by Marti Green
“Thank you,” Charly said. “I needed that.” She got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, saying, “I’m going to take a shower now.”
Ben got out of bed, too. Charly had dumped her clothes on a chair, and he went to hang them up for her. He picked up her skirt and blouse and saw a manila envelope underneath. He couldn’t help himself. The shower was still on; Charly wouldn’t know. He pulled out the document inside and saw it was a copy of Rick’s trust. Quickly, he glanced through it. There were a few charitable bequests, but except for 10 percent of the business going to Manning, everything else went to Charly. Just as he expected. He didn’t mind Manning getting 10 percent. It only gave him a seat at the table, not much of a voice to go with it. When he reached the end, he noted the name of the attorney who’d witnessed the trust. He looked again at the envelope and saw the name of the law firm he was with. He grabbed his phone and jotted down both names.
Perfect, he thought. He now knew just where to send Mallory to settle Rick’s estate.
The next night, Ben was surprised by a phone call from Jeff Mullin.
“I need a favor,” he said.
What the hell is he doing calling me at home? It was just lucky that Charly was late getting back from her father’s place. “What do you need?”
“Another advance. Maybe five thousand dollars?”
“I just gave you ten thousand last month. You blew through that already?”
“I, uh, some things came up. Some expenses.” He lowered his voice. “I really need it, man. Help me out.”
“What’s going to happen when the fifty grand is gone? You going to keep calling me?”
“No, man, nothing like that. We have a deal. I, uh, just need some of that early.”
Reluctantly, Ben agreed. He couldn’t risk Mullin complaining to Clark. Not when Rick was so close to dying. He could practically feel Rick’s money running through his hands. After, when it was all over, he’d worry about Mullin. And, if Mullin got too needy, if he demanded more when his cut was gone, Ben would take care of him himself. Nobody would miss a worn-out heroin addict.
“Tomorrow night. Same place, same time.”
It finally happened. The once-mighty Rick Jensen passed away. Ben wished he could feel more sympathy for the guy, but it just wasn’t there. Still, he needed to keep up the pretense with Charly, so he put on a good act. He accompanied her to the funeral home and helped her pick out a casket and make the necessary arrangements. He went through their photo albums to pick out pictures of Rick and the family to display at the funeral home. He went to Rick’s apartment to pick out a suit for him to be buried in. And every time Charly burst into tears and seemed inconsolable, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly.
They would have a viewing at the funeral home for two days, between 2:00 p.m. and 5:00 p.m., and again between 7:00 p.m. and 9:00 p.m. There were simply too many employees and friends in the financial industry who wanted to pay their respects, as well as family and longtime friends, to limit it to one day. Charly’s grandfather had flown up a few days before Rick passed, and Ben’s parents and grandmother had come up from Boca Raton as well.
It was good for Charly to have her grandfather with her. She’d always been close to the old man. Herman wasn’t as overtly negative toward Ben as Rick had been, but Ben didn’t actually feel any warmth from him. Still, Herman helped keep Charly distracted from the pain she felt.
Three days after Rick’s death, they held the first viewing at Frederick Canton Funeral Chapel on West Eighty-Second Street. Rick had deteriorated so much over the past three months that Charly had chosen to keep the casket closed. Her family was small—her father had no siblings. She had an aunt and uncle on her mother’s side and two cousins, one of whom lived in London and sent his condolences.
The room at the funeral home overflowed with flowers, sent by Rick’s many friends, the men and women who worked with him, and by his numerous clients. A twenty-by-twenty-four-inch picture of Rick was sitting on an easel, and framed pictures of him with his wife and Charly were placed on a table. By 3:00 p.m. it was standing room only, and the visiting guests spilled into the corridor. All of them, upon seeing Charly, told her what a wonderful man her father was and how he’d be missed. If Ben was within earshot, he had to choke back the bile in his throat.
The evening viewing and the next day’s viewings were just as crowded. On the third day, the funeral was held at Park Avenue United Methodist Church, and the pews were filled. Ben, Ted Manning, and two other executives from Jensen Capital Management were pallbearers. Charly sat in the front row with her grandfather, his arm tightly around her shoulders. After the minister’s service, at least a dozen people gave eulogies. The ground at the cemetery was too frozen to bury Rick, so after the church service, about fifty of those closest to him and Charly were invited back to Rick’s apartment, where food and drinks awaited.
The next day, Charly’s grandfather left to return to Florida, and Ben drove him to the airport. On his way back into Manhattan, he sent a text from his burner phone to Danny Clark. Three nights from tonight, Ben told him. I have Knicks tickets, and she’ll be alone in the house.
Consider it done, Clark texted back.
Ben slipped the phone back in his pocket, a smile on his face.
Three days later, on a Friday afternoon, Ben called Charly at the gallery. “Graham just called and invited me to a Knicks game—courtside seats courtesy of a business client. Would you mind terribly if I went?”
“No. Go ahead. I could use some time alone.”
He knew she’d understand. Although Jensen Capital Management had a luxury box at Madison Square Garden, sitting in the box didn’t come with the sweat and sounds of being on the floor. Only once before had he scored a seat there.
Ben did go to the Knicks game with Graham, although it was Ben who’d gotten the courtside tickets through a client. That put him in the view of the cameras from time to time, even though he wouldn’t need to account for his whereabouts to the police. Still, on the off chance Charly turned on the game—which was highly unlikely, since she hated basketball—she might catch a glimpse of him there.
He loved all sports, but especially basketball and especially the Knicks, even though they ended up disappointing him every season. Normally, he’d be engrossed in the game, screaming at the good plays and booing the bad calls. Tonight, he barely saw the players. He kept thinking about what was happening at his home. Along with the last payment, Ben had given a key to Clark, with instructions for him to enter from the rear door. Charly was likely to be in bed early, and their bedroom faced the front. She wouldn’t hear the back door open, and if Clark was quiet enough, she wouldn’t hear him creep up the stairs. With luck, she’d even be asleep. He hadn’t asked too many questions about how Clark would kill her; he just knew she’d be slain in the house, then carried away in a trash bag. He hoped it wouldn’t be painful for her. He wasn’t a monster. He didn’t want her to suffer.
The game dragged on, going into overtime before it ended in a Knicks loss. When he exited the Garden, he quickly flagged down a cab and headed uptown to his home. The master-bedroom window on the second floor was dark. Did that mean it had gone as planned? Or did Clark take Ben’s money, then bail on him?
Ben turned his key in the lock and, once inside, headed right to his bedroom. He turned on the light and saw . . . nothing. Charly wasn’t in the bed, although the covers were unmade. He looked around the room and saw no sign of a struggle. He checked Charly’s jewelry drawer. She always took off her four-carat, square-shaped diamond engagement ring before getting into bed, sleeping with just her diamond wedding band. It was there, in its blue Tiffany box. He backtracked down to the first floor and scrutinized the rooms. Nothing was out of place. Good, he thought. It had to have gone smoothly.
Just one piece was left. He needed to see pictures of Charly’s dead body.
CHAPTER 24
It’s done. Ben told me last night that he’d returned home,
and Charly was gone. The only thing left is to wait for the pictures—pictures of her dead body. Any day now, my role will begin.
Jake picked me up for our weekly lunch date at 9:30 a.m. He’d refused to explain why we were leaving so early, insisting he wanted to surprise me. I got in his truck, and we drove south for twenty minutes and then across the Mid-Hudson bridge. The Hudson River looked stark, the leaves gone from the bordering trees, the air colorless. When we got to the other side, Jake turned north, onto Route 9, and drove for another fifteen minutes before pulling into a driveway, past a stanchion that said VANDERBILT MANSION NATIONAL HISTORIC SITE.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s an extraordinary example of American Beaux-Arts design. It’s something to see just by itself, but there’s an exhibit going on now of paintings by the artist Angela Fraleigh. I don’t know if you’ve heard of her?”
I hadn’t, but there were so many talented artists that I was still learning about.
“Well, this exhibit consists of portraits of female heads, seen from behind. From what I understand, there’s not a lot written about the women who lived at Vanderbilt, and these paintings are supposed to reflect their elusiveness. I always see you drawing people, and I thought you’d enjoy it.”
We pulled into the parking lot, and Jake purchased tickets for us.
“I usually come here in the spring and summer to look at the gardens. They’re exquisite,” Jake said.
It seemed that was a word that could be used over and over at this site. Everything was exquisite. The mansion, built between 1896 and 1899 by wealthy industrialist Frederick Vanderbilt on six hundred acres of riverfront property, had fifty-four rooms. He and his wife, Louise, had used it as a vacation home. The paintings, by Ms. Fraleigh, were exquisite in their simplicity—pared down to four elements: background, hair, skin, and clothing. There was no reference to class and no way to discern whether the women were wealthy or servants. Even without the gardens in bloom, the grounds—especially the view of the Catskill Mountains across the Hudson River—were breathtaking.
As I walked through the lavishly furnished rooms of the mansion and strolled the manicured grounds, all purchased by a man with extraordinary wealth, I kept thinking to myself, I wonder if he was happy?
We left the mansion a little after one, then drove up the road a little farther to the Culinary Institute of America.
“Here’s my second surprise,” Jake said.
“You’re going to give me a cooking lesson?”
He laughed. “No, silly. The student chefs here practice in restaurants open to the public. One’s French, one’s Italian, and we’re eating in the one called American Bounty. It’s a farm-to-table restaurant, using locally grown ingredients.” We walked inside, he gave the maître d’ his name, and we were led to our table. We spent the next hour and a half over a leisurely lunch, chatting easily, laughing often.
When Jake dropped me off back home, I felt overcome with a feeling of sadness. In a few days, I would pack my belongings and return to Manhattan. I knew I’d miss this house. I’d come to think of it as my own. Or in my dreamworld, the lovely country cottage where I’d return after my travels abroad. I would hate leaving it, especially so because it meant leaving Jake as well. He’d been so kind to me and had helped make the past few months go by quickly. I would miss him the most.
CHAPTER 25
Ben paced throughout the townhouse all day Saturday. He’d hoped to find the phone under the welcome mat outside his rear entrance by Saturday morning, the afternoon the latest. Now, it was Saturday evening, and still nothing.
Was it possible Mallory’s concerns about Clark had been justified? Had he taken Ben’s money and then . . . and then . . . he couldn’t figure what. Charly was gone, so he must have taken her. Was she negotiating with him for her life? Offering to double, maybe triple, his fee? Or had they both hightailed it to the police, who would show up any moment to arrest him? No, he was being paranoid. Clark needed to make sure her body would never be discovered. He’d probably just driven some distance to ensure it. That must be it. Tomorrow, the pictures would be waiting for him. They had to be.
He fixed himself a double Scotch, downed it in two gulps, then poured another. He turned on the TV and sipped it slowly. Yes, he was just being paranoid.
Sunday morning, there were still no pictures. He was finding it hard to breathe. After pacing back and forth over the living room rug for an hour, he knew he needed to get out of the house. Waiting was making him sick. He called Lisa. “Can I come over?” he asked.
“You’re never here on Sundays. Where’s Charly?”
“At her father’s, going through his papers.”
“I was going to meet a friend for lunch today.”
“Cancel.”
She hesitated then, and with her voice soft, said, “Ben, maybe’s it’s time we moved on from this. You have a wife. You should be with her. She needs you now.”
“NO!” Ben shouted into the phone. “Not now. Don’t do this now. I need you.”
Another hesitation, then a sigh. “Okay. Come over.”
It was dark by the time Ben returned home, and the first thing he did was make a beeline to the back door. He lifted up the doormat and froze. Still nothing. If it didn’t arrive by the morning, he would need to have Mallory call Sandy, Charly’s assistant at the gallery, and beg off coming in. The flu or some such. How could it not be here? Something had to have gone wrong. Did they go to the police? Am I being watched right now? Or did Charly convince him to turn the tables, to kill me instead? Ben thought about calling Jeff Mullin; maybe he knew what Clark was up to. He had his hand on his phone when he stopped. Maybe they’re already tapping my phone? Maybe they’re waiting to hear me admit my involvement? He put his phone away. He took out the good Scotch this time—the Glenlivet—and filled the crystal tumbler, then kept refilling it until he passed out on the couch.
Ben awoke when he heard a loud noise out back. His head was throbbing, and the TV was still running. He glanced at his watch—2:00 a.m. He stumbled to the back door, opened it, and looked around. No one. He glanced down at the welcome mat and saw a bulge underneath and quickly pulled it up. He tore open the manila envelope that had been placed there, and finally, there was the phone, along with his wife’s diamond wedding band. Ben hadn’t even asked Clark to return the ring. For a hit man, he has scruples. Also inside was a small white envelope. He opened it, and a small key dropped into his hand. A note said, Leave the balance at Box 2119, Mail Connections, 350 W. 41st Street.
He grabbed everything and returned to the den. His hands trembled as he opened up the photos icon on the phone. The first picture was of Charly, in the bedroom upstairs, her eyes open in a fixed stare, a red mark around her neck. He felt himself relax. It had gone as planned. He swiped to see the next picture, then gagged, and ran to the bathroom and threw up. On the camera was a picture of Charly’s decapitated head, and next to it, her dismembered hands, the ring that had just been returned still on her finger.
CHAPTER 26
Ben called me early Monday morning to say he’d gotten the proof that Charly was dead. He told me to close up the house and call a limousine service to drive me into the city. I realized money didn’t matter to him, but that seemed like such a waste when a bus in town would take me into Manhattan. Still, I suppose it wouldn’t do for Charlotte Gordon to be pulling a suitcase through Port Authority, so I did as Ben asked.
Before I left, I turned off the main water supply and made sure the sheets were clean, the bed was neatly made, and the dishes were put away. The house looked like Ben’s parents had left it. Then, I faced my hardest task. I called Jake.
“I’m leaving High Falls,” I told him.
“When?”
“Today.”
There was silence on the phone for a beat. “Are you going back to the city?”
“No. I’m heading to California. I’ve been offered a job there.” I figured I might as well keep my exc
uses simple. I’d used that before with Brian and Gus, and it had worked fine.
Another beat of silence. “I thought we were starting something. Something special.”
I wanted to reach out through the phone and hug him, tell him he was right, that I did have feelings for him. Instead, I said, my voice soft, “No, Jake. I told you at the start that it was just a friendship.”
I spotted the limo driver pulling up to the house and quickly ended the call. All the way into the city, I felt miserable. Jake was the last person I wanted to hurt, yet I knew I had.
Two hours later, I pulled up to Ben’s townhouse. The driver brought my suitcase up the front steps, then left when Ben opened the door. He didn’t look good at all.
“Are you okay?” I asked once I was inside.
Ben nodded. “It’s just . . . the pictures of her. They were disturbing. It’s hard to get them out of my head.” He took my suitcase and brought it into one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor. “You should have everything you need here. Get settled. I’m heading into the office.”
Like the rest of the house, the room was decorated beautifully. On top of the queen-size bed was a coverlet that had a floral top in colors of brown, gold, and black and a gathered skirt in a simpler flowered design, trimmed with black lace. A dozen assorted pillows in the same colors were piled up under the beige, tufted, upholstered headboard. A Persian rug covered most of the wood floor. The room had its own bathroom and a bow window overlooking the backyard.
I unpacked my clothes and decided to explore the kitchen. It was a cook’s dream. It had a Wolf range and built-in Sub-Zero refrigerator, two Miele dishwashers, and a center island that was ten feet long, with a sink in the middle. The appliances were all stainless steel, and the cabinets were a warm off-white. There was a full set of All-Clad Copper Core cookware, and on the counter, a Thermomix food processor and a Hobart mixer. I’d worked in enough restaurants over the years to appreciate the quality and expense of this kitchen.