Page 49 of The Love Thief

CHAPTER THIRTY - SIX Ruby Red Slippers

“Girl, you’ve got to tap into your clothing superpower for this meeting,” Mikey pleaded through the speakerphone.

It was great to hear his voice after so long .

Because of the time difference and his crazy schedule, we didn’t have a chance to talk while I was in India.

Standing in front of my closet at Mom’s house in San Diego now, I called him in a panic over what to wear.

“Power shoes. That is what you need.”

“Mikey, you are a lifesaver. Thank you!” As we hung up, I considered my options.

Mikey was right. Power pumps were just the thing to both ground and elevate me.

A few years earlier I had bought a gorgeous pair of cherry-red patent leather heels to wear to important functions.

My fantasy was that the shoes would evoke my inner Wonder Woman, and wearing them would remind me that I am capable of anything and everything.

If I ever needed to channel her, it would be today, as I faced the prosecutor who would decide whether or not to indict me.

I figured since my footwear was a bit edgy, the rest of my outfit should scream conservative, so I chose a simple black pantsuit and a delicate white silk shirt with a Peter Pan collar.

Seated at an interrogation table, I would hopefully appear to be a picture of innocence.

“Holly, dear, you look like a very proper, honest woman,” said Auntie as if reading my mind. I slid into her idling brand-new steel-gray S-class Mercedes. She put her hand on mine and smiled.

“No need to be nervous. I’m certain all will go as planned. I’ve heard the assistant United States attorney, Susan Karson, is a decent woman with a reputation for being sharp and fair,” Auntie said comfortingly as she backed the car out of the driveway.

My outward appearance was deceiving. Internally, I was a roiling mess of dark, anxious thoughts.

Technically, although inadvertently, I now knew I had committed a crime.

They had video footage of me walking through customs carrying stolen art.

How had I never thought to question him about bringing in the art?

My thoughts ranged from practical to absurd as my breathing became ragged and my chest felt tight.

What if they decided that I was “in on it”? What if I’m found guilty?

How much time would I get? What kind of prison would I be in?

Would I have to join a prison gang and get a tattoo?

I pushed these thoughts away as we motored toward my fate. Using the breathing techniques I had learned in India, I consciously chose to calm and center myself. Breathe in for four counts, hold for four counts, and breathe out through my mouth for four counts.

In less than fifteen minutes, we arrived downtown at 880 Front Street, a very drab, unadorned government building.

After parking in a nearby outdoor public lot, we went through security and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

There, we were escorted to a stuffy meeting room with white walls and a stained blue carpet.

I could feel myself fantasizing about how many other people had been interrogated in this room, their lives ripped apart by the truth of their crimes.

Once again, I gave my negative thoughts a shove, trying to visualize the blissful flow of Ma Ganga running through my veins instead. We sat down at an old and well-used conference table that had a projector in the center and pointed at a screen that was next to a whiteboard with markers.

Auntie, acting as my attorney, handed me a bottle of water and mouthed the words “breathe” as the double doors opened.

Agent Jackson held the door for a forty-something woman with auburn hair in a totally cute pixie cut, wearing big, black smart-girl glasses.

She was dressed in a black sheath and black leather pumps.

She looked a bit like a saucy Audrey Hepburn, but her face expressed a seriousness and focus that terrified me.

Agent Jackson gave me a friendly smile as he formally shook my hand and introduced us to Susan Karson, who also firmly shook my hand before placing her briefcase on the table and opening it. She then motioned for us to sit. She and Agent Jackson walked around the table and sat opposite us.

Susan eyed me carefully for a long moment before asking if we were ready to get started. I searched her face for a trace of warmth or empathy but found only a cold stare. I nodded nervously.

Without another word, Susan clicked on an audio recorder. After stating the date and time and naming everyone in the room, she began.

“I’m only interested in getting the truth, Ms. Grant.

Your only job here today is to speak to me honestly.

Not how you wish it had been, but how it actually was.

And I’ll let you in on something: I already know the answers to some of the questions I’m asking.

I’m not asking them to find out what happened.

I’m asking them to find out if you’ll tell me what happened.

If you don’t understand something I ask or aren’t sure what I mean, please ask me to clarify.

This is a very important point, and I don’t want you assuming what I mean.

Now is the time for clarification. Do you have any questions whatsoever? ”

“No, I understand.”

“Good. Let’s begin with your telling us in as much detail as possible the following: how, when, and where you first met Mr. Tavers.

What he told you about how he earns a living.

How you came to accompany him to Budapest. Then describe everything you remember about the art acquisition and the return trip to the U.S.

You can take your time, and please be as specific as possible.

I will try not to interrupt you and may ask for more details when you have finished,” Susan explained.

Palms sweating, I looked down at my hands and began. “It all started on a warm summer night at the gala . . .” and then I stopped and shuddered as I remembered it was exactly one year ago today that we had met, one year to the day since my world had been turned upside down.

Auntie gently placed her hand on my back. I sat up straight and began again. “One year ago today, I catered, which was then the biggest event of my career, at the Tavers estate in the Rancho Santa Fe . . .”

For the next forty minutes, I carefully gave a chronological recounting of my relationship with Barry. Susan occasionally wrote something on her yellow legal pad, but her expression remained neutral.

When I was finished, I took a sip of water and looked at Auntie, who mouthed “Well done!” to me.

Susan asked a dozen or more questions, most of which I thought I had already answered, but I answered again. When she seemed to be out of questions, she smiled for the first time and said, “Please excuse Agent Turner and me for a few minutes.” They got up and walked out of the room.

“Great job, Holly! You were the perfect witness, very believable,” Auntie said. “And, after hearing your story in one sitting, I’m so sorry for all that you have gone through this past year.”

“What happens now?” I asked.

“We’ll find out soon, Honey.”

Auntie’s phone buzzed. She checked it and then furiously began texting someone.

Susan and Agent Jackson walked back into the room a few minutes later. They were smiling and Jackson actually winked at me.

“Holly, I want to thank you for your candor and your cooperation today. I appreciate how difficult and painful this situation has been for you. Having met the defendant, I am aware of his talents as a liar and a con artist. Your ex-fiancé is a real piece of work. I’ve met a lot of shady criminals in my career, but he is among the most cunning and slick.

Your testimony at trial will be a significant contribution to our case,” Susan said with a compassionate, knowing look.

“While we almost never do this during the first interview, I’ve heard enough today to feel confident that you are an innocent victim in this, and therefore we will not be bringing any charges against you.”

I felt like a giant bunch of helium balloons released from my chest. As I inhaled, I could feel my lungs expand deeper and wider while a river of relief coursed through my veins.

For a second, I thought I could hear Ma Ganga whisper a blessing in my ear.

I resisted jumping out of my seat to hug Susan and thank her profusely.

Instead I said, “Thank you for believing me. What happens now?”

“We’ll be in touch as soon as we have a trial date.”

Susan stood up, signaling the end of the meeting, and handed me her card before collecting the audio recorder and snapping her briefcase shut.

Agent Jackson walked us out, praising me for handling my “Queen for a Day” with such grace and poise.

Meanwhile Auntie Geeta was busy texting away. “Holly, I’m so sorry. Something has come up, I’ve gotta go. Can you take an Uber home?” Auntie hectically looked up from her phone.

I gave her a quick hug and told her it wasn’t a problem. “Don’t worry,” Jackson chimed in. “I’ll drive her home.” Auntie busted out the door in a hurry.

Jackson insisted on driving me to Mom’s house before heading back to his office in Sorrento Valley about twenty minutes away.

I asked him if his car, a black Jeep Cherokee, was an official FBI vehicle and he laughed, saying it was a government issue, and mostly for official business.

He glanced at me and grinned, assuring me that, so far, I qualified as official business.

When we pulled into Mom’s driveway, I instantly spotted a gigantic bouquet of roses at the front door.

“Oh shit,” I said under my breath.

“That’s an unexpected reaction to roses. Looks like someone has an admirer,” Jackson said plainly.

“I’ll bet they’re from Barry. Today is the one-year anniversary of our first meeting.”