Convicted by Aleatha Romig
To further follow up on Claire’s information, Harry searched marriage records for New Jersey. His search came up blank. Thinking of the Rawlings’ somewhere in the South Pacific, he realized that people can go anywhere and get married. The FBI’s databases weren’t restricted by state or country. Utilizing the bureau’s database, Harry tried again. This time, he hit pay dirt—marriage license issued by the state of New York, February 25, 1988, to Nathaniel Rawls and Catherine Marie London.
Harry referred to his timeline—Nathaniel Rawls was convicted on charges of multiple counts of insider trading, misappropriation of funds, price fixing, and securities fraud in 1987 and sentenced to three years in Camp Gabriels, a minimum security prison in upstate New York. Nathaniel’s sentence was reduced to twenty-four months due to prison overcrowding. It made sense that he and Catherine Marie London were married in New York, at the prison where Nathaniel was incarcerated. Harry wondered why Catherine hadn’t kept the name Rawls. Was she hiding from Nathaniel’s crimes as Rawlings had done with his change of name?
The search he’d started on Nathaniel Rawls continued to generate information. The screen of his computer sustained a non-stop scroll listing a plethora of civil suits. Scanning the generalities, most cases named Nathaniel Rawls as defendant and asked for financial restitution. Perhaps that was Catherine’s reasoning, distance herself from the financial ramifications of Nathaniel’s crimes.
Out of curiosity, Harry scrolled the list of plaintiffs. The name Rawls caught his attention. He clicked: Samuel Rawls seeks to void marriage of Nathaniel and Catherine Marie Rawls. Harry’s head spun. The complaint was initially filed with the New York state court in March of 1988. Harry rubbed his temples. Damn—Samuel didn’t waste much time voicing his disapproval of Daddy Dearest’s new wife.
It appeared the complaint met substantial roadblocks until June of 1989—less than a month after Nathaniel’s death, when the case went from summons to disposition in record time. Based on mental incompetence and undue influence, Samuel Rawls’s complaint was granted, and the marriage of Nathaniel and Catherine Marie Rawls was voided by the state of New York.
Harry knew without checking that three months later Samuel and Amanda Rawls were found dead in their rented California bungalow. He also knew that Patrick Chester was the only witness to a commotion the same day at the Rawls’s home. In the initial interrogation, Chester mentioned a woman—Samuel’s sister and a blue Honda. No wonder Amanda Rawls wasn’t anxious to introduce Chester to her step-mother-in-law—her husband had just had the woman’s marriage voided. Wow, and Harry thought his family life was screwed up!
Harry shoved his chair backward and paced about the living room of his condominium. How in the hell did the police in Santa Monica not put these pieces together? The ballistics evidence alone should’ve sent up red flags—damn, flares! A rookie cop should’ve seen that it wasn’t a murder/suicide!
Harry’s questions continued—What did Rawlings do, besides payoff Chester, to cover it all up? Why? Why would he help the woman who killed his parents—unless he was involved in their murder? This may be circumstantial, but it created a connection and a reason why Catherine would want Amanda and Samuel dead. Was there a reason Rawlings would want them dead?
Picking up his phone, Harry called Agent Jackson. After a string of button pushes and requests, his call was finally answered.
“Agent Jackson, this is Agent Baldwin from San Francisco.”
“Baldwin?”
“I believe I have significant information in the Rawlings case.”
“Are you well enough to travel Agent?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“We’ll see you in Boston, tomorrow.”
Harry exhaled. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be there.”
His blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Traveling cross country was a hell-of-a-lot better than sitting in his damn condominium. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to all of this. Harry couldn’t shake the thought that somehow Rawlings was still involved; nevertheless, Catherine London was the reason Claire ran—the person who scared Claire into leaving the country, her family, friends, even at the risk of sullying Rawlings’ reputation and company in the process. Claire wouldn’t have done that if the threat wasn’t real. Now, Rawlings was cooperating with the bureau. How deep did this go? Did Rawlings have information on Sherman Nichols or Nathaniel’s murder? Harry wanted to know what Rawlings had told Agent Jackson.
He’d share his information—then Jackson could share his; quid pro quo.
Gathering his research, Harry made a mental list. He needed to call SAC Williams and let him know he was going to Boston, and since he’d been forbidden to travel, he needed to be sure to emphasize—this trip was at the request of Agent Jackson. While Harry waited for the computer to finish running a backup, he pulled out his phone and sent a text.
“FYI—LEAVING 1ST THING IN THE MORNING—BUSINESS.”
He entered Amber and Liz’s names and hit SEND.
One last computer search—Harry entered Catherine’s current full name—Catherine Marie London. Very little information surfaced, not even a reference to her one time husband or his last name. As he was about to exit the search, something caught his attention:
Executor of Anthony Rawlings estate, effective: September 18, 2013—fourteen days after the disappearance of...
The short article described the efficient and unaffected running of the Rawlings’ estate, due in essence to Ms. London’s ability to oversee day to day operations. It was a small counter article to one about the ramifications of Anthony Rawlings’ disappearance in relation to Rawlings Industries.
Hmmm...maybe Harry should visit Iowa City? Did he want to see Rawlings’ estate—the place Claire lived—was held captive—and returned to? He shrugged—the past was what it was. Closing this case was his number one priority. First, he’d see how things went in Boston; then, he’d consider Iowa—a definite possibility.
His phone vibrated. Looking to the screen, he saw he had two text messages. The first one was from Amber:
“NEW INFORMATION? WHAT? WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”
Harry shook his head and replied.
“LOVE YA SIS. I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I’M BACK.”
The second text message was from Liz:
“TOMORROW MORNING? DOES THAT MEAN YOU’RE STILL IN TOWN TONIGHT? COINCIDENCE, SO AM I!?”
He smiled—they’d been through a lot, but finally, Liz seemed to understand the whole work and personal life separation, and maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand what it meant to have that special someone in his life—someone who supported you, no matter what. Harry replied.
“YOUR PLACE? I’M SICK OF THESE FOUR WALLS!”
Phil was thankful Rawlings had projects for him to research. Sophia Burke continued to be uneventful. Honestly, Phil sensed his assignment would soon be over. Ms. London hadn’t shared her reasoning for his reconnaissance; nevertheless, with the information from Rawlings, it wasn’t difficult to put the pieces of the puzzle together.
Ms. London requested to know Sophia’s habits and schedules. Once she did, she purposely intertwined their lives. Suddenly, Ms. London’s routine included lunch at a deli near the University of Iowa, visits to art galleries in the Quad Cities, and frequenting art museums in Cedar Rapids. At each encounter, the women appeared more at ease.
Phil had no reason to believe Ms. London had revealed her true identity to Sophia. She hadn’t shared it with him either; nonetheless, his job was to help arrange their coincidental meetings.
Although the Rawlings had internet, the jumping through servers, private networks, and shell accounts slowed things down considerably. It was much easier for Phil to do the internet surfing for him. Phil’s current project was Nathaniel Rawls. He knew Rawls’ basic information from Claire’s research, and from Rawlings, he learned Nathaniel was married to Ms. London when he died in prison. Numerous news articles discussed Nathaniel’s demise from natural causes—a heart attack—only
Rawlings admitted he never saw his grandfather as being mentally incompetent. He wanted to know if there was any evidence which aided the court in its decision. To Phil it seemed irrelevant—the man was dead—the marriage was voided. What good would it do now to learn if he were or weren’t off his rocker?
Then, Phil would walk into another gallery, see tin cans glued together with paint splashed over it, and remember—research! Infiltrating the records of a state penitentiary as well as the state and federal court systems was much more fun than deciphering art.
Phil sent his latest findings:
To: ARA
From: PR
Re: Research
Date: November 25, 2013
Nathaniel Rawls medical records are indicative of person with heart condition: history of high blood pressure, high cholesterol, depression, vitamin B12 deficiency, and nicotine addiction. Nathaniel took several high blood pressure medications, a cholesterol medication, and an anti-anxiety medication. According to the records, he smoked a half of a pack of cigarettes a day until he died. I’m not well-versed on medicines, but I can send the list if you want.
Records indicate that Samuel Rawls was listed as medical power of attorney. It doesn’t appear that this changed after Nathaniel and Catherine were married. That’s strange?
There were no specific instances of mental instability listed in the records that I’ve accessed thus far. I will continue to dig as well as access the court’s records for the justification of their verdict.
Surveillance—nothing new, Ms. Burke and Ms. London appear to be becoming friendlier. They have now started to meet for lunch once a week.
PR
Phil reread the email. He couldn’t help but smile at the ARA. It was his secret way of saying Anthony Rawlings Alexander. Having something—anything—private with Claire, made Phil smile. He wondered how she was doing, if she and the baby were well. He didn’t feel right asking, but if Ms. London ended this ridiculous assignment, Phil knew he was taking a long flight back to paradise.
Time passes by so quickly...change happens all around us every day whether we like it or not. Enjoy the moment while you can, one day it will just be another memory.
—Unknown
Days passed. The sun rose bright and yellow in the East and set like a ball of orange fire in the West. As their candidness grew, so did the strength of their bond. The world was present, they could see it or read about it, yet they were separate and safe. Tony’s offer to cooperate with the FBI in exchange for an one year reprieve received Agent Jackson’s approval, as well as whoever needed to sign-off from above. The bureau’s stipulations were clear—Tony must remain outside of the United States—stay in contact with the bureau—and not contact anyone from his past life. There were very few people who knew Anthony Rawlings was actually in a strange state of witness protection/fugitive status. To the world, he was simply—missing.
Agent Jackson promised Tony leniency regarding possible sentencing and preferential treatment regarding the court system as long as he fully cooperated; he agreed. Before Tony would allow the FBI to speak with Claire and receive her assistance, he secured their promise of full immunity. Tony didn’t want any possibility of his wife being charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive. They agreed. During the course of multiple short, untraceable calls, Claire disclosed all she knew first hand and through Tony. When the FBI requested her testimony against Catherine, if the case were to go to court, Claire replied, “There’s nothing that can keep me away from her trial. I want to see her face when she’s sentenced. When she’s in prison—like I was—I want her to remember that I helped put her there!”
They both exposed their cards and revealed all they could—except one. They still had an ace in the hole—they had Phil. His emails came daily, as well as pictures, and an occasional call. He was fully aware of Tony’s deal, Claire’s immunity, and that his communication and assistance was under the FBI’s radar. Their contact could be considered a breach of the FBI agreement.
The newly remarried Rawlings knew their time together was limited. In the grand scheme of life, a year was such a short time. Each day, each hour, they vowed to make better than the one before. Revelations came and discussions ensued. Claire no longer feared that Tony would leave each time he took the boat away from their island. She reasoned that his expeditions were like her walks in his woods during their past life. At that time, she needed time away from the estate; it soothed, healed, and strengthened her. Claire said once that she survived the early times on Tony’s estate because of Catherine. No longer did she feel that way; however, when she reminisced about her walks and her lake, Claire knew those times were invaluable. Tony went to town, explored other islands, snorkeled at nearby reefs, and always returned. He may not have recognized the importance of his excursions, but each time he returned with his eyes soft as suede and a spring in his step—Claire did.
She, on the other hand, had no desire to leave the island. Unless she had an appointment with the doctor, Claire preferred to stay near the house. Being in the southern hemisphere, the hottest time of year was approaching. If Claire didn’t keep her feet elevated, her ankles and feet swelled. The infinity pool allowed her to float and stay cool. Madeline doted on her constantly, encouraging her to eat small meals and get plenty of liquids. Home was Claire’s cocoon. She knew if they stayed there, they’d remain safe.
In her third trimester, sleeping at night had its problems, so often times, daytime activities morphed into napping. She’d be sunbathing or reading, and the next thing she knew, she was waking. The early day was her favorite time for sun before it became too intense. With her iPad at hand, she’d begin each day reading the news from the other side of the world. Sometimes it held her attention, and other times she’d lay the tablet face down and be lulled into a peaceful, dreamless state where her senses filled with the warm sun on her skin, lingering aroma of cologne mixed with her recently applied sunscreen, and the omnipresent roar of the surf.
Claire was in such a state, when without warning, large hands caressed her ankles and moved sensually toward her thighs. No longer was she on the edge of sleep. Her world was reignited as the tips of her lips turned upward and goose bumps materialized.
Opening her resting eyes, behind her sunglasses, and focusing on the handsome face before her, Claire saw her husband’s devilish grin. It was a smirk of lust and pleasure, one which—with only a glance—could melt not only her insides, but her world. His eyes, too, were covered by dark glasses, yet as his smiling lips neared hers and her smile willingly changed to a pucker, she longed for the unseen intensity waiting for her behind that dark glass.
Reaching up, Claire lifted the dark barrier. Tony’s eyes were the windows to his soul. She loved reading his emotions, especially when desire was part of the mix. In response, Tony, slowly and deliberately, removed her sunglasses and their eyes met. There was a moment when she thought to speak, but it was short-lived—so much more could be said without words.
Earlier that morning when Claire woke, Tony was gone. Madeline said he’d gone out on the boat. Now, after only hours apart, Claire realized their reunion would be more than a simple, Hi, how are you today?
It was true, her body had been thoroughly fulfilled and used the night before; nevertheless, it yearned for what was silently being offered. When his full, soft lips engaged hers, the passion of the night before returned with a vengeance. Only moments earlier, her lungs inhaled without instruction, yet as acquiescing moans escaped her lips, breathing required thought. Maybe it wasn’t thought, it was timing. Inhaling needed to occur in unison. If it didn’t, his unrelenting approach would rob her body of the oxygen necessa
With the doors to their suite open to the crystal blue sea, their room was only slightly more private than the lanai; however, it was their room. Madeline and Francis respected their privacy. As Claire’s bathing suit fell to the floor, she realized they’d yet to speak, and still they’d conversed more than some couples did in a lifetime. They’d greeted one another, discussed the pleasantries of the tropical morning, and assessed that each was doing well.
Laying on the soft comforter with her arms above her head, the man she loved gazing down at only her, and the large ceiling fan methodically moving the humid air, Claire’s world was right. Had she planned on her morning taking this turn? No. Was she willing? Without a doubt.
The large talented hands claiming her body also had her soul. While his approach could at times be forceful—it was always gentle. Claire willingly surrendered, as she’d done a thousand times, to the whims and desires of the man above her. With no words, he could manipulate and dominate—move her from a state of sleeping bliss to the throes of erotic desire. Similar to years ago, his dark eyes held the passion and emotion which allowed her world to spin. Because he willed it so, the world was right.