“Right.”
“And yet when I asked Luther why he did it, do you remember the first thing he said?”
Simon said nothing.
“He gestured toward you, Simon, and he said, ‘Why don’t you ask him why?’”
Simon remembered. He remembered the feeling of anger that came over him then, looking at Luther, that waste of humanity who’d made the decision to try to end Ingrid’s life. The gall of it all, that someone as low as that could hold such power, had enraged him.
“He was grasping at straws, Detective.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think he’s that smart, Simon. I think Luther knows something he hasn’t yet told us.”
Simon considered that for a moment. “Like what?”
“You tell me,” Fagbenle said. Then: “Who shot Luther, Simon? Who saved you guys?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a lie.”
Simon said nothing.
“And there’s the rub, my friend,” Fagbenle continued. “Once one lie is let in the room, even for the best of reasons, a whole bunch more will ride in on its back. Then those lies will gang up and slaughter the truth. So I’ll ask you one more time: Who shot Luther?”
They were eye to eye now, inches apart.
“I told you,” Simon said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know. Is there anything else?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then I’d like to go sit with my wife.”
Fagbenle slapped Simon’s shoulder in a gesture that was trying to be both friendly and intimidating. “I’ll be in touch.”
As Fagbenle headed down the corridor, Simon’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognize the number and debated letting it go to voicemail — too many solicitations nowadays, even on mobile phones — but the area code was the same as Lanford College’s. He moved to the side and answered.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Greene?”
“Speaking.”
“I got your email and phone message, so I’m calling you back. This is Louis van de Beek. I’m a professor at Lanford College.”
He had almost forgotten about leaving those messages. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
“No problem.”
“I’m calling about my daughter Paige.”
There was silence on the other end.
“You remember her? Paige Greene.”
“Yes.” His voice sounded very far away. “Of course.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“I know she dropped out.”
“She’s missing, Professor.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I think something happened to her at school. I think something at Lanford started all this.”
“Mr. Greene?”
“Yes?”
“If I recall correctly, your family lives in Manhattan.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you there now?”
“In the city? Yes.”
“I’m teaching this semester at Columbia University.”
Simon’s alma mater.
“Perhaps,” van de Beek continued, “we should have this discussion in person.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll need a little more time. Do you know the campus?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a big statue on the steps in front of the main building.”
The main building was called Low Memorial Library. The bronze statue, oddly enough called Alma Mater, depicted the Greek goddess Athena.
“I know it.”
“Let’s meet there in an hour.”
The cops showed up at the Green-N-Leen Vegan Café because someone called 911 when Raoul and his man bun went down from Elena’s knee kick. At first, Raoul, who was still cupping his wounded nuts, wanted to press charges.
“She assaulted my family jewels!” Raoul kept shouting.
The cops rolled their eyes, but they also knew they had to take a statement. Elena pulled Raoul and the man bun into the corner and said simply, “If you press charges, I press charges.”
“But you—”
“—got the better of you, yes I know.”
Raoul was still cradling his crotch as if he’d found a wounded bird.
“But you assaulted me first,” Elena said.
“What? How do you figure?”
“Raoul, you’re new at this. I’m not. The surveillance tape will show that you reached out and touched me first.”
“You were running after my friend!”
“And you assaulted me to stop that, so I defended myself. That’s how this will play. And worse. I mean, look at me, Raoul.” Elena spread her arms. “I’m short, I’m chubby, and even though I’m sure you’re very in touch with your feminine side and all kumbaya on feminism, that tape of a small albeit round middle-aged woman kneeing you in the balls will go viral.”
Raoul’s eyes widened. He hadn’t considered that, though maybe his man bun had.
“Do you want to roll those dice, Raoul?”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Raoul?”
“Fine,” he said in the most petulant tone imaginable. “I won’t press charges.”
“Yeah, but now that I start thinking about it, I might.”
“What?”
Elena made the trade. Alison Mayflower’s “real” name — Allie Mason — and current address in exchange for letting bygones be bygones. Alison lived on a farm outside of Buxton. Elena made the drive up. No one was home. She debated sitting outside the house for a bit, but it didn’t look as though anyone had been home in a long time.
Back at the Howard Johnson’s, Elena sat in a room that couldn’t be more motel generic and tried to plot her next move. Lou from her home office had discovered that Allie Mason lived in that farmhouse with another woman named Stephanie Mars.
Was Stephanie Mars a friend? A relative? A partner? Did it matter?
Should Elena drive the half hour to Buxton and try again?
There was no reason to think Alison Mayflower would be more cooperative this time, but then again, trying doggedly was why Elena made the big bucks. Literally. And it wasn’t as though the first meeting hadn’t borne fruit. It had. There was clearly something shady going on with those adoptions. Elena had strongly suspected that before, but after her encounter with Alison Mayflower, she knew for sure. She also knew that at least in Alison Mayflower’s mind, the children had needed saving. And the big new piece of this cockamamy puzzle, though Elena had zero idea how it fit:
All the adopted babies were boys.
Why? Why not girls?
Elena took out a pad and pen and charted out the ages. Damien Gorse was the oldest, Henry Thorpe the youngest. Still, they were almost ten years apart in age. Ten years. That was a long time for Alison Mayflower to be involved in all this.
That meant her involvement was deep. Super deep.
Her phone rang. It was Lou from the home office on some special app he’d installed on her phone. The app made all calls untraceable or something like that. “The leakers in the White House use it,” Lou had told her. “That’s why they never get caught.”
Lou didn’t use it very often.
“You alone?” he asked when she picked up.
“You didn’t call for phone sex, did you?”
“Uh, yeah no. Open up your laptop, wiseass.”
She could hear the excitement in his voice. “Okay.”
“I emailed you a link. Click on it.”
Elena opened her browser and started to sign into her email.
“You click it yet?”
“Give me a second, will you? I’m typing in my password.”
“Seriously? You don’t have it saved?”
“How do you save it?”
“Ugh, never mind. Tell me when you have the link up.”
Elena found Lou’s email and clicked the link. A website called Ance-Story came up.
“Bingo,” she said.
“What, why?”