1

 

They gathered at the same table in the Il Mediterreano on Connecticut Avenue in D.C. every Friday night. They called themselves The Gal Friday Group. Most of them had mid-level jobs as administrative assistants, accountants, or lawyers. Cindy Foster had been promoted to manager of the Tax Services department at the D.C. office of America First Financial Services recently, but the group decided she could stay because she was one of the founding members. Ellen Magee was a partner in a law firm, but it was a small one, so that didn’t count. There were twelve women in the group, but there were always a few no-shows.

Six women were seated at the table next to the restaurant’s main aisle the first Friday in May 2009. Cindy sat facing the door, Ellen across from her.

The restaurant was full that night. Having a conversation with anyone more than a couple of feet away was difficult. The Gal Friday Group had split in two. Cindy was engaged in a discussion about balancing home and career with June Wilson, an accountant from payroll, and Ashley Maddox, an executive assistant.

Ellen Magee was a woman’s lawyer focusing on divorce cases, discrimination suits, domestic violence, and sexual harassment cases. Anne Michaels, to her left, was another lawyer who was cutting her teeth on women’s issues. Betty Saunders, on her right, was a public affairs specialist.

Cindy suddenly jerked her head up, her eyes wide in disbelief. She stared toward the entrance, transfixed.

Ellen turned to look. Two men had entered the restaurant and were walking toward their table. Their expensive suits and flashy ties were overkill for the Mediterreano. The man in front was middle-aged, medium height, balding, and bespectacled. The second was a six-foot-tall, 220-pound athlete. He had sharp, Teutonic features with blond hair and blue eyes. His gaze was fixed on Cindy as he made his way into the restaurant.

Blue Eyes touched his companion on the shoulder and directed him to a small table off to the left. He took a seat that gave him a direct line of sight to Cindy.

They ordered and fell into conversation. The short guy was animated. The taller guy seemed bored. He would occasionally look over at Cindy.

She picked at her food and tried to follow the conversation at her table, but the man’s attention bothered her. She did her best to hide her discomfort. When she made eye contact with Ellen, she could tell she wasn’t succeeding.

Ellen was struggling to stay engaged with her conversation. She would look at Cindy and then over at the intruders. She would go back to the conversation briefly, and then return to Cindy. Her gaze darted between her distressed friend and the men at the other table.

Shortly after eight, Cindy called for her check. Almost immediately, Blue Eyes tapped his companion on the arm and pointed to Cindy. Baldy turned to look at her, pursed his lips, and nodded. The two men rose and ambled across the room toward the Gal Friday Group.

Ellen threw her napkin down on the table and pushed her chair back. There was fire in her eyes.

Cindy shook her head and mouthed, No.

Ellen froze. With a slight nod of her head, she signaled, What gives?

Cindy grimaced in response. She recognized the men. Blue Eyes was Adan Jackson, a senior account manager at AFFS. This would have to be handled diplomatically.

Ellen relaxed a little and waited. Her hands rested on the edge of the table, ready to push off and spring into action at the slightest hint of trouble. She tracked the approaching men with a fierce stare.

An elderly man sitting behind Cindy had pushed back from his table so that his chair was almost touching Cindy’s. He was reading the Washington Post. He paused to look at Adan and his companion as they walked in his direction. The glance was so subtle that Cindy missed it, and Adan ignored it.

The account manager halted next to Cindy. He looked down with a faint smile. “Cindy, this is Ron Goldsmith, CFO of HamNX. Ron, this is Cindy Foster, the manager of our Tax Services section. She is going to be handling your account.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Foster.” Goldsmith extended his hand. “I look forward to working with you.”

Cindy shook his fleshy, sweaty hand. His limp grip offended her, but she smiled. “We spoke on the phone on Monday. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

Goldsmith surveyed the table and saw five unfriendly faces. He turned back to Cindy. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to interrupt the proceedings. I just wanted to say hello. Maybe we can get together for lunch next time I’m in town.”

“I would like that,” Cindy said. Her smile seemed genuine.

He turned and walked back to his seat. Adan paused to wink at Cindy before following his client back to their table.

She paid for her meal and went to the ladies’ room.

When she came out, Adan was waiting for her. “Didn’t you use to be Cindy Smith?”

She glared but said nothing.

He squinted and bit his lip. “Ah’m trying to remember where we first met.”

“At my wedding reception,” Cindy snapped. “You showed up without an invitation.”

Adan screwed up his face in a doubtful expression. “No.” He shook his head. “Ah’m sure you are the Cindy Smith I dated in college.”

“You have me confused with somebody else.”

He grinned. “You were a year behind me at Georgetown. You were the last good girl Ah dated.”

The way he said “good girl” made her stomach churn. She fought to stay in control, but when she looked into his face—and she could not help looking—she saw that sadistic grin and those predatory eyes. She could feel him on top of her. The metallic smell of testosterone made her itch all over. A scream tried to force its way out.

Cindy choked it back and pushed past him. She charged through the restaurant, past the patrons enjoying an evening out. Cindy caught Ellen’s worried expression out of the corner of her eye but kept going. She did not stop until she reached the ticket kiosks on the second level of the Metro station. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She leaned against one of the boxy machines for some time, sobbing and fighting for control.

 

2

 

Cindy squirmed. She couldn’t sit still. The voice in her head screamed, Go home. Now. She ignored it and turned left off of I-97 onto Race Track Road. A half-mile later, an almost imperceptible bend in the road put her on 11th Street in Bowie. As she continued down the two-lane country road past farms and recently built housing developments, she grew more and more convinced that she had taken a wrong turn.

The road ended abruptly at an intersection. A railroad overpass to her right led to what looked like a shopping area. On her left, a street led south to a housing development. Across the intersection, Cindy saw some old stores, probably constructed before WWII. According to her GPS, she had reached her destination.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, she scanned the buildings from left to right. A leprechaun painted on a large, plate-glass window caught her attention. It identified an ancient building almost hidden by the overpass as the Old Bowie Town Grille.

Cindy rolled toward the restaurant. An SUV, a couple of trucks, and a sporty Lexus sat in a parking lot nestled between the Grille and the overpass. She studied them as she pulled into the lot.

There was no sign of her contact, but she didn’t know what to expect. The woman was supposed to be waiting for her in the parking lot. She considered going back home and calling Ellen. Or calling Ellen and complaining that her detective was a no-show. She settled on the latter and pulled into a parking space at the rear of the lot. She turned her car off and surveyed the parking lot one last time.

Shit! Did I come to the wrong place? Or did that stupid detective blow me off?

She was still sitting in her car, wavering between going back home and calling Ellen when the sound of a car door opening and shutting caught her attention. She looked in her rearview mirror. A woman had emerged from the Lexus and was heading toward Cindy’s Fusion. She was slender, with black hair and Mediterranean features. Not someone who could help with the problem.

Cindy got out of her car and walked across the lot.

The woman extended her hand. “Cindy Foster? I’m Nickey Arnold.”

Cindy shook hands but said nothing.

Nickey smiled. “Why don’t we go inside where we can talk?”

She led the way past the counter and cash register that served as a gateway between the front entrance and the modest dining area. The restaurant had just opened for the day’s business. The lunch crowd had not shown up yet. Nickey found a corner table, where she and Cindy were unlikely to be disturbed. The meeting with the PI had been arranged by Ellen Magee to get Cindy some help after the run-in with Adan Jackson at the Gal Friday get-together a week earlier.

Cindy studied the menu avoiding eye contact. When the waitress came to their table, she ordered the salmon.

Nickey ordered a Chicken Caesar salad. She turned to her companion and broke the awkward silence. “Are you okay? Ellen said the incident at the restaurant was pretty serious.”

Cindy brushed her hair back and licked her lips. “It was upsetting, but I’m okay.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Can you tell me a little about yourself? You work for America First. How long have you been there?”

Cindy’s gaze focused on her folded hands resting on the table. She cleared her throat. “Almost ten years.”

“Was that your first job?”

“Yes. I went to work there right after graduation.” The words came out in a slow monotone.

“You’re married and living in Bowie?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been married?”

Cindy looked up at Nickey and grinned slightly. “We celebrate our first anniversary next month.”

Nickey smiled. “How is married life?”

“Great. Are you married?”

“No.” Nickey sighed. “I don’t think that is ever going to happen.”

“Why not?”

Nickey screwed up her face and shook her head. “I’m not ready to settle down.” She smiled enigmatically. “Marriage isn’t for everyone.”

Cindy’s eyebrows shot up.

Nickey pressed on. “Your husband is Eric? How did you meet him?”

“We met at work. He is the manager of the office computer system.” Cindy smiled. Her eyes looked off to the right. “He’s a hands-on kind of guy who will come around to check on complaints and answer questions.”

“So, one thing led to another, and the two of you got married?”

“Actually, he’s shy,” Cindy replied. “He wouldn’t ask me out. A mutual friend set us up on a double date. She and her husband took us to see Cats at the Lazy Susan Dinner Theater.” Cindy was becoming visibly more comfortable and animated.

“When was that?”

“September 10, 2006.”

“You waited a while to get married,” Nickey observed.

“We lived together for over a year.” Cindy studied her hands. She seemed to be telling her story to the table. “We talked a lot about where we wanted to be in five or ten years. We both wanted a family and a home.” She paused to look up at Nickey. “One night, I decided that I wanted to have children, and soon. Eric said if we were going to bring children into the world, we had to be committed to raising them. That was the end of October 2007. A week later, he proposed, and I said yes.”

When their food arrived, they paused to sample the dishes.

Nickey asked, “How’s the salmon?”

“Pretty good. Very tender, but they might have overdone the lemon. How’s your salad?”

“It’ll keep me alive.” Nickey grinned mischievously. “Chicken salad is not an Irish dish, but it’s an excellent food choice.”

Cindy’s eyebrows arched. “Do you like Irish food?”

Nickey rolled her eyes. “I’m Greek. I love Greek food. But when I was in the Marines, I learned to get by with whatever slop they put in front of me.”

Cindy laughed.

“Can you tell me a little bit about this guy at work?” Nickey asked. She lifted a piece of chicken on her fork. “What’s he doing to bother you?”

Cindy’s smile vanished. “He manages to walk past me once or twice a day and make eye contact.”

Nickey took a sip of her wine. “That’s it? He doesn’t say anything or touch you?”

“No. I am pretty sure that he is trying to see how far he can go without getting into trouble.”

“Have you talked to anybody besides Ellen about him?”

“A couple of my friends.” Cindy shrugged. “They haven’t noticed anything.”

“And his supervisor?” Nickey prompted.

“I can’t go to him. Adan’s a senior account manager, and I don’t have anything concrete.” Cindy lowered her eyes and bit her lip. “But he’s making me uncomfortable.”

“That should be enough to go to management these days.”

Cindy shook her head vigorously. Her voice was choked. “It isn’t. I talked to Ellen. He can go anywhere, any time he wants, and claim he was just doing his job.”

Nickey nodded. She asked in a soft voice, “How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know. Six months.” Tears glistened in Cindy’s eyes.

“Why did you wait so long to do something about it?”

“I expected him to stop,” Cindy snapped. “The way he came on to me at the restaurant was too much. Ellen said you could take care of it.”

Nickey was impassive. “To the best of your knowledge, when did it start?”

“Early last year.”

Nickey put her elbows on the table and clasped her hands with her thumbs touching her lips for a few seconds. Then she asked, “Was there some sort of trigger event that you can identify? Were the two of you in a flirty conversation or something?”

Cindy’s jaw tightened. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “We bumped into each other at a holiday party at the end of 2007.” She shrugged. “But it was nothing. We were just at the same table at the same time getting food. I was there with Eric.”

“This guy thought it was something. Why was he there in the first place?”

“It was a company party. We both work for America First. We work in different departments, so our paths don’t cross.”

But you have been running into each other regularly since that encounter?”

Cindy nodded.

Nickey eyed her suspiciously. “Is there anything else?”

“He crashed my wedding reception.”

“Does Ellen know about that?”

Cindy shook her head. Nickey’s eyes narrowed. Her head tilted back. “And you just forgot to mention it to her because…?”

“I pushed it out of my mind. I didn’t want a scene in front of all those people,” Cindy said in a panicked voice. “Eric doesn’t know anything about what’s going on, and I want to keep it that way.”

Nickey sipped her wine as she studied Cindy. “My fee is two hundred dollars per hour with an upfront retainer of two thousand dollars. If it looks like I am going to need more than fifty hours, we can talk about a deal.”

Cindy’s lip quivered. “Can you get him off of my back?”

“There are no guarantees in a situation like this.”

“So, I just hand you a bunch of money and hope that you do something about that piece of crap?”

Nickey glared at her. When she spoke, her voice was flat, harsh. “Your best bet is to find another job.”

“I am not going to let him run my life,” Cindy shot back. “I just made manager, and I intend to keep moving up the ladder.”

Nickey leaned forward, staring directly into Cindy’s eyes. “Then you had better be prepared to fight.”