediately put my hand back on the wheel because traffic is heavy this late afternoon as commuters head out of the city for the weekend.
"When do I have to get out?"
"Three days," I tell her and before she can erupt, I continue. "I called Mac while you were packing. She and Matt are taking tomorrow off and are going to get some movers to pack up your entire apartment. She'll keep some of your clothes and other necessities aside for you, but the rest she'll put in temporary storage."
Macy gives a snort... next a strangled laugh... and then she looks at me with near hysteria in my eyes. "Are you sure I'm allowed to keep my clothes? I mean... technically, those were bought with my trust fund... which means they were bought by Quarter Mine."
I keep a calm and rational voice. I can't have her splintering on me. "You're allowed to keep anything in the apartment that is not permanently affixed, as well as ten-thousand dollars from your bank account."
Another bark of insane laughter and she throws her hands up. "Well, then hey... that's awesome. I'm set for life."
My hand snakes out and grabs a wrist flying around. I pull it to me and kiss her fingertips. "I'm not going to let you fall."
"I've already fallen," Macy says bleakly as she snags her hand back.
"Then I'll pick you back up," I tell her.
She doesn't respond. Just rests her forehead against the passenger glass and looks at the scenery passing by. She's slipping away from me, and I don't know how to stop it.
I hang up the phone and toss it down on the couch cushion beside me. That was Mac giving me an update. The movers are set to be at Macy's apartment first thing in the morning and should be cleared out by noontime.
Pursuant to the instructions on the forfeiture order, I had Mac move the allotted money out of Macy's trust fund and into a new bank account that she set up for her before the banks closed for business, thanking the powers that be that Macy had appointed Mac as her power of attorney long ago.
I'd pass this information on to Macy in the morning. Right now, she's up in the guest bedroom my mom showed us to a few hours ago when we arrived, and she's sound asleep. She refused to eat anything, and while she was polite to my parents, she claimed she was really tired and just wanted to rest.
She's been out like a light since then.
"Made you some tea." My mom's voice gently covers me as she walks into the den where I'm sitting.
I nod at the tumbler of bourbon my dad brought me half an hour ago that's sitting on the coffee table. "Dad already brought me a delivery," I tell her with a smile.
My mom smirks, sets the tea down next to the bourbon, and then sits down next to me. "You can drink the tea after the liquor."
Mom curls her feet up onto the sofa, tucking them underneath her. She angles her body toward me, reaches a hand out, and tugs on a few locks of my hair. "You need a haircut."
"Yeah," I grumble my agreement. "I know."
"I'll cut it for you tomorrow," she says as she tilts her head to the side to rest her cheek on the backseat cushion. Her eyes are warm as they study me. "Is Macy sleeping?"
I nod, my fingers absently stroking the denim material covering my thighs. "You know I can't really tell you what's going on, right? Attorney-client privilege and all that."
My mom pats me on the knee. "I know. But whatever it is, you two can stay here as long as you like."
"Thanks, Mom," I say as I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. "I'm thinking just a few days until Macy can get oriented."
Pushing up off the couch, my mom reaches over and grabs the glass of bourbon. She hands it to me with a wink. "Drink that. Doctor's orders... then drink the tea."
"Yes, ma'am," I reply as I take the glass from her.
Mom smiles down at me with wisdom shining in her eyes. "Whatever is going on, Macy's lucky to have you in her corner."
I shrug, because honestly... I've not done much other than let her get attacked by a federal prosecutor and served a forfeiture order. "Just another day at the office," I quip.
"I'm not talking about you being her attorney." Warm affection tinged with a bit of annoyance, a delivery only a mom can do properly. "I'm talking about you being there for her... personally. You're a good man and one day, you'll look back on all of this and realize it was merely a small hurdle you had to jump to get to the happiness."
"Seems like the hurdle's pretty big from where I'm sitting."
"Well, it's a good thing you got long legs," she says with a wink. It makes me laugh and fills me up with determination at the same time.
I hold my glass up in a silent toast to my mother's greatness. She curtsies in response with a slight incline of her head before leaving the room and me to my thoughts.
I take another sip of the amber liquid, swirl it on my tongue, and then swallow it slowly. I let the burn infuse my blood and work its magic on my anxiety.
Now it's time to find out what I can on Emiel Coppens.
Leaning forward, I set the tumbler on the table and reach into my briefcase, which sits on the floor at my feet. I take my laptop out, settle back onto the couch, and fire it up.
Google provides me instant information.
Dr. Emiel Coppens, age forty-three, practicing obstetrician and gynecologist living in Brussels. He's a sole practitioner from what I can see, and apparently not a great marketer of his services because there's very little information about him.
I study a picture of Dr. Coppens. He has dark hair buzzed very short, a tight-cropped beard, and wire-framed glasses. Absolutely nondescript. There are a few published medical articles by him, but I can see nothing else out of the ordinary. Perhaps this was just a personal friend of Travis Carrington's and they went to visit him for a few days.
Setting the laptop aside, I grab my bourbon before settling back into the cushions again. I sip and think. Think and sip.
Macy was utterly fearful and sickened at the mention of this man's name. He's fairly young... eleven years ago, he would have only been thirty-two. The thought comes unbidden into my mind and I immediately want to banish it, but it's plausible this guy raped or molested Macy. It was the first thing I thought of based upon her physical reaction.
But if that's the case, why in the fuck is a federal white-collar prosecutor interested in this? It makes no sense.
Grabbing my phone, I flip through my contacts and pull up Deanna Switzer's number from my history log. I have no clue if this is her cell or office number, and even though it's almost ten PM, I tap the screen and dial her up.
She answers on the second ring in that gravelly voice, "Switzer".
"It's Cal Carson."
"How is Miss Carrington doing?" she asks me, and that is definitely true empathy I hear in her voice. I don't think this woman enjoyed doing that to Macy today.
"Not well," I tell her, because that's the fucking truth. "Tell me about Emiel Coppens and why he's important to this investigation."
"I take it your client hasn't told you about him?" she hedges, sniffing first for information.
"That's none of your business," I chide her. "But let's just assume I don't know anything."
Dee sighs into the phone, and I can envision her rubbing her eyes with tired frustration. "It's not something we should discuss over the phone. I can meet you tomorrow at my office."
"It's a Saturday," I say, not because I'm averse to weekend work, but because government workers tend to clock out after they've hit their forty hours.
She gives a husky laugh into the phone, and I can hear her taking a drag on cigarette. Blowing it out noisily, she says, "I'm not your typical federal prosecutor, Cal. You'll find that out soon enough."
"I can be there by nine," I tell her, wondering if she's warning me or just teasing. "And be ready to discuss that forfeiture order. You said you could make it go away."
"For the right information," she says before hanging up on me.
The bedroom is dark when I finally creep in around midnight. I can tell Macy's been up at some point because when she laid down to rest, she was fully clothed. Now I see her garments draped over a corner chair from the hallway light as I open the door. I mentally plan the best route to make it into the bed without killing myself in the dark, and then shut the door, sealing out all the light.
I quickly strip down to the buff, not because I hope to get any action tonight, but because that's how I always sleep. It's how Macy sleeps too, at least in my limited experience.