“Hi, Dylan. It’s Ella. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m just not that into texting.”
“Me either.” Of course, that’s a lie. I text all the time, usually preferring it to actual conversation. “I was really hoping that I’d hear from you.”
“I have to be honest,” she says, “I’ve been struggling with the whole can-I-meet-someone-new-while-my-sister-is-missing thing.”
She laughs. A nervous laugh. I try to put her at ease. To let her know there’s nothing wrong with her becoming close to me.
“I totally understand. Timing . . . couldn’t be worse. But I’m a big believer that things happen for a reason . . . at least sometimes. We met, we really clicked, and then this terrible thing happened to your sister. I think . . . I don’t want to get all higher-power on you, because I’m not religious, but I do consider myself spiritual and, well, I think the universe does send us messages. And yes, I know that makes me sound like someone dressed in pajamas giving out daisies at the airport, but I believe it.”
She laughs again. This time it isn’t nervous. It’s the sound of comfort.
A few moments of silence tick by before I finally ask the question again: “Is there anything I can do? To make things easier on you, I mean.”
“In fact, there is,” she says. “Would you mind terribly keeping me company tomorrow night? I’m just going crazy here all alone and I don’t want to do it again another night.”
“It would be my pleasure. Do you have a favorite restaurant?”
“I don’t think I want to be in a restaurant. You know, out in public.”
This is music to my ears. I don’t want to be out with her in public either. Unfortunately, I also don’t want her knowing where I live. I have a lie on the tip of my tongue—I’ve been having some painting done and the smell is awful—when she spares me.
“So, could you come to my place? Seven? Do you remember where I live?”
I do, but I think better of admitting it. “I know it’s close to the Lava Lounge, but I have to confess I don’t remember exactly where.”
She gives me the address. Then she says, “I figured I’ll order in some pizza. Is that okay?”
“Who doesn’t like pizza?”
“Great.”
“Thanks so much for calling, Ella. I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
“Me too. Bye, Dylan.”
DAY SEVEN
MONDAY
34.
From the moment I wake on Monday, my thoughts are about seeing Ella that evening. I’ll have real time with her, in her apartment, aided by alcohol, hopefully. That should get her to open up to me about the police investigation, her sister’s love life. Who knows what else?
But until then, I have to pass the day at work and not raise anyone’s suspicions that I’m the man at the center of the biggest missing-persons case in New York City history.
“Morning, Beth,” I say to my assistant when I enter the firm. “Keeping safe, I hope.”
“Not funny,” she replies. “I didn’t go out all weekend. I just had friends come over to my place.”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe here with me.”
I go in my office and shut the door. I click on the Excel spreadsheet that lists the potential investors I’m circling for The Pouch. The levels I’m seeing are not good. Amoroso is going to be apoplectic when I tell him that interest is below eight bucks. One of the biggest players in this space, a hedge fund appropriately called Bottom Feeder, told me early on they were willing to invest upward of $40 million, but yesterday reduced their buy to $25 million, and they now refuse to pay more than $7.75 per share.
I call the fund manager, Brian Weinberg. I’m told he can’t come to the phone, and my call is rerouted to Seth Shapiro. Seth’s a decent enough guy, but the fact I can’t get to the head honcho means that things are even worse than I thought.
“Seth, my man. How’s it going?”
“No complaints,” he says. “What can I do you for?”
“Looking at the circles on my spread. I have you guys at twenty-five mil at seven seventy-five. We had originally talked about forty at eight.”
“That was two weeks ago. Ancient history.”
“But the market is up two, three percent.”
“That’s a tech pop, Christopher.”
I’m not bullshitting him. I really don’t understand why they’re skittish at eight bucks.
“What’s going on, Seth? Really.”
“You want the truth?”
“Hell yeah, I do.”
“Brian went to Bergdorf Goodman’s and bought a pair.”
“What?”
“You heard me. He went to Bergdorf’s and bought a pair of your client’s product. Dropped a hundred fifty bucks. He had them on yesterday.”
“And . . . ?”
Seth laughs. “I take it that you’ve never worn them.”
I could lie, but what’s the point. “I’m a Jockey guy.”
“Well, suffice to say, you’re lucky we’re buying at all.”
“That bad?”
“Brian’s balls itched all day.”
Either the other big players in the market have stronger testicles or haven’t decided to do their own market research, because their circles remained at the eight-buck level. It didn’t much matter, though. They each had favored-nation status, which meant that they got the best price I was willing to offer anyone else—and if Weinberg’s itchy balls meant that Bottom Feeder was only going to pay $7.75, that’s the price everybody else would get too.
Amoroso is going to shit when I tell him that he’s going to be short on the total raise. But that conversation can wait.
Today, I have much bigger fish to fry.
I arrive at Ella’s apartment right on time, wearing what I consider my not-trying-too-hard outfit—jeans and a long-sleeved, collared shirt. On the way to her place, I picked up a bottle of wine, a cheap one, to vary things about myself so as to better pull off my alter ego of Dylan Perry, mild-mannered, altruistic doctor.
Ella’s hair is loose, reminding me of the way she wore it at Lava the night we first met. That’s where the similarities to Cassidy end, however. Tonight, she’s dressed casually—black jeans, loose-fitting white T-shirt—and, as when I saw her at Riverside Park, she’s not wearing any makeup aside from lipstick.
I hand Ella the bottle of wine. “I don’t know much about wine,” I say, trying to sound humble, “but the guy in the store said that this was good.”
“My motto is that every wine goes with Italian food,” she says. “There’s this great little place I always order in from. They have pastas and small pizzas, so I thought maybe we’d have a carbfest and do one of each.”
“I’m in your hands,” I say.
She calls in our order. After hanging up, she reports there’s a backup at the restaurant, so it’s going to take an hour for the food to arrive. Then she sits beside me on the sofa, even though her living room has other seating options. I’m about to inquire about the investigation when she asks me about the one thing I did not want to discuss: myself. Or more accurately, Dylan Perry.