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  Chrissy sighed. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  “But you’re right about my clientele. For me, it’s a woman’s world out there.”

  He cocked his head and stared at her. “Chrissy, you and I go back to sandlot baseball, way before we were women or men. We’ve been friends for most of our lives. Right now, I don’t need a lawyer. I need a friend.”

  Chrissy flashed her toothy smile. “Done.”

  They clinked glasses.

  “So as a friend,” he began, “who also works as a woman’s advocate in legal matters, what’s in store for me?”

  Her toothy smile disappeared, and she sipped her drink. Clearly, she was turning the matter over in her mind. She put down her empty glass. “Nicole’s not working, right?”

  He nodded his head in agreement.

  “And the kids will want to stay with her?”

  Rob snorted.

  “Now,” she paused, pondered, and then continued. “I’m assuming there will be a divorce.”

  Rob nodded.

  "Well then, the best you could hope for is that you'll lose everything. The worst and most likely scenario is you'll lose everything and be tapped for mega-alimony till death do you part. As an attorney, that’s what I’d go for.”

  Rob exhaled and massaged the back of his neck. “And when I lose my job? Can I get some relief?”

  “Won’t matter. The court will assume you can find another. They’ll simply attach your wages.”

  “But she’s worth millions.”

  “Any good attorney can hide that.”

  He chuckled the chuckle of gallows humor. “So let’s see, I lose my job, everything I own, my kids – but no worries there – and my worthless cheating wife. And then she’ll claim she needs financial support to maintain a roof over the heads of her and the girls. Did I miss anything?”

  “No.”

  He held up his empty beer glass. “I think I need another. You too?”

  Chrissy shook her head no. Cautiously, surreptitiously, she scanned the immediate area to make sure they were out of earshot, and then she leaned close to Rob and whispered, “There is another way.”

  7

  First Steps

  For Rob Santos, the next few days passed in a zombie-like state, staying quiet, trying to be invisible. On Friday afternoon, all that changed.

  He walked up the three flights of stairs of the Patrick Professional Building at 919 Newbury Street and entered the office with Executives Helping Executives stenciled on the glass doors. Chrissy had set up this meeting.

  Rob walked in.

  A man wearing a black knit sweater sat behind a modest oak desk. He looked up and smiled. “Right on time. You must be Roberto.”

  Rob crossed the room, and the two men shook hands. "Yes, and it’s Rob.”

  “Well then, welcome, Rob. I’m Paul Grable. Please, take a seat.”

  Both men sat down.

  Grable said, “I operate a discreet service for distressed or troubled executives. And oh, where are my manners. Coffee? Water?”

  “Water, please.”

  Paul stood up, stretched his back like one who has a grumpy muscle or disc and grabbed two bottles of water from a nearby cooler. He was tall and thin, with black hair and bushy eyebrows, and wore corduroy pants that looked a size too big. Rob figured his age at mid –fifty. He tossed the bottle to Rob, smiled, and then took his seat.

  “As you can see, we’re rather informal up here. Actually, we just moved in from across the street and haven’t fully settled in yet.”

  Rob scanned the office. Big windows allowed plenty of sunlight to stream in. A high, white ceiling with tin, patterned tiles. And as Paul said, the walls were bare, and moving boxes were still stacked in the corners.

  Paul watched Rob look around. “Yeah, we just got our name painted on the door this morning. My partner’s out buying furniture as we speak. I hope he’s successful. This place echoes with emptiness. So,” he paused, and the smile faded. “Let’s get to it. What can I do for you?”

  Rob scratched his chin, and mumbled, “Where to begin, where to begin.”

  Paul put his feet up on his desk but said nothing.

  Rob took a sip of water. "Up until a couple of days ago, I was on top of the world. Or at least I thought I was. Clearly, I was oblivious to issues all around me. Maybe I simply chose not to see them. I don’t know. But then, BOOM. Everything went to hell.”

  “Okay,” Paul nodded. “Can you describe what you mean by boom?”

  Rob talked for about fifteen minutes, going over the events of that very dark day. When he finished, Paul shook his head.

  “I see what you mean by boom. Now, let me ask a couple of tough questions. Drugs? Booze?”

  Rob shook his head no.

  “Thoughts of suicide?”

  “Nope.”

  Paul cocked his head. “Need a referral to a counselor? A legal beagle?”

  “Nope.”

  Paul opened his hands. “Okay, so how can I help you?”

  Rob leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “My friend who referred you thought you might be able to offer some other services.”

  Paul frowned again, wrinkles appearing on his brow. He put his hands behind his head. "We mostly deal with substance abuse and fixing up clients with psychologists or marriage counselors or divorce lawyers. We are not in the business of anything illegal.”

  “I know.”

  “So, what other services were you thinking of?”

  Rob stood and walked over to the window, staring down at the traffic on Newbury Street. He took a deep breath. “I’ve decided to go away. You know, disappear.” In the silence, he turned, “Start a new life.”

  Paul breathed a sigh of relief and sat quietly for a moment. “I believe you are alluding to some kind of relocation plan like the law enforcement folks use for witness informant protection. Correct?”

  Rob nodded his head in agreement.

  Paul leaned on his desk, folding his hands. "We don't offer that sort of service. We're not in that business. I'm very sorry because you must be in a lot of pain to consider such a course of action."

  Rob nodded. “It’s okay. Worth a try, you know what I mean?”

  Paul stood. “I do.”

  Rob walked over, and the men shook hands. Paul said, “I wish you luck. It sounds like you could use some. And by the way,” he paused again, looking Rob in the eyes, “Why don’t you leave me your private phone number, just in case you think of something that we may be able to help you with. This way, instead of playing phone tag in an unfriendly situation at home, we could contact you directly.”

  Rob jotted down his mobile phone number on the back of one of his business cards and handed it to Paul. The men shook hands again and Rob left.

  Just as he stepped out on the sidewalk and began buttoning his coat, his phone rang.

  8

  Houdini

  “Hello?”

  “I understand you might be interested in a change of life.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Walk to the end of Newbury Street, cross to the Public Gardens, and join me on the fourth park bench on the left. You have ten minutes starting right now.”

  Rob stared at his phone which had gone silent, then searched the faces of each passerby. No one seemed to take any notice of him. In an instant, he made up his mind.

  January in Boston is often bitter cold with an icy wind blowing in off the ocean. Once in a while, the wind stops and the sun emerges from behind the omnipresent gray cloud cover. When that happens, it isn't exactly balmy, but it is almost pleasant. That particular day in January was one of those days.

  Rob joined the shoppers, joggers, and dog-walkers and made his way across Tremont Street and into the Public Gardens. A balding man with glasses, neck wrapped in a black silk scarf, wearing an elegant full-length camel hair coat sat on the fourth park bench on the right – r
eading the Wall Street Journal, a leather briefcase at his side.

  Rob sat down on the bench.

  Without looking away from the newspaper, the man asked, “Do you invest in stocks?”

  Rob shrugged. “Some.”

  “IPOs?”

  Rob unbuttoned his coat. The sun was warm. “A few.”

  “The problem with IPOs is the buyer never really knows what he’s getting. It could look like a profitable investment but instead, turn out to be a costly drain on his finances and, in general, a complete waste of time.”

  Rob pursed his lips, trying to figure out where this was going.

  The man turned a page, adjusted his glasses and kept reading. After a minute or so, he stated, “Fantasies. They are free, legal, and generally harm no one. Most men fantasize about women – at least until they reach my age – and then they shift their dreams to power or fame or wealth. My personal favorite is to play on the PGA tour. Do you know what separates the average scratch golfer from playing on the tour? It’s the ability to consistently shoot 69 as opposed to a 72. That’s it, just three strokes in eighteen holes. If I could knock just three strokes off my game, I could be there." He folded his paper, closed his eyes, and turned his face to the sun. “But alas, going from 72 to 69 is as difficult as going from 100 to 80. It will remain a dream.”

  Rob stood and counted the park benches again, making sure he was seated on number four.

  Without opening his eyes, the man said, “Take you for instance. You dream of flying away like geese heading south for winter. There’s no harm in that. There’s no law against dreaming. Correct?” He opened his eyes and stared at Rob. “Why don’t you sit back down?”

  Rob hesitated a moment, then did so.

  The man opened his briefcase and withdrew a device that resembled an oversized pot-holder mitten. "Just like IPO's, people are often not what they appear to be. Again, using you as an example, your appearance and attire suggest a wealthy, handsome, well-adjusted businessman. You seem to be the total package. But - if my information is correct - beneath that fine exterior, here sits Roberto Santos, wracked with pain resulting from a wife who has taken her affections elsewhere, a job that is about to slam shut like a bear trap, and a home situation that has all the comfort of a snake pit. You are certainly not what you appear to be." The man shifted in his seat, turning to face Rob. "But there could be another layer to you. Beneath your GQ façade, you could be an undercover agent working for any number of agencies: the FBI, IRS, a life insurance firm, the lawyer of an abandoned wife…" He waved his hand dismissively. "If you, in fact, are an undercover investigator, our conversation will merely be about IPOs and the PGA tour. After all, there's nothing illegal about that."

  Rob open then closed his mouth. Paused, then asked, “Who are you?”

  The man shrugged. “A businessman.”

  The two men stared at each other. Finally, Rob stammered, “But I’m not…”

  The man held up the mitten. “Then you won’t mind slipping your hand into this. It won’t hurt. This device will simply take your fingerprints. It takes about two minutes. And while you are doing that, you will provide me with a few other facts that I would need to determine who you really are. Okay?”

  Alarm bells went off in Rob’s head. “Facts? What sort of facts? You’re not asking for my Social Security number, are you?”

  The man shrugged. “You are indeed taking a chance, providing me with personal information. If you would prefer not to…” He shrugged again.

  Rob hesitated, and then muttered, “What the hell.” He slid his hand into the device which immediately swelled like a blood pressure cuff. The man took out a tablet and began asking questions, tapping in the answers. Two minutes later, the device deflated. The man put away his tablet, the mitten, and stood. “What a day! Enjoy it while it lasts. It’s supposed to snow next week.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Rob said. “How are you going to verify who I am? I thought you’d need my Social Security number, bank account numbers or investment information.”

  The man casually scanned the sky, then smiled and looked at Rob. "I have everything I need." He adjusted his coat and turned.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  Without a word or even a nod, the man walked away.

  Walking back to the office, Rob mulled over the strange meeting. If what this man said was true, he was now armed with all the personal information Rob had just willingly handed over, that man – whoever he was – could be emptying out his savings account and raising all sorts of hell.

  Rob had just reached the door to his office when his mobile phone rang. He answered.

  "Sunday morning at eight A.M," the voice said. "The Westford Regency Health Club on Route 110 in Westford. The swimming pool is closed for renovation, but the hot tub is working. At the door to the pool room, enter an access code of three-fifty-seven. Do not be late." That was it. Rob replayed the message, hit save, and then entered his office building.

  9

  Hot Tub Talk

  As per the instructions, at precisely eight A.M. on Sunday morning, Rob punched in the access code of three-five-seven and pushed open the door. The dimly lit pool room was vacant and smelled of curing concrete, but on the other side, the glow from underwater hot tub lights illuminated the swirls of rising steam. Barely discernible in the vapor, the head of a balding man appeared to be floating in the cauldron of hot water. Rob skirted the edge of the empty pool and walked over, with every step thinking, I must be out of my mind.

  The man, eyes closed, said, “Right on time. I appreciate punctuality.”

  “Strange place for us to be meeting,” Rob replied, taking in the tools and buckets scattered around the room. “And by the way, what’s your name?”

  The man opened his eyes. “Call me Houdini.”

  “Houdini? Like the magician?”

  “The same.”

  Rob nodded. "Okay, Houdini. What's up?"

  “Take off all your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “Please, don’t waste time. I’m only good for about a half hour in this heat, and then I have to get out. And when I get out, the meeting’s over.”

  Rob started to argue but then mumbled, “I’ve gone this far…” He stripped. Plus, the hot water looked inviting after the frigid drive from his home in Carlisle, the next town over.

  Just as he was about to step into the tub, Houdini said, “Turn around.”

  “What?”

  “Turn all around. I need to check for wires.”

  “Oh come on!”

  Houdini stared at Rob, his eyeglasses fogging. After a pause, Rob did as he was told. "There. Better?"

  “Thank you. Come on in. The water is soothing.”

  Rob nestled down into the bubbles. The guy was right. It was soothing. “I’ve never held a meeting in a hot tub before.”

  Houdini took a sip from a bottle of water. “Bubbling water is a perfect cloak. Sound cannot be recorded in this environment.” He held up a second bottle of water, and then tossed it to Rob. “Drink this. Otherwise, you will dehydrate. Now, let’s get right to it. Basically, you are fucked. Your wife will most assuredly divorce you the minute you get fired, which will likely be at the end of the second quarter.”

  Rob chuckled. Manuela was correct.

  “And you will lose the house, your family, and everything you own. Plus, you will likely pay about a third of your gross income for child support, at least until your children graduate from college. I'm not sure about alimony because your wife is independently wealthy, but you never know in this litigation-happy state. That means you have about five months before your execution. I concur with your decision to disappear, that is, if you still want to go through with this. Yes?”

  Rob thought about the recent discussions and confrontations with his wife and daughters. The memory of them made his stomach churn. “Yes.”

  As Houdini removed his fogged glasses and wiped them on a towel, Rob studied th
e man. What sort of man can make someone disappear? How does one get into that business? Was he a spy? A cop? Surely, this is a skill that requires years of experience…but in what?

  Houdini replaced his glasses. "Okay. Here's how things stand. As you know, your wife Nicole is the sole recipient of a fifty-five million dollar trust fund from her late father. You and she share the usual joint checking and savings accounts. You have about half a million in your 401K. You jointly own your three million dollar house in Carlisle and have two cars, your Volvo and her BMW, which are free and clear. And the office carries a term life insurance policy on you equal to twice your annual salary. Correct so far?"

  Rob choked on his water. “How the hell do you know all that?”

  Houdini furrowed his brow and adjusted his glasses, which were fogging again. “My talents lie in many fields. If I didn’t do my homework, how could I ever earn my fee?”

  “Hacking?”

  Houdini shrugged. “Some call it that. I prefer to refer to it as investigative research.”

  “And you bring up a good point. What is your fee?”

  “One million dollars.”

  Rob chuckled. “Meeting over. Clearly, you know all about my finances. Do you see a spare million kicking around in there?”

  “Actually, yes. There is at least four million at your disposal. Maybe five.”

  “WHAT?”

  Houdini smiled slightly. “When your father-in-law passed away, he left your wife his sixty-foot Viking tuna fishing boat, with the flying bridge and all the toys. It is currently in winter storage, shrink-wrapped in the care of the Oyster Harbors Yacht Club. Correct?”

  Rob opened his mouth then shut it again.

  “And,” Houdini continued, “It was not used at all last year and only twice since it came into your possession.”

  Rob said, “Nicole hates it. She gets seasick in a bathtub.”

  “So she wouldn’t miss it?”

  Rob shook his head. “She’s probably forgotten all about it. In fact, I’m quite sure because… Hey, wait a minute, how do you know about the boat?”