A shiver passes through her as she remembers the mocking laugh of her assailant in the park. No. She’s definitely not going back to the hotel. She’s going to see the best ally she has in Hong Kong.
How do we choose the paths we follow?
Or is it that they choose us? We embrace the notion of free will as a defining human trait, but how often does any of us really have an opportunity to create the life we desire?
Even more perplexing, how often do we destroy our own chances when that rare opportunity arrives?
RICH PEOPLE PROBLEMS
Magali Guzman,
New York City
Roger Elliott had surprised Maggie. Not that she could say exactly what she’d expected. Arrogance maybe? Entitlement certainly. But she’d walked into their interview expecting her hackles to rise, as she knew just enough about Elliott beyond, of course, the sensational details about his recently missing wife and child. The son of a wealthy real estate investor who’d become even wealthier, his life was limos to her subway cars, prime steaks to her ground chuck. Maggie’s earned everything she has, and paid her own way through college too; Elliott’s silver spoon is diamond encrusted.
She hadn’t expected to genuinely like the guy. But she did. And she felt his concern about his wife and young son pulse over her like a wave, drawing her into the ocean of his anxiety. She found herself wanting to fix things for him, make it all better.
Maggie began their interview by reminding Elliott that they would need to start from the beginning. Apologized for asking him to repeat information he’d no doubt already shared with the police. Told him that while this process might be difficult, she and Special Agent Johnson would be fresh eyes and that sometimes fresh eyes see new things. Then she dove in, confirming times and dates and details, while Ryan took notes.
* * *
—
Now, reviewing the notes from the intake, Elliott’s magnetic spell dispersing like a cloud of steam, she tries to parse exactly what he did to cast his magic. If she can harness that kind of charisma, she’ll slay as a UC. He listened attentively, made eye contact, was commanding but also revealed an intriguing strain of vulnerability. She anticipates speaking to him further with an excited clinical eye; what can she harvest from this man to use for her own purposes?
A little ashamed of her naked self-interest in the wake of a missing woman and child, Maggie turns her attention back to her notes. Elizabeth “Betsy” Baer Elliott. Thirty-four years old. Wife of seven years to businessman/philanthropist Roger Deacon Elliott, forty-two. Last seen at their Park Avenue apartment just before seven P.M. thirteen days ago. Last seen wearing jeans, a pink cashmere sweater, and a sheer white scarf threaded with gold. Five feet, six inches. Approximately 138 pounds. Brown eyes, brown hair. Scar from a C-section, three small moles arranged “like a constellation” near the right side of her bottom lip, no other distinguishing marks.
Maggie thinks about the tremor of longing in Roger Elliott’s voice as he used that phrase, “like a constellation.” She suddenly envisions him declaring it as such to his new bride on their honeymoon, imagines the way in which it became part of their marital code.
What the hell is up with me? Like I’m some kind of romantic all of a sudden? This is ridiculous.
Squaring her shoulders, Maggie shakes off her fancies. Elliott had last seen Betsy with their son, Bear Elliott, age six (42 inches tall and 48.5 pounds as of his last checkup), brown eyes, brown hair, wearing Star Wars pajamas.
According to Roger Elliott, Betsy had been reading Bear a bedtime story when he stopped in on the way from the office in order to pick up a fresh shirt. This wasn’t usual, but he’d dripped tomato sauce on his shirt at lunch and he used the need to change as an excuse to take the opportunity to kiss his young son good night. When he returned home after his dinner, Betsy and Bear were gone.
How did Betsy seem when he last saw her? Fine. The same as always. Happy.
Was anything bothering Betsy? Not that he knew of.
Did anything unusual happen the day she and Bear disappeared? Not that he knew of.
Did the family have private security? Yes, but dismissed after Betsy and Bear were home for the evening.
Was their building staffed with doormen? Yes.
Had the staff on duty seen Betsy or Bear leave the building that night? No.
Did he know who the doorman on duty was that night? Yes. Juan Perez. He gave a statement to the police.
Are there security cameras in and around the building? Yes.
Had Elliott seen any of the footage? Personally? No.
Had the police? Yes, but if that provided any leads they haven’t shared them.
Did Betsy have her cellphone? No. It was left in the apartment. Along with her purse.
Did she only have the one cellphone? As far as he knew.
Had there been any threats against the family? No. Nor any communications at all about or from Betsy and Bear since they vanished, except for false attempts by crackpots that had been easily discredited. Until today.
The demand letter had come via old-fashioned snail mail to Elliott’s apartment and is now with forensics. The ask was simple: three million dollars in unmarked bills to be left in a locker at 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. The reward was vague: Betsy and Bear to be delivered safely at a time and place to be determined. The missive concluded by instructing Elliott to wait for further details.
Did Elliott have any idea who might have sent the demand? No.
What did he think of the rumors that Betsy had taken Bear and left voluntarily? Was that still a possibility to be considered?
Fallon Marks bristled, interjecting before his client could respond. “Look here, we are presenting you with evidence of a crime….”
Ryan raised an admonitory eyebrow at Maggie, pen poised in the air, a cocky smile playing about his lips.
But to Maggie’s surprise, Elliott raised a hand to shush his lawyer. “I never believed that Betsy left me. I still don’t. I don’t know where my wife and son are and I’m worried sick, but I don’t know any more than you do if this ransom demand is real. That’s what I’m here to find out.”
Maggie reassured him their goal was the same. Ryan’s eyebrow settled. The lawyer huffed and puffed but backed down. Maggie dove back into her questions.
Did the three-million-dollar amount have any significance that Elliott was aware of? No.
Did anything about either the envelope or the style of the letter itself ring any bells for him? Anything familiar about them? No.
Did he have any enemies?
The look he’d given her in response to that question was rueful, guilty yet slyly proud. “Can’t succeed without making some, right? That must be true even in the FBI.”
All too true. She’d shot a quick look at Ryan from underneath her lashes and cracked a hint of a smile back at Elliott.
Maggie had eased into asking Elliott about his marriage, but he’d seemed both genuinely affectionate about his wife and firm in his conviction that their relationship was solid. He denied any acrimony or serious quarrels, admitting only to the usual kind of marital squabbles with offhand candor. “Sure, we fight. Who doesn’t? But lately our biggest argument was over whether we should do northern or southern Italy this year.”
Maggie couldn’t hate him even then, although a trip to Italy is the number one item on her wish list, as he’d quickly followed the comment with a self-deprecatory laugh and an engaging smile. “Rich people problems, I know.”
Maggie pulls her thoughts away from the conundrum that is Roger Elliott and dives into Betsy Elliott’s social media presence.
Hours later, after following threads, looking at links, posts and re-posts, friend profiles, comments, and comments on comments, Maggie has an initial profile. Betsy Elliott’s an attractive woman with the well-cared-for gloss of
a rich man’s wife. Her once curly hair has been tamed in recent years into a sleek, shiny waterfall. She plays tennis and takes Pilates. They keep horses at their East Hampton estate and Betsy rode competitively when she was younger (a number of “Throwback Thursday” posts feature her jumping astride her black mare or collecting ribbons at horse shows). She got her BA from Sarah Lawrence, where she studied literature and art history, attended the University of Chicago Law School, and worked as an intellectual property lawyer until she gave birth to Bear. The little boy is the subject of Betsy’s most frequent and adoring posts. She volunteers in his school library and chaperones field trips.
Quotes by famous women authors are frequent in her feeds, as are pictures of a radiant Betsy both solo and flanked by her husband and/or child, with beaming groups of friends. Luncheons, charity events, restaurant openings, the Central Park Zoo, birthday parties, the Met Gala, the opera, the theater, vacations abroad. A glittering life of privilege and pleasure parades before Maggie’s dazzled eyes.
The woman’s wardrobe alone! Maggie doesn’t think Betsy Elliott appears in the same outfit twice. From casual chic to gorgeous couture, she has it all.
Maggie assembles an initial list of people to interview including Betsy’s parents and two sisters (one living in Nashville, Tennessee, the other in Portland, Oregon), and several friends here in Manhattan who appear frequently in Betsy’s social media.
She’d asked Elliott about family members, of course. He’d told her that the day after the disappearance, he’d called both of Betsy’s sisters and her folks, “just saying hello,” as he didn’t want to panic them unless it was necessary. No one had heard from Betsy. That’s still true as far as he knew, but they hadn’t spoken in about a week. There had been some disagreement about the $250,000 reward Roger had offered for information about Betsy and Bear’s whereabouts. Crazies had flocked to the extended family; Betsy’s parents and sisters had since shut him out.
All that needs to be confirmed. Roger Elliott may have charmed her, but there is no way Maggie will allow him to manipulate her.
She checks one last time to see if forensics has delivered a report on the ransom demand. Nada. She clocks out, intending to head home to her cozy little apartment in Hoboken.
Forty-seven minutes and two subways later, Maggie introduces herself to Juan Perez, doorman at the Elliott apartment building on Park Avenue. His dark eyes flicker attraction that fades fast when she produces her badge. Nonetheless, slipping into Spanish paves the way for easy conversation.
Perez has worked at the building for five years. The Elliotts live in the penthouse; Mr. Elliott owns the building. Mrs. Elliott was very nice, very good on tips, very devoted to her son. Mr. Elliott was pleasant enough, not a talker, though, traveled a lot. The only time Perez ever saw Mrs. Elliott lose her shit was when a nanny left little Bear alone in the lobby in his stroller while she ran back upstairs to get something she’d forgotten. Even though a doorman (not Perez) had been on duty and in the lobby the whole time (which had maybe been ten minutes), Mrs. Elliott had come in the front door, found the boy unattended, and gone ballistic. With the nanny departing in tears, the episode had become legend in the building.
Perez shrugs. In his job he’s seen it all, things she wouldn’t believe. Ten minutes later, Maggie cuts him off. She’ll never unhear this shit. Rich people. Crazy. And none of his stories about mysterious “doctor” visits or high-priced transvestite prostitutes seem relevant to the disappearance of Betsy and Bear Elliott.
Driving the topic back around to her quarry, Maggie presses further about the night Betsy and Bear vanished. Juan’s shift started at four P.M. Mrs. Elliott and Bear had come in around five-thirty. She’d joked about having to give Bear a speed bath in order to make his bedtime, something about the day being so beautiful, she couldn’t bring herself to come inside.
That doesn’t sound like the comment of an anxious woman.
Maggie asks the doorman to think carefully. Had there been anything strange? Any kind of a change or unusual event leading up to Betsy and Bear’s disappearance?
“Well,” Perez volunteers, “there was the new nanny, but even without a scene, the turnover of nannies for the Elliotts is pretty high.”
Maggie takes down all the information Perez can offer: The new nanny started about three weeks before the disappearance, but the Elliotts always have a rotating trio. He can’t help but offer his opinion about a woman who needs three nannies to raise a child; after all, his single mother raised six kids on her own. “Mrs. E may be nice enough, but come on. No disrespect. I hope she and the kid are all right, but why even have kids if other people are going to bring them up?”
Maggie doesn’t comment. It strikes her as odd too. By all appearances Betsy Elliott is a loving, involved mother, one who gave her career up for her child. What is with all the nannies?
“What do you know about the new one?” Maggie pushes. “What’s her name? She still around?”
“None of them have been around, since, you know. I can’t remember her name. Like I said, lot of turnover. Maybe Mr. Elliott knows? She wasn’t like the other girls, though.”
“Why’s that?”
The nannies the Elliotts hired tended to be British, with “pegas por el culo” (sticks up their asses). The new nanny is American; Juan guesses local. She didn’t seem educated or polished like the others. She had dark hair, kind of skinny. Late twenties, he guesses, when Maggie presses him.
She thanks him for his time. Asks to speak to whoever is currently in the building from the security office. Juan buzzes through on the intercom.
As she waits, Maggie examines every detail of the lobby. Fresh flowers in fancy vases, highly polished marble floors, gilt-edged mirrors.
A flotilla of young women and their stroller-bound charges help one another navigate the glass door leading into the building. Maggie does a quick scan and deduces the women are nannies, rather than mothers, based on a number of factors including ethnicities (varied), wardrobe (more Century 21 than Saks Fifth Avenue), and shoes (Payless not Prada). Both women and children are having a boisterously good time. Cheeks are pink with laughter; happy chatter flows.
Maggie adds another fragment to the picture she’s assembling: this community of women raising other women’s children. Surely there are secrets buried there? If there are, she will find them.
DIESEL FUMES
Jake Burrows, aka John Bernake,
New Orleans, Louisiana
He hears the Target before he sees her. That nervous giggle that punctuates the end of almost every sentence. But if she’s giggling, it means she didn’t come alone as instructed. Damn it.
The humidity in the air makes Jake feel like he’s breathing literal clouds. Sweat pools and drips, down his back, into his tube socks, at the waist of his khaki flat-front shorts. He keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets; he’s afraid of what their tremor might reveal.
With studied casualness, Jake leans against an iron lamppost on a rise, a vantage point from which he can survey the streets rimming the campus and the bustle of students and other football faithfuls pouring toward the university’s stadium. In the distance, he can hear the blare of the marching band. He reassures himself that he comfortably fits in, dressed as he is. He runs a hand through his newly grown facial hair; it’s remarkable how much the Vandyke changes his appearance. He tugs his baseball cap lower over his eyes. Adjusts his Ray-Bans.
Grateful for the training that led up to this moment, Jake still wrestles to calm the nervous anxiety coursing through him. He knows what to do. The question is, will he pull it off?
The girls are in front of him before he has another second to doubt. Dakota Harris, long tanned legs sprouting from jean cutoffs pulled over a black one-piece bathing suit. Her sandy hair is pulled on top of her head in a messy knot. The girl next to her wears an almost identical outfit, right down to the p
air’s matching flip-flops.
“Heya,” Dakota greets him. “This is my roommate, Val.”
“I told you to come alone.” Jake lets the statement hang in the thick air for just a moment. Then he shrugs, turns his back, and strides away.
“Wait!”
Jake hears Dakota call out after him, but he doesn’t so much as turn his head. He hears Dakota say, “Val, wait here. I’ll be right back,” and then shush her friend’s anxious protests. Jake allows himself a small smile. Behavior as predicted.
He turns the corner and slows his steps a little to give her time to catch up. He feels her fingers plucking at his elbow. He keeps walking.
“Wait! Stop. I’m sorry. I have the money right here.”
Jake finally turns to face her and sees her frantically waving a stack of bills.
This girl’s an idiot. “Put that away,” he hisses. “And keep your voice down.” He takes a quick scan of the street, but it doesn’t seem like anyone is paying them any mind. Too much other revelry and game day nonsense compete for attention.
Dakota twirls a lock of hair and provocatively juts out a hip. “But you’ll still sell to me, right?” she coos softly, confident of her charm.
“Only if you follow directions.” Jake ladles a dollop of flirtation into his response, a hint of smile. Let her think she’s ahead of this game.
Dakota smiles back. “Yes, sir!” She flashes a peace sign with her fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay. Come with me.”
“Don’t you have them on you?”
“In my car. It’s just down here.”
The rambunctious music of the marching band cascades through the air. Brass and drums below, the shrill piccolo rising and falling above.
The Empty Bed Page 7
