Currently, Veronica Merrick resided in Miami in a rented one-bedroom condo, as reported by several articles gleefully describing her pedestrian lifestyle. America did enjoy a good comeuppance. There was no love lost between the former husband and wife, and at this point, she was probably a dead end for cracking Charles Merrick. Merrick seemed the sort who would need to celebrate his triumphs and erase his failures. Veronica Merrick fell in the latter category.
The Merricks had one daughter, Chelsea Merrick. Unlike her mother, Chelsea seemed a promising angle. The daughter had followed in her father’s footsteps to Groton and had been accepted to Brown. Her college-application essay, leaked to Gawker.com, was an adoring paean to her father. Father-daughter photographs painted Merrick as especially doting, and Gibson found numerous mentions of her in his interviews. She’d been a beautiful girl, mixing the best from both parents. Her mother’s delicate bone structure and her father’s eyes and spectacular blond hair, which cascaded down her back. His third hedge fund had even been named “Chelsea” in her honor.
During the trial, his assets frozen, Merrick had quietly emptied his daughter’s trust fund to pay his legal bills. Chelsea Merrick had never enrolled at Brown, and instead gone west to find herself, abandoning New York before it abandoned her. She’d worked for a spell as a waitress at a ski resort in Colorado before moving to Oregon. Gibson found her transcripts from the University of Portland, an incoherent assortment of courses but no degree. After that, a spotty job history in and around Portland before she dropped out of sight. Gibson had decided to continue looking; the memory of an adoring daughter would be something Charles Merrick would cling to in prison.
As soon as Gibson stepped out of the shade, he reached for his sunglasses. It was a brilliant, cloudless day, and Lydia Malkin moved quickly along Astoria Boulevard. She covered a lot of ground in a hurry for someone her height, and Gibson found himself trotting to keep up, afraid to lose sight of her on the busy street. He was skilled at finding people but not so good at following them. The Marines had taught him many skills, but tailing a woman through New York hadn’t been among them.
Lydia Malkin stopped to look at something in a store window. Not knowing what else to do, Gibson did the same and found himself staring stupidly in the window of a take-out chicken joint. When he glanced up she had doubled back toward him. Not toward him—at him. When he met her eyes, he knew he was busted.
“Who are you with?” she demanded.
“What?”
“I’m not giving interviews. That’s all got to go through the magazine. You have to talk to Peter Moynihan directly.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“Then why are you following me? Please don’t be a stalker. That would be so boring,” she said, channeling her best Dorothy Parker.
“I need your help.”
“With?”
“Charles Merrick.”
She said, “Ha” in lieu of laughing. “Get in line.”
He looked around. “Think I’m at the front of it right now.”
She made a face suggesting it was a passably clever retort. “Why should I help you?”
“Goodness of your heart?”
“Aw . . . first day in New York, sweetie?”
“All right, how about you help me and I don’t publicize the real reason you wanted to interview Merrick?”
That stopped her. She gave him a second once-over. “Well, you’re a quick study. I’ll give you that.” She checked the time on a clunky sports watch on her wrist. “I’ve got thirty minutes.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You can have fifteen of them . . . insert name here.”
“Ben Rizolli,” Gibson said, naming a kid he’d known in elementary school.
They ducked into a grim railroad bar. Inside, they ordered drinks from a massive bearded bartender who looked at them like they were lost.
“Bombay Sapphire and tonic,” Lydia said. “Three limes.”
“What?” the bartender asked.
“To which part?”
“The Bombay part.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, I’m not kidding you, princess.”
“A gin and tonic.”
“Well, then say that.”
“Come for the smell, stay for the customer service.” Lydia rolled her eyes and left Gibson to pay and found a table toward the back. Gibson ordered the first beer he saw on the row of taps, tipped heavily, and went to join her. She sat back lazily in her chair, watching him and stirring her gin and tonic. He finished his beer in three long gulps.
“Prick forgot my limes.”
“They don’t have limes.”
“Of course they don’t,” she said and changed the subject. “You know, you’re the first one to figure it out.”
“How much did they lose?”
“Everything. But only half to Merrick. The other half went to Madoff.”
“No way.”
She laughed. “Right? My parents, the two-time losers. Way to diversify your portfolio, folks.”
“Where are they now?”
“Mom’s surviving,” she said, turning serious. “She’s not having the retirement she earned, but she’s surviving.”
“And your dad?”
“My mom survives him too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, what are you going to do?”
“That why you went after Merrick?”
She nodded. “Didn’t think I’d get half of what I did, but the man has issues with women. Couldn’t help himself. Almost felt bad, but I just handed him the shovel; he did his own digging. So what’s your story? Your parents ride the Merrick express too?”
“This isn’t about my parents.”
“Not a reporter. Not personal. So what then? You some kind of private detective?”
“No, I think I established that with my crappy tailing.”
“True.”
“How did you spot me anyway?”
“I’m five foot nothing and live in Queens. My entire life is built around spotting men taking an unhealthy interest in me. I caught you not looking at me when I came out of the apartment.”
“Damn.”
“You’re big; I’m smart. Only chance I’ve got.” She tried her drink and put it back down. “Wow, that is literally the worst. Is this left over from a prohibition bathtub?”
“Get you something else?”
“No, but you can tell me what it is you want from me. This is your blackmail thing after all.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“What’re you gonna do?” she said again with a shrug. “Finance would not take kindly to those kinds of undisclosed conflicts of interest. I’m actually kind of surprised no one has called me on it yet. It’ll come out eventually. Always does. Not like I tried to hide it.”
“What happens then?”
“Depends on how the media reacts. The magazine will act to protect their reputation. Peter will have to suspend me. Maybe fire me.”
“You’re not worried about it?”
“I’ll take a hit, but in the long run it will probably be good for my career. The Merrick interview got my name out there. Spin it right, and I might even come out the hero. Daughter sticks it to man who ruined her parents. Has a nice populist ring to it, don’t you think?”
“So why are you talking to me?”