Then why did my husband stuff them in the trash bin?
My stomach twists. So much for getting back into a groove with Hugh. He’s a puzzle to me at the moment. But I can’t freak myself out now thinking about it. I toss the garbage back into the bin and head down the hall toward the bedroom. Though the door to the den is closed, I can hear the drone of Hugh’s voice, clearly reading material into the phone.
For the next hour I sit at the desk in the alcove, reviewing notes for the podcast tomorrow, including the research Sasha prepared. Finished, I email some final thoughts to my producer, Casey. After stealing a few minutes to make a cup of chamomile tea, I catch up on financial news—the Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, Yahoo Finance, Fortune’s Broadsheet for women—so I don’t come across tomorrow like someone who’s been in a coma for the past week.
I’m just about to shut my laptop when I see an email alert pop up onto the screen. It’s a response from the private detective agency I contacted.
Yes, Kurt Mulroney, one of the two partners, has written, this is absolutely the type of case we handle. We’ve done more of these than you would expect. If you’d like to discuss further, you can call me at the number below tomorrow or even tonight. I know you’re eager to have this situation resolved.
More of these than you would expect. Perhaps I should take comfort in the fact that there’s apparently a subset of people roaming the metropolitan area in fugue states. Hey, there might even be a support group with meetings I could attend. Blank Slates Anonymous. Obviously, it couldn’t work exactly like other support groups, where you talk about the wicked bender or food binge you’ve recently engaged in. Because you don’t remember anything.
I’ll call him in the morning, I decide. Even though Hugh was dismissive of the idea, I see no harm in learning more about the process and finding out what this guy would charge. I jot down the number on a purple Post-it and stick it to the base of my desk lamp.
But then without even thinking, I grab my phone and tap in the number. I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.
“Mulroney,” he answers. He has a deep voice, tinged with what sounds like a Bronx accent.
“It’s Ally Linden calling. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”
“My pleasure. We’d love to be able to assist you.”
“Is this really something you specialize in?”
“I wouldn’t call it a specialty—we do a wide variety of work—but we’ve handled similar cases.”
“How have you managed them?”
“What I generally like to do first with a prospective client is meet for a free consultation and discuss our procedure in person. I’ll take you through everything—and there’s no obligation whatsoever on your part.”
I hesitate. He sounds professional enough, though he’s surely practiced at the kind of patter that encourages people to bite.
“You were a detective with the NYPD?”
“That’s right. Seventeen years. Gold shield.”
“I suppose that kind of training helps in your current line of work.”
“Yes and no,” he says with a chuckle. “It trained me to be a great detective, that’s for sure. But on the other hand, cops get in the habit of rolling in loud and visible, and this line of work generally calls for a low profile.”
I like the way he put it.
“Would we meet in your office?” I ask.
“Like a lot of P.I.s, I work out of my home, since so much work is done via computer these days. For meetings I usually suggest a coffee shop. What area would you be coming from?”
“The West Sixties, near Lincoln Center.”
“I live pretty close—on West Ninety-Seventh Street. There’s a diner I like on the corner of Ninety-Ninth and Broadway or I could come down your way. Whichever works best for you.”
I prefer the idea of meeting on his turf, to gain a better sense of him.
“Why don’t we meet at your diner? Does ten A.M. tomorrow work?
“Absolutely.”
Mulroney provides the address for the imaginatively named Broadway Diner, a place I’ve surely passed but can’t place in my mind. He explains that he’s five eleven, with dark hair trimmed very short, and that he’ll be wearing a black blazer.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’m five seven, by the way, with long light brown hair and hazel eyes.”
My guess is that he already knows this. He’s probably googled me, has learned what I do for work and who I’m married to, has maybe even figured out my exact address. But hey, that’s what he does for a living.
After signing off, I lean back in my desk chair and exhale. I’m glad I took this step. Even if there’s no obligation, I suspect I’m going to end up hiring him—and he’ll dig up answers for me.
Still, I can feel my pulse racing a little. Because there’s fear seeping out from beneath my relief.
What if Gabby’s theory is wrong? What if in the two days I was gone, I didn’t witness another person being hurt? What if nothing bad happened to me, either?
What if instead I did things that were incredibly foolish? Or wrong, even? Things I’ll totally regret once I learn what they are?
15
When I show up at the diner the next morning, I find that it’s a retro-feeling, old-style diner with red vinyl booths, thick white coffee mugs, and about four hundred items on the menu. I guess it’s appropriate enough. Somehow, I can’t quite picture sitting down with a private eye at a hipster café where they serve avocado toast topped with cumin salt and chia seeds.
Though it’s ten o’clock, the diner is still half full of people finishing breakfast, and the air is ripe with the smells of pancakes, syrup, and bacon. I glance around and don’t see anyone resembling Mulroney’s photo. After hanging my coat on the hook attached to the end of a booth, I slide across the cushion and take a few deep breaths. This all seems so surreal to me, like I’m playing a part in a movie from the 1940s.
I never even had the chance to tell Hugh I was coming here. When I’d wandered down to the den later last night, I found him asleep on the love seat, his long legs draped over the arm.
“Uh, sorry,” he said, as I’d nudged him awake. He glanced bleary eyed at his watch. “Christ, I knew I shouldn’t have lain down.”
“Why don’t you come to bed, honey,” I urged.
“Yeah, maybe I’d better. I’ll have to get a really early start tomorrow.”
And he did, leaving before I was awake. A note from him on the island counter promised he’d be home early tonight.
As I’m trying to grab the waiter’s attention, a man moves from the rear of the diner and sidles up to the booth I’m sitting in.
“Ms. Linden?” he asks quietly. I catch the heavy scent of a leathery aftershave.
“Yes?” I’ve never set eyes on him before.
“Kurt Mulroney,” he says, thrusting out a hand. He’s at least fifteen pounds heavier than he appears in the photos on the agency website, and his hair’s been shaved off rather than trimmed short.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“No problem. Why don’t we move to my booth?” He kicks his chin up toward the back of the room. “We’ll have more privacy there.”