Ten Grand

by Seamus Heffernan

  Roxanne answered after one ring, efficient as ever.

  “Thad.”

  “Rox.”

  “How are things?”

  “Good. Keeping busy. You?”

  “Same.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “Thank you.”

  “All caught up, then,” I said, and couldn’t help a smile I hoped didn’t travel through the line.

  It hadn’t.

  “Calls about child support aren’t social occasions, you know,” she said. “Even if you’re always on time every month.”

  “Well, this call is different,” I said. “That’s why I wrote you. I have an idea.”

  “Do tell,” she said, but I could tell she was at least curious—her natural acidity had dropped a bit.

  “I know you and Reg want to get hitched,” I said. Rox’s current amour, Reginald Forsythe, was whatever a bigshot in a venture capital firm was. They had gone to Geneva for an opportunity that had, by all accounts, gone very well for his firm. “But if you do, it’s no more alimony payments from yours truly.”

  “That’s not the only issue,” she said. “We’ve both been settling in here, building our new jobs—”

  “It’s OK,” I said. “I’m not laying blame or giving you a hard time. But if we both want a total clean break, maybe we could compromise.”

  “How so?” More than a little curious now.

  “How much would Amy’s school be for, say, the next four years?” My daughter was enrolled—of course—in a prestigious private academy determined to produce the next generation of movers and shakers or, at the very least, well-heeled debutantes.

  “Um,” Rox did some mental math, perhaps slowed a bit by the natural shame all English people have of saying large money amounts out loud. “40 thousand pounds?”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Is she going to be an astronaut or something?”

  “What?”

  I ignored the question, plowing ahead. Explaining the joke would only give her the chance to remind me that I could be tiringly juvenile. “OK, so let’s say I paid for that,” I said. “Starting with ten grand now, and the rest divide across four years. That gets her out of high school without a dent in your finances.”

  “No more monthly payments?”

  “Well, not officially, but I’d be happy to throw in when you guys needed it.”

  “We don’t need it,” she said. “We’re doing pretty well. Also, she’s your daughter, too, you know, so you should be chipping in.”

  “Exactly my point. I take responsibility for her education, you two can get married, and we all get to walk away clean.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” she said. “You got that just laying around?”

  “Found an envelope in an old suit I hadn’t worn in a while,” I said. “Look, think it over. Talk to Reg. It’s a good deal for you. “

  “Good for you, too,” she said. “I think it works out a little less than you would pay over the next five years.”

  I pulled the phone away for a second, covering the receiver with my hand so as to muffle the exasperated sigh I could not keep in.

  “Until she turns 18 and then I don’t have to anymore,” I said. “Look, I’m not trying to nickel and dime you. Go do the figures, calculate it to the exact amount, I’ll pay it. I just want to take care of this.”

  “What, her schooling?”

  “Well, yes,” I said. “And other stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you.”

  This gave her pause.

  “What do you mean?” she asked after a moment.

  “I know you want get married,” I said. “You told me a while back. This way, you get to do what you want.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To take care of this crucial part of my daughter’s life.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That clean break.”

  Again, she waited before responding.

  “Is that important to you?”

  “It’s important to us,” I said. “Insofar as we can move on.”

  I could hear a muffled voice, and Rox shushing its owner.

  “That Amy?” I asked.

  “It is.”

  “Say hi.”

  “She’s already gone.”

  “Well, later then,” I said. “If it’s not too much of a bother.”

  “I’ll talk to Reggie about it,” she said, as always expertly deflecting any of my sarcasm or jibes. Divorce doesn’t change everything. “But I think we will have a deal.”

  “Good,” I said, walking towards Warren’s Bakery. The rich smell had been tugging at me for a bit and I figured I had now earned this appetite.

  “What brought this on?” she asked. “Aside from the fact you’re obviously doing well.”

  “What can I say? I’m a successful entrepreneur in this madcap thing we call late-stage capitalism, and I’m determined to wring every last dime from it and take care of my loved ones.”

  “’Ones’?” she asked. “I’m getting a little flushed here.”

  “Don’t get too weak in the knees. You’ll stretch out your good yoga pants.”

  This earned an honest-to-god laugh. A short one, but there it was.

  “Thad,” she said. “Thank you. Really. It’s a good idea, and a generous one.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. I had my hand on the handle. I could see one of the bakers inside. He recognized me and gave a wave. I pointed to the phone, eyes rolled. Right there, fellas, just bankrolling my precocious child’s future and my ex-wife is trying to say thank you without acknowledging in any way our shared past or her innate humanity. You know how it is.

  She picked up on my impatience.

  “I’d best be going, too,” she said. “I’ll have Amy call you this weekend.”

  “Sure, thanks,” I said. “Best to Reg, of course.”

  “Um. Really?”

  “Nah,” I said, and then we both laughed.

  “Thanks again,” she said. “This could be great for all of us.”

  “Well, as an enthusiastic former educator, it makes sense I would want to ensure this part of her life is well taken care of.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I just want you to be happy,” I lied. I pulled the door open—the bell above it jangled, signaling we were done. We said good-bye at the same moment, a brief verbal fumble that happens between bad timing and the weight of all the more unsaid. I cut off the call as she repeated herself.

  4

  Properly fed, I had made the half-mile trek from Earls Court station to meet with Ayesha’s hot lead. The Duclos house was stucco-fronted and stood out, even in this posh West Brompton neighbourhood, as impressive. Mrs. Duclos—“Annie, please”—waved me in after a quick introduction. She was short and wiry, with jet-black hair tugged back into a loose ponytail, which bounced around the scoop collar of a faded t-shirt. She led me into the TV room, which overlooked a lush garden, spanning back about 50 feet. She grabbed the remote and muted what was on—an old zombie flick I recognized from a few late-night viewings back in my undergrad days.

  “Sorry,” she said, sitting and tucking her legs up under herself. “It was on and I got sucked in a bit.”

  “No worries,’ I said, taking a seat and pulling loose my notepad. “I leave the radio on for company in my place all the time.”

  Her gaze lingered a bit on the screen. “Yannick is a big movie guy. He loves this stuff.” Then, coming back to the moment: “You sure I can’t get you anything?”

  By way of answer, I clicked my pen into life.

  “Best just to get started, I think,” I said.

  She nodded, squeezing her calves in a little closer.

  “Ayesha gave me the basics,” I began. “But I obviously have a lot more questions.”

  She nodded—audience was now granted.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “Four nights ago. Around 8 o’clock. He had
packed a bag and said he was away for a few days. Business. Somewhere in Salzburg. He said he was calling a taxi.”

  “Where’s he work?”

  “Bergman Hapsburg. Financial advisers, brokers, that sort of thing.”

  “You don’t hear from him, so you call his office and I’m assuming no one has any idea where he is, and there was no business trip?”

  She nodded.

  “I assume the cops have been through his laptop, belongings, everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “What have they told you?”

  “They’ve made some rumblings about enemies, which is almost laughable,” she said. “They’ve also inquired as to his mental health, which I imagine is standard in these sorts of things.”

  “It is. Was he depressed?”

  “No more than most middle-aged, middle-class men.”

  “But no less?”

  Rather than answer, she grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. Some clients like a little back-and-forth. Annie Duclos was not going to be one of them.

  “What’s the last you heard from them?” I asked.

  “They’re going through what they have termed the usual missing person protocols, but they also have forensic accountants tearing our paper lives apart.”

  “Why don’t you think that’s enough? The police investigation, I mean.”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  I looked up from my notepad, careful to keep my face neutral.

  “Why are you considering hiring outside help?” I asked. “Why am I here?”

  “To supplement the investigation. I thought that would be obvious.”

  I stood and straightened the cuffs of my shirt before beginning to wander to the back door.

  “Nice yard,” I said, peering out from under my hand. “Is that a shed?”

  “Home office, actually.” She stayed on her couch, giving her surroundings a disparaging glance. “We haven’t had any work done to this place in ages.”

  “The office, yours or his?”

  “His.”

  I stepped towards the mantle.

  “Just the one child?” I asked, nodding towards a picture.

  She nodded.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Aiden is at, uh”—she struggled to remember the name and her nose scrunched for a second as she dug deep, before finally—“I think it’s called Gosh.”

  I glanced up.

  “The comic shop?”

  She nodded again.

  “I know it,” I said. “Great Russell, near the museum.”

  “Not anymore. Moved to Soho a couple years back.”

  “Hunh. I haven’t been for a while. My daughter loves that place, though.”

  “Perhaps they’ve crossed paths there,” she said.

  I continued to inspect the mantle and its accompanying family arcana. “Not likely,” I murmured.

  “Why not?”

  I gave her a look, quick but direct. She looked away. Message received. My own fault, really. It just kind of came out, a personal detail, when kids and comic books were broached.

  “How is he holding up with all this?” I asked.

  “He’s OK. Hanging in there.”

  “How old?”

  “13.”

  “Tough age,” I mused.

  “And not a tough kid,” she added.

  I smiled a little at that, not unkindly. I sat back down.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked. “I’d have thought you’d want to get moving on this quickly.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  Her lips, flat until that point, moved up a bit, but it was not a happy smile.

  “Very good, Mr. Grayle,” she said.

  I shrugged. “So I’ll ask again: why am I here?”

  She sighed and stepped away to the kitchen, she returned with two Cokes, handing me one as she popped the tab on her own. I laid my can down, unopened, on a nearby coaster.

  “It’s possible that I have not been completely forthright with the police,” she finally said as she resumed her perch on the couch.

  “I would advise against holding back from them,” I said.

  She looked bemused.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” she said.

  “I’m not easily excitable. Look, Mrs. Duclos—”

  “Annie,” she corrected.

  “Annie,” I continued. “The police are actually quite good at this. Lots of people try to outsmart them and end up finding out they weren’t as clever as they thought they were. These cops are going to rip your husband’s life apart and find out pretty much everything about him, both what’s on paper and what’s not. So, if I were you, I’d save myself a lot of money and not hire me. I’d also save myself a lot of hassle and not get jammed up on a withholding evidence charge.”

  “Funny, I had imagined that someone in your line of work would hold the police in a bit more…disdain.”

  “Get to know me a bit. I like everyone.”

  “Be that as it may,” she said. “I’d still like to hire you.”

  “Let’s hear the why, please. I imagine it has something to do with him taking off without a word and, I’m guessing, leaving you high and dry, bank-wise.”

  “Your sources are very good, as are your instincts. I imagine that’s a big part of the reason you were recommended to me.”

  “Well, I don’t really have any hobbies, so I’ve had more energy to dedicate to my career. It’s finally paying off.”

  She got up and drifted towards the mantle. I caught her eyes flicking towards the family photos. She was working up to spilling it, but clearly needed a bit of inspiration.

  “My husband, Yannick, is a shrewd man. He spent years handling money for a wide range of clients, some of whom were astonishingly wealthy. There were the standard tax havens and trusts, of course, but also some money that had to be…cleaned up a bit. He charged a lot more for that.”

  “I can imagine.”

  If she felt anything resembling shame, she was already coming across as someone who would go to the grave before admitting it.

  “And he was also a shrewd investor himself,” she continued. “He had been using clients’ money to buy up large shares in companies, then dumping the stock for quick profit and moving the original money back.”

  “You think someone found out? Maybe a client? That’s why he’s cut and run?”

  She shook her head.

  “His name isn’t on anything. And the money is in a Swiss account.”

  “How much are we talking about? This, well, shadow money?”

  She picked at a hangnail. Sighed.

  “About four million pounds,” she said.

  Jesus.

  “And it’s still there?” I asked, trying hard to match her stony vibe.

  “Yes.”

  “Wait. Hang on. So, how much money do you have?”

  She pulled her phone from her pocket, opened her banking app and held it out.

  Under CHEQUING: It said £348.65.

  Under SAVINGS: £14.32.

  “Well,” I said. “You’re gonna have to dip into that Swiss account.”

  “That is… complicated.”

  “How so?”

  “Only my husband has the account details,” she said. “He didn’t even write them down. Too risky, he said. He has it all memorized.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He was an avid fan of puzzles and games,” she said, and her tone suggested that even in these circumstances she still found her husband’s hobbies trying. “So, as you can see, there is a certain urgency to finding him.”

  “No kidding. You have anyone who can help you out?”

  She shook her head.

  “All on our own,” she said. “It’s quite serious. We could lose the house. My son will have to leave his school.”

  She didn’t sound sad or even bitter. I was starting to think Mrs. Duclos would be all righ
t even without four million, but that would be in the long term. The short term, well—that is why somebody like me is in a place like this.

  “You’re sure no one knew about this?” I asked. “You seem pretty confident that he is alive and on the run, and not the more obvious answer.”

  “You mean, that he is dead?”

  I nodded.

  “My husband was preternaturally boring,” she said. “He was far too careful to have enemies. But he did have…moods.”

  “Define ‘moods.’”

  “This isn’t the first time he’s done this,” she said. “But it is the first time he has been gone so long.”

  “You mean, just disappear?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Just …gone.”

  We fell into a silence, one I let hang for a bit.

  “OK, I’m interested,” I finally said.

  “I’m hoping we can negotiate some form of payment plan.”

  “Yeah, I have an idea about that. That four million, how much of it is legit? That Yannick earned and not, uh…”

  “Stole?”

  “Well, I was going to try and phrase it a bit more diplomatically, but sure: Stole.”

  She considered for a few seconds.

  “Probably a third.”

  “Your guy works at that level of finance for that long and only managed to hold onto that much?”

  She looked at me with a mix of sadness and amusement, like a parent trying to explain something painfully obvious to a doltish child.

  “Life is expensive, Mr. Grayle. Sometimes, it’s as simple as that.”

  “Your lives, you mean.”

  “Those are the only lives I can worry about right now.”

  I nodded, mulling it over.

  “All right. If I take this case my job will be to find your husband before the cops do, and get you access to that money so you can keep your nice house and keep your kid in a nice school. Correct?”

  She nodded.

  “OK. Assuming I meet those expectations, what’s the offer?”

  Unsurprisingly, but still to her credit, she didn’t even blink. No hesitation whatsoever.

  “The offer is 25 percent. I will sign over a quarter of whatever is in that account to you.”

  “So… a million pounds?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Still, that voice. Flat, giving away nothing. “Roughly. One million pounds sterling.”

  I considered this. The truth is, there were other options. I could offer an actual payment plan, attempt to squeeze out a sizable retainer up front—I take credit cards—or simply say no. Walk away. Saying “yes” meant I was running a big risk—I could put in a lot of work here and still end up with nothing if her husband managed to stay hidden.