The Darlings

by Cristina Alger

  Today had been a big day for the Gerard team. Elsa’s former assistant had given a very favorable deposition, and the team seemed charged with new energy. Merrill tried to muster enthusiasm, but inside she was numb. Everything that had happened since she had heard the news about Morty had simply gone by in a blur. By 4 p.m., she had decided it was better to just go home. She had put on her coat, but couldn’t seem to find the energy to leave.

  “Merrill, could you take a look at something?” A timid voice stirred Merrill from her thoughts. She sat facing the window, staring out into the darkening night sky. She had no idea how long she had been sitting like that, just staring. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice continued. “Are you on your way out?”

  Merrill swiveled her chair around. In her doorway was Amy, a diminutive redhead who always looked vaguely nervous to be speaking at all. Amy was one of the hardest working contract attorneys on the Gerard team, and Merrill went out of her way to help and encourage her.

  Merrill mustered a smile. “Hey, Amy. Come on in.”

  Amy hesitated. “It’s just—are you sure you weren’t on your way out? I can ask John or Mike instead.”

  Merrill shook her head. “Really, I wasn’t. I mean, I was going to eventually, but this is more important.” She gestured for Amy to come into her office. “So what’s up?”

  “I think . . . I think I found something in Elsa’s trash.”

  “Her trash?”

  “Her deleted e-mails. We had them pulled off the server. I’ve been reviewing them since yesterday.”

  Merrill felt her stomach clench. “Okay . . . is it bad?” She knew from the look on Amy’s face that it was.

  “Umm . . .”

  “Let me see it.”

  Amy proffered a thin sheaf of paper, which she had secured with a binder clip. It appeared to be a long e-mail chain between Elsa and Mark Vonn. “If you start from the back . . . I’ve highlighted the parts that I think are, uh, relevant.” Merrill was already reading. As her eyes skimmed the page, the knot in her stomach grew and grew until it was so large she could feel it pushing on her throat. For a moment, she thought she might throw up. She closed her eyes and pressed her palms against the chill surface of her desk. They were damp even though the offices were kept at a cool 68 degrees.

  “Are you all right?” Amy’s voice sounded far away. Merrill felt as though she were at the bottom of a swimming pool and Amy was shouting at her from above the surface . . . the words seemed garbled from where she was . . .

  “Merrill?” Amy said, this time clear as a bell. Merrill looked up. Amy was standing in front of the desk, leaning in toward her. Her watery blue eyes were filled with concern.

  Merrill snapped back in her chair. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her face flushed with embarrassment. “I just . . . honestly, I’m just not feeling all that well today.” She put her hand against her forehead and realized she was sweating.

  “You, uh, you don’t look that great. Maybe you should go home?”

  Merrill bit down hard on her bottom lip. She had never—not once—taken a sick day. And now, of all times . . . “You know, I think I need to.” She handed Amy back the e-mails. “Listen, you were right about these. They need to get seen right away. Take them to Phil. If he’s not there or he tells you to wait, tell him it’s urgent. I’m going to send him an e-mail, actually I’m going to send all the partners an e-mail, telling them what you found.”

  Amy nodded frenetically. Her red curls bounced against her shoulders. “Okay. Don’t worry Merrill, I’ll take care of it. Really, please go home. You don’t look well. This is totally, totally under control.”

  Merrill offered her a weak smile. “Thanks, Amy. You did a great job.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone’s going to be all that psyched to see these.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just take it to Phil.”

  Amy was already halfway out the door. Before she closed it, she spun on her heel. She paused, hesitating. Then she said, “It’s sort of disappointing, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well . . . I liked Elsa. I dunno. I wanted to believe her.” Amy shrugged, her face shrinking into an embarrassed smile.

  “I know,” Merrill said sympathetically. “Me, too.”

  “Do you think she’ll have to plea?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I honestly don’t know.”

  “She shouldn’t have put this into an e-mail.” Amy shook her head disbelievingly. “You really never can tell with anyone, can you?”

  “Well. Don’t give up so fast.” Merrill smiled, but it was a thin smile. “See what Phil has to say.”

  “Okay. Go home and lie down. I’ll keep you posted.”

  After Amy shut the door, Merrill stood, her mind racing. She threw a few files in her bag and headed for the door. She reached for her coat, but the hook on the back of the door was empty. With her free hand, Merrill patted her side. She had been wearing it the whole time.

  WEDNESDAY, 5:27 P.M.

  Yvonne found Patrick in the kitchen, setting out place mats for dinner. She could smell garlic bread in the oven. In the background, the 5 o’clock news was playing; she hadn’t realized how late it was.

  “I’m so sorry,” she began, before she had taken off her jacket. Her cheeks were flushed red, from adrenaline and from the cold. “Where are the boys?”

  Patrick smiled, his eyes tired. He put down the last place mat and gave her a hug. He wasn’t angry, which made her feel even guiltier.

  “I sent them up to their rooms. Pat got suspended.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Yeah. It’s not good.” He shook his head. “I gotta say, though, I think the kid was right. I don’t know what we do now.”

  Yvonne sank onto a kitchen chair, her bag dropping beneath it. “What happened?”

  “Pat and Chris were supposed to meet after school to walk home, but Pat was late. When he got there, that kid from down the street, Joe Dunn, was picking on Chris. That’s been going on for a while. So Joe called Chris a pussy and Pat decked him. The teachers were all leaving because school had just let out, so a lot of people saw it.”

  Yvonne let out a sigh. “How many days?”

  “Three. Starting Monday. It’s a stupid punishment. The kid’s getting a seven day vacation.” Patrick joined her at the little round table, set for four. He always sat next to her at a table instead of across, which she loved. Even in restaurants. He had done it on their first date (the place was loud, he said) and had never stopped.

  Pat was dressed in what had become his daily uniform, work boots and cargo pants. A year ago, he wore chinos and a button-down every day, a requirement of his position as manager of the Operations department at Bear Stearns. It was a stable job, replete with health care and stock options, which now, of course, were worthless. For six months after the bank shut down, Pat pounded the pavement, looking for a comparable position at another financial institution. He was qualified, everyone said, but no one was hiring. By August he was desperate. He took a part-time job as a security guard for a local bank, “until there was something better.” He was still saying it was temporary, but with less conviction. From what Yvonne could tell, he had stopped looking for jobs in the financial sector. The bank offered him extra hours—four days a week instead of three—but still, it wasn’t enough. Even with Yvonne bailing as hard, their little boat was sinking, faster than she ever imagined.

  “Chris okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s all right.” Patrick glanced away. He scratched his head reflexively. This was an uncomfortable topic. Whenever they talked about it, they did so with eyes averted, like strangers in an elevator. “I don’t know. I think he’s embarrassed. He was shaking like a leaf when I got there.”

  “We need to do something.”

  She had said this before.

  Usually, Patrick said: “Like what?” She had no answer for that, so the conversation would stop there. “I know,” he said inst
ead, his eyes meeting hers.

  “Thank you for getting the boys, I was going to do it myself, but—”

  “It’s okay. I knew what was going on. Must have been crazy at the office.”

  She frowned. “It wasn’t really. Sol just needed some wires set up. It was just bad timing; he called right after I talked to the school.”

  Patrick nodded. He sat back into his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “Yeah, I just figured with the Morton Reis thing, you know. Stuff got busy. It was no problem getting the boys.”

  Yvonne paused. The news blared in the background. “What Morton Reis thing?” She said, perplexed.

  His eyebrows peaked in surprise. “The . . . the—you know. I saw it on the news. That’s why I called; I was worried about you.” Suddenly, he was looking over her shoulder at the television. “See!” He said. His eyes were alight with recognition. He pointed at the screen. “It’s on again. That’s Morton Reis.”

  Yvonne pivoted, following the line of his finger. The picture was fuzzy, but there was a shot of Morty on the television, in a tuxedo standing next to Carter Darling.

  “And that’s—”

  “Carter Darling.” Yvonne finished other people’s sentences sometimes, a nervous tic. She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Oh, God,” as the headline began to sink in, “when did you hear about this?”

  “When I called you. Around lunch.” Patrick sounded confused. “But it’s been on TV all day.”

  “I don’t have a TV on my desk.” She said numbly. She felt as though someone had poured a glass of ice water down her spine. Morty’s dead? She stared at the television screen. How could Sol not have said anything?

  “Sol didn’t tell you?”

  “He just wanted me to set up some wire transfers.”

  “You seem . . . you okay?” He flicked off the television.

  The static silence of the room felt almost unbearable. From upstairs, the whump of a chair leg ricocheting off the floorboards reminded them both that the boys were home, confined to their shared bedroom.

  “I think—” she said and halted. Then she slipped the sleeve of her coat back over her arm, buttoning it at the neck. It was night now, and she shivered thinking about walking all the way back to the subway. It would be empty, heading in the wrong direction back into the city, away from dinner tables and toward darkened office buildings. “I think I have to go back to work.”

  Patrick’s eyes widened. “Now?” he said, frowning. “Yvonne. It’s six. It’s dinner time.”

  “I know,” she said, nodding. “But there’s something wrong with the wires.”

  She stood up and grabbed her purse. “Feed the boys, all right? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Patrick inhaled deeply. He released it slowly; he was counting to five. She thought he might snap at her—he had every right to—but she didn’t have time to waste.

  “Please be safe,” Patrick said resignedly, kissing her on the cheek. “It’s nighttime.”

  As the subway car rumbled its way into Manhattan, Yvonne closed her eyes. Data rolled through her head in waves. There were so many things she knew: things she shouldn’t know, things she was supposed to have forgotten, things that no one thought she was smart enough to piece together on her own. She was a dangerous woman, in that way. And yet, it was the things she didn’t know that were the most dangerous.

  As she emerged from beneath ground, the cold air hit her square in the face. Yvonne sped up, walking at a fast clip past the glistening doors of the office buildings, a closed coffee shop, store windows barred shut for the night. When she reached the offices of Penzell & Rubicam, she flashed the night watchman a smile and held out the laminated badge that hung from her neck on a silver-balled string. She thought he gave her a suspicious look, but then he yawned. I’m just a little jumpy, she thought. He doesn’t know a thing.

  Questions about the night watchman were quickly replaced by the two questions that had been plaguing Yvonne since earlier in the day. Now, they would keep Yvonne in the office for the next several hours.

  What were the wire transfers for?

  And why had Sol asked her to backdate them?

  WEDNESDAY, 8:03 P.M.

  After he released Marina, Duncan sat at his desk for a little longer. He knew he ought to go home; there were groceries waiting for him—the ice cream was melting, probably—at his service door. But God, some nights he really hated an empty apartment. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t drink alone anymore, but he already knew that tonight would be an exception. The nights before holidays were the worst. The junior staffers seemed invigorated all day, charged with fresh energy, suitcases beneath their desks. They left quietly, slipping out one by one. Where were they going? Did they all have the big meal to look forward to, a long table with aunts and uncles and children in tow? How was that possible? Even as a child, Duncan had never experienced that. There had been the drunken Mommy/Daddy Thanksgivings, then just the drunk Mommy Thanksgivings. College, well, college he didn’t remember. As an adult, he had bounced from house to house, leeching family off his significant other like a parasite. And the last three years he had been alone, and knee-deep in scotch by 4 p.m.

  But tomorrow would be different. A week ago he had gotten a call from his favorite niece, who lived in the city and had too much work to go home to visit her mother for the holiday. Some issue or other with her boyfriend, she had said. She didn’t know if he would be up for celebrating. “Come over,” he had said. “We’re having a party.” She sounded as though she needed that.

  Overnight, Duncan had rounded up six friends so that it wouldn’t seem to her as though Thanksgiving dinner had been thrown together on her account. He gave each one an assignment to bring something, wine or a side dish or apple pie. Like a tradition, he thought. His niece would enjoy that.

  The news was awash with reports about Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons, stuffing recipes, and predictions of snow. One story caught Duncan’s eye: the suicide of billionaire Morton Reis. Duncan had met Reis once, at a Vanity Fair party in the Hamptons. He came across like an old codger, friendly but out of place. He had been terribly dressed, in ill-fitting chinos and a plastic watch. A strange pairing with his flamboyant wife, who had, as Duncan recalled, parked him at the bar so that she could go mingle. Duncan had found Reis intriguing. In his experience, it was usually the least assuming guy in the room who turned out to be the most interesting. After a few inquiries, someone told Duncan that Reis was a billionaire and a bit of a recluse, something of a car aficionado, and that Julianne, unsurprisingly, was his second wife.

  I wonder if she killed him, Duncan thought, as he scrolled through a gallery of photos that CNN.com had posted of Reis. Shot him and dumped his body off the bridge to make it look like he jumped. Wouldn’t have been the first time. They always say it’s the spouse.

  Only one photo was with his wife; it showed the couple at a benefit for the Metropolitan Opera. They were turned away from each other, each chatting with other partygoers. At Reis’s right shoulder was the dapper Carter Darling. Carter was leaning in, as though whispering something into Reis’s ear. Each man held a glass of champagne. Carter Darling looks like Cary Grant, Duncan mused. What a pity he isn’t gay.

  As he walked home, Duncan tried to remember every detail he could about Morton Reis and Carter Darling. There was something there; he could feel it in his fingertips. After twenty-five years in this business, he had a nose for a story. Though it had led him down a few dead ends, it had sniffed out some ungodly messes, too. This was how it began: an offhand comment, the recurring thought that the newspaperman in him couldn’t dismiss. He walked faster and faster down Sixth Avenue, moving past the corner where he typically found a cab. Something was coming, hard and fast. He had to steel himself for its arrival.

  WEDNESDAY, 8:45 P.M.

  The walk home was blisteringly cold. The wind ran in currents across Park Avenue. Paul hunched into his turned-up collar, hands stuffed de
ep in his pockets. He shivered uncontrollably and cursed his decision to wear the Barbour. By the time he reached the front door, his eyes stung with tears. Merrill opened it and fell into him, wrapping her small warm body against his. He could tell that she had been waiting for him. She had changed into sweatpants and her red cashmere socks, the ones that were too thick to wear with shoes. Her smile was fleeting and beneath it, her face looked drawn.

  They hugged. “How are you?” Paul said gently.

  “I’m sad,” she said, her voiced muffled against his lapel. She sounded like a child. “I can’t believe it. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”

  “I know you have.”

  They retreated to the couch. There was an imprint on its cushions; she had been lying there for a while, he thought. They lay down together, her body snug beside his. Her head rested on his rib cage. Paul kicked off his shoes and they clattered over the couch’s arm. His body ached with tiredness.

  “How’re your parents?”

  “Mom’s upset. It’s strange, she seems angry, more than anything. No sympathy for Julianne whatsoever. I don’t know. They never had a particularly solid marriage, I guess.”

  “That doesn’t matter. This must be terrible for her.”

  “That’s what I said. Did you talk to Dad?”

  “No. I called his cell but he wasn’t answering.”

  “He’s trying to get Julianne home from Aspen. It’s Thanksgiving, of course, so there are no flights at all. He’s trying to get a friend to fly her home on a private plane or something, but now she’s saying she wants to stay out there, for the holiday at least. They’re talking about having a service early next week. Dad thinks it should be sooner, but so many people are away for the holiday weekend.” She sighed, realizing that she rambled when she was tired.