“You seem in a hurry. Where—”
“Get in.” She pushes him inside. “There’s no time to explain.” Sophie gasps, catches her reflection in the elevator mirror, and realizes she looks like she’s just been thrown out of a tornado. Then she looks Oliver over in his crisp suit and dress shoes. “Dammit.” She makes a sound of exasperated disbelief and quickly takes his suit jacket off, then flings it to the floor.
“What the—”
She slides his tie through his collar and yanks his white button-down shirt from the confines of his pants.
Confusion scrunches up Oliver’s face. “Not that I mind, but why are you undressing me in an elevator?”
“Because you look like you.”
“And I shouldn’t?”
She unbuttons the shirt down to his navel, showing his finely toned muscles and thin, dark chest hair for all too see. “Whoops, I got carried away.” She closes it up, leaving two buttons undone. She still isn’t convinced so she ruffles his hair, runs her claws across his scalp, bringing goosebumps down from his neck to his toes.
“Sophie, seriously, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m disguising you.”
“Who am I supposed to be? James Bond after sex?”
“Any normal looking civilian.”
“Well, do I get to undress you?”
“No.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Just act natural. Play dumb if you have to.”
“I’m sorry. You said play dumb?” He is appalled. “How insulting.”
“Follow my lead, okay?”
Sophie steers Oliver outside, then into a cab.
“Is this a joke?”
“Oliver, come on. We have to act quickly!” She grabs his arm and, with all her might, pulls him toward her. Sophie glances down at a map of the city and a moving red dot on her phone, and tells the driver their destination.
“Golden Locomotive on the move?” Oliver sees the text message in a banner across the tracking app on her phone.
“It’s Sarah.”
“Please, tell me you didn’t put a tracker on her.”
“Of course not!” She makes a scoffing sound like she’s offended. “I put it on her phone.”
He sighs. “Why?”
“Why else? To track her location. We just got back from Mexico and she’s gone off to the mall? Nuh-uh, boyfrien’. Pay attention, Oliver.”
He eyes her with pure lust. “You’re feisty today.”
“Focus. If her phone, and hence Sarah, leaves its given parameters, my phone messages me an alert. Neat, huh?”
Sophie asks the driver if they can go any faster. He, of course, complains. “Sure, lady. Let me make the cars disappear.”
“Be nice,” Oliver says, pulling out cash from his wallet and handing it to the driver.
The cabbie slams his foot on the pedal, tires squealing as he speeds away.
“Why are you smiling?” Sophie asks, noting a peculiar grin taking over his face.
“Would you believe I’ve never ridden in a taxi?”
“Like in New York?”
“Like in my life.”
She snickers, then puts her hand over her mouth.
“What?”
“I popped your cab ride cherry.”
When they reach the destination, Sophie and Oliver look out the window at vibrant Bryant Park, and unsurprisingly, a mass of people.
Oliver turns to Sophie. “Now what?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“I’m following your lead, remember?”
“It’s way too crowded.”
“I agree. What do you want to do?”
“Well, we didn’t come here for nothing.”
“What if someone recognizes us?”
“We will just have to hope they don’t.”
“And if they do?”
She shrugs. “We’ll say we came to have lunch, listen to music, I don’t know. I’m sure you can think of something.”
He runs the plan against his mental notebook. “I’m asking you questions, not because I don’t know the answers, but because I want you to know them.”
Sophie looks at the red dot on her phone. “Let’s just do it.”
His sigh is exaggerated. “Sir, I’m going to need your hat and glasses.” He points at the blue cap sitting on the dashboard.
“What?”
“Go Yankees!”
He slides another bill over his shoulder.
“Are you serious, man?”
“I don’t kid about money.”
Sophie scoots out of the car and Oliver follows with his new accessories.
“If you wanted a Yankees hat, why didn’t you say so?” Sophie teases.
“Very funny. Let’s roll.”
“OKAY, ACCORDING TO this GPS thingamajig, Sarah should be somewhere around here.” She scans her surroundings and all the bodies in motion everywhere she looks. “Aha! Gotcha! Okay, I see her.” She turns to find Oliver helping himself to a bowl of stir-fried rice from a food kiosk. “Hello, what are you doing?”
He pays and thanks the vendor. “Grabbing some food. Do you want anything, Helvia?”
Sophie has to laugh. Her stomach gurgles. “No, thanks.”
They walk slowly and stealthily into Bryant Park and along the pathway, hugging the edge lined by lush bushes and trees.
“Helvia, really?”
“I wasn’t going to say your name. It’s Latin for blond hair.”
“You speak Latin, now?”
“No one speaks Latin, sweetheart. It’s a dead language.”
“What’s Latin for smartass?”
He only smiles, putting a spoonful of rice into his mouth.
“Okay, so what do I call you?” she asks.
“Whatever you want. You came up with a code name for Sarah.”
“Hmm. Orange Juice.”
“Orange Juice?”
“Yeah, you know. Oliver James? OJ?”
“Really? You have decided to go with Orange Juice?”
“What? It’s funny.”
“I can’t believe this. You could’ve gone with The Shredder, Night Watcher, or Blue Bandana.”
“Please, tell me you’re not talking about the Ninja Turtles. Wow, Oliver.”
He’s loved them since he was a kid and still secretly does. It is the reason why he first took up Karate, to be like the turtles. “What? A guy can’t have a guilty pleasure?”
“Okay, so which one’s your favorite turtle?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“That’s all right. I’ll figure it out.”
They reach a bench in between flowerbeds and sit. Sophie gazes straight ahead watching Sarah. “A man just sat beside her. He’s handing her something.”
“It isn’t anyone I recognize.”
“It’s that reporter...photographer. Elliott King.”
“I think your imagination is getting away with you.”
“It’s not my imagination, Oliver!”
“Yeah? How do you know it’s him?”
“I just know.”
“The cop in you?”
“I’m serious. Don’t you ever feel that way about something or someone?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“Let’s focus on the task at hand.”
Sophie watches her target. “Okay, he’s on the move.”
“Let’s find out who this guy is.”
They quickly get up as Sarah goes in the opposite direction of where John Doe goes.
“Elliott.” Oliver says his name to spark his attention. It does. Sophie was right. It’s Elliot King. “How’s it going? Can I have a word with you?”
“He’s going to run,” Sophie says.
“No, he’s not. Elliott!”
Elliot dashes like he’s Sonic the Hedgehog on a racetrack.
“Yeah, okay, he’s going to run,” says Oliver.
Elliot
t is fast, but Sophie runs five miles every morning and Oliver is practically the poster boy for perfect health. The chase is over as they turn a corner into a small alley.
“Okay, okay! I give up!” shouts Elliot, scared out of his wits like a cornered mouse.
“I just want to talk,” Oliver says, walking slowly toward him.
Sophie leans against the wall, her lungs on fire, and slides to the ground as though she has run her legs out.
“Babe, are you okay?”
Her body is experiencing a whole new level of pain.
“Sophie.”
“Uh huh. Yeah! I’m good.”
Oliver is silent for a moment, studying her. Then he focuses on Elliot. “How much?”
Elliot just looks at Sophie, blue eyes filled with wonder.
Oliver snaps his finger like he’s persuading a kid to look at the camera. “Hey, hey! Eyes on me.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never seen her so close.”
He takes a few steps closer to him, his face tightening with anger. “How much is she worth to you?”
“A photo of her in shorts brings in five-thou. You and her gets me ten.”
“And why do you get the best shots before anyone else?”
“I got a source, okay?”
“Sarah.” Sophie struggles to breathe properly. “Sarah tells him where I’m going to be. She gave him those photos of us in Mexico,” she says, sucking at the air as if she had been underwater. “She must’ve had a camera on her.”
“Sophie, why are you wheezing like that?”
She rubs her thighs, her head resting on the wall. “Because I just ran six miles.”
“Now? It was hardly a yard.”
“In the morning.”
He rubs his mouth.
“I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.”
Oliver continues his interrogation. “How long has this been going on?”
Elliot shrugs. “I don’t know. Like a year. She doesn’t let down.”
Sophie manages to get up from the floor and face Elliot. “You can’t work with Sarah anymore.”
“It’s not up to me. Hey, I make a decent living.” He looks at Oliver. “I mean compared to you, I’m a nobody. But I have a wife and kids.”
“I’ll give you a good shot if you stop working with her.”
“Sophie,” Oliver rebukes.
“Oh yeah? What’s in it for me?”
“For one thing, you don’t go to jail for breaking and entering.”
“What kind of picture are we talking about?”
“Exclusive. Something no one has ever seen.”
T W E N T Y - F I V E
* * *
The Elephant in the Room
“SOMETHING NO ONE has ever seen?”
“If you can’t beat ’em join ’em, right? If Elliot is not going to stop following me around, then we will at least decide what story he’s going to run. It’s about time we take the reins and slow the horses down. I’ll think of something.”
Sophie darts off the penthouse elevator and down the foyer. Oliver follows.
“Let me handle it. Sarah, I mean.”
She huffs slightly. “No, Oliver. I’m angry and I will handle it. Sarah!” she shouts. Her voice is barely a peep in that sprawling house, so she takes a deep breath and tries again. “Sarah!”
Thea pops out from the kitchen, spooked. “Is everything all right?”
“Where’s Sarah?” Oliver asks.
“I haven’t seen her,” she replies nervously, rubbing her hands over her apron. “Maybe she hasn’t come back.”
Sophie looks at the tracker app on her phone. “She’s here.”
Oliver is making his way to the sofa after helping himself to a glass of cognac. Sophie intercepts him and snatches the drink out of his hand just as he’s bringing it to his lips. “I need this more than you.”
He reclaims the glass. “No, you don’t. You need to eat something.”
She coughs as she tastes it. “Phew! That’s strong stuff.” She thumps her chest.
“No kidding, Sherlock. It’s liquor, not water.”
She makes a face at him. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Hey, guys. You called me?” Sarah walks timidly into the living room, with her head downcast.
“Yes, I did. It’s time we talk about the elephant in the room,” Sophie says.
Sarah looks at Oliver, who offers her a reassuring smile. He has no idea how much that small gesture means to her. She is a sucker for someone showing her any sort of kindness.
“I’m sorry? I don’t…?”
“The truth,” Sophie says. “Tell us the damn truth.”
“I don’t see an elephant.”
“Forget the elephant. Everything you’re not telling us, we need to know right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sarah, I don’t want to keep playing this game anymore. It’s been three weeks. What’s it going to be?”
“Uh, can I get some Nesquik?”
“What?”
“I…I can’t focus.”
God, help her. She will go mad. “Coming right up.”
“With a straw please.”
“Take it easy, Sarah,” Oliver says. “Sophie only wants answers.” And to prove that you’re a liar, but that’s another story.
“You’re nice to me.”
“Maybe you’re not used to people being nice to you.”
“I’m not used to people.”
Sophie returns with a glass.
“Thank you,” Sarah says, quickly sucking on the straw.
Oliver motions with his free hand for Sophie to sit on the sofa next to him.
“We know about Elliott King,” Sophie says. “You tip him off about my whereabouts and walk away with a nice fat cut.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “And what is wrong with that?”
“What is wro—? Are you joking me?”
“We both win, Sophie. You get the publicity. I get the cash.”
“Oh, you’re quite the helper, aren’t you?” she shoots back.
“Please, don’t shout. I’m not raising my voice. It hurts my ears.”
Sophie throws her hands up in the air in surrender and looks at Oliver.
Now you want me to handle it? he wonders. “Sarah, Elliott broke into our house,” he says. “He committed a serious offense.”
“But I didn’t tell him to break in.”
“You put all of us in danger nonetheless.”
“No, I didn’t. Elliott is harmless. He would never hurt you.”
“Yet you had a gun when I found you.”
“It wasn’t a real gun, Ollie. I don’t particularly like guns.”
Ollie? Sophie fumes. “Do you own any?” she asks.
“Why is that important?”
“Sarah, real gun or not, you were scared,” says Oliver. “You wanted to protect yourself.”
“Yes.”
“From what?”
“I thought they were going to shoot missiles at me.”
“Who?”
“Please, don’t be mad at me. I don’t understand why you’re mad at me. Celebrities text photographers and get paid a percentage of the picture sales all the time. They show up at beaches or the latest hangout spot.”
“Sarah, you need to find a different job. You can’t work with Elliott anymore.”
“Stop talking to her like she’s a child!” Sophie explodes like a volcano, not even attempting to control her voice. “If you treat her like she’s fragile, she will be fragile. You are not a child, Sarah. You know exactly what’s going on here.”
“I don’t feel so good,” she says. “I think I’m going to go lie down.”
Sophie gets a call on her phone from Kim who immediately tells her it might be a good idea to turn on the TV. “It’s Bridges. He’s being interviewed by Jimmy Slayer.”
“What?”
“Just turn on the TV.”
Sophie rise
s from the couch to grab the remote and flips the channel until John’s image in a gray suit and tie hits her like a meteorite falling out of the sky. Jimmy Slayer is the nation’s golden boy, popular media sensation, and owner of the celebrity tabloid site Slayinator.com, where he publishes most of his interviews.
“…give John the opportunity to describe his public image as he sees it. We’re here in the US Marshal’s office, in a visitation room with John Henry Bridges…”
Sophie, Oliver, and Sarah just stand there in a semi-circle around the TV.
“So who are you, John? We hardly know anything about you.” Jimmy sits grim-faced and serious in a leather chair opposite him.
In the other matching chair, John Henry Bridges smiles for the camera like a real charmer. “Ask me anything you want, Jimmy.”
“Tell me about your childhood.”
“I was born in Arlington, Virginia. My parents were both caring and loving Christians. Dad sold houses for a living. We were very well off financially, so my mother stayed home and watched over my sisters and me. We attended church regularly, went to private schools, involved ourselves in community activities.”
“It sounds like you had everything.”
“I would say so. Growing up, I knew I was different. I never cried or cared much about anything. My parents knew this, so when I showed interest in something for the first time, they told me to follow my dreams. Frankly, I believe that’s where they fucked up—I’m sorry, am I allowed to say that?”
“That’s okay, John. What were your dreams?”
“Well, I had a classmate in junior year named Doug. I don’t know where he is now…probably dead or in prison. Anyway, one day, Doug stabs the teacher with a pencil. Everyone freaks out, right? Not me. I was captivated.”
“You were captivated by your classmate stabbing a teacher with a pencil?”
“It’s not like I wanted to do it myself. I just wanted to get to know more about Doug and people like Doug. Why had he felt the need to do it? I wanted to know. And so when I got home that day, I said to my parents, ‘Mom. Dad. I want to study brains.”
“How did your folks react to that?”
“‘Go right ahead, son.’ Looking back, I know they were excited as much as I was.”
“And you were what, sixteen or seventeen at the time?”
“More or less.”
“Is that what made you want to become a psychiatrist?”
“Yes, I’m fascinated by how the brain works.”
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