“Maybe Jennifer found out about Charlotte. If that happened, she’d probably threaten Paul. Woman scorned and all. Then Jennifer goes missing. Maybe Charlotte knew about Paul and Jennifer. In that case, Charlotte would have known it was Paul who killed her. Charlotte probably confronted Paul about it, and Paul killed her too. That would explain the time gap. He could have met with my father and me after he killed Jennifer, but before he realized that Charlotte knew about it. Or maybe he already was planning on killing Charlotte when he retained us, and he did it for the classic sociopath reason—to get inside information about the case. What better way than to be in an attorney–client relationship with the victim’s father?”
Gabriel doesn’t say anything at first, but I can tell from his eyes that he’s intrigued. “I’m not saying there’s not some stuff there that we need to investigate more fully, but that’s a lot of maybes. Also, I just want to draw you back to what we know is true, as opposed to the conjecture part of your theory. We don’t have any evidence that Paul and your sister were even having an affair. And everything you just said flows from that.”
He’s right. But he’s also wrong.
“Tell me, then, what are the odds that Paul Michelson, a banker, met Charlotte at a museum looking at an out-of-focus photograph, and it has no connection to Charlotte’s protagonist meeting Matthew the banker in the same way?”
“Agreed that’s not a coincidence. But all it really tells me is that Paul and your sister met that way, and then your sister used that in her book. It doesn’t mean that everything else about this Matthew character is true—or that it’s really Paul.”
“What about showing his picture around the Four Seasons hotel? In the book, that’s where he took Charlotte.”
“We’ve already been through the hotel’s video surveillance. Charlotte never shows up on it. We’ll go back and see if Paul’s credit card is on file and flash his photo, but given that we didn’t see Charlotte there, it’s pretty much a wasted exercise.”
I sigh to signify my displeasure. He catches my drift immediately.
“Hey, I’m more than happy to pick Paul up and question him about this, but . . .”
“But what?”
“But I already know that he’s got a high-priced lawyer who’s going to shut us down.”
“I suppose I deserve that,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No, you don’t deserve any of this. I’m frustrated too. But you know as well as I do that if Paul Michelson lawyered up about Jennifer Barnett, you can be damn sure he’s going that way regarding your sister’s disappearance. On top of which, Paul Michelson’s phone number doesn’t show up on your sister’s call log. Of course, that’s not surprising because if the Matthew-is-Paul theory is right, that means Paul used a burner, and we know that your sister got calls from a burner. But the problem is that the burner phone is a dead end. We don’t know where the phone was purchased, so we can’t even show Paul’s picture to a store clerk. And I know you know this too, but no judge on earth is going to issue a warrant to search Paul Michelson’s home on what we have right now.”
“Okay,” I say. “I get it.”
And I do. But what I really understand is that Gabriel’s hands are tied and I need to get more information about Paul Michelson to untie them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Our terrace is small. It’s furnished with two chairs and a round table. When Marco first moved in with me, we’d often come out here to share a bottle of wine, but nowadays he usually occupies it alone—it’s the only spot in the apartment where I allow him to smoke.
Today it’s warm, above seventy degrees even at this early hour. As a result, when I awake, I’m not too surprised to see Marco sitting outside, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
“I’m out here,” he shouts.
He sounds like he’s in a good mood. I know better than to let that opportunity pass without taking full advantage. So after a quick stop to pour myself some coffee, I join him outside.
I have little doubt that his good spirits relate to tonight’s art show. Marco’s been a little vague about details, but the way he first explained it to me was that a Mexican painter of some renown named Juan Quinones Perez—who of course I’d never heard of, which Marco, for reasons I couldn’t comprehend, found more insulting to him than to the Mexican artist—was going to be showing at a gallery in Chelsea. One of the conditions the artist imposed was that a small number of student artists of Mexican descent be allowed to show as well. Marco has been selected from many entries to be one of three student exhibitors.
To hear Marco tell it, this show will change his life. He’s certain that his work will outshine the others’—not only his fellow students’ art, but the main attraction as well—and he will instantly become the darling of the art world.
I’m pleased that he has such confidence, although I’m fearful of the crash that will undoubtedly follow. I’ve seen Marco deal with rejection, and to say it’s not a pretty sight is like saying that the Taj Mahal is “fancy.” The slightest criticism—a professor suggesting that he add more light or a gallery owner telling him that his work isn’t quite what he’s looking for—gives rise to weeks of brooding. Shows are particularly treacherous ground, as anything from the location of his pieces in the space to the font size of his name in the program can spark a rage.
“I take it that the gallery is pleased with the work?” I say, taking a seat beside him.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows a smoke ring toward the river. “Very. Henry—he’s the curator of the show—is pricing my piece of you at ten grand.”
Marco has never sold a painting. Not one. In fact, he hasn’t even been able to give them away, which he tried to do back when he actually had a landlord he wasn’t sleeping with and didn’t have the money to cover his rent. I doubt very much that anyone goes from zero to ten grand in one fell swoop, but I’ve never truly understood how the art world works. The one thing I do know is that I’m not going to be the one to bring Marco back down to reality.
“That’s great. Which pieces did you finally select for the show?”
I’ve asked this before, and when I did, he acted as if maintaining the confidentiality of this information was a matter of national security. I am hoping that his good mood might make him more inclined to share.
“You’ll see tonight.”
Even his high spirits have their limits, apparently. At least he says it with a smile.
“Can I at least see the one you did of me?”
“You know that’s bad luck.”
“I think you mean seeing the bride before the wedding. I’m not aware of any similar superstitions concerning subjects and art.”
“The answer is still no. You can see it at the show, like everyone else. And remember, it starts at seven.”
“I know. But I told you, I have rehearsal today. I’m not sure when Tobias is going to let us go, but I’ve told him that I have to be in Chelsea by seven.”
Marco looks at me suspiciously. I can’t really blame him. Tobias is my director, and I often cite his demandingness as my alibi for the late nights I’m with Matthew or Jason.
“What play are you rehearsing for, again?”
I must have told him that I’m playing Little Red in “Into the Woods” at least half a dozen times.
“‘Into the Woods.’”
“Right. How’s it going?”