Authors: Alison Gaylin
But the truth was, Faith was a genuinely nice person. She was a great stepmom, and so considerate of Brenna, handling every drop-off and pickup of Maya for the past seven years—ever since she and Jim had gotten married—because she’d understood Brenna’s condition, understood how painful it was for her to look Jim in the eye without ten years rolling back like tide, without her heart aching and shattering all over again. It was quite a skill, having such an obvious advantage but not rubbing it in. And judging from Faith’s life, from the whole upward trajectory of it, it was a skill she’d honed via plenty of practice.
Brenna tapped Faith on the shoulder, and she turned, her whole face erupting into a smile. “Brenna!” she said in her soft Southern accent. “Not the first person I’d expect to see at one of these! What brings you here?”
“By
one of these
,” Brenna said, “you mean a press conference, don’t you?”
She nodded.
Brenna sighed. “Damn.”
“Is Nelson Wentz a friend?”
Brenna shook her head. “A client,” she said, “who doesn’t seem to know how to listen to advice.”
“Oh my.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth—minus a few expletives.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, who’d he hire you to find?”
“Carol,” Brenna said.
“Oh
my
.”
Brenna nodded. “He called me last night, said to come to his place because he wanted me to see something—I didn’t know that
something
would be this.”
“I’m sure he’ll do fine.”
“Said like a true, bloodthirsty TV reporter.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“This is all off the record, by the way,” Brenna said. “Except the bloodthirsty reporter part.”
Faith smiled, but just for a second. She took a quick glance in the cameraman’s direction and moved closer. “Listen,” she said quietly, “I’m sorry I let Maya spend the night at her friend Larissa’s the other night.”
“That’s all right.”
“No,” she said. “No, it really isn’t. Jim reminded me you’d just come back from your Vegas assignment and probably missed Maya more than usual. He said it was thoughtless of me.”
She looked at her. “He said that?”
“Yes, and he was absolutely right. It
was
thoughtless. I didn’t
think
at all.”
“Faith,” Brenna said. “No one is perfect.”
Faith started to say more, but then a mumbling erupted from the group of reporters, and a push forward, and sure enough, there was Nelson leaving his house in a plain gray suit, accompanied by a stooped, ancient gentleman with a thin parcel of white hair—one of the few living men who could make Nelson seem robust by comparison.
The reporters rushed toward the duo—who probably weighed less than 250 pounds cumulatively—their cameras switching on, microphones jumping out from the ends of rigid, insistent arms. It made Brenna uncomfortable, this feeding frenzy with such a paltry, frail catch. She moved closer so Nelson could see her.
The old man stepped forward. Carefully, he removed a sheet of white paper from the pocket of his black suit coat, as well as a pair of super-thick Ben Franklin–style reading glasses that Faith’s cameraman no doubt coveted. It took him more than a full two minutes to accomplish this task, and watching was agonizing.
“I am Malcolm Fischbein,” the old man read, in exactly the voice you’d expect to come out of him—a sort of extended, rattling gasp. “Mr. Wentz’s attorney.” Shocked stage-whispering from the reporters. Brenna could pick out the words “retirement” and “fossil.” She heard Faith’s cameraman mutter, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” and she thought
, At least Fischbein knows how to shave.
The man coughed deeply, then continued. “Mr. Wentz would like to thank you all for coming. As you know, he has been through a very difficult time, and would appreciate your cooperation as far as giving him the privacy he needs in order to grieve the death of his wife, Carol. Mr. Wentz will now read a brief statement, after which there will be no questions.”
The crowd emitted a collective sigh. Brenna felt relief edging through her, her shoulders starting to settle.
No questions. Thank you, Mr. Fischbein.
Nelson caught Brenna’s eye and gave her a brief nod as he unfolded his own piece of paper. “Good morning everyone,” he said in a tremulous voice. Brenna couldn’t look at him. She was too nervous. For several seconds, it was June 10, 2005, and she could feel the cold metal chair pressing into her back as she sat in the front row of Maya’s first clarinet recital, sweat pooling at the backs of her knees.
The Blue Danube.
Why did she pick the Blue Danube when she can play Beethoven’s Ninth so perfectly?
“ . . . a credit to her community and a wonderful wife. We had plans. We were going to retire to Provence. I loved Carol, and finding her the way I did was devastating . . .”
Nelson didn’t seem to be doing that bad. Brenna checked out the reporters’ faces. They were all listening respectfully—some even appeared to be moved.
Nelson said, “I understand your need to report the news, but I also ask for your consideration.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Brenna saw a tight, acid yellow muscle T. Sure enough, it was Trent standing next to her, folder in hand, gaze riveted to Faith’s cream-suited ass. Brenna gave Trent a swat on the arm, breaking the focus. “Oh, hey.” He gestured at Nelson. “What the hell?”
Brenna shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she whispered. “But at least he isn’t humiliating himself.”
Nelson was saying, “Please try to put yourself in my position. I’ve lost everything I held dear. Allow the police to continue their investigation, and allow me to mourn in peace.” Nelson looked up from his paper. “That’s all,” he said quietly. Brenna glanced around. Respectful silence.
No harm done
. She wanted to kiss Nelson and his lawyer both.
And then, Nelson smiled.
Brenna was sure it was reflexive—a symptom of his nervousness—but for whatever reason, Nelson Wentz, who had remained composed and sober throughout his speech, broke out in a shit-eating grin that lasted long enough for every photographer in the tristate area to get a shot of it in glorious high def.
“Uh . . .” Trent said.
“Nicolai, you’re getting this, right?” Faith asked her cameraman.
Go, Nelson. Go back inside.
Nelson’s lawyer took him by the arm and led him back into the house, no doubt beating himself up inside for allowing a press conference. Brenna couldn’t stop shaking her head.
Nicolai switched off his camera and began taking it apart. Faith turned to Brenna. “Well, I thought he did a very good job,” she said.
Brenna rolled her eyes.
“How you doin’, Faith?” Trent was trying what he must have thought was a seductive pout, with his arms crossed over his chest in a way that purposely accentuated his flexed biceps.
“Fine . . . Brent, is it?”
“Trent. But my special ladies call me TNT.”
Faith just looked at him.
“TNT,” he repeated. “It’s Trent but, uh, without a couple of letters. Follow me?”
“As far as I’d like to. See you soon, Brenna.”
After Faith and her cameraman left, Trent said, “Looks like the Pointer Sisters got a face lift.”
“You’re saying you think she had a boob job.”
“Yep.”
“And I knew exactly what you meant. I didn’t need a translation.” Brenna sighed heavily. “Trent, you and I spend too much time together.”
“Aw, you’d be lost without me.” He handed her the folder. “I’m thinking Faith needs glasses though.”
“Because she wasn’t checking you out.”
“Bingo!”
“You see what I’m saying? You understand the
problem
here?” Brenna had the folder open now, and was staring at Trent’s age-enhanced photo of Iris Neff—a raven-haired teen, with prominent cheekbones and a mysterious little smile. It broke her heart a little. Trent’s photos always did. They were so real, all you could see in them was potential. “Wow,” Brenna said. “She looks a lot like her mom.”
“Not anymore.”
“Huh?”
“Check out the next photo.”
Brenna flipped to a picture underneath—a heavyset woman with frizzy gray hair and a wan, sad mouth. Only the eyes were the same, glittering darkly out of that tired, unremarkable face, as if they were slumming it. “Where did you get this?”
“I captured it off her Web site.”
“Lydia Neff has a Web site?”
“She did two years ago. I guess she was trying to be a life coach. She was all certified and everything. Nice Web site, too, but it hasn’t been touched since she left town.”
“Lydia really changed.”
“Well, if you ask me, she was eating her grief.”
“
Eating her grief?
Where the hell did you get that? Oprah?”
He shook his head. “Tyra Banks. She did a whole show on food and love a couple of weeks ago, and— Stop looking at me like that. It was very
informative
.”
“Do we know where Lydia Neff is living now?”
“Nope,” Trent said. “Do we need to?”
Brenna thought back to the police report, the missing interview with John Doe . . . “We might.”
“On it.”
“Me too.”
Trent stared out at the dispersing crowd. “What was up with Wentz’s smile? May as well gift wrap his ass and leave it on the DA’s doorstep with a nice box of chocolates.”
Brenna winced. “I’m hoping maybe some bigger news will eclipse it. Maybe Brad and Angelina getting married, Mayor Bloomberg declaring a state of emergency . . .” She removed a printout from the folder—Carol’s credit card charges from the last three weeks before her disappearance. “There are no charges after the twenty-fourth.”
“The lady wasn’t killed for her card. Look at September 22 though.”
On September 22, Carol had eaten at the Blue Moon Diner in Mount Temple. Brenna recalled what Morasco had said.
Carol was seen at a diner in Mount Temple, sitting close to another man.
But it hadn’t been a very romantic meal, had it? Only ten dollars—and Carol had paid . . . A thought crept into Brenna’s mind. “You have a reverse directory app on your smart phone, right?”
“Yep. Whatcha need?”
“One sec.” Brenna thought back to the previous night—walking home from chorus with Maya and finding Nelson at Trent’s desk, handing her the files and spaghetti Bolognese and Dave Handly, the whole night, right up until she’d opened the file containing the Neff police report and the Post-it had sailed out . . . “Okay. Look this up for me.” Brenna rattled off Graeme Klavel’s number as Trent tapped it onto his screen and waited. “Klavel Investigations,” he said. “2920 Columbus Avenue . . . Mount Temple.” He looked at Brenna. “Guess maybe it was a business lunch?”
“Uh-huh,” Brenna was reading the charge right after the one from the diner. “Forty-two dollars and eighty-nine cents. To where? Sammy’s?”
“It’s a convenience store.”
“Where?”
“Buffalo.”
Brenna frowned at him.
“I know, right? I called, but they weren’t open. I’ll try again.” By now, the crowd of reporters had thinned out considerably. “We should go in.”
Just as she and Trent headed up Nelson’s walkway, though, Brenna felt a tingling at the base of her neck, across her shoulders.
Someone is watching me
, she thought. And then . . .
Iris
.
But when she spun around, the face Brenna saw, staring out at her from the group of reporters, was not that of a raven-haired teenage girl. It was a face she remembered. A face she didn’t like.
Brenna turned back around and grabbed Trent’s arm, leading him quickly up the walk. “So what about the chat room membership? Do we have an e-mail address for her yet?”
“Yep,” Trent said. “I’m running it through this new hacking program I’ve come up with. It puts through all combinations of letters and numbers until the account recognizes the password. But it would help if Wentz could tell me some of her likes and dislikes, lucky numbers maybe . . . so I could narrow down the field. This way, it’s gonna take weeks.”
“We’ll ask him. I doubt he’ll know anything, but we can ask.” Brenna ventured a glance at the street.
Gone
.
She took a breath. “So,” she said as they reached the door, her pulse finally slowing. “What was Carol Wentz’s account name?”
Trent scrunched up his face. “It’s a weird one,” he said. “OrangePineapple98.”
Brenna stole another glance up the block.
“What do you keep looking for?”
“Just someone I recognize from eleven years ago,” she said. “A cop.”
“Must be a pain in the balls to never forget a face.”
“
Total
pain in the balls.” Brenna scanned the sidewalk. She didn’t see the cop anymore, didn’t see that face. But still, she felt watched.
H
e shouldn’t have watched her for that long. Humans are animals after all, equipped with thousands of sensors to protect that delicate, impractical flesh. Stare at anyone for an extended period and the tiny hairs stand up at the back of the neck, the stomach churns, the skin perks into goose bumps, the mind knows your intent.
No one understood that as well as Adam Meade, yet even after she turned and spotted him, he felt compelled to stare. He knew her from somewhere, this woman who was working for Nelson Wentz. Brenna Spector, her name was. Meade had learned that from listening in on Mr. Wentz’s phone conversations. But it wasn’t the name that was familiar—it was the face. Meade found it so irritating, this gap in his memory, this
Where do I know her from?
He so rarely asked himself questions he couldn’t answer.
Use your strengths, son
, Meade’s father used to say. And Adam, the firstborn and only son Adam, who always took his father’s advice . . . Adam Meade possessed a battery of strengths, and used them well.
He was observant
. The moment he’d noticed the look Nelson Wentz had exchanged with the tall, thin woman at the front of the press group, Meade had set about working his way around all the mumbling bodies and bulky camera equipment and rigid microphones, until he’d gotten close enough to hear the woman’s assistant call her by name.
Brenna
. Bingo.