As her unconsciousness flooded with memories, feelings stirred deep inside. Concurrently, her consciousness screamed for her to remember his atrocities, the cruelties which outnumbered the kindnesses. However, her heart ached and argued -- perhaps, his positives could overtake his negatives. After all, doesn’t everyone have a good and a bad side?
This is why I’m not ready to face him. This is why I can’t face anyone right now.
Claire knew her thoughts and feelings were wrong. He’d given her every reason to hate him, seek vengeance, and aid in his destruction. So why was this so hard? She tried to push Tony back into his assigned compartment.
Her thoughts moved to Amber. Instead of crossing Middlefield Road, Claire should be back at the condo talking to her friend. However, after spending so much time alone and years hiding her true emotion with Tony, Claire wasn’t comfortable sharing her feelings.
She couldn’t control the way she felt. Apparently her mask wearing skills were rusty.
Hopefully a walk along the shore will help me sort out my feelings and revive my energy. Then maybe I can face Amber. She deserves that.
*****
Parked near a four story stucco condominium on Forest Avenue, Phillip Roach compiled his information for Mr. Rawlings. Although Claire Nichols hadn’t used the phone with the number he’d determined was hers since she received the calls from Mr. Rawlings, Phil believed this was her place of residence.
In the past twenty-four hours, Phillip learned a lot about Claire Nichols: She’d applied for her birth certificate and social security card – all matters of public record. She opened a bank account with a deposit of $100,000 from an unknown source – not public record.
He also discovered, just yesterday, her account received a life-giving infusion. Phil wasn’t the investing type, but from his scan of the information, Claire Nichols had an impressive investment portfolio. The notable wealth came from a wire transfer. The originator of the transfer was an account in Switzerland. To most people that would be the end of that transaction. Phillips’s sources were not that easily deterred. The monies came from a high-end gems and jewelry broker named Pulvara operating in San Francisco. Phil planned to visit his business Monday.
He gave Ms. Nichols credit. She’d tried to remain under the radar, even using a post office box at the Palo Alto Post Office. It would have worked, except the federal government, as well as the Indiana state government, didn’t accept P.O. Box numbers as an acceptable address to send official documents. Ironically, Ms. Nichols adherence to domestic laws led Phillip Roach to the corner of Forest and Gilman.
Phil wasn’t willing to relay all of this information to Mr. Rawlings. First, he wanted to visit Mr. Pulvara to learn more before he jumped to conclusions on her recent windfall. Second, he wouldn’t divulge the exact address without visual conformation. After all, she could have deceivingly listed a friend’s address. Or perhaps, she paid someone for the use of their mail box. Phil glanced between the large luxurious building and his laptop, as he worked to compile a detailed report. He planned to say he was getting closer to pin-pointing Ms. Nichols’ whereabouts when he saw a petite brown haired woman suddenly visible through a large window on the fourth floor. He strained to see the woman, stories above. Yes, it looked like Claire Nichols.
Reaching for his camera with the telephoto lens, she walked away from the plates of glass, and he lost sight of her. Momentarily questioning his vision, he debated adding her address to the report. Then like a gift from the surveillance gods, Claire Nichols stepped through the front doors of the building.
Wearing a jacket to protect her from the spring wind, the brunette turned toward the northeast. Phil watched her bury her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. The breeze blew back her hair, exposing her face and slender neck. Utilizing the long telephoto lens, he zoomed in on her features. Due to the wonders of technology his camera’s illumination element diffused light, creating the illusion of daytime even in dusk.
Despite the brown hair, Phil’s intuition told him this was the same woman in the photos he’d studied. Without question, the surveillance gods had offered him Claire Nichols. Depressing the button on his camera, multiple photos snapped in seconds. Phil pulled his car out of the concealed parking space and slowly eased his way along Forest Street. He drove ahead of where she seemed to be going.
In his rearview mirror, he watched Claire progress along the sidewalk, only feet from his newly parked car. He snapped her photo. She clearly appeared absorbed in her thoughts. Forcing her into his automobile would be easy, but that wasn’t Mr. Rawlings’ request. Mr. Rawlings wanted information.
An investigator’s job was not to question. Therefore, he would never do so aloud. Yet, internally, Phillip Roach wondered why, if Mr. Rawlings was concerned about the woman who reportedly tried to kill him, he only wanted facts. As Phil observed the attractive lady his instinct told him he hadn’t been hired to keep Mr. Rawlings safe. No, he’d been hired to report the every move of a woman Mr. Rawlings wasn’t willing to emancipate.
As Claire passed, Phil pretended to look down. Once she passed, he eased out of his car, onto the sidewalk and fell into rhythm with her steps.
Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many.
The intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden.
--Phaedrus
Chapter 9
Phillip Roach reread his email:
To: Anthony Rawlings
Date: March 23, 2013
Subject: Claire Nichols