The Baxter Trust

infamous Mrs. Dutton, whom Sheila hated as much as it was possible to hate someone one has never met. Why should she be causing them this trouble? Sheila could understand her wanting to hang onto Johnny, though. He really was perfect. So handsome, and nice, and funny, and witty, and intelligent, and sexy and brilliant. Only twenty-eight years old, and already an influential stockbroker on Wall Street. A real Prince Charming. A perfect man.
    Except for the cocaine. Sheila wished Johnny wasn’t so fond of cocaine, hadn’t introduced her to it. Of course, it was good, and Johnny wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t really all right, would he? Still, there was all that talk about it being psychologically addictive. Johnny said that was horseshit, and he ought to know. And she did cocaine, and she wasn’t addicted. The hit she had taken was wearing off, and she did feel like another, but she didn’t have to have it. It wasn’t like the world would stop if it wasn’t there.
    Sheila began wondering how much cocaine was left in her apartment. They’d had a whole gram. How much had they done last night? Couldn’t have been that much. She probably had at least half a gram to last her for the two days. That ought to be enough.
    It had to be enough, she suddenly realized. Johnny hadn’t left her any money. How much did she have? Thirty, forty dollars? Barely enough to eat on, let alone score any drugs.
    Sheila drove back over the Triboro Bridge. She pulled the money out of her purse. Yeah. Forty-three dollars. Not nearly enough to score any drugs.
    Shit. Sheila was angry with herself. Why was she thinking about scoring drugs? She didn’t need them. Two days without Johnny was not the end of the world. Besides, she had a half gram left.
    Sheila pulled onto her street. A block away, a car pulled out of a spot right in front of her building. The light on the corner was changing. Sheila gunned the motor, and shot across Columbus Avenue, causing a taxi to slam on its brakes and a pedestrian to dive for safety. Sheila felt no guilt at this. In New York City, you kill for a parking space.
    Sheila parked the car and got out, after remembering to set the code alarm. She walked up the steps and into the foyer of her building.
    The mail had come. Sheila could see the white of a letter through the slots in the box. She dug out her keys and unlocked the mailbox.
    The letter was addressed to her. It was typewritten. There was no return address.
    Sheila tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter.
    And knew at once that something was wrong.
    The letter was made up of words cut from newspaper headlines and pasted onto a sheet of paper. It said: “I K NOW A LL A BOUT YOU .”
    Sheila stared at the letter with the disbelief a normal person feels when something like that happens to him.
    She folded the letter, and went up the stairs.
    Sheila unlocked the door and let herself into her apartment. The letter was still in her hand. She flopped down on the bed and read it again. “I K NOW A LL A BOUT Y OU .” What the hell did that mean? Was it a joke? One of Johnny’s jokes, perhaps. She doubted it. Johnny had a terrific sense of humor, and he was always kidding around, but this wasn’t like him. This wasn’t funny. This was scary.
    She folded up the letter and put it on the night table as if to dismiss it from her mind. Screw the letter. It’s nothing.
    She stood up and looked around. The apartment, of course, was a holy mess. It was a small studio apartment, and with the couch folded out into a bed, there was barely room to move around.
    Sheila began to straighten up. She made the bed, folded it up and put the cushions back on the couch. She picked up the dirty clothes from where she had left them lying on the floor and stuffed them into the laundry bag in the bathroom.
    The remains of the Chinese food she and Johnny had ordered the night before were still sitting on the table in the small kitchen alcove. Sheila dumped them in the garbage and wiped the table.
    She realized she was doing all this to keep from thinking about the letter. Which, of course, made her think about the letter. The nagging thought that taunted her, of course, was what if it wasn’t a joke? What if it was real? “I K NOW A LL A BOUT Y OU .” Knew all what about her? What was there about her that someone could know that could hurt her?
    The answer, of course, was the cocaine. Someone could tell the cops about the cocaine. Or tell her uncle, which would be