by Adam Mitzner
A few minutes later, we’re situated in his dining room. Even though my father lives alone, his dining table seats twelve. He takes the chair at the head and puts my plate of eggs kitty-corner to him.
“What’s going on with Paul Michelson?” he says, taking a forkful of his creation.
It’s a ham-handed effort to move the conversation to safe ground. A topic he thinks—wrongly, as it turns out—has nothing to do with Charlotte.
“I had dinner with him last night,” I say.
“Really?”
I can’t tell if my father is surprised or being judgmental.
“Did you know he ran into Charlotte last Christmas?”
“Paul Michelson?”
“Yeah.”
My father shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
“Remember I told you that Charlotte’s book had a main character involved with three different men?”
He nods in a way that says, How could I forget?
“The student turns out to have been real. The police found him and questioned him. He said he didn’t know Charlotte was even missing, but he failed the polygraph.”
My father looks as if he’s about to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. I want to keep moving and focus him on the part that worries me.
“And, of course, the artist we know is real, because it’s Zach. That leaves the banker, as the third of Charlotte’s potential lovers in real life. In the book, the character based on Charlotte meets the banker at a museum benefit. She’s staring at an out-of-focus photograph when the Matthew character approaches her, and they end up having an affair. He’s the character in the book that the protagonist—Clare—truly loves. But he’s also one of the possible murderers.”
My father doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting for me to get to the point.
“Paul told me that he met Charlotte the same way. They were at a museum, staring at an out-of-focus photograph.”
Neither of us says anything for a good ten seconds. Me because I’m waiting for him; my father’s silence is likely because he’s trying to process that his client might have murdered his daughter.
I’m expecting him to react with rage. Instead, when he resigns himself to what I’ve told him, he looks frightened.
“You know Paul much better than I do, obviously,” he finally says, “but I know you. I know how badly you want to fix this—to solve the mystery, to punish whoever did this to Charlotte. But I need you to promise me something. If you think that there’s even a remote possibility that Paul might be involved in Charlotte’s disappearance in any way, tell the police and then let them do their job.” My father begins to choke up, but still manages to complete his thought. “Ella, I can’t . . . I just can’t risk anything happening to you too.”
“Okay,” I say. “I promise.”
As soon as I say it, the guilt hits me, as it always does whenever I lie to my father.
After I leave my father’s apartment, I reach out to Gabriel. I’ve always hated when victims—or clients—called me on the weekend. I have little doubt that Gabriel feels the same way. I am prepared to leave a message on his work voice mail, but it turns out that he’s at the office, so at least I’m not intruding on his R & R.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, “but there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Not over the phone, though. Could we meet for lunch? My treat.”
“No need to apologize. Sure. Lunch sounds good. Two conditions, though. We go somewhere near One PP, and you let me pay my own way.”
Of course. Even a sandwich would be considered a bribe. I never let citizens pay for my lunch back when I was on the public payroll either.
“Okay, Dutch treat it is.”
“How about Bubby’s at one o’clock?”
I refrain from using my usual closing—“It’s a date.” Instead I say, “See you there.”
20.
Bubby’s conjures the sense of comfort food from the moment you walk inside. There’s hardly anything on the menu that doesn’t include melted cheese on top.
“This a regular haunt of yours?” I ask Gabriel.
“Yes, even cops get out from time to time.”
“I should have known. Given the pie selection,” I say with a wink.
We both order the grilled cheese. He asks for a cup of coffee and declines the offer of French fries for only two dollars more. I pair mine with seltzer and take the fries.
“I’ll share,” I say. “I mean, if that won’t compromise you ethically.”
He smiles. A very nice smile.
“Just don’t tell IA, and we’re good.”
After the waitress leaves, Gabriel asks, “So, what was so important that you were afraid to say it over the phone?”
“It’ll be a week on Wednesday,” I say. “I know that’s still seventy-two hours from now, but . . . she’s dead, isn’t she?”
I trust Gabriel to give it to me straight. It’s actually that fear that has caused me not to previously pose the question.
“Ella . . . I wish I could tell you that it’s going to be fine, but I know you know, at this point, the odds of that aren’t good. But that’s not a reason to give up hope. I haven’t. And while there’s even a sliver of hope that she’s alive, I’m going to do everything I can to find her. That’s why I’m not turning it over to Missing Persons on Wednesday. I got our captain to allow us to work it for another week, at least.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Anything new with Zach?”
He shakes his head. “Radio silence.”
“What do you think about my father throwing him out of the apartment? Maybe the thought of becoming homeless will get him to talk.”
“I got no problem with that. But I know that’s not why you asked to meet me for lunch. So, tell me. What’s on your mind?”
He sits up straighter, ready to receive my not-to-be-shared-on-the-phone information. Unfortunately, the waitress takes this opportunity to tell us that our food will be right out, and to ask Gabriel if he’d like her to freshen up his coffee.
“No thanks,” he says, and she smiles at him in a come-hither way. When she’s out of earshot, he says, “You were about to say . . .”
“You remember that in Charlotte’s manuscript she met the banker character at a museum?”
“Okay . . . ,” he says, making it clear he hadn’t remembered that tidbit.
“I had dinner with Paul Michelson last night. I guess I didn’t tell you before, but I dated Paul in college. That’s how we came to represent him.”
“Small world,” Gabriel says with a wan smile.
“Yeah, about to get much smaller when I tell you why this is important. He told me that he had seen Charlotte recently, when he met her at a museum. And he described their meeting exactly the way she wrote about the Matthew character meeting the Clare character in the book. They were both staring at an out-of-focus photograph.”
“And Paul Michelson is a banker,” Gabriel says.
“And he’s a banker.”
Gabriel takes a mouthful of air into his lungs. “When did he retain you?”
I put my lawyer hat back on. When Paul retained us is subject to the attorney–client privilege, and therefore off-limits for me to disclose. It’ll reveal that he obtained counsel before the police requested a formal interview about Jennifer Barnett, and that always suggests guilt, despite what my father thinks. None of that matters to me in the least, however. I’d gladly be disbarred to get Charlotte back.
“It was . . .” I count back the days. “Wednesday.”
Now it’s Gabriel’s turn to count backward. “Jennifer Barnett went missing on . . . the prior Saturday. That means he waited . . .” Gabriel ticks the days off on his fingers. “One, two, three, four days to retain counsel. And your sister was last seen on Wednesday morning by Zach. Same day. What time of day did you meet with Paul?”
“First thing in the morning,” I say.
“So the timeline doesn’t work out exactly,” Gabr
iel says. “Meeting with your father first and then killing the man’s daughter. Why would he do that?”
“But if Paul is a sociopathic killer, then normal human emotions—like shame or whatever stops someone from retaining the father of someone you’re going to murder—don’t apply to him. Maybe he thought that first hiring my father and then killing Charlotte would give him exactly the kind of alibi you’re suggesting, and that’s why he did it in that order.”
“Okay . . . so what’s his motive?”
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” I say. “You guys are convinced Paul was seeing Jennifer Barnett, right?”
“Diaries don’t lie. Not usually, anyway.”
“What if he was also seeing Charlotte?”
“What if he was? I still don’t see a motive for him to kill your sister. Jennifer Barnett could bring a sexual harassment claim, but your sister couldn’t.”
I spell it out for him. At least as far as I could take it.
“Remember, in Charlotte’s book, Matthew the banker is married. But Paul isn’t. If the diary is correct, however, Paul had a girlfriend . . . Jennifer Barnett. That’s the kind of small change that Charlotte might make so that her book was, you know, fiction. To protect the innocent, as it were. With me so far?”
Gabriel nods. “Yep.”
“Maybe Jennifer found out about Charlotte. If that happened, she’d probably threaten Paul. Woman scorned and all. Then Jennifer goes missing. Maybe Charlotte knew about Paul and Jennifer. In that case, Charlotte would have known it was Paul who killed her. Charlotte probably confronted Paul about it, and Paul killed her too. That would explain the time gap. He could have met with my father and me after he killed Jennifer, but before he realized that Charlotte knew about it. Or maybe he already was planning on killing Charlotte when he retained us, and he did it for the classic sociopath reason—to get inside information about the case. What better way than to be in an attorney–client relationship with the victim’s father?”
Gabriel doesn’t say anything at first, but I can tell from his eyes that he’s intrigued. “I’m not saying there’s not some stuff there that we need to investigate more fully, but that’s a lot of maybes. Also, I just want to draw you back to what we know is true, as opposed to the conjecture part of your theory. We don’t have any evidence that Paul and your sister were even having an affair. And everything you just said flows from that.”
He’s right. But he’s also wrong.
“Tell me, then, what are the odds that Paul Michelson, a banker, met Charlotte at a museum looking at an out-of-focus photograph, and it has no connection to Charlotte’s protagonist meeting Matthew the banker in the same way?”
“Agreed that’s not a coincidence. But all it really tells me is that Paul and your sister met that way, and then your sister used that in her book. It doesn’t mean that everything else about this Matthew character is true—or that it’s really Paul.”
“What about showing his picture around the Four Seasons hotel? In the book, that’s where he took Charlotte.”
“We’ve already been through the hotel’s video surveillance. Charlotte never shows up on it. We’ll go back and see if Paul’s credit card is on file and flash his photo, but given that we didn’t see Charlotte there, it’s pretty much a wasted exercise.”
I sigh to signify my displeasure. He catches my drift immediately.
“Hey, I’m more than happy to pick Paul up and question him about this, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But I already know that he’s got a high-priced lawyer who’s going to shut us down.”
“I suppose I deserve that,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t deserve any of this. I’m frustrated too. But you know as well as I do that if Paul Michelson lawyered up about Jennifer Barnett, you can be damn sure he’s going that way regarding your sister’s disappearance. On top of which, Paul Michelson’s phone number doesn’t show up on your sister’s call log. Of course, that’s not surprising because if the Matthew-is-Paul theory is right, that means Paul used a burner, and we know that your sister got calls from a burner. But the problem is that the burner phone is a dead end. We don’t know where the phone was purchased, so we can’t even show Paul’s picture to a store clerk. And I know you know this too, but no judge on earth is going to issue a warrant to search Paul Michelson’s home on what we have right now.”
“Okay,” I say. “I get it.”
And I do. But what I really understand is that Gabriel’s hands are tied and I need to get more information about Paul Michelson to untie them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Our terrace is small. It’s furnished with two chairs and a round table. When Marco first moved in with me, we’d often come out here to share a bottle of wine, but nowadays he usually occupies it alone—it’s the only spot in the apartment where I allow him to smoke.
Today it’s warm, above seventy degrees even at this early hour. As a result, when I awake, I’m not too surprised to see Marco sitting outside, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
“I’m out here,” he shouts.
He sounds like he’s in a good mood. I know better than to let that opportunity pass without taking full advantage. So after a quick stop to pour myself some coffee, I join him outside.
I have little doubt that his good spirits relate to tonight’s art show. Marco’s been a little vague about details, but the way he first explained it to me was that a Mexican painter of some renown named Juan Quinones Perez—who of course I’d never heard of, which Marco, for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, found more insulting to him than to the Mexican artist—was going to be showing at a gallery in Chelsea. One of the conditions the artist imposed was that a small number of student artists of Mexican descent be allowed to show as well. Marco has been selected from many entries to be one of three student exhibitors.
To hear Marco tell it, this show will change his life. He’s certain that his work will outshine the others’—not only his fellow students’ art, but the main attraction as well—and he will instantly become the darling of the art world.
I’m pleased that he has such confidence, although I’m fearful of the crash that will undoubtedly follow. I’ve seen Marco deal with rejection, and to say it’s not a pretty sight is like saying that the Taj Mahal is “fancy.” The slightest criticism—a professor suggesting that he add more light or a gallery owner telling him that his work isn’t quite what he’s looking for—gives rise to weeks of brooding. Shows are particularly treacherous ground, as anything from the location of his pieces in the space to the font size of his name in the program can spark a rage.
“I take it that the gallery is pleased with the work?” I say, taking a seat beside him.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows a smoke ring toward the river. “Very. Henry—he’s the curator of the show—is pricing my piece of you at ten grand.”
Marco has never sold a painting. Not one. In fact, he hasn’t even been able to give them away, which he tried to do back when he actually had a landlord he wasn’t sleeping with and didn’t have the money to cover his rent. I doubt very much that anyone goes from zero to ten grand in one fell swoop, but I’ve never truly understood how the art world works. The one thing I do know is that I’m not going to be the one to bring Marco back down to reality.
“That’s great. Which pieces did you finally select for the show?”
I’ve asked this before, and when I did, he acted as if maintaining the confidentiality of this information was a matter of national security. I am hoping that his good mood might make him more inclined to share.
“You’ll see tonight.”
Even his high spirits have their limits, apparently. At least he says it with a smile.
“Can I at least see the one you did of me?”
“You know that’s bad luck.”
“I think you mean seeing the bride before the wedding. I’m not aware of any similar su
perstitions concerning subjects and art.”
“The answer is still no. You can see it at the show, like everyone else. And remember, it starts at seven.”
“I know. But I told you, I have rehearsal today. I’m not sure when Tobias is going to let us go, but I’ve told him that I have to be in Chelsea by seven.”
Marco looks at me suspiciously. I can’t really blame him. Tobias is my director, and I often cite his demandingness as my alibi for the late nights I’m with Matthew or Jason.
“What play are you rehearsing for, again?”
I must have told him that I’m playing Little Red in “Into the Woods” at least half a dozen times.
“‘Into the Woods.’”
“Right. How’s it going?”
“Good. It’s a hard part because I’m doing it in a character voice, playing a ten-year-old. I don’t have the main song down exactly right yet. Sometimes it sounds like the character is singing and sometimes it sounds like my normal voice. Also, Matisse still isn’t off book, which is a problem.”
I’m quite sure that Marco doesn’t know that Matisse is playing The Wolf, or what “off book” means, even though I’ve also told him both things numerous times. In fact, his stupid grin tells me he hasn’t even been listening to me.
“You should get there about ten minutes early so I can introduce you to Juan.”
He name-drops as if he and Juan Quinones Perez are besties. I’m quite sure they’ve never met or spoken.
“I’ll try my best.”
If Marco were in lesser spirits, he would have called me on my hedging. He’s not above saying something like, “Don’t try, just do it.” But his faraway gaze at the river tells me that his mind has already moved on to something else.
“This show’s gonna be the break I’ve been working toward,” he says. “My work will finally get seen by people who can appreciate it. Let me amend that: people with money who can appreciate it. It wouldn’t surprise me if I get a mention in the Times. I heard they’re sending a reporter.”
I smile, a look designed to tell him that I couldn’t agree more. In reality, I’m far more certain that I’ll never witness Marco this happy again. In my head, the chronology will be as follows: he won’t sell anything in the show, and that will begin the downward spiral. Drinking at first, his chosen method of self-abuse, but not long after that, he’ll start to take it out on me.
