Passion: In Wilde Country: Book Two

by Sandra Marton

  He didn’t like Pastore. An understatement. The man disgusted him. And yes, he treated his wife with derision. No way would he ever be voted husband of the year, but the law taught that there were two sides to every situation.

  Maybe you had to cut him some slack.

  It had to be rough to be married to a woman who was mentally ill.

  And she was mentally ill, just as Pastore had warned. She was delusional—that thing with her not knowing whether or not she’d gone shopping had been upsetting. She was probably schizophrenic. Psychotic. Something that would account for the darkness in her eyes.

  Matteo had seen that darkness before.

  A client of his had a son who had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. Matteo had met the boy. One of the first things he’d noticed had been that yawning emptiness in the boy’s eyes.

  To put it bluntly, Ariel Pastore was crazy.

  Crazy enough to have married a man like Pastore.

  Why? For his money? There couldn’t be any other reason. A woman like that with a pig like him…

  Matteo took a breath, expelled it, strode back to his desk and sat down.

  Who cared why she’d married him? None of this was his problem. Once the files were gone…

  The door to his office burst open, banged hard against the wall. Matteo shot to his feet.

  Tony Pastore was barreling toward him with Janet hanging on to his arm.

  “I tried to stop him,” she gasped. “But he wouldn’t—”

  “Bellini,” Pastore roared, “you son of a bitch!”

  “Stop where you are,” Matteo said. “You hear me, Pastore? One more step and I’ll call Security.”

  “Call whoever you want.”

  “Really? You want this all over the media ten minutes from now?”

  Pastore’s face twisted. He came to a dead stop and shook Janet off as if she were a pesky insect.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  “What?”

  “I said, where is Ariel?”

  “Janet,” Matteo said quietly, never taking his eyes from Pastore, “go back to your desk.”

  “Sir. Don’t you want me to—”

  “I want you to leave us, Janet. Go back to your desk. We’ll be fine here. Isn’t that right, Tony?”

  Pastore didn’t answer.

  “You want to talk to me,” Matteo said, “you’ll agree. Either that, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

  Pastore snarled a response.

  “Was that a yes?”

  “Vaffanculo!”

  Matteo’s smile was feral.

  “He says ‘yes.’ Go on, Janet. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  Janet looked unconvinced. Who could blame her? His visitor’s face was the color of blood; his breathing was so quick and harsh it was audible.

  Matteo fought against the desire to do as he’d threatened. He wanted to grab Pastore and throw him out on his ass, and if Pastore fought back, that would be even better.

  But if he gave in to what he wanted, he wouldn’t get an answer to the question racing through his head.

  Why was Pastore looking for his wife? What had happened to her?

  Only one way to find out, Matteo told himself, and he faked a calm he didn’t feel as the door snicked shut behind Janet.

  “Explain yourself, Tony. Has something happened to Ariel?”

  “Don’t give me that bull!” Pastore’s hands hung fisted at his sides, clenching and unclenching. “You know goddamn well what’s happened to her.”

  Matteo glanced at his watch. “I’m going to give you thirty seconds to answer the question. Then I’ll call Security—but before I do, I’ll beat the crap out of you. Understood?”

  Pastore laughed. “You and who else? Remember when we were kids? I used to bloody your nose just for kicks.”

  Matteo smiled thinly.

  “We’re not kids anymore, and you’re alone. No pals around to pin my arms behind my back. Believe me, I’d like nothing better than to take you on, but…” Another glance at his watch. “But, it’ll have to wait. Right now, you have ten seconds left to explain yourself. Nine. Eight. Seven—”

  “She’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

  “I mean, my wife is gone. And don’t try looking so fucking surprised.”

  “How can she be gone? She’s sick. You said she had a nurse. How could she just be gone?”

  “Don’t try to duck the issue, Bellini.” Pastore’s mouth twisted “She’s gone, and you know where she is.”

  “How in hell would I know that?”

  “Give me a break! I saw the way you and she cozied up together Saturday night.”

  Matteo laughed. “You have a terrific imagination.”

  “And then all that crap she talked about you.”

  “What?”

  “How did we know each other. Where were you from.” Pastore’s hands knotted. “She talked more that night and yesterday than she has in the year I’ve been married to her, and it was strictly about you.”

  Ariel Pastore had talked about him? It was difficult to imagine her stringing together more than two sentences at a time. She’d been almost painfully silent the time they’d spent in that bar. Maybe she’d been stoned or drunk, maybe her reticence was part of her illness. Whatever the reason, Matteo couldn’t imagine her asking questions about him.

  “I’m asking you again, Bellini. Where is she?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Bull. What’d she do? Phone you? Show up at your door doing her Snow White routine? Letting you think she’s all innocent, that she needs you to take care of her?” Pastore took a step forward. “Where is she, goddammit?”

  Matteo narrowed his eyes. “Listen to me and listen carefully. I have not seen your wife. I have not spoken with your wife. I have no idea where she is. Capisce?”

  Pastore glared at Matteo. Then, gradually, the angry red that suffused his face began draining away.

  “If you’re lying to me—”

  “Is she in danger?”

  A shadow swept over Pastore’s eyes, or perhaps Matteo had imagined it.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, is she ill enough to try and harm herself?”

  “Yes,” Pastore said quickly. “She is.”

  Matteo nodded. He had a sick feeling in his belly.

  “Then, you have to find her.”

  “That’s what I spent yesterday trying to do.” Pastore held out his hands. “I had my people looking everywhere. She seems to have disappeared without a trace.”

  His tone, his demeanor had changed. He was no longer a man enraged; he was a worried husband.

  And yet—and yet, somehow, it didn’t ring true. There was still something in his eyes that made Matteo wary. Pastore seemed to sense it. His tone became conciliatory.

  “Look,” he said, “I guess I came on a little strong…”

  Matteo laughed, but the sound was without humor.

  “Okay, so I went overboard.” Pastore jerked his head toward the pair of black leather sofas that faced each other across an oval glass coffee table at the other end of the room. “How about we sit down and talk?”

  “Talk?”

  “I have to find her. Like you said, she’s a danger to herself.”

  Matteo ignored the sofas, sat down behind his desk and motioned to the two chairs facing it.

  “Two days ago,” he said coldly, “you couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Now, you’re worried about her.”

  “Of course I’m worried.” Pastore eased his bulk into one of the chairs. “I’m telling you, anything could happen to her.”

  “And mess up your political plans,” Matteo said, even more coldly.

  Pastore’s eyes narrowed. “You going to help me find her or not?”

  “Contact the police.”

  “What for?”

  “So you can report her missing.”

  “Yeah, right, like the cops are gonna hurry
to get involved. Bellini,” he said, leaning forward, “I need you to do this. For crissakes, you’re my lawyer.”

  “No. I’m not. I told you that, Tony. I’m not your lawyer anymore. And even if I were, finding missing people isn’t part of my job description.”

  “She liked you.”

  “She probably doesn’t know what she likes,” Matteo said, damning himself for the way the simple words made him feel.

  “She trusted you.”

  “Remember when I told you that you needed a shrink, not a lawyer? Now I’m telling you that you need a private detective.”

  “I have one. He’s already on the case.”

  “Well, then…”

  “I sent him what I know.” Pastore dug a cellphone from his pocket, tapped the screen, tapped it again. “Where she was born, what she did before I married her, stuff like that.” He looked up from the phone. “I just sent it all to you.”

  “What for? I keep telling you, I’m no longer your attorney. Even if I were, this has nothing to do with—”

  Pastore stood up. “You hear from her, you find her, you bring her to me, pronto. Pronto! You got that?”

  Matteo rose, too. “I’m not going to hear from her. I’m not going to look for her. And I don’t work for you anymore, Pastore.” His lips thinned. “I regret I ever did.”

  “You’re breakin’ my heart, paesano.” Pastore strolled to the door. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  “There won’t be any call.”

  Pastore swung toward him. “Yeah,” he said, “there will be, unless you’re a bigger asshole than I think.”

  Matteo started after him. Then he thought, what in hell for? Pastore’s mind was made up. He’d delivered an edict. Find my wife. Return her to me.

  The king had spoken.

  Pastore marched out of the office. Matteo sank into his chair. Cristo, what a mess. Yeah, but it wasn’t his mess. It was the Pastores’ mess. Tony and his wife. Ariel.

  Ariel.

  A muscle knotted in his cheek.

  Where could she have gone? She was sick. Confused. Now, she could be anywhere in this unforgiving city, alone, afraid, at the mercy of the scum who wandered the streets, just searching for prey.

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  It was not his problem. Definitely, not his problem…but there was no harm in reading the information Pastore had said he’d sent him. He took out his iPhone, called up his mail and yes, Pastore’s message was right on top.

  He clicked on it.

  A page of data came up.

  Ariel Pastore, neé Ariel Bennett, had been born in Muttontown, Long Island. His eyebrows rose. He knew a little bit about Long Island. There were some incredibly rich towns out there, and Muttontown was one of them. She was the only child of Kenneth and Mary Bennett, and she was twenty-six years old.

  Twenty-six. She’d looked much older than that the other night. Or maybe she’d just looked exhausted, defeated, unhappy…

  Dammit.

  He stopped reading, hit a button, hit another, watched Pastore’s email whoosh into cyberspace.

  “Janet?” Matteo went to the door. His P.A. looked up from her desk. Her expression gave nothing away. Remarkable, he thought, considering what had just happened. “I just emailed something to you. Print it, please, as soon as you get it.”

  She nodded.

  “Ah, Janet? About what happened before…”

  “I’m glad Mr. Pastore isn’t your client anymore,” Janet said. Then she blushed. ”I know it isn’t my place to say that, Mr. Bellini, but—”

  “No. It’s okay.” Matteo flashed a smile. “The truth is, I’m glad, too.

  Back in his office, he shut the door, returned to his desk, sat down, tilted back his chair and stared blindly at the ceiling.

  Pastore was trying to draw him into this mess, but that wasn’t about to happen. It had nothing to do with him. Yes, but it was natural to feel some concern over Ariel, wasn’t it? She’d looked so vulnerable the other night. So unhappy.

  Had she really talked about him afterward? Asked questions about him?

  Dammit, what if she had? After all, she’d asked him to help her.

  Dio. Back to that.

  He couldn’t help either of the Pastores. He wasn’t a physician or a P.I. He was an attorney. A corporate attorney Assisting mentally ill people, finding them, wasn’t what he did.

  Matteo steepled his fingers.

  There was a light rap at his door. He sat up straight as Janet entered the room with some papers in her hand.

  “Here’s the printout of that document, sir.”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  She hesitated. “May I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  “No. No, thanks, I’m good. “

  “The courier’s on his way, sir. Mr. Pastore’s files will be gone in just a few minutes.”

  Matteo smiled.

  That’s the best news I’ve had today. “

  “Yessir.”

  Janet left. Matteo picked up the report she’d brought him and read through it. It didn’t really tell him much. As Tony had said, he and Ariel had been married a little over a year. Before the wedding, she’d been a dancer, part of a group called the Electric Dance Company.

  The Electric Dance Company.

  It didn’t take much to figure out what a place like that was all about.

  Manhattan had more than its share of so-called gentlemen’s clubs where a fifty dollar minimum was supposed to convince men in three thousand dollar suits that watching women grind against a pole wasn’t down-and-dirty entertainment.

  He had trouble imagining Ariel Pastore on stage at a place like that, but he wasn’t a kid. The woman he’d met didn’t have to resemble the woman who’d stripped for a living. The old saying was true: you really couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

  Besides, what did it matter? She was Tony’s choice, not his, and Pastore was the kind of man who’d frequent strip clubs. He’d have been a sucker for the Madonna-whore thing she’d undoubtedly projected.

  Forget the claim that he’d met her at a charity function. He’d met her over a bottle of vastly overpriced champagne and, if she really was originally from Muttontown, she was certainly not from the part where houses sold in the nosebleed millions.

  Matteo scanned the remaining pages.

  She’d started behaving strangely a few months ago. There were notes from a doctor. She was in good health physically. Emotionally, she suffered from anxiety disorder. From depression. From addiction to an endless list of medications. More recently, she’d begun having delusions.

  Matteo stopped reading, propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

  And now, she was missing.

  Missing. Alone and sick and probably frightened…

  Not your problem, Bellini.

  Right. It wasn’t.

  Matteo put the report aside, reached for one of the documents on his desk that awaited his attention, and got to work.

  * * *

  He worked through lunch and through most of the afternoon.

  It was all pro forma stuff. A good thing, because he had difficulty concentrating. He kept thinking about Ariel Pastore. Her delicacy. Her fear because, yes, what he’d sensed and seen in her was fear.

  At four o’clock, he shoved aside the papers he’d been reading.

  It would be dark soon. Where was she? Was she someplace safe?

  He got to his feet and paced his office. If—if—you wanted to look for someone who was missing, how would you go about it? He knew a couple of private investigators. He’d used them, from time to time, to get information he needed in dealing with a client. Did they deal with missing persons? He could call one. Just to ask some questions, not because he was going to get involved in trying to find Ariel Pastore…

  Brrring.

  The bleat of his cellphone startled him. He picked it up, looked at the caller ID. Unknown caller from an area code he’d never heard of.
Pastore, probably, somehow blocking his name.

  Matteo considered ignoring the call, but Pastore would only try reaching him again.

  “Listen, Tony,” he said as he answered the phone, “I have had enough of—”

  “Is this Matteo Bellini?”

  Not Pastore. The voice was wrong. Was it a salesman who’d somehow gotten hold of his number? Spam was the last thing he needed now.

  “Look, pal, whatever you’re trying to sell me—”

  “Mr. Bellini, this is Dr. Charles Stafford. I’m a neurologist on staff at Lake Serene Hospital.”

  Matteo blinked. “Lake Serene Hospital?”

  “Yes. Lake Serene, New York. We’re a town in the Adirondack mountains.”

  Matteo’s mind whirled. He didn’t know anyone in upstate New York. Like many of his fellow urbanites, New York pretty much meant Manhattan and maybe, on occasion, parts of Brooklyn.

  The name Lake Serene did ring a bell. The winter Olympics, maybe, years and years ago? But why would an upstate hospital phone him? A solicitation for funds? He contributed to a lot of charities. The list probably included a couple of medical centers here in the city. Maybe they shared their donor lists…

  “Mr. Bellini?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here.”

  “We admitted a patient a few hours ago, Mr. Bellini. A young woman. She was in an automobile accident.”

  “Who is it?” Matteo said, shooting to his feet. “Bianca? Alessandra? Emily? Jaimie? Lissa?”

  “She told us her name is Ariel.”

  Matteo blinked again. “What?”

  “That’s all we have, sir. Her first name. She had no ID, but there was an envelope in her pocket filled with cash. Your business card was in it, as well.”

  Matteo shut his eyes, saw himself slipping his card into Ariel Pastore’s hand.

  “Mr. Bellini?”

  “Yes. I’m here, doctor. I’m trying to…” He cleared his throat. “How badly was she hurt?”

  “Well, she’s conscious. She suffered some cuts and bruises, a fractured wrist, and a concussion, but all in all, she’s doing very well.”

  “And she has no ID?”

  “None. As I told you, she says her name is Ariel.”

  “She says…” Matteo frowned. “What does that mean, she says her name is Ariel?”

  There was a second of silence. “She has amnesia, Mr. Bellini. She doesn’t remember anything but her first name. That’s not altogether uncommon in cases of grade three concussions.”