“Her prints are nowhere on file?”
“No.”
“She had no record?”
“None.”
“No identifying marks? No tattoos?”
Rhys thought back to that night.
“No. When her body’s finally found, and they try to dig into her past, they’ll get nowhere. She has no past.”
Jeremy sighed. “As it turns out, we have one of them under our roof.”
Rhys, usually good with a poker face, could not conceal his surprise.
“Who?”
“Chloe Swanson.”
Rhys wondered if it was the Chloe from Todd’s trailer. When he heard her voice, he’d know.
“Plus, the one we were waiting for you to deal with when you returned,” Jeremy said. “Roberta’s been quite anxious for you to get this done. I didn’t want to bring in anyone else.”
“Sure.”
Jeremy placed his palms flat on the table. “I don’t want it done on the premises. Take them elsewhere.”
“Understood.”
Jeremy smiled. “Maybe tell them you’ve organized an outing. A reward for good behavior. An excursion to the Central Park Zoo. Feed them to the snow leopards.”
Rhys stood. “I’ll drop by, introduce myself as part of your legal team. Tell them we’re drafting some nondisclosure agreements for them to sign, after which their release will be expedited.”
Jeremy nodded. “It has the ring of credibility. Throw in some financial compensation.”
He turned back to his computer, signaling that they were done. Once in the hall, his back to a large black-and-white photo of one man mounting another from behind, Rhys took out his phone, entered a number, and waited. After twelve rings, a pickup, followed by silence.
“It’s me. We need to talk,” Rhys said, and ended the call.
He took his time heading down the hallway, checking out the pictures as though he were in a museum.
The world may think Jeremy Pritkin is normal, but he is one crazy motherfucker, Rhys thought.
His phone, still in his hand, rang.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s things?”
“Okay.”
“What’s your availability?”
“Depends. What’ve you got?”
“Two projects. In Manhattan.”
“I’m in town.”
“What are you doing in an hour?” Rhys said.
“Usual place?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be there.”
Rhys put his phone away and smiled. It was good to have Broderick aboard. The guy was a pro, and he owed him one.
Chloe and Nicky were sitting on the bed, backs to the headboard, legs crossed, watching TV. Nicky had the remote and was going through the channels, spending little more than three seconds on each. There was nothing else they could do right now, but given how hard it was for them to actually focus on anything, they weren’t settling on any one show.
The door opened.
That gave Nicky more of a start than it did Chloe, because Nicky was used to the routine around here, and this was not a normal visiting time. Dinner wouldn’t be until later. Breakfast arrived at eight, lunch at half past twelve, dinner at seven. Every Monday, around nine, housekeeping arrived with fresh sheets and towels.
Rhys stepped into the room.
They both sat up a little straighter, but neither of them got off the bed.
“Relax,” he said, raising his right hand in a nonthreatening gesture. “My name’s Rhys. I represent Mr. Pritkin, and we’ve come to a conclusion about how to resolve our current situation with you two young ladies that I think you’ll find very satisfactory.”
He smiled reassuringly. “You’ll be coming to our offices to sign some papers. Nondisclosure agreements. I’m sure you’re familiar with those. Very common practice these days. You’ll sign, promising never to disclose to anyone what has happened here. There will be significant financial compensation for the inconvenience we’ve caused you.”
Nicky asked, “How much?”
Chloe shot her a look that said, Seriously?
“To be determined,” Rhys said. “But you’ll be pleased by the amount. Anyway, pardon the intrusion. We’ll see you shortly.”
He backed up a step, tapped the door, waited for someone in the hall to open it. When he was gone. Nicky turned to Chloe and said, “That’s good, isn’t it? I’ll sign anything they want if it means this is over.”
Chloe did not look encouraged.
“Did you see his hand?” she asked.
“His hand?”
“His pinkie finger. Most of it was missing.”
“So?”
Chloe sighed. “Big-time lawyers don’t hide under beds.”
Fifty-Six
Mount Vernon, NY
Martin Gold loved bridges.
His fascination — he supposed it was fair to call it an obsession — with them went back to his earliest childhood years. Using the most basic wooden blocks, little Martin would construct bridges to drive his cars and trucks over. His favorite toy, without question, was a Kenner Bridge and Turnpike Building Set. Inside that box were hundreds of tiny red plastic beams and girders and road pieces that could be used to build the most elaborate structures. There was even a motor for operating a drawbridge. By combining several sets, Martin made bridges with massive spans, long enough to go from one side of his bedroom to the other.
His father, a dental surgeon who shared his son’s love of bridges and probably would have felt more fulfilled had he become a structural engineer instead of someone who poked around inside people’s mouths, enjoyed indulging Martin. Whenever possible, when out in the car, they would take a route that included a bridge. One day, his father planned an all-day trip to New York that was built around bridges. They drove over the Queensboro, the Manhattan, the Williamsburg, the George Washington, but when it came to the Brooklyn Bridge, Martin’s dad had a special treat. They parked the car and walked it, starting on the Manhattan side, had lunch in Brooklyn, then walked back, enjoying the view of the Manhattan skyline as it grew closer with every step.
Martin Gold remembered it as the best day of his life.
Throughout the years, wherever he and his wife vacationed, Gold would search out the most interesting bridges. When they went to San Francisco, he walked the Golden Gate. When they went to Australia, not only did he check out the Sydney Harbour Bridge, he did the climb, hooked up safety cables so he could traverse the top span. It was as close as Gold had come to a religious experience.
Gold remembered thinking, at the time, I could die right now.
But he didn’t, of course. He came back to New Rochelle and continued to run his fertility clinic. (His love of bridges had never turned into a career. Bridges were fine as a hobby, his parents said, but his destiny was to become a doctor.) He had managed, at least while in Australia, to forget that there was a metaphorical bridge always hanging over him, a bridge always on the verge of collapse.
It was a terrible thing he’d done, more than twenty years ago. He knew it was wrong. How could he not? But when someone had a hold over you, possessed incredibly damning information, you found yourself capable of unimaginable things. He’d made a god-awful mistake. He’d tried to rationalize his behavior. He’d taken these actions to protect not just himself, but his wife and their young son. If he were to be disgraced, they would be, too. Their lives would be ruined.
So he did what he believed he had to do.
He knew there had to be pictures, maybe even videotapes. If they were sent to his wife, that would be bad enough. Maybe, when she saw him getting it off with a girl who was barely old enough to vote, she’d seek a divorce. And he wouldn’t blame her. A divorce, as horrible as it would be, was something he could ride out. But what if the tapes were made public? Sent anonymously to the state medical board? He’d be ruined professionally. The clinic would be shut down. God, he might even face criminal charges. He’d be lucky to have a job as a Walmart greeter by the time the dust settled.