by Harlan Coben
Simon stared at Ingrid. His wife was tall with a regal bearing, high cheekbones, short blonde-to-gray hair that always look in vogue. In college she’d worked a bit as a model, her look described as “aloof, icy Scandinavian,” and that was still probably the first impression, which made her career choice—pediatrician who needed to be warm with kids—a bit of an anomaly. But kids never saw her that way. They loved and trusted Ingrid immediately. It was uncanny, the way they saw straight to her heart.
Hester said, “I’ll leave you guys to it.”
She didn’t specify what “it” referred to, but maybe she didn’t have to. When they were alone, Ingrid shrugged a what-the-hell and Simon launched into the story.
“You knew where Paige was?” Ingrid asked.
“I told you. Charlie Crowley said something to me.”
“And you followed up. Then this other homeless guy, this Dave—”
“I don’t know if he’s homeless. I just know he runs the schedule for the musicians.”
“You really want to play semantics with me now, Simon?”
He did not.
“So this Dave…he told you that Paige was going to be there?”
“He thought she might, yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t know for sure. Why upset you if it was nothing?”
She shook her head.
“What?”
“You never lie to me, Simon. It’s not what you do.”
That was true. He never lied to his wife and in a sense, he wasn’t lying here, not really, but he was shading the truth and that was bad enough.
“I’m sorry,” Simon said.
“You didn’t tell me because you were afraid I’d stop it.”
“In part,” Simon said.
“Why else?”
“Because I’d have to tell you the rest of it. How I’d been searching for her.”
“Even though we both agreed that we wouldn’t?”
Technically he hadn’t agreed. Ingrid had more or less laid down the law, and Simon hadn’t objected, but now didn’t seem the time for that kind of nuance.
“I couldn’t…I couldn’t just let her go.”
“And what, you think I could?”
Simon said nothing.
“You think you hurt more than I do?”
“No, of course not.”
“Bullshit. You think I was being cold.”
He almost said, “No, of course not” again, but didn’t part of him think that?
“What was your plan, Simon? Rehab again?”
“Why not?”
Ingrid closed her eyes. “How many times did we try…?”
“One time too few. That’s all. One time too few.”
“You’re not helping. Paige has to come to it on her own. Don’t you see that? I didn’t ‘let her go’”—Ingrid spat out the words—“because I don’t love her anymore. I let her go because she’s gone—and we can’t bring her back. Do you hear me? We can’t. Only she can.”
Simon collapsed on the couch. Ingrid sat next to him. After some time passed, she rested her head on his shoulder.
“I tried,” Simon said.
“I know.”
“And I messed up.”
Ingrid pulled him close. “It’ll be okay.”
He nodded, even as he knew it wouldn’t be, not ever.
Chapter
Four
Three Months Later
Simon sat across from Michelle Brady in his spacious office on the thirty-eighth floor directly across the street from where the World Trade Center towers once stood. He had seen the towers fall on that terrible day, but he never talked about it. He never watched the documentaries or news updates or anniversary specials. He simply couldn’t go there. In the distance on the right, over the water, you could see the Statue of Liberty. It was small out there, dwarfed by all the closer high-rises, bobbing alone in the water, but she looked fierce, torch held high, a green beacon, and while Simon had long grown tired of most of his view—no matter how spectacular, if you see the same thing every day, it grows stale—the Statue of Liberty never failed to offer comfort.
“I’m so grateful,” Michelle said with tears in her eyes. “You’ve been a good friend to us.”
He wasn’t a friend, not really. He was a financial advisor, she his client. But her words touched him. It was what he wanted to hear, how he himself viewed his job. Then again, wasn’t he a friend?
Twenty-five years ago, after the birth of Rick and Michelle Brady’s first child, Elizabeth, Simon had set up a custodial account so that Rick and Michelle could start saving for college.
Twenty-three years ago, he helped them structure a mortgage for their first home.
Twenty-one years ago, he got their paperwork and affairs in order so they could adopt their daughter Mei from China.
Twenty years ago, he helped Rick finance a loan to start a specialized printing service that now served clients in all fifty states.
Eighteen years ago, he helped Michelle set up her first art studio.
Over the years, Simon and Rick talked about business expansion, about direct depositing paychecks, about whether he should become a C corporation and what retirement plan would work best, about whether he should lease or buy a car, about whether private school for the girls would be affordable or too big a stretch. They talked investments, portfolio balance, the company payroll, the cost of family vacations, the purchase of the fishing cabin by the lake, a kitchen upgrade. They had set up 529 accounts and reviewed estate plans.
Two years ago, Simon helped Rick and Michelle figure out the best way to pay for Elizabeth’s wedding. Simon had gone, of course. There had been lots of tears on that day as Rick and Michelle watched their daughter walk down the aisle.
A month ago, Simon ended up sitting in the same pew in the same church for Rick’s funeral.
Now Simon was helping Michelle, still reeling from losing her life partner, learn how to do the little things she’d left Rick to handle: balancing a checkbook, setting up charge cards, seeing what funds had been in joint and separate accounts, not to mention how to keep the business running or decide whether they should sell.
“I’m just glad we can help,” Simon said.
“Rick prepared for this,” she said.
“I know.”
“Like he knew. I mean, he always seemed so healthy. Were there any health issues he hid from me? Did he know, do you think?”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t, no.”
Rick had died of a massive coronary at age fifty-eight. Simon wasn’t an attorney or an insurance agent, but part of being someone’s wealth manager was to prepare the estate for any eventuality. So he talked about it with Rick. Like most men his age, Rick had been reticent to consider his own mortality.
Simon felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He had a strict rule: No interruption when he was with clients. Not to get highfalutin about it, but when people came to this office, they wanted to talk about something that meant a great deal to them.
Their money.
Pooh-pooh it all you want. Money may not buy happiness, but…well, nonsense. Money, pretty much more than anything else you might be able to control, can conjure up and elevate that elusive ideal we call happiness. Money eases stress. It provides better education, better food, better doctors—some level of peace of mind. Money provides comfort and freedom. Money buys you experiences and conveniences and most of all, money buys you time, which, Simon had realized, was right up there with family and health.
If you believe that—and even if you don’t—the person you chose to handle your finances was up there with choosing a doctor or clergyman, though Simon would argue that your wealth manager was even more involved in your daily life. You work hard. You save. You plan. There are virtually no major life decisions you make that are not in some way based on your finances.
It was an awesome responsibility when you stepped back and thought about it.
&nbs
p; Michelle Brady deserved his undivided attention and complete focus. So the pocket phone-buzz was a signal that something important was up.
He surreptitiously glanced at the computer screen. A message had come up from their new assistant, Khalil:
A POLICE DETECTIVE IS HERE TO SEE YOU.
He stared at the message long enough for Michelle to notice.
“You okay?” she asked him.
“I’m fine. It’s just…”
“What?”
“Something has come up.”
“Oh,” Michelle said. “I can come back…”
“Can you just give me two seconds to…?” He gestured toward the phone on his desk.
“Of course.”
Simon lifted the receiver and pressed Khalil’s line.
“A Detective Isaac Fagbenle is on his way up to see you.”
“He’s in the elevator?”
“Yes.”
“Keep him in reception until I tell you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have the credit card forms filled out for Mrs. Brady?”
“Yes.”
“Have her sign them. Make sure that the cards are issued for her and Mei today. Show her how the automatic payment works.”
“Okay.”
“I should be done by then.”
Simon hung up the phone and met Michelle’s eyes. “I’m really sorry about this interruption.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
No, it wasn’t. “You know about my, uh, situation from a few months ago.”
She nodded. Everyone knew. Simon had joined the pantheon of viral video villains, up there with the dentist who shot the lion and the racist lawyer who had the meltdown. The morning shows on ABC, NBC, and CBS had fun with it the day after it happened. Cable news too. As Hester Crimstein had predicted, the notoriety had burned hot for a few days and then quickly faded to near oblivion by the end of the month. The video shot up to 8 million views in the first week. Now, nearly three months later, it was still short of 8.5.
“What about it?” Michelle asked.
Maybe he shouldn’t go there. Then again, maybe he should. “There’s a cop on his way up here to see me.”
If you expect your clients to open up to you, well, was it fair to make that street one-way? It wasn’t Michelle’s business, of course, except that now he was interrupting her time and so he felt that she had the right to know.
“Rick said the charges were dropped.”
“They were.”
Hester had been right about that too. There had been no sign of either Aaron or Paige in the past three months, and with no victim, there was no case. It also didn’t hurt that Simon was fairly well-off or that Aaron Corval, as Simon soon found out to his chagrin if not surprise, had a fairly extensive criminal record. Hester and the Manhattan DA made a deal quietly, away from prying eyes.
Nothing signed, of course. No obvious quid pro quo. Nothing so gauche. But then again, hey, there was a fundraising campaign coming up, if Simon and Ingrid wanted to attend. Principal Karim had also reached out two weeks after the incident. He didn’t directly apologize but wanted to offer his support, reminding Simon that the Greenes were part of the Abernathy Academy “family.” Simon was all set to tell him to go fuck off, but Ingrid reminded him that Anya would be entering her freshman year there soon, so Simon smiled and returned the check and life continued.
The one small caveat was that the Manhattan DA wanted to wait a bit before he officially dropped the charges. The incident needed to be far enough in the rearview mirror that the media wouldn’t notice or ask too many questions about privilege or any of that.
“Do you know why the police are here?” Michelle asked.
“No,” Simon said.
“You should probably call your attorney.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
Michelle stood. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“I’m really sorry about this.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Simon’s office had a glass wall looking into the cubicles. Khalil walked by and Simon nodded for him to come in.
“Khalil will get you all set with the paperwork. When I’m done with this police officer—”
“Just take care of yourself,” Michelle said.
She shook his hand across the desk. Khalil escorted her out. Simon took a deep breath. He picked up his phone and called Hester Crimstein’s office. She got on the line fast.
“Articulate,” Hester said.
“What?”
“That’s how a friend answers his phone. Never mind. What’s up?”
“A cop is here to see me.”
“Where is here?”
“My office.”
“Seriously?”
“No, Hester, this is a prank call.”
“Great, wiseasses are my favorite clients.”
“What should I do?”
“Asswipes,” she said.
“What?”
“Those asswipes know I’m your attorney of record. They shouldn’t approach you without calling me first.”
“So what should I do?”
“I’m on my way. Don’t talk to him. Or her. I don’t want to be sexist here.”
“It’s a him,” Simon said. “I thought the DA was dropping the charges—that they had no case.”
“They are and they don’t. Sit tight. Don’t say a word.”
There was a gentle knock on his door and Yvonne Previdi, Ingrid’s sister, slid into his office. Yvonne, his sister-in-law, was not quite as beautiful as her model sister—or was that bias on Simon’s part?—but way more fashion obsessed, Yvonne wore a pink pencil skirt with a sleeveless cream blouse and four-inch, gold-studded Valentino pumps.
He had met Yvonne before Ingrid, when they were both in the training program at Merrill Lynch. They had become instant best friends. That was twenty-six years ago. Not long after they finished their training, Yvonne’s father, Bart Previdi, had taken two partners into his growing firm—his daughter Yvonne and his not-yet son-in-law Simon Greene.
PPG Wealth Management—the P’s in the name stood for the two Previdis, the G stood for Greene.
Motto: We Are Honest But Not Very Creative With Names.
“What’s up with the hot cop?” Yvonne asked.
Yvonne and Robert had four kids and lived in the tony New Jersey suburb of Short Hills. For a short time, Simon and Ingrid had tried the suburbs too, moving from their Upper West Side apartment to a center-hall colonial, right after Sam’s birth. They did that because that’s what you did. You lived in the city until you had a kid or two and then you moved out to a nice house with a picket fence and a backyard and good schools and lots of sports facilities. But Simon and Ingrid didn’t like the suburbs. They missed the obvious: the stimulation, the bustle, the noise. You take a walk at night in the big city, there is always something to see. You take a walk at night in the suburbs…well, nada. All that open space—the hushed backyards, the endless soccer fields, the town pools, the Little League diamonds—it was all so damned claustrophobic. The quiet wore on them. So did the commute. After giving it two full years, they moved back into Manhattan.
A mistake in hindsight?
You could make yourself crazy with such questions, but Simon didn’t think so. If anything, the bored kids out in the burbs were acting out and experimenting more than their urban counterparts. And Paige had been fine in high school. It was when she left the big city for the rural-ensconced college—that was when the problems had started.
Or maybe that was rationalization. Who knows?
“You saw him?” Simon asked.
Yvonne nodded. “He just got to reception. Why’s he here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you call Hester?”
“Yes. She’s on her way.”
“He’s awfully good-looking.”
“Who?”
“The cop. Looks like he should be on the cover of GQ.”
&
nbsp; Simon nodded. “That’s good to know, thanks.”
“You want me to take care of Michelle?”
“Khalil’s on it, but you might want to look in on her.”
“Done.”
Yvonne turned to leave, when a tall black man in a sleek gray suit suddenly blocked the doorway. “Mr. Greene?”
Yep, right out of GQ. The suit didn’t look so much tailored as birthed, created, cultivated for him and only him. It fit like some tight superhero suit or like a second skin. His build was rock solid. He sported a shaved head and perfectly trimmed facial hair and big hands and everything about the guy just screamed “cooler than you.”
Yvonne gave Simon a nod that said, “See what I mean?”
“I’m Detective Isaac Fagbenle with the NYPD.”
“You shouldn’t be back here,” Simon said.
He flashed a smile so dazzling Yvonne took a step back. “Yeah, well, I’m not here for a standard appointment, am I?” He took out his badge. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Yvonne didn’t move.
“Hi,” he said to her.
Yvonne waved, speechless for once. Simon frowned.
“I’m waiting for my attorney,” Simon said.
“Would that be Hester Crimstein?”
“Yes.”
Isaac Fagbenle crossed the office and sat uninvited in the chair across from Simon. “She’s good.”
“Uh-huh.”
“One of the best, I hear.”
“Right. And she wouldn’t want us talking.”
Fagbenle arched an eyebrow and crossed his legs. “No?”
“No.”
“So you’re refusing to talk to me?”
“I’m not refusing. I’m waiting for my attorney to be present.”
“So you won’t talk to me right now?”
“Like I said, I’m going to wait for my attorney.”
“And you just expect me to do the same?”
There was an edge in his voice now. Simon glanced at Yvonne. She’d heard it too.
“Is that what you’re telling me, Simon? Is that your final answer?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, are you really refusing to talk to me?”
“Only until my attorney gets here.”
Isaac Fagbenle sighed, uncrossed his legs, and stood back up. “Buh-bye then.”