That seems to mollify him, at least temporarily, and he soon hustles me off the phone to take another call. Once again, I wonder why he’s such a superfan of Sasha’s.
I return her call next.
“Sorry to be out of touch yesterday,” she says. “I’ve been crazy busy. But I’ve done all the research for next week’s podcast. Do you want me to drop by your place again so we can review it?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Sasha,” I say. The last thing I need is her stopping by with more pops of color and sly-seeming comments about my husband. “Why don’t you email me what you have, and I’ll read through it. . . . And if I have any questions, I can give you a call.”
“Okay, let me know.”
“Before you go, there’s something else I’d like to discuss. Do you have an extra minute?”
“Of course.”
“Did you call the PR person at Greenbacks and ask if you could arrange an interview with someone there?”
She hesitates briefly before speaking.
“Yes, actually, I did.”
“I never suggested you call anyone there for the podcast. I—”
“It actually wasn’t for the podcast.”
“Then what was it for?”
“I’m exploring an idea for a piece on Greenbacks, and if it pans out, I’ll pitch it to a major website.”
“But you used my name. That’s not kosher, Sasha. Not when it doesn’t involve me.”
“Sorry, but I was hoping you’d understand because the piece is going to be important.”
“Important how?”
“To be perfectly blunt, there may be something sketchy going on at Greenbacks—on the business side. I’ve gotten to know someone who works there and he tipped me off.”
My stomach tightens.
“Something sketchy how?”
“Are we speaking confidentially? I know you used to work there.”
“Yes, you have my word I’ll keep it to myself.”
“I hear they might have really inflated the number of accounts they have on the advisory side. Meaning they misled their investors.”
I’m stunned by this. It can’t be true. I was involved only on the content side, but I worked extensively with employees on the business team at Greenbacks, and I never heard so much as a hint of anything unethical.
But then again, that was five years ago.
“You’re basing this on the word of one person?” I ask.
“Yes, but he’s very reliable.”
“Sasha, I know you want to do more writing, but it seems it would be smarter to focus on pitching solid personal finance pieces,” I say, unable to resist giving her some unsolicited advice. “And save the muckraking until you have more experience as a reporter. But whatever you decide, please don’t use my name again.”
“Fine,” she says curtly.
I sign off feeling flustered by her revelation. Damien’s a rule bender, sometimes a rule breaker, but he’s got scruples. Or at least I always thought he did.
I bite my lip, staring out the window. I’d toyed earlier with going down to the East Village later this afternoon, but I need to put that on hold for now. I have to do what Erling suggested—relax, pause my search for answers, and sit in a café with a hot cup of tea. This also means skipping a promised trip to WorkSpace to discuss book research with Nicole. I shoot her an email apologizing for not making it in today. I add that I spoke to Sasha about not tossing my name around in the future. Before I can change my mind, I ask her if she’s heard any buzz about Greenbacks lately.
We reach my building and as I dash into the lobby, I notice it’s begun to drizzle. It hasn’t rained, I realized, since the day I resurfaced at Greenbacks. Autumn’s rushing by and I’ve barely had a moment to savor it.
I can tell something’s off the moment I step into the foyer of my apartment. There’s a light coming from deep inside, seeping into the dimness of the great room. It means a lamp’s on in the bedroom or den, but I’m positive I turned all the lights off before I left.
Then I hear movement, and the click of a closet door closing. Footsteps. Is a maintenance person here? We haven’t put in a request, as far as I know.
I lurch backward and grab the front door handle, ready to bolt. But before I can spin around and flee, I see Hugh saunter into the great room, cell phone in one hand and a water glass in the other. He’s headed toward the island but stops short in surprise when he sees me.
“Oh god, you scared me,” he says, setting his stuff on the island top. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“And I thought you were a burglar,” I say, after exhaling in relief. “Why are you home so early?”
I slip out of my sweater coat, hang it in the closet, and stride into the great room.
“I’m not here yet for the evening,” Hugh says. He’s in a dress shirt, tie, and pinstriped suit pants. “Tonight’s when we have that toast for the partner who’s retiring. I ended up spilling an entire cup of coffee into my lap this afternoon, and there was no way I could show up in those damn pants.”
“Oh, gosh, that must have hurt.”
He grins, a Hugh grin that I haven’t seen in a while. “It wasn’t fun, but fortunately my manhood was spared.”
“Good to know,” I say.
“How was Dr. Erling?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. I’m sure you need to go. Who is it that’s retiring?”
“J. P. Ross. I mentioned it a few weeks ago, but maybe it’s one of those things that, you know, slipped away.”
“No, I remember now that you say the name.” The words sound more defensive than I intended. “The only things I don’t recall, Hugh, are those two days.”
He nods, lips pressed together. “Okay, let me grab my jacket. I should be home no later than eight. I wish I could whisk you someplace nice for dinner tonight, but I’m going to have to work again.”
“I’ll figure something out for us. Do you want me to drop your pants at the cleaner?”
“No, don’t bother. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
While he heads back to the bedroom, I move over to the kitchen island. I feel restless, still on edge from my appointment. My gaze wanders onto the countertop and is dragged by a gravitational-like pull to Hugh’s phone. I almost never have occasion to touch it, but my fingers move in that direction, seemingly of their own volition.
Before I can think about it, I snatch his phone from the counter. I press the four keys for his password—for practical reasons we’ve shared ours with each other—and check the last number in the call log. It’s an outgoing one to his office, eight minutes ago. Then I proceed to the address book, where I search for Sasha’s name, and exhale in relief when it’s not there.
“Speaking of the cleaner, your trench coat is back,” he calls from the bedroom, making me jump. “I sent it out last week.”
“Um, okay, thanks,” I call back. “I’m going to run out for a while and it will be good to have it in the rain.”
Next, with jerky fingers, I search for one more name. And with a jolt, I spot it there. Ashley Budd. Before I can determine if he’s called the number lately, Hugh comes striding down the corridor. I’m still holding his phone in my hand.