“I think that man has escaped from the circus,” I say.
“No. He’s that guy who gives massages. Remember that gift certificate you gave me for massages? That’s him.”
“Ah, oui. The Armenian masseur. Louis.”
“Non. The Hungarian masseur. Laszlo.”
“Whatever his name,” I say, “he’s spending my money on skag.”
We study the other customers. Two of them are teenagers—very distressing. Two of the female purchasers are what are known as “yummy mummies,” in a way that is also distressing.
We watch the ebb and flow of buyers.
“Aha, K. Burke,” I suddenly say. “Now it is my turn to push my elbow into your side. You will please look at that woman who is approaching young Master Reynolds.”
I point to an attractive Manhattan-type: Her perfectly cut chestnut-colored hair falls over a snug white T-shirt. She wears a pair of baggy black linen shorts. The woman is not beautiful, but she is impeccably put together. This woman is evidence of an observation my late beloved Dalia sometimes made: “She’s done the best she can with what God gave her.”
“Okay, Moncrief. Who is she?” asks K. Burke.
“You do not know her? You met her just a few days ago. She…”
“Holy shit!” says Burke, perhaps a little too loudly. “It’s that frumpy English nanny…what’s-her-name… the one who worked for what’s-her-name.”
“Well put, K. Burke. What’s-her-name is correctly named Julia Highridge, who appears to have been transformed from a dowdy Miss Marple into a chic Manhattan mademoiselle.”
“It’s amazing how much better she looks,” says Burke.
“A touch of makeup. And a six-hundred-dollar Frederic Fekkai haircut,” I say.
Reed Reynolds hands Julia Highridge a plastic bag, and she walks in the direction of Central Park West. She seems to be the day’s final customer.
Reed Reynolds stands alone. He makes a few quick notes on a small pad. Then he takes a silver flask from his bag and takes a long swig. He recaps the flask and slips it into his backpack. Reed Reynolds heads east to Fifth Avenue. He half walks. He half runs. He has youth on his side. We take off after him. Skipping, hopping, jogging, racing, or leaping over a stone wall, K. Burke and I keep up with him.
Now we’re out of the park. He crosses Fifth Avenue. We stay on the Park side and watch him. Reynolds stops at 930 Fifth Avenue, a large gray-stone building. He nods to the doorman. The doorman touches the rim of his cap. Then Reed Reynolds enters the building.
He’s home.
“Damn.”
Now it is my turn to calm her down.
“K. Burke. Please. You will settle your nerves. We will follow him. Tomorrow. And the next day. We will learn from him. Then once we know how he does it and where he gets his inventory…Voilà!
“This young man believes he’s going to Yale. But first…well, he may have to do an internship on Rikers Island.”
Chapter 26
Tuesday
3:00 p.m.
Early the next morning, K. Burke and I visit the office of Megan Scott, the Dean of Students at the Dalton School. We have shown her our ID and begin our questions, politely of course.
“We need to know if Reed Reynolds was in class today,” we say.
“Why do you need to know?” asks Megan Scott.
“That’s an expression, Miss Scott,” says K. Burke. “And this is an NYPD investigation.”
Burke and I know that many of the students at this school are the children of the rich and powerful. That means little to me, and it means absolutely nothing to my partner.
“We give information out on our students only when it’s necessary,” says Megan Scott.
“Mademoiselle,” I say. “We have asked you for one piece of information. Was the boy in school today? That is not an inflammatory or provocative question.”
Burke gives me a look that seems to say, “We’re not going to let this bureaucrat obstruct our investigation.”
“Very well,” says Scott. “Reed was in class today, but he was not in this building. He’s finishing up a special project at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Okay. There’s your answer. Now if I may ask a question, what’s the problem?”
“Not a problem, really. We just want to talk to him,” Burke says.
“This Reed Reynolds, he is a good student, a good young man?” I ask, trying hard to use as much French charm as I can muster.
“Yes, ‘this Reed Reynolds’ is a very good student. He’s on his way to Yale. He’s a wonderful young man. If you could see this project he’s doing with the curator of Dutch Renaissance portraiture at the Met…”
K. Burke has heard all she cares to hear. She puts an end to it.
“Thanks, Miss Scott. Thanks for letting us take up your precious time,” she says.
Later that day, we’re back in the Ramble, witnessing a similar-looking stream of buyers.
Reed Reynolds is still, of course, totally prepped out—white button-down, striped tie, loafers. He looks like he should be on the front of a prep school recruitment brochure.
We watch the distribution of the plastic bags of…heroin? Weed? Speed? Buttons? The possibilities are endless.
Then I turn to Burke and say, “Okay. I’m going to try something.”
“What?” she asks.
“I think I’ll make a purchase,” I say.
“It won’t work, Moncrief. These are regulars. Don’t be stupid.”
I know that she’s right, but there’s nothing to lose. And if I make a buy we can hook him into cuffs without chasing all over the city. As I walk toward him, I can practically hear K. Burke rolling her eyes.
“I was wondering if you could help me out?” I say.
“Probably not,” he says. His voice is flat, dead, weak.
“Maybe just some loose weed,” I say.
“No.”
“I have two hundred dollars.”
“No, man. Go away.”
“Five hundred for two ounces?”
This time he doesn’t even bother to say “no.” He simply walks away.
I return to K. Burke.
“Please notice, Moncrief. I am not saying a word.”
But Reed Reynolds doesn’t go far, once he sees I’m gone. We watch from our hiding place as, like yesterday, he makes some brief notes and then takes a swig from his silver flask. This time, he does not head toward the Upper East Side but heads south through the park. We tail him past the lake, past Bethesda Fountain, on through the Sheep Meadow, then we are out of the park.
At 59th Street, just opposite the Plaza Hotel, Reed Reynolds hails a cab. We do the same. We follow them down Seventh Avenue, to the downtown corner where it changes to Varick Street. We’re in SoHo now.
Reed Reynolds gets out of his cab at 300 Spring Street, a cement and steel monstrosity, a modernistic pile of crap in the midst of the great old SoHo iron-clad buildings.
Burke is on her iPad.
Seconds later she says, “It’s his father’s office and clinic. William Reynolds, MD. Let’s go up. We can take a service elevator, maybe, or…”
“No,” I say. “I know something better to do. And you will do it tomorrow.”
“Me?” she asks. Burke looks confused. And suspicious.
“You will visit the eminent plastic surgeon, Dr. William Reynolds, and you will see if he will sell you some drugs.”
“I’m not so…”
“Come, come, K. Burke. I can tell…You also think it is a good idea.”
“Well…maybe…yes,” she says. (Oh, how she hates to agree with me.)
“And for now I have another good idea.”
“And that is?” she asks, also suspiciously.
“We are a mere three blocks from Dominique Ansel Bakery. Let’s go and have some good coffee and one of Ansel’s famous cronuts. Allons-y! Let’s go!”
“I know how to speak French!” she explodes.
“Please, no angry attitude, K. Burke. Le
t’s hurry! The bakery may soon be out of cronuts.”
Chapter 27
I have just shared with K. Burke my precise plan for tomorrow morning. The blueprint is not without some danger. And Burke will be the major player, practically the only player.
“Have you cleared any of this with Inspector Elliott?” K. Burke asks. I think she is nervous. And I don’t blame her.
“Share it with Elliott? Of course not,” I say. “I have cleared it with you, and I have already cleared it with myself. I think that will be sufficient approval.”
“Sweet Jesus, Moncrief,” she says.
We walk a few steps to the children’s playground next door to Dominique Ansel Bakery. We begin eating our extraordinary cronuts.
As I watch the children in the wading pool and beneath the gentle sprinkler, I am transported—but just for a few moments—to that small unknown children’s area in the Jardin du Luxembourg, a mostly hidden area of slides and swings and climbing ropes, an area where a grumpy old man performs absolutely terrible puppet shows, a childhood memory that…
“Moncrief, the plan. You were about to give me the details,” Burke says.
My memory of the Jardin du Luxembourg explodes into the New York air, and I tell Burke the plan.
She will make an appointment to visit Dr. William Reynolds, father of drug dealer Reed Reynolds. Only an hour earlier we followed the son to his father’s medical office. Only yesterday we watched an employee of one of the beautiful dead women purchase drugs from Reed Reynolds. Beyond that, we know that Dr. Reynolds is the go-to weight-loss specialist for the wealthy women of Manhattan.
“Listen, K. Burke. You are perfect for this job. You are attractive. You are slender. You are articulate. You are the perfect ‘insecure rich woman.’ We will buy you some decent clothing…”
Burke sneers a very tiny sneer. “Watch it, Moncrief.”
“What did I say?”
“Just go on.”
“No. It is simple. You go in. You say you are interested in…oh, I don’t know…a little Botox here…a little lifting of the butt…maybe you discuss the nose, although I must say that your nose is a sweet little button, a gift from your Irish ancestors.”
“Okay, Moncrief, let’s stop right there,” she says. “I’m actually with you on this idea. I hate to admit it, but it’s good. As an idea. But I’m going to change something. Instead of surgery, I’ll try asking Dr. Reynolds for drugs—weight-loss, relaxants, stimulants, that sort of thing.”
“It is your setup and your scene. It is all up to you,” I say.
I have been googling around on diet and weight-loss sites. I have learned about, I tell Burke, a desire on some women’s parts to supplement their amphetamines and appetite suppressants with laxatives. I hand Burke my iPad. She reads a highlighted piece from Dr. William Reynolds’s website, BeautifulYouInstantly.com.
Some patients believe that the additional use of diuretics and laxatives aids in reaching their weight-loss goal. This is a matter in which I try to dissuade them. Strong emetic medication, while fostering the sense of weight-loss, is a worthless medical methodology.
“But you’re contradicting yourself. Reynolds is saying here that he does not approve of laxatives…” says Burke.
“C’est vrai. That is true, but my instinct tells me this: I am beginning to suspect that our four victims were using very strong purgatives. Such medications either contributed to their death or actually caused their death. Reynolds is invoking the ‘reverse psychology’ approach. Tell someone they don’t need something, and, of course…”
Burke finishes my sentence: “And, of course, they will want it even more.”
“Here’s what I think. You remember the ME’s reports, yes? No drugs, they said…except for an antidepressant or two, and a seemingly innocent laxative. So what do I think? That our victims died of laxative overdosing.”
“Oh, my God,” says Burke.
I continue. “I also believe, consciously or not, that he was supplying his son’s business with items that have street value. But to our victims, he supplied massive doses of laxatives—over-the-counter, prescription, even holistic herbs and teas. In any event when you go to see Reynolds, ask him to sell you one or two of the high-powered laxatives. Okay?”
I can see that Burke’s enthusiasm is growing stronger.
“I’ll do it, Moncrief, but I’m nervous.”
“Not to have the worry. I will be there. I’ll have a SWAT team on standby. Emergency medical will be standing by,” I say.
“Medical?”
“Precautions, K. Burke. Laxatives can be…unpredictable.” She doesn’t laugh at my joke. “Don’t worry. It is a harmless setup.”
“Well if it’s so easy, why don’t you do it, Moncrief?”
I cannot resist. I say, “I would not be credible. What possible imperfection could Dr. Reynolds find in me?”
“Maybe he could change you from a smug asshole into a normal person,” she says. Neither of us speaks for a moment.
“I will call.” I dial the number from the website. A receptionist with a warm, calm voice answers. I exaggerate my French accent.
“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment for my client. She has not seen Dr. Reynolds before, but he is highly recommended. I am afraid my client needs to be seen right away—as in tomorrow. Her name is Marion Cotillard. Can you fit her in?”
I watch Burke’s eyes widen. “Oh, you can? Thank you. She will see you tomorrow at 5:00.”
I hang up and she sputters, “Marion Cotillard?! She’s a famous actress! I don’t look anything like her.”
“Does not matter,” I say. “Now you’re in. We never said you were that Marion Cotillard.”
“What about when they ask for my identification?”
“You will have this.”
I hand her a rolled-up wad of cash.
“Take this. Buy everything with cash.”
“Why? The NYPD never allows personal money to…” she begins.
I ignore her. “It is thirty one-hundred-dollar bills. Three thousand dollars. Take it, and use it.”
K. Burke nods. She takes the cash. We finish our cronuts and coffee.
Now the only thing left to do is to persuade K. Burke to walk with me to Alexander Wang and buy an outfit that’s just a little bit more chic than her khaki pants and Old Navy yellow polo shirt.
“The weather is cooler,” I say. “Let’s walk around SoHo for a little bit.”
“Sure,” she says. “And while we’re walking, let’s stop at Alexander Wang and buy me some very cool clothes.”
I laugh. Then I say, “You are something else, Katherine. I know that this plan will go very well.”
“Holy shit,” she says. “You must think this is important.”
“And you say that because?”
“Because you actually called me Katherine.”
Chapter 28
Burke blushed but was secretly proud when Nick Elliott first introduced her to Moncrief: “She learned it, she earned it. She’s one of the best detectives around. And she’s got guts to go with her brains.” She knew it was true. She didn’t often have the chance to do undercover operations, and was looking forward to this. Even so, Burke couldn’t help feeling nervous about this operation.
She walks into Dr. William Reynolds’s office the next day at 4 p.m., and her mind’s eye virtually clicks a photograph of the waiting room—furnished with objects she only recognizes due to Moncrief’s shopping addiction.
Creamy white walls. Two authentic—Le Corbusier, she thinks?—black leather couches facing each other. A glass-topped coffee table sitting between the couches. An authentic and huge photograph hanging on the wall that Burke recognizes thanks to an art crime case. It’s Jeff Koons’s Made in Heaven—a near-naked man and woman in a passionate embrace.
The couches, the Koons. Click. Brain picture.
Burke is the only patient in the waiting room. A receptionist sits behind a glass Parsons table. The only item
on her table is a very small MacBook Air. Next to the table is a small gray cabinet.
The receptionist is gorgeous. Long blond hair. Perfect features on a perfectly shaped face. Burke remembers what her mother used to say about a beautiful woman or a handsome man: “God took extra care when He put that one together.” The receptionist wears a simple sleeveless gray shift, matching the gray cabinet. Nice touch.
Burke approaches, and as she gets closer she notices a slightly theatrical shininess to the woman’s face. Could she really be using pancake makeup? Greasepaint? The woman’s figure is not merely thin, it is thinner than thin. Her clavicles are sharp and prominent.
The receptionist is possibly twenty-five years old, or thirty-five, or forty-five…Burke really cannot tell. The receptionist exists in plastic surgery time.
“Ms. Cotillard, welcome,” she says. A warm voice, a quiet voice. Burke senses disappointment, but there is no comment. A moment later she is filling out forms on a tablet—the information is fictional, but she trusts she would be done before this was discovered. After a short wait, the receptionist leads Burke into a changing room. Burke slips into an unusually elegant examination gown—pale yellow, soft thick cotton, matching slippers.
A knock on the changing room door.
A man’s voice. “Miss Cotillard. It’s Bill Reynolds. May I come in?”
Burke opens the door. William Reynolds is a bigger-sized cosmetically enhanced version of his son the drug dealer. No classic white doctor coat and stethoscope here. His blond hair is perfectly cut, his black suit fits perfectly, and his shirt is bespoke, like Moncrief’s, allowing his slim frame to show some muscle.
He shakes Burke’s hand. Reynolds does not indulge in ordinary clichés of greeting, no “Nice to meet you,” no “Good to see you.”
Instead he tenderly moves both his hands to Burke’s shoulders and speaks gently: “Let me help you, Marion. Will you please let me help you?”
It should sound creepy, she thinks, but instead it sounds soothing. Burke wants to hear something dangerous or, at the very least, phony. Instead his voice makes her feel restful, trusting, and…oh, shit, she thinks…ever so slightly aroused.
French Twist Page 7
