“Ms. Lewis,” Nate says, “what can I do for you?” Without wanting to give her any fuel for assumptions she's probably going to make about him anyway, he sits up, does his best to sound as though he hasn't just woken up.
“I attempted to phone you yesterday,” she says. “Rather than leave a message, I thought it best to speak with you directly. You understand.”
“That's fine, Ms. Lewis. How may I help you?”
“It's come to my understanding that you are in the employ of Belinda Smith.”
Not that it's any of your business.
“Yes, that's right. She's hired me to find her daughter. I'm sure you know Raina.”
A brief pause. Probably dislikes the mere mention of the poor girl's name. Probably resents feeling as though she must speak with the riff-raff. “I have met her on occasion,” says Anastasia, her voice at maximum iciness. “She and my daughter, Carly, were acquaintances at school. I'm certain you are aware.”
“I am.”
She inhales and even over the long distance call, Nate detects her insecurities, her reluctance to put herself out there with a request of the kind she's about to make. A request she's only making because of her need to know. Her need for control. Belinda's hiring of a private investigator creates a pocket of knowledge of which she'd been unaware. An investigation running parallel to the official Task Force one means another line of inquiry Anastasia sees fit to oversee. “I had hoped that perhaps we might speak,” she says. “In person.”
She wants to check up on you. She wants to know everything you know. Stupid as he feels reveling in it a little, he enjoys the inkling that he might have one up on someone with as much wealth and privilege as Anastasia Lewis enjoys.
“I'm not at liberty to discuss my investigation with you. I'm working for Belinda Smith,” he says, unable to stifle a smirk as he does so. He can just see her iron face grimace a little, like she's bitten a lemon. “Besides, I'm in Alberta. You're in New Jersey, correct?”
Again, she chooses to measure herself before speaking. “Yes,” he can hear her sip in a calming breath, “well, I thought maybe we could all speak with another… over dinner. I have already sent Belinda Smith, and Zoe's mother Bianca, the invite. And they have accepted.”
“I see. You want me to come there? To your house?”
House? Nate realizes he'd come off as a yokel just then. No doubt Anastasia Lewis likely refers to her “house” as an 'estate', maybe a 'property'? Mansion? Nah, mansion is too arch.
“I would assume all of your traveling expenses, of course,” she says.
Now we're talking. He figures that's what she'd offer anyway.
“And when were you thinking of having this dinner?”
“Tomorrow night would be my preference, Mr. Striker. I can have a flight arranged for you right away. There's a lovely hotel here as well. Transportation will not be an issue. My business manager can email you the details should you be interested.”
“I am a bit leery sharing details of my investigation without authorization from Belinda.”
“And she is attending. She is fully aware of what we will discuss. This is my daughter as well we're talking about, Mr. Striker.”
“Yes, I realize.” He pauses briefly. “Okay, I will be there.”
“Wonderful,” she says in a tone that conveys pretty much the opposite of wonderful. “Tony will be contacting you. Please provide him with your address as soon as you can so we may have a car service pick you up.”
How the other 0.00001% lives. An hour after Nate sends a return email to Anastasia's business manager, he's barely washed the shave gel off his face when a shiny black Lincoln rolls to a stop in the parking lot below. A car like that sitting in front of the Red Line Motel. All any local could think was some freaky MLA was getting their rocks off with a prostitute away from any prying eyes. That, or some biker drug mule, fronting as a traveling lawyer or business executive, had to lose some heat and wants to dip in off the highway until things cools off a little. Nate prefers that no one who lives there sees him get in the classy car. I've got an image to uphold. Or would that be downhold?
It isn't a private jet, but sitting First Class on a cross-continental flight definitely suffices. Nate reclines in his seat once the Delta Airbus reaches cruising altitude. How much can a ticket like this cost at the last minute? For Anastasia Lewis it was like throwing a nickel into a trash can. Some nickel. Nate dines on salmon and polishes off three rounds of expensive whiskey. Booze is going to have to do for the next three days. He doesn't risk getting popped with Cream going through airport security.
At the five-star Victor Park Hotel, Nate sits in his complimentary bathrobe transferring many of his hasty, hand-scribbled notes onto a laptop free for him to use in his suite. He's picked up a binder at the nearby CVS. Before meeting the car and driver Anastasia's sent, he prints his notes in the business center and hole-punches them, arranges them neatly in the binder. Anastasia and Bianca already have Belinda stereotyped as it is, no need in embarrassing her further by coming off as some disorganized, fly-by-night investigative hack.
The black Mercedes rolls around the brick courtyard and stops where the concrete curb dips in deference to anyone exiting a vehicle. A man in a white tunic, similar to a bell hop's uniform, steps to the Mercedes and opens the rear door on the passenger side. Nate steps out, wowed by the gigantic stone villa stretched out before him.
“Welcome, sir.”
The words barely register with Nate as the electric evening air and the opulence surrounding him causes his hairs to stand on end. It dawns on him a man has spoken to him just as the Mercedes drives away. He turns back to the man as he steps along the concrete walk, awed as though an eight year old at Disney World for the first time. “Sorry,” Nate says. “I mean, thanks.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls a wrinkled ten dollar bill. Holds it out to the man.
“That won't be necessary, sir.”
Embarrassed, Nate's ushered forward by another man in a tunic standing near a high wrought-iron gate. “This way please.”
The gate spans across an opening between the enormous villa and a smaller structure crafted of brick with ivy growing on one side. Nate's ushered left, around behind the villa to a wide bank of concrete stairs which ends one story up on a broad sweeping balcony punctuated by thick gray pillars. A man in a tuxedo meets Nate and asks that he follow him past huge square windows to their left, each with a yellow glow from dim lights inside. To their right, a vast garden and a manicured lawn that stretches well beyond that, disappears into the misty dusk. They walk the length of the villa where the balcony broadens further into a great brick patio topped with a dining scene dressed in white. The patio bordered by a stone railing, tall ferns beyond that, and then a steep embankment down to a waterfall and river rapids.
“Mr. Striker,” the tuxedo man announces to the others assembled.
Nate's nearly forgotten the binder under his arm, and in his Men's Warehouse suit he immediately feels out of place and supremely under-dressed. Everyone seated at the sizable round table stands. Nate and Belinda share a nod. Bianca Myles smiles meekly, and as he looks left his gaze is met by Anastasia Lewis's laser beam glare. The husbands, apparently, had gone uninvited. Though there is a man to Anastasia's left wearing a pin-striped suit. Years as a cop tells him the man is most definitely a lawyer. He can smell them at a thousand feet.
Nate isn't sure of the protocol. He's made no attempt to step toward Anastasia for a handshake or any other type of greeting, and he's treated likewise. Instead, a man in white waits behind an expectant chair next to Belinda. Anastasia Lewis attempts her idea of a smile. Nate can't tell if her struggle is an incapacity for warmth, or the limitations of Botox. She holds out an arm dripping with bracelets. “Please, Mr. Striker, have a seat.”
As far as greetings go, he's had worse.
“It's a pleasure to meet you,” says Bianca as everyone sits.
“Likewise,” Nate lies.
Belinda r
eaches out a weary hand and places it on Nate's forearm. “I'm glad you could come.” She smiles, and he hears her breath is even raspier than when they'd met back home. “You got the money?”
“I got the money.”
“Good.”
Drinks are served, and Anastasia allows for the opening pleasantries to carry on long enough, she believes, no one can accuse her of being overly rash. “Mr. Striker,” she says. “Now that you are here, I thought it pertinent we discuss the details of our daughters' case.”
Nate can't help the compulsion to be withholding with her. But, he knows it's wrong in this instance. Rich and beyond entitled or not, her daughter is among the missing.
“What would you like to know?” He says. Then he catches himself. “Wait. First of all, I'd like to know who I'm speaking to.” He motions towards the man in pinstripes.
Anastasia's face turns, as though she's insulted. Or, Nate thinks, maybe that's just her face.
“This is my attorney,” she says. “Glenn, introduce yourself.”
“Glenn Edelman,” the man stands briefly, half-bows before replacing the cloth napkin across his lap.
“Good to meet you.”
“We were hoping you could tell us about what kind of progress you've been making,” says Bianca. “Belinda says she doesn't trust the police.”
“A trifle ridiculous, if you ask me,” Anastasia says. “But, I understand, we all have our own perspectives, fueled by decisions of the past.”
Nate looks at Belinda and gives her a bit of a warm smile. He understands the inference in Anastasia's words. Belinda probably did as well, though she doesn't rise to the bait. They both know rich bullies like the Lewis's live to push those around they deem inferior to the point they might snap back which would only confirm whatever bias they've previously held anyway.
“In this case,” Nate says, “I think you have good reason not to trust the official investigation.”
Anastasia frowns, and coughs to clear her throat. “A reason not to trust the FBI? Please explain.”
“There's nothing inside their Task Force that I'm personally aware of I could point you to as a show of incompetence or anything like that,” Nate says.
“You're making an assumption, obviously,” says Edelman. “And you are in a position to make these assumptions we are to presume?”
Arrogant prick.
“You can presume whatever you like. I know a few of the guys involved. I see what's been done, or maybe what hasn't, and I just think they're doing you a disservice as far as I can tell.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anastasia,” Bianca says. “We should tell him the truth. That we have been having some misgivings about the investigation ourselves.”
“Oh?”
“Let's not get ahead of things,” Edelman says.
“We're thinking the investigation could be going better,” Bianca says, looking at Nate. “It's mostly why you're here.”
“If you don't mind,” Anastasia says, “I would appreciate hearing him articulate his issues with the FBI and the Canadian police in his own words.”
This dinner meeting is going better than expected. Perhaps I've misjudged.
Nate clears his throat. “For starters, a lack of a search party is alarming. Don't you think?”
“Agent Walsh assures me that is something they are working on, but they were stifled by the inclement weather,” Anastasia says.
“This is your daughter,” Nate says. “Time is of the essence. Don't you think they should've been out there come rain or shine?”
The question causes the rest to sit in silence for a moment.
“And, what exactly have you been doing?”
Nate glances to his right at Belinda. She gives him a slight nod. The okay to talk about things.
“I don't want to give you all the illusion that I've cracked the case or something. Far from it.”
“I do not believe anyone here had been living under that assumption, Mr. Striker,” Anastasia says. “Anything you might share would be most helpful.”
Nate waits for the servers to leave after refreshing their drinks before laying the binder in front of him. “Right now, I have a few different fronts I'm working from.”
“Fronts?”
“I don't know how better to put it. I've been in touch with the RV company your daughters rented the motorhome from.”
“CanadaPlus,” Edelman says.
“Right.”
“And what have they told you?”
“Wait,” Bianca says, “let him finish.”
“I've also spoken with eyewitnesses at the scene of your girls' disappearance.”
“Eyewitnesses?” Bianca's voice rises with excitement.
“Someone saw them taken?” Anastasia says.
Nate shakes his head. “No. Witnesses who saw them parked at the side of the highway. They'd calls for roadside assistance and were waiting for that. A few people drove by and saw them parked.”
“What did they tell you?”
“One woman I spoke to, a resident of Rocky Mountain House. She told me she saw a pickup truck parked behind them. Would've been not too long before the girls were taken.”
“Taken?” Anastasia says, her tone accusatory. “Is the use of that word necessary in this context?”
Nate clears his throat and sips his water. “I'm not sure I understand your question.”
“You're assuming someone's kidnapped them? You should be aware, Mr. Striker, we will not be treating this as a negotiation. We will not be entertaining any ransom demands. My daughter, our daughters, will be brought home through solid and thorough investigative efforts. We will not be terrorized into paying vast sums of money to any nefarious party.”
Is this lady delusional?
“Anastasia.”
“Ms. Lewis will suffice.”
“Ms. Lewis, your daughter didn't simply walk into the woods on her own.”
“Something on which we can agree. Regardless, a ransom demand will be forthcoming, no?”
Bianca Myles, face twisted, nearing tears, leans forward over her place setting. “What did happen?”
“He doesn't know, Bianca,” Anastasia says. She glares back at him. “Mr. Striker-”
“Nate will suffice.”
Anastasia sits back, a smug look she's worn countless times fixes in place. “Mr. Striker, here is what we are prepared to do.” She glances at Edelman who produces a leather folder and opens it in front of him. “We would like to help you with your investigation. It's time we ramp things up.”
“Help me?”
He and Belinda share a confused look.
“We know Belinda doesn't have a lot of money,” Bianca says. “You have expenses, I'm sure. You could-”
Anastasia throws her an icy glare. “If I may continue.”
Bianca casts her eyes down to the table and sits back.
“As stated, we are prepared to provide assistance.”
Nate sips from his water once more. “All due respect,” he says, “I don't need your assistance.”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” Anastasia says.
The number takes him aback. “Still.”
“It's a lot of money, Mr. Striker,” Bianca says, “for someone like-”
“Someone like me,” Nate says, finishing the thought.
“I'm not certain I understand what your misgivings might be,” Anastasia says. “The pride of the poor? That fifty thousand should be more than enough to fund the entirety of your investigation.”
“Yes,” Nate says, “yes it would. However, I don't need more looks over my shoulder. More oversight.”
“More people to answer to, you mean,” Edelman says.
“Exactly.”
“How does it work with you and Belinda?”
“That's between me and her. She wants to find Raina, just as you want to find Carly, and Ms. Myles, you want to find Zoe.”
“My point thus illustrated,” Anastasia says. “We ha
ve common cause. Our daughters are still out there, Mr. Striker. Cold, wet, hungry. Or as you say, someone has them.”
Belinda doesn't say anything to contradict the woman, but Nate shares her thoughts. The girls are out there, sure. Cold and wet, yes – just as much as any corpse.
“Of course,” Edelman says, “for Ms. Lewis, Ms. Myles, and as your arrangement is likely structured with Ms. Smith, there would have to be status updates at regular intervals.”
“Exactly my point,” Nate says. Appetizers arrive. Nate waits for wait staff to clear before continuing. “I'm not interested in giving 'status updates' to a bunch of different people. I'm not interested in the increased scrutiny. The questions. Taking this kind of money from you, all due respect, it makes me beholden. It hinders me. It hinders how I work.”
“We just want to do what's best for our girls,” Bianca says. “Surely you can understand that?”
“Do you have any children, Mr. Striker?” Anastasia says.
Immediately, Nate can feel adrenaline boil inside him. An image of little Gracie flashes in front of him. She knows about my daughter. She's trying to get to me. Don't rise to the bait. Instead, he changes tack.
“I thought you were on board with the police and the Task Force? With the official investigation? What happened between you and the FBI? Rich, powerful people such as yourselves, you must have ears and eyes everywhere. Your own people looking over things for you. What happened? Things go sour? You lose some sway?”
Can't happen can it? The bluest of blue bloods, the old money Lewis's and Myles's have their fingers in every room, Oval Office on down.
“We are concerned with the state of their investigation,” says Anastasia.
“It just seems as though they don't know anything,” Bianca says. “Or maybe their focus is elsewhere. It's how it feels to us. They've had this case for so long.”
“It's not that long,” Nate says. “It's been weeks. I've seen cases like this drag on for far longer. Some indefinitely.”
“Coulda told you that soon as they told us what they had,” Belinda says. “I knew from word go they weren't gonna find my Raina. Least not alive anyway.”
Bianca closes her eyes, pretends not to hear it.
The Highway Girls Page 7
