by Adam Mitzner
“Clare,” I said.
“So, are you an artist?” he asked.
“A singer, actually. And you?”
“Oh no.” He chuckled. “My only connection to the arts is as a lover of great beauty . . .”
Afterward, I told myself that it was just one of those things that happen, but I knew from the first words out of Matthew’s mouth that his goal was to get me into bed. When I chose to keep talking to him about the photo, it was because that’s what I wanted too, which explains how we ended up at the Four Seasons hotel later that night.
Of course, I knew that his taking me to a hotel meant he was, at the very least, in a relationship. During our second rendezvous, which took place a few days later, I learned he was married. At a different point in my life, that would have been a deal-breaker, but at the time, I found it something of a selling point. After all, I had a live-in boyfriend, and Matthew’s being attached meant the boundary lines of our relationship would be clearly demarcated.
Our normal routine is to meet on Tuesdays, a day that Matthew chose. I don’t know why he favors it. Probably because his wife is out that night, although he’s never said that to me. I imagine she takes a class. French cooking, maybe. Or a foreign language. Italian, if I had to guess.
Our sessions are normally three-act affairs. Then, as if he has an internal clock, at eleven he leans over to the nightstand to check his watch. It’s a Patek Philippe chronograph, because of course Matthew wears a $50,000 timepiece. Then he showers and is usually out the door by 11:15, 11:30 at the latest. I assume that’s because he has a midnight curfew. He always suggests that I stay the night and order room service for breakfast, even though he knows full well that someone is waiting for me at home too. The moment Matthew leaves, I shower and am back in my apartment by midnight.
Sometimes I add up the hours Matthew and I have been together. Six hours a week, four weeks. Twenty-four hours. Less time than Marco and I spend together every weekend, and yet the two time spans bear no similarity beyond the quantitative.
Matthew and I are completely consumed with each other during every second we’re together. We’re either having sex or talking after sex, which is just as intimate an activity. Sometimes we talk about our lives, the meaning of love, mistakes we wish we could correct. But other times it’s light—movies, television, music, and books. It’s not uncommon for him to have read something I’ve mentioned from the week before. Or he’ll binge-watch some television show I was already midway through so we can discuss the most recent episode.
As much as I acknowledge that I’m a romantic, I’m not totally without self-awareness. I know Matthew and I exist outside the rules of the real world, where the monotony of daily existence can overwhelm even the strongest relationships. But I liken our affair to being on vacation. You might laugh a little more and have better sex than you do when you’re home, but if all you do is have great sex and laugh, that’s got to bode well for your life back in reality too.
If I were halfway normal, I would find one affair—with my soul mate—to be enough complication in my life. But two months ago, Jason appeared during my office hours to discuss the progress he was making on a term paper. I hadn’t really noticed him in class up to that point. He’s attractive enough, tall and lanky, with sandy hair, a pleasant smile, and kind eyes, but nothing about him—looks or personality—is particularly memorable. He’s the very epitome of the kind of guy who blends into the background.
He was my last appointment of the day, and I surprised myself when I suggested that we continue our discussion about the finer points of Rodgers and Hammerstein at the Starbucks on MacDougal. After coffee came dinner at some taco place, with a pitcher of frozen margaritas that reminded me of my own undergraduate days. Two hours later, we were back at his place.
Jason is in love. And not just a little bit either. It’s the whole “I worship the ground you walk on; I’ll die if I’m without you” kind of love. It’s sweet, but also sad. It can only end badly for him. In fact, if he weren’t so far gone, I would have ended things after the second or third encounter.
I haven’t only because it’s easier to continue seeing him than to have to deal with the fallout of a messy breakup. Besides his tears, I fear the possibility of my expulsion from the university if he tells anyone about our affair—a sexual relationship between a teaching assistant and a student is strictly prohibited.
Finally, there’s Marco, my boyfriend as far as the world is concerned. He’s an artist and a painter, but not the starving type. His relationship with me sees to that, as I’m the youngest daughter of a very successful criminal-defense attorney.
When we met, Marco seemed larger than life to me. He overflowed with confidence at a time when I didn’t think I did anything right, and when he declared that we were meant for each other, I was in no position to disagree.
Back then, he lived with his girlfriend, Belinda. She was about as different from me as I could have imagined—a mousy Latina who worked as a waitress. But she had an apartment, which in hindsight must have been what attracted Marco to her. Marco and I were seeing each other on the sly for about two months when Belinda caught wind of Marco’s cheating, and that’s when he showed up on my doorstep with all his worldly possessions in a beat-up duffel bag.
In the time we’ve been together, I’ve had cause to wonder whether anything Marco ever says to me is true. Starting at the beginning. I don’t even know whether Belinda actually found out about us and threw him out, or Marco decided to trade up in terms of living space and played on my guilt. I do remember that he originally said the move would be for a few weeks only, but he never lifted a finger to find a new place.
It hasn’t been all bad, of course. I’ve learned from Marco about passion for your craft, and at his best he can be thoughtful and sometimes even kind. But at other times he can be cruel and unforgiving. In those moments, the danger I’m courting comes to the forefront.
As I said, there was a time when I was consumed with wondering how this melodrama I’d written for myself would conclude. The only silver lining in all that has happened is that I no longer obsess about that.
I know how it ends.
It concludes with my death. A particularly gruesome murder, I’m afraid.
DAY FOUR
FRIDAY
10.
News of my sister’s disappearance broke at two yesterday. I was determined to avoid the media onslaught, which required that I spend the rest of the day inside and away from my computer, social media, and the television.
Nearly every day the front pages of the tabloids blare with a horrific headline. A toddler killed by a ricochet, a fire that takes the lives of multiple people, an elderly woman raped and beaten for her social-security check. I rarely give those stories a second thought, never considering the lives of the families that have been forever altered or the tragedy of the victims’ lives being cut short.
Today it’s Charlotte’s photograph on the front page. My father and I are the people whose lives have been forever altered. Hers is the life tragically left unfinished.
I flag a taxi and tell the driver that I’m going to One Police Plaza. As we start to move, I turn off the taxi TV to insulate myself from the media. My plan is thwarted because the driver is listening to the all-news radio station.
“Can you turn that off?” I request. “Or put on some music?”
He nods. “Very upsetting. That poor girl.”
The police have scheduled a press conference for noon. The idea is to bring the public into the search for Charlotte.
I arrive at One PP at eleven. It’s immediately apparent that something is happening. There’s a frenzy of activity, with people running through the halls and yelling out short phrases to one another. “I’m on it!” or “Not yet!” or “Let’s hope!”
My stomach tightens. The one thing I can discern from the commotion is that whatever has occurred, it isn’t good.
“What’s going on?” I ask Ruth the recepti
onist.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” she says without making eye contact.
I wait in the wooden chair for Gabriel for the next five minutes, convinced that the delay is because he’s thinking of a way to tell me that they’ve found Charlotte’s body. Why else would he make me wait?
He’s smiling when he approaches, however. I take that as a good sign, but just as quickly convince myself that this could be Gabriel’s demeanor when breaking bad news.
“Come. Let’s talk in my office,” he says.
My legs are wobbly as I follow him down the hall. Inside his office, I take a seat in his guest chair. He shuts the door behind me and then assumes his position behind the desk. I can feel my heart beat so loudly that I fear it might break out of my chest if he doesn’t just tell me already.
He doesn’t say anything, however. It’s as if he’s searching for the words.
I can’t wait any longer. “Is there any news about Charlotte?”
“No,” he says, looking confused. “I would have told you if there had been any developments. You asked for this meeting, Ella. I thought you had something to tell me.”
I’m such an idiot. I did ask to see him in advance of the press conference. His silence wasn’t about working up the courage to share tragic news—he was waiting for me to get to the point.
“Right. The reason I wanted to see you is because when I last saw Charlotte, she told me that she’d just sold her first novel.” I reach down into my briefcase to pull out the loose-leaf binder. “She gave it to me last Tuesday, and I finally read it last night. I don’t know how much of it is truly fiction and how much is based on her own life, but the main character is named Clare, which is Charlotte’s middle name, and she’s a graduate student studying music, which isn’t that much of a stretch from Charlotte’s actual life as a graduate student studying creative writing. And in the book, she’s murdered.”
Gabriel sits up straighter and then reaches across his desk to take the binder out of my hand. When it’s within his grasp, he skims the pages. “Who’s the killer?”
“It’s . . . it’s frankly unclear in the book. She’s written only the first half or so, and it ends in a bit of a cliff-hanger. But in addition to the character who’s a stand-in for my sister, there’s one pretty clearly based on Charlotte’s boyfriend, Zach. He’s called Marco in the book, and she paints a picture of the relationship that’s abusive. There are also two other men that Charlotte’s character—Clare—is involved with. The first is a Wall Street banker she calls Matthew. The second is an undergraduate student named Jason, who’s in a class that Clare TA’s. I don’t know if either of those people existed in Charlotte’s real life, but she was the teaching assistant in some creative writing class at NYU. Did you find anything in her phone messages or e-mails that’s consistent with her being involved with other men? Specifically a student or a banker?”
He gets up from his chair and pulls a banker’s box off the floor, then drops it on the desk between us. After flipping through the manila folders, he yanks out a file toward the back.
“These are her phone records,” Gabriel says. “We’ve been through them, cross-referencing to people.” He turns a few pages before stopping at what I assume is a summary, based on the fact that it appears to be some type of chart. “There are a bunch of phone calls to and from what we think are prepaid phones. Your sister’s a student, and that’s not uncommon in their world. We’ve called the numbers, but no one’s answering. That could just mean that the minutes were exhausted.”
“In the book, the Wall Streeter, the guy Charlotte calls Matthew, he uses a burner phone to communicate with her because he’s married,” I say.
Gabriel nods. “That’s another big market for prepaid phones. We call the users PMS—poor, married, or students.”
I’d done enough burner-phone cases to know that the incoming calls to Charlotte were going to wind up being a dead end. People use burners precisely because they’re untraceable. Sometimes you get lucky and the phone is activated where it was purchased, but cheating husbands always pay in cash, so there’s never a credit card connected to the purchase. Then you’re left flashing photos at the store owner in the hope that he can remember the customer. In this case, even that wouldn’t help because we didn’t have anyone’s picture to flash besides Zach’s—and there was no reason for him to call Charlotte from a prepaid phone.
“What about texts or e-mails?” I ask.
“Without having the phone—which we don’t, and Zach is claiming that it’s not in the apartment—we can’t get texts. The iPhone finder shows the phone isn’t on, which means all we have to go on is the list of incoming and outgoing calls. And as for e-mails, it’s just school-related stuff. Certainly nothing that indicated a romantic relationship or threats or anything of that nature.”
This was even worse than I’d expected. Roadblocks at every turn.
“Do you mind if I take a look? I may recognize some of the numbers.”
He hands me the folder. The dates are from this month. My number appears by far the most frequently—almost half of the calls Charlotte made and received. The others I don’t recognize at all, except for Zach’s. He called infrequently. Even on Tuesday night into Wednesday morning—when he was supposedly frantic because Charlotte wasn’t home—his phone number appears a grand total of three times. In other words, he called just enough to look like he was worried. And on the day before, Monday, not even once.
“Were you able to get the search warrant for the apartment?” I ask.
I know that’s going to be another dead end. If Gabriel had searched the place, he would have told me that by now.
“We tried, but no dice. We told the judge that the family is worried, and dropped yours and your father’s names. I think that’s the only reason we got access to the e-mails and phone records, to be honest with you. Unfortunately, the judge drew the line at letting us rifle through Zach’s stuff or his phone or computer without more proof that a crime has actually occurred. The more time that goes by, the more compelling our argument is that your sister is a victim of foul play. We’ll get the warrant eventually.”
Time. The one thing we didn’t have.
I’m quickly losing any hope of a happy ending. Charlotte must be dead . . . or worse, being held captive somewhere. That’s the only explanation.
As if he can sense my despair, Gabriel says, “Stay positive, okay? This is very important stuff you’re telling me about the book, and it’s going to be a big help in finding your sister. We’ll take a look at the students in the class, and also keep an eye out for anyone in her life that seems to be a banker type. For the time being, though, let’s keep the manuscript between us, okay? I don’t want anyone else knowing it exists.”
I’m about to ask him why when our meeting is interrupted by a knock at the door. The man who opens it is another detective wearing his badge on a chain around his neck. He has the look of a retired football player. Beefy and not too bright.
“Hey, Jim, you remember Ella Broden, don’t you?” Gabriel says.
He looks at me with a hint of recognition, but not much more. I can’t place his face at all.
“Hi,” he says, and extends his hand. “Jim McCorry. Nice to meet you.” Then he looks back to Gabriel. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
“I can step out,” I say.
“No, you stay,” Gabriel answers, already getting up. “I won’t be long.”
I’m only by myself for a few minutes, but it feels like hours. In my head, Jim McCorry is telling Gabriel my worst fears about Charlotte have been realized.
“It wasn’t about your sister,” Gabriel says as soon as he returns to the office. “I feel like I need to say that every time I see you or you’re going to jump out of your skin.”
“Sorry. But that was what I was thinking.”
“There was a break in the Jennifer Barnett case,” he says.
I’m careful not to reveal that we have a client involve
d in the Barnett investigation. Not only because such a disclosure would be a violation of the attorney–client privilege, but because I’m ashamed that we’re representing Paul. Here I am begging Gabriel to find Charlotte while at the same time I’m ready, willing, and able to do what I can to thwart him from finding Jennifer Barnett if it’s in my client’s interest.
“Do you think that the Jennifer Barnett case is connected to my sister’s?”
His expression makes clear that he’s been expecting this question.
“We haven’t seen any evidence that Jennifer Barnett knew your sister or that they had any friends, or even acquaintances, in common. But it’s quite the anomaly. Two young, white women of means being abducted in Manhattan within days of each other. It goes without saying that we’re not making any public statement about the possibility that they’re linked. The very last thing we want is a panic that twentysomething women are at risk of being abducted. So at the press conference I’m just going to say that we have no reason to believe that there’s any connection. And that’s the truth. But as you’re not just a family member, but also someone who knows how things are in the real world, I want you to know that we’re looking into that possibility.”
I say a silent prayer that Jennifer Barnett’s disappearance is not related to Charlotte’s, and that, like Gabriel said, it is just a horrible coincidence. The only alternative is that the same man did this—a man who likely had no connection to either of them. That would almost certainly mean they’re both dead.
11.
My father unabashedly tries his cases in the press. So much so that he often claims his best opening statements have been made on the courthouse steps. The impromptu press conferences he holds there are designed to win over the jury, even when they won’t actually be selected for another year or more. His hope is that by the time they are actually seated in the jury box, he’s already won their hearts and minds through the media. Prosecutors play that game too, but according to my father they’re pikers compared to him. He says their press conferences lack the pizzazz of a catchy sound bite, and so even when they make the news, no one remembers a word that was said the next day—much less months later when the trial begins.
