Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

  I got a sharp poke from the gun barrel as the big man guided us toward a bank of gleaming elevator doors. A nearby placard announced that the top three floors were temporarily closed for remodeling. Regardless, we entered the far elevator and he pressed the button for the top.

  On the way up, I thought about my chances with this guy. I’d been thinking of practically nothing else during the cab ride here to the hotel. Except the brief moment spent imagining the look on Polk’s face when he learned that—not five minutes after pissing all over police protection—I’d been grabbed off the street. Right outside the station.

  I now eyed the guy who’d done it. Something like 280 pounds of hard-packed muscle. Eyes cool as ice chips.

  The mirrored, velvet-carpeted elevator shuddered to a stop, and without a word the big man put his free hand on my elbow. At the same time, the door slid silently open onto an ornate hallway, leading to four suites.

  Most of the doors were open, and a dozen men and women in power suits hurried in and out of them. Phones rang constantly, and I could make out laptops and fax machines, their clean, digital lines in stark contrast to the belle èpoque-era chairs, sofas and tables arrayed around them.

  At the end of the hallway, another set of doors was guarded on either side by security guys who could have been clones of the one still gripping my elbow. Without a word, one of them opened a door for us to enter.

  Inside, the suite opened onto a wide, high-ceilinged room halved by a stand of picture windows overlooking the Point. With a final, bone-crushing squeeze of my arm, I was more or less shoved into the middle of the room.

  I turned, feeling the anger burnish my face, to see my captor casually walking away. Mission accomplished, he took up a position in a near corner, arms behind his back.

  I let out a breath, standing there amid the reflection of the city lights spilling from the windows. The black of night looked blacker still against the splintered glow, but I could just make out the Monongahela below, mirrored surface wrinkled by the wind.

  “I do think it’s the best view in the city,” a female voice said behind me.

  I turned to find a pretty, auburn-haired young woman crossing from another door into the room. She walked stiffly toward a long white sofa, before which stood a glass coffee table. Atop it was a silver tray holding two crystal goblets and a bottle of Evian water.

  “I always like to be high up,” she continued, sitting carefully on the sofa. “Gives you perspective. Takes you out of yourself, if you know what I mean.”

  I guessed her age at twenty or so, though her poise and subdued manner suggested a maturity beyond her years. Even so, her tailored skirt and blouse failed to disguise the supple, youthful curves of her body. She also wore the placid expression of a veteran employee of the wealthy. In the inner circle, and yet not of it.

  Following on her heels was another man, whose smile showed the whitest teeth I’d ever seen. He was young, too, maybe mid-twenties. Designer clothes. A corporate face that belied the smile. And, somehow, vaguely familiar.

  He crossed the room in two brisk strides, and, to my surprise, extended his hand. I looked at it.

  “Peter Clarkson,” he said, oblivious.

  It was then, with his hand outstretched, that I finally placed him.

  Because the last time I’d seen him, Clarkson was also shaking hands with someone. Albert Garman. In the photo I’d noticed in Garman’s office at Ten Oaks the day before.

  Before I could even digest this information, Clarkson was making introductions. Observing the niceties. Like everything was normal. Like I hadn’t just been brought here at gun-point.

  “I see you’ve met Sheila.” He nodded at the girl sitting with hands folded on the sofa. Her eyes looked right through me, opaque.

  Then Clarkson jerked a thumb in the direction of the big man in the corner. “And, of course, Carl Trask. Our Head of Security.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I hadn’t caught his name.”

  “That’s ’cause I hadn’t thrown it,” Trask said. Hands still behind his back as though welded there.

  Clarkson ignored his words and turned back to me. “I’m afraid we can only spare you twenty minutes or so. As you can imagine, there are many painful, personal details to attend to. Then we’re off to Singapore. Our merger with Cochran International, as I’m sure you’ve read about. And then that Senate sub-committee thing.”

  I heard what I was supposed to. “So Wingfield’s gone public. About Kevin, I mean?”

  “Not yet. Mr. Wingfield informed his executive staff only this afternoon that the murdered man in the news was in fact his own son. Our people will release a statement to that effect tomorrow morning.” A reflective pause. “This is a tragic time for all of us in Mr. Wingfield’s employ.”

  Sheila spoke to the air as though the rest of us weren’t here. “It was such a shock. His having a son at all. Then…what happened. So horrible.”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “Yes, it is.”

  Now I understood the flurry of activity on the floor.

  And it had nothing to do with any mergers. Wingfield’s spin doctors were gearing up for the media assault that would inevitably follow this bombshell development in Kevin’s murder, which would elevate the story to national status.

  I could just picture it. The ratings-grabbing “personal interest” aspect involving a poor, perhaps mentally ill college student whose famous father was worth billions. Made-to-order for the tabloids, cable channels, talk radio, the internet. Kevin’s case could end up being another Crime of the Century, right up there with O.J. and Jon-Benet Ramsey. God help us.

  Clarkson was eyeing me warily, as though reading my thoughts. “Why don’t you sit down, Doctor?”

  “I’ll stand, thanks.” Fuck him.

  Suddenly, I felt an iron grip on my shoulders, and a chair being kicked against the back of my knees. Then the barrel of Trask’s gun against the base of my skull.

  “Unacceptable,” Trask said evenly.

  I sat. The gun stayed where it was.

  I looked up at Clarkson. “I changed my mind.”

  Clarkson’s smile hardened. Then he strode toward a wet-bar that stood near the far window. When he finally turned again, drink in hand, his gaze had grown sour.

  “I don’t think you understand, Doctor. You just fell down the goddam rabbit hole.” He sipped his drink.

  “Give me a break,” I said. “This John-the-Baptist act closed out of town a long time ago. Just bring in Christ Almighty and let’s get this over with.”

  A hoarse laugh drew my eyes, though I knew what Miles Wingfield looked like. Hell, everybody knew.

  “Dr. Rinaldi.” He moved with an easy stride into the room and beamed down at me. “You put on a pretty good act yourself, considering your position.”

  I stirred, rolling my shoulders. Trask pressed the gun harder against my neck.

  Wingfield waved a hand. “Please. Don’t get up.”

  He laughed again, forcing it a little this time for effect. The man was in his late-sixties, but looked years younger. Thick, wavy gray hair. Face untroubled as a monk’s. Clad in one of his signature, personally-tailored Armani suits, reminding me of the infamous Forbes cover shot of him in front of a huge mirrored closet, with literally hundreds of designer suits arrayed behind him.

  I’d been thinking a lot about Wingfield, and what I’d remembered seeing or reading about him since first learning he was Kevin’s father. His story was movie-perfect. Coming from a small Pennsylvania town, he’d not only built an empire and become a national figure, he’d crafted a new self.

  Not just another “self-made” man, but a media-cultivated, PR-enhanced, self-created man. Knowing, sophisticated. Eschewing the “aw-shucks” demeanor of other financial giants like Ted Turner and T. Boone Pickens, Wingfield was the embodiment of a deep cultural belief—that sudden wealth confers on someone his true worth. That success controls destiny, and not the other way around.

  No wonder the me
dia loved him. Coming late to his fortune, he was a testament to transformation, to molding his own, new reality out of one he’d discarded. Miles Wingfield was a public relations wet-dream. A Gatsby without the angst.

  Until you were within five feet of him. Then you saw it. Felt it. Knew.

  He bent and gripped my shoulders with a surprising, wiry strength. His eyes, locked on mine, held a filmy gaze. His smile was small and ruthless and devoid of humor.

  “I’m afraid I’ve made my attorneys very unhappy,” he said. “But I had to meet you in person. See the man whose professional lapses brought about the death of my son.”

  His hands lingered on my shoulders, fingers relaxed now, their touch light as down.

  “You should’ve listened to your lawyers.”

  For a moment, he merely watched my face with detached curiosity. Then, silent still, he let his hands drop from my shoulders. As he turned away from me, I thought I saw his tight smile go slack. As though melting.

  “Look,” I went on, “it’s not that I don’t understand what you’re after. I’d probably want the same thing. But—”

  He swiveled his head now toward Clarkson and Sheila. “I’d like some private face-time with Dr. Rinaldi.”

  Peter Clarkson said nothing, just finished his drink with a long swallow and nodded. Sheila got smoothly to her feet and followed Clarkson toward the door.

  Watching her leave, Wingfield smiled. “Great girl, Sheila. Best tits in the building.”

  Sheila’s shoulders stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but she kept walking. I stared at Wingfield.

  His brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me, Doctor?”

  Without a word, Clarkson touched the girl’s shoulder. She froze.

  “Trust me,” I said quickly. “I believe you.”

  Wingfield sighed as though burdened, and crooked his finger at Clarkson. Again, he touched Sheila’s shoulder.

  She paled, unmoving. Then, taking a full breath, the girl walked gingerly back into the room.

  “Do me a favor, will you, honey?” Wingfield smiled at her. “Show Dr. Rinaldi your tits.”

  I bucked in the chair. “Christ, Wingfield—!”

  Trask tapped the back of my head with the gun barrel. His fingers dug into my shoulder.

  Sheila stood transfixed, as though she hadn’t quite heard correctly.

  Wingfield folded his arms, still smiling. A busy man, unaccustomed to waiting. “Now, please…”

  She took another breath. Then, hands trembling, Sheila slowly began to unbutton her blouse.

  Yet she kept her face immobile, looking straight ahead. Her stare unwavering.

  That’s when I knew. Sheila was blind.

  I glanced around the room. Peter Clarkson was standing off to one side, eyes averted. Looking for something to do with his hands.

  By now, Sheila had peeled off her blouse, letting it fall to the floor. Her full, firm breasts somehow more exposed than concealed in the flimsy lace bra. Awkwardly, she reached behind her back to unclasp it. Hesitated.

  Wingfield looked over at me, the exasperated host spreading his hands helplessly. Then back to the girl, eyes narrowing to sharp points.

  “Sheila, sweetheart, we haven’t got all day,” he said.

  Her face pinched fearfully at something she heard in his voice. Steeling herself, she began unfastening her bra.

  “Damn it, Wingfield,” I said. “Make this stop.”

  Trask rapped the side of my head again with the gun butt. I didn’t even feel it.

  Sheila seemed to be having trouble with the clasp.

  Clarkson started snapping his fingers. “Come on…”

  “Aw, Christ,” Wingfield said suddenly, waving his hand at the girl. “Forget about it. Now I’m just bored.”

  Sheila stared, unblinking. Her bra was undone, but she clutched the straps over her tremulous breasts.

  “Go on, you two,” Wingfield said. “Leave us.”

  He pointed to Clarkson, who hurriedly came over and scooped up her blouse from the carpet. Then, brusquely, he took Sheila by the elbow and hustled her out of the room.

  Wingfield shrugged. “You’ll just have to take my word for it,” he said to me. And smiled. “Blind since birth. She makes her eyes follow your voice. Amazing, eh?”

  I stared. Okay, you piece of shit. I got the message.

  It was then that I knew for sure. I’d sensed it before, in my life, in my training. In the few times when my work brought me into contact with someone like him. But I could never prove it. Not before any clinical board, not even with a battery of tests. I had only my gut, my experience, to go on.

  And what I saw in that tiny smile. Those milk-white, remorseless eyes.

  Miles Wingfield was a true sociopath.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Behind me, Carl Trask cleared his throat. “Anything ya want me to do, Mr. Wingfield?”

  “What you do best, Carl. Shut up and look lethal.” He gestured toward the far corner. “But do it over there, okay?”

  The pressure of the gun left my neck; then the heavy pad of footsteps moved off. Without another word, Trask took up position again in the corner.

  Wingfield turned and poured himself an Evian water.

  “I wasn’t sure we’d have the opportunity to meet,” he said. “Before things became…well, unpleasant. I’d hoped Mr. Trask here would be able to persuade you to come.”

  “His gun was very persuasive.” I stood up.

  Wingfield frowned. “Gun? What are you talking about?” He looked past me. “Carl? What is he talking about?”

  Trask grinned. “Beats hell outta me, Mr. Wingfield.”

  “You see, Dr. Rinaldi,” Wingfield said smoothly, “it appears you came here voluntarily.”

  He leaned forward, his voice amiable. “I promise you, given my considerable resources, nothing I do will be outside the law. There’s no need.”

  “Except kidnapping. Assault with a deadly.”

  He shrugged. “What was it Sheila said to you? About perspective? I see before me not a victim of anything, but rather a perpetrator of an unspeakable crime. Against me.”

  He sipped his water. “I see a man who came here full of contrition for his acts against me and my family. Who offers an apology I cannot, and will not, accept.”

  “I don’t remember apologizing to you for anything.”

  Wingfield considered this, turning the glass in his hand. “That’s right, you haven’t. Why not?”

  I was silent.

  “I said, why not?” Something changed in his eyes.

  Suddenly, he closed his fist on the glass. It shattered noisily, water and splintered crystal flying.

  Wingfield took a full step toward me, bristling. Livid with rage. Unmindful of the deep gash in his palm, oozing freely, welling blood.

  “Don’t you understand what you’ve done to me?” he shouted. “The steps I’ll take to destroy you?”

  There was no grief in his eyes, only white hatred. Narcissistic rage. Kevin’s death was no tragedy in itself. What I saw on his face wasn’t the horror of a parent’s loss of a child. It was the pain of insult.

  He stood, glowering. Until the anger etched on his face turned to disdain, and then to disinterest.

  Finally, he looked at his cut hand, curled his fingers to pump the blood. A thick, red rivulet, spreading. He seemed fascinated.

  “Yes, I have a fleet of lawyers, and the resources to ruin you. I will see you in the gutter. But will that really satisfy me? Will that be enough?” His gaze found mine again. “No, Doctor. No, it will not.”

  We stood that way for a long moment, our eyes locked. Without turning, he finally spoke.

  “I’ve changed my mind, Carl. Go have a smoke.”

  Trask hesitated a moment, then padded out of the room.

  “Good man,” Wingfield said, as the doors to the hall closed softly. “Ex-Navy SEAL. Special Ops. I’m lucky to have him. They wanted him as a consultant on Fox News. That’s where all the
old soldiers go now. They don’t die, and they don’t fade away. Instead, they all get agents and trade sound-bites with Bill O’Reilly.”

  He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it around his hand. Then, to my surprise, he bent over the coffee table and began gingerly picking up shards of glass. Swabbing up water with a napkin. This seemed to calm him.

  “Do you have children, Dr. Rinaldi?”

  “No.”

  “Then you couldn’t understand what I meant just now. That no matter what I do to you, it won’t be enough. It won’t bring Kevin back.”

  Wingfield straightened up. “I know what you’re thinking, Doctor. How can I talk this way after abandoning my children years ago? After leaving them in Banford.”

  “Maybe you could explain that to me.”

  “It’s not complicated. I was presented with a business opportunity that meant I had to leave town, so I took it. There was no life there with my kids anyway. All the gossip, the scandal. I was branded a horrible father because I hadn’t known about what was going on under my own roof. Frankly, I didn’t have a clue.”

  He smiled. “You have to understand, I didn’t belong in that town to begin with. Its smallness was oppressive, its view of life provincial, constraining. I tried to fit in, for my family’s sake. To deny my true self, my…well…my larger perspective on life’s possibilities. Especially for a man like me.”

  He sighed, burdened. “Instead, I worked in a bank whose total assets wouldn’t cover my current weekly payroll. I was expected to behave and think as though I were…ordinary. I was suffocating, you understand? Barely aware of anything other than the lack of air.”

  “You mean, like what might be going on between your own son and daughter…?”

  “As I said, Dr. Rinaldi, I hadn’t a clue.” His head tilted. “Though even now, I find their…behavior… literally unthinkable.”

  “You had no idea at the time? There are signs, things to look for…”

  He sat back on the sofa arm. “Not to me. Then again, after my wife’s death…” Here he paused. “Perhaps I was just too upset to…I mean, wouldn’t any man be?…”