Stacy started down the corridor. “You don’t have to whisper. We’re alone.”
Stacy stopped in front of the door with a keypad. She typed in a code and the door unlocked with an audible click. Kat entered. It was a corner office with a pretty great view up Park Avenue. Stacy flicked on the lights. The office was done in early American Elitism. Rich burgundy leather chairs with gold buttons sat atop a forest-green oriental carpet. Paintings of foxhunts hung on dark wood paneling. The expansive desk was pure oak. A large antique globe rested next to it.
“Someone has serious cash,” Kat said.
“My friend who owns the place.”
A wistful look crossed her face. The media had a short period of speculation about the CEO of Lock-Horne Investments and Securities, but like all stories, it died out when nothing new fed it.
“What really happened to him?” Kat asked.
“He just”—she spread her arms and shrugged—“checked out, I guess.”
“Nervous breakdown?”
A funny smile came to Stacy’s face. “I don’t think so.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. His business used to take up six floors. With him gone and all the layoffs, it’s down to four.”
Kat realized she was asking too many questions, but she pushed past that. “You care about him.”
“I do. But it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Why not?”
“He is handsome, rich, charming, romantic, a great lover.”
“I hear a but.”
“But you can’t reach him. No woman can.”
“Yet here you are,” Kat said.
“After he and I were, uh, together, he put my name on the list.”
“The list?”
“It’s complicated. Once a woman is on it, they have access to certain spaces, in case they need time alone or whatever.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“How many women would you guess are on this list?”
“I don’t know,” Stacy said. “But I’d guess there are quite a few.”
“He sounds like a nutjob.”
Stacy shook her head. “There you go again.”
“What?”
“Judging people without knowing them.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yeah, you do,” Stacy said. “What was your first impression of me?”
Airheaded bimbo, Kat thought. “Well, what was your first impression of me?”
“I thought you were cool and smart,” Stacy replied.
“You were right.”
“Kat?”
“Yes?”
“You’re asking me all these questions because you’re stalling.”
“And you’re answering them all because you’re stalling too.”
“Touché,” Stacy said.
“So where is Jeff?”
“Near as I can tell, Montauk.”
Kat’s heart felt as though it’d been kicked. “On Long Island?”
“Do you know another Montauk?” Then in a softer voice: “You could use a drink.”
Kat shoved the memory away. “I’m fine.”
Stacy moved toward the antique globe and lifted a handle, revealing a crystal decanter and snifters. “Do you drink cognac?”
“Not really.”
“He only drinks the best.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable drinking his expensive cognac.”
Another sad smile—Stacy really liked this guy—hit her face. “He would be upset if he knew that we were here and didn’t imbibe.”
“Pour, then.”
Stacy did so. Kat took a sip and managed not to gasp in ecstasy. The cognac was God’s nectar.
“Well?” Stacy asked.
“That’s the closest thing I’ve had to an orgasm in liquid form.”
Stacy laughed. Kat had never considered herself materialistic or someone who reveled in expensive tastes, but between the Macallan 25 and this cognac, tonight was definitely changing her thinking, at least on the alcohol front.
“You okay?” Stacy asked.
“Fine.”
“When I said Montauk—”
“We were there once,” Kat said quickly, “in Amagansett, not Montauk, it was wonderful, I’m over it, move on.”
“Good,” Stacy said. “So here’s the deal. Eighteen years ago, Jeff Raynes leaves New York City and moves to Cincinnati. We know that he got into a brawl at a bar called Longsworth’s.”
“I remember that place. He took me there once. It used to be a firehouse.”
“Wow, great story,” Stacy said.
“Was that sarcasm?”
“It was, yes. Mind if I continue?”
“Please.”
“Jeff was arrested, but he pleaded down to a misdemeanor and paid a fine. No big deal. But here is where things get a little hairy.”
Kat took another sip. The brown liquor warmed her chest.
“There is absolutely no sign of Jeff Raynes after the plea. Whatever made him change his name, it must have had something to do with the fight.”
“Who did he fight with?”
“Whom.”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry. Two other men were arrested that night. They were friends, I guess. Grew up together in Anderson Township. Both also pleaded down to a misdemeanor and paid a fine. According to the arrest report, all three men were inebriated. It started when one of the guys was being rude to his girlfriend. He may have grabbed her arm hard; the testimony is a little fuzzy on that. Anyway, Jeff stepped in and told him to knock it off.”
“How chivalrous,” Kat said.
“To quote you, ‘Was that sarcasm?’”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“Because it sounds a little like bitterness.”
“What’s the difference?” Kat asked.
“Fair point. Anyway, Jeff steps in to protect the girl. The drunk boyfriend, who’s been arrested before for these kinds of altercations, snapped back with the classic mind-your-own-business-or-else. Jeff said he’ll mind his own business if he leaves the lady alone. You know how it goes.”
Kat did. Her earlier comment may have been sarcastic or bitter, but misguided chivalry too often leads to brawls. “So who threw the first punch?”
“Reportedly, the drunk boyfriend. But Jeff supposedly retaliated with a fury. Broke the guy’s orbital bone and two ribs. Surprised?”
“Not really,” Kat said. “Were there any lawsuits?”
“No. But not long after this, Jeff Raynes quits his job—he was working at The Cincinnati Post—and is pretty much never heard from again. Two years later, I have the first sign of Ron Kochman in a byline in something called Vibe magazine.”
“And now he lives in Montauk?”
“All signs point that way. The thing is, he has a sixteen-year-old daughter.”
Kat blinked and took a deeper sip.
“There’s no sign of a wife.”
“On YouAreJustMyType.com, it says he’s a widow.”
“That might be true, but I can’t say for sure. I only know he has a daughter named Melinda. She attends East Hampton High School, so I was able to access their address via the school records.”
Kat and Stacy both stood there, at midnight, alone in some master of the universe’s opulent office. Stacy dug into her pocket and took out a slip of paper.
“Do you want me to give you the address, Kat?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because he’s done his damnedest not to be found. He changed not only his name, but he’s created an entirely new ID. He doesn’t use credit cards. He doesn’t have bank accounts.”
“Yet he went on Facebook and YouAreJustMyType.”
“Using aliases, right?”
“No. I mean, he used an alias on YouAreJustMyType. Brandon said his mom called him Jack. But on Facebook, he was Ron Kochman. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t know.”
Kat nodded. “But either way, your point remains. Jeff doesn’t want to be found.”
“Right.”
“And when I contacted him on YouAreJustMyType, he said that he didn’t want to talk to me and that he needed a fresh start.”
“Right again.”
“So driving up to Montauk out of the blue would be irrational.”
“Totally.”
Kat stuck out her hand. “So why am I going first thing in the morning?”