by Клео Коул
“He’s followed Ellie here, I’m sure of it.”
“But how? We lost him.”
“He must have noticed that we were following him. So he shook our tail, then took up Ellie’s scent again without our noticing. He’s good.”
“But who is he? And what does he want?”
“Look...” Madame whispered, “there’s a dark-haired man walking up to Ellie, but I can’t see his face!”
“Is that Matt?”
“Matt?”
“I recognize his clothes.” The Italian made jacket was a beautiful peacock blue, and the gray slacks draped like fine silk curtains. “Breanne gave him those recently.”
“They’re very nice.”
Ellie sneezed just then. Matt pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and gallantly handed it to her. Then he took her hand, kissed it, and helped her rise from her seat.
When they embraced and locked lips, Madame and I stared in shock.
“Oh my goodness. What’s my boy doing with that woman?”
“Wild guess? I’d say he’s kissing her. Passionately kissing her.”
But something wasn’t right about the way he was kissing her. I knew how my ex-husband kissed, and the way he was holding Ellie just didn’t seem right. A moment later, I realized why. As Matt turned with Ellie to walk out of the lobby, we finally saw his face.
“That’s not Matt,” Madame whispered. “It’s Ric Gostwick.”
Silently, we watched as they headed, not for the restaurant, but for the elevators to the bedrooms.
“I guess she’s doing more than hugging him, after all,” I murmured.
“What do you mean?”
“Ellie mentioned to me that her assistant, Norbert, caught her embracing Ric in the Garden. I pressed, but she implied it was just polite affection. She wouldn’t admit that she was sleeping with Ric.”
“Well, it certainly looks like she is.”
“Unless tight sweaters and short skirts are some new requirement for discussing botany in hotel rooms, I’d say you’re right.”
I noticed the Asian man rising from his armchair. I tapped Madame and pointed. She silently nodded.
The man’s magazine was gone. Keeping his head down, he moved carefully across the lobby, stopping as soon as he was within sight of the elevators.
“What’s he doing?” Madame whispered.
“Nothing. He’s just standing.” I noticed him adjust his Mets cap again, and I squinted. “They make cameras now that are small enough to fit into hats, don’t they? Do you think he’s filming Ellie and Ric?”
Madame frowned. “I guess anything’s possible, but I certainly can’t tell. The man just looks as though he’s loitering.”
Ding!
One of the elevators arrived, and Ric and Ellie disappeared inside. Then the doors shut, and Mets Cap Man turned. A young blond woman in a dark business suit approached him. He spoke to her, as if he knew her. She nodded, said a few words, then she went directly to the armchair in the lobby that he’d just left.
“Come on,” I rasped to Madame.
“Come where?”
“Where do you think? We’re going to follow Secret Asian Man.”
He left the hotel and walked south a few blocks. When he reached an underground parking garage, Madame and I hailed a cab.
“What about your car?” she asked.
“We’re not that far from the Blend. I can walk down here, and pick it up later.”
After a few minutes, a big, black SUV appeared in the garage’s driveway and turned down the one way street. “Follow that SUV!” Madame commanded our cabbie.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The black SUV headed east then north, traveling all the way up to Midtown. Madame barked orders to the cab driver, making sure he hung back. Judging from Secret Asian Man’s ability to shake our tail in Brooklyn, then pick up Ellie’s scent again—and without our noticing—we both agreed that he might get suspicious of a taxi hugging his bumper.
Traffic was heavy enough for us to blend into the sea of cars. Finally, the SUV pulled into a small parking lot, behind a clean concrete plaza near the United Nations.
“Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza,” I murmured. “Okay, I’ve finally found a winner for the most obscure, hard to pronounce place name in New York City.”
“Clare! I’m surprised at you. Don’t you know who Dag Hammarskjöld is?”
“What do you mean who? Are you telling me Dag Hammarskjöld is a name?”
“He was the secretary general of the United Nations. He died in a plane crash in Africa in the 1960s. He also won the Nobel Peace Prize. In my time, every schoolchild knew his name.”
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you, Madame, times have changed.”
Madame sighed. “You don’t have to tell me, dear. I notice every day—often several times a day.... So what do we do now?”
“We wait to see where he’s going.”
We sat in the cab until we saw Secret Asian Man again. He was leaving the parking lot on foot, heading up the block toward Second Avenue.
“You follow him,” I quickly told Madame. “I’ll pay the driver and catch up.”
Five minutes later, I found Madame on the sidewalk, in front of a typical seventies-era Bauhaus office building— an avocado green box with pillars of faded aluminum, and all the charm of a thirty-year-old chamber pot.
“Where did he go?” I asked, worried she’d lost him.
“Tenth floor,” she said with a smile. “And do you know who has an office on that floor besides a gynecologist and a marriage counselor?”
“Who?” I asked.
“A private investigator.”
Fifteen
The office wasn’t large, about the size of a busy dental practice. The walls were a freshly painted off-white, the framed prints on the walls the sort of generic pastel landscape art designed to put one at ease, if not asleep.
“I’ll be with you in a moment. Please have a seat.”
The young African American receptionist with stylish jade eyeglasses and a beautiful head of long braids pointed us to a small waiting area before she turned her attention back to the receiver in her headset. “Yes... I understand,” she murmured, “that’s correct... would you mind spelling that for me?”
She appeared to be scribbling down an extensive phone message, and I was relieved to see that she was preoccupied. It gave Madame and me a chance to catch our breath and get our bearings.
Downstairs we’d already discussed strategy. The plan was simple. Madame would show the receptionist her set of keys and claim that she’d seen an Asian gentleman drop them when he’d parked his SUV near Dag Hammarskjöld plaza.
If the receptionist offered to take the keys, Madame would refuse to give them up, requesting a chance to speak to the man himself. When he appeared, she’d challenge him, recounting his movements and demand that he give up the name of the person who’d hired him to tail Ellie.
I didn’t like the idea of direct confrontation, but I couldn’t think of a better scheme at the moment, and my former mother-in-law felt confident she could make this work. Maybe she could. Madame was the sort of regal dame with whom most people were reluctant to argue. Secret Asian Man might be one of them.
Given the fact that he was a professional investigator, however, I was willing to bet we were in over our heads. My bookie dad probably would have given us 7 to 3 odds: the long-shot being our actually getting the information for which we came and the more likely scenario landing us unceremoniously on the sidewalk downstairs.
While the receptionist continued talking on the phone, Madame and I settled into the standard issue waiting-room furniture. Madame pawed through the magazines and brochures on the coffee table. I glanced around the room.
“Are you nervous?” I whispered.
“Not at all,” Madame replied, opening one of the office’s glossy brochures. “Just a little impatient.” She dipped into her handbag and pulled out her reading glasses. “This is interesting...”
she murmured a minute later.
“What?” I asked, my eyes still on the receptionist.
“This office is being run by a man named Anil Kapoor, but it’s only one branch of a global company. Have a look...”
I took the brochure, and began to read:
At Worldwide Private Investigations, Inc. (WPI), our licensed private investigators, forensic experts, and legal information specialists achieve results. With offices around the globe, we are especially equipped for international investigations, including missing persons, marital and child custody cases, property and copyright disputes, extradition and asset inquiries as well as a host of other investigations and security needs. At WPI, no case is too big, or too small. Whether you are an individual, a C-level executive, or a government official, you can rest assured that our confidentiality is paramount.
Many of our agents are bilingual and are culturally, nationality, and gender diverse. All must clear a thorough background check prior to employment. In addition to military and law enforcement sectors, WPI recruits talent from private service industries such as accounting, computer information systems, and...
I flipped to another leaf of the brochure, where the company bragged about its protective services division, providing security and bodyguards for global corporations and diplomats. Their client list was extensive, and in very small print. I squinted as I scanned the list, pretending that I hadn’t finally reached the age when I needed to borrow Madame’s reading glasses...
Ensor Pharmaceuticals, Gaylord Group, J.P. Madison Associates, Lamelle-Fressineau, Paratech Global, Snap Cola Enterprises, Komiyama Industries, TerraGreen International, XanTell Corporation...
My gaze returned to one of the company names. “Terra-Green...”
“What did you say, Clare?”
I pointed to the brochure. “TerraGreen International,” I whispered, “they’re a client of this office’s protective services division, and Ellie’s husband works for them.”
Madame’s eyebrows rose. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “About two or three years after Ellie and Ric broke up, she was still dropping by the Blend. I remember she’d gone through a stint interning at the TerraGreen labs on Long Island. That’s how she first met her husband, Jerry Lassiter. He was an executive with the company.”
“Did you say labs? What sort of company is this TerraGreen?”
“They make fertilizers and plant foods. Back then, I think Ellie was working on some sort of project to genetically engineer crops.”
Madame frowned in thought for a moment. “Ellie was an intern and her husband was an executive when they first met? Is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“Then there must have been quite a few years between them.”
“He’s at least fifteen years her senior.”
Madame sighed. “It seems we have a classic recipe here. Older, rich husband provides a young Ellie with security and stability, but years later, she begins yearning for the adventure and passion she lost. Enter old flame Ric...”
“But is Jerry Lassiter having his wife followed to document infidelity?” I whispered. “Or is there more to it?”
“What more could there be?”
“Ric was mugged last night. I doubt a professional investigator got involved with something like that.”
“So you think Jerry Lassiter did the deed himself?”
“Or he hired someone to do it. Yes, that’s what I think. What I can’t do is prove it. I’m not even sure of his real motive.”
“Real motive?”
“Don’t you see? He could be after Ric’s hybrid cutting... or he could be out to make it look like someone else is after it, so if harm comes to Ric the police will look for another suspect.”
“Oh, yes. I see. If Jerry Lassiter is afraid of losing his wife to Ric, maybe his solution is to lose Ric first?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, my dear, as far as proving it, we need to start right here with this agency. TerraGreen may be on its client list, but that doesn’t prove Jerry Lassiter hired them to tail his wife.”
“I know, and that’s why we’re going to dump your ‘lost keys’ approach.”
“We are?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“I think we should—”
The front door opened just then and I stopped talking. A well-dressed gentleman boldly strode up to the receptionist as if he owned the place. When I caught sight of his face, I realized he did.
Tapping Madame on the shoulder, I pointed to the section of the brochure that displayed the photo and bio of the man standing right in front of us.
Anil Kapoor’s twenty-five-year career spans work for the Drug Enforcement Administration, which led to his work in that agency’s office in Marseille, France; Rabat, Morocco; and Brussels, Belgium, where he served as the technical advisor on U.S. drug intelligence and investigative matters. From there, he moved to the worldwide International Criminal Police Organization more commonly known as Interpol. There he worked for twelve years as the Director of the Criminal Intelligence Directorate, the number-two position in the organization, subordinate only to the secretary general.
Now retired from his official work, he runs the New York branch of WPI. Located near the United Nations and the diplomatic office for which his office often consults, he has assembled a New York team with extensive experience in criminal investigations and intelligence collection from around the world.
Mr. Kapoor’s education and studies include: Princeton University, Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology and Business; D.E.A. Executive Management and Financial Investigations; Harvard University, graduate course on National and Internal Security; USDA Graduate School Performance Audits.
An attractive man in his fifties, Kapoor looked much like his photo, with the exception of his jet-black hair, which now displayed noticeable strands of silver-gray. He had a full face, olive complexion, and East Indian features. Well under six feet, he had a paunchy physique, but he wore his clothes beautifully: a London tailored suit, a fine charcoal overcoat draped over his arm, a slim attaché case in his hand. Like Madame, he presented himself with a confident air of dignified elegance.
As he spoke to the receptionist, Madame leaned toward me. “Clare,” she whispered. “What do you want us to do?”
“Just go along with me,” I whispered in reply. Then I silently pointed to the brochure and Anil Kapoor’s bio. Madame began to read it over.
“Ladies?” the receptionist called after Mr. Kapoor left the waiting room and headed towards the agency’s offices. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t.” I rose from the couch and moved toward her desk. “This company was recommended to us... and we were in the neighborhood today, visiting friends at the French Embassy, so we thought we might just drop in and ask a few questions...”
I ran out of words, but Madame was ready—
“Oui, oui...” she said, summoning her old French accent. “We’re a bit uncertain about the whole process, comprenez-vous ? But of course if no one is available to talk to us about your company, we can call for an appointment, une certaine autre heure, oui? I believe there’s another agency the deputy secretary recommended...” Madame made a show of looking through her Prada bag. She glanced at me. “Do you have that other agency’s card, my dear, or do I?”
The receptionist quickly spoke up. “I’m sure you won’t have to leave before seeing someone. Just give us another few minutes, and I’ll ask if Mr. Kapoor’s available. If not, I’m sure a member of his staff will answer all of your questions.”
“Merci,” Madame replied.
“Your names please?” the receptionist asked.
Five minutes later, the young woman was escorting us into a corner office. The decor in here was markedly different from the bland waiting room. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls with leather-bound volumes. A thick Persian rug of sapphire, jade, and ruby covered
a parquet floor, and the large room was dominated by a substantial desk of dense wood lacquered a shiny black.
Behind a sleek flat-panel computer monitor sat Anil Kapoor. He rose when we entered, his hand moving to smooth his pearl colored tie.
“May I present Madame Marie LaSalle and her daughter, Vanessa LaSalle,” the receptionist announced.
“Madame, mademoiselle,” Mr. Kapoor said. He extended his hand and we all politely shook. Then the receptionist backed out of the room and her boss gestured to the two mahogany chairs in front of his desk.
“What may I do for you today?” Mr. Kapoor asked, discreetly swiveling his whisper-thin computer monitor to the side.
“We have a few questions for you,” I began. “We’re looking to hire an investigator to help... with an investigation.”
One of Mr. Kapoor’s dark eyebrows rose very slightly. “What sort of investigation?”
“Well, the details are... they’re very private. First we have some questions about your agency... you understand?”
Mr. Kapoor shifted in his chair, gave me a polite smile. “I’ll answer any questions, if I can.”
“You see, this is the first time we’d be using you, although a friend of ours recommended you to us.”
“And who might that be?”
“He’s an executive,” I said, “with TerraGreen International.”
“Oh? What division?”
“Division? I... I’m not sure...”
“What country then?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“The U.S. He’s based right here in Long Island.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” I said, “Jerry mentioned to us that he’s very happy with the case you’re working on now for him...”
Mr. Kapoor’s forehead wrinkled. “Jerry?”
“Jerry Lassiter, of course. He did give me the right agency? You’re investigating his wife, Ellie, aren’t you?”
