I left Bree at the Gansevoort. She was making calls, trying to use her network of reporters, gays, politicians, bartenders, cab drivers, lawyers, and chefs to find King. He wasn’t answering his phone. If you want to hide in New York, you’ve got lots of places to go, but the thing about King is that he is now instantly recognizable. Plus, he can’t walk two blocks without singing limericks about girls who kick punts, and people tend to remember that.
Ms. Brown went wherever Ms. Browns go. Probably to the FBI firing range with a photo of Bree on the target.
Me, I went to Battery Park. You can’t be more alone than in a place with thousands of people who don’t know you. I sat on a bench, ate soggy butter-soaked popcorn, and watched the Staten Island ferries come and go. No one bothered me except the pigeons. The news about Irving Wolfe hadn’t broken yet. As soon as everyone heard about it, my phone and e-mail would light up with questions. What was I going to do about King’s book? What really happened on Wolfe’s boat? Where is King Royal? Is he a suspect in the murder?
Yes, of course, he was a suspect. If two people are alone on a boat, and one winds up with a bullet in his skull, it doesn’t take Agatha Christie to figure out whodunit. King killed the Captain.
Except maybe he didn’t.
If I was right, and Sonny was on the boat that night, too, then you could connect the dots in another way. Sonny killed Wolfe and paid King four million dollars in a book deal to keep him quiet.
I should have called Helmut at Gernestier to warn him, because when your big bestseller turns out to be a product of the Fictional Memoir Writing School, you owe your soon-to-be parent company a heads up. However, this was still my problem. One way or another, I had to deal with King Royal and Captain Absolute myself, but I didn’t know how. It’s hard to rewrite the ending of a book when you don’t know what really happened.
I needed help, and there was only one person in my life who would drop everything to help me. Don’t ask me how I knew that, but I knew that. I punched speed dial 1 on my phone, and when he answered, I said, “I need to see you.”
Garrett arrived half an hour later.
There is something magical about watching a crowd of strangers, and then, suddenly, miraculously, seeing a familiar face. Well, I suppose it’s not miraculous when you know he’s coming, but it was still like parting the seas for me. Before he was close enough to recognize, I spotted his unruly brown hair and his lanky stride. He wore jeans and a sport coat and a button-down navy shirt. His hands were in his pockets. I think he was whistling. He whistles a lot, soft, like a distant flute. I like listening to it.
As he came closer, he gave me that little off-synch smile. I was going to miss seeing it every day. He sat down next to me and sighed at the view, because when you’re in Battery Park, it’s a great view. I wore sunglasses. He didn’t need to see that I’d been crying.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“What’s up?”
“King Royal is missing, Irving Wolfe was murdered, and I think Sonny did it,” I said.
No, I didn’t say that. I thought it, but I didn’t say it. You have to ease into these things.
“Popcorn?” I said. I still had half a box.
“Sure.”
He dug his long fingers in for a handful and cupped it in his palm. I watched him eat it kernel by kernel as he watched the water, and then he licked the salt and butter off his fingers.
“I could do that for you,” I said.
No, I didn’t say that, either.
“So,” I said.
“So,” he said.
I thought I should clear the air. Tell him the truth. Not lead him on. “I’m going to L.A. next week.”
He nodded but didn’t look at me. “Permanently?”
“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. Cherie and Thad want my help getting their new production company off the ground.”
“That sounds permanent.”
“We’ll see whether I like it. I haven’t given them any guarantees. I’m just looking at scripts now.”
“Anything good?”
“No,” I said.
“Too bad.”
“I love Woodham Road, by the way.”
“I knew you would.”
“Maybe I can turn it into a movie.”
“Sure,” he said. “Maybe Thad can star in it.”
I was listening for sarcasm in his voice. I might have been overly sensitive. Or not. “Maybe so,” I replied.
Garrett ate another piece of popcorn and still didn’t look at me. “Are you staying with him?”
“What, in Los Angeles? Probably. I mean, while I’m out there. It’s easier that way. He’s got a big place.”
“I bet he does.”
“It’s on the ocean in Malibu.”
“Nice.”
I listened for sarcasm again. Garrett lives in a one-bedroom apartment over a Turkish coffee shop.
When I didn’t reply, he finally looked at me. “Whatever you decide you want, I just want you to be happy, Julie.”
I should have said thank you. I should have said a lot of things. I didn’t. Finally, with the ice broken and me sinking beneath it, I said: “I have a problem, and I don’t know what to do.”
Concern washed over his face. Everything else was forgotten. That was why I called Garrett.
“Tell me,” he said.
So I told him. I connected the dots. I told him about Sonny and the boat and the calendar and the phone calls and King and the FBI and Nick Duggan and Irving Wolfe and the murder and – well, I talked and talked until the only thing left to say was the hardest thing of all.
“I think Sonny killed Irving Wolfe,” I said.
Inhale. Breathe. Wait for reply.
“No way,” Garrett said.
“What?”
“No way, Sonny did not kill Irving Wolfe.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have faith in him.”
“You weren’t listening to me,” I said. “I think Sonny was on the yacht with Wolfe and King. Wolfe was murdered.”
“Julie, I don’t know what happened out there, so I can’t tell you. All I know is that the man I worked for, your father, is not a murderer. I know that in my heart, and you do, too.”
That was a nice thought. Cherie and Libby would have said the same thing. Look to your heart. The trouble is, my heart had doubts. I am not one who can turn a blind eye to the facts and pretend they’re not real. (Note to self: I really do have a tiny pooch.)
“If Sonny is innocent, then Captain Absolute makes no sense,” I said. “On the other hand, if he’s guilty and needed to cover up a murder – well, everything fits, doesn’t it?”
“Not to me. Nothing fits. Sonny wasn’t an investor who got taken in the Ponzi scheme. Why on earth would he kill Irving Wolfe?”
“For the money,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“For the money. For West 57. Sonny needed money and a lot of it. So he went to Wolfe to get it. Either Wolfe said no and Sonny got angry, or Sonny knew about the Ponzi scheme all along. He knew Wolfe was embezzling money, hiding it, creating secret accounts. He wanted the money for himself.”
“If so, where is it?” Garrett asked. “West 57 is gone. There’s no money.”
“I don’t know. Maybe King knows. He thinks people are trying to kill him because of it, and he may be right. Look at what happened to Nick Duggan.”
I saw a cloud in Garrett’s face. I realized that my own doubts were infecting him, and I felt guilty. It was becoming real for him, the way it was for me. I shouldn’t have called him. He and Sonny were best friends, and I should have left it like that. On impulse, I leaned over and wrapped my arms around his shoulders and hugged him. He held me, too, and our faces pressed against each other. I wasn’t sure who needed comfort more.
The hug was nothing at first, but the longer we held it, the more we were conscious that neither one of us had let go. We clung to each other. I think I could ha
ve stayed like that for hours. I heard the overlapping voices and laughter of people in the park. If anyone was looking at us, they were probably thinking: Lovers.
Finally, I detached myself, embarrassed. My sunglasses were askew, and I straightened them. His face was flushed. My own cheeks felt hot.
“Next time we do that, let’s be naked,” I said.
No, I didn’t say that. Besides, there wasn’t going to be a next time.
My phone rang in my purse. I assumed it was Bree, because she always seems to call when I am cheek-to-cheek with a handsome man. It’s like radar. Instead, the name on the caller ID said Gordon Barnes, and it took me a moment, flustered as I was, to remember whether I knew anyone named Gordon Barnes.
I did. He was Dumbo the Flying Banker.
I really had no idea what Mr. Barnes wanted, because after you’ve told someone that their business is in the crapper, and you’ve failed to give them their free toaster for opening a checking account in 1994, what else is there to say?
Anyway, based on my track record of the last few days, I knew one thing. Whatever Dumbo wanted, it wasn’t likely to be good news.
38
“A safe deposit box?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Dumbo replied.
“This box belonged to Sonny?”
“So it appears. I have to apologize that I didn’t tell you about this before. Honestly, I didn’t know that Sonny had ever applied for a box. He didn’t go through me, and he didn’t associate the box with the usual West 57 accounts or his other personal accounts, so it never showed up in my records. Instead, he opened a separate money market account with de minimus funds that have been used only to pay the annual fee. Obviously, if I’d been aware of his interest in a safe deposit box, I would have made sure it was complimentary.”
Like my toaster.
“He never mentioned it to me,” I said, “and I haven’t come across a key in any of his effects.”
“Yes, well, that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” Dumbo dug discreetly in one ear. It was probably like a seashell where you could hear the ocean.
“Tell me again what happened this morning,” I said.
“Of course. Would you like some coffee first?”
“I’d love some.”
“Cappuccino? Or just black?”
“Black today.”
“Just the way Sonny liked it,” he said.
Dumbo flapped out of his office and returned moments later with a cup of coffee. I sipped it, and it was as good as last time.
“I was pleased to hear that you have a buyer for West 57,” Dumbo told me, wedging himself back into his chair. “We do business with the Gernestier group. I have great respect for them. You must be relieved to know that the house will again be on a stable financial footing. Sonny would be proud of your leadership.”
“Thank you.” I added, “The box?”
“Indeed. Well, I wasn’t on the floor personally, so I didn’t talk with the man myself. However, one of my most experienced tellers handled the request. It seems that shortly after we opened our doors this morning, a gentleman came up to one of our windows and asked to access his safe deposit box.”
A gentleman.
“You’re sure it was King Royal?” I asked.
“As I mentioned on the phone, his passport identified him as King Royal. Obviously, I don’t know him personally, and I didn’t see him at the bank myself, but my teller played a YouTube video for me, and she said that the man doing the singing – ”
“It’s him,” I said.
“Ah. Good. As I was saying, Mr. Royal asked to be taken to our deposit box storage area. His demeanor raised some red flags with my teller, because he appeared very agitated. However, he had the key and the box number. It was the correct box number, I should add.”
“Where would he get a key?” I said, half to myself.
“From Sonny, I presume.”
Yes, that was one possibility. Either that, or King was the one who broke into my office when he arrived in New York. I hadn’t come across a safe deposit box key in the time I’d spent at West 57, but Sonny may have hidden it. Whoever had broken in had slashed the spines of numerous books. I’d assumed it was vandalism, but Garrett had insisted they were looking for something.
A key?
“Did you let him into the safe deposit box?” I asked.
Dumbo looked horrified at the idea. “Oh, no.”
“Even with the key and the box number?”
“Only the authorized account holder may access the box, regardless of who has the key. That’s what my teller tried to explain to Mr. Royal. She looked up the box number he gave her, and then she asked for identification. When she saw that the names didn’t match, she told Mr. Royal we couldn’t give him access.”
“What did he say?”
“He insisted he was authorized to open the box. He said Sonny had given him permission. However, my teller pulled the original hard copy authorization for the box, and it was very clear that Sonny had opened the account himself and had not added any additional agents on the box. Even if Mr. Royal had something in writing – which he didn’t – that wouldn’t have been sufficient. Sonny had sole access rights. Of course, now those rights are yours.”
“What did King do when he was denied access?”
“He blustered. He protested. He may have thought raising a ruckus would change our minds, but naturally, it didn’t. After this went on for a while, my teller went to get me. Of course, as soon as she mentioned Sonny’s name, I flew out to the lobby.”
Yes, he said “flew.” I’m not making that up.
“However, Mr. Royal was already gone. He was probably afraid I would have had security detain him.”
“Would you have done that?” I asked.
“Over something like this? No, but I would have asked him some questions. Naturally, I knew you would want to hear about this, so I called you right away.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know about the box before now. As I say, Sonny did this on his own without talking to me.”
Or me.
“Do you know if Sonny accessed the box regularly?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I can find out easily enough.”
Dumbo flapped out again and left me with my coffee. I tried to imagine what Sonny would have kept in a safe deposit box. I tried to imagine how King would know about it and why he would rush over here to try to get inside the box after bolting from the Gansevoort. My imagination always carried me back to one word.
Money.
Dumbo came back, and I actually heard a flapping noise, but it wasn’t his ears. Mr. Barnes had an old-fashioned white index card in his hand, and he fanned it between his nervous fingers. Obviously, some things are still done the way they were in the old days, with pen and ink, not bits and bytes. He showed me the card. I saw one line, one date, and a signature I recognized. Sonny Chavan.
“Sonny accessed the box immediately after he opened the account,” Dumbo explained. “He hasn’t done so since then. That was the one and only time.”
I held the card in my hand. I’d seen my father’s signature on contracts and invoices every day for weeks. The familiar scrawl, alone on the card, screamed that this was his secret. This was what he’d been hiding from everyone. This was the truth I’d been trying to find.
I saw the date on the card, which confirmed my suspicions. Sonny had opened the account and the safe deposit box two days after Irving Wolfe died in the Atlantic.
I knew what I wanted to do. Everyone I knew, everyone I loved, would have given me the same advice. Walk away. Don’t look inside the box. I could hear them telling me to let it go, and I wished I could listen.
But I had to know. I had to see it with my own eyes.
“I don’t suppose King left behind the key to the box,” I said.
“No, he took it with him.”
“So if I want to look in the box, what do I have
to do?”
“Well, the easiest thing would be for you to get the key back from Mr. Royal. He’s your author, isn’t he? With the key, you can have access in seconds.”
“Let’s say I can’t do that,” I said.
“Then we have to drill the box. It will take a couple hours to get a locksmith here, and there is a rather large fee, which I’m afraid we’re not able to – ”
“Drill it,” I said. “I’ll wait.”
If you lock yourself out of your car, or your apartment, or your safe deposit box, you will wait a long time in New York for a locksmith to rescue you. Dumbo showed me to a comfortable office, where I sat impatiently, drank too much coffee, and read a brochure on the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation to pass the time. The FDIC, you may be interested to learn, is an independent agency created by the Congress to maintain stability and public confidence in the nation's financial system. Someone should tell them it’s not working.
I tried calling Bree but got her voice mail. I tried calling King, but his mailbox was full.
After three hours, when I was ready to bail out a safecracker from Riker’s Island to get into the box, Donny the Driller arrived with his tools. Really, that was what his name tag said. He wore a snug t-shirt that read, “Bagels and Locks.” The cartoon bagel on his shirt had numbers on it, like a combination dial. It was cute, but my sense of humor was already stretched thin. I didn’t laugh.
Donny drilled, with me, Dumbo, and two security guards looking on. Having a man with power tools in your vault makes bankers nervous. The grinding noise of metal on metal covered me with goosebumps, but Donny didn’t look bothered by the racket or the flying steel dust. He wore large purple goggles, and as he bent over, his jeans gave us a view of the dark side of the moon. Mr. Barnes didn’t look happy.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long before the door went pop.
“There you go,” Donny announced. “You’re no longer lockblocked.”
He winked at me as if to ask: Anything else you want drilled?
The guards shooed him out of the secure room, leaving Dumbo and me standing next to the wall of locked box doors. Sonny’s box, the one with the hole in it, was super-sized, like Sonny. The door was about ten inches by ten inches. When Dumbo opened it, I saw the gray steel box tucked inside the drawer, with a handle to pull it out, like I was opening a lingerie drawer at home.
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