by Harlan Coben
They hit the steps and took them down two levels. Hester started leading him toward the back of the building. She picked up her mobile.
“You at the Eggloo on Mulberry, Tim? Good. Five minutes.”
“What’s going on?” Simon asked.
“Odd.”
“What?”
“You keep talking,” Hester said, “when I specifically told you not to.”
They headed down a dark corridor. Hester led the way. She turned right, then right again. Eventually they reached an employee entrance. People were flashing badges to come in, but Hester just barreled through to exit.
“You can’t do that,” a guard said.
“Arrest us.”
He didn’t. A moment later, they were outside. They crossed Baxter Street and cut through the green of Columbus Park, passed three volleyball courts, and ended up on Mulberry Street.
“You like ice cream?” Hester asked.
Simon did not reply. He pointed to his closed mouth.
Hester sighed. “You have permission to speak.”
“Yes.”
“Eggloo has a Campfire S’mores ice cream sandwich that’s to die for. I told my driver to grab two for the ride.”
The black Mercedes was waiting in front. The driver had the ice cream sandwiches. He handed one to Hester.
“Thanks, Tim. Simon?”
Simon shook off the other. Hester shrugged. “All yours, Tim.” She took a bite of her own and slipped into the backseat. Simon got in next to her.
“My daughter—” Simon began.
“The police never found her.”
“How about Aaron Corval?”
“Who?”
“The guy I punched.”
“Whoa whoa, don’t even joke around about that. You mean the guy you allegedly punched.”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever. Not even in private.”
“Okay, I got it. Do you know where—?”
“He took off too.”
“What do you mean, ‘took off’?”
“What part of ‘took off’ is confusing? He ran away before the police could learn anything about him. Which is good for you. No victim, no crime.” She took another bite and wiped the corner of her lips. “The case will go away soon enough, but…Look, I got a friend. Her name is Mariquita Blumberg. She’s a ballbuster—not a sweetheart like me. But she’s the best handler in the city. We need Mariquita to get on your PR campaign right away.”
The driver started up the car. The Mercedes started north and turned right on Bayard Street.
“PR campaign? Why would I need—?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute, but we don’t need the distraction right now. First tell me what happened. Everything. From beginning to end.”
He told her. Hester turned her small frame to face him. She was one of those people who raise the phrase “undivided attention” into an art form. She had been all energy and movement. Now that energy was more like a laser beam pointed directly at him. She was focusing on every word with an empathy so strong he could reach out and touch it.
“Oh man, I’m sorry,” Hester said when he finished. “That truly sucks.”
“So you understand.”
“I do.”
“I need to find Paige. Or Aaron.”
“I’ll check again with the detectives, but like I said, my understanding is that they both ran off.”
Another dead end. Simon’s body started to ache. Whatever defense mechanisms, whatever chemical responses that delay if not block pain were eroding in a hurry. Pain didn’t so much ebb through as flow in.
“So why do I need a PR campaign?” Simon asked.
Hester took out her mobile phone and started futzing with it. “Hate these things. So much information and so many uses, but mostly it ruins your life. You have kids, right? Well obviously. How many hours a day do they spend…” Her voice drifted off. “Not the time for that particular lecture. Here.”
Hester handed him the phone.
Simon saw that she’d brought up a YouTube video with 289,000 views. When he saw the screenshot preview and read the title, his heart sank:
PROSPERITY PUNCHES POVERTY
WALL STREET WALLOPS VAGABOND
DADDY WARBUCKS DESTROYS THE DESTITUTE
BROKER BOPS BUM
“HAVE” HITS “HAVE-NOT”
He flicked his eyes up at Hester, who gave him a sympathetic shrug. She reached across and tapped Play with her index finger. The video had been taken by someone with the screen name ZorraStiletto and posted two hours ago. ZorraStiletto had been panning up from three women—perhaps his wife and two daughters?—when some kind of disturbance drew his attention. The lens jerked to the right, regaining focus with ideal timing on a pompous-looking Simon—why the hell hadn’t he changed out of that suit or at least loosened the goddamn tie?—just as Paige was pulling away from him and Aaron was stepping up to get between them. It looked, of course, as though a rich, privileged, suited man was accosting (and maybe worse) a much younger woman, who was then being rescued by a stand-up homeless guy.
As the scared, fragile young woman cowered behind her savior’s back, the man in the suit started screaming. The young woman ran away. The man in the suit tried to push past the homeless guy and follow her. Simon knew, of course, what he was about to see. Still he watched, wide-eyed and hopeful, as though there were a chance that the suited man would not be moronic enough to actually rear back his fist and punch the brave homeless man straight in the face.
But that was exactly what happened.
There was blood as the kindly homeless Samaritan crumbled to the pavement. The uncaring rich man in the suit tried to step over the rubble of him, but the homeless Samaritan grabbed his leg. When an Asian man in a baseball cap—another Good Samaritan no doubt—entered the fray, the suited man elbowed him in the nose too.
Simon closed his eyes. “Oh man.”
“Yep.”
When Simon opened his eyes again, he ignored the cardinal rule for all articles and videos: Never ever read the comment section.
“Rich guys think they can get away with stuff like this.”
“He was going to rape that girl! Lucky that hero stepped in.”
“Daddy Warbucks should get life in jail. Period.”
“I bet Richie Rich gets off. If he was black, he would have been shot.”
“That guy who saved that girl is so brave. If the mayor lets this rich guy buy his way to freedom.”
“Good news,” Hester said. “You do have a few fans.” She took the phone, scrolled down, pointed.
“The homeless guy is probably on food stamps. Congrats to the suit for cleaning up the trash.”
“Maybe if that smelly meth bum gets a job instead of living off the dole, he won’t get decked.”
The profile avatars of his “supporters” had either eagles or American flags on them.
“Terrific,” Simon said. “The psychos are on my side.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. A few might be on the jury. Not that this is going to a jury. Or even a trial. Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Hit the Refresh button,” Hester said.
He wasn’t sure what she meant, so Hester reached across and hit the arrow at the top. The video reloaded. Hester pointed to the viewer count. It had jumped up from 289,000 views to 453,000 in the last, what, two minutes.
“Congrats,” Hester said. “You’re a viral hit.”
Chapter
Three
Simon stared out the window, letting the familiar green of the park blur in front of him. When the driver made the left off Central Park West onto West Sixty-Seventh Street, he heard Hester mutter, “Uh-oh.”
Simon turned.
News vans were double-parked in front of his apartment. Maybe two dozen protestors stayed behind blue wooden-horse barriers that read:
POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS
NYPD
“Where’s your wife?” Hester as
ked.
Ingrid. He had completely forgotten about her or what her reaction might be to all this. He also realized that he had no idea what time it was. He checked his watch. Five thirty p.m.
“At work.”
“She’s a pediatrician, right?”
He nodded. “At New York–Presbyterian at 168th Street.”
“What time does she finish?”
“Seven tonight.”
“Does she drive home?”
“She takes the subway.”
“Call her. Tim will pick her up. Where are your kids?”
“I don’t know.”
“Call them too. The firm has an apartment in midtown. You guys can stay there tonight.”
“We can get a hotel.”
Hester shook her head. “They’ll find you if you do that. The apartment will be better, and it’s not like we don’t charge.”
He said nothing.
“This too shall pass, Simon, if we don’t feed the fire. By tomorrow, the next day at the latest, the loonies will all be on to the newest outrage. America has zero attention span.”
He called Ingrid, but with her working in the emergency room today, it went directly into her voicemail. Simon left her a detailed message. Then he called Sam, who already knew all about it.
Sam said, “The video’s gotten over a million hits.” His son seemed both startled and impressed. “I can’t believe you punched out Aaron.” Then he repeated: “You.”
“I was just trying to get to your sister.”
“Everyone’s making it sound like you’re some rich bully.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Yeah I know.”
Silence.
“So this driver, Tim, will pick you up—”
“That’s okay. I’ll stay with the Bernsteins.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it okay with his parents?”
“Larry says it’s no problem. I’ll just go home with him after practice.”
“Okay, if you think that’s best.”
“It’ll just be easier.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. If you change your mind though…”
“Right, got it.” Then Sam said in a softer voice, “I saw…I mean, Paige in that video…she looked…”
More silence.
“Yeah,” Simon said. “I know.”
Simon tried his daughter Anya three times. No answer. Eventually he saw on his caller ID that she was calling him back. When he picked up though, it wasn’t Anya on the line.
“Hey, Simon, it’s Suzy Fiske.”
Suzy lived two floors below him. Her daughter Delia had been going to the same schools as Anya since Montessori when they were both three.
“Is Anya okay?” he asked.
“Oh, she’s fine. I mean, don’t worry or anything. She’s just really upset. You know, about that video.”
“She saw it?”
“Yeah, you know Alyssa Edwards? She was showing it to all the parents during pickup, but the kids had already…you know how it is. All the tongues wagging.”
He did. “Can you put Anya on, please?”
“I don’t think that’s a great idea, Simon.”
I don’t give a shit what you think, he thought, but wisely enough—learning curve after his earlier outburst?—he didn’t actually say it out loud.
This wasn’t Suzy’s fault anyway.
He cleared his throat and aimed for his calmest tone. “Could you please ask Anya to get on the line?”
“I can try, Simon, sure.” She must have turned away from the phone, because the sound was tinnier now, more distant. “Anya, your dad would like…Anya?” Now all sound was muffled. Simon waited. “She just keeps shaking her head. Look, Simon, she can stay here as long as you need. Maybe you can try later or maybe Ingrid could give her a call when she’s off work.”
There was indeed no reason to push it. “Thanks, Suzy.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I appreciate your help.”
He pressed the End button. Hester sat next to him, staring straight ahead with her ice cream sandwich.
“I bet you wish you’d taken that ice cream when I offered it to you, right?” Then: “Tim?”
“Yes, Hester.”
“You have that extra ice cream in the cooler?”
“I do.” He handed it back to her.
Hester took out the sandwich and showed it to him.
Simon said, “You’re billing me for the ice creams, aren’t you?”
“Not me personally.”
“Your firm.”
She shrugged. “Why do you think I push them so hard?”
Hester handed the ice cream to Simon. He took a bite, and for a few seconds, it was better.
But that didn’t last.
* * *
The law firm apartment was located in a business tower one floor beneath Hester’s office, and it showed. The carpets were beige. The furniture was beige. The walls were beige. The accent pillows…beige.
“Great interior decorating, don’t you think?” Hester said.
“Nice if you like beige.”
“The politically correct term is ‘earth tones.’”
“Earth tones,” Simon said. “Like dirt.”
Hester liked that one. “I call it Early American Generic.” Her phone buzzed. She checked the text. “Your wife is on her way. I’ll bring her up when she arrives.”
“Thanks.”
Hester left. Simon risked a peek at his phone. There were too many messages and missed phone calls. He skipped them all except the ones from Yvonne, both his partner at PPG Wealth Management and Ingrid’s sister. He owed her some sort of explanation. So he texted her:
I’m fine. Long story.
He saw the little dots showing Yvonne was writing him back:
Anything we can do?
No. Might need coverage tomorrow.
No worries.
I’ll fill you in when I can.
Yvonne’s reply was some comforting emojis telling him that there was no pressure and that all would be good.
He scanned the rest of the messages.
None from Ingrid.
For a few minutes he paced around the apartment’s beige carpeting, checked out the view from the windows, sat on a beige couch, stood again, paced some more. He let the calls go to voicemail until he saw one coming in from Anya’s school. When he picked it up and said, “Hello,” the caller sounded startled.
“Oh,” a voice Simon recognized as belonging to Ali Karim, the principal of Abernathy Academy, said, “I didn’t expect you to answer.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Anya is fine. This isn’t about her.”
“Okay,” Simon said. Ali Karim was one of those academics who wore it—tweed blazers with patches on the elbow, unruly muttonchops on the side of his face, balding with too-long shocks of hair on the crown. “So what can I do for you, Ali?”
“This is a bit sensitive.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s about the parent charity ball next month.”
Simon waited.
“As you know, the committee is meeting tomorrow night.”
“I do know,” Simon said. “Ingrid and I are co-chairs.”
“Yes. About that.”
Simon felt his hand tighten around the phone. The principal wanted him to say something, to dive into the silence. Simon didn’t.
“Some of the parents feel it’s best you not come tomorrow.”
“Which parents?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?”
“Simon, don’t make this harder than it has to be. They’re upset about that video.”
“Aww,” Simon said.
“Pardon?”
“Is that all, Ali?”
“Uh, not exactly.”
Again he waited for Simon to fill the silence. Again Simon didn’t.
“As you know, the c
harity ball this year is raising funds for the Coalition for the Homeless. In light of the recent developments, we feel that perhaps you and Ingrid shouldn’t continue as co-chairs.”
“What recent developments?”
“Come on, Simon.”
“He wasn’t homeless. He’s a drug dealer.”
“I don’t know about that—”
“I know you don’t,” Simon said. “It’s why I’m telling you.”
“—but perception is often more important than reality.”
“Perception is often more important than reality,” Simon repeated. “Is this what you guys teach the kids?”
“This is about doing what’s best for the charity.”
“The ends justify the means, eh?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“You’re some educator, Ali.”
“It seems that I offended you.”
“More like disappointed, but okay, whatever. Just send us back our check.”
“Pardon?”
“You didn’t make us co-chairs because of our winning personalities. You made us co-chairs because we donated big bucks for this ball.” He and Ingrid hadn’t given the money strictly because they believed in the cause. Things like this—it’s rarely about the cause. The cause is a by-product. It’s about sucking up to the school and the administrators like Ali Karim. If you want to support a cause, support a cause. Do you really need the enticement of some boring rubber-salmon dinner where you honor a random rich guy to get you to do the right thing? “Now that we’re no longer co-chairs…”
Ali’s tone was incredulous. “You want to take back your charitable donation?”
“Yep. I’d prefer if you overnighted the check, but if you want to send it two-day express, that’s fine too. Have a great day, Ali.”
He hung up and chucked the phone onto the beige pillow on the beige couch. He’d still give the money to the charity—he couldn’t be that much of a hypocrite—just not via the school’s fundraising ball.
When he turned around, Ingrid and Hester were standing there, watching him.
“Personal rather than legal advice,” Hester said. “Don’t engage with anyone for a few hours, okay? People have a tendency to be rash and stupid under this kind of pressure. Not you, of course. But better safe than sorry.”