“Good news first, then,” I say. “I got the financing in place. In fact, the offering is oversubscribed. So that gives us some flexibility if you want to sell more.”
“No,” he says. “The point is to raise the hundred million but keep as much equity as possible.”
“And that leads me to the bad news. The price is going to top off at seven dollars and seventy-five cents. So to get to the hundred million you want, you’re going to have to give up more equity.”
As I’m still staring down at my evidence list, the phone rings. It’s Gabriel.
“The ME has a cause of death,” he says.
I brace myself until he says it.
One word: “Asphyxiation.”
Even though I know the answer, I ask the question. “How?”
“The ME said her windpipe was fractured. He thinks it was probably done by hand.”
“She was choked to death?”
“That’s the preliminary determination, yes.”
“My God.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” He waits a moment, likely for me to say something, but when I don’t, he says, “We’re canvassing East River Park. From Battery Park to Thirty-Fourth Street, showing Charlotte’s photograph and asking if anyone saw a man with a suitcase last Tuesday night. Hopefully that will give us a hit. Someone wheeling a large suitcase in the park late at night is not the usual occurrence.”
I’m in no mood to be optimistic. It seems like hope is simply a luxury I can no longer afford. And even though I know Gabriel is just trying to help, I want to make that clear to him.
“Homeless people do it,” I say.
“Not thousand-dollar luggage. We’ve also followed up with Josh. He let us search his place. He has a set of luggage, but it’s not Tumi. The local cops even got the okay from his parents to look through their home. Same story. No Tumi luggage.”
“They could have tossed it,” I say.
“They could have, but Josh and his parents had different luggage. Much lower-end stuff and all the pieces—even Josh’s—were from the same set. I’m not saying that they couldn’t have had one larger piece that was high-end in addition to a complete set that was low-end—or even two completely different sets, and like you said, they tossed the Tumi—but that’s not the way most people are. And don’t get me wrong, I’m also not saying that we’ve cleared Josh on this, but I am saying that the luggage doesn’t point to him.”
“So what’s it going to be, Paolo? Do the hundred-million raise? Or can you live with less?”
I’m sure the answer he wants to give me is “none of the above.” Actually, that’s probably his second choice, right after “Fuck you, Tyler.”
“I need to talk to my board,” he says. “I’ll get back to you within the hour.”
The 21 Club is almost a caricature of a power spot. It’s housed in a former speakeasy on Fifty-Second Street, just west of Fifth Avenue. Diners are greeted by thirty-three porcelain statues of jockeys standing on a ledge on the exterior of the building, all wearing bright colors. The famous barroom—where Charlie Sheen lunched with Michael Douglas in Wall Street—features assorted sports-related memorabilia hanging from the ceiling. Much of it was donated by famous patrons: Willie Mays’s bat, John McEnroe’s tennis racquet, Jack Nicklaus’s golf club.
Paul is already seated when I arrive. As I’m led by the ma?tre d’ to his table in the back, I scan the faces of my fellow diners. Not more than a handful of women, no people of color. As per the dress code, every man is in a jacket, with most wearing neckties.
Paul stands when I arrive and greets me with a kiss. It takes all my energy not to wince.
“Thank you for bumping your real date on such short notice,” I say.
It was comically easy to get Paul to cancel on whomever he was supposed to meet at 21 today for lunch. All it took for him to rearrange his schedule was the suggestion that I might end up in bed with him after the meal.
My plan isn’t much of one. I’ll suffer through lunch and then accede to his request to go back to his place. Once there, I’ll search for Tumi luggage while he no doubt prepares for sexual conquest. I don’t have an exit strategy, not a small detail considering I suspect Paul of being a murderer—possibly of two women—but I’ll deal with that later.
“My pleasure. After all, you’re much better looking than him.”
Paul gives me a smile that I bet he thinks is sexy as hell.
“This wouldn’t have been my first choice for lunch with you, as it’s kind of a guy mecca,” he says. “But I hate to cancel a reservation, given that I have special table status here.”
It’s ironic that we’re at 21. When Charlotte and I were little, my father would take us here for our birthdays. It was very exciting for us to order a twenty-one-dollar burger. I remember how impressed Charlotte was that the ketchup came on a little dish and not in a Heinz bottle.
The waiter approaches and asks if there’s anything we’d like to drink.
“I normally don’t at lunch,” Paul says, “but I’m game if you are.”
I want him drunk. It will help later.
“I have nowhere to be this afternoon,” I say with what I hope he perceives as a flirty smile. “What do you think goes well with an overpriced burger?”
“I’m thinking a cabernet,” Paul says. He peruses the wine list, which is as thick as a novel. “Yes, we’ll take a bottle of the Brunello di Montalcino La Torre 2009.”
Amoroso calls back thirty minutes later. “We need the full hundred million,” he says, then hangs up without uttering another word.
I take it as a sign that everything is heading in my direction. The Pouch deal will come through, and that will put me in line for another big bonus this year. And today I’ll turn the corner on the Charlotte situation by killing Ella.
After the wine is poured, when the waiter has stepped away, I tell Paul that my sister’s body has been found. He acts as if he hadn’t heard, which must be a lie—unless Paul is purposefully shielding himself from all forms of media because he doesn’t want to be reminded of his crimes.
“I’m so sorry,” Paul says, as if he had nothing to do with it. His feigned empathy lasts about a second before he gets to what he really wants to know. “Do you think they’ll be able to find out who did this now?”
I tell him that there has been a break in the investigation, but I’m not at liberty to share it just yet. I want him to sweat. From the smug look on his face, it hasn’t worked. I suppose killing two women hardens your nervous system. Then again, maybe Paul was always immune to guilt.
A few minutes later, our entrées arrive. By then Paul is droning on about this deal he’s working on, without any awareness that I couldn’t possibly care any less about it. All I want is for this part of the plan to be over so I can move on to phase two.
When the waiter comes and asks if we’d like any dessert or a digestif, I use the request as my opportunity to get into Paul’s apartment. Once there, I’ll be able to find out if he has a matching Tumi suitcase.