Dead Certain

by Adam Mitzner

  I don’t remember him saying any of this previously. Not about the suitcase or even that Charlotte was found in the East River—which is about as far away from Charlotte’s apartment as you can get and still be in Manhattan.

  I try to imagine Charlotte blue and bloated, and the image that pops into my head is of Violet from the original Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Charlotte and I watched that movie so many times when we were kids that we knew most of the dialogue by heart. She never failed to giggle when Augustus fell into the chocolate river or when Veruca went down the bad-egg chute, and she especially enjoyed it when Mike Teavee became tiny. But “the big blueberry girl,” as Charlotte called her, always made my sister cry. Violet, you’re turning Violet! Eventually it became a running joke between us, as in: One more word out of you and I’ll show you a picture of the big blueberry girl!

  “Are you ready?” Gabriel asks.

  I don’t answer. The tech pulls open drawer number eighteen anyway.

  When we were younger, Charlotte would come to my bedroom in the middle of the night and we’d have what we called sister sleepovers. She’d climb into bed next to me and whisper, “Sister snuggle.” Our parents would find us the next morning, wrapped tightly together.

  Gabriel later tells me that I tried to get into the drawer with Charlotte. That’s something else I don’t recall.

  After, Gabriel drives me to my father’s apartment. He offers to come upstairs with me, explaining that my father might have questions I can’t answer. I thank him, but tell him that it’s unnecessary. He’s already done so much, and I know there is still more for him to do tonight.

  “Is your father expecting you?” Leo the nighttime doorman asks.

  “No,” I say, pulling out my phone. “I’ll call up now, just in case he’s asleep.”

  My father’s “hello” reveals he’s wide awake.

  “Ella?” he says, curling the last syllable of my name to bend it into a question.

  “I’m downstairs. I’m going to come up.”

  “Okay.”

  He doesn’t ask me why I’m visiting at such a late hour. His lack of inquisitiveness makes it clear that he knows exactly why I’m there.

  A minute later, my father greets me wearing a bathrobe over his pajamas. His face looks as if I’ve already told him. A mask of unfathomable grief.

  Still standing in the open doorway, I say, “The police found Charlotte’s body. I just came from the morgue. She’s dead, Daddy. Charlotte’s dead.”

  Telling my father that his little girl is dead is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It feels like I’m killing him. As the words leave my lips, the light goes out in his eyes.

  For the third time tonight, I embrace a man with all my strength. This time, however, I’m the ballast keeping him upright.

  I don’t know who told him about my mother’s passing. A nurse, I suspect. He told me, and it was something of a relief when he did. For the last few weeks of my mother’s life, the three of us—my father, Charlotte, and I—had stood vigil in the hospital, taking shifts sitting at her bedside. Throughout, my mother lay there unresponsive. The only sign of life was when she writhed in pain, curling her body in the most unnatural positions with each moan. No one could bear witness to such suffering and not hope for its end.

  My father’s reaction to the news of Charlotte’s death is different. Against all odds, and contrary to his professional training, he has been holding out hope that Charlotte would come back to us. He’s now paying the price for clinging to that dream.

  After our hallway embrace, I deliver him back to the living room. I offer to make us some tea but he shakes the suggestion away, still unable to speak.

  Finally, he says, “You’re all I have, Ella.”

  My father is very precise with language. Words are my business, he often told us when we were growing up. And yet, the truth of the matter is that I’m not all he has. He has his work to sustain him. If history is any guide, he’ll immediately throw himself into Garkov or some other high-profile case, and thereby allow himself to heal—or at least to focus on something else.

  It’s me, not my father, who actually has nothing now.

  DAY THREE

  THURSDAY

  Christopher Tyler

  29.

  On Thursday morning, the sun is shining brightly and a cool wind blows. It’s one of those days that makes you happy to be alive, and I wouldn’t otherwise have a care in the world except that, thirty-six hours ago, I murdered my lover.

  I stop at the newsstands in front of my office to peruse the headlines. It’s the usual nonsense: some type of explosion in Syria that killed six; the death of some scientist I’d never heard of; Mets win; Yankees lose.

  No mention of another missing young woman in Manhattan.

  At 8:00 a.m. on the nose, I’m sitting at my desk, staring at my Bloomberg terminal. Underneath the market quotes is a news ticker, like the one you see on the bottom of CNN. The top bar runs the stock quotes, and beneath is a news scroll. I watch the words pass across the screen.

  Still nothing about the disappearance of Charlotte Broden.

  Bill Fitzgerald is a beefy Irishman with a thick head of brown hair. He might have been a half-decent trader if it weren’t for the fact that—ever since I’ve known him, which is going on fifteen years now—he’s been desperate for a big payday to get him out of debt. Any gambler will tell you—from Kenny Rogers on down—that if you want to win, you can’t think about the money. It’s the same thing with trading. You make the trade because of the opportunity. If you focus on the risk or the payoff you’re always going to blow it, either by pulling out too soon or not getting in early enough.

  The investment bank that employs Fitzgerald and me is called Harper Sawyer. When I first joined, I spent time in the trading group before I realized that private equity is where the big boys ended up. But Fitzgerald and I remained friends even after I switched departments—at least in the way that guys who work together are friends. I know Bill is twice divorced and in the process of getting a third because he talks about the alimony payments he makes all the time, but other than that I don’t have the first clue about his life.

  “There’s the man in his big corner office,” Bill says.

  “Bill, my brother. How’s the market treating you?”

  “Like a hammer treats a nail.”

  Fitzgerald is always saying stuff like that.

  “Can’t force it.”

  “Easy for you to say. I got two kids in college and one about to go.”

  Bill Fitzgerald has kids. At least three. Who knew?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see it come across the screen. Two o’clock on the button. Probably some PR flack’s idea that right after lunch will maximize publicity.

  TERROR LAWYER’S DAUGHTER MISSING . . .

  I make Fitzgerald a promise that we’ll go to a strip club next week—on me. When that doesn’t do the trick of getting him out of my office, I tell him that I’m late to a conference call with the coast and ask him to shut the door behind him on his way out.

  The moment Fitzgerald steps out of my office, I start clicking on news stories like a madman. The idea is that—in the event that someone later searches my computer to see what I was reading just as news broke of Charlotte Broden’s disappearance—it’ll look as if I took a respite from the markets to catch up on what was going on in the world. I wade through sports headlines, political stories, and then the article about the Syrian mess before I click on the only one that matters.

  TERROR LAWYER’S DAUGHTER MISSING

  The youngest daughter of criminal defense attorney F. Clinton Broden has been reported missing. Charlotte Broden, twenty-five, a graduate student at New York University, was last seen on Wednesday morning in her Upper West Side apartment. Ms. Broden’s father is currently representing Nicolai Garkov in connection with charges of securities fraud. Mr. Garkov has also been linked to the Red Square Massacre, but has not been charged in connecti
on with that terrorist attack. The police did not comment on whether foul play was suspected in Ms. Broden’s disappearance or whether there is any connection to the case of Jennifer Barnett, the twenty-two-year-old financial analyst who was reported missing when she did not report to work at Maeve Grant on Tuesday.

  Last seen Wednesday morning. Mr. McDouche is even more of a douche than I previously gave him credit for. As I contemplate why he’d claim to have been with Charlotte on Wednesday, when I’m reasonably sure he was not at the bottom of the East River, my phone rings.

  It’s Amoroso.

  “Paolo, how are you, my man?” I say as if we didn’t have a massive blowup the day before.

  “My board met last night. Needless to say, there was a lot of support for firing your ass and suing.”

  “I hope cooler heads prevailed. I know you’re a smart enough guy to tell them that it’s in the company’s best interest to make a shitload of money on this IPO, instead of pissing it away on lawyers.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me what’s in our best interest. We still may wind up suing you, but for now, we’re going ahead with the IPO as planned.”

  Victory. I don’t care about happy clients. I only care about paying clients. Still, I have to show the guy some contrition to make sure he remains that.

  “Look, I get why you’re upset. And I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding between us. But you’re making the right call. We’re going to do a successful offering for you guys, and it’s going to bring in the money you need to expand. A year from now you’re going to be sitting on top of fifty million dollars in revenues, and by that time I guarantee that you and I are going to be best friends.”

  He doesn’t say anything in response. That’s not like Amoroso. He’s a talker.

  “Paolo, you there, man?”

  Still nothing. I pull the phone away from my ear to find that the call has been disconnected. I assume he hung up on me right after he was done talking, before my crap about us walking hand-in-hand together into the sunset.

  The rest of the day, I try to keep myself busy by answering e-mails, making some calls to fund managers I think might be interested in throwing six or seven figures into The Pouch. None of those guys answers his phone, so I leave my pitch as a voice mail message, even though I know that they’re also too busy to listen to their voice mails. I’ll have to reach out to their secretaries tomorrow to set up in-person meetings.

  At five, my assistant Beth knocks lightly on my door. I motion for her to come in.

  “You have a second?” she asks.

  She looks frightened. More or less the same look she gets when she hears rumors that the firm is doing a round of layoffs. But I haven’t heard anything along those lines. Something else has her spooked.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  She steps inside and closes my door behind her. Then she sits down.

  “I don’t know if you heard that there’s a second girl who’s gone missing. Another one like Jennifer Barnett.”

  “Okay . . . ,” I say tentatively, not sure where Beth is going with this.

  “Well, on the Internet they’re saying that there’s a serial killer out there. And he’s targeting white women in their twenties . . .”

  Beth is a white woman in her twenties. Naturally, she thinks she’s next to be abducted. I’m tempted to point out to her how many women in this city fit that description, but I know that’s not going to make her feel any safer.

  “I’m pretty sure that security downstairs screens for serial killers, Beth,” I say with a smile.

  “I’m not worried about being here. I just . . . if it’s okay with you, I’d like not to work any overtime for the next few days. So I can leave at a normal time, while it’s still light out. Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  The fear leaves her eyes. She’s now certain that she’s safe, even though she’s less than four feet away from the man who murdered Charlotte Broden.

  DAY FOUR

  FRIDAY

  30.

  On Friday morning, I repeat the same mantra in my head: every day from here on out will be easier than the last. The trick is to go on living my life and, soon enough, the murder of Charlotte Broden will recede into the background until it’s indistinguishable from a dream, unclear, even to me, whether any of it had actually happened.

  Of course, all that depends mightily on my not being caught.

  On my way to work, I again stop at the newsstands. As I had expected the previous day, this morning the New York City tabloids are running Charlotte’s picture on the front page. The headlines both go with the same motif—that a serial killer is on the loose.

  ANOTHER ONE! is the Post’s effort. The Daily News’s banner is COPYCAT OR SERIAL? Even the paper of record, the New York Times, devotes front-page real estate to Charlotte’s disappearance. Bottom left, below the fold, under the headline: DAUGHTER OF FAMED LAWYER MISSING.

  I plunk down a few bills and grab the Times. The story cites anonymous but “high-ranking” sources inside the NYPD stating that there is no evidence of any connection between this most recent disappearance and the prior reported case of Jennifer Barnett. The middle of the article focuses on Charlotte’s father’s legal representation of Nicolai Garkov, recounting the crimes for which Garkov has been indicted as well as the Red Square Massacre, which he’s only suspected of masterminding, and then leaves it to the reader to connect the dots that anyone that evil could be behind Charlotte’s disappearance too.

  The bottom line is that the police have nothing. Less than nothing, in fact, because they’re apparently barking up the wrong tree with Garkov.

  Still, that could change quickly. Or maybe the newspapers had it wrong.

  Which is why the most important fact I learn from the press accounts is that the police will be holding a press conference today at noon. That’s when I’ll hear what the cops have, and know how to plot my next moves.

  At noon, I tell Beth that I’m about to begin a conference call with Europe that I expect to last for an hour and that I’m not to be disturbed. I take my phone off the cradle so it will light up as in-use at Beth’s desk—and not ring audibly at mine—and I click my mouse so that it pulls the press conference up on my computer. It’s being broadcast live on NY1, the city’s news station.

  The shot on my screen is of an empty podium, a young reporter with glasses standing beside it. He’s saying that someone from the NYPD will be making a statement any minute now and then will be answering some questions.

  The live shot is replaced with the photograph I’d seen about a million times before of Jennifer Barnett. She’s on the beach, crystal-blue water behind her. Her photo vanishes from the screen. In its place is the picture of Charlotte the tabloids ran. It’s not one I’ve seen before. She’s in a restaurant, wearing a black T-shirt. Her hair is down and loose and she’s got the classic Charlotte smile front and center.

  The TV image returns to the podium. Now a man is standing behind it. He looks to be Hispanic, about my age, dressed in all black and not wearing a tie, which strikes me as odd for some reason.

  “My name is Lieutenant Gabriel Velasquez,” he says. “I’m going to make a brief statement, and then I’ll take some questions. Charlotte Broden, a twenty-five-year-old graduate student at New York University, has been missing since Wednesday morning. Although it’s early in the investigation, we’ve already developed a short list of people of interest in the disappearance. Let me say at the outset that we have absolutely no reason to believe that there is any connection whatsoever between Ms. Broden’s disappearance and the previously reported disappearance of Jennifer Barnett. Now, I know that some of the more irresponsible members of the press have raised the possibility that someone might be targeting young women in our city. There is absolutely no evidence to support that conjecture. Obviously, I cannot share with you the leads we have uncovered in either investigation, but I will tell you that at the present time we have a limited numb
er of suspects in both matters, and I can further state that there is no overlap between the two suspect lists. Now I’ll take a few questions.”

  The camera stays on the cop, so the questions come from disembodied voices. Despite the cop’s disclaimer a minute earlier, the first reporter asks whether the disappearances of two young women might be the work of a serial killer.

  The cop is having none of it. He quickly shoots down any suggestion, reiterating that the police believe they are looking for two different people, one responsible for each crime.

  Next up a woman’s voice asks whether the police are going to impose a curfew. This question merits only a one-word response: “No.”

  “Can you identify the person or persons of interest in the Broden case?” another woman asks.

  I can feel my heart rate spike. I can’t help but imagine that he’s about to say my name.

  Instead he says, “No. Not at this time.”

  “What can you tell us about the suspects, then?”

  “I can tell you that there are a limited number of people who are, at the moment, our primary focus. And I can say that each one was personally acquainted with Charlotte Broden.”

  A few more questions follow, but none of them adds anything until someone asks, “Do you believe Ms. Broden is still alive?”

  The question hangs in the air. Even I’m anxiously awaiting the cop’s response, which makes no sense at all. I know the answer.

  “We pray that she is . . . and we have no evidence that she’s not,” the cop says.

  In other words, they don’t have the first clue what’s happened to Charlotte. I feel my body relax. It’s all good.