After I leave my father’s apartment, I reach out to Gabriel. I’ve always hated when victims—or clients—called me on the weekend. I have little doubt that Gabriel feels the same way. I am prepared to leave a message on his work voice mail, but it turns out that he’s at the office, so at least I’m not intruding on his R & R.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, “but there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Not over the phone, though. Could we meet for lunch? My treat.”
“No need to apologize. Sure. Lunch sounds good. Two conditions, though. We go somewhere near One PP, and you let me pay my own way.”
Of course. Even a sandwich would be considered a bribe. I never let citizens pay for my lunch back when I was on the public payroll either.
“Okay, Dutch treat it is.”
“How about Bubby’s at one o’clock?”
I refrain from using my usual closing—“It’s a date.” Instead I say, “See you there.”
20.
Bubby’s conjures the sense of comfort food from the moment you walk inside. There’s hardly anything on the menu that doesn’t include melted cheese on top.
“This a regular haunt of yours?” I ask Gabriel.
“Yes, even cops get out from time to time.”
“I should have known. Given the pie selection,” I say with a wink.
We both order the grilled cheese. He asks for a cup of coffee and declines the offer of French fries for only two dollars more. I pair mine with seltzer and take the fries.
“I’ll share,” I say. “I mean, if that won’t compromise you ethically.”
He smiles. A very nice smile.
“Just don’t tell IA, and we’re good.”
After the waitress leaves, Gabriel asks, “So, what was so important that you were afraid to say it over the phone?”
“It’ll be a week on Wednesday,” I say. “I know that’s still seventy-two hours from now, but . . . she’s dead, isn’t she?”
I trust Gabriel to give it to me straight. It’s actually that fear that has caused me not to previously pose the question.
“Ella . . . I wish I could tell you that it’s going to be fine, but I know you know, at this point, the odds of that aren’t good. But that’s not a reason to give up hope. I haven’t. And while there’s even a sliver of hope that she’s alive, I’m going to do everything I can to find her. That’s why I’m not turning it over to Missing Persons on Wednesday. I got our captain to allow us to work it for another week, at least.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Anything new with Zach?”
He shakes his head. “Radio silence.”
“What do you think about my father throwing him out of the apartment? Maybe the thought of becoming homeless will get him to talk.”
“I got no problem with that. But I know that’s not why you asked to meet me for lunch. So, tell me. What’s on your mind?”
He sits up straighter, ready to receive my not-to-be-shared-on-the-phone information. Unfortunately, the waitress takes this opportunity to tell us that our food will be right out, and to ask Gabriel if he’d like her to freshen up his coffee.
“No thanks,” he says, and she smiles at him in a come-hither way. When she’s out of earshot, he says, “You were about to say . . .”
“You remember that in Charlotte’s manuscript she met the banker character at a museum?”
“Okay . . . ,” he says, making it clear he hadn’t remembered that tidbit.
“I had dinner with Paul Michelson last night. I guess I didn’t tell you before, but I dated Paul in college. That’s how we came to represent him.”
“Small world,” Gabriel says with a wan smile.
“Yeah, about to get much smaller when I tell you why this is important. He told me that he had seen Charlotte recently, when he met her at a museum. And he described their meeting exactly the way she wrote about the Matthew character meeting the Clare character in the book. They were both staring at an out-of-focus photograph.”
“And Paul Michelson is a banker,” Gabriel says.
“And he’s a banker.”
Gabriel takes a mouthful of air into his lungs. “When did he retain you?”
I put my lawyer hat back on. When Paul retained us is subject to the attorney–client privilege, and therefore off-limits for me to disclose. It’ll reveal that he obtained counsel before the police requested a formal interview about Jennifer Barnett, and that always suggests guilt, despite what my father thinks. None of that matters to me in the least, however. I’d gladly be disbarred to get Charlotte back.
“It was . . .” I count back the days. “Wednesday.”
Now it’s Gabriel’s turn to count backward. “Jennifer Barnett went missing on . . . the prior Saturday. That means he waited . . .” Gabriel ticks the days off on his fingers. “One, two, three, four days to retain counsel. And your sister was last seen on Wednesday morning by Zach. Same day. What time of day did you meet with Paul?”
“First thing in the morning,” I say.
“So the timeline doesn’t work out exactly,” Gabriel says. “Meeting with your father first and then killing the man’s daughter. Why would he do that?”
“But if Paul is a sociopathic killer, then normal human emotions—like shame or whatever stops someone from retaining the father of someone you’re going to murder—don’t apply to him. Maybe he thought that first hiring my father and then killing Charlotte would give him exactly the kind of alibi you’re suggesting, and that’s why he did it in that order.”
“Okay . . . so what’s his motive?”
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” I say. “You guys are convinced Paul was seeing Jennifer Barnett, right?”
“Diaries don’t lie. Not usually, anyway.”
“What if he was also seeing Charlotte?”
“What if he was? I still don’t see a motive for him to kill your sister. Jennifer Barnett could bring a sexual harassment claim, but your sister couldn’t.”
I spell it out for him. At least as far as I could take it.
“Remember, in Charlotte’s book, Matthew the banker is married. But Paul isn’t. If the diary is correct, however, Paul had a girlfriend . . . Jennifer Barnett. That’s the kind of small change that Charlotte might make so that her book was, you know, fiction. To protect the innocent, as it were. With me so far?”
Gabriel nods. “Yep.”