“No. Next question.”
This time an African American woman is chosen. “Can you identify the person or persons of interest in the Broden case?”
“No. Not at this time.”
“What can you tell us about the suspects, then?” the same reporter follows up.
“I can tell you that there are a limited number of people who are our primary focus. And I can say that each one was personally acquainted with Charlotte Broden.”
“Is that also true with regard to the Barnett investigation?” another reporter blurts out without being called on.
“Yes,” Gabriel says. “The suspects in the Barnett case all knew Ms. Barnett, and the suspects in the Broden investigation all knew Ms. Broden. There is no overlap between the suspect lists.”
He points toward the back row. An Asian woman stands.
“Is Nicolai Garkov a person of interest in this investigation? Or anyone related to Garkov or the Russian mafia?”
I lean closer to my father, squeeze his arm at the elbow. A sign of support that I don’t want the press to witness.
Gabriel is quick to answer. “At this point we have no basis to believe that Ms. Broden’s disappearance has anything to do with that. Margaret?”
A small woman in the second row with curly gray hair rises. She’s so short her head is barely visible behind the man seated in front of her.
“Do you believe Ms. Broden is still alive?”
My gaze swings toward Gabriel. Would he tell the press anything different than he told me?
“We pray that she is,” he says. “We have no reason to believe that she’s not.”
Gabriel nods in our direction. Apparently he views the question about Charlotte being alive as a good segue to my father.
“Now I would like to turn the microphone over to Charlotte Broden’s father, F. Clinton Broden, to say a few words.”
My father takes his cue and moves closer to the microphone. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
His voice is a hoarse whisper, barely audible. I know at once that he’s not going to be able to say another word.
I take the microphone out of his hand and place my other hand on his shoulder.
“My name is Ella Broden. Charlotte Broden is my sister. My father is obviously overcome with emotion, as we all are. We miss Charlotte so much. On behalf of our family, I want to thank the NYPD for all the work they’re doing to find my sister. I also want to announce that tomorrow we will be holding a search for Charlotte at Riverside Park. It’s open to the public, so please join us. We will be meeting at Ninety-Sixth Street and Riverside Drive at noon. Our family has also established a reward of one hundred thousand dollars for any information leading to Charlotte’s safe return.”
I stop, trying to hold it together myself. It’s time to go for that sound bite. The clip that will play on the news tonight.
“If anyone knows anything about my sister’s whereabouts, or has any information at all, please call the police . . .” I wait a beat and then say, “And if you’re out there, if you can hear me, Charlotte, please know that we love you . . . that I love you, Char-bar.”
Gabriel thanks the press for coming and the reporters begin to depart. My father and I follow him out of the press room. Almost as soon as we step away, I feel my phone vibrate.
It’s Paul Michelson.
“Hello,” I say in a whisper, cupping my hand over the phone.
“Sorry to bother you, Ella. I tried your father first, but I was told that he was in court.”
My father is obviously not in court. He’s standing right beside me. But that’s what my father likes clients to be told when he isn’t in the office.
I find it hard to believe that Paul hasn’t heard about Charlotte yet. Her disappearance is all over the media. Then again, maybe it just seems that way to me and Paul is one of those guys who follow only sports and business news.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my sister is missing. I’m at the police station now.”
“Oh my God. I hadn’t . . . I’m . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, Ella. Since when?”
It’s another one of my father’s rules about criminal defense, to make the client think that his lawyer has no problems, no concerns, no life outside of zealously representing clients. Clients never want to hear that their lawyer is focused on anything else—another case, a pending divorce, money problems, or the possible abduction and murder of her baby sister.
“It’s only been a day, and I’m sure that . . .” I can’t even articulate the lie that everything is going to be fine. “What’s going on?”
“I just got off the phone with the police. They want me to meet with them.”
I look around the room. I’m literally behind enemy lines. Not the best place to discuss the status of the investigation with my client.
“Who called you?”
“A guy named Jim McGary.”
“McCorry,” I correct.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I met him today,” I say, using my grown-up-in-the-room-who-needs-to-make-the-client-feel-protected voice. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I told him that I needed to get back to him.”
“I have a meeting I’m heading to now, but let’s meet back at my office at three. Until then, don’t say anything to anyone.”
12.
The doormen in Charlotte’s building never stop me when I enter, even though they stand beside a sign that says ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED. I normally don’t show up in the middle of a workday, however, so the man on duty now isn’t someone I recognize. I stride by him with a sense of purpose, avoiding eye contact to give the impression that I’m a resident in a hurry to get home. Nevertheless, I half expect him to ask me to stop. But either Zach hasn’t put the word out that I’m to be denied entry or this guy hasn’t seen the memo because he lets me pass without comment.
In the elevator, I reach for the key to Charlotte’s apartment that she gave me to use in case of emergency. I can’t imagine a greater need than this. If Zach isn’t home, I’m going to let myself in and conduct my own search. Sisters don’t need warrants, after all.
I knock on the door. Hard.
“Who is it?” he says.
“It’s me, Zach. Ella. Open up. We need to talk.”
I’m prepared for him to tell me to go away, in which case I’m also prepared to use the key. To my surprise, he opens the door.
He looks absolutely terrible. Clad in sweatpants and a white T-shirt that likely also serves as his pajamas. He clearly hasn’t showered or shaved today, and maybe not since I last saw him at One PP.
The apartment looks even worse. A pizza box with the remnants of last night’s dinner sits open on the dining-room table, with a single glass, half-filled with some brown liquid—maybe Coke, maybe bourbon—beside it.
Zach doesn’t say anything to me after opening the door. Instead, he retreats back to the living room and drops himself onto one end of the sofa.