by Kate White
And then I’m on my feet again, practically flinging myself at his closet. I tear open the door and drop onto my haunches, peering at the area on the floor where he stacks his clothes for the dry cleaner. There’s a neatly folded pile of about seven or eight items.
I lean closer and rifle through it, hurling each item of clothing behind me one by one until I’ve gone through everything.
There’s no sign of the fucking suit pants. The ones that supposedly became unwearable because of the cup of coffee dumped in his lap.
24
A few minutes after nine the next morning, I’m barreling south in a taxi I had the doorman hail for me. Before darting into the cab’s backseat, I’d quickly scanned the immediate vicinity. Everything looked perfectly normal.
It just doesn’t feel normal.
As I promised Mulroney, I’m going to look for clues that might explain what I was doing at WorkSpace Tuesday night.
Surely if Dr. Erling knew about this, she wouldn’t be pleased, but I’m not only going there to hunt for clues. It’s my chance to finally catch up in person with Nicole—who must be wondering what in the world is going on with me—before heading to my MRI appointment on the East Side.
And if I were actually playing amateur sleuth, I justify to myself, I would have shown up at WorkSpace as soon as I was off the phone from Mulroney, but I was still too unsettled and anxious to leave the apartment last night, and besides, Hugh would have nailed the door shut if I’d tried to leave.
I still cringe when I think of the pathetic scene in our apartment. Hugh arrived home without my hearing him, and when he stepped into the bedroom, I was still squatting on the floor with his dirty clothes strewn behind me. I must have looked like a dog caught rooting through the trash bin.
“What in the world are you doing?” he’d demanded.
“I—I was looking for your pants.” Inside, a little voice had warned me against accusing him of anything. Not without proof. “I was going to take them to the cleaners—before the stain set in.”
“I told you I’d do it, Ally. Besides, I doubt they’re open now.”
I glanced at my watch, feigning surprise. “Oh wow. I hadn’t realized how late it was.”
“That was nice of you, though,” he said, his voice gentler then. “If you really want to drop them off tomorrow morning, they’re in the hall closet.”
So there is no bizarre Mystery of the Missing Pants, I told myself. My husband hadn’t deceived me, at least not about that. I rose, trying to make my movements seem casual, and began restacking his dirty clothes, setting them back in his closet.
“Sorry to seem so frazzled,” I told him, “but something upsetting happened tonight.”
I told him then about my fall, and the idea that it might be related to my missing days. To me as a possible witness.
“Ally, look,” he’d said, putting an arm around me. “I know you trust this Mulroney guy, but his theory seems far-fetched. It was probably nothing more than a jerk who wanted to get across the intersection ahead of everyone else. Or a nutjob.”
How could he be so sure? I wondered.
Later, after we’d picked at a pizza we’d had delivered, Hugh set to work again at the dining table, and I tried to read on the couch. From time to time, out of the corner of my eye, I caught him lifting his gaze and studying me, his pen poised in midair. Was he worried I was making things up, slowly losing my mind?
Shortly afterward I’d headed to the bedroom, but before crawling between the sheets, I checked my phone and saw a message from Jennifer, the New Jersey researcher I’d contacted. She had a pocket of time available the next morning, she said, and would photocopy the microfilm I requested.
Now I lean back against the taxi seat and try to focus on the people and buildings flying by, a blur of gray and black and silver punctuated by small smudges of color. My arms, I notice, still ache from the fall last night. Stay in the present, I command myself, but my thoughts keep getting tugged ahead, wondering what I’ll find in my office. I root around in my purse for a cinnamon Altoid and shove it into my mouth. At the rate I’m going, I should invest in the company.
Once I arrive at the building where WorkSpace is located, I stop at the front desk and ask for my new key card. Hugh had submitted a support ticket for me last Thursday, deactivating the old card and requesting a new one. As I accept the card from the manager, I notice him glance briefly at my palm, which is still crisscrossed with scrape marks. I wonder briefly if he’s the one who spilled to Mulroney, but I don’t have time to dwell on that.
Stepping away, I scan the space around me—the boldly colored, mod-style community lounge, the rows of sleek wooden tables, and the offices behind them. The last time I remember being here was a week ago Monday, and yet it actually feels longer. That’s normal, I tell myself. So much has happened in between.
After grabbing a water from the lounge, I make my way to the two-person office I rent, unlock the door, and—holding my breath—flick on the light.
My eyes go straight to the sleek wooden desk, where Nicole and I sit side by side. I pull back a little in surprise. Her area is neat as a pin, as usual; mine is messy, not at all the way I ever leave it.
I move closer. At the end of the day I like to line up my desk accessories—pen holder, stapler, tape dispenser, a tray of hot-pink Post-it pads—but they’re haphazardly scattered around at the moment, as if I couldn’t be bothered. There’s also a used paper coffee cup on the desktop, along with a couple of grease-stained paper napkins, suggesting I ate a meal or a snack here.
Nowhere in sight, however, are any receipts or notes or Post-its scribbled with words, nothing that might offer a hint to what sent me on the lam from myself. I glance down at the trash can, hoping to find the bag the food came in, but it’s empty, of course. The cleaning staff would have dumped out any contents the morning after I was here.
I text Mulroney to let him know that I’ve come up empty, and with a sigh I straighten my desk accessories, toss the napkins and cup in the trash, and pull my laptop from my tote bag. Nicole won’t be in until around ten, so I have a little while to prep. I open the most recent research file Nicole sent me for the chapter I’ll be writing on credit cards and credit card debt and finally begin to peruse it. Research is the clay I craft my columns and books from, and usually I love diving in and having ideas sparked by what I read, but today it seems nothing short of tedious. My eyes keep bouncing off the computer screen, eager for anyplace else to alight.
Thinking caffeine might help, I traipse down the hall to the community lounge for a cup of coffee. A couple of familiar faces smile or nod at me from the couches. One guy, who’s sitting farther away, at one of the desks in the open seating area, gazes at me. He’s wearing a dark blue sport jacket over an orange hoodie. I’ve never seen him before, but his attention settles on me, his expression curious. Was he around when I spent the whole night here? Does he know something? When I return the stare, he quickly looks back to his screen.
Returning to my office with a coffee, I find that Nicole has arrived and is parked at her desk, laptop open, and staring intently at the screen. Hearing me enter, she glances up. She’s twenty-six, pretty, and petite, with curly light brown hair just below her chin.
“Oh, hi, good morning,” she says. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
“I am, thanks,” I say, forcing myself to get out of my own head for a minute. “You look so refreshed. I take it the trip was fun for you.”
“Fun enough, I guess. I wore SPF 50 every second, but I still ended up getting burned. . . . You want to go over what I sent you last week?”
Nicole is a terrific assistant and researcher and we get along well, but unlike Casey, she’s fairly reserved and no-nonsense, never much of a gabber.
“Um, yeah,” I say, sitting back at my desk. “And then I have a list of topics I’d like you to explore next.”
She rolls her chair closer to mine, dragging her laptop across the polished wood. Tho
ugh I absorbed little from reading her notes, I’m able to fake it by skimming a few sentences ahead as we talk. I manage to ask several questions and request that she flesh out a few of her notes. But I’m still having trouble concentrating.
“You want to take a break?” Nicole says after we’ve been at it for about forty minutes. “I know you said you’d been under the weather.”
“I’m better now, but I didn’t sleep very well last night. So yes, let’s take a break.”
“No problem, I’ll get to work on these questions. And do you have any more stuff for me to proofread?”
“Uh, I’m actually a little behind cranking out new pages. Maybe next week, okay?”
She nods, not doing a good job of hiding her surprise. I never fall behind.
“You want anything from Starbucks?” she asks, rolling her chair back. “The micro roast here just doesn’t do it for me.”
“No, I’m good. But thanks.”
She rises and grabs her coat from the peg on the wall.
“Oh, before I forget,” she says, pausing. “I did a little digging on Greenbacks, per your request.”
“Find anything?”
“There’s a rumor floating around—wait, are you thinking of mentioning them in the book in some way? Because this is really gossip and it wouldn’t be right to include it.”
“No, not for the book.” I hold my breath. Could Sasha be right about something unethical going down there? “Definitely not for publication of any kind.”
“Okay, so it sounds like it’s about to be sold to some big financial services company.”
Ahh, the longed-for endgame. I take a few moments to reflect. I’d always known that a sale was Damien’s goal—without ever hearing it from his own mouth. Everyone knew it. What you aim for with a startup is to sell it eventually, take home several boatloads of dough, and be the secret and not-so-secret envy of everyone you know. A term of the sale might require Damien to stay on and run the operation for a period of time, but then he would be free (and very rich), able to start some shiny new company or sail across the Pacific Ocean or do whatever he damn well pleased. If the deal went through, of course.
“Good for them,” I say finally. “Did you hear any details?”
“About the sale? No, I’m not sure who the potential buyer is, though I could make a few guesses.”
“You didn’t hear anything negative about Greenbacks, did you? Irregularities or anything like that?”
“No, but there’d better not be if they’re really hoping for a sale.”
Exactly. If there’s been inflation with the number of accounts, like Sasha alluded to, and the buyer finds out during the due diligence process, it could kill the deal. And Greenbacks would be tainted.
“Well, thanks for the intel,” I say. “Since I worked there, I’m always a little curious.”
“I don’t blame you.” As she turns to finally leave, her gaze falls to the surface of my desk. “I would have cleaned up your desk area when I came in yesterday. But I always want to be respectful of your space.”
So the unaccustomed disarray caught her eye. I wonder if anything else did.
“Thank you, I was in a bit of hurry the last time I was here. . . . By the way, when you came back today, did anyone mention anything about me?”
“About you? I’m not following.”
“I worked really late one night, and I wondered if anyone had noticed or commented. I don’t usually hang out here after six.”
She looks at me as if I’m asking her a trick question. “No, no one said anything. I doubt anyone here would find it weird you were working late.”
Once she’s gone, I rest my elbows on the desk and drop my face into my hands. I don’t feel any real connection to Greenbacks anymore or to Damien, but it still bothers me to think that something bad might be happening there. Or that Sasha, in her foolhearted desire to transform herself from beauty blogger to muckraker, will cause people to think there’s trouble when there isn’t.
Regardless of what’s going on—or not—at Greenbacks, Damien would of course be pissed about the idea of Sasha nosing around. Or me nosing around if he thinks I really did put Sasha up to the call. I flash back on the bluntness of his first text to me the other day. Can we meet? I need to see you. And how the temperature dropped at the café when I mentioned the call to the company PR person. Maybe his interest in seeing me was never concern for my well-being but instead a fishing expedition. Even his coming to the bistro last night might have been nothing more than a ruse to learn more.
How stupid of me to allow myself to be touched by his texts and calls. I thought they were a sign that he’d cared more than I realized all those years ago.
I’m never going to be able to concentrate on work today, I realize. I scribble down a note for Nicole, saying something’s come up but I’ll email her later with her next assignment, and punch my arms into my jacket, desperate to get out of here.
But as I’m turning to leave, an unseen force tugs at me. I’d promised Mulroney a good look around and I need to be thorough. Bending slightly, I open the top drawer to the filing cabinet underneath my desk, which usually holds nothing more than a few empty hanging folders.
I almost recoil in shock. My purse is sitting there.
The soft black leather hobo bag that’s been missing for days. It’s crouched toward the very back of the drawer, like a little kid who’s been hiding in a game of Sardines.
I spin around and stare through the glass wall of the office. Across the hall, three people are gathered around a drawing table in a slightly larger office, their backs to me.
Swiveling back, I grab the bag and tear it open. My wallet’s inside, holding my license and the now-canceled bank card and credit cards, minus the one I used at Eastside Eats; my Metro card; and my WorkSpace key card. Rooting through the bag, I also find my apartment keys; rollerball pens; tiny Moleskine notebook; a comb; my makeup bag with blush, lipstick, and a Bobbi Brown foundation stick; a small Ziploc bag containing Claritin and Advil. There’s no cash, I notice, other than twenty cents in the change purse.
No receipts either, or scraps of paper teasing me with hints.
And no phone, which seems to confirm that my purse and phone disappeared at separate times.
I peer farther into the drawer and pat my hand around in there. Nothing else. I yank out the bottom drawer next but it’s entirely empty.
Nicole will be back any minute, I realize, and I don’t want her to find me stupidly holding two full handbags. I stuff the hobo purse into my tote bag and quickly exit the premises. Once I’m on the street, I hurry down the block and duck into a Walgreens. I have no intention of buying anything but I drag one of the wheeled plastic baskets up and down the aisles with me, trying to pull my frayed thoughts together.
It seems that I must have purposely left my bag at WorkSpace when I left that Wednesday morning, taking only cash and one credit card, which I no longer seem to possess. It also means that my early theory that I was mugged is definitely dead in the water.
But why would I have left my bag behind—and my keys? It’s as if I’d made a decision to travel light, unburdened, like someone on the run.
I tuck into a corner of the store and call Mulroney. I notice that he hasn’t responded to my previous texts, but he may not have seen them yet.
“I ended up finding something at WorkSpace,” I say when I reach his voice mail. “Can you call me as soon as possible?”
It’s almost an hour and a half until my MRI appointment, but after exiting the drugstore and scouring the immediate area with my eyes, I hail a cab to the East Side. When the driver starts to turn onto the side street where the medical building’s located, I ask him to drop me off at the corner of First Avenue instead, where I spot a small Italian restaurant.
Though it’s breezy and crisp outside, there’s a row of tables on the sidewalk, their blue-and-white-checked tablecloths snapping in the wind. I opt to sit inside, and a waiter in white shirt a
nd black pants leads me to a table along the wall. The room is dimly lit but in a soothing rather than gloomy way, and music’s playing in the background, a tenor singing an aria. Surprisingly there are already two other tables with diners, both groups of older women who have the look of regulars.
I take my phone from my purse and leave it on the table, so I won’t miss Mulroney returning my call, and glance quickly at the menu. I order a bowl of spaghetti alle vongole, a dish I haven’t had in ages, and a glass of Pellegrino.
There, that’s better, I think. In the years before I met Hugh, when I was single and dating very little, I often went out to dinner alone at little restaurants in my Upper East Side neighborhood. New York is one of those cities where you can do that unself-consciously, and I loved those evenings. They were a chance to think and be a little dreamy and imagine all the good things the future might hold.
It did hold good things for me. And it will again, I tell myself. It will, it will, it will. I’m going to learn where I went those two days and why, and once I have all the pieces back, I’m going to address the situation with Hugh and find a way to sort through our issues as a team.
My phone rings, and I grab it quickly. Not Mulroney calling. It’s Jennifer, the researcher.
“Hi, Ally,” she says. “I got that material for you.”
“Already?” I say.
“The library opened at nine, and there were only about twelve stories over a period of a month and a half.”
“Great,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“They had a scanner I could use, so I’ve already emailed you the file.”
“That’s fantastic, thanks. Just shoot me the invoice when you have a chance.”
“Will do. . . . God, what a horrible case. Your friend’s going to write about it?”
“My friend?”
“The author friend you’re helping out.”
“Oh, um, yeah, maybe. Thanks again, Jen.”