“I guess that’s everything I can think to ask for now,” she said. “What are the chances I’d be able to look at the case file myself? Eventually, I’d love to get some of my production team to capture images of the case for American Events—photos of interview transcripts, footage from video interviews, images of the crime scene, and even—parts redacted, of course—some footage from the homemade video that helped you break the case.”
“I have it all back at my hotel. I’d have to run it past the brass and get them to sign off on anything we share, but I’m sure it could be arranged. Let me make a few calls?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
There was a short pause to their conversation, as they both searched for a reason to continue talking now that the purpose of their dinner meeting had ended. They both stared at each other until Avery finally spoke.
“So, Walt, I pride myself on my instincts.”
“Uh oh.”
Avery smiled. “I’m curious about something you’re not telling me.”
Walt raised his eyebrows. For a fleeting moment he considered that he’d somehow been blown before he’d done any actual surveillance. That this smart, observant journalist had figured out his and Jim Oliver’s and the entire FBI’s plan to burrow himself into her life in an attempt to locate her father.
“What am I not telling you?” he asked.
“What really brought you back to New York.”
He swirled his port as he mulled the question.
“Come on,” Avery said. “You’re a good-looking, successful guy who got injured on the job in his forties and then decided to live as a recluse on a tropical island? And suddenly a television journalist calls and you come running back?” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not buying it.”
“Who said I lived as a recluse?”
“Nice try. And I appreciate the attempt at diversion, but there’s got to be more to your story.”
Walt lifted his chin and took a sip of port. “Don’t let anyone knock your instincts.” He stared into the wine before he spoke. He remembered his plan to be as honest as possible. “I was getting bored in Jamaica. I went there to clear my head after I was injured, but I figured out that whatever cobwebs were still present after three years were not likely to be swept away by time. You called and I thought it was a good opportunity to get out of a rut. Plus, I told you. I’m a fan of the show.”
He watched her slowly take a sip of port. He got the impression that his answer did not satisfy her.
“You know,” she said, “maybe a better question is why you went to Jamaica in the first place.”
“You are a journalist. Through and through.”
“Another dodge. How very male of you. I didn’t figure you as the typical man, but I’ve been known to misread people before.”
Walt smiled, caught off guard by Avery’s sudden probing into his personal life. He understood now, though, that her inquiry came from a natural curiosity and not from any sixth sense she had about his true intentions or the job the FBI had tapped him for. She was simply asking an obvious question. Perhaps he was thrown off because, for the past three years, none of his Jamaican friends—all men—gave a shit about what drove him to their tiny little island. Walt bought their rum and told his stories, and that was good enough for them. He had clearly spent too much time out of the presence of a woman.
“I’ve got some unfinished business here, and your call made it obvious that now was the time to take care of it.”
“Ah,” Avery said. “Some sentiment of a human being is in there after all. This unfinished business, anything you want to share with a near-perfect stranger?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But a proper drink will be needed to get into the details.”
“You need hard alcohol to talk about yourself?”
“No, the alcohol is for you so you don’t judge me.”
“Is it that bad?”
“I’ll let you decide. And it’s really not that big of a mystery,” he said, standing from the table and pointing to the bar in the other room. “Love or the law. They’re man’s only two problems in this world.”
CHAPTER 31
Manhattan, NY Friday, July 2, 2021
THEY MOVED TO THE BAR. IT WAS NEARLY EMPTY AT 10:00 P.M. ON A Friday night and the mass exodus of the July Fourth weekend was on full display. Only one other couple was present at the bar. Dark mahogany lined the walls and ceiling of Keens and cast everything in an auburn shadow. They sat on adjacent stools. Walt ordered a rum, Avery a vodka.
“Since you’re part of the law,” Avery said, “I’m guessing it’s love. Tell me about her.”
“It sounds so easy when you put it like that. Simple and direct.”
“I blame my bluntness on law school. They teach you to zero in on the topic and push everything else aside.”
“You went to law school?” Walt asked, forgetting for a moment that the woman in front of him had a whole other life he was supposed to know nothing about. He sensed a shift in her demeanor as her two worlds overlapped.
Slowly, she nodded. “I did, but the whole attorney thing wasn’t for me. I figured that out after school, moved to LA to put my journalism major to use. But those same instincts are part of my job now. When I feel a story, or sense that there is something to be learned, I zero in on it with annoying focus. I apologize if I’m being too direct about this. You don’t have to tell me any more if it’s private.”
“No, I don’t mind. It’ll probably do me some good to talk about it. That’s what a shrink would probably say, anyway.”
“I can’t analyze, I can only listen.”
“Okay. Let’s see, the Cliffs Notes version goes something like this: Adultery sank my first marriage. She cheated, not me. We were both young and dumb, and not right for each other, so it was probably best that it blew up so fast. The ending of my second marriage stung a bit more. It fell apart because of children—I wanted them, she didn’t. And then, there was Meghan Cobb.”
There was a stretch of silence as Walt tried to figure out how to proceed.
“She’s the one who sent you to the Caribbean?” Avery asked.
Walt nodded. He took another swallow of rum and allowed the liquor to burn his throat. This last bit of rum pushed him past the tipping point, like it always did, and his mind drifted to the past.