1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Read online

  His words could be interpreted several ways. Jim Lindsay might simply be saying that a good husband would support his wife by accompanying her to important events. On the other hand, he might be saying that a perceptive husband would realize that if he neglected her, plenty of other men would be eager to take advantage of his neglect.

  She wasn't entirely sure which meaning he had intended, but he clearly expected some kind of an answer.

  She almost made up an excuse for Clint—a sick mother, a horrendous bout of the flu. But no—the fact was that Clint hadn’t attended the company party with her tonight because he hadn’t wanted to.

  “My husband isn’t much for company holiday parties,” she said. “To tell you the truth, he’s hanging out with a few of his college buddies tonight.”

  This admission stung her, even though she had made it voluntarily. Clint had humiliated her tonight. He had made her his second choice. He had let her down.

  Jim stared down into the screen of the still booting laptop and nodded.

  “A smart man wouldn't allow a lady like you to spend too much time alone,” he said.

  Then Jim Lindsay turned and faced her, and leaned over and kissed her, full on the lips. He was a good kisser, and she could immediately taste the antiseptic, minty mouthwash on his lips. So he had planned this, when he went back into the rear of the house to retrieve his computer.

  She hesitated for what might have been five or ten seconds, allowing this man she barely knew to kiss her, hot anger at Clint suddenly welling up inside her. If only he had accompanied her, she wouldn't be here.

  Then she felt one of Jim’s hands move toward her breast, and she grasped the enormity of what she was doing. She was married to Clint; and she had just allowed another man to kiss her.

  “Jim, no,” she said, breaking the kiss and pushing him firmly but gently away. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. But I’m married. I love my husband. We have a son.”

  “To hell with your husband,” Jim said. He leaned toward her, trying to kiss her again, but she covered her mouth with one hand.

  “I think I should leave. We don’t have to look at the org chart.”

  “Come on. Just one kiss. Here—give me your hand. I’ve got a surprise for you.” He attempted to guide her hand into his lap. She flinched backward, making herself small against a corner of the couch.

  “Jim, stop it. I don't want to do this.”

  “You did only a few seconds ago.”

  “No I didn't.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Jim grasped both of her wrists. He was still smiling, but his eyes revealed no levity. Neither did his next question.

  “Do you know what they call a woman who leads a man on and then says no at the last minute? They call a woman like that a tease.”

  She realized that the moment for gentle diplomacy had passed.

  “Jim, if you don’t let go of me, I’m going to start screaming. If you don't let go of me then, I’ll scratch you, bite you, ram my forehead into your face. Whatever it takes. Trust me—it won’t be worth your while. Now let me go.”

  She watched his eyes as he looked down, apparently assessing the situation. If he made the wrong decision, she knew, then tonight could have a very disastrous ending for both of them. It might end in a police station. Or worse.

  “Fine,” he finally said. With that he stood up from the couch. He abruptly leaned over and closed the laptop. “If you don't trust me, then why should I trust you?”

  “It isn’t a matter of trusting you. It’s a matter of me being a married woman, and you practically forcing yourself on me.”

  “Oh, no, no,” he said. “Don't spin it like that: You came here of your own free will. You must have known what I had in mind.”

  His accusation brought to mind some of the high-profile sexual assault and sexual harassment cases of recent decades: former President Bill Clinton and an Arkansas state employee named Paula Jones, Mike Tyson and an 18-year-old beauty pageant winner named Desiree Washington. Kobe Bryant and an anonymous 19-year-old hotel employee.

  Most of these cases were entangled in webs of he-said, she-said uncertainty. When two people are alone behind closed doors, there are only two people who can say, with absolute certainty, whether or not a woman led a man on, or whether a man was merely engaging in wishful thinking about a woman’s intentions. In either case, she believed, no should always mean no.

  If this situation were to become public in any way, opinions would predictably line up in two camps: Most people would see her as a victim; but there would also be those who would say that she had gotten what she asked for tonight.

  All I asked for, she thought indignantly, was to look at the organization chart—which was the only activity that Jim Lindsay had proposed.

  Nevertheless, she had exercised poor judgment in coming here. Some men had a way of interpreting the slightest encouragement as a green light. She should have known better.

  “Jim, there was no reason for me to think that you had any plans other than the ones you explicitly told me.”

  “Jen, we’d been dancing together all night.”

  “That didn't mean anything. I danced with my husband’s brothers at my wedding.”

  “Tonight wasn't your wedding. And your husband couldn't even be bothered to be there.”

  “Let me call a cab,” she said. She started to reach for her cell phone. Then she remembered that she had left it in her purse—which she had left in the front seat of Jim’s Audi.

  “There’s no need for that,” he said. He held up both hands in a hands-off gesture. “Look Jen, I’ll admit that I kind of misread your signals tonight. But I stopped when you asked me to, didn't I? Please don't treat me like I’m some kind of a criminal just because we didn't understand each other. Let me give you a ride home. Didn't you say that your condo is just a few minutes from here? You don't have to call a taxi. That’s silly.”

  She thought for a moment: The distance between Jim’s house and her condo was too far to walk—so going on foot wasn't a realistic option. If she called a cab, she would have to wait for it to arrive—and who knew how long that might take on a Saturday night?

  Maybe it would be best to allow him to give her a ride home, as he said. Ironically, that might be the fastest and easiest way to extricate herself from him.

  Moreover, he did seem to be legitimately penitent. At the very least, he wasn't putting any further moves on her.

  “Okay, Jim. Just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Never mind. Let’s just get going.”

  The ride to the condo took no more than ten minutes. But they seemed like the longest ten minutes of her life.

  “This is good,” she said. She had him stop in the parking lot of the condo, several units away from the one that she and Clint rented.

  “I take it that I’m not going to be invited in to meet the husband,” Jim said.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, that’s probably a good idea. Because if you did, I think I would have to give him a piece of my mind, about the way that he treats you. He should have been with you tonight. Your friend Julie’s husband was certainly there supporting her—”

  She cut him off. “Look Jim. You’re talking about my marriage, my private matters. I don't want to discuss them with you.”

  He sighed audibly. “Have it your way. I do have one final question for you, though.”

  “What?”

  “Do I have to worry about a visit from HR on Monday? Are you going to rush in and file a complaint about me?”

  “And tell them what? Tell them that after spending an entire evening dancing with you, I accompanied you to your house, for the purpose of viewing a confidential corporate document? No, Jim, you don't have to worry. I just want to forget about this. It’s over.”

  13

  But Jennifer’s assessment was wrong: It wasn't over. On Monday morning there was a companywide meeting in the Ohio
Excel Logistics main auditorium. The subject matter had nothing to do with the dangers of accompanying opportunistic men home from the holiday party. The subject matter was the company’s impending reorganization.

  Sitting in the audience next to Julie Davenport, Jennifer watched as an HR rep talked her way through a PowerPoint presentation that explained the new team leader and manager assignments. She groaned softly when she saw that her new team leader would be Angela Bauer—whose reputation among subordinates was uniformly negative.

  But she immediately forgot about Angela when she saw the new manager assigned to her work unit: Jim Lindsay.

  “Hey, isn’t that the guy you were dancing with at the holiday party?” Julie whispered to her. “I guess you aren’t worried about getting along with your new boss, huh?”

  “That’s not funny,” Jennifer whispered in reply. “Not funny at all.”

  I’ve got to quit, she thought. That’s my only option. During her lunch hour that day, she created an account at Monster.com and began perusing the job openings that might be a good match for her experience and qualifications. It would ordinarily be considered risky to do this on the company network—even during lunch—but she didn't care if anyone knew that she was looking. The new team leader and manager assignments would be effective the following Monday. She planned to have at least a dozen job applications in the pipeline by that time.

  But on the day that Jim Lindsay took over as her departmental manager, she was no closer to landing a new job. Jim wasted no time: shortly after 9:00 a.m. on that fateful Monday, he summoned her into his office. She didn't want to go; but she had no choice. He was her boss now—her boss’s boss, in fact.

  “Well, Jen,” he said. He leaned forward with his elbows on his desk blotter, his chin resting contemplatively on his interlaced fingers. “It appears that we meet again. Now, what do you propose that we do about this situation?”

  “I’ll put in for a transfer to another department,” Jennifer said hastily. “Or you can have me transferred. You would be able to do that, right?”

  “No,” Jim replied. “I don't think that’s a good idea. You see, if you request a transfer so soon after this reorganization, HR is going to wonder why. They’re going to start asking questions.”

  “What about if you have me transferred?”

  “It amounts to the same thing.”

  “Well,” she said. “I think that it would be very awkward for us to work together—for me to work under you, after what happened. Don’t you agree?”

  Jim smiled suddenly and sat up straight, then leaned back in his chair. “No. I don’t agree. In fact, I think that the best thing would be for you to stay right where you are, in your current job.” He tilted his head and looked at her in a way that made her feel instantly uncomfortable. “You might even, given enough time, reconsider your earlier…position. I haven’t forgotten that your husband let you down that night. And I’d be willing to bet that you haven’t, either.”

  This made her remember the night of the holiday party, and what had happened after Jim dropped her off at the condo: She had found Clint at home, tipsy after a night with his friends. She laid into him almost immediately, telling him how neglected—and even embarrassed—he had made her feel.

  To her surprise, Clint had turned immediately repentant. “Jeez, Jen, I didn't know it was that important to you. I didn't think you really cared, one way or the other.”

  They argued back and forth for a while, but in the end, Clint agreed never to neglect an important evening with her for a night with his friends. He had also promised to start spending less time with his old college crowd. “That old bunch of guys is getting a bit long in the tooth anyway,” he’d said.

  But there was no way she was going to disclose her private marital discussions to Jim Lindsay. He knew too much already.

  “Jim,” she said. “I thought I made myself clear about that. I thought we had an understanding.” Then, she decided that it was necessary, at this point, to fire a shot across the proverbial bow. “If you behave unprofessionally toward me, I’ll report you to human resources. I don't want to do that. But I will if I have to.”

  Jim chuckled, and this reaction frankly surprised her. At Ohio Excel Logistics—as at any twenty-first century organization—a threat to appeal to human resources was not to be taken lightly. The company conducted semiannual sexual harassment awareness training. There was an established procedure for reporting sexual harassment; and several employees had been fired over the issue since Jennifer had joined the company.

  “You’re not going to go to HR,” Jim said finally.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  He rolled his chair back a few inches and removed an iPhone from his front top desk drawer. He fiddled with the phone’s menu screen for a moment. Then he placed the phone face-up on the desk and slid it over to her.

  What she saw on the phone’s screen was a brief video clip of Jim Lindsay and her on his living room couch. In the video, Jim leaned over and kissed her. She appeared to allow the kiss—maybe even welcome it. At the very least, she gave the appearance of acquiescing.

  The video lasted for only twelve seconds. Jim had edited out the part that immediately followed, in which she pushed him away. Presented in this carefully edited context, the kiss that Jim had more or less forced on her looked like the prelude to something far more intimate.

  When she looked up from the phone, she was trembling.

  “I can’t believe you did this—you bastard. You were filming us. You had some kind of a hidden camera going.”

  “Watch your mouth,” he snapped. “I’ll remind you that I’m now your manager. I’ll let that little insult pass, given that you’re obviously upset about this.”

  “You’re damn right, I’m upset. How could I possibly work for you, after—”

  “That wasn't a work matter. That happened on a weekend, I’ll remind you, when you voluntarily accompanied me to my house.”

  “It wasn't voluntary!” she shot back.

  “Oh? I don't recall taking you at gunpoint. What I recall is that you freely accepted a ride home with me, and you freely entered my house.”

  “Maybe—but—” she pointed to the screen of the iPhone, where the film clip of her and Jim had now stopped, waiting for anyone to hit the replay button. “That certainly wasn't voluntary. That wasn't my idea!”

  “Hmm. I wonder what Clint would have to say about that? Let’s look at this situation from his perspective, shall we? Suppose that he’s shown a film clip of his wife at another man’s house, obviously there of her own free will and absent any coercion. Then he sees another man kiss his wife, and she doesn't appear to put up any sort of a fuss. Now, what conclusions do you think that Clint is going to draw? I know which conclusions I would draw, if you were my wife.”

  She now saw, with cold clarity, the game that he was playing, and how utterly trapped she was. He could not stop her from reporting him to HR; but if she did, Clint would receive a CD in the mail at Glutz Machinery, or maybe tucked inside an envelope and placed underneath the windshield of his car. For that matter, Jim could simply email the video clip to Clint—he could ruin her life anytime he chose, from the keyboard of his computer.

  “Now listen to me,” he said. “And listen good.”

  Jim then proceeded to tell her his rules: She was to stay in her present position at Ohio Excel Logistics. She was not to apply for an internal transfer, nor leave the company. She was not to speak to anyone in human resources.

  If she violated any of these rules, then Jim (as he put it) would have no choice but to exercise his “nuclear option”. Clint would receive a CD or an email containing the incriminating video clip.

  While Jim spoke, she sat there speechless, still not fully believing that she had been so foolish and so gullible, that her adversary had been so cunning and had planned so thoroughly.

  “I suppose you’re wondering,” he said, “what you can do to erase all of this—to convinc
e me to destroy that video clip. Well, there’s only one thing, and you’re lucky that I don't simply demand it outright: I told you that I didn't appreciate being teased. There is only one way you can make up for that: You come through on your end, and I’ll destroy this video clip, as well as all the copies I’ve made.

  “Anyway. If you’re in here much longer, people are going to start jumping to conclusions. I think we’ve more or less covered everything that we need to cover for now. I suggest that you go back to your desk. You might have heard that your new team leader, Angela Bauer, has a reputation for being something of a taskmaster. I certainly wouldn't want to work for her. But I’m sure you’ll understand that I won’t be able to take your side against her; so you need to do your best to make her happy.”

  She left Jim’s office in a daze, realizing that her life had now been completely changed. Previously, her life had always been hers. Of course, Clint, Connor, and her parents had claims on her, but these were obligations she accepted in a spirit of love, of her own free will.

  But now Jim Lindsay had a claim on her as well—his own private little lien.

  Thus began the first period in Jennifer’s life in which she knew true anxiety, and the misery that such anxiety ultimately brings. There were still happy moments, of course; but those happy moments were always overshadowed by the question: Will this be the day that Jim decides to play his trump card, either for sheer meanness, or because I won’t sleep with him?

  On the latter point, Jim continued to exert a patient but craftily applied pressure. He never laid a hand on her at work—he was much too smart to fall into that trap. He never sent an inappropriate email, or even said anything inappropriate that could be overheard by others. Even when he summoned her to his office, he spoke in code, using a symbolic language that only the two of them could completely comprehend.

  “You play square with me, and I’ll play square with you. I would be so happy to get rid of that thing that most bothers you Jen, that thing that I know must be keeping you awake at night. All you have to do is come through on your end—and I’ll come through on mine.”