“I miss your parents every day,” he said as he finally stepped behind me, eyeing the picture of Venice. The scent of his woodsy cologne coated the air, so familiar I was instantly reminded of company barbecues and holiday parties. “I don’t know if I can say this enough, but I’m so sorry about your sister. The memorial… It was lovely,” he continued. “She touched so many lives at the hospital. I could tell that people really loved her.”
“They still do,” I corrected.
“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
I turned to face him. He kept his beard longer now than when my parents were alive. I was used to a thin coat of stubble, but now it was full, white, and bushy, giving off a skinny Santa-Claus-on-crack vibe.
“I’m so happy you’ve come for a visit. I’ve been worried.”
“I’m fine,” I said, repeating my mantra.
“That’s good to hear. Tell me, what can I do for you?” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, leaning over as his athletic six-foot-three frame guided me to a scarlet leather chair nestled in front of a wall of windows. Not a decibel of street noise could be heard from below. He moved behind his glass desk and waited for me to sit before he lowered himself into his extra tall cherry red chair.
I’d practiced this conversation on the T-ride over, but now that I was facing him, my words seemed obnoxiously greedy. After our parents’ funeral, Keira and I avoided Urban and everything Dresden that went along with him. We dodged his phone calls, his emails, his Christmas cards, but we accepted his “life insurance” check. Then Keira disappeared, and now I sat before him, nervously running my hands up and down my thighs, prepared to ask for money yet again. “I’m not sure how much the police have told you.”
“They filled me in this morning.”
I raised an eyebrow. The detectives weren’t offering me those kinds of updates.
“Well, then you know my roommate and I uncovered a photo of Keira from a few days before she was attacked. She’s with two men; one is definitely the guy from our party, Craig. The other is Luis Basso.”
There wasn’t a micro twitch of recognition on Urban’s face.
“Do you know the Bassos?” I asked. “Apparently, they were friends with my parents?”
Urban carefully folded his palms on his modern glass desk, which was impossibly void of a single smudge. “Yes, Luis’s father, Salvatore, was a friend of your parents. I bought an antique dining set from him for my home in Martha’s Vineyard, but that was the extent of our relationship. The police said you spoke to him?”
“I did. And he knew Luis was in contact with Keira.” I tapped my thighs, struggling to keep my mind from dashing too far ahead of my words. “He claims Luis didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her, but then he started talking about my parents and ‘larger forces at work.’ He sounded nervous and refused to talk more over the phone. He was acting like there was something he wanted me to see, in Italy. Do you have any idea what he’s getting at?” If anyone could offer an educated opinion about this situation, it was Randolph Urban. He knew everyone involved, my parents especially.
He pressed his lips together tightly and stared down at his desk, breathing heavily through his nose. He exuded the uneasy vibe of someone about to tell you that the cancer had spread.
“I told the police this, but they already knew. You deserve to hear it from me.” He peered at me warily.
“What?” I asked, a pit sinking in my belly.
“You know I’ve always thought of you as family, you and your sister. I loved your parents, and I thought it was my job to protect you, to make things better, not worse. That’s why I didn’t say anything to you sooner.” This was bad. Randolph Urban was an accomplished businessman who dined with foreign dignitaries; he wasn’t the type to start conversations with long, unnecessary, lead-ins.
He placed his palms flat on his desk, as if bracing himself. “A few weeks after your parents’ deaths, a group of men came to the office. FBI. They demanded all of your parents’ employment records—their computers, their travel logs, their expense reports, their pay stubs, their project reports. Everything. They had a warrant.”
I squeezed the metal arms of my chair, my sweaty palms leaving sticky prints on the chrome. “What did they find?”
He looked me square in the eye. “The agents claimed that your parents were spies, that they were enemies of the United States.”
Everything slowed. I could see Urban’s ivory nose hairs twitch with each inhalation, his tongue lick his whitened teeth in a tedious motion, and a single blade swirl around on the ceiling fan.
I blinked, mouth agape.
My parents were spies? He’d actually just said that. This was really happening.
“What?” I finally choked.
“The FBI claimed that every time your parents went on a business trip, in addition to doing their work for Dresden, they were also performing secret missions.” He spat the word like it was ridiculous, which it was. “They wouldn’t tell me what these missions were, but they implied that they were acts of treason, that they were working against the United States, that they were…traitors.”
“That’s insane. My parents are Americans. Why would they work against their own country?” I snapped, my eyelashes suddenly fluttering uncontrollably.
“They wouldn’t tell me anything more, and nothing was ever made public, so I don’t think their proof was concrete. Still, I pulled every string I could, because I agree with you. It makes no sense. I met your parents at Princeton. I started this corporation with them. I knew them.”
“So did I. At least, I thought I did.” I shook my head, the words clattering around like a mixed-up jumble with one accusation bolded and in CAPS lock: “TRAITORS.” How could anyone believe that? Even if my parents had a lot of bruises and spoke a lot of languages, even if we moved a lot, and even if you were willing to entertain the idea that they weren’t simple engineers, how could anyone think they were evil? I thought of Benedict Arnold, and the Rosenbergs, and other notorious American traitors—did the U.S. government really think my parents’ names deserved to be on that short list? For what?
“After the agents left, after I had time to think, I hired a private detective and a forensic accountant. I had them look into every trip your parents ever took for Dresden.” He clasped his hands, the white hair on his knuckles standing on end as his fingers twined together. “There are large gaps of time in your parents’ project reports. There is evidence of multiple cell phones, multiple credit cards. There’s evidence that they’d often leave the city where they were working and go someplace else, unauthorized.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. That’s doesn’t mean they were traitors.” I choked on the word.
“No. But it means your parents were involved in something outside the scope of this corporation, which amazes me, because they were two of the best engineers I’ve ever known. They did incredible work for Dresden. They shaped this company.”
“Then it’s not true,” I said defensively.
“That was what I thought, too. But now, after what Salvatore said, I believe this is to what he’s referring. He was friends with your parents, good friends. Maybe he knows something? It would explain why he’d be uncomfortable discussing it over the phone.”
I sat back in my chair, my hands trembling in time with my voice. “On the surveillance footage from the hospital, Keira was talking about our parents. She said the more she thought back—about the languages, the trips, the bruises—the more things didn’t make sense. She said she had a plan to find out the truth. Maybe she did? I mean, Keira always joked they were spies. We both did. At least, I thought we were kidding.”
“I never even considered the possibility. I trusted them implicitly.” There was an edge to his voice. Maybe betrayal? Because if this were true, then my parents deceived him, too—their best friend, their business partner.
“No.” I shook my head, rejecting the theory. “Even if we are going to make some
insane link between my parents and espionage, I am not willing to make the jump to them being traitors. Maybe they worked for the CIA? In black ops or something? That’s a real thing, right? Maybe the FBI and the CIA just aren’t sharing information?” My knee bopped, rattling the pens in the ceramic mug on his desk as my mind desperately searched for a more acceptable conclusion.
“I considered the same thing. I even put out feelers with a few contacts at the CIA, but they were never able to confirm anything.”
“You really think this is what Salvatore wants to talk to me about? Because even if Keira did find out something about them, I can’t imagine she uncovered information you weren’t able to find, information so horrible it got her kidnapped.”
“I don’t know, but it would explain why Salvatore was so nervous. Maybe your parents had enemies? Or maybe Luis and Keira stumbled onto something together, and he’s afraid to repeat it over the phone? At the very least, if I thought I were sitting on any information that might help you find your sister, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. That’s why I’m telling you now.” He rolled out his crimson leather chair and stood, walking around his glass desk until he was hovering right above me. “No matter what anyone says about them, we knew them.” He gestured with his hand between the two of us. “What we think is what matters. And I owe it to them to help you now, to help your sister. So tell me, what can I do?”
My head dropped toward my now frantically bouncing knee, my long dark bangs brushing my lashes.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
This was why I’d come.
“I need to go to Italy,” I declared, my voice suddenly clear, unwavering. “I know the cops say they’ll work with local police, but Salvatore said he would talk only to me. In person. I can’t ignore that. She’s my sister.”
“Done,” he said simply.
My lips parted, my head jerking back in shock. I’d hoped he’d help me, but even I was surprised at the ease with which he agreed.
Then Urban turned to a picture of his granddaughter, his finger lightly touching the laser-cut crystal frame. Sophia was four years older than me, and we both briefly lived in Los Angeles at the same time, when I was in fifth grade. We weren’t friends. She was closer to Keira’s age than mine, but they weren’t friends, either. Sophia was serious, very studious, rather rude, and tightly wound. I heard she’d graduated from the London School of Economics, which is like the MIT of England. That made sense.
Turned out Urban had a very brief marriage in his twenties, before he ever met my parents. That relationship ended in divorce (an ex-wife my parents never mentioned), but not before they produced a child, Sarah, who sadly died of an aneurysm not long after giving birth to Sophia.
So Urban was a grandfather by his mid-forties, raising his only heir. And even knowing her just loosely, I understood she was Urban’s greatest source of pride. He paraded her around at company parties. He worked her name into many conversations. He gave her a job right out of college.
“If anything, anything, ever happened to Sophia, if she went missing, if she were hurt, I would spare nothing—no expense—to find her.” He looked at me, his gaze intense. “You owe your sister the same, and I must think of your parents. I’ll give you anything you need.”
“Anything?” My eyes stretched.
“You want to go to Italy? I’ll have Donna book the tickets.”
I looked around his office—original works of art, marble floors, gold-plated light fixtures—this was the type of money that could accomplish things. That could find my sister.
“I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” I jumped from my chair and hugged him before I even knew what I was doing. He embraced me back, squeezing tightly. It had been a long time since I’d had a fatherly hug—my family wasn’t big on touching.
He sighed, his snowy beard scraping my neck. “I was younger than you when I set off on my own. People these days act like seventeen-year-olds are children, but in my eyes, anyone who’s survived what you have is already more of an adult than most of the people who work for me. This is your decision to make. I’m proud of you for standing by your family.”
I gripped his neck tighter, inhaling his woodsy scent. Finally. Someone who understood.
Then an alarm buzzed on his desk.
“Mr. Urban,” Donna’s voice was annoyed. “Another teenager is here. He doesn’t have an appointment…”
My brows tensed. For a man who was booked solid for the foreseeable millennia, he sure got a lot of unexpected teen visitors.
“Send him in,” Urban urged, looking at me with a grin. “I’m expecting him.”
I turned to the door as Donna heaved it open and watched as Marcus sauntered through, his jaw falling when he caught sight of me.
“What are you doing here?” we asked almost in unison.
“I’m here about Antonio. I sent you a text this morning.” He gestured to me.
Oh crap, he did. I remembered seeing his name pop up on my screen, but I was sprinting to catch the T at the time, so I ignored it. I forgot to go back and read it, because I was too nervous imagining my conversation with Urban. “What’s going on with your brother?”
He had told me Antonio wasn’t calling him back, but I’d thought they’d Skyped last week. At least they were supposed to. Did I ever ask if that conversation happened? I was a terrible friend. I’d warned him of that.
His black motorcycle boots squeaked as he walked across the marble floor toward Urban and me. “I tried Skyping him, but he never picked up. My parents haven’t heard from him, either, but they’re acting like I’m being paranoid. I was hoping Mr. Urban could tell me where he is.” He looked at him.
“Milan,” Urban said definitively. “After I got your email, I had Donna look into it. He’s trying to land a big client.”
“But he’s okay?” Marcus sounded relieved.
“As far as I know. Probably drinking too much wine.” Urban joked easily as he turned to me. “Actually, Anastasia and I were just talking about Italy.”
“I’m gonna try to track down Luis’s dad, see what he has to say,” I offered. I’d been keeping Marcus updated via text, but ignoring his requests to hang out, which made seeing him face-to-face now a little awkward. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to spend time with him, it was more that I did. Every time I was with him, I felt this pull, this buzz when he touched me, this flutter inside that brought with it a fresh wave of guilt for even thinking about smiling. I needed to focus on Keira, not a boy, and especially not after all the grief I gave Keira about her boyfriends over the years.
“I think you should go to Italy. You need to do this,” Marcus agreed, a sharp contrast to the black hole of negativity that had been trapping me lately.
“Well, I must say I’m delighted the two of you know each other so well.” Urban grinned. “I love seeing our Dresden Kids sticking together.”
It had been a long time since I identified as a Dresden Kid, but I guessed it still applied. Keira and I were a part of the corporate history, so much so that the CEO was about to fund my trip to Europe.
“Marcus, I spoke with your parents,” Urban continued. “I know you’re worried, and maybe a little lonely, and I don’t like that. Your parents and I think you should visit Antonio, maybe even go to Madrid, see some friends. And since you’re both here, I think we should plan this trip together.” He wrapped his arms around us like this was the greatest idea ever. “I’ll expense both; that way your parents won’t have to foot the bill, and you won’t have to go alone.”
My eyes bulged with a mix of shock and horror. I’d hoped to travel with Charlotte, somehow convince her this was a good idea, but even if she refused, I couldn’t imagine strolling beside Marcus. I couldn’t end up that girl flirting in the grocery store again when my sister desperately needed me. Keira had to be my priority this time.
Marcus peered at me uneasily. “I don’t want to impose. I know how important this is.”
“Well, I don’t
want to put you in danger,” I retorted.
“Do you think you’ll be in danger?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t imagine,” Urban interjected, stepping between us. “I’ve met Salvatore; he’s not a dangerous man. He’s old and sells armoires. I wouldn’t agree to this trip if I thought I was putting you in harm’s way. I just think you deserve to hear what he has to say, and if there’s a way for you not to go alone, I know I’d feel better.”
Talk about putting us on the spot.
“I really want to see my brother,” Marcus said sincerely. “And go home for a bit. I don’t mind going to Tuscany with you as long as you’re okay with it…”
“There. It’s settled!” Urban clapped before I could respond. “You’ll both go talk to Salvatore, then head up to Milan and, if you have time, take in a bullfight in Madrid before school starts.” He smiled like he’d just closed a deal.
“Um…uh.” I looked warily at Marcus.
“If you insist,” said Marcus, acknowledging how we seemed to have no choice. Then his eyes met mine. “I really do want to help.”
I knew he meant it, and it wasn’t him I didn’t trust, it was me when I was around him. But I also didn’t want to go alone, traipsing through family memories, searching for Keira, by myself. I hadn’t been out of the funk long enough to handle that emotional load alone. I nodded in agreement.
“Wonderful. Donna will make all the arrangements.” Urban guided us toward the steel door, his long arm slung around my shoulder. “I would do anything for you, Anastasia. You’re family to me, a part of Dresden. I really hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”
Then he practically pushed us through the exit.
I looked at Marcus, wondering if he knew what he was getting himself into.
If either of us did.
Chapter Fifteen
Having access to unlimited funds made it a whole lot easier to get a last-minute ticket to Europe. Within a week, Randolph Urban’s assistant had arranged for Marcus and I to fly first class, with a make-your-own-sundae bar, restaurant-quality sea bass, individual entertainment system, entire cans of soda and, when we lied and said we were eighteen, we even got free champagne. It was my first alcoholic drink, ever, which Marcus swore would erase the image of Charlotte returning from work to find a three-line note on her canary yellow bedspread.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 11
