Of course it didn’t go on for very long. That poor girl was only employed at Maeve Grant for three months. Paul must have pounced on her like a lion devouring fresh meat. A little initiation ritual to which he undoubtedly subjects all the attractive newbies.
“As I’m sure you know from your television viewing, the first suspect is always the boyfriend. And no matter how casual you claim it was between you and Jennifer, if there was no one else in her life, you’re the boyfriend in the eyes of law enforcement.”
He grimaces. I suspect Paul has tried for most of his adult life not to be the boyfriend.
“What’s my motive?”
“Only you know that. But it doesn’t matter. Motive isn’t an element of the crime for which the prosecution bears the burden of proof. And that’s because it could be a million things that they could never, ever prove. She could have threatened to break it off, so you killed her in a rage. You could have found out she was cheating on you, so you killed her in a rage. She could have burned dinner, so you killed her in a rage. Or she could have threatened to go to Maeve Grant and sue for sexual harassment, so you killed her in a rage.”
My words hang in the air as the first of our courses arrives via two waiters, each holding a plate of something I can’t identify, with froth around it. Our main server, the man who took our order, announces, “Fluke tartare with pomegranate marmalade.”
The waiter leaves us with a “buon appetito,” at which time Paul says, “So, tactics-wise, now what?”
“That’s up to you. My father will likely advise that the diary proves his point that hunkering down is always the best play in the early stages of any investigation. He’d say that it’s still possible the prosecution won’t be able to prove the affair, and so it’s a good thing you haven’t admitted it. We could fight the diary’s admission on hearsay grounds. And if you’re very lucky, you didn’t leave semen or a pubic hair in her place. Then we claim that the presence of your fingerprints might just be the result of a one-time visit for some totally innocent reason.”
He smiles, obviously pleased with what he’s hearing. It’s a smug look, and I decide to slap it off his face.
“Don’t celebrate quite yet, though. The truth of the matter is that, no matter how careful you think you were, the odds are very good that they’re going to be able to prove the affair. Texts or phone messages are usually what clinches it.”
“There’s nothing in our communications to suggest a sexual relationship,” he says with confidence, as if he always knew to be careful whenever he talked with Jennifer, just in case he later found himself in exactly this situation.
“The frequency is sometimes enough all by itself. Bosses don’t call their employees multiple times on the weekends.”
“We usually work weekends. And our phone frequency is not going to appear obsessive. A few times a week, tops.”
“Trust me, if push comes to shove and someday you’re before a jury on this, by the time the prosecution is finished, every one of those jurors will believe you were sleeping with her. She probably told a friend or a family member. Even if she didn’t, and even if you think you were incredibly discreet, coworkers always know when the boss is involved with an underling, and one of them will testify to something you didn’t think had been observed. You calling her ‘sweetheart’ or just a vibe, even. Or a neighbor will say that she saw Jennifer leaving your building early in the morning. Or they trace your credit cards to a romantic restaurant and the waiter ID’s Jennifer’s photo. Or worse, testifies that the two of you were holding hands or kissing.”
The waiters arrive again en masse, removing our first course and simultaneously delivering our entrées. For Paul, that’s Long Island duck breast with parsnip puree, while I opted for the wild striped bass with a leek fondue and carrot-turnip stew.
As soon as they walk away, Paul says, “I think I’m going to continue following your father’s sage legal counsel and hunker down.”
I knew that would be his decision.
“Any news about your sister?” Paul asks, changing the subject from his own legal problems.
My fork has just stabbed some bass, but I put it back down on the plate. I don’t want to engage him about my sister’s plight—seeing that he’s a suspect in Jennifer Barnett’s disappearance. But he asked, so I have to say something. I decide to conjure a happy memory of my sister to share.
“Remember when Charlotte came to visit me during spring semester of our senior year?” I say. “She was . . . what? Fifteen, I guess? Anyway, we all went to that party at that frat house. You gave her some grain alcohol mixed with Kool-Aid, and I thought she was going to go blind.”
“I do remember that,” he says, smiling at the memory. “Did Charlotte ever tell you that I saw her a few months ago?”
The moment’s levity shatters. My guard immediately springs up.
“No. When?”
“Earlier this year. No, that’s not right. It was late last year. Christmastime, because the museum still had its Christmas decorations up.”
“You saw her at a museum?”
“Yeah, at MoMA. It was some benefit type of thing for NYU. I bought a table on behalf of Maeve Grant and before the dinner there was a cocktail party honoring some photographer. So there I was, staring at this out-of-focus photograph, when who sidles up next to me but your sister.”
My jaw must have hit the ground. It’s the exact same scenario as when Clare met Matthew the banker in Charlotte’s book.
Why is Paul telling me this? If he was in any way, shape, or form involved in Charlotte’s disappearance, he’s certainly smart enough to know not to share with me that he’d recently seen her. But maybe it’s like Gabriel said—classic sociopath behavior—and Paul’s version of returning to the scene of the crime is telling me about him and Charlotte.
“Did you see her after that?”
“After that night, or later on during the dinner?”
“Um . . . either I guess.”
“I said good night to her when I left. She said something about having to stay later, and I had a dinner meeting, if memory serves. And I’m almost certain I told her to give you my regards, which I gather she never did.”
“No . . . she didn’t say anything about it.”
“I’m sure she just forgot. In fact, she probably never gave me a second thought. I was actually hoping at the time that she would tell you about our chance meeting and it would cause you to reach out to me. I figured when I never heard from you that it just meant you weren’t interested.”
I can’t process what I’m hearing. I feel as though I’m literally going to fall out of my chair.
“I think I need to go home.”
“I’m sorry, Ella. I didn’t mean to upset you by talking about your sister.”