False Accusations Jacobson, Alan (books successful people read .TXT) 📖

He stretched and started to change into something more comfortable for dinner with his old medical school buddy, Vince.

He had not seen Vince since the last seminar in San Diego, and he missed his company. Still, he dreaded the question Vince never failed to ask: So, Phil, what’s new in your life?

As he unbuttoned his shirt, he noticed that the message light on his room phone was flashing. “Probably Leeza,” he said as he dialed the front desk.

“Yes, Dr. Madison, we do have a message here for you, from your wife,” the attendant said.

“Yeah, what is it?”

The attendant paused. “Well, sir, perhaps you should come down and read it for yourself.”

“That’s okay—I’ve gotta get to dinner. Just read it to me.”

“It may be personal—”

“That’s fine,” Madison said, “just read the message.”

“It came in at ten-fifteen this morning.”

“Yeah, and...”

“And, well, it says, ‘You goddamned lying bastard. I’m moving out. Don’t bother calling.’”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to read it—”

“Please have someone bring it to my room immediately.” He hung up the phone and dialed the house. It was six o’clock; the message came in eight hours ago, meaning that she could be long gone by now. But why? With something so important, why hadn’t she called him on his cell? Because she didn’t want to talk to me.

He sat there, the inane, monotonous ring coming every other second. Voicemail. Leave a message? Yes. “Lee, honey, it’s me. I got a very strange message at the front desk just now, and I don’t know if it’s some kind of sick joke or not, but please call me soon as you get this. I love you.” After trying her cell phone and leaving the same message, he sat down and rubbed his temples. What the hell is this all about?

A knock at the door broke his daydream. The bellman handed him the message; Madison slipped a ten into his palm, never bothering to look at the man, and shut the door. He studied the slip of paper, as if staring at it would suddenly cause new information to appear.

He dialed Leeza’s cell again. Straight to voicemail.

He called Southwest Airlines and booked a seat on their last flight out to Sacramento, which left in one hour. He called a cab, gathered his clothes, called Vince, and told him he had to leave to deal with a family emergency. Then he phoned Hellman and asked him to pick him up at the airport.

As he settled into the taxi, he let his head fall back against the seat. What now?

The flight was agony. He couldn’t get Leeza off his mind, so he obsessed over all the potential scenarios. What if the message was a hoax—he would be coming home and missing the rest of his seminar for nothing. That would be a Brittany Harding tactic. But other than his office staff, no one knew of the seminar, let alone the hotel where he was staying. It was not likely a prank.

Hellman was waiting outside the terminal in his Lexus. Madison tossed his bags into the trunk, explained all that he knew and showed him the crumpled message he had received from the bellman.

Hellman did not know what to make of it either. “Maybe she found out about the settlement, and you weren’t home to explain it.”

“Jeffrey, if that’s it, I’m going to wring your neck. Again, I should’ve told the truth and didn’t, and now it’s come back to haunt me—”

“Hold it, hold it,” he said, waving a hand out in front of the dashboard. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Let’s just wait till we get there.”

Leeza’s van was not in the garage. He opened his front door and everything appeared to be dark. Scalpel came running into the entryway and licked him on the face. Madison walked into the den, looking for a clue of some sort, something to explain what the hell was going on. Leeza usually left notes for him on the desk.

Hellman threw on some lights in the hallway and walked into the kitchen to look around for a message of some sort.

Madison looked down and saw an 8 by 10 photo on his desk. He picked it up. “Jeffrey,” he called, his voice weak and unsteady. “Jeffrey!” he tried again, attempting to muster more force through his choked throat.

He turned the picture over and saw a copy of the settlement check Hellman had sent to Harding’s attorney. “Oh, my God,” was all he could mumble.

“What?” Hellman asked, walking into the room. “What’s the matter?” He must have seen the ashen color of Madison’s face because he sat down next to him. Then his eyes found the copy of the check. “Why do you have—” he started to ask as Madison flipped the picture over in front of it. It was a photo that appeared to depict his client kissing Brittany Harding. “Oh, shit.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at the picture. “Phil, what is this? What are we looking at?”

Madison cleared his throat. “This was taken at the Fifth Street Café. She said she’d been on the phone a lot that day and had some kind of sharp pain in her ear. She wanted me to take a look at it, but when I couldn’t see anything, she moved closer. Somebody must have snapped the picture at that moment. The whole damned thing was orchestrated.”

“Why was she laughing?” Hellman asked, still looking at the picture.

“She said it tickled.” He let loose a stifled grunt. “I wasn’t even touching her.”

“But it looks like—”

“I know what it looks like!” Madison bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “Apparently, so did Leeza.” He continued to stare at the picture. “She’s left me, Jeffrey. She’s taken the kids and left me.” He said it matter-of-factly, like no amount of explaining in the world could reverse it. A done deal. Set in stone. Fact.

“Shit, Phil. I’m sorry.” He shifted in his seat. “How