by Lee Vance
I worked a quarter out of my pocket and put it in her free hand. She balanced the coin on her thumb and flipped it deftly into the street.
“Alloy. It’s got to be the real deal if you want to hear the good stuff.”
“I’ve got some silver fillings,” I said, my head swimming.
“You can give it a try.”
I lifted her hand to my face and touched my lips to the hollow.
“Hmmm,” she said. “I think that worked.”
“So what’s the good stuff?” I asked, my voice low.
She tapped my palm gently.
“A girl.”
“What does she look like?”
“You tell me,” Katya said, turning her face up.
I hesitated, confusion overtaking me. Katya waited a long moment and then stood up, letting my hand fall. She zipped her jacket.
“It’s late,” she said. “And I’ve had too much to drink. Tell Andrei good-bye for me.”
———
An arctic gust of air snaps me out of my reverie as the train doors open on the elevated platform at 125th Street. There’s a thump against the window behind my head. A bunch of kids on a rooftop opposite the platform are throwing snowballs at the train. I suck my breath in sharply as a small boy runs forward, heaving a snowball mightily and skidding to a stop less than two feet from the edge of the roof. The doors to the train close and the kids dance around excitedly, giving each other high fives. It would be nice to be twelve years old again. I glance at my watch as we begin moving. Katya told me to come by at one. I’m going to be early.
As I’d expected, Jenna liked both Andrei and Katya at first meeting, although Katya’s cheerfully unbridled ambition occasionally caught Jenna up short. “Maybe you’d be happier with a girl like Katya,” she’d tease me sometimes, when I sat up late doing work at home. “She’d think your work was important. She wouldn’t ask you to come to bed and give her a back rub.” I made the mistake of alluding to Jenna’s teasing in the presence of both women once, saying that Jenna thought Katya and I would be a good couple. There was a frosty lull in the conversation, and Jenna was furious when we got home.
Darkness falls as the train enters the tunnel under Park Avenue. Much as I know my meeting with Katya is going to be painful, I realize I’m looking forward to seeing her.
9
I KILL HALF AN HOUR weaving through midtown, stepping in and out of shops, reversing direction frequently, and generally feeling like a paranoid asshole. If Tilling has people following me, they’re too good for me to spot. Katya’s secretary, Debra, is waiting in Turndale’s lobby when I arrive. A heavyset Staten Island girl who loves to flirt, Debra mumbles hello, escorts me wordlessly through security, and studies the floor indicator as we ride the elevator up. It isn’t hard to guess what she thinks. If she were a neighbor, she’d probably be leaving her garbage on my lawn.
The fortieth floor is done up like an English country house museum—dark oak floors, expensively threadbare carpets, and old master paintings from William Turndale’s renowned personal collection. I give my coat and hat to an anorexic receptionist, deposit my umbrella in a Chinese ceramic vase, and follow Debra through a succession of bright, gallerylike corridors. We walk past an empty boardroom into a large semi-open space dominated by two oversized glass offices. The near office is dark, the name William Turndale etched on a panel flanking the door.
Katya’s visible in the far office, silhouetted against swirling snow in three-quarter profile as she stands with her back to the room, gazing west toward the Hudson. She’s wearing a blue silk jacket over a white blouse, and a narrow black skirt. Her dark hair’s pinned back, exposing the length of her pale neck and the sapphire studs in her ears. One hand massages the circles beneath her eyes, a habit I remember her being vigilant against in the past. A confusing mélange of grief, guilt, and longing tightens my chest as I look at her. Debra opens the office door and I swallow nervously, afraid of my voice betraying me.
“Hey.”
I start toward Katya automatically as she looks over her shoulder, but she holds up a finger and frowns, gesturing toward the headset I hadn’t seen her wearing. She turns away again as I nod awkwardly, feeling foolish.
Katya counsels someone on an investment strategy in a cool professional voice while I wander around her office, struggling to calm down. A collection of silver-framed pictures on top of the credenza catches my attention. The central photo ran on the cover of Forbes a few years back: William Turndale in his desk chair, Katya standing behind with one hand on the chair back, posed like the heir apparent. Talented as Katya is, it’s nonetheless amazing that she’s lasted twenty years with a boss as difficult as William, rising steadily through the ranks to become his second in command.
Tucked among the other shots of Katya with smug white guys in business suits or Ralph Lauren sporting gear is a small black-and-white photograph of her and Andrei, looking very much like twins at the age of five or six. They’re seated either side of their mother on a park bench, barren branches visible behind them. All three are heavily bundled. Andrei and Mrs. Zhilina are holding hands and leaning toward each other; Katya’s face is half-turned from the camera, her expression pensive. Shortly after I first met Katya, Andrei told me the truth of their parentage. Their mother had been abandoned by their father before they were born, and she never spoke of him. She and Katya had been at odds for years, both too strong-willed to get along. One of the nicer things Katya had to say about her was that she was a witch.
“I was thinking about Cornwall earlier,” Katya says, a change of tone catching my attention. I glance over to see she’s off the phone, the headset held tight to her hip as she continues to stare out toward the river. “The night we drove home from the pub.”
Ten years ago, Jenna and I spent a few days after Christmas with Katya and Andrei at a rented cottage on the southwestern tip of England. We were headed home from the pub late one wet evening in Andrei’s ancient Land Rover, Katya driving, when we crested a rise and saw a cow ambling down the middle of the narrow country lane. Katya locked the brakes and spun the wheel. The rear end slid out parallel to the front, the tires bit, and the car rolled, every window exploding simultaneously. We came to rest upright, inches from the startled cow’s flanks, the engine still running. A panicked, clamorous four-way exchange established that not one of us had been as much as scratched. Rain blew into the car as a shocked silence fell, gleaming fragments of safety glass adorning our hair and clothes like gemstones. I began to laugh. Katya joined me a moment later, and then Andrei and Jenna. We drove home singing, giddy to be alive.
“We were lucky,” I say.
“I loved it that you laughed,” she says. “It was the one time in my whole life that I really felt invincible. I wanted to roll the goddamned car again.”
I recall feeling the same: that nothing could hurt us, and that we were all going to be young and healthy and happy forever. Katya turns to face me, the pain in her eyes a piercing semblance of what I see in the mirror each morning. I check my impulse to go to her, afraid of being rebuffed. Dropping my head, I pinch the bridge of my nose and surreptitiously wipe away a tear.
“So how are you?” she asks.
“A little run-down,” I say, looking up again. “Otherwise fine.”
“I’m sorry about Klein, and all this stuff in the press. It must be terrible for you.”
“I’m surviving.”
She takes a step toward me.
“I’ve been thinking about Jenna a lot. She once told me—”
“Can we not do this?” I say, my voice strained. I’m only just holding it together as is. Being consoled by Katya after everything that’s passed between us would be too much to bear.
“Not do what?”
“Reminisce.”
She stiffens for a moment and then her features soften. Embarrassment grips me as I see myself from her perspective—clothes hanging loose and face gray with exhaustion.
“I wish yo
u’d come to see me sooner, Peter.”
“How could I, Katya?”
“Because of the police?”
I shrug, unsure how to answer.
“You should have told them the truth about us. Why didn’t you?”
“Listen,” I say wearily. “You don’t understand. The cops weren’t conducting an investigation. The detective in charge was just looking for ways to put pressure on me. He would have done everything he could to drag your name through the mud.”
“People have affairs all the time. No one would have cared. We’re both consenting adults.”
She’s being kind. She only consented because I lied to her.
“I was trying to do the right thing, Katya. I didn’t want to hurt you again.”
Her eyes drop as her cheeks color, and it suddenly occurs to me that she’s as afraid of my pity as I am of hers. A tap at the door interrupts the awkward silence. Debra enters, showing in a white-jacketed waiter wheeling a gray plastic trolley. He sets lunch on the coffee table, fussing over a bone china platter piled with tea sandwiches and half filling crystal glasses with Diet Coke. Katya reviews a sheaf of phone messages, her hands trembling. Ever since that first night outside the bar, I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d met Katya before Jenna. Would it have been harder or easier to be with someone more like myself? And every time I wondered, I felt guilty about imagining a past that excluded Jenna.
“I’ve only got a few minutes,” Katya says, motioning me to the sofa as Debra and the waiter leave. She settles into an overstuffed armchair to my left and folds her arms, the softness gone from her face. “I understand that you were trying to do the right thing, Peter, and I appreciate it. But your cover-up’s put us both in a worse position. The Post ran your picture under the headline ‘Murder Mistress Mystery.’ You don’t know what it’s like to be a senior woman executive. If the truth comes out now, there’s no way my career will survive.”
“Come on, Katya,” I say, feeling a little defensive. “William’s notorious for not giving a damn what other people think.”
“You must have given up reading the Journal, Peter,” she says, an edge creeping into her voice.
“What do you mean?”
“William’s decided to spend more time on his art collection. He’s announced his retirement, and the board’s put together a search committee.”
“So?” I say, intrigued despite her evident anger. Guys like Turndale usually die at their desks. “William chairs the board, and he owns a control stake. It’s still his decision.”
“Today it is.” She leans forward to lift her glass of Diet Coke and takes a minuscule sip. “There are rumors that he’s shopping his shares. Supposedly, he’s negotiating with one of the big Dutch universal banks.”
“What do you mean, ‘rumors’? He hasn’t told you?”
“William isn’t in the habit of sharing his plans,” she says, finger tapping on the glass. “I may just read in the Journal that he’s decided to sell to the Dutch or someone else and that I’m competing with God knows who for the top job. So you understand why this isn’t the best time for it to come out that I’m the New York Post’s mystery mistress.”
Katya’s given her whole life to Turndale, a major source of the ongoing conflict between her and her mother; to lose the brass ring now, when it is almost in her grasp, would devastate her.
“Nobody knows anything about us except me and you,” I say, trying to reassure her. “As long as we both keep quiet, everything will be fine.”
“Really? Jenna figured it out.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Things happen that we can’t control.”
A few months ago, I might have argued with her. More and more, though, I’m realizing the extent to which my life was built on illusions.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling even more spent than when I arrived. “There are a lot of things I wish I could change.”
Katya sighs and tucks her legs up beneath her, looking small and vulnerable in the oversized chair. I lean forward and reach toward her arm without thinking.
“Don’t,” she says sharply, jerking away. Then, softer: “Please.”
Embarrassed again, I look around for something to keep my hands busy and see a carved wooden fish made of interlocking puzzle pieces on the end table. The tail weaves sinuously as I pick it up. I pop out a dowel and the fish falls to pieces.
“Can we talk about your brother?” I ask, disentangling the pieces. “I’ve been having trouble getting in touch with him. He hasn’t returned my calls or e-mail.”
“You said the police want to speak with him. Why?”
“The detectives investigating Jenna’s death found out that Andrei sent a package to my house the afternoon before she was murdered. The police suspect the killers took it. They want to ask Andrei what was in it.”
“Killers?”
“The cops think there were two of them.”
“And they believe they can track these guys through whatever was in the package?”
“I guess,” I say, not bothering to repeat Tilling’s unlikely logic. “They’ve already talked to your mother. She said she couldn’t help, that she didn’t know where he is. Is it true he isn’t working for Turndale anymore?”
Katya looks down at the table, not answering immediately. It’s a straightforward question, and her hesitation makes me uneasy. I fit together a few pieces of the fish, figuring it’s better not to press her.
“I got an e-mail three months back from the head of our London office, telling me that William had fired Andrei,” Katya says, her expression unreadable.
“What?” I ask, startled. “Why? Was he losing money?”
“Not that I know about. He reported directly to William, but I saw his returns in the monthly management package. He had about two billion dollars invested, and was generating consistent returns in the high teens.”
“So why’d he get canned?”
She takes another tiny sip of Diet Coke, her hand trembling again. There aren’t many reasons why traders who make money get fired.
“Personnel bullshit? He was sleeping around the office?”
“Europeans still think sexual harassment’s a perk,” she replies, her contempt audible. “And anyway, Andrei’s always been discreet. It wasn’t that. His clerk got fired the same day.”
It had to be business if Andrei and the clerk got fired together.
“What was William’s explanation?” I ask.
“He hasn’t offered one. He said I didn’t want to know.”
“Didn’t want to know,” I ask slowly, “or didn’t need to know?”
“Want.”
The word hangs in the air between us like a bad smell. You don’t need to know things that don’t concern you; you don’t want to know things that might compromise you. William waved a corporate plague flag, warning Katya off. Eastern Europe doesn’t have a lot of securities laws. The most likely explanation is that Andrei did something in Moscow that would embarrass or incriminate Turndale if it were reported back home. Petty kickbacks or a little insider trading perhaps. The only problem with this theory is that Andrei’s the most ethical guy I’ve ever known.
“What does Andrei say?”
“Nothing,” she replies flatly.
“He won’t talk about it?”
“I haven’t been able to get hold of him, either. The last time we spoke was in September, a few days before I heard from London that he’d been fired.”
I feel a sharp stab of anxiety—something’s very wrong here. It’s impossible that Andrei wouldn’t be in touch with Katya.
“Has your mother talked to him?”
“Apparently. She tells me that he’s well, and that I shouldn’t concern myself.”
“If he’s well, why hasn’t he called you?”
“An excellent question.”
“I’m not getting this, Katya,” I say, confused by her terseness. “Aren’t you worried?�
�
She sits forward, suddenly furious.
“Let’s count the things I’m worried about. One: I’m worried your stupid cover-up may end up torpedoing my career. Two: I’m worried our old-boy board might persuade William that they need a CEO who can drive a golf ball two hundred and fifty yards and tell amusing stories in the men’s locker room at the club. Three: I’m worried about who might take my job if William sells his shares. Four: I’m worried about my brother. And five …” Her eyes slip from mine as she trails off.
“What?”
She shrugs, and I wonder what she’s holding back.
“So what are you doing to make sure Andrei’s okay?” I ask.
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“You could push your mother harder for a start. Demand to know when she last heard from him and then work from there.”
“To hell with her,” Katya snaps. “She’s never told me the truth about anything.”
“You’re just going to sit around here, then, and hope for the best,” I say incredulously. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
Katya glares. I look away after a few seconds and begin disentangling the wooden puzzle pieces on the coffee table, determined to wait her out. I can see her watching from the corner of my eye.
“Give me the goddamn fish,” she says.
I slide the pieces to her and she reassembles it, hands moving too quickly for me to follow. She carries the fish to her desk and returns with a red accordion file.
“The keys and alarm code to Andrei’s Moscow apartment,” she says, setting the file down on the coffee table in front of me. “The master lease is in Turndale’s name. Andrei’s the subtenant until February.”
“Why give them to me?”
“So you can go take a look. See how Andrei’s doing, and find out why he hasn’t returned our calls. You can ask him about the package at the same time.”
Moscow? Fuck. This is why she wanted to meet in person, so she could ask me to traipse off across the globe and snoop around for her. I’m surprised by how hurt I feel to discover her true purpose. Like a fool, I’d secretly been hoping for some kind of reconciliation.
