Drop Dead, Gorgeous Part 17

Lonnie had been studying this copy of Julian's will since Phillip had given it to her. "This will doesn't really prove that Desi Green is Julian's biological child, or that Jordan isn't. Is it worth the paper it's printed on without anything else to support it?"

"You have Jordan's birth certificate," he responded.

"I have a copy of a doc.u.ment that could be his birth certificate," she said, disappointed. "Revealing it would cause some drama, sure, but the Gatewoods would eventually just make it disappear."

"It's as worthless as you believe it is."

Lonnie thought before answering. "It's just ... it's not enough, Phillip. So what if I have it published in the local paper that Jordan's not a Gatewood? It's sensationalism at its best, and even though it would raise questions, the bottom line is, who cares? The man's a mastermind when it comes to running this business, and he's made too many rich people richer. If Gatewood Industries loses its golden boy, then it loses money, and if it loses money, then so do the rich b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who back it. Who really cares who his daddy is?"

"His mother."

"She only cares because it puts a dent in an otherwise stellar, bright-and-s.h.i.+ny reputation. And more and more, Jordan could give a d.a.m.n. So, like I said, who cares?"

"One person might," he said, and then paused. "Desi Green? Maybe she would care if she found out that Julian was her biological father, and not Jordan's."

Would Desi care? She was busy traipsing all over the country, pus.h.i.+ng shoes and purses and living like a celebrity. Did she care anymore about what the Gatewoods had taken from her?

"Other than Olivia Gatewood, the only other living person who would possibly know the truth is Edgar Beckman. He was Julian's personal attorney," he explained. "By all indications, he worked for Julian long before Gatewood Industries became what it is today. The two even went fis.h.i.+ng together, according to you."

Phillip was reaching. "So?" Lonnie asked irritably.

"You said it yourself, Lonnie, that day at lunch? It was obvious that when Beckman saw you, he knew you. Now, how could he possibly know who you are, unless Jordan had shared that with him, and why on earth would Jordan mention you to a man who was merely a member of the board, unless the two of them were as close friends as Edgar was with Julian? He went so far as to forge that man's will to hide his declaration of Desi being his child. He's practically Jordan's shadow. How far do you think he'd go for Gatewood Industries' superstar?"

"It's a stretch, Phillip," she said, doubtfully.

"It is. But you're good at stretching."

Lonnie's last conversation with Phillip had left her more frustrated than anything. In all her years of experience working as a journalist, she counted on facts to make her case for a good story, but in most cases, the best investigative reporters began the chase for those earth-shattering stories based on nothing more than curiosity or speculation. Sometimes, it was like a dog chasing its tail and Lonnie wasted a lot of time and energy only to end up with nothing, no story at all, but every once in a while, she hit pay dirt.

Beckman lived on an estate just outside of Fort Worth. She didn't know how much Jordan had told him about her, but the look on his face that day in the restaurant was a good indication that he knew more than she wanted him or anybody else to know. She was here now, to formally introduce herself, and to share with him all the fascinating things she'd found out about him too.

A buxom, young blonde answered the door. "Edgar Beckman, please?" Lonnie asked politely.

The woman didn't smile, say h.e.l.lo, or so much as fart, before she turned and started to walk away, leaving Lonnie with the impression that she was supposed to follow her inside. She led a trail through the ma.s.sive living room, into the kitchen, and then finally out to the back of the house to the pool.

"Edgar?" she said in her Southern tw.a.n.g. "You have a visitor."

She brushed past Lonnie and disappeared back inside the house.

Beckman stopped in the middle of putting, pulled down his sungla.s.ses, and stared stunned at Lonnie.

The silence between the two of them was eerie. He took reluctant steps in her direction. Lonnie felt obligated to at least meet the stout, old man in the middle.

"What are you doing here?" he finally asked.

She wore three-inch heels and stood eye to eye with the man.

There was something about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but there was something familiar about his face-his features?

"I came to formally introduce myself," she said confidently.

So maybe he knew that Jordan had kicked her a.s.s, but he also needed to know that Lonnie wasn't the victim.

"Lonnie," she said. "Lonnie Adebayo."

He looked unimpressed.

"What do you want?" he asked abruptly, reaching down to pick up his drink that sat on the patio table.

Some pieces of the puzzle were still missing, and Lonnie had to be careful of what she said, and how she said it. Beckman liked to fish; so did she. Only Lonnie had come here to fish for him to fill in the blanks for her. He was a lawyer, an old one, but lawyers were master wordsmiths. They talked too much, and said too little. The fact that he was old meant that he had mastered the art of talking s.h.i.+t.

Lonnie reached into her purse, and pulled out the copy of the will that Phillip had given her, and handed it to him.

He took it reluctantly, unfolded it, glanced at it, folded it back, and held it out to her.

"That supposed to mean something to me?"

He was good. Cool. Unruffled. d.a.m.n. If she ever needed a lawyer, she'd definitely want one like him.

"You and Julian Gatewood were close."

He stood there. "Leave my house."

"You and Jordan just as close?"

"Get the h.e.l.l out," he demanded again.

"Not until I tell you a story, Edgar," she continued. "About a beautiful Chilean woman named Dominga Rojas." Lonnie expertly rolled her "r."

All that lawyer cool blew away in the wind, and dangerous color suddenly flushed across that old man's face, and that's when Lonnie realized what it was about him that she found so familiar. Edgar Beckman was a black man, or at least, he had black in him, and he was "pa.s.sing."

Lonnie felt the smirk creep across her lips. Without even trying, he'd just given up another secret, one that was almost better than the first.

Beckman found the chair beside the table and sat down, casting a forlorn gaze across the lawn. He looked tired, all of a sudden, like a man who'd been carrying something for far too long and wanted nothing more than to lay it down.

Lonnie sat down too, and began to relay a story to him that she was sure would be incredibly close to the one he already knew.

"She came to this country to live with her aunt," she began calmly. "Dominga's mother wanted her to learn English, and to go to American schools in the hopes that she would have a bright future, because she was such a bright girl."

Brad had gone that extra mile for Lonnie. She knew he had a contact in South America, but she had no idea that that contact had been Chilean himself, and he took it upon himself to find Dominga's mother and to actually sit and talk to the woman about her daughter. He ended up getting some real personal s.h.i.+t from a heartbroken woman, desperate to know the truth about her youngest child.

Edgar sat like a statue.

"Her aunt was a housekeeper, and she agreed to take Dominga in, as long as she pulled her own weight and helped to make money to support herself," Lonnie continued, carefully scrutinizing the man's face and his body language.

"She worked for you, Edgar, and after your wife, Annette, pa.s.sed away, you married Dominga."

He finished what was left in his gla.s.s.

"She was so young and so beautiful. But then, you divorced her and poof! Dominga Rojas vanishes like a quarter in a magic trick."

Edgar swallowed.

"Her mother hasn't seen or heard from her in years, Edgar." Lonnie relished saying that to him. She saw his body go rigid, even though he tried to hide it. She noticed how he turned his head away from her. "What did you do to Dominga?"

He cleared his throat, turned back to looking out at the lawn, and swallowed again. "You need to leave my house," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"It's not like Dominga not to call her mother," Lonnie continued. "But her family was poor. They didn't have much, so no one looked for Dominga Rojas-Beckman for long." Lonnie reached into her purse again, and pulled out a copy of an article she'd found on the Internet. "I wonder if this is her?"

The headline read, WOMAN'S BODY WASHES UP ON GALVESTON'S EAST BEACH.

"The article said that the woman was about five-five with dark hair, and was undoubtedly Latina. But she had no face, and her hands and feet were missing." Lonnie held it in front of his face, but Edgar swatted it away. "Do you think she might've slipped and fallen in, Edgar?" she asked condescendingly.

This time, he did turn to her, and Edgar's eyes bulged out of his head until she thought he'd explode.

"She left me!" he growled. "Found herself some young, rich stallion, took everything I gave her, and ran off with him!"

Lonnie leaned back. "But why hasn't she phoned her mother? Dominga adored her mother. Her mother doesn't believe that her daughter would go this long without speaking to her unless something was terribly wrong," Lonnie continued softly, almost sympathetically. She watched the stout and defiant Edgar Beckman begin to slowly dissolve right before her eyes. She was on to something. Lonnie didn't know the details but her gut warned her that poor Dominga's mother would spend the rest of her life waiting for her daughter's call.

"What did you do to her, Edgar? Where's Dominga?" Of course, she didn't expect him to confess. The questions were rhetorical, and they were asked to make him remember the dark thoughts that he undoubtedly worked hard to keep hidden, even from himself. But still, Lonnie had come here to plant a seed. "Does Jordan know?" she asked softly. A vein running along Edgar's temple suddenly swelled and pulsed. "You trust Jordan the way you trusted his father, Julian? Did you trust him with your secrets? Would you trust him with your life?"

He opened his mouth and Lonnie waited for him to cuss her out or threaten her or something, but Edgar said something even more shocking.

"I'm too old for this." His voice cracked. He suddenly shrank in his seat, lowered his head to his hand, and began to rub his eyes.

If Lonnie didn't know better, she'd think that he was crying. And that was it. She had somehow made an impact, and at least for now, that's all she needed to do to Edgar Beckman. He would do the rest to himself.

"Maybe we'll talk some more later, Edgar," she said softly, as she stood up to leave. "Was that your wife who answered the door? She's lovely," she lied. "Don't bother getting up. I'll see myself out."

Lonnie let herself back into the house, and saw the missus standing in the kitchen, nibbling on cheese, and looking out at where her husband and Lonnie were talking.

Lonnie stopped. "Just so you know," she offered, "he takes his vows very seriously. Till death do you part." Lonnie picked up a piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth. "I'm just saying."

I Am Screaming Desi hadn't been in this house in months. It was her house, the first house she bought with the money she inherited, but it never did feel like home. Texas didn't feel like home anymore either. She found it strange that you could spend your whole life in a place and never find a connection to it, but she'd managed to do it. This place was dusty and hollow. It had furniture in every room, but there was no spirit in this house, because she'd never bothered to put hers into it.

Desi took her bags upstairs to the bedroom, peeled out of her clothes, and took a shower. When she finished, she dried off, wrapped a towel around her, and climbed into her bed. She'd come back to Dallas because Lonnie was here. But that was the only reason. Lonnie had disappeared over two years ago. One minute she and Desi were as thick as thieves, and the next, Lonnie was gone. For weeks after Lonnie's disappearance, Desi thought the worst, that Jordan had killed her and gotten away with it.

It was months before Lonnie finally did call. In that time, though, n.o.body was even looking for her. The police said they could find no evidence of "foul play," which meant that they weren't going to touch Jordan Gatewood with a ten-foot pole. But when Lonnie did call Desi, she didn't sound like the Lonnie Desi had known. Lonnie had been pensive and withdrawn. Something had happened to her, something horrible, but she wouldn't say what it was. Desi knew, though, that whatever it was, Jordan had been the one to do it.

"Hey," she said into the phone. "I'm back in town. Yeah, I got in this morning. At the house. Okay. I'll see you soon."

Desi had made up her mind to move on with her life and to turn her back on the Gatewoods forever. She had been given the opportunity of a lifetime when she got out of prison. Desi had inherited more money than she knew what to do with, and a second chance. Lonnie had helped her. She'd come to Desi's rescue when no one wanted anything to do with her, and stood by Desi's side, exposing the truth behind her conviction.

The sheriff from Blink, Texas, came into the house that night after Mr. J, Julian Gatewood, had been shot, and saw Desi holding the gun in her hand, but Olivia Gatewood had put it there, after she shot her husband. Her fate was decided in that moment, and there was nothing Desi or her mother could do after that but to sit back and let it happen. Gatewood money paid for her conviction, and they got it. And Desi spent the next twenty-five years of her life in prison for something she never did. But Lonnie was there for her. Lonnie helped Desi to expose the setup behind her conviction, and all the king's men-from the sheriff, to the judge, to the court forewoman-all had to answer, in one way or another, for the role they'd played in seeing to it that Desi was sent to prison. Desi's conviction would likely never be overturned, but at least her truth was out there, and it had hit the New York Times bestseller list, so it was out there pretty d.a.m.n good.

She dressed, and went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. Desi was starving, but of course, there was no food in the house except for a can of chicken noodle soup and a package of stale crackers. She had no intention of staying in town any longer than she had to, so she doubted that she'd buy any groceries. Half an hour later, her doorbell rang, and Desi got up to answer it. It was the first time the two of them had ever met face-to-face. Until now, they'd only ever spoken on the phone to each other.

"Wow," Desi said, feeling overwhelmed. "You look so much like him."

June smiled and carefully studied Desi. "Thank you. That's the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me." June reached for Desi and the two hugged. "Welcome home, Desi."

All Wise Men Today Grieve Dominga let him love her when he needed to most. When Annette lay dying, and smelling like death and medicinal and old, Dominga let him kiss her. She let him touch her and hold her. She let Edgar make love to her. Dominga was his sweet, raven-haired beauty-young, warm, so full of life and light.

"You need to smile more," she whispered to him, her accent thick and melodious, her tongue like velvet. The lines of her were perfect and flowed like rhythms. Her beautiful, golden brown skin was smoother than silk. Dominga's full, plump lips made his mouth water and his c.o.c.k sit up at attention.

"It's hard to smile sometimes," he responded, lovingly stroking her hair. He lost himself in the dark pools of her eyes. "But you-you make me smile, lovely Dominga."

She wrapped her luscious lips around the head of his c.o.c.k, and Edgar gave himself fully to her. He was hers in a way that he had never belonged to Annette. He was weak with Dominga, like clay in her hands that she could mold into any shape she wanted him to be, and he loved it. He loved her for it.

"I love tasting you," she told him.

He loved tasting her too. Edgar pulled her up from the end of the bed, turned her over on her back, spread her legs, and lowered his face, burying it between the heavenly s.p.a.ce between her caramel thighs. There was no sweeter taste, no aroma more sensual than her. Dominga was his fantasy. She was the kind of woman a man dreamed of loving and of loving him.

"I love you," he said, looking up at her, his face covered in her juices.

She bit her bottom lip, and then smiled, batting thick, dark lashes at him. "I can tell."

He became impatient for Annette to die, but he knew that she would. Eventually, she did, and Edgar and his children buried the woman he'd spent so many years of his life with. But he had a new future waiting for him in Dominga. And as soon as he could, to the protests of his children, he married her. She became his, and Edgar's obsession began to take over, and swallowed them both. Dominga began to resent him for it, and he resented her for possessing him like a demon. He began to watch her, to track her every move. She was a pa.s.sionate, beautiful woman, and young-so d.a.m.n young. Too young.

Dominga waited until he was away on business to misbehave and take a lover, a black man, Isaac. Isaac was a tall, dark, handsome Cuban and every chance she got, Dominga disappeared with Isaac, but she had no idea that Edgar was watching.

"Edgar! Por favor no! Vamos, Edgar. Por favor, voy a estar con ustedes! Please no! Let's go, Edgar. Please, I'll be with you!"

Edgar pulled the trigger. Isaac's body folded and dropped to the floor.

"Edgar?" Dominga was shaking. Her lips were trembling, and he stared at them, wondering if she'd used them to make love to Isaac, the way she'd made love with him.

He and Jordan Gatewood weren't so differnet. Both of them had loved women who had betrayed and mocked them, women who had toyed with their devotion and crushed them. Lonnie Adebayo was to Jordan what Dominga had been to Edgar, and just like Jordan, Edgar destroyed that woman with his bare hands. Unlike Lonnie, however, Dominga had no guardian angels watching over her. The thought of shooting her the way he'd shot her lover never occurred to Edgar. He did use that gun, though, beating her with it until there was no trace of her beautiful face.

Edgar moved mechanically. Edgar thought methodically, as he systematically removed her hands and feet, using a hacksaw he'd had in the trunk of his car. She couldn't be identified, he reasoned. Without hands and feet, and face. When he finished, Edgar put the hands and feet in plastic bags, went to the bathroom and washed his face and hands. Dominga was dead. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, thinking that thought over and over again, waiting for it to sink in, but it couldn't. Something inside him blocked it. Dominga was gone.

He left Isaac in that dirty, tiny house of his. Edgar didn't care about Isaac or if they found him or could identify him. Let them. Dominga was his wife. Dominga was gone. Dominga was his- He carried her to the car, wrapped in a blanket from the bed. It smelled of s.e.x. Her s.e.x. Edgar was careful not to get her blood in his SUV. There was so much blood. But he was careful. He drove to Corpus because it was close. He opened the plastic bag and dropped the hands and feet into the water and Edgar stood there and watched them sink. And moments later, he watched her sink too. Dominga was gone.

He filed divorce papers a few weeks later. n.o.body questioned the fact that beautiful, young Dominga left him. After all, Edgar was too old for her. Poor Edgar, with his broken heart, and silly notions that beautiful Dominga loved him for anything other than his money.

Guilt doesn't adhere to the rules of time. Most things fade with time: regret, eyesight, memories. But guilt feeds on time, and as it feeds, it grows, and when it runs out of time, it begins to gnaw on the guilty. Dominga was the only woman he'd ever loved. Dominga was the last woman he'd made love to. She was the only one he could ever make himself truly want.

"Edgar?" Bridgette had come down the stairs and found him sitting in the library. "Baby, it's late," she said, sweetly rubbing his shoulders. Bridgette was a toy at best, an amus.e.m.e.nt that he lavished with gifts and money, but she meant nothing to him. "You should come to bed."

He platonically patted her hand. "I'll be up shortly, sweetheart," he promised.

She sighed, and quietly left him sitting there alone, in the dark.

Lonnie Adebayo was a smart woman. Jordan had failed to mention how smart. Edgar had suspected that she was cunning, but he had underestimated her too. She had been savvy enough to do what he would've done in her position. She'd studied her enemy, Jordan, and she'd made the connection between him and Edgar. He had no idea how she'd done it, but she'd done it and that was all that mattered. And then she'd done something else extraordinary. She'd set Jordan aside, and turned her attention to Edgar.