“Forrest? It’s Peter Lombard.”
Pain, frustration, and pure relief at having someone listen color the barely coherent torrent that follows. Peter forgets about the time difference, the promise he made to himself to never appear weak in business, how very badly he craves Forrest Holcomb’s approval.
Peter vents his fears about Eva, his many questions, his suspicion that it was the meddling of those two kids Forrest dispatched that resulted in his savage beating. Finally his stumbled words run out of steam as a petrifying weariness settles over his battered body.
I think I need to lie down.
He sags against the shop window. His knees buckle and he slides down against the plate glass until his ass hits the concrete, his legs splayed out in front of him.
“Peter? Can you hear me? Peter?”
Peter’s hands drop to rest on his thighs and he looks at the cellphone glowing in his right palm.
He can hear, even though Forrest’s voice has gone faint. Peter contemplates lifting the phone to his ear, but he’s not sure he can manage it. His hand resting on his thigh looks so very far away.
“Where are you, Peter? You need to get to a hospital. Call the police.”
Peter nods. Right. Forrest’s right. Of course he is. That makes total sense. Hospital. Police. He should definitely do that.
Nothing else makes sense. “Get your bitch under control.”
WHILE PETER WAS STILL SLEEPING…
Eva Lombard,
Hong Kong Island, the Day of Arrival
Eva stops the cabdriver before they reach the address she’s given him. The butterflies in her stomach demand she get out and walk. A practical realization also reminds her she has limited cash and may not want to use credit.
The walking does her good. She follows the curve of Bowen Road. The steps are as familiar as the ones she takes every day in London with Baxter. It’s as if she was here yesterday, not ten years ago. Some things have changed of course, but she passes a tea shop that she and Alex used to frequent and is absurdly pleased to see the stooped and cranky old woman who runs it still calling the shots.
It occurs to her that Alex might not be home. Hell, he might not even live here anymore. But Eva knows the three-bedroom apartment on Bowen was a score when Alex got it—an inheritance from an aunt he barely knew the year before Eva and Alex met—and given the pricey nature of Hong Kong real estate, he would be unlikely to have given it up. Nor had he mentioned anything about moving when they last emailed, a few friendly lines back and forth the week of his fortieth birthday.
Eva catches sight of her reflection in a shop window. Her hair’s a mess; her hand clutches her bloody scarf. She finger combs her hair. Checks her palm. Her cut still sears, but the bleeding’s stopped. She’s tied the severed strap of her shoulder bag into an awkward knot. The bag’s unusually cumbersome because of the addition of the Leica and bumps uncomfortably against her right hip. She’s got a fevered look in her eye; she can see that even in her blurred reflection.
Why am I here exactly? She doesn’t know. She just knows Alex always made her feel safe. This thought propels her up the last stretch of hill.
His building looms proudly before her. It’s a beautiful colonial-era apartment building with old-world charm featuring gracious balconies, but crowded on either side by a pair of modern, steel and glass monoliths.
Showing up at Alex’s doorstep without notice after all this time suddenly reeks of folly. She thinks of Peter, her husband of seven years, snoring away back in their hotel room. How is it that the events of the last twenty-four hours threaten to erase years of trust in their marriage? I can tell his Ambien snore from his regular snore, for fuck’s sake! I know him.
But think of how well Pete can lie. She never would have expected it of him, even if he tries to soften his deceptions about this trip behind the guise of “planning a surprise.” Lying well is lying well and Pete’s proven he can do it. So is he deceiving her about anything else besides their itinerary? She was attacked. That fact is inescapable.
Like any good reporter, she needs to know which questions to ask in order to figure out what the hell is going on: the who, what, why, where, and how that will shift the events of the last few days into clear alignment. But right now, she’s coming up empty. A safe harbor is what I need. Just for a little while.
Eva applies a swipe of lip balm and grips her scarf a little tighter, unhappy to see a fresh well of blood bubbling up across her palm. She tucks the rusty and crusty cuff of her shirt up under the sleeve of her leather jacket. She scowls at her reflection. Not exactly how she envisioned seeing Alex again (if she ever did daydream about that and, okay, she will admit she has, but only if angry at Peter and a couple of glasses in), but it’ll have to do.
Her eye is caught. A menacing shadow rises up behind her, stretching a clawlike hand toward her shoulder.
Eva freezes, her startled cry frozen in her throat as the shadow draws closer. A large hand descends on her shoulder and grips it tightly. Her body once again becomes inexplicably, maddeningly liquid.
She can do nothing but stay rooted to the spot and await her fate.
We have a dilemma…
An acknowledgment that virtually everyone’s devotion has its sharp edge; a hard angle of selfishness in the face of drained compassion or personal risk. We’re human, after all—kindness, empathy, all of these more evolved traits ultimately smack up against the ugly primal truth that the broken-legged lamb is usually best left for the lions.
THE OTHER HALF
Magali Guzman,
New York City and Hoboken
Maggie’s day has been an education in how the other half lives. First she and Special Agent Ryan Johnson tracked down Betsy Elliott’s friend Amanda Levine just as the mom of two was getting her kids organized for school and out the door of her Park Avenue penthouse. To achieve this stupendous feat, Amanda needed both a nanny and a personal assistant. The arrival of Maggie and Ryan, with their flashy badges and probing questions, seemed an irritation, concerns about Betsy and Bear’s whereabouts overshadowed by the inconvenience to Amanda’s stressful day.
Next they interviewed Jessica Brown, another friend of Betsy’s. Upon hearing Maggie’s last name, Brown broke into terrible Español, and insisted on reassuring Maggie “your people are welcome here.” Never mind that Maggie, as well as her parents and their parents, were all born and raised in New Jersey. The snidely amused looks Johnson sent her as Brown mangled her way through a few more awkward Spanish sentences made Maggie itch to punch him in the gut.
Both women professed worry about their missing friend and horror about the “times we’re living in.” Amanda wistfully offered that maybe Betsy just needed a little “treat,” as being a mother was “just so much to cope with. Maybe she flew to Paris to shop?” she asked hopefully.
Jessica was blunt and more cynical. She watched a lot of crime shows and she knew the odds of Betsy and Bear being alive diminished with each passing day. She dourly opined that their bodies would no doubt turn up soon. “New York provides a degree of anonymity, but everything comes out in the end, right?”
Both women declared themselves unaware of even a hint of strife in the Elliotts’ marriage. “Rock solid.” “He treated her like a queen.”
Maggie reflects on the way these women live. Protected. Supported. Pampered. Oblivious? Perhaps willfully so? That certainly seems true of Amanda Levine. Jessica Brown, on the other hand, is correct that the ugly parts of humanity eventually show up everywhere. Except that Maggie’s grimly aware that watching them on TV is distinctly different from the real deal.
Next up, they have an appointment with Rachel Ferris, the last of the three women Roger Elliott had identified as his wife’s closest friends. Rachel’s apartment building on East 77th Street is yet another doorman-guarded womb of wealth and safety.
T
he Ferrises’ doorman announces them and Maggie rides up in the elevator mentally reviewing what they know so far. Betsy and Bear Elliott have been missing for fourteen days. There’s been no word from her and no sign of her or Bear; it’s as if they vanished into thin air. Nor has there been any follow-up to the ransom demand, despite its command to Elliott to gather the cash and wait for further instructions. The postmark revealed the demand had been mailed from the Philadelphia suburb of Berwyn, Pennsylvania. There is no known connection between the Elliotts and that town. The paper stock and envelope used for the demand were the house brand of a national office supply chain. No fingerprints were found on either envelope or letter. Further tests are pending.
The Ferris apartment is another magnificent tribute to wealth and taste, or at least the taste of a decorator. It’s elegant to be sure, but also sterile, every perfectly angled objet studied and precise. A Nordic-looking woman in her twenties with a lilting accent introduces herself as “Kiva, Mrs. Ferris’s personal assistant” and escorts Maggie and Johnson into the kitchen.
Upon Maggie’s entrance, Rachel Ferris pauses with a spoon filled with a rich brown sauce halfway to her mouth.
“There you are,” she gushes, as if they are long lost friends. Tossing her spoon carelessly down on the counter, Rachel brushes past the ponytailed man in chef’s whites standing in front of the simmering pots on the six-burner stove. “Welcome. I hope you don’t mind if we meet here in the kitchen. Armando’s cooking for a dinner party we’re hosting tonight and I need to taste as we go. Every detail needs to be perfect.”
Maggie accepts Rachel’s offers of a seat at the kitchen table and a cup of coffee, while Johnson declines. He takes up position near the kitchen door, notebook at the ready.
Maggie has her prepared questions, but quickly realizes that she should just let Rachel Ferris talk, which she seems to do without self-editing or interruption as her staff circles around her silently—the assistant pouring their coffee, the chef offering up a plate of scones still warm from the oven, along with jam and clotted cream.
“I never eat these.” Rachel giggles. “I don’t even let Armando make them usually. The temptation is just too much! But the stress of tonight! Just incredible!”
Maggie thinks about her mom, who raised five kids with no help and routinely hosts Sunday dinners for up to forty family members all without breaking a sweat. She bites into a scone and allows the buttery crumble to shut her mouth before she says something she regrets.
“We were expecting twenty, which is just about what our formal dining room can handle, any larger group is strictly cocktails only, that’s our rule. Even twenty I don’t like; we have to do two tables of ten and it just feels cramped. Sixteen at one table is really perfect. Eighteen is just awkward. And now Roger’s canceled, of course, and Betsy’s I don’t know where, and I don’t know what to do. And not only about the seating, although of course I do need to figure that out. That’s enough of a stressor, but what about the party altogether. Should I cancel it?”
Rachel Ferris seems to finally have run out of gas. She turns limpid eyes to Maggie, eyes that beg for reassurance.
“Do you think you should cancel it?”
“It occurred to me. But Vaughn, that’s my husband, thinks we have to hold the fort, so to speak. Our husbands just partnered on this joint venture in Long Island City. All of the guests are investors in the new complex or involved in the deal in some way. The party’s the celebratory kickoff. But it doesn’t seem right to me without Betsy and Roger here.”
“So the party was important to Betsy?”
“Oh yes! We’ve been organizing it together. Every detail! The last two weeks have just been hell without her. And today, all day, I keep expecting her to call and confirm she’ll be here early, at four, just like we planned. We were going to dress together. We have a glam squad booked.” Rachel’s voice is heavy with sadness and uncertainty. Her busy fingers crumble her scone to bits and pick out the currants, arranging them in a tidy little heap on the side of her china plate. “Vaughn and I have been going back and forth about it. He thinks it’s important we go forward with tonight, despite the circumstances. To protect all of us, he says.”
“Protect you from what?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean! Protect the deal. The investment. That’s all. It took years to put together and the ink’s barely dry. And of course Roger’s distracted.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt the Elliotts? Anyone with a grudge?”
“I wouldn’t know. Roger and Vaughn play hardball sometimes in business, I’m sure. But hurt Betsy? Never.” Rachel Ferris shakes her head ruefully. “Do you think maybe she went off with Bear by herself?”
“Can you think of a reason why Betsy would go off on her own with Bear?”
“No. Just asking,” Rachel replies, pushing her heap of currants around with an index finger.
Not a very good liar, are you, Rachel? “You know, Amanda Levine suggested Betsy went to Paris. So you’re not alone in thinking maybe she left voluntarily.”
To Maggie’s surprise, tears spring up in Rachel Ferris’s eyes. She struggles to control them, her Botox-ed facial muscles contorting obscenely in the struggle.
Another reason not to inject poison in your forehead, Maggie thinks. Seriously ugly cry face.
“I’m so worried about them.”
Ah. A genuine human is lurking under the plastic surgery, after all. Maggie’s tone softens. “Of course you are, Mrs. Ferris. That’s only natural.”
“Oh, call me Rachel. Mrs. Ferris is Vaughn’s mother.” She attempts a wobbly smile. “It’s a feeling more than anything.”
“What’s a feeling?”
“It’s not like Betsy said anything to me.” Rachel folds into herself, crossing her arms and legs.
Maggie trusts feelings. Instincts. She wants to encourage Rachel to trust hers. “Anything might be helpful, Rachel. Betsy is a good friend of yours. You know her better than anyone, probably, other than Roger. And you’re a smart woman. Smart enough to be able to sense things without necessarily putting an exact finger on what’s up.”
Rachel unfolds her arms. She leans forward toward Maggie, placing her elbows on the table. “That’s exactly it. It’s just a feeling….” she says eagerly.
“So tell me. You never know. It might be important.”
Rachel further crumbles her scone. Maggie observes that despite her proclaimed love for the treat, Rachel’s only played with it and not consumed a single bite.
Her loss. Maggie crams in another delicious mouthful. Totally worth a few extra laps in the pool.
Rachel’s beseeching eyes meet hers and Maggie knows she’s got her. There’s something Rachel Ferris desperately wants to share.
“Tell me, Rachel.”
With a flick of their employer’s wrist, the chef and the assistant disappear, melting soundlessly away.
Wow. A rich people superpower.
Rachel casts a glance at Johnson and his poised pen and then speaks softly, intimately to Maggie. “Like I said, Betsy never said anything to me about anything. But about six months ago, I think something happened.”
“What kind of something?”
“I don’t exactly know how to describe it. We were close, like you said. But Betsy stopped talking to me. I mean, she spoke to me; we talked all the time. But she stopped confiding in me. At first, I didn’t even notice. She heard me out if I needed a good vent about Vaughn or the kids, and she can do an impression of my mother-in-law that cracks me up every time. But she stopped sharing anything really personal with me. The whole friendship became kind of one-sided. I even asked if she was mad at me at one point.”
“Was she?”
“She said no. In fact, she acted like I was a little crazy for asking. Like everything was normal and I was being oversensitive. It kind of hu
rt my feelings, to be honest. But Vaughn and Roger are tied at the hip so I just kept my mouth shut after that. And like I said, we still talked. Every day, while we were planning this party.”
“Can you think of anything that happened around the time you noticed the change in Betsy? Something that might have prompted it?”
“It was after they came back from a family sailing trip along the Amalfi Coast. Betsy’s dream vacation; she’d been planning it for years. But if something specific happened there, she never said.”
“Do the Elliotts have a good marriage?”
“Oh. Sure. They’re great together. Our crowd jokes about it actually, because they outdo each other with gifts and romantic gestures. Puts the rest of us to shame.”
“Do you like Roger Elliott?” Maggie sees the question throws Rachel off guard just a little.
“Everyone likes Roger.” She giggles. “Isn’t that the case? I mean, you’ve met him, right? The man’s a charmer. It’s the secret of his success.”
From tears to giggles in under a minute. You are a piece of work. “Roger and your husband do a lot of business together?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve spent a lot of time with them as a couple?”
Rachel keeps her eyes steadily focused on the lumps of scone her nervous fingers are crumbling ever smaller.
Maggie waits. Then softly presses her, “Rachel. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Betsy’s your friend. Don’t you want to help me find her?”
“I do!” Rachel’s defiant eyes meet Maggie’s. “I just don’t know anything for certain. And it’s complicated….”
“What’s complicated?”
Rachel plunges a teaspoon into the clotted cream and swallows down the rich mouthful. “Let me just say this. Nothing and nobody’s perfect, okay? Anything that looks perfect is a lie. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I have a million things to do to get ready for tonight.”
The Empty Bed Page 12
