“Sure,” I say, grabbing my jacket and following him to the back booth, where we sit across from each other.
“Let’s get you something to drink first,” he tells me. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thanks.” He catches the waitress’s eye and with a couple of hand signals conveys that I’ll have what he’s having. I take him in for a minute. He’s clean-shaven—no beard or mustache—and he’s got a thin, white hockey-stick-shaped scar slicing through one eyebrow. His black blazer is nicely tailored but snug, as if purchased before the weight gain.
“Ms. Linden, why don’t you start by telling me a bit more about your situation,” Mulroney says.
I flesh out what I’ve already shared, not bothering with the fact that my dissociative state might have been triggered by a fight with my spouse and/or long-dormant stress from discovering the body of a child and then misleading the police and my parents. Which, granted, is a helluva lot to skip but not essential for him to hear.
He listens intently, a thick index finger placed sideways across his lips. Though it may be for show, I can see what looks like concern in his watery blue-green eyes.
“That’s got to be incredibly upsetting,” he says when I finish. “Do you mind my asking if you’re continuing to receive medical help?”
“Yes, I’m all set on that front. But there’s no guarantee my memory will come back, and that’s why I need help figuring out where I went—and what I did. And if something might have happened to me.”
“I can understand that. And I know we can be of assistance.”
“You’ve had other cases like this, you said?”
“To be perfectly frank, we’ve never worked with this exact situation, but similar ones. You’ve probably read stories about elderly people with dementia wandering away from their homes—or autistic kids doing the same. They can’t either remember or describe where they went, but the families want to know, even once their loved ones have returned safely.”
“But why would it matter once they’re back?”
“With autistic kids, parents want to make certain no one lured them away and abused them. In the case of one of the elderly ladies we investigated, it was actually the nursing home that hired us. I’m sure the liability aspect worried them.”
“Can you tell me a little more about your process?”
“Sure.” He takes a swig of his coffee and sets the mug down with a thunk. “It really comes down to a combo of shoe-leather investigation and modern technology. We’ll seek to gain access to as much security camera footage as possible and use that to track the person’s whereabouts during the period in question. A lot of people don’t realize this, but if you live in New York, you’re almost constantly being videotaped.”
“I know many companies have security cameras, but aren’t there still plenty of streets in New York without them?”
“We don’t have the kind of coverage London does, but it’s really expanded in recent years, with cameras on both commercial and residential buildings.”
So there were eyes on me when I was missing, and a digital record of my whereabouts. The thought is creepy but at the same time reassuring—because it might be easier than I anticipated to find the truth.
“But how do you get access to the footage?”
“Security guards tend to be very respectful of my experience as a cop, and my partner’s as a Navy SEAL.” He raps his knuckles lightly on the table a couple of times. “And we don’t only rely on video, of course. We talk to people. Ask questions.”
Instinctively I flick my hand up, palm forward. “My doorman may know something about the day I left—which direction I was headed in, for instance—but I wouldn’t want you speaking to him. I don’t want most people in my life clued in about what’s going on.”
“Fine. And I’ll probably start at the end point anyway. This place Greenbacks you mentioned. What kind of building is it in?”
Hearing the company name reminds me of my meeting with Damien later today, and my heart does a nervous skip.
“A smallish one, but they have a manned security desk.”
“Excellent.”
“But how would it help to see footage of me showing up in the lobby?”
Mulroney cocks his head. “It’s not about you in the lobby. It’s about what direction you entered the building from. Once we’ve figured it out—and I say ‘we’ because if you retain me, my partner might end up assisting in part of the investigation—we head in that direction and we secure more footage, continuing to retrace your steps. It’s like following a thread that leads backwards.”
Following a thread. As I’ve thought of reconstructing those two days, it’s seemed more like trying to Krazy Glue the shards of a broken vase together, but I like the thread image. I decide right then to hire Mulroney.
“What’s the fee for this type of investigation?” I ask. “I want to be mindful of costs.”
“I understand that,” Mulroney says. “What we generally charge is seventy an hour, but I would cap the job for now at two thousand dollars, and when we reach that point, we’ll reevaluate. I’ll keep you constantly abreast of the progress, and if after the first day I have any reason to suspect we’re going to hit a dead end, I’ll let you know.”
“And I’d receive the remainder of my retainer back if we decide to halt the investigation for some reason?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, I’m on board.”
We cover a few more details. Mulroney’s going to email me a contract later today, and he explains he’ll need a couple of photos of me, which I promise to shoot over to him. Then he slides a slim notebook from his inside jacket pocket along with a Bic pen and asks what I was wearing when I resurfaced on Thursday, my exact home address as well as the Greenbacks office address, and for any details that might be even slightly relevant. I fill him in on the fact that my purse is missing as well as my phone, and I also describe the charge at Eastside Eats.
“Okay, a piece of the thread to follow. That’s the only charge?”
“Right. I’ve been wondering whether I might have been mugged and the person grabbed the purse along with my phone. But wouldn’t a mugger have tried to use the card again after buying lunch? Or one of the other cards?”
“He might have been looking mainly for cash. You carry much on you?”
“I think I had a few hundred dollars on me at the start of the week. I like to use cash when I can’t write something off for business.”
He shrugs. “If a junkie grabbed your purse, it would have been plenty for a few fixes. This place Eastside Eats. You ever been there before?”
“No, but I checked online and it’s the type of place I might stop in.”
“Anything of note on your calendar for last week? Places you might have gone—or people you might have seen?”
“I had an appointment at one o’clock on Wednesday with a Dr. Elaine Erling—at her New York City office, not the Larchmont one—but I didn’t keep it. There’s a chance that at some point over those two days I showed up at WorkSpace on West Fifty-Fifth Street, where I rent a small office. I hadn’t planned to go in those days—my intention was to work from home—but who knows?”