Restoration Heights

  “No, it—I can deal with it later.”

  “I don’t mind if you want to call the person back. You can use my room. You’re entitled to privacy.”

  “The way you say that makes me wonder.”

  “You were a little cagey last night—with how you knew about that classmate of Buckley’s.”

  “Mitchell Yang.”

  “Not that it’s strange I didn’t know him. The only Wharton guys I met were the ones prowling the Morgan Building with their dick in their hands. But the fact that you did—I know you’ve done a lot of work on this thing. I told you, Beth filled me in.”

  He started to explain and she cut him off.

  “I’m not going to judge you—or, I’ve already judged you, and you came out alright.”

  “I’m not the only one looking for Hannah. I was, well—hired by someone. Another Upper East Side family.” He told her about his meeting with Mrs. Leland the day after Hannah disappeared.

  “And you didn’t think this was strange?”

  “Completely strange. I just didn’t care.”

  “But her motives.”

  “They made no sense. But as long as we wanted the same thing—I thought she could help me. That she could help Hannah.”

  “Only now you’re beginning to doubt?”

  “I should have doubted from the beginning. I was too eager.” He showed her the article about Buckley and Anthony, the photos of the two men together. “I don’t know what the connection is between the two families. But I’m not sure that she ever cared about finding Hannah.”

  Sarah thumbed through the search results. “It could be completely benign—maybe the fact that they’re friends is why she was interested in the first place.”

  “Honestly?” He flicked the tomato between his hands in a precise rhythm, left to right and back, a metronome for his unspooling thoughts. “I’m beginning to think she only asked me because I was already nosing around in her business.”

  “You need to at least hear what she has to say.” She jabbed her knife at his phone. “Go ahead. I’ll take it from here.”

  He sent the tomato arcing toward Sarah and she caught it nimbly at her waist. He dialed the number, paced into the hallway while it rang. Thomas answered.

  Reddick brushed off his greeting. “Talk to me about Restoration Heights.”

  The house manager answered slowly, his reserve intact. “What about it?”

  “The main site is a block away from where Hannah disappeared. You didn’t think it was worth telling me that Buckley was a principal investor?”

  “I assumed if it were noteworthy you would find out on your own.”

  “What about her son? He’s been cheerleading the project. A state senator—who knows what strings he pulled.”

  “I’m not sure what Mrs. Leland would like me to say on that topic.”

  “Then how about you put her on and she can tell me herself.”

  “Her schedule is quite full. I will pass on your concern about her son’s relationship to Restoration Heights, and she will discuss the matter with you at the appropriate time.”

  “What about her son’s relationship with Buckley Seward? The two of them seem pretty chummy. When does she want to discuss that?’

  There was a pause on the line, then, “Wait one moment.”

  Mrs. Leland picked up the phone almost immediately. “Reddick. I understand you would like to discuss the case.”

  “I thought we were on the same side.”

  “I believe we share a common goal, yes.”

  “Then why have you been so slow to help me? Why did I find out about Buckley and Restoration Heights from someone else? Why did I have to go online to learn that Buckley looks up to your son as some sort of mentor? Why haven’t I heard all of this from you?”

  “I informed you that I had dealings with the Sewards on the day that I hired you. The two are friends. This is no secret.”

  “But that’s just it. Why hire me? If you wanted to find out what happened to Hannah, why not get a professional? I assumed you had some play in mind, only I didn’t care what it was—I figured as long as we’re on the same side, what did it matter? But now I see it exactly. You thought Buckley might have been involved in Hannah’s disappearance—his suspicious behavior worried you as much as it did me, maybe more so because you also had to consider whether or not he would have involved your son. Maybe you even wondered if your son did it—if she found out something she shouldn’t have, some collusion between the two that went beyond the usual greased palms. So you needed to know what to expect, how much damage to plan for—was it only his reputation at stake, his proximity to a scandal, or worse, something criminal? Maybe Buckley wouldn’t even be a suspect. Maybe he wasn’t involved, or if he was, maybe his cover-up would work. I was the only one pushing back at it, so you pulled me in, partly to keep an eye on me, to learn what I learned, and partly to control me. A private investigator would have dug too deep, found out more than you wanted and come back with blackmail or worse, the press. But me? I was just some dope.”

  Dead air—so long he thought she had hung up. Then, “Suppose for a minute that those were my motivations. What does any of it have to do with Hannah?”

  “Because she’s still gone. Because she went to a party with Franky Dutton and was never heard from again. And because I might have found out what happened by now if you hadn’t been keeping things from me this whole time.”

  “That’s all I’ll be needing from you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In four generations the Lelands have gone from house servants to the state senate. My son is the result of decades of hard work. His legacy is not his responsibility alone. Yes, he has been a vocal supporter of Restoration Heights, of the revitalization that such a project offers for that benighted neighborhood. And yes, he and Buckley are close. Anthony sees promise in the young man, and only wants to offer a positive influence that, frankly, no one else in that decadent household is capable of providing. So naturally I was concerned that Hannah’s disappearance might result in a scandal. I will not allow scandals. Fortunately this one will not reach my family. It has become increasingly clear that Buckley’s fiancée simply decided to leave him, which makes it no concern of mine, and certainly no concern of yours. You have performed adequately, and my mind is at ease. I see no need for you to investigate further.”

  “So what do you expect me to do now? Keep quiet? They murdered this girl.”

  “I don’t think they did anything of the sort. You said it yourself, she went home to Oregon.”

  “There’s no Hannah Granger in Portland. They just said that because it’s about as far from New York as you can get, because I can’t look for her there.”

  “You overestimate your significance. Hannah herself told me that she was from Portland, when I met her months ago.”

  “It doesn’t mean she’s there now.”

  “Well, it certainly doesn’t mean she isn’t. You have no evidence of violence. To the contrary, you have several people telling you that she has left, that she is safe and that this is a private matter. What about that story doesn’t fit the facts at hand?”

  “That’s not how it looks. That’s not what actually happened.”

  “Tell me, Reddick, do art students read Wittgenstein?”

  “I don’t know.” The question flustered him. “Yeah. We did. A little.”

  “There’s a story about a conversation he had that I like to believe is true. He asked a colleague why most people said that it was natural that people once assumed that the sun went around the earth rather than that the earth was rotating. His friend replied that, obviously, it was because it just looked like the sun is going around the earth. To which Wittgenstein replied, ‘Well, what would it have looked like if it had looked as if the Earth was rotating?’”

 
; “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “How a thing looks, how it seems to be, isn’t a straightforward question. Whether or not your interpretation of an event aligns with your intuition depends upon your ideas about that intuition.”

  “We don’t make our own truth, Mrs. Leland.”

  “You’ve missed the point entirely. I never said otherwise. The truth exists, but your ability to perceive it depends upon the assumptions you begin with. Go outside and watch the sun. This is how a rotating earth looks.”

  “Okay. I don’t need you to believe me. If you want to be done, fine.” His phone buzzed—another call coming in. He checked the ID. Lane.

  “We’re both done,” he heard her say.

  He brought his phone back up to his ear. “Not me. I’m onto something. I’m going to keep digging.”

  “As I said, you have performed adequately. I am greatly reassured on this matter and it is only fair that you be compensated. I will write you a check. How about, say, three months to make your art full-time. Simply tell me what figure is required to make that happen.”

  His phone vibrated—Lane left a voice mail. “Are you trying to buy me off?”

  “It isn’t a moral failing to accept payment for your work. This is an opportunity that most in your situation would envy. No one has been murdered, in spite of what you believe, and if you keep at this you will bring unnecessary embarrassment to everyone involved.”

  “You mean you, right? If I tell the police what I’ve learned? Or the press?”

  “Insinuations of this sort never fully disappear, not once they are in the news.”

  “No.”

  “Six months.”

  “No.”

  “I have other options. This one is the most gentle, the only one where you stand to gain. I will not allow you to go to the police, or the press.”

  “I owe her more than that. More than selling out.”

  “You poor man. Do you know who worries about selling out? People without ambition. I will give you until the end of the week to make up your mind. Do not speak to anyone before then. It won’t end well for you.”

  She hung up. Sarah was staring at him, the omelets cooling on their plates.

  “I heard your half of that.”

  “Fuck.” He told her what Mrs. Leland said.

  “How much is she offering?”

  “Six months.”

  “Six months of what?”

  “Six months of whatever I want. She says she’ll write a check, cover my living expenses, rent, whatever. I could probably tell her sixty grand and she would pay it.”

  Sarah put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god.”

  “I can’t take it.”

  “What if she’s right? Maybe Hannah just left?”

  “Then what is she scared of? Why try to buy me off if there’s nothing there?”

  “It’s like she said—insinuations. Remember that congressman whose intern was killed? To this day people think he did it. I probably think he did it, and I don’t remember one thing about the case, one piece of evidence. Once you connect a person to something publically it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, all anyone will remember is the accusation.”

  “But if she believes Hannah is safe.”

  “This guy is a politician. The damage might be done before anyone finds out that Hannah just ran home to her parents. And anyway there is still the possibility of corruption.”

  “It’s more than a possibility—there is nothing about Restoration Heights that isn’t corrupt.”

  “You say that, but no one has found anything to prove it yet. The opposition was hungry enough, searched hard enough, and they never found anything that stuck, anything that could slow it down. Maybe there is something, and maybe it has to do with Anthony Leland.”

  “I don’t know. It feels thin to me. And giving up on Hannah—how could I consider that now? I’ve been so sure this whole time, but once there’s money in my face I start doubting? How could I live with myself?”

  “You could quit your job.”

  “Shit. My job.” He picked up his phone. “Lane called while I was talking.” He played the voice mail on speaker.

  “This is Lane. I just got off a call with the Krugers. I couldn’t save your job this time, and honestly, I didn’t try that hard. We already talked about this so I’ll keep it short. Best of luck, and—I mean this—I hope you get yourself straightened out. I’ll mail your last paycheck.”

  “Reddick, I’m so sorry.”

  “I just got fired twice on one phone call.” That he expected Lane’s answer didn’t dampen the impact—he wasn’t sure how long his barren savings would last. He wondered briefly about the timing, if it could somehow be connected, Mrs. Leland cranking up the pressure. But Lane’s call came in before she made her threats. It was just bad luck—his rash decisions bearing their inevitable fruit.

  “Are you even still interested in breakfast?”

  “What? Yeah. No, let’s eat.”

  He ate slowly, his appetite strangled by nerves. When they were finished she made tea and they moved to her couch.

  “You want to tell me the rest?” she said. “Lay it out for me. The whole case.”

  He struggled with where to begin. “This might be easier—do you have a sketchbook around here? Would you mind if I used it?”

  “Of course. Let me get it.” She disappeared down the hall toward her bedroom.

  “And a pencil.”

  When she returned he opened the book to a clean page and took her through it, reproducing his case map as he went, step by step. Some of it she already knew but he included everything. Hannah’s abandoned apartment. How he had spoken with the kids in his building who threw the party, how Hannah had been with Franky that night but had arrived with two other guys, Ju’waun and Tyler, how he had followed Tyler and inadvertently discovered that he was a bagman for someone named the Genie. How someone had warned Harold not to ask about the blonde. His confrontation with Mia. Franky and FDP, his phone and his townhouse. Hannah’s name was in the center, Ju’waun and Tyler to the right of her, and beside them Mia and the Genie. He wrote Restoration Heights below Hannah’s name, told Sarah about his misadventure there, the discovery that Buckley was an investor, that Franky might have used Buckley’s infatuation to take advantage of him on the property deal. He wrote Buckley’s name to the left, the Lelands above him, Franky below, hitched all three names to Restoration Heights with emphatic lines. He told her how he plundered Buckley’s office for financial records, enlisting Derek to decipher them. His belief that the Genie was involved, that she used Sons of Cash Money to run a hit on behalf of Franky, an arced line across the top of the page that was the only real connection between the two halves—and then the sundering of that belief by Ju’waun’s revelation that Hannah wasn’t the right blonde, that Harold had bungled the job and the warning was about some other incident entirely. The news report of a mugging that verified it. He didn’t bother to erase the connection, just reached down and tore the page in two, a reenactment of the moment he severed his case map.

  “Everything else you’ve been here for.”

  She fingered the torn page. “So this entire half, on the right—all of it is unrelated?”

  Looking at it, he recalled the futility he felt right before Sarah texted him. Days of work he was forced to cast aside. “I think so. She was at a party with them, but they could have just met her at a bar, like Ju’waun said.”

  She turned that half of the map facedown. “So we’re left with the relationship between Franky and Buckley, which is plenty fucked-up enough to make me sympathize with Hannah.”

  “According to Marie she fit right in,” he said.

  “I don’t know. She might have had Buckley wrapped, but that doesn’t mean she knew how deep it went between those two.”
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  “So maybe she underestimated Franky, thought she could control him the way she did Buckley.” He ran his fingers over the names. He strained against the sensation that there was nothing remarkable here, nothing sinister. “Maybe I’m not clear on the motives yet. But there was a love triangle, and now someone’s missing. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Look. I’m telling you this as a friend—she might just have left him.”

  “You can’t believe that.”

  “Mrs. Leland is kind of right. I didn’t hear anything that can’t be explained just as easily by her leaving. Buckley’s reaction, that first set you off? That was jealousy because he knew that Franky had a townhouse down there. The two of them meeting up after you went to FDP? That could have been a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  She raised her hand. “Don’t get upset, just hear me out. Coincidence or Franky was warning Buckley, like you said—but not about someone catching on to her murder. Look how terrified of scandal they all are—if Hannah had left him because of an affair, then of course they wouldn’t want that information getting out. I know Franky is an asshole, and he takes advantage of Buckley, but they are friends, at least they were when I knew them, and if Buckley was facing some threat—like the possibility that you might inadvertently put his name in the papers—then I don’t see anything alarming or out of character about Franky warning him. And as far as the financial stuff between the two of them and Restoration Heights, you haven’t found anything that connects her to that.” As she spoke she pointed at each name on the page, dismissing them in turn. “We’ve already talked about Mrs. Leland. You can be pretty convincing when you manage to get worked up about something, so maybe she did believe you for a little bit, but that’s more a credit to you, and to whatever preexisting tension she had with the Sewards, than to there actually being any evidence that someone killed her. You’ve done a lot of work—it’s honestly kind of amazing how much—and you haven’t turned up anything that points to Hannah being murdered. Don’t you think that speaks for itself?”

  Reddick felt stabbed, his conviction eviscerated. “But she just disappeared.”