“Quiet down.”
“Once women start recognizing that this particular dam has a crack in it, others will come forward. Plenty of others.”
He narrowed his eyes. “How much?”
“The dam will burst, Charlie, and the flood will be catastrophic. You know what happens to men like you in prison, right? You’re a man of the world, I’m sure you’ve heard things.”
“How. Much.”
Ariel had done research, trying to estimate Charlie’s net worth, his possible liquidity levels, to determine the most cash he’d be able to access without selling off long-term assets, the most he’d pay to avoid a highly damaging, highly public spectacle. Ariel’s accusation was not of some long-ago youthful “misunderstanding” involving “different recollections.” No, this spectacle would be the very recent crime of raping his business associate’s wife. His friend’s wife. An accusation accompanied by fresh memories, supporting witnesses, physical evidence.
The sum needed to be something that Charlie would be able to access without disrupting his life—without telling his wife—or he might not agree to it. The number that Ariel came up with turned out to be pretty big.
“Five million dollars.”
“Fi—?” He shook his head. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Am I?” She watched closely as his eyes flickered up and away, then back to counteroffer.
“Two.”
“Please.” She kept her jaw clenched, maintained eye contact.
One second became two became ten became twenty, and she didn’t make another sound. As if hiding in the closet from a murderer.
Finally he said, “Two-five.”
She knew that she’d have to make a big concession; a man like Charlie would otherwise never be able to tolerate it, his ego couldn’t handle a negotiation that he lost one hundred percent.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” she said. “Three is my minimum.” She’d actually been prepared to accept two-five. But that was before he offered it.
Charlie glowered. It took all her self-control to sit silently, staring at him while he glared, ten seconds, twenty, maybe thirty or forty seconds, she lost track of time, she just kept waiting …
Until she won.
“You will obviously sign an NDA,” he said.
Yes, obviously: Nondisclosure was the whole point for him, because disclosure was her leverage. At that moment in her life, the long-term ramifications of an NDA seemed irrelevant. Ariel wasn’t looking past her immediate needs, the immediate retribution, the private her versus the private him. She didn’t foresee a future in which the public would care, in which disclosure itself could become a priority. It never even occurred to her.
This was long before Harvey Weinstein, of course, before grab ’em by the pussy, #MeToo. Expectations of consequences were much dimmer, fourteen years ago; a different era. Hopes for recourse were much slimmer. Ariel had finite goals. This confrontation was just between the two of them, not a political matter, not an issue of national significance.
So she nodded her acceptance, and Charlie immediately beckoned the bartender while reaching into his breast pocket for his wallet. “Thanks,” Charlie said as Danny approached. “I must run. This is for the lady’s drink as well.”
The lady.
“Of course, Mr. Wolfe. I’ll bring your change right over.”
“Oh that’s all right Danny, you keep it. Thanks.”
What a saint.
“Thank you, Mr. Wolfe.”
Ariel didn’t need to look to know that it was a hundred-dollar bill. Charlie made special trips to banks to withdraw hundreds; this was before ATMs dispensed them anywhere except in casinos. Ariel knew this because Bucky did the same thing. The two men were more alike than she wanted to admit. They even looked the same—eyes, hair, shape of the nose. They could be brothers.
She could see a debate crossing Charlie’s face. He knew that as soon as you get to yes, you’re supposed to walk away, hang up, whatever: Don’t risk ruining it. But he must have been fighting an opposite impulse—to insult her, to demean her, to belittle her, to argue with her. The impulse to not allow himself to lose. To not admit that he’d been dominated.
But he swallowed it. He turned and walked away without another word. And Ariel finally allowed herself to exhale.
Three million dollars.
That was certainly enough for a whole new life. But the money itself wasn’t true revenge, because it didn’t hurt him. For some problems, money is the entire solution. For others, it’s just the start.
Ariel had no expectation of true justice, not ever. Until one day, out of nowhere, she suddenly did.
CHAPTER 44
DAY 3. 7:02 A.M.
“I’m begging. Please.” Ariel pointedly looks at her watch. “My flight is boarding.”
“There will be other flights,” the Spanish cop says. “New York City is not an unusual destination.”
“But I need to get home to my child.”
“I am sure you will. As soon as we are able to talk with the Lisbon police.”
The other policeman returns to the room, carrying the slip of paper with John’s name and date of birth. He leans over, and the two cops confer in a whisper.
“What is it?” Ariel asks. “Did he speak to Detective Moniz?”
“No, se?ora. We have been trying to find your husband, but we cannot. He did not purchase a ticket.”
Ariel wishes she could marshal some composure here, but she has expended all of it.
“He did not pass through the security checkpoint.”
There’s nothing left but panic.
*
The phone rang long before António Moniz was willing to be awake. He glanced at the number—something from Spain—and hit DECLINE, and tried to go back to sleep, but failed. So he lay in bed and listened to the voicemail. His Spanish was not great, and he needed to repeat the message a couple of times before he was certain he understood: A national policeman at the Sevilla airport had detained an American named Ariel Pryce, who had provided Detective Moniz’s name as a reference to verify her story. Could he please return the call as soon as possible?
Well, at least now António knew where the Americans had gone when they’d fled the hotel, eluded the patrolmen, and disappeared into the night.
Moniz trudges to the kitchen, prepares the percolator. While he’s waiting for the water to boil, his phone rings again, a call from Santos, who launches right into it without any preamble. “Did you receive a call from a Spanish policeman?”
“A voicemail,” he says.
“Me too. I was in the shower. One of us should call back.”
“Yes, of course. I will take care of it.”
“But what are you going to tell them, António?”
“I don’t know. The truth?”
“Which truth?”
Moniz doesn’t know what his partner is asking.
“Including our suspicions?”
Moniz doesn’t answer.
“Then what?” Santos continues. “Are we going to request that the Spanish arrest John Wright? Extradite the American so we can pursue prosecution for fraudulent kidnapping? How do you think the Spaniards will respond?”