Hide in Plain Sight

By Alan Annand

Alex Carson is in mid-life freefall. He owes a quarter million in back taxes, his bipolar wife Connie keeps going off her meds, and his dog’s just died. When his estranged twin brother Dave, a multi-millionaire with a disease that’s reduced him to crutches, invites him for a weekend visit, Alex is so eager to escape his own reality that he accepts, even though his wife decides at the last minute to tag along.

Over drinks that evening, Dave tells them he suspects his wife Kristina of having an affair. Uninterested in Dave’s marital problems, Connie seeks sympathy for Alex’s tax debt and asks for a loan, which Dave refuses. In a fit of anger, Connie knocks Dave down a flight of stairs and accidentally kills him.

Given their motive and opportunity, Alex and Connie fear a murder charge if they inform the police, so he decides to take Dave’s place long enough for her to return home and establish an alibi. In a few days, he’ll engineer Dave’s “death” all over again, and escape to rejoin her. Although she suspects he just wants to sleep with Dave’s wife Kristina, she’s forced to go along with the plan.

It’s supposed to be simple but it gets very complicated. Kristina is drop-dead gorgeous, and lying next to her at night gives Alex a libidinous fever. Ironically, when it also comes to light that Dave appears to have been having an affair with their hot-blooded domestic, Alex finds himself trapped in a ménage-a-trois from hell.

And now someone is trying to kill him...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Annand
• Release date: May 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9780986920660

Alan Annand

ALAN ANNAND is a writer of crime fiction, offering an intriguing blend of mystery, suspense, thriller and occult genres. When he’s not dreaming up ingenious ways to kill people and thrill readers, he occasionally finds therapy in writing humor, short stories and faux book reviews.Before becoming a full-time writer and astrologer, he worked as a technical writer for the railway industry, a corporate writer for private and public sectors, a human resources manager and an underground surveyor.Currently, he divides his time between writing in the AM, astrology in the PM, and meditation on the OM. For those who care, he’s an Aries with a dash of Scorpio.ALAN ANNAND:- Writer of mystery suspense novels, and astrology books- Astrologer/palmist, trained in Western/Vedic astrology.- Amateur musician, agent provocateur and infomaniac.Websites:- Writing: www.sextile.com- Astrology: www.navamsa.comFiction available at online retailers:- Al-Quebeca (police procedural mystery thriller)- Antenna Syndrome (hard-boiled sci-fi mystery thriller)- Felonious Monk (New Age Noir mystery thriller #2)- Harm’s Way (hard-boiled mystery thriller)- Hide in Plain Sight (psychological mystery suspense)- Scorpio Rising (New Age Noir mystery thriller #1)- Soma County (New Age Noir mystery thriller #3)- Specimen and Other Stories (short fiction)Non-fiction available at online retailers:- The Draconic Bowl (western astrology reference)- Kala Sarpa (Vedic astrology reference)- Mutual Reception (western astrology reference)- Parivartana Yoga (Vedic astrology reference)- Stellar Astrology Vol.1 (essays in Vedic astrology)- Stellar Astrology Vol.2 (essays in Vedic astrology)Education:- BA, English Lit- BSc, Math & Physics- Diploma, British Faculty of Astrological Studies- Diploma, American College of Vedic Astrology

Book preview

Chapter 1

Friday morning, I got up late again, having lain in bed for an hour with a lingering sense of unease for which there seemed to be no antidote. This was getting to be a bad habit. Maybe it happened to everyone who wound up with more money than they needed, but I didn’t like what it was doing to me. Almost every night I woke up around three o’clock, feeling like an impostor, and it took hours to fall asleep again. But this wasn’t the first time I’d played a role, I reminded myself, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasted. On the days when I wasn’t trying to forget the past, I was sometimes quite nostalgic for it.

I pulled on a pair of swim trunks, went barefoot to the kitchen and poured myself a coffee. I stepped out onto the patio. Mid-morning and it was already a scorcher, the air as humid as a greenhouse. At the far end of the back yard my wife Connie was on her hands and knees, mucking about with some flowers at the border of our one-acre property.

A copy of The Toronto Star lay on the patio table. I sat in the shade of the umbrella and browsed the paper. For a period, three to six months ago, I’d been afraid to look at the newspapers, fearing some nasty revelation, but that had all since faded away like a dimly-recalled nightmare, and Connie and I were still living the good life. So far, so good, but I could never quite shake the feeling that it was like living in one of those Malibu beach houses, clinging to the edge of the continent, waiting for shoreline erosion or the next earthquake to bring it all tumbling down.

Connie came in from the garden, tossed her tools and gloves into a small wheelbarrow, and stripped to the buff. For a moment, standing there in only her sunglasses, her softly heaving breasts all dewy with gardening perspiration, she looked like something, say, Urban Garden Nymph, out of a Helmut Newton exhibit. She took off her sunglasses and stooped to give me a kiss.

Skinny dip, darling?

Not right now.

She arced into the pool with a whoop and a splash, and disappeared into the deep end. I skimmed the newspaper, found nothing that threatened our existence, and went back inside to make myself some breakfast. While I was slathering some cream cheese onto rye toast, Connie passed through, toweling her hair, and said, I’m going shopping. Need anything?

A clean conscience, I thought, but all I said was, I’m fine, thanks. I returned to the patio and resumed reading the newspaper.

Connie came out of the house half an hour later, her moist auburn hair half-blown into a semblance of casual disarray, wearing a sleeveless yellow summer dress that showed her figure to advantage. If she weren’t my wife, I’d have probably found her absolutely irresistible. As it was, however, I regarded her more like a sister with whom I shared a deep dark secret, the like of which no constitutional amendment had been designed to protect.

I’m off. Like royalty, she offered her cheek for my kiss, wary of smudging her lipstick on my mustache.

Bye.

After awhile the newspaper drooped in my hands and I must have dozed in the heat, until I awoke thinking I’d heard the doorbell. I listened but heard no repetition. Maybe it was just my imagination, one of those sounds half-heard in that twilight zone between waking and sleeping.

I tossed the newspaper aside, removed my glasses and dove into the pool. Down into the deep end I went, where the water was a cool mint green, and there was nothing to hear but the beat of my own pulse. I expelled a string of bubbles from my lips, and sank slowly to the bottom of the pool. Once upon a time, during the years when I used to do yoga, I’d been capable of holding my breath for almost two minutes. Nowadays, aside from holding my breath every time I saw a policeman, the ability was long gone.

I thrust off from the bottom and broke the surface to gulp for air. I kicked onto my back and slowly circled the pool, feeling the sun hot on my face. As I returned to the shallow end, I rolled over and swam in a leisurely side-stroke toward the twin chrome arcs of the ladder. As I glanced up, however, I was startled to see someone standing there.

At first I thought it was Connie, but saw almost immediately that the clothes were different – a red blouse and black slacks. Although I was extremely near-sighted, literally handicapped without my glasses, I could at least see that this was a robust brunette with shoulder-length hair.

Can I help you? I looked up at her, shielding my eyes against the sun, which formed a kind of corona around her head, making it impossible for me to make out her face.

She said nothing, just stood there looking down on me.

Do I know you? I said.

She shook her head and made a ‘tsk-tsk’ sound.

I didn’t know what that meant, but it made me feel uncomfortable, like a schoolboy caught by the teacher with a copy of Playboy in his desk.

I grabbed the rails of the poolside ladder and began to haul myself out of the water. With a movement as smooth as if it had been practiced, she pulled off one of her shoes and, using its heel like the head of a hammer, gave one of my hands a quick, sharp smack.

I fell back into the pool. When I stood up again, sputtering more from indignation than hurt, I felt the back of my hand to confirm she hadn’t broken anything. Are you crazy? I yelled up at her.

She put her hand inside her purse and for a moment I was afraid she was going to take out a gun. Instead, she pulled out a piece of paper, which she handed down to me.

I unfolded the paper and peered at two photos, probably printouts from a digital camera. The images I recognized were sufficiently clear – in every respect – to suck the breath out of me. I suddenly felt uncomfortably hot, like a lobster introduced to a boiling pot. If it weren’t for the depth of the water, I’d have sunk to my knees right then and there and begged for mercy.

Playing it dumb right to the end, however, I looked up at her and said, I don’t get it. What is this?

Proof, she said.

Of what?

That you need glasses.

Everybody knows that.

Not just any glasses. These glasses.

I looked at the pictures again. I knew just what she meant. No need to mention the police. My fate was clearly in her hands.

EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER – DECEMBER

Chapter 2

It was a busy Thursday at the office and I was grateful for something to keep my mind occupied. The veterinarian practice that I owned employed one other vet, two other fulltime staff, and three part-timers. In between patients, I went into the reception area and poured myself a cup of coffee. Behind the counter, my receptionist Karen was on the phone, booking an appointment. At the adjacent desk, one of my part-timers was filling out a requisition form to re-stock medicines and organic pet food.

It wasn’t the dream job of a lifetime, certainly nothing glamorous, and although the income was pretty good, it wasn’t like I was getting obscenely wealthy or anything. What mattered was that it made me feel good to be helping animals. Ironically, I was also helping people, some of them in ways I hadn’t even been aware of.

After a glance at today’s appointment schedule, I walked into the waiting room where two clients in winter coats and boots sat waiting, one with a dog, one with a cat.

Okay, Mrs. Field, come on in and we’ll have a look at Rodney.

Mrs. Field, a widow in her seventies, was one of my longstanding clients. Rodney, an overweight Labrador, followed us into one of the examining rooms.

It was a bit on the Spartan side, just a very small desk, an examination table, and a couple of chairs on a tiled floor. On the white walls were two large pictures – The Illustrated Dog and The Illustrated Cat – whose detailed pictures revealed inner organs and skeletons.

I had a quick glance through Rodney’s file. What seems to be the problem?

He whimpers terribly every time he rolls over, Mrs. Field said.

Let’s have a look. I crouched in front of Rodney, felt his head, neck, shoulders, and ribs. He growled. Something hurts there, does it? I angled my head to have a closer look and fingered a swelling directly behind his front leg. He yelped.

Oh dear! Mrs. Field said. "What’s the matter with him?

He has a cyst behind his leg. I’ll need to lance it and give him an antibiotic.

A cyst! Then it’s a good thing I came, even though the taxi cost me a fortune.

Well, if you’d just step back out into the waiting room, I’ll take care of this in a matter of minutes.

I closed the door behind her, slipped a muzzle onto Rodney and lifted him onto the examination table. After tethering him, I shaved the area around the cyst, swabbed it with alcohol and lanced it. Rodney made a sound, something between a whine and a sigh of relief. I squeezed the discharge into a paper towel, swabbed the area again and injected an antibiotic. After applying a small bandage, I lowered him to the floor and removed the muzzle. He looked up at me and I swear, if his eyes could have spoken, he said thanks.

Rodney was my last appointment of the morning so I offered to give Mrs. Field a ride home. She lived out of my way but I didn’t want her spending any more money than necessary on taxis. I parked in her driveway and helped her out of the car, then went to the rear hatch of my Volvo station wagon and let Rodney out of the large carrier we used for our own dog.

Thank you, Doctor Carson. Mrs. Field squeezed my hand. You’re a sweetheart. I’d invite you in for a drink but I know you’re married.

I laughed. Maybe another time. See you, Rodney.

~~~

I headed for home, the radio tuned to my favorite jazz station. Connie and I owned a modest bungalow in Pickering a ten-minute drive from my office. Many of our friends who lived right in Toronto wondered why we lived in the suburbs, but when we needed a fix of culture or fancy dining, it was little more than half an hour’s drive to get downtown. On the other hand, we weren’t that far from the nuclear power plant down on the lakeshore, and if there was ever a meltdown of the reactor core, we’d have to run for our lives. I tried to stay in shape.

I parked the car, checked the mailbox and entered the house. In the foyer I removed my boots and hung my coat in the hallway closet. I stood a moment, listening. The mirror in the hallway reflected the look of concern on my face. I pursed my lips and whistled.

Mackie?

No answer. I headed down the hall to our bedroom. As I entered, Mackie looked up from his bed in the corner. His tail wagged but he didn’t even try to get up. He was a beautiful Dalmatian, twelve years old, and we’d almost lost him last summer. Now it was just a question of time, and every month was a gift. I crouched beside him and stroked his head.

Let’s go outside for a minute.

The O-word always summoned up the necessary energy. He lurched to his feet and hobbled after me as I went through the kitchen and slid open the patio door. He went out onto the deck and peed. I dried his paws with a towel that I kept by the door. He went to his dish, noisily lapped some water and flopped down on the kitchen floor, clearly exhausted.

As I stood at the stove, heating some dog food, I stared out into the back yard. The peak of a doghouse was barely visible under a snowdrift. Toronto winters usually weren’t much to speak of, but this year already seemed hell-bent on breaking snowfall records.

I emptied the modest portion of dog food into Mackie’s dish. He looked at it, looked at me, and didn’t bother to get up from where he lay. I sat on the floor beside him, dipped my hand in his bowl and coaxed him to lick my fingers clean. He did this a few times, more out of affection than appetite, then laid his chin on his paws and closed his eyes.

I sat there beside him, my hand on his shoulders, and closed my eyes too. I felt like crying.

~~~

After lunch I returned to the office and my desk, where the routine of a day’s work was a temporary solace. Karen came in and placed a few files in front of me. She asked, as she often did, how Mackie was doing. Nothing new, I told her.

Why don’t you bring him into the office? We could make a bed for him under the lunchroom table.

Shuttling him back and forth would probably be a strain on him. I think he’s more comfortable in his own surroundings. I shook my head. The irony is, there’s really nothing I can do for him. He just sleeps all the time.

Karen laid her hand on my shoulder. You saved him once already. They’re just not a long-lived breed, are they?

I nodded. Everyone in our office knew the facts about dogs. If you were lucky, you might have only four in your lifetime. Which meant you only had to suffer that many times when their numbers were up.

I thumbed the small stack of client files. Are we missing something here? Seems kind of thin...

No, it’s a short day, she said. You’re meeting your lawyer at three, remember?

Chapter 3

It had been trying to snow all afternoon, but the temperature wasn’t cold enough to sustain the effort, and fat wet flakes hit the windshield with a spatter that was more like coagulated rain. Traffic on the Don Valley Parkway, one of the main arteries into the downtown area, was moving at a crawl. In silent frustration, my fist pounded the steering wheel, keeping time with the metronome of the wipers. I was going to be late getting to my lawyer’s office. I didn’t like being late under any circumstances, and today’s meeting was more important than most. But there was nothing I could do about it. Had I been a little less buttoned-down, I’d have been honking my horn and mouthing obscenities like the other drivers around me.

Instead, I used the occasion as an opportunity, one of so many that life seemed to provide, to rise above it all. Silently I repeated one of my favorite secular mantras, one of those noble truths that one often comprehends only too late in life to do any good. This too will pass. Sure enough, in a few moments, the traffic began to creep forward, a few feet at a time, and then I was past the fender-bender that had slowed the torrent of commuters to a gawking trickle. Accelerating back up to speed with the rest of the herd, I continued toward my rendezvous, strangely calm despite the traffic delay, strangely positive despite what I expected to suffer at the meeting.

At my lawyer’s office the receptionist, a stern little woman with all the charm of a Gestapo officer, said that I should go right in, macht schnell, bitte, they were waiting for me. I took my coat off as I entered the conference room.

My lawyer, Joel Sherman, was seated at the conference table, along with two other people. Sherman was short, stout, balding, and expensive. Rachel Underwood, the tax auditor who’d taken a scalpel to my accounts, was a lush blonde beauty with a calculator for a heart. I’d had at least one erotic dream about her, obviously my subconscious desire to compensate for the way the government seemed determined to screw me, but in my dream she’d refused to turn her back on me, and insisted on staying on top.

My client, Alex Carson, said Sherman, standing to make a fresh introduction. Edgar Ferguson, legal counsel for the income tax department.

Ferguson was a tall saturnine man in a black suit, with a powerful handshake and a wandering left eye that together implied, I could crush you and not even look at you at the same time, that’s how omnipotent I am. He gave me a terse nod, fixed me briefly with his strange left eye, and sat down with his large hands forming a steeple.

Sorry to have kept you all waiting, I said. I had a crisis to deal with, and then the traffic…

So, while you’re treating your patients, Underwood said, you’re testing ours?

I resisted the impulse to remind her that puns were the crudest form of wit. It was an emergency, I said. This man’s dog was hit by a car...

You see what he’s like? Sherman smoothly interjected, A vet who’s available 24/7, who makes house calls, for God’s sake, who gives huge discounts to seniors on fixed income...

We’re not questioning his professional dedication, Ferguson said. More like, a certain negligence regarding the remittance of his tax payments over the past seven years.

Did I mention his community involvement is second to none? Sherman went on. A troop leader for the Boy Scouts, a Big Brother for disadvantaged kids. He’s on the fund-raising committee for the SPCA, and works one weekend a month at their local shelter. He runs marathons to raise money for the Cancer Society, the Sick Children’s Hospital, the Heart Fund…

And where’s he keep that heart of gold? Underwood said. In his offshore bank account? Along with the taxes he’s evaded?

Let’s not jump to conclusions, Sherman said. Whatever happened to the notion of innocent until proven guilty?

The evidence suggests we’ve crossed that bridge already, said Ferguson with a dismissive wave of his hand. Let’s cut to the chase.

Sherman paused a moment and turned to me. Given the difficulty of proving your ignorance of what happened to your tax remittances, I’ve discussed a possible settlement with our friends from the government. I think we’ve arrived at a reasonable compromise. I hope you’ll agree.

I hope so too, I said, thinking I could use a few genuine friends right about now.

Giving the other man the nod, Sherman said, Mr. Ferguson, if you would.

These are the facts as we know them. Ferguson flicked up his pinkie finger. Number one, Mr. Carson has not paid any income tax for the past seven years. He raised his ring finger. Number two, given the amount of back taxes owed, the interest incurred, and the penalties for non-compliance with the tax laws of this country, the magnitude of his liability now places him in a category where criminal prosecution is warranted. He thrust up his middle finger. Number three, however, I have the necessary authority to ensure him that, providing he submits today to our repayment schedule and signs an agreement to that effect, he can avoid both criminal charges and jail time.

I stared at Ferguson’s upright middle finger, its symbolic value not entirely lost on me. And will you cut off my pound of flesh right here on the conference table, or is this something you’d like to schedule for a later date?

Let’s hear them out. Sherman laid his hand on my arm. This is as good as it gets.

I’ll repeat for the record what I’ve told Ms. Underwood all along, I said to Ferguson. My accountant’s filed my returns for the past seven years. If tax fraud was committed, it was behind my back, and without my collusion. Find my accountant, and maybe you’ll find the money.

That’s fine, Ferguson said. Just tell us where to look.

I wish I knew, I said.

So do we, Underwood said. Because with both him and the money gone, someone’s left holding the bag, and it’s not going to be the honest taxpayer.

But I didn’t do anything illegal…

You signed the tax returns, Underwood said.

Which my accountant obviously didn’t submit...

You can always challenge our ruling in court, Ferguson said, his voice a soft-toned taunt.

I did the math. Sherman was three hundred dollars an hour. A court case would be what – a hundred hours minimum? Thirty grand down, and odds of beating the government less than one in a hundred? Probability analysis was never my strong suit, but I recognized a long shot when I saw one.

Of course I could always sell the business to pay off my taxes. But this wasn’t a good economy, and I didn’t want to sell anyway. It had taken me ten years to build this business up to the point where it was today, and I refused to sell it just to make the government happy.

Okay, so what’s the repayment schedule?

It took less than half an hour to finalize the administrative details of my unconditional surrender to the government. Ferguson and Underwood departed with my signed agreement, taking with them all my hopes of an early retirement. Sherman walked me out to the reception area, where he handed my case file to the secretary.

What am I going to tell my wife? I wondered out loud as I retrieved my coat from the closet.

That you had no choice, Sherman said. That it beats jail time.

I shook my head in disgust and despair. I can’t believe I agreed to the repayment schedule they dictated. It’s inhumane. There’s nothing left for me to live on.

You just need a little vacation, Sherman said. Then you need to get right back to work. But no more senior discounts.

Chapter 4

As I drove back out of the city, I indulged myself in an idle fantasy of what I’d do to my accountant if I could have laid hands on him. I’d met Roger Skinner, if indeed that was his real name, at a party where he’d told me about all of his clients in the health care field – doctors, dentists, chiropractors and psychologists – and how he was saving them a bundle on their taxes by taking advantage of loopholes most accountants weren’t savvy enough to exploit. At that point, my practice had just started to take off, and I was weary of handling my own tax paperwork, so I was happy to give him a chance to prove himself. Little did I realize that the tax money he was ostensibly saving me, and investing in a retirement fund, was actually getting funneled toward his retirement, not mine.

Had I been able to track Skinner down today, I imagined that I was probably just vindictive enough to dispense a rudimentary form of justice – say, by running him through a meat grinder, and doling him out to the dogs at the local SPCA where I volunteered once a month. That’s about all his sorry ass was good for.

Revenge fantasies aside, I was worried more about how I was going to dig myself out of this massive debt. The aggressive repayment schedule was going to cripple my lifestyle. My liability insurance didn’t cover tax fraud, and my wife wasn’t going to be much help either. Connie was a marketing manager at MedEx Pharmaceuticals, where a downturn in business had hung the sword of downsizing over everyone’s head, and salaries were on a short leash. Although we both had jobs, we still had a mortgage, and car payments on two vehicles and other monthly expenses...

One immediate repayment option was to take out a second mortgage, but I didn’t relish breaking the news of that to Connie. For years she’d had her heart set on a bigger house, and a setback like this was going to hit her hard. Thus far, I’d downplayed the potential ramifications of my tax quagmire. Now there seemed no way to conceal it further. If I had to start making heavy income tax payments in the New Year, I’d have to spill my guts pretty soon.

I had two other options, neither of them attractive. We owned a small cottage property, but it had been in the family for years and I was reluctant to part with it. The other option was

Reviews for Hide in Plain Sight

[traveller1_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Read this in July 11. Not half bad, but murder/mystery is not my normal genre. Twin brothers, one dies, the other inherits, intrigue, suspense, crappy marriages, twists and turns, a semi-happy ending. The writing was competent, the characters came to life, the outcome was never certain, in fact things happened differently than I imagined. If you like murder mysteries then you will likely like this.