The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “Remy Stanton.”

  Donna held out her hand, and Remy shook it, gently. She had soft skin, delicate fingers.

  “And you remembered to call me Remy.”

  “You asked us to. And why would we tell you no?” Remy may have been out of the dating game a while, but even he knew Donna was shamelessly flirting with him. He was happy to go along with it.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet properly upstairs,” he said.

  “I’ll forgive you,” she said. “You were kind of busy.”

  He recalled seeing her name on the guest list. Donna White was thirty-two, a prominent activist for clean water charities. She had over seventy-five thousand followers on Twitter. And wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Donna. Thanks so much for coming tonight.”

  “I work at Clean Agua dot Org.”

  Remy knew that, but pretended he didn’t.

  “That’s wonderful. I’ve heard of your organization. What do you do again?”

  “We raise money to bring clean drinking water to developing countries across the world that don’t have access to it. I just wanted to say how inspiring it was to see you speak tonight. I mean, everyone knows Rawson Griggs, but to see a new generation of leaders trying to change the system, I mean…” Donna pretended to shudder. “Just gives a girl goose bumps.”

  “I believe in what we’re going to do,” Remy said. “And to have the support of people like yourself who are doing real good, that’s exactly why I joined the campaign.”

  “Do you…” Donna said, hesitating. “Do you have somewhere to be? Like a late-night strategy session or something? I know how important you are, Mr. Guest of Honor.”

  Remy laughed. “You can still call me Remy. And no, I’m off the clock. Unless Rawson decides to hold a rally at four a.m., which I wouldn’t completely put past him. I don’t think the man ever sleeps.”

  “Well, then, Remy, how do you feel about a nightcap? I’d love to hear more about the campaign. I know a great hole in the wall a few blocks from here that has the best selection of top shelf bourbon in the city. Sometimes you can only drink so much wine.”

  “Thank god, because I only drink top shelf bourbon. I use the stuff on the middle and bottom shelf to polish my Aston Martin.”

  Donna smiled and without being prompted, looped her arm through his and said, “You have to let me order your first drink. I know the bartender there and he has some specialties that will make your mouth sing.”

  “You’re like a bourbon Beyoncé. I can’t wait.”

  As they walked away, Remy saw Alena Griggs and Paul Bracewell talking animatedly on the corner. Paul was stumbling around, leaning on a lamppost, drunk off his ass. Alena was pushing him, shaking him, trying to get him to wake up or snap out of it. He didn’t seem to have any desire or ability to do so. Remy could see tears running down Alena’s cheeks. Then Alena pushed him. Hard.

  Paul nearly fell over a garbage can, but righted himself.

  Then Remy heard Paul say, “Go fuck yourself.” Then he walked away.

  Alena stood there, watching him, a shocked look on her face. She cursed loudly and got into a waiting Lincoln Town Car. Paul stumbled down the block and out of sight.

  Remy felt awful for Alena. Paul was falling apart. As much as he wanted to help, it wasn’t his place. He hoped they could get Paul the help he needed before something happened. As the campaign expanded and pressures mounted, the stress and pressure would only get worse. If Paul was a mess right now, Remy could only imagine the kind of shape he’d be in come the primaries and general election.

  “Hey, you still with me?” Donna said. She was looking up at him with a pair of big, beautiful green eyes.

  Remy’s heart rate picked up. He placed his hand on hers and said, “I’m all yours.”

  Remy woke up at three in the morning. He rolled over, saw Donna lying on her side, her brown hair splayed across her bare back, rising and falling with each breath. He traced his finger down her spine and she shuddered slightly.

  “One more round?” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. Remy leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  “Go back to sleep.”

  He slipped out of bed and found his crumpled suit jacket and pants on the floor. He hung them up neatly, then got his iPad and sat down on the couch. His shoulder and hand were sore, but in a good way. A soreness he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  He opened up his social media feeds, curious to see the early reactions to the Hyatt event. He was closing in on a hundred thousand Twitter followers. The attention was intoxicating. He was still getting the hang of social media, but was now posting dispatches and photos from the campaign several times a day. Each post got several hundred retweeted, and the better ones—breaking news, fun photos, selfies with Rawson himself—hit the thousands.

  He was thrilled to see that the hashtag #GriggsBall was trending. And the response to Remy’s speech was very, very positive. Many of the attendees posted about the event using laudatory language, singing Remy’s praises. Many of them also used the hashtag #TheBeastWithin. Remy figured those were the ones who’d already taken the carrot.

  Hari Bhatia, founder of the popular tech website CrunchNet, had recorded Remy’s entire speech on his cell phone. Bhatia had posted several clips to Twitter for his 590,000 followers. The posts had already been retweeted over twelve thousand times, and those numbers went up every time Remy refreshed his feed.

  The photo of Rawson and Remy had already been picked up by the websites of Vanity Fair, The Hollywood Reporter, and E Online. Rawson was a celebrity. And his star power was rubbing off on Remy. He was loving every moment of it.

  After refreshing his feed for another twenty minutes, drunk on the adulation, Remy slipped back into bed.

  He checked his text messages for the first time since he left the Hyatt. One in particular made him sit up. It was from Grace Rivas.

  You were good tonight. Sure you’ve only been in politics a few months?

  Remy smiled. She was probably asleep, but he wrote back anyway.

  I’ll take Backhanded Compliments for $800, Alex.

  To his surprise, Grace wrote back almost immediately.

  Someone is up late.

  Working.

  Working or “Working”?

  Working. Ok, just messing around on social media. This stuff is addictive.

  Ha, be careful. It’s a time suck. Oh, and I meant that as a compliment. For real. You’ve picked it up fast. Might as well embrace it.

  OTR – it’s still weird as hell.

  It won’t get any less weird. Especially as we get closer to the primaries and general.

  Gotta ask. OTR. How did I do tonight?

  OTR? Really well. I’d give you a B+.

  B+? That’s it?

  Want to get an A? You need a little more polish. And a better haircut.

  Oh, now that’s just mean.

  You asked.

  I did. Night, Grace. Glad you came.

  Night, Remy.

  Remy plugged his cell in and laid it atop his nightstand. He closed his eyes, but the phone called out to him, begging him to keep checking his feeds to see if more people were talking about the event. Talking about him.

  He looked over at Donna. She seemed like a nice girl. They’d gone to the bar, where she’d ordered him the best Old Fashioned he’d ever tasted. It tasted almost as good as their first kiss of the night, a slight hint of bourbon on her breath, their knees touching, her hand moving to his face. He knew right then how the night would end.

  He looked at Donna. Smiled. And fell asleep, content. Peaceful.

  It would not last long.

  Remy’s first thought was, That’s not what my alarm sounds like.

  His cell phone was blaring. His alarm clock was programmed to play Johnny B Goode when it went off, an old Back to the Future joke his ex Nicole had made. She’d said Remy was like her very own Marty McFly. Slowly fading away before disappe
aring altogether. So she set that song as his alarm music. And it stuck.

  Remy picked up his nightstand clock and saw that it was 5:03 a.m. His alarm wasn’t scheduled to go off for another forty-five minutes. Who the hell was calling at five in the morning?

  The gray of early morning peeked through the shades. The apartment was still mostly dark. The call hadn’t woken Donna, thankfully. The caller ID read Private. He figured it had to be someone from the campaign. He wondered why anyone would call this early considering they had a meeting at the Castle in less than two hours.

  Remy got out of bed, went to the couch, swiped Accept to take the call, and quietly said, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Stanton? Jeremy Stanton?”

  Remy sat up. He didn’t recognize the man’s voice on the other end, but it sounded serious and urgent. Either some strange guy had found his phone number, or something was wrong.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Mr. Stanton, this is Detective Ferguson with the NYPD. Sorry to wake you, but you’re needed at Griggs Tower as soon as you’re able.”

  Whatever remnants of sleep that had still been clinging to Remy vanished at the words NYPD.

  “NYPD? Is everything okay?”

  “We hope so, Mr. Stanton. Just get here as soon as you can.”

  “Okay, you’ve got me concerned. What’s going on?”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end. Remy’s stomach clenched in fear. Then Ferguson asked, “Do you know Paul Bracewell?”

  “Of course I do. He’s Alena Grigg’s husband. I work for his father-in-law’s campaign.”

  “Were you with Mr. Bracewell last night?”

  “I was. We had a campaign event at the Grand Hyatt and Paul was there. Can you please let me know what’s going on?”

  “We’ll need to talk to you as soon as possible, Mr. Stanton. I’m sorry to say that it appears Mr. Bracewell has gone missing.”

  Remy showered and changed as quickly as he could. He thought about Alena pushing Paul, then Paul drunkenly stumbling off. Where the hell had he gone after that?

  As Remy prepared to leave, he noticed Donna stirring. He knelt down next to her and apologized for his ungentlemanly departure, assuring her it was out of the ordinary, and to help herself to the coffee in the freezer and anything edible in the kitchen.

  She smiled, playfully grabbed his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him deep and long.

  “Goodbye, man of the hour,” she said.

  Remy got the sense she wasn’t expecting more.

  He took a cab to Griggs Tower. The ride seemed to take eons.

  He replayed the previous night in his head, focusing on Paul. He’d never developed much of a relationship with the man, and hadn’t gotten a full read on him. He always seemed a little nervous, shaky, the kind of person who was always waiting for the ground to collapse under his feet. Even though Remy and Alena had pressed on from the Nogoyev and Usenov attacks, Paul had seemed to be disintegrating.

  Something had been eating at the man, burrowing inside of him, gnawing away. He hoped for Alena’s sake that Paul was fine, sleeping off a wicked hangover somewhere. She’d been through so much the last few months. She didn’t need more anguish.

  When Remy arrived at the Castle, he took the private elevators up to Rawson’s apartment and entered the War Room. There were a dozen people gathered around the table, including a man and a woman wearing NYPD badges, and two more men wearing blue slickers with FBI in yellow letters across the back. Remy’s heart sank. No way the feds would have come if they didn’t fear the worst.

  Seated around the table were Alena and Rawson Griggs, Jerry Kapinski, Kenneth Murphy, Rebecca Blum, and Phillip Costanzo. Costanzo was speaking with two men Remy didn’t recognize, but the shoulder holsters and earpieces led Remy to believe they were private Griggs security. Murphy went over to Remy. He spoke quietly, urgently.

  “Thanks for coming so fast.”

  “Of course. What’s going on? Have they found Paul?”

  Murphy shook his head. Remy looked at Alena. Her eyes were streaked with red and her hands were shaking. She and Rawson were speaking to the male NYPD officer, who Remy presumed was the Detective Ferguson who’d called that morning.

  “What happened?”

  “All I know,” Murphy said, “is that Paul never made it home last night.”

  He looked at Alena, saw the pain etched on her face, and his heart broke for her.

  “I don’t know the full story,” Murphy said, “but I believe Paul and Alena had some sort of falling out after the event last night. She went home. He didn’t. He hasn’t come back yet and we haven’t been able to find him.”

  “Oh Christ,” Remy said.

  Murphy nodded. “Yeah. Paul was in bad shape last night.”

  One of the FBI agents walked to the front of the conference room and said, “Thank you all for being here on such short notice. I’m Special Agent Mason, my partner here is Special Agent D’Antoni, and I’d like to fill you in on what we do and don’t know.”

  The room went silent.

  Mason continued. “Paul Bracewell was last seen at approximately eleven thirty p.m. last night on 43rd Street and Vanderbilt after a charity event at the Grant Hyatt hosted by the Griggs campaign. Jeremy Stanton, over there, was the keynote speaker. Alena Griggs and her chauffeur, Reginald Barnes, were the last to see him before his disappearance. After separating from Mr. Bracewell following the event, Alena Griggs returned home to the apartment she shares with Mr. Bracewell on 89th and York. When Mrs. Griggs woke up at 3:14 a.m. and realized Mr. Bracewell had not returned home, she called his cell phone. When he did not respond to calls or texts, Mrs. Griggs called her father. Wanda Lefebvre from Mr. Griggs’s office then called the NYPD and FBI. We have traces running on Mr. Bracewell’s cell phone and his credit and debit cards. So far, none of them have registered any hits. We’re currently reviewing traffic camera footage from the area surrounding the Hyatt, as well as surveillance video from local banks and businesses around the time in question.”

  Mason turned to Alena Griggs. “Mrs. Griggs. If you can, tell us what exactly happened last night, and what led to your husband leaving the event on his own.”

  Alena’s eyes were red and her lower lip trembled. She was wearing a sweatshirt and warm-up pants. She nodded at Mason, took a breath, and spoke.

  “We had a fight,” she said softly. “Paul had been drinking pretty heavily last night. I told him to slow down. I reminded him we were in public and how important it was for my father and Remy, but Paul ignored me. We were at the head table. A lot of people were watching us so I couldn’t be as forceful as I should have been. At one point, Paul fell over and broke a glass, and that’s when we helped him to leave. Jerry Kapinski waited with him outside until I left. But I didn’t go with him. I let my father’s people handle it. He resented that. He felt like I was letting them clean up my mess. And he wasn’t wrong.”

  Alena stopped and put her fingers to her eyes, choking back sobs. Rebecca Blum handed her a packet of tissues and Alena wiped her face. Rawson sat there, stone-faced.

  “Please, go on,” Mason said with a trace of sympathy. “I know this is difficult, Mrs. Griggs. But we need to hear every detail, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, that might help us find Paul.”

  Alena nodded.

  “After the event, Paul could barely stand. When I found him outside, he was drinking from a bottle of Jack Daniels he’d stolen from the drink cart. That’s when I lost it.”

  “We found a smashed bottle of Jack Daniels one block north of the side entrance on Vanderbilt and 43rd,” Mason said. “We’re waiting on fingerprints, but it corroborates Alena’s story.”

  “I asked Paul what was the matter with him. He ignored me and kept drinking. So I…I pushed him.”

  “Pushed him how?” Mason said.

  “Out of anger. Like get a hold of yourself. Trust me, I didn’t hurt him. He was just shocked. He started yelling at me. I yelle
d back. And that’s when he stormed off.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  Alena hesitated.

  “We can continue this elsewhere, in private, but time is of the essence.”

  Alena shut her eyes, squeezing out tears.

  “He told me I’m not the woman he married,” she said. Every word was uttered like a dagger being driven into her heart. “He said he regretted ever saying yes. He said I didn’t deserve him.”

  Remy saw Rawson clench his jaw. He looked like he could punch through the wall.

  “Paul had been drinking a lot over the last few months. It started even before the attack near our apartment, where Jeremy intervened. Something happened to him. Something changed him. I don’t know what it was, but the attack made it worse. He never really recovered from that night. So when he said that, I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

  “How did he respond to that?” Mason said.

  “He told me to go fuck myself. And then he left. But I was glad he did. I wanted him to leave. Then Reginald took me home. Oh god, I hope that’s not the last thing I said to Paul.”

  Rawson was clenching his fists so tight his knuckles had turned white.

  “After he dropped me off, Reggie offered to drive back to the Hyatt to see if he could find Paul. I…I told him not to. I thought maybe waking up drunk and covered in crap in a gutter somewhere was exactly what Paul deserved. So Reggie left and I fell asleep. I fell asleep easy. God, it was like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, like I’d been waiting to say that for I don’t know how long.”

  “When did you realize Mr. Bracewell hadn’t returned home?”

  “I woke up a little after three to go to the bathroom and get a drink of water. Paul’s side of the bed was empty and his coat wasn’t in the closet. I called his cell phone. It went right to voicemail. I called again and left a message. Then I texted him a few times. That’s when I called my father to see if he’d seen Paul. When he told me he hadn’t, we called the police.”

  Mason jumped in. “Paul’s cell phone is either turned off, or the battery ran out. He hasn’t used any of his credit or debit cards. At this point, it’s safe to say that either Paul Bracewell does not want to be found, or someone else doesn’t want him to be found. Now, it’s a common misconception that people need to wait twenty-four hours before filing a missing person report. The truth is, when people wait that long, we can lose valuable time. And given the previous attacks and the near-constant threats directed at Rawson and the campaign, we’re not taking this lightly.”