“Is there anything I can do?”
I know that there’s nothing she’ll ask for. At least not tonight. So I feel safe in making the overture. Still, I prepare a lie if she actually calls on me to perform any service.
“No. Thank you, though. Actually, there is something. I’d like to see you tomorrow. I know this sounds . . . I don’t know . . . we barely know each other, but I guess there’s something about our not having any history that makes it easy for me to escape from all this for a little bit when we’re together. Is that okay?”
It’s better than okay. I need to know more. Has Charlotte’s body revealed any additional evidence? Do the police have any new leads? Most important of all: do they know anything about Christopher Tyler?
“I want to see you too. How about if I come to your place after work tomorrow? I have a meeting at five. I can be there around six thirty or seven.”
“A meeting? I didn’t know doctors had meetings.”
Shit. “It’s with my practice leader. I’m not sure exactly what it’s about, but I think he’s going to ask me to go back to Peru with him.”
“I hope not too soon.”
“I hope not too. I’ll find out more tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow at around seven, then.”
“Good night. And Ella . . . I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are. And like I said, thank you. I don’t know if I’d be able to handle this without you.”
DAY EIGHT
TUESDAY
Ella Broden
Christopher Tyler
36.
I wake up on Tuesday morning at 6:00 a.m. I can hear my father puttering in the kitchen. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air.
“How long have you been up?” I ask.
“I’m not really sure,” he says. “An hour, I guess. Do you want some coffee?”
“Please.”
My father is wearing his robe, and it appears he has not yet showered or shaved. If he plans on going to work today, he’ll have to start that process shortly. I’ve already decided that’s not how I’m going to spend my day.
“I just can’t come to the office today,” I say.
I don’t tell him that I’m never going back, although I suspect he already knows that my career in the practice of “real law”—as he puts it—is over. I simply can’t defend the Paul Michelsons of the world any longer.
“I totally get if you want to go in,” I add. “Either to make sure everything is under control, or simply to take your mind off everything.”
“I need to make arrangements,” he says.
It isn’t clear if that means he’s going to the office. He could just as easily make the funeral arrangements from home.
“Do you want me to help you with that?”
“No,” he says. “I’ll do it. It’s my obligation. I hope it’s a very long time before you have to do anything like that.” Then he laughs. “Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to help you then, as I suspect those arrangements will be for me.”
I weakly smile at his attempt at humor. The last thing I want to think about, however, is his death.
“But there is something you can do for me, Ella.”
He says this grimly. He’s not going to ask for a favor, but impart a life lesson.
“Of course. What?”
“I want you to focus on yourself more. You don’t need to be there for me.”
“Okay.”
“No. I mean it.” He offers me a soft, albeit sad, smile. “I’ll be okay, Ella. I promise.”
On my way to Maeve Grant, I buy the New York Times from the newsstand a few blocks from my apartment. I haven’t read the news from my computer, or even my phone, for fear I’d be leaving evidence. It takes me a moment before I find what I’m looking for. It’s in the Metropolitan section. Front page. The headline: BODY OF MISSING LAWYER’S DAUGHTER FOUND.
I scan the newsprint looking for the word suitcase, but it’s not there. I go back to the top and read it more carefully. The story reports that Charlotte’s corpse was found in the East River and that the working police theory is that she was killed elsewhere and then deposited in the water, likely on the day she went missing. My careful read confirms that there’s nothing about the suitcase.
They must not have it, I think. Maybe, somehow, the suitcase tore open under the water and Charlotte floated to the top alone.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief. Without the suitcase, the police barely have any more evidence than they had before. All they know is that she was thrown in the East River. The Times article made no reference to witnesses, and the newspaper didn’t suggest that there was any DNA, fingerprints, or anything else that the police were testing.
Only one weak link remains. The only possible way the police will be able to tie me to Charlotte’s murder: Ella.
The path forward is now clearer than ever before. I’ll see Ella again to ascertain with certainty that the cops haven’t found the suitcase. Once that’s established, I’ll kill her and thereby tie up the last loose end. With her death, Dylan Perry will never have existed, and Christopher Tyler can go back to living his life.
I return to my apartment before nine and immediately climb back into bed. I had thought that I might be able to escape into sleep, but no matter what I do to calm my mind, I can’t shake the image of Charlotte’s lifeless body lying in that morgue drawer. When I try to focus on something else, anything else, it only results in my conjuring an even grimmer image regarding Charlotte’s final moments. How terrified she must have been. Did she cry out for help? Did thoughts of being reunited with our mother provide her any comfort?
In my toughest cases back when I was an ADA, when I was truly stymied, I’d close the door to my office, pull out a yellow legal pad, and scribble. I didn’t do flow charts or diagrams but simply jotted down the evidence. Then I’d stare at it the way you’d look at one of those optical-illusion images that hides a 3-D picture within it. Relaxing my vision in hope that all would be revealed.
I pull myself out of bed and go to my dining table. There, I take a yellow legal pad from my briefcase and begin to list the evidence the police have uncovered: Tumi suitcase
East River
Missing since Tuesday
To that, I add the things I know about the fictional Matthew Harrison: Tall, black hair, handsome
Banker
Patek Philippe watch
Art gallery/topless out-of-focus photo
Married
Scar/initial/hip
I call Amoroso at 8:00 a.m. my time, which means it’s about 2:00 p.m. in Milan. With any luck, he’s still having his espresso in some café and I’ll get to leave a message.
I’m not in luck. His assistant tells me to hold.
“Pronto,” Amoroso says.
“Paolo. Christopher Tyler.”
“Oh, Tyler,” he says, switching to English.
“I’ve got a good news/bad news situation.”
He doesn’t state a preference for which he’d like to hear first. I get the sense that he feels as if he’s losing a piece of his soul every second we interact and just wants to get the call over with.