Elena Randolph’s wide eyes scan down the first page. “You can’t do this.”
I sigh, though this time with a tad less spectacle. “Your denials are tiresome.” I reach for the salon’s door. Elena shifts her body to block me.
“I don’t know where Ralph is, I swear.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I would put my hand on my chest and say, ‘The truth,’ but I feel it would be over the top, don’t you?”
Elena is not in the mood. I don’t blame her. I’m not naturally a needler, but this is something else I learned from Myron. Needling keeps your adversary off-balance. “And if I don’t cooperate?” she asks.
“Really? Have I not made this obvious? Your car, your house, your business will all be mine. By the way, what’s the redhead’s name? I’m going to fire her first.”
“There are laws.”
“Yes, I’m aware. They favor me.”
“I know my rights. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“That’s correct.”
The flatbed reaches the ground. Gino looks at me. I nod for him to go ahead.
“You can’t…” Tears spring to Elena’s eyes. “This is bullying. You just can’t…”
“Of course, I can.”
I don’t enjoy this, but I don’t mind much either. People used to buy the “everyone is equal” rationale we Americans brilliantly sold throughout our esteemed history, though lately more and more get what has always been obvious: Money tilts all scales. Money is power. This isn’t a John Grisham man-against-the-system novel—in reality, the little man can’t stand up to it. As I warned Elena Randolph at the get-go, she will eventually cave.
I’m not sounding like the hero of this story, am I?
Is it right that the wealthy can wield this power over you? Of course not. The system isn’t fair. Reality is a bothersome thing. I have no interest in hurting Elena Randolph, but I won’t lose sleep over this either. She may be harboring a fugitive. At the very least, she has information that I require. The sooner I get it, the sooner she goes back to her own life.
“You won’t quit, will you?” she says.
My disarming smile returns.
“Let’s go sit in the Subway.”
“Subway?” I am appropriately aghast. “I’d rather have my kidney removed with a grapefruit spoon. We can talk here, so let’s get to it, shall we? You knew Ralph Lewis at Oral Roberts University, correct?”
Elena wipes her eyes and nods.
“When did you last see him?”
“More than forty years ago.”
“If we skip the lies—”
“I’m not lying. Let me ask you something before we get into this.”
I don’t like it, but it may take longer to express that point. “Go on.”
“You’re not a cop.”
“We’ve already established that.”
“So why are you after Ralph?”
Sometimes you play vague. Sometimes you go right for the throat. Right now, I choose the throat. “You mean Arlo Sugarman, don’t you?”
The remark draws blood. Conclusion: Elena Randolph knew that Ralph Lewis was really Arlo Sugarman.
“How did you—?” She stops, sees that there’s no point, shakes her head. “Never mind. He didn’t do anything, you know.”
I wait.
“Why are you after him? After all these years.”
“You heard about Ry Strauss being found.”
“Of course.” She narrows her eyes. “Wait, I saw your picture on the news. You owned that painting.”
“Own,” I correct. “Present tense.”
“I don’t get why you’d be looking for Arlo.”
“The art heist was not a solo job,” I say.
“And you think, what, that Arlo has your other missing painting?”
“Perhaps.”
“He doesn’t.”
“You haven’t seen him in over forty years.”
“Still. Arlo would not be involved in something like that.”
I try dropping the bomb: “Would he be involved in the abduction and murder of young girls?”
Her mouth drops open.
“In all likelihood,” I say, “Ry Strauss and an accomplice murdered my uncle and kidnapped my cousin.”
“You can’t think—”
“Did you meet Ry Strauss when he came to campus?”
“Listen to me,” Elena says. “Arlo was a good man. He was the best man I ever knew.”
“Cool,” I say. “So where is he?”
“I told you. I don’t know. Look, Ralph…I mean Arlo…we dated for two years at Oral Roberts. I came from a rough background. As a child, I was…” The tears start coming to her eyes, but she works hard to shake them off. “You don’t want to hear my whole life story.”
“Heavens, no.”
She manages a chuckle at that, though I hadn’t meant to be funny. “Ralph—that’s what I always called him—Ralph was kind.”
“When did you learn his real identity?”
“Before we dated.”
That surprises me. “He confided in you?”
“I was his campus contact in the underground. I helped him get settled, found the pseudonym, whatever he needed.”
“And, what, you two grew close?”
She moves close to me. “Arlo wasn’t there that night.”
“When you say ‘that night’—”
“The night with the Molotov cocktails and all those deaths.”
“Arlo Sugarman told you that?” I give her my best skeptical eyebrow arch, which is, modesty aside, a work of art. “You’ve seen the photograph of the Jane Street Six?”
“The famous one in the basement? Sure. But that was his last time with them. He thought it was just a prank, that they’d never really fill the bottles with kerosene. When he saw they were serious, he backed out.”
“Arlo told you this?”
“He told me Ry had turned crazy. He didn’t go that night.”
“There are photographs from that night.”
“None of him. There are six people, yes. But you don’t see his face, do you?”
I give this a moment. “So how come Arlo Sugarman never told the police?” I ask.
“He did. Do you think anyone believed him?”
“It could be he was lying to you.”
“He had no reason to lie to me. I was on his side anyway.”
“And I suppose he didn’t shoot Special Agent Patrick O’Malley either.”
Elena Randolph blinks and looks toward her Honda.
“Do you know about Special Agent O’Malley?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“First tell that asshole to step away from my car.”
I turn toward Gino and tilt my head. He backs off.
“Arlo would never talk about that shooting. He’d just shut down.”
I frown, try to get back on track. “You and Arlo started dating?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love him?”
Elena smiles. “What difference does that make?”
Touché.
“Where is he now?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw Arlo?”
“At graduation.”
“Were you two still a couple?”
She shakes her head. “We broke up.”
“May I ask why?”
“He found someone else.”
I feel as though I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, but I don’t.
“So you saw him at graduation?”
“Yes.”
“And that was the last time?”
“That was the last time.”
“Did you hear where he went after graduation?”
“No. Those are the rules with the underground. The fewer people who k
now, the safer he is. My part in his life was over.”
Dead end.
Except it didn’t feel like a dead end.
“I have no interest in hurting him,” I say.
Elena glances inside the salon. Everyone is still staring at us. “How were you able to buy my debt so fast?” she asks.
“It’s not hard.”
“You own a Vermeer.”
“My family does.”
She meets my eyes and holds them. “You’re superrich.”
I see no reason to reply.
“I told you that Arlo left me for someone else.”
“You did indeed.”
“I’ll give you the name under two conditions.”
I steeple my fingers. “I’m listening.”
“First, you promise if you find him to hear him out. If he convinces you he didn’t do anything, you let him go.”
“Done,” I say.
It isn’t as though this promise is binding. I believe in certain degrees of loyalty and “my word is my bond” stuff. I don’t believe in all of it. I am bound by what I believe is best, not some false promise or faux loyalty. Either way, it is easy to say, “Done,” mean it or not.
“What’s the second condition?”
“You forgive all my debts.”
Confession: I’m impressed. “Your debts,” I say, “total more than a hundred thousand dollars.”
Elena shrugs. “You’re superrich.”
I have to say. I like it. I like it a lot.
“If the name you give me ends up being a lie—” I begin.
“It’s not.”
“Do you think there is any chance they are still together?”
“I do. They seemed very much in love. Do we have a deal?”
It’s going to cost me six figures, but I lose and gain that amount every minute when the markets are open. I am also philanthropic, mostly because I can afford to be. Elena Randolph and her salon seem like a worthy cause.
“We have a deal,” I say.
“Mind if we orally confirm that?”
“Sorry?”
She takes out her phone and makes me record my promise. “Just putting it on the record,” Elena says.
I almost tell her that my word is my bond, but we both know that’s nonsense. I like her more and more. When we finish the recording, she puts the phone back in her purse.
“Okay,” I say. “So who did Arlo Sugarman leave you for?”
“I didn’t understand at the time,” she says.
“Sorry?”
“It was the seventies. We were at an evangelical school. It just wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t what?” I ask. “Who did he leave you for?”
Elena Randolph picks up the photocopied image of the medieval group from her old yearbook. She points—but not at Arlo. She points instead at the lead singer on the far left. I squint to see the blurry black-and-white image better.
“Calvin Sinclair,” she says.
I look up at her.
“That’s why we broke up. Arlo realized he was gay.”
CHAPTER 27
I hate that I care about Ema so much.
I never wanted children because I never wanted this feeling, this feeling of horrendous vulnerability, where someone else’s welfare has the ability to destroy me. I can’t really be harmed, except via my biological daughter Ema. To have her in my life now—she sits across from me as we dine in my apartment overlooking Central Park—is to know worry and pain. Some would say this feeling, this parental worry, makes me more human. Whatever. Who wants to be more human? It’s awful.
I had no children because I wanted no fears. I had no children because attachment is a hindrance. I worked this out analytically, so let me explain: I list the possible positives of having Ema in my life—love, companionship, someone to care for, all that—and I list the negatives—suppose something happens to her?
When I review this equation, the negatives win out.
I don’t want to live in fear.
“You okay?” Ema asks me.
“Groovy,” I say.
She rolls her eyes.
Her real name is Emma, but she always wears black clothes and black lipsticks and silver jewelry, and in middle school some dumb kid noted that she looked goth or “Emo” and so her classmates started calling her “Ema” and thought they were being clever and perhaps mean, but Ema turned the tables on them and embraced it. Ema is a high school senior now, but she’s also taking classes in art and design in the city.
When Ema’s mother, Angelica Wyatt, became pregnant, she didn’t inform me. She didn’t inform me upon Ema’s birth. I wasn’t angry or the slightest bit annoyed when Angelica finally told me. She understood how I felt about kids and respected it, but a few years back, she came clean, so to speak, for three reasons. One, she figured that enough time had passed (meh reason); two, I deserved to know the truth (ugh reason—I don’t deserve anything); and three, if something happened to Angelica—she had a breast cancer scare at the time—I would be there should Ema need me (decent reason).
What’s my point in telling you this?
I don’t deserve this relationship with Ema. I wasn’t there when it mattered, and if I had been given the choice, I wouldn’t have been. That is why I call her, even in my head, my “biological” daughter. Ema is magnificent in every way, and I can take no credit for that. I do not have the right to bask in the parental glow of her greatness.
I didn’t ask for this relationship. I don’t really want it either—I explained to you the pros and cons—but for now, this is Ema’s choice, and I need to respect that.
So, like it or not, we do meals like this.
Addendum: Ema gets me.
“I have a boyfriend,” she says.
“I don’t want to know.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“It’s what I’m like.”
“No advice?”
I put down my fork. “Boys,” I say, “and by boys I mean ‘all boys’—boys are creepy.”
“Duh, like who doesn’t know that. What’s your take on teenage sex?”
“Please stop.”
Ema stifles a laugh. She likes teasing me. I don’t know how to behave around her because I feel like the blood is leaving my head sometimes. At some point, Angelica decided to tell Ema about me. No great plan on Angelica’s part. Perhaps Ema had reached an age. Perhaps Ema had simply asked who her father was. I don’t know and it’s not my place to ask.
Angelica is some mother.
You hear the following a lot: When your child is born, your life changes forever. That’s why I avoided fatherhood. I don’t want something in my life I care about more than me. Is that wrong? When Ema finally told me she knew—when she asked me to dance at Myron’s wedding—I was knocked off-balance. It was hard to breathe. When Ema and I stopped dancing, the feeling didn’t totally go away.
It still hasn’t.
In the vernacular of a teenager: That suuucks.
I think about my own parents now, especially my mother, what she must have gone through when I cut her out of my life, but dwelling on past mistakes is not good for anyone, so I move on. Ema puts her fork down and looks at me, and while this is obviously some kind of projection, I swear that I see my mother’s eyes.
“Win?”
“Yes?”
“Why were you in the hospital?”
“No big deal.”
Ema makes a face. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re going to lie to me?” She stares at me hard. When I don’t say anything, she adds, “Mom says you never wanted to be a father, right?”
“That’s true.”
“So don’t start being one now.”
“I’m not following.”
“You’re lying to protect me, Win.”
I say nothing.
“That’s what a father does.”
I nod. “True.”
“You never know how to act with me, Win.�
��
“Also true.”
“So cut it out. I don’t need a father, you don’t need a daughter. Just tell me: Why were you in the hospital?”
“Three men tried to kill me.”
If I’d expected her to recoil in horror, I would have been disappointed.
Ema leans forward. Her eyes—my mother’s eyes—light up. “Tell me everything.”
* * *
And so I do.
I start with my attacking Teddy Lyons after the NCAA Final Four and my rationale for doing so. I move on to the Ry Strauss murder, the Jane Street Six, the recovery of the Vermeer, the monogrammed suitcase, Uncle Aldrich, Cousin Patricia, the Hut of Horrors, being attacked by Trey and Bobby Lyons. I talk for a full hour. Ema sits rapt through all of it. I confess that I am not this good a listener. I lose focus after a while and drift off. I get bored easily, and people see it on my face. Ema is the opposite. She is a great listener. I don’t know how much I planned to tell her—I do want to be honest because, well, why not?—but something in her mannerisms, in her eyes, in her body language, makes me more open than I intended.
Come to think of it, her mother is a bit like that.
When I finish, Ema asks, “Do you have paper and anything to write with?”
“In the rolling desk, why?”
She rises and heads toward it. “I want to go through all this again in more detail and write stuff down. It helps me to see it on paper.” She opens the rolling desk. When she spots the legal pads and the number-two pencils, her face lights up.
“Whoa, sweet,” Ema says, grabbing a pad and three exquisitely sharpened pencils. She heads back toward me and pulls up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you smiling at me like a dork?”
“Am I?”
“Stop it, Win. It’s creepy.”
We go through it again. She takes notes, just like, well, you know. She tears off sheets. She slides them around the table. We lose track of time. Her mother calls. It’s getting late, Angelica says. She is ready to pick Ema up.
“Not now, Mom.”
I say, “Tell her I’ll get you home.”
Ema relays the message and hangs up. We continue. After a while, Ema says, “We need to have a more structured plan.”
“What do you have in mind?” I ask.
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