by Andrew Gross
He had the dwindling stock price and the impossible-to-get-rid-of-at-any-price apartment.
She had the hundred-million-dollar settlement!
She went to the wine room and opened the ornate Lalique etched doors. It was a giant space, Peter’s showcase, packed with prestigious first growths and cult wines from California only a Wall Street CEO could afford. She went over to the far wall, remembering from where they had pulled the Del Dotto. She took out the last two bottles of the case. She heard the door reopen behind her and spun around.
Dani came in.
“You scared me,” she said, her heart skipping a beat. “What are you doing down here?”
“I needed a break,” he said, a sly look on his face. He shut the door.
He went up and took the bottles from her and placed them on the table. In the chill of the cellar, she realized her nipples were showing through.
Dani smiled. “A proper hostess never serves her own wine.”
“Emily Post, I suppose?” she asked, brushing past him.
“No. Dani Thibault.” He grinned. He moved his hand along her slim body and drew her to him. “You smell intoxicating, darling…”
“Dani, please. Everyone’s waiting. Not here…”
“Everyone’s talking about interest rates and how Obama is screwing them.” He shifted her around so that his pelvis pressed against her rear and she felt him all hard. “Trust me, they don’t even know we’re gone.”
“You’re crazy,” Merrill said, trying to pull away. “Besides, Louis may come down any second.”
“Louis’s got his dick in the crème anglaise…” He kissed her neck, running his tongue along the curve of her exposed shoulders. “And I’ve got mine in…”
He cupped a hand over one of her breasts and with the other pulled the blouse out of Merrill’s jeans, deftly pinning her hips against the table. It sent sparks of excitement mixed with uncertainty traveling down her spine. “Dani, please…”
She felt the warmth of his lips brush along her neck and almost involuntarily felt herself shifting against the hardness pressing against her.
“It’s the fucking wine cellar,” she said, her blood heating, and at the same time wondered what the group around the dinner table, two of whom were in her garden and book clubs, would say.
“Exactly.” Dani grinned, mischief in his eyes.
With one hand he unbuckled her gold chain belt and flicked open the snap of her jeans. Merrill felt a flame of desire dance through her. With the other, he ripped at his own belt and zipper and slid his trousers down. This was rougher than he usually was, more forceful, and she thought, for a brief second, that it was as if it was almost in answer to her own doubts and fears. He slid her red panties down.
“Goddamnit, Dani, please…”
Merrill wanted to pull herself away, end this, but before the words made it to her lips, he had lifted her up against his pelvis and pushed inside. She gasped at the first feeling of the size of him filling her. He rocked, pinning her by the thighs, and her blood surged with the secrecy of what they were doing, holding off the forces of weakness and shame. She begged herself to say Stop, stop, but all she heard was her own trembling breaths, everything intensifying. Her skin started to heat, and Dani’s animal grunts became louder and more excited.
The banter at the dinner table was a million miles away.
They both came within a minute, shivers of satisfaction relaxing Merrill’s spine. She shut her eyes, feeling both as alive as she ever had and angry at her own weakness at the same time. She felt used—used in many ways tonight.
“Who are you?” Merrill whispered as he pulled out of her, leaning against him.
“I’m the man who makes you feel alive again,” he said, releasing his hand from her waist. “What more do you need to know?”
Dani lifted away. He rebuckled his pants. He took the two bottles. “I’ll take these up,” he said. “You may want to get yourself together.”
Merrill rose, readjusting her blouse and jeans. She didn’t turn around, even after he had left. Instead she closed her eyes.
I meant, really, who are you, Dani?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Later, after everyone had left, Merrill took off her earrings in the bedroom while Dani took a shower.
Up until tonight, deep down, she had always really trusted him. She’d been sure that whatever might come out would only confirm the feelings she had for him.
But tonight she sensed something completely different in him. A side she’d never seen before. She’d watched him operate, and a ripple of suspicion had wormed through her that he might, in fact, be using her to gain access to people. She observed him artfully describing his deals, the opportunities that the Baltic and Eastern Europe were now presenting, in that polished, sexy accent of his. The network of contacts she had never quite met. The history of past deals she saw no evidence of.
She had never really seen them, had she?
For the first time, she saw him as someone trying to weave a kind of spell. As an operator. And then there was the way he had taken her in the wine cellar. An animal side of him she had never felt before. Rougher than he had ever been. Almost as if he had sensed some suspicion in her. And was telling her something.
I’m the man who makes you feel alive.
She felt his arms wrap around her again. Coming at her from behind. The exhilaration that both thrilled her and repulsed her. C’mon, Merrill, she said, composing herself. Your mind is getting away from you. This is crazy. This is not your style.
She placed a bracelet in the jewelry box on her dresser and pulled off her ruffled blouse. She spotted Dani’s wallet on the night table.
She had to know. But something suppressed her urge to look inside.
If he wanted to keep part of his past life secret, that was his business, not hers. He had never harmed her, never asked for anything. He made her feel youthful and vibrant and wanted again. The rest…
Why are you giving yourself over to doubt?
But gradually the urge to know him more deeply took hold of her. She went over to the nightstand in her bra and panties, hesitating, the temptation fighting her better instincts. She opened the billfold, listening for confirmation that Dani was in the shower.
It was a billfold he had bought at Harrods in London. Dani always walked around with wads of cash. Euros and dollars. He was like a walking cash machine.
Where did it all come from?
Merrill slipped it open. In the card folder, there were several credit cards: Amex, one personal, one from the business; Visa; a Eurocard; and several bank cards, from here and in London. All made out to Daniel Thibault or D. Thibault. Or Christiana Partners. These she had seen many times before.
Behind the see-through window, there was an international driver’s license. His face. Dieter Franz Thibault. The address was the apartment Dani maintained in London. Behind it, there was another local Dutch license as well.
A tremor of shame traveled through her. This was silly. Suspicion was not a space she felt comfortable being in. What was she even looking for? Dani was a charming and generous man. He had proved it countless times to her. It wasn’t about what was in a person’s wallet. She could see into his heart. She wasn’t some school-girl carried away by her feelings…
Feeling guilty and foolish, Merrill quickly scanned the remaining cards. There was the University Club in New York. He must’ve gone to the LSE, like he said, to be a member there. Some other private clubs in the city. One Alfred Place in London. Various other membership cards in places like Paris and Madrid.
She quickly fanned out some business cards. A private banker at ABN AMRO in Amsterdam. A contact from Cerberus Capital, one of the largest private equity firms in the U.S. Everything was normal. No secrets.
See. There’s no scary man in the attic, Merrill. Dani is who he says he is. She shoved the contents of his wallet back inside, starting to feel like a fool.
The shower stopped. Merrill heard
Dani climb out.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” he called. She could hear him toweling off.
“I’m just taking my jewelry off.”
“Along with everything else, I hope,” he called.
She went to put the wallet back when, fumbling, her heart quickening, some photographs fell out of the inside flap. “Oh, damn…”
The first was of the two of them. Sailing off the Dalmatian coast last August. Dani could handle a skiff like the snap of a bra. She hadn’t felt so swept off her feet since she was a young girl. They had anchored and made love on the deck in a rocky cove. It filled her with biting shame to even be questioning those memories.
She was about to fold the wallet back up when the second photo came out. It had been stuck to the first.
Something made her look more closely.
The photo was of two women. One was young, in her thirties, her hair pulled back in a bun. The second woman was older, maybe in her seventies, hardened lines across her drawn, unpampered face. They stood in front of a streetcar. It looked like any undetermined European city.
Merrill was struck by the faces.
There was something remarkably familiar in them.
It was Dani. In both of them. Merrill stared wide-eyed. The resemblance was clear as day.
One could be his twin, definitely. But he had never mentioned one. The older woman, Merrill thought, bringing the photo into the light, the older woman could be his…
It gave her a start. The feeling of doubt reflexively springing back up. Can’t be…
Dani had told her many times his parents were dead. Since his university days. His father had died in an automobile accident, his mother from cancer. He said that he had no sisters. No family. They had been in Europe several times together. He’d never said anything about any relatives.
But the similarity was unmistakable.
This had to be his mother. And his sister. Maybe even a twin.
Merrill searched for the signs of age on the photo. Maybe it was from long ago. But the edges were still remarkably firm. And what she saw next sent her head spinning even more.
In the background, on the streetcar, behind the two women, was an advertisement. It was for a film. Partially blocked by the two women in front of it.
They died when he was at university, Merrill told herself, but the image she was looking at was the same in any language.
The film was The Dark Knight. Heath Ledger starring as the Joker.
You had to have been in a cave somewhere the past year not to have been aware of it.
The Dark Knight had come out only last year.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was after eleven, that same night, when Kevin Mitman turned his BMW X5 onto John Street, the kids finally dozing in the back.
Timmy had only calmed down about the game a few minutes ago. The Rangers coming back from two goals down in the third against the Devils and winning in overtime. Petr Prucha, Melissa’s favorite player, had tipped in the winning goal. The crowd went crazy. When Prucha had skated out for his star-of-the-game ovation, Tim stood on his chair and cheered, fists in the air. As they left the Garden, they even bought Melissa his number 25 jersey.
In the front passenger seat, Kevin’s wife, Rosemary, stirred.
“We’re home!” Kevin said.
“Mmmm.” Ro opened her eyes. “How’re you doing, honey?”
“Not bad. Everyone’s asleep.”
“No, we’re not!” Tim suddenly chimed in.
Ro glanced at the clock and groaned. “Well, you will be soon, mister.”
They were supposed to have left the night before. Up to Mount Snow for a few days of skiing on their spring break. But then some business things came up and Kevin figured they might as well go to the game, as opposed to giving the seats away, though Ro, who thought hockey duller than listening to the business channel, had to be dragged.
“I’ll get the kids in bed,” she said. “You take out the recycling.”
“Uh, yeah, okay,” he said with a sigh. The driveway was fifty yards long and it was twenty degrees. Doesn’t driving count for anything?
He wound the SUV down toward their home, a large ranch on two backcountry acres, which they’d bought when Kevin had taken over the family’s printing company. It was pretty remote—a twelve-minute drive from town and the nearest market. You don’t want to forget the milk, he always joked. But they liked it. They had deer and even coyote, and in the spring, the same geese always on their pond.
Kevin was about to turn in. “We’re here, gang…”
Suddenly something didn’t seem right. Instead of turning, he slowed at the gate.
There was an empty black van parked on the side of the road—unusual, because no one ever parked out here. The nearest house to them was hundreds of yards away. Everyone had driveways and garages large enough to hold a dozen cars.
He noticed something else too.
“Ro, did you leave the lights on in the house?”
“No,” she said, staring down the driveway. They were always strict on that one. Thousand-dollar electric bills and Kev’s business was soft. “Just in the foyer,” she said. “Like we always do.”
From the street, they could see lights on throughout the house.
“Shit!” Kevin pulled up on the darkened street, keeping out of sight.
In the back, Timmy leaned forward. “What’s going on, Dad?”
“I don’t know.”
Melissa woke up. “Why aren’t we turning? What’s happening?”
Kevin turned to Rosemary. They’d all heard about the string of burglaries in the backcountry. The local papers had had it all over. They were supposed to be in Vermont. He flashed through the possibilities. Who would have known? The newspaper delivery people. The mailman. The gardeners…
He passed the house and pulled up to a stop about a hundred yards down. “What do we do, Ro?”
“There’s no way we’re going in there, Kev.” His wife shook her head, fear in her eyes.
He nodded. He bit his lower lip and punched in 911 on the Bluetooth. A female duty officer answered on the second ring.
“Greenwich Emergency.”
“This is Kevin Mitman. I live at 2019 John Street,” he said, meeting his wife’s eyes. “We just came back from a hockey game. I’m outside in the car.” He took a breath and grabbed his wife’s hand. “I think someone’s broken into our house.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It wasn’t them.
The two stunned burglars, clad in athletic sweatshirts and jeans, were descended upon by the Greenwich police—lights flashing and guns drawn—carrying a plasma TV up the Mitmans’ driveway, heading back to their van.
The two robbers were barely adults. Yemeni kids from Norwalk. One was twenty-two, the other nineteen. They were shaking in their boots. An hour’s interrogation back at the station had them giving up who they had felt up in the fifth grade. They owned up to several of the break-ins. The McLains. The Polashes. The St. Angelos. They gave up the whereabouts of a basement apartment where the police still could find much of the stolen cache.
It wasn’t them.
They got their prospective locations through another cousin who delivered the local paper each morning. That’s how they knew when homeowners planned to be away. Neither of them had much of a record. The older one had been pinched for shoplifting. The nineteen-year-old was actually enrolled in Norwalk Community College and this was his first arrest. The older one had a gun on him, an old, passed-down Beretta .22 that he’d bought on the streets. More for show than any real effect.
No match for the Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter that had been used on the Glassman family.
When they were confronted with the murders, everything started coming out of them. They even had an alibi for that night. The younger one’s cousin was having a betrothal celebration in Passaic, New Jersey. He had spent the night at the cousin’s house.
The older one had spent the night at a bar in
White Plains. Until two A.M. Closing time.
They were stupid and out of their league, and it was good to finally shut their little operation down.
It just wasn’t them. Hauck knew. It wasn’t the two who murdered Marc and April Glassman.
That morning, he caught Chrisafoulis on the phone as he was scrambling between news briefings. “You got one minute,” the head of detectives snapped. “You see what’s happening out there, don’t you?”
Hauck said, “Yeah, I see it.”
What he was talking about were the ten news vans that were backed up like cattle cars onto Mason Street outside the station. CNN, Fox, the local Connecticut stations. Reporters surrounding anyone who came out who looked like they might have some connection to the case. The Glassman murders were page-one news—the grisly scene, the rich suburban family murdered in their secluded home, the calm of Greenwich shattered. And it had brought down a Wall Street icon too.
“It wasn’t them, was it?” Hauck pressed. He doubted the motive was robbery from the start.
“Ty, you know I can’t keep doing this. I only have so much room.”
“Steve…” His voice was insistent. “Were they the ones who did the job?”
“They admitted to several jobs,” the detective said evasively. “The two out on North Ridge and Willow. They told us where some of the loot was stashed. How they staked out the homes…”
“You said that one of the Glassman perps had long reddish hair. You said he had some kind of tattoo on his neck.” Hauck knew he was going further than he should. “You said they wore work uniforms. You found tire tread marks on the street. The gun that killed the Glassmans was an H and K nine-millimeter. C’mon, Steve, you know damn well what job I’m talking about.”
He waited a beat before Chrisafoulis replied. And when he did, it was short and under his breath. “No. They copped to the other break-ins. But not the Glassmans. One of them is nineteen, the other twenty-two. The guns didn’t match up, or the tire tread. Or the descriptions. You should’ve seen them; shit came out of their pants—”