We arrive at a large, round entry hall. One end of it is crusted in a multicolored glass window, a mix of modern and deco, which shows a man reaching up toward the sun. It’s a mesmerizing piece of art, and it’s enormous. Worth, I presume, several million dollars. Or ten or twenty thousand of these tracksuits we’re wearing. I’m not sure just how Rivard counts money.
Our security guard leads us forward through a grand double-doored entrance, into another room that I suspect only exists for circumstances like this: meetings with strangers. It’s built to impress. There’s no desk, but there’s a vast view of the city, obscured today by low, wispy clouds. Three grand sofas are set in a triangle, with a table in the middle. The security man takes up a post near the wall and crosses his hands in front, looking like he can stand there for the next ten thousand years, and Sam and I wait, not sure where, or if, we should sit.
Ballantine Rivard rolls in exactly on time. His wheelchair is a marvel of aesthetic design, and it moves almost silently, except for the slight hiss of tires on the thick carpeting. In person, he looks younger than his pictures, and he’s changed out the black-rimmed glasses for a pair with a slightly blue tint to the lenses. Frameless. They make him look like he’s about to go Formula One racing.
Ironically—or not—he’s wearing the exact same tracksuit we are.
“Sit, sit,” he says, giving us an impartial smile. “Gwen Proctor. Samuel Cade. Don’t stand on ceremony.” His honeyed tones don’t fool me. This man didn’t get to the top of this tower by being charming.
Sam and I sink down on the sofa, which feels brand-new. Not many people get to sit here, I think. We’re rare exceptions, coming here at all.
“Can I offer you a drink?” He doesn’t look behind him, but as if on cue, an impeccably dressed man in a tailored blue business suit walks in, carrying a silver tray loaded down with drink choices. Every one of them is alcoholic, and above my wildest dream budget.
“Scotch would be fine,” Sam says, and I nod. Rivard wants to be hospitable, and we’ll sip for courtesy.
The Scotch, of course, is heaven in a glass. I try to keep the sips shallow.
“Now,” Rivard says, as he’s given his own glass, which the man in the suit has mixed with expert ease from three different liquors. “You have news of this investigator.”
“I’ll tell you what we know, but it needs to be private.”
Rivard’s eyes lock on me through the blue-tinted glasses. “Mr. Chivari. Mr. Dougherty. Please leave us.”
The man in the blue suit does it without hesitation or question, but the security man says, “Sir, wouldn’t you rather I stay—”
“Out, Mr. Dougherty. You may wait just beyond the door. I will be fine.” There’s a set to Rivard’s jaw now, and a faint flush working up through the pallid skin of his neck, though his voice remains calm and slow. Dougherty gives us both a last, unhappy look, and then closes up the door after himself. “All right. We’re alone now. And I can answer you without filters. Now. Tell me how you happened to find this man.”
“You mean, Mr. Sauer?”
His eyes flicker just a little, but what it means, I don’t know. “Yes. Where did you find him?”
“In a deserted warehouse,” I say. I’m willing to let Sam take the lead, but he’s laying back, watching. Absorbing information. “Why did you hire him?”
“You said the name Absalom,” Rivard counters. “Explain how you know that name, please.”
I force a smile. “Sure. But first you tell me how you know it.”
“I’ve had some . . . issues. I’d rather not go into the details.”
“Did it have to do with your son?” Sam asks, and I ease back to let him take the conversation.
I think for a few seconds that we’ve lost the old man, that he’s going to summon his men to see us out . . . but Rivard heaves a sigh and looks off into the distance, out at the serene Atlanta skyline. “Yes. It had to do with my son,” he says. His voice has a ring of sadness, and also frustration. “Very much to do with him. I lost him to suicide a few months ago, you know. My fault. It’s not easy, raising wealthy children with a good sense of right and wrong. I should have done better, but that’s my sin, not his. He had drug problems through the years, as I suppose you’re aware; the tabloids covered it with a great deal of glee. He was in and out of treatment facilities . . . not unlike you, Mr. Cade. You also have some hospitalization in your past, don’t you?”
Sam closes up. I’ve seen it before, this change, but it’s still alarming, as if he’s turned to glass, and only his eyes are still alive. Then the shell breaks, and he says, “I was hospitalized after Afghanistan.”
“No shame in it, son. A lot of good men come back damaged from war.”
Sam’s not having Rivard’s honey-coated condescension. His eyes have gone flat and cold. “I was treated for severe depression, and since you’re only discussing it to demonstrate you dug into both our histories, why don’t you just skip to the main course and talk about Melvin Royal?”
I’m glad he’s countermoved. Hearing him say my ex-husband’s name is a shock, but a bracing one. We’ve just controlled the pacing. And I see Rivard doesn’t care for that much, from the slight tightening of his thin lips.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s do discuss the invisible serial killer in the room. Melvin Royal is on the loose, everyone is running in terror, and yet you, Gina, you aren’t hiding. If anyone has cause, one would suppose it’s you . . . unless you have a good reason not to be afraid of him. Which makes me believe that is how you know about Absalom.”
“Fuck you,” I say, which makes him wince from the incivility of it all. “You think I’m working with my ex? Sincerely, fuck you.” I stand up, set my glass with a thump, and head for the door. Rivard smoothly angles his chair forward to cut me off, and I’m not quite angry enough to punch a rich old man who’s wheelchair-bound. “Move.”
“I was only seeing your reaction,” he tells me calmly. “I do apologize if you were offended.”
I’m staring straight into his eyes. “If I was offended? Fuck you and your Ivory Tower power-play bullshit. That sick bastard is hunting me. He’s hunting my children. Either help, or get out of my way. Is that direct enough for you?”
Behind me, Sam stands, too. I hear his glass hit the table. “We don’t need you,” he tells Rivard. “Go to hell.”
It’s not quite Fuck you, but I’ll take it. He’s probably thinking about Mike Lustig, and not completely destroying this back channel, but I don’t have any kind of patience. I am incandescent with rage. Melvin’s Little Helper had her day in court, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone say this to my face again.
Rivard blinks first. “All right,” he says, then moves his chair out of my way. “You’re welcome to leave if you like, I won’t stop you. But I do apologize, Ms. Proctor. That was rude. But I had to be certain you weren’t . . . one of them.”