“Oh, right, yes.” Something she’d told me weeks ago about how she’d been unable to find an earlier flight back from Jamaica wiggles into my head. Another memory slip on my part.
“I’ll make up the hours at—”
“Don’t worry about it. How was the wedding?” I say, at least recalling that.
“Nice. Of course, my sister wanted to save money by holding it during hurricane season, and we’re just incredibly lucky the weather was okay. . . . Um, listen, I saw your question about Greenbacks. There must be some kind of misunderstanding. I never called anyone there.”
“But if it wasn’t you, who was it?”
Nicole hesitates briefly.
“Uh, I hate to throw anyone under the bus . . .”
“Just tell me, Nicole. Please.”
I hear a quick intake of breath on the other end. I’ve never been short with her before.
“It may have been Sasha.”
Why would Sasha be calling over there?
“What makes you say that?”
“I overheard her on the phone when she dropped by our office a couple of weeks ago, and she mentioned Greenbacks. I don’t think she was talking to anyone in the company then, just talking about the place, but it caught my attention because I know you used to work there.”
“Can you imagine any reason she would contact them?”
“Not really. I never ask her to handle any research involving the book or the column, so maybe it had something to do with the podcast.”
I’m very clear with Sasha about who she should be calling regarding the podcast and I’ve never mentioned the name Greenbacks.
“Thanks, I’ll speak to her. And look, I know you and I need to catch up about the book. I’ve been a bit under the weather lately, but I’ll definitely be coming into WorkSpace tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll have everything ready to review.”
With the conversation concluded, I’m about to call Sasha and get to the bottom of the situation, when my phone rings. Mulroney’s name lights up my screen.
“What’s up?” I say, gripping the phone.
“We’re starting to put pieces of the puzzle together.”
Okay, wow.
“I’m all ears.”
“I should have more later, but let me tell you what I’ve turned up so far. I’ll start with Tuesday morning. You left your apartment building at around nine wearing a dark trench coat—I determined this through video footage, by the way—and for the next hour and a half or so, you hung out in a café kind of place called—I’ve never been sure how to say it—Le Pain Quotidien, several blocks from your home.”
“That would make sense,” I say, not bothering to correct his pronunciation, which made the last word in the name sound like quotient. “If I need a change of scenery, I sometimes go over there with my laptop. Except—except I don’t have a digital record of working on anything that day.”
“According to a waitress I spoke to, you ordered tea or coffee—she doesn’t remember which—and leafed through a couple of magazines. She’s almost positive you had a purse and thinks she remembers you looking at your phone but isn’t sure.”
“The magazine part is the only thing that’s odd. I usually don’t do that sort of thing in the middle of a workday.”
Of course, maybe I simply needed to decompress after fighting with Hugh the night before.
“She says the main reason she remembers is that when you were paying the bill, you asked if she wanted the magazines, and she took them. She said you seemed pretty distracted and told her you were in a rush and needed to get the train to Forty-Second Street. You paid in cash.”
“Forty-Second Street?” I feel myself squinting in confusion.
“Can you think of any reason you would head there?”
“None. I usually do a podcast on Tuesdays at a studio on Ninth Avenue and Forty-Eighth, but we weren’t recording that particular day. And there’d be no reason for me to go as far south as Forty-Second. I try to avoid Times Square as much as I can.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you think if something did happen to me that day, it might have been in that area?”
“Possibly, though we don’t know how long you were there. Could you search your emails for any reference to Forty-Second Street, in case an appointment slipped your mind?”
Well, that’s one way to put it.
“Will do.”
“Now on to Wednesday, where I have an even bigger surprise. I dropped by Eastside Eats and it turns out there’s a second location—on East Seventh Street—and that’s where you actually bought food that day. A counter person there recalls you coming in around the lunch hour. The charge on your credit card bill would have indicated the name but not the address.”
“That one makes even less sense,” I exclaim. “I would have no reason whatsoever to be in the East Village.”
“You ordered a sandwich, she thinks. Maybe coffee, too. She remembers you because—and you can’t take this personally—she was worried at first that the credit card you were using might not be yours.”
“What?”
“She thought you seemed a little disheveled and you hesitated before signing your name. Plus, you didn’t have a purse. You pulled the card out of your coat pocket, which means that if you did still have your purse with you when you lost your phone on Tuesday, it was gone by this point.”
“Weird,” I say, baffled. “My purse was missing, but I still had a credit card.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t sound like you were mugged.”
For a minute I’m silent, attempting to absorb everything he’s shared so far. It’s like one of those times when a friend tells you a story about something funny or crazy you did one night years ago when the two of you were out barhopping together, but you can’t recall a single, solitary moment of the evening.
“I think I should go down to the East Village,” I announce finally.
“That’s a good idea. It might trigger a memory. Start at Eastside Eats and then walk around the area, too. I don’t have a complete picture yet, but it seems like you spent quite a bit of time there.”
“What do you mean?”
“You came to the sandwich shop from farther east and headed back in that direction when you left. And we also found footage of you walking near Tompkins Square Park, along the western end.”
“I don’t get it. I once took a night class at NYU and used to explore the area when I was down there, but that was years ago, right after I moved to the city after graduation.”
“We’ll figure it out. I need to jump on another call, but let’s speak later.”
After we sign off, I fling myself back against the seat. I have no reason to doubt Mulroney, but his revelations aren’t computing for me. What was I doing in that part of the city?
And more importantly, what had caused me to run from myself and everything that mattered to me?
20
Due to bad traffic, I don’t make it back to the city until close to seven. But that still means I have an hour to kill before Hugh arrives home. I peel off my dress, change into jeans and a sweater, and order dinner for the two of us from Pavone’s. That’s twice in seven days, but I lack the energy to devise a more original plan.