He was handsome and, in that picture, could have been anything from thirty-five to fifty. The photo showed him from the waist up, and he seemed heavily built, but not fat. He had a broad face, with heavy-lidded, slightly almond-shaped eyes, a straight, prominent nose, and a wide mouth with full lips and lots of white teeth. His skin was dark, and his glossy, black hair and brows were thick. He wore a mustache and a Van Dyke beard, both closely cropped. He was smiling in the photo, and seemed to be speaking with someone outside the frame. In one hand he held a champagne flute aloft, his arm raised in mid-toast. His other arm was wrapped around a willowy blonde, slightly taller than he, who looked barely legal. She smiled faintly, her eyes closed and her head inclined toward his. His large, manicured hand rested proprietarily on her hip.
There was something sleek and ursine in Nassouli’s immaculate hair and dark features and well-fed bulk, and I realized that he reminded me a bit of Rick Pierro. But where Pierro projected an open, what-you-see-is-what-you-get quality—a kind of friendly, regular-guy bear—there was something vaguely menacing and slightly leering about Nassouli— a piratical bear. A bear from the Hellfire Club.
“Here he is with an ex-mayor at a Knicks game. And here he’s with a model at—what, the Belmont? And here he’s with the girl from that game show, at some other black-tie thing.” One by one, Neary took photos from the box and placed them on the tabletop. “Nassouli at some club; another black-tie party; here he’s at Lincoln Center. At the Guggenheim. At the Garden.”
The photos were identically mounted, between glass plates, and in all of them Nassouli was in the foreground. While he never looked directly into the camera, I got the sense he was always aware of its presence. The events in the photos spanned a couple of decades, and you could trace the passage of time through the changing fashions worn by the people in them. Only Nassouli himself seemed changeless. Perhaps slightly thicker, a bit fuller in the face in the more recent ones. Otherwise he seemed not to age. Dorian Gray bear.
“This looks like an old one . . . here he is at the Odeon.” Neary laid another photo on the tabletop.
This one was black-and-white, and it was the only photo in which he seemed to have no awareness of the camera, the only truly candid picture in the bunch. It was a street scene, at night, taken from the backseat of a car, through a partially open window. It must have just rained, as the street was shiny and water was beaded on the window glass. Nassouli had just come out of the Odeon—part of the restaurant was visible behind him. He was coming toward the car and the camera. One hand was reaching out, as if to grasp the door handle. There were figures behind him, blurred, dark shapes, their faces white smears. Only Nassouli’s face was in focus. And it was chilling.
The other pictures had hinted at something a little dangerous beneath the attractive, well-groomed facade. This photo left no doubt. This was no stylish rogue; this was evil—and all the scarier for its handsome packaging. In the photo Nassouli’s broad face was infernal, his dark, hooded eyes gleaming, his thick lips pulled into a leering, satisfied grin. It was the look Torquemada might have worn after a busy day at work, or the smile the snake had worn, when he’d sold his first apple. It was a wonder he had hung it on his office wall.
The composition of the photo, its stark contrasts and heavy shadows, were familiar to me, and I didn’t need to see the name, penned in tiny letters at the bottom right corner of the matte paper, to recognize the work of H. Barrie.
Chapter Nine
“You’re gonna hurt yourself doing that, honey,” called one of the girls, from the corner. She had a wobbly pile of orange hair, and legs that were bigger than mine. They were covered not at all by a leather skirt the size of a napkin.
“You’re working way too hard,” called another, laughing. “Come on over here, we’ll relax you.” Her eight-inch black stilettos and red vinyl jumpsuit glistened in the streetlight. She had the neck and shoulders of a wrestler.
“Morning, girls,” I said. I waved and kept on running. “Girls” was neither politically nor anatomically correct, I knew, but it was what these guys aspired to, and who was I to argue. I was headed south on Eleventh Avenue in the predawn dark, on the last leg of a six-mile run. I passed the Javits Center and the trucks already lumbering around it, and went back on autopilot, one part of my brain on traffic and potholes, another trying to sort out exactly what I’d found at MWB. So far I had more questions than answers.
I’d seen something of the mess that Brill and Parsons faced at the bank, and how they went about cleaning it up. I’d seen their nifty document system. Slick as it was, it held only one of the items from Pierro’s fax. Was that because the other documents simply hadn’t been in the bank? From what I could tell, once something got into that system, it was hard to remove without leaving lots of footprints. But how hard was it to keep something out in the first place?
The people I’d met last night could’ve told me, no doubt. They seemed to know their business well, and also to know their way around banking, and MWB, and the document system. That kind of knowledge would come in handy if you were running a little side action in blackmail. Mike would call that wild speculation; so would Neary. They’d be right.
I had speculation to spare, and a lot of it was about Gerard Nassouli. His photography collection was an odd one. For the most part, it was vanity wall stuff—clichéd trophies that strained to paint the man as mover, shaker, and fashionable rake. All that was missing was the one of him in a smoking jacket and ascot, flanked by a couple of bunnies. Helene’s picture hit the jarring note. Was that the real Nassouli she’d caught there, on that wet, nighttime street? And if it was, why did he advertise it? Did he like the way it recast the fluff photos, in a colder, more sinister light?
And what about Helene? She’d apparently known Nassouli, back in her salad days of modeling and amateur photography. But how had she known him? How well and for how long? And why had neither she nor her husband seen fit to mention it? True, I hadn’t asked, so they hadn’t lied, not exactly. But they hadn’t offered, either. It bugged me, and I was going to talk to her about it.
I had come away from MWB with one hard piece of information: Al was short for Alan. Alan Burrows. There was only one Alan Burrows on my list—the one in Manhattan. I’d called him last night, as soon as I’d gotten home. He’d answered on the first ring.
My story to him was that I was doing background research for a writer who was considering a book project about MWB. It was a decent story, and Burrows hadn’t questioned it. But neither was he eager to talk. His first response had been silence, and only the slight rasp of his breathing told me he was still on the line. Then he’d hemmed and hawed in a well-educated, soft bass about not having worked at the bank in nearly fifteen years, about having no contact with anyone from there since, about having gotten out of banking altogether. I’d pressed. I’d said that if it was more convenient, I could come to his office for a chat. He hadn’t liked that idea at all. Finally, he’d relented. I’d be meeting him tonight, at his place.
Lots of pieces, and maybe not all to the same puzzle. I turned them over and over in my head as I ran, but no two fit together. A pale, pink light was rising in the sky as I headed east on Sixteenth Street.
I put coffee on and stretched while it brewed. I had my first cup standing at the kitchen counter. Then I showered and shaved and dressed, and had a few cups more with breakfast. When I was fully caffeinated, I called Mike and told him about my visit to MWB. He listened in silence until I got to the part about Nassouli and Helene. Then he blew out a long, slow breath.
“I take it Pierro didn’t say anything to you, either,” I said.
“Not word one.”
“Anything to make of that?”
Mike thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said after a while.
We agreed that I would talk to Helene, and that we wouldn’t mention the photo to Rick beforehand. I finished my update, telling him about Burrows and the meeting I’d arranged for tonight. He
was about to ring off, but I stopped him, to share my rosy view on the state of this case.
“It’s going nowhere,” I said.
“Is it going that well?” He chuckled sourly.
“There’s just nothing here to grab hold of. Some smoke, some lights in the sky maybe, some wild-assed guesses on my part, but nothing I can call remotely hopeful. If Burrows doesn’t pan out, we’ll need to have a talk with Pierro,” I said.
“I agree,” Mike said.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“Fair to middling,” he answered. “He’s working same as usual—long hours, on the road a couple of days a week. And he’s still got this penned up, off to one side. But I think the effort’s getting to him.”
“No more faxes?”
“No more faxes; no contact at all. Makes you wonder—why the wait?”
“To make him sweat, maybe. Soften him up for the squeeze.” Mike thought about that.
“It’s working,” he said.
I spent the rest of the day on paperwork. It was slightly less compelling than watching paint dry, but it was unavoidable. I owed a final report to my last client, a big insurance company, and I needed to bring my case notes on this job up to date. There was no putting it off any longer. I switched off my phone, made more coffee, put Charlie Haden and Norah Jones and Macy Gray CDs in the changer, and opened my laptop.
With only a few breaks, I banged away on it till six o’clock, when the intercom buzzed to tell me that I had a visitor. Seconds later, a grainy image of a woman emerged on the small video unit mounted on the kitchen wall. My baby sister, Lauren. There was no point in not answering. It was her apartment, and she had a key. That’s the way it is with my family; you can run, but you can’t hide.
“You’ve given up on the phone altogether, have you?” she asked, even before she’d crossed the threshold. She hung an arm around my neck and kissed my cheek. At just under six feet, Lauren didn’t need to stand on her toes to do it. Her face was cold from the evening air. She smelled like jasmine.
Jane Lu had been right about the resemblance. Lauren and I share our father’s looks: tall, slim, pale, with the same straight, black hair, the same widow’s peak, the same green eyes, set in an angular face, the same straight, prominent nose. Lauren’s hair was parted down the middle and pulled into a loose ponytail that reached below her shoulder blades. She was wearing a cherry red turtleneck, black jeans, and black loafers. Her black coat was slung over her arm, and on her shoulder she lugged a beat-up gray knapsack. Her briefcase. It looked full, and I figured she’d come straight from the office.
“Checking up on your tenant? What’s the matter, the rent check bounce?” I kissed her cheek.
“If you were just ordinarily rude, maybe ignored only three out of four phone calls, instead of every single one, you could save yourself these intrusions. Got a ginger ale?” She dumped her coat and knapsack, went to the fridge, and started rummaging.
“I’m working. In fact, I’ve got a meeting tonight and I need to go soon.” Lauren found the soda. She popped the top and took a long pull.
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying. I’m having dinner with Keith at that new place around the corner. I just stopped by to confirm,” she pointed at me over the kitchen counter, jabbing the air with her long finger to punctuate each word, “that you are coming to Thanksgiving dinner at your brother’s house.” She took another swig of soda and smiled at me over the top of the can.
I heaved a big sigh and shook my head. “Lauren, look, I appreciate the concern, and the invitation, but I’m fine, really. I’d just prefer to have a low-key day, you know? Let the holiday slip by, fly under the radar.” But Lauren wasn’t having any.
“ ‘Fly under the radar’? What the hell does that mean? You run fifty miles, eat some tuna from the can, and collapse on your bed? That was your last Thanksgiving, right? Sounds like a real blast.”
“Yet somehow more appealing than a day of being lectured to, or treated like a live grenade, or like something the cat coughed up,” I said.
“That’s what you’re expecting?”
“Because that’s what always happens.”
“Oh come on, Johnny—”
I cut her off. “You come on. I’m not in the mood to be improved just now, okay? So give it a rest.” But Lauren was undaunted. Her green eyes flashed, and her voice sharpened.
“I’m your sister, asshole; I don’t care if you’re in the mood or not. Your family’s worried about you, and we have a right to be. I mean, take a look at yourself. It’s over three years since Anne died, and you live like some kind of freaking monk. You work; you run; you work; you run. You never see your family, and besides Mike, I don’t know what you do for friends. And do you ever get laid anymore?” She shook her head. “I guess it’s better than the drinking, but isn’t there some middle ground?” I thought she was finished and I drew a breath to speak, but I was overly optimistic.
“And for the record,” she said more softly, “I’ve never been interested in improving you. I don’t give a shit what you do for a living, or where you do it. I just want you to be happy or, at least, accept the possibility of happiness.”
“Laurie—” I said, but she stopped me again.
“No one’s going to lecture, or look at you funny, I promise. We’re your family, John; we want to see you. Your nephews want to see you.” Lauren was relentless in the pursuit of her own way, willing to pull out all the stops. I saw where this was going and knew it was hopeless. I bowed to the inevitable.
“No mas,” I said. “Enough. I’ll come.” Lauren smiled. She liked nothing better than bending others to her will. I smiled back. “You think maybe that nephew business was a little over the top?” I asked.
“Hey, whatever works,” she said. She took a long swallow of soda and looked at me slyly. “So, I hear you met my boss.” It took me a moment to connect the dots.
“Jane Lu?” I asked. “She didn’t mention being your boss. She just said you two worked together.”
“That’s typical Jane, very self-effacing. But she is definitely the boss. She’s the hired gun the venture capital guys brought in, when they purged the old management team,” Lauren explained. My sister ran marketing and sales for a dot-com that had survived a near-death experience.
“And we’re damn lucky they did—she’s some kind of management genius. We were all pretty burnt out after the market collapsed, those of us who were left, and when the VCs told us they were cleaning house and bringing in some rent-a-CEO, we didn’t take it well, to say the least. Oh, they gave us this big song and dance about how great she was—MIT undergrad, one of the youngest ever out of Harvard B-School, cut her teeth at Goldman and McKinsey, brought a couple of biotech firms back from the brink, blah, blah, blah. We thought it was a bunch of crap. But six months later, there’s actually light at the end of the tunnel, and we would all pretty much run through walls for her—me included. And you know how jaded I am.”
“What did she do, put something in the water cooler?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s that we’ve had our first profitable quarter ever, and we’re on track to beat our year-end targets. Or that she rolls up her sleeves and puts in more hours than anybody else in the place. Or maybe it’s that she’s so fucking smart, it’s scary.”
“Wow. Tell me, are the T-shirt and decoder ring free when you join the fan club, or do you have to pay extra?” Lauren was not amused. She shook her head and grimaced, all to say, wordlessly, “I sometimes find it difficult to believe that an asshole like you is actually my brother.” Then she looked at her watch and headed for the door.
“Enough of your low humor. I’ve got to meet the hubby. See you Thursday. It’ll be just family, plus a couple of strays. I’ll tell Liz and Ned and everybody.” She slipped on her coat, shrugged her knapsack over one shoulder, and was gone.
By then it was time for me to get going, too, to meet Alan Burrows. I turned my phone back on before I left, and checked my voice
mail. I had only one message, three hours old, from Clare. She wouldn’t be able to see me this week. With the holiday and all, time had just gotten away. She’d call Monday. Sorry. Somehow, I doubted it, just as I doubted we’d get together next week. And, I found, I didn’t much care. It was time to go.
Burrows lived in a skinny, brick-clad tower at the north end of York Avenue. Tiny cement balconies jutted from its upper floors like bad teeth, and the lobby was awash in veined mirrors and cheap marble. It was a rental building, the kind where the freshly graduated cram three or four to a one-bedroom apartment, and where the freshly divorced try to piece together new lives from the scraps of their old ones. A bored doorman pointed me to the elevators, even before he’d rung upstairs to announce me. I rode alone in a dim car that smelled like old food. Burrows stood in the open door of his apartment.
“This way, Mr. March.”
Burrows was a handsome wreck. He was fiftyish and tall, six foot three or so, and broad shouldered, but thick through the middle—a college athlete fallen into disrepair. What once were stolid, John Wayne good looks had blurred and buckled, and now all the mileage showed. His fleshy face was deeply creased, and the skin around his spent brown eyes was dark, and shot through with a web of lines and veins. Broken capillaries had left a small purple stain, like a brushstroke, on his cheek, and another in a corner of his long, thin nose. His blond hair was mostly gray, and was thinning badly. It was brushed straight back, away from his high forehead, and looked damp, like he had just gotten out of the shower. The collar of his pink button-down shirt was damp too, and his sleeves were rolled back over hairless forearms. He wore soft-looking, brown leather slippers on his feet. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his khaki pants. He stood aside so I could enter, and did not shake my hand.
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