He doesn’t really expect anything more. The bus driver clearly spent his time looking at the road ahead and not at the passengers seated behind him. There is also a female attendant who left the bus at an earlier stop, but the young woman remembers nothing. Then he searches for the male names on the listing. There are nine of them. The seventh name on the list is a man named Amos Posner in Amagansett. The name means nothing to him.
He decides to visit the area, books a rental car and a motel room for one night. He opts not to call anyone in advance, but to take his chance that some of the people will be available. Heidi has been gone for nearly six weeks, and there is no word, sign, or evidence that she was ever there. He has paid her rent for the past two months. He learns that her parents in Austria have already been informed of her disappearance by the NYPD, but a short answer in good English says they are not planning to come at this time. A third party signs the reply. The response confuses him. He wonders what kind of people they are, and immediately speculates what kind of relationship they had for them to take such a distant approach. Most families would have arrived on the first available flight. Was it a Muslim or an Austrian cultural thing, or something else? His confusion grows apace with his fear. He increases the dosage of the anxiety meds he’s taken for several years. He needs a clear rational mind if he has any chance of finding out anything more.
He sits on the bed in his East Hampton motel room with the police summary he obtained from his FOIA filing. Amos Posner is one of only three people on the bus who live in the town of East Hampton. All of the names came up on Google. One was an eighty-year-old former staff member of The New Yorker magazine, but the man was clearly barely coherent when Henry called.
Posner’s Google listing was brief. He had been involved in international trade for years with a large firm, but suddenly lost his position two years before. He is married and lives in Amagansett.
Henry calls and after four rings expects an answering machine to pick up, but the dial tone continues. The man must be away, or has turned off his machine. He marks the space next to Posner’s name for follow-up after noting the time of his call.
The final name is a man named Welbrook who also lives in Amagansett. A number of Google references indicate a position in entertainment law. He answers on the first ring.
“Well, I already told the police that I didn’t remember her. It’s been a while since the day they said she disappeared, and I go back and forth to the city at least once a week, sometimes more often.”
Henry has introduced himself as a doctor and a friend of the missing woman. The doctor part always helps. There is still respect in society for the profession, although far from where it was when he was a kid. Today’s icons are more likely to be athletes, investment bankers, or maybe international specialists like that guy Posner.
“Could I stop by and show you some other pictures of Heidi? They’re much better than the fax copy the police showed you. I promise you it won’t take much time and it might jog your memory.”
“As long as you make it quick,” says Welbrook and gives directions from the motel. Henry has already picked up an area map at the front desk provided by a local real estate broker.
He traces the route on the map with his pen, stands and reaches for the envelope with the three color photos. The bottom one was taken on their Bermuda trip. She’s standing on the beach and squinting slightly into a bright sun. A calm ocean lies in the background. She’s wearing the new pink-and-white dress.
Welbrook’s house is less than ten minutes away, and lies at the end of a stretch of road dominated by large modern homes with decks that face the ocean. Many seem to have enclosed pool areas. Henry realizes there is great opulence here, and that most of these houses have ocean views. A vintage Mercedes sedan is parked in a cutout just off the driveway.
“Yes. Now I remember her. It’s the dress. Pink and white. It was sorta cut low on top, if you know what I mean.”
John Welbrook is a good-looking man in his early forties with curly blond hair. Henry feels an immediate and absurd sense of jealousy as soon as the man opens the door. Welbrook has the looks and obvious self-confidence to have attracted Heidi, and from his memory of her dress, she would have attracted him as well.
They stand in the wide hallway. Henry’s attention is drawn to the walls, which are decorated with photos of various celebrities from the theatre, sports, and politics. Welbrook notes his interest and claims they are all clients of his firm that specializes in entertainment law. Stern turns his attention back to a short flight of stairs that rise from the hallway and empties into a large room with a vaulted ceiling. He follows Welbrook up the stairs, but is not invited to sit.
“So do you remember anything else about her?”
“When I spoke to the police I wasn’t sure I remembered her from the faxed picture, but the color photo and that dress—it’s not easy to forget that dress.”
“Did you talk to her? Did she happen to say anything?”
“Actually, I was going to the rest room. That’s in the back of the bus. She was sitting near the back and stopped me and asked how to get to the beach from the East Hampton stop. I probably told her she’d have to take a cab. That’s when she asked me if I could drive her.
“Told her no. Even though I live in Amagansett, told her I was getting off in East Hampton village. That’s where I parked my car. Said I had things to do. Didn’t have the time to drive her to the beach. Nor the particular interest.”
Henry lets the words slide past him, and looks around the room.
“Nice house,” Henry says.
“We like it,” answers Welbrook.
“Oh, you’re married,” says Henry.
“Not at the moment,” answers Welbrook, and slips away a tiny laugh.
Henry takes a few steps towards a floor-to-ceiling glass window and looks out.
“That’s quite a view.”
“Sure. Most houses anywhere this close to the beach usually have some ocean view. It’s what people pay top dollar for.”
Henry takes a chance and decides to see if Posner’s home without first calling since the drive is only minutes away. Welbrook’s house is clearly larger and closer to the beach than Posner’s, but both houses do indeed seem to have an ocean view. Henry’s rented Chevy climbs the driveway and stops behind a parked Lexus.
Without an entry bell he raps with the brass knocker that guards the door. There is no response for at least thirty seconds, and he’s just about to leave when he hears a voice from inside.
“Who is it? I’ll be there in a minute.”
The voice is clear and slightly faint, almost tired, Henry thinks, before he raps again, more briefly this time, and announces himself as a doctor friend of Heidi, whom he describes as the missing woman from the bus. The door opens. He apologizes for the unannounced nature of his visit and watches as Posner releases the door even wider as an unspoken invitation to enter. He follows Posner up the stairs to a living area with its own ocean views. He sees the twin green sofas, set around the art deco coffee table, and imagines that Heidi might have been here, just as she might have been in Welbrook’s home, or one like it. He inhales the affluence of the room. Doctors may be paid well by comparison to other work, but there is no way he can ever see affording such luxury. There is art on the walls, probably original prints. Some of the images are familiar: a Picasso Don Quixote and a full-sized Rauschenberg share space on the far wall. From what he’s read on Google, Posner has not worked for a few years, yet his art collection seems significant enough, and the house is quite grand by Henry’s standards even if slightly more modest than Welbrook’s.
Further introductions are brief. Posner clearly prefers that he not be there, but Henry is now used to this attitude after his time with Welbrook.