by Marti Green
“How do you know that?” I asked him.
“I’ve climbed each of them, many times.”
“Would you take me?”
“Whenever you want.”
I thought of myself on top of one of those mountains, strong and fierce and able to take on the world, and a feeling of exhilaration shot through me. In the next instant, I thought about the task I’d taken on with Ben, what I’d agreed to do. I’d come to love this area. I was beginning to feel affection for Jake. But I knew I’d have to give up both. Once I became Charly, once Ben and I divorced, I would have to disappear. That’s what I’d agreed to. That’s what I’d thought I wanted.
When I returned from lunch, I popped another DVD into the machine and began watching more videos of Charly. Whenever she spoke, I’d press “Pause,” and practice saying the same thing into a recorder. Then I’d play it back, and see if I could tell the difference. I was getting better and better at mimicking her accent each day. After an hour of practicing her voice, I watched the videos through for the umpteenth time. Something had bothered me each time I’d viewed them, and I’d been having a hard time putting my finger on it.
After I’d watched each of them again, I logged on to her Facebook page. She had a slew of friends who posted regularly, but she only did so once in a while. I went back through her history to our shared birthday, and read the birthday wishes posted by her friends. That’s when it hit me. I picked up my phone and called Ben.
“I get such a different picture of Charly from the videos and Facebook postings than the one you’ve painted,” I said when he got on the line.
“Hold on a second.”
I heard a door close, and then he was back.
“Yeah, well, people always put on a show when the camera is on them.”
“That doesn’t explain Facebook. Her friends genuinely seem to like her. And when she posts herself, she comes across as really warm.”
“Again, the face she shows the public.”
I wasn’t buying it. Not completely. “Ben, I get that your marriage is bad. I get that divorcing her leaves you with nothing. But is her treatment of you the only reason you want out?”
I was met with silence.
“You still there?”
“We have an agreement, you and I.”
“I’m not backing out. I just need to know the whole picture.”
“You’re right. There is more. Everything I said about her is true. Her public face is all goodness and light, but behind closed doors, she’s a horror. What I haven’t told you is that I’ve met someone else.”
“You’ve been having an affair?”
“Yes. But for all I know, Charly might be, also. There have been a number of hang-ups over the past few months when I answer the phone.”
I hesitated. In going along with Ben’s plan, I’d convinced myself that Charly was the villain, not Ben. Now, I wasn’t certain there wasn’t something malevolent in him as well. Still, I’d agreed to facilitate a murder, so I was no poster child for decency. “If we’re in this together, I need to know everything.”
“We are still in this together, right?”
“We have a deal. I never break my word.”
CHAPTER 17
Ben’s hands were shaking when he hung up the phone. He hadn’t wanted Mallory to know about Lisa. Not yet. It might give her leverage. Still, she’d taken his money; she’d moved into his parents’ house. If she ever went to the police, she’d have to admit her complicity. And, although he could have lied to her, he’d known she’d find out once she’d taken Charly’s place and moved into his home. Better she knows now, he thought, than feel later she’d been tricked.
The ringing of his phone startled him out of his reverie. He looked at the number, saw it was Charly, and picked it up. “Everything okay?”
“How come you haven’t come with me to visit my father?” Her voice was steely cold.
“Because I assumed you wanted time alone with him.”
“Well, he wants to see you. Pick me up at the gallery at seven, and we’ll go there together.”
“Sure.”
Without even saying goodbye, she hung up the phone. What the hell was that about? Rick had never warmed to Ben. He’d tried to steer Charly away from him, and when she’d dug in her heels, he had reluctantly accepted the inevitable. So, why did he want to see him now? It couldn’t be good. Was it possible he’d found out about Lisa? About Mallory? Ben shook his head. He’d been careful with both. Maybe the old man wanted to finally make peace with him, now that his time was close. That, too, seemed unlikely. He’d find out what it was about soon enough, he figured. He put his head down and returned to work.
At precisely 7:00 p.m., he met Charly at the gallery. She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m sorry I was so short with you this afternoon. The stress is getting to me.”
“Completely understandable.” He slipped his arms around his wife and pulled her in for a hug.
Rick’s condo was in a luxury apartment building overlooking Central Park West, on West Seventy-Second Street. As they exited the gallery, Ben saw a taxi coming up the street and raised his arm to wave it down.
“No, don’t,” Charly said. “I want to walk a few blocks first. I need the fresh air.”
It was a milder-than-usual evening, with a full moon overhead. As always, the streets were crowded with pedestrians making their way home from work. When they reached Forty-Second Street, Charly spotted an empty taxi. They got in, and ten minutes later, it pulled up to Rick’s apartment building.
“Good evening, Mrs. Gordon,” the doorman said when he saw Charly, then reached for the door to open it. Inside, the concierge greeted Charly by name as well and nodded to Ben. They rode the elevator up to the top floor. Rick’s apartment was a duplex, with six bedrooms and a view east over Central Park and south to where the Twin Towers once stood. Before Charly had a chance to use her key, Charly’s grandfather opened the door. She gave him a hug, and I shook his hand.
“Any change?” Charly asked him.
He shook his head.
Charly took Ben’s hand and led him into her father’s bedroom. Although Ben knew how serious Rick’s condition was, he was shocked to see how ghastly his father-in-law looked. He was down at least thirty pounds since he’d stopped coming into the office, his cheeks now looked concave, and his eyes were rheumy.
Charly went to Rick’s bedside and kissed his forehead. “How are you feeling today?”
“The same.” Rick looked at Ben. “Thank you for coming.”
Charly pulled a chair close to the bed and motioned for Ben to do the same. When they were both seated, Rick said, “I wanted to talk to you both about the firm.”
Ben sat still. He expected the worst from the bastard.
“Charlotte, sweetie, except for some specific charitable bequests, everything goes to you, including the business. Well, most of it. I’m leaving Ted ten percent. He deserves it.”
“Daddy, don’t talk about this now.”
He fixed a hard stare on Ben, then turned back to Charly. “I need to. I need a promise from you. Ben can have a job there as long as he’s still married to you, but I want Ted Manning to run it. When Ted’s ready to step down, he should pick his successor, not you. Can you promise me that?”
Ben looked over at his wife. She was biting her bottom lip and squeezing her hands together.
“Charlotte?”
“I promise, Daddy.”
Rick turned again to Ben. “I wanted you to come tonight to hear this. When I’m gone, I don’t want you pressuring Charlotte to turn the firm over to you. Ted’s been with me almost twenty years. He deserves it.”
“You’re right, Rick,” Ben said, a serious look on his face and a somber tone to his voice. “Ted should take over the firm. No one knows the business better than he does.” Until Mallory takes Charly’s place. Then it’s mine. All mine.
Two nights later, Ben walked into a grungy establishment in the Bed-Stuy sectio
n of Brooklyn and immediately spotted Jeff Mullin at the bar. He walked over to him and slapped him on the back. “How you doing, buddy? It’s been a while.”
Mullin turned to him, and Ben got his first good look. He was easily twenty pounds lighter than he’d been in high school, and he’d been slim back then. His eyes were sunken, with dark circles underneath, and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in weeks.
“Yeah, almost ten years,” Mullin said.
Ben ordered a beer, plus another for Mullin, then said, “Let’s go grab a booth.” They found an empty one near the back and slid onto the cushioned benches.
Almost immediately Mullin asked, “Why have you been looking for me?”
Ben shrugged. “People talk. I heard things have been hard for you. We were friends once. I just wanted to see if I could do anything for you.”
Ben saw Mullin looking over his tailored suit and gold cuff links, and thought he’d been smart to leave the Rolex at home.
“Sure. If you have an extra ten grand at home, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”
Ben looked around the establishment. Across the room, two men sat at the bar, as did a woman at the end, each looking scruffier than the next. Three booths were occupied, one by a single man and the other two with couples. The booths on either side of Ben were empty. He leaned in to Mullin, and with his voice barely above a whisper, said, “How about fifty grand?”
Mullin laughed. “What do you want me to do? Kill someone?”
Ben stared at him without saying a word.
Mullin’s eyes grew wider. “Damn! That is what you want.”
Ben picked up his beer and took a swallow. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that someone did need that. What would you say?”
“I’d say you got the wrong guy for it.” Mullin looked away from Ben, then began running his hands down his pants legs. After a while, he said, “I did my killing in Afghanistan. I’m finished with that.”
“Okay, then, our business is done.” He pulled a twenty from his wallet and threw it down on the table. “Good seeing you again, Jeff.”
As he started to rise, Mullin reached over the table and grabbed Ben’s arm. “Hold on. I said I wouldn’t do it. Doesn’t mean I don’t know someone who would. For the right price, I could introduce you.”
“How do I know I can trust you not to run to the police?”
“Man, the last person I’m going to talk to is a cop.”
“Even if you get busted for something? Using this info to trade for a deal?”
Mullin looked around the bar. “I don’t squeal on buddies. You still a buddy?”
“We were back in high school, when I wrote those English papers for you. And when we both got drunk and broke the principal’s office window, I got caught and never named you.”
“There you go,” Mullin said. “That makes you a buddy. What do you want to tell me?”
“I want to find someone to kill my wife.”
Mullin let out a low whistle. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand for you. Two hundred thousand for the killer.”
Mullin took a few quick breaths, then downed some more beer. “I got the guy for you.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
“I’d trust him with my life.”
CHAPTER 18
November 6, 2016
From: bswann129
To: malloryart24
Re: LA
Hi, Love,
Miss you loads. Class not the same without you. Have great news. Stan has a business trip to LA next week, and he promised to take me along. We’re getting in on Nov. 8, leaving on the tenth. Can we see you for dinner?
Brian
November 6, 2016
From: malloryart24
To: bswann129
Re: LA
Hi, Brian,
I’m so bummed out. My company is sending me to Phoenix for two weeks, and I won’t be in LA. I miss you, too. Tell Stan he owes me a dinner whenever I get back to NY.
November 18, 2016
From: bswann129
To: malloryart24
Re: Thanksgiving
Stan says come for Thanksgiving, and he’ll cook up a feast. He’ll even pay for your flight, and you can stay in our guest bedroom.
November 18, 2016
From: malloryart24
To: bswann129
Re: Thanksgiving
I wish I could. They have me on a deadline for a big-ticket project. I’ll be working late on Wednesday night before Thanksgiving and back in the office early Friday morning.
Ben made his way over to Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen, on West Twenty-Eighth Street and Ninth Avenue, to help serve Thanksgiving dinner. Usually, Charly joined him, something they’d done together every year since they’d married, but tonight she was spending it with her father and grandfather. It wasn’t just Thanksgiving that he volunteered. He tried to do it one night a month, but sometimes work interfered. Or a preference to spend the evening with Lisa. Thanksgiving, though, had become sacrosanct, now out of habit rather than desire. He’d worked at some food shelter, alongside his parents, every Thanksgiving since he was ten years old. His parents had instilled in him from a very young age the importance of giving back. For a long time, it made him feel good about himself when he did. No longer. Now, he continued so he could artfully drop it into conversation with a client, or even a prospective client. To show what a good person he was, so considerate of those less fortunate, so trustworthy. He generously contributed to various charities for the same reason—not just the ones whose events Charly attended for the sake of making connections. No, he gave regularly to his alma mater, and to the New York City Police Athletic League—he thought sports was important for every kid. Sometimes he donated to the Fresh Air Fund. He had gone to summer camp himself and thought that would be good for every kid. It was easier to give money than his time, but clients often congratulated him on his selflessness and then referred their friends to him. Even if his motive for volunteering had changed from altruistic to pecuniary, he still thought of himself as a good person for keeping it up.
He didn’t think less of himself for wanting to be rid of his wife. Of course, divorce was one way to do it. But Charly had trapped him into this decision. She had pushed him to give up law school; she had insisted on a prenuptial agreement; she had forced him to accept her father’s job offer; she had showered upon him the spoils of wealth. Anyone in his position would know he couldn’t just walk away from that.
After he finished serving the homeless men and women who came to Holy Apostles for a meal, he sometimes sat down and talked to a few of them. Some were war veterans, too overcome with PTSD to hold down a job; some he could tell right away had a screw loose in their heads. Some were addicts, living from day to day. But some had lived normal lives, holding down a job, supporting a family, and then poof—it all had disappeared. Maybe because they lost their job and couldn’t find another. Maybe because a serious illness had wiped away all their savings, and when they’d recovered, they had nothing left. Each man and woman had a different story, a different reason for being there. At first, he commiserated with them, feeling genuine anguish listening to their tales. Now, all he could think about was how quickly he could leave.
Whatever brought these men and women to Holy Apostles, the one thing Ben knew was that nobody who had extraordinary wealth—no matter what obstacles landed in his path—ever ended up on a soup-kitchen line.
CHAPTER 19
November 29, 2016
From: bswann129
To: malloryart24
Re: LA
Another business trip to LA. YEAH!!! This time you have to be there. I just miss you to pieces. Arriving 12/5. Leaving on 12/8, staying at Four Seasons. I insist you meet us for dinner on 12/6 or 12/7. You choose.
I couldn’t keep putting Brian off. Stan traveled throughout the world meeting clients, and it stood to reason that Los Angeles would be one of his regular stops. Eventually, I’d either have to
cut off all contact with Brian, a possibility I loathed, or meet him in LA. This was one of those times that having a credit card with no limit would come in handy. I called Ben to let him know—after all, he was getting the bills, and I didn’t want him to think I was skipping out on our agreement—and then reserved a flight and a hotel room for December 6 through the 9. I had to make sure I left LA after Brian and Stan. I couldn’t risk running into them at the airport.
I stepped out of the terminal in Los Angeles and was greeted by balmy weather. I didn’t need the down jacket on my arm; my light sweater was enough. I grabbed a taxi and gave the driver the name of the Omni hotel on South Olive Street. I could have stayed at the Ritz-Carlton. Ben wouldn’t have cared, but I still wasn’t comfortable with the notion that I didn’t have to watch my spending. Maybe, when it wasn’t Ben’s credit card I was using, when the money was my own, in my bank account . . . maybe then I could start to ignore price tags. But I wasn’t there yet.
I chose my hotel because of its location. I didn’t want to be near the Four Seasons, where Brian and Stan were staying. I didn’t want to take the risk of running into them and having to explain why I wasn’t at work.
With just a taxi-ride view of Los Angeles, I could see how different it was from Manhattan, and, of course, worlds apart from Scranton. It was so much more spread out. Manhattan was compact, humanity squeezed together on a small island. Los Angeles seemed to have no edges.
I settled into the hotel, then went outside to take a walk. The streets had a different feel from Manhattan, too—less crowded, less frenzied. I walked for almost two hours, stopping in little boutiques along the way, trying on expensive clothes, looking at pricey jewelry. I could have bought anything I wanted, but I knew I would only be able to wear something at dinner tomorrow night that had been part of my original wardrobe. Otherwise, Brian or Stan might start asking me questions I didn’t want to answer.
I got back to my hotel and ordered room service. I felt beat from the flight, the long walk, and the fact that my body was responding to the three-hour time difference. I struggled to stay awake until 10:00 p.m., then fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next morning, the sun was just beginning to rise. I dressed in running gear, then headed to the hotel’s gym for an hour run. When I finished, I showered and dressed, then did the most touristy thing I could think of—I went to Universal Studios. I’m not big on amusement park rides, especially the scary ones, but I splurged on the VIP Experience to get an insider peek at the workings of a movie studio.
