The Insiders

Manhattan’s Upper West Side was bustling with activity when the taxi dropped Emily Klein at her apartment a little before ten o’clock in the evening. The endless comings and goings had always been one of the main reasons she felt safe living alone in the city. As Emily entered the lobby of her apartment building, she noticed at once that the night security guard was not at his usual post behind the reception desk. Before she had time to become concerned, someone slipped through the door behind her. When Emily turned around, she let out a scream, dropping her shopping bags to the floor. She backed up slowly.

A man with a gun stood in front of her. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a tan T-shirt, and blue jeans. His expressionless eyes and close-cropped hair were dark brown. In a low gruff voice with a British accent he said, “I’m only here to deliver a message, Ms. Klein. Tell your boyfriend to stay out of any investigation into Daniel Redd’s death or what happened to his father in Sun Valley. Both of you will live longer that way.”

Emily took another step backward until she felt leaves from a planter brushing against her back. She stood motionless.

The intruder stepped toward her until he was literally breathing down her neck. He raised his gun to her left ear and then slowly ran the barrel along her chin to her right ear.

“Convince him not to do anything stupid.”

Although Emily started shaking like a leaf, every fiber of her being strained to prevent him from seeing it. With his eyes glued on Emily, the intruder stepped backward toward the entrance door.

“Goodnight, Ms. Klein. Please forgive the intrusion.” And then he was gone.

Emily didn’t move for several seconds as her body uncoiled. There was still no sign of the security guard. Composing herself, she gathered her shopping bags and took the elevator to her sixth floor apartment where she threw her bags against the wall in utter frustration. She immediately called Wilson’s cell phone, but there was no answer. After leaving a message for him to call as soon as possible, she poured a glass of Shiraz to calm her nerves.

When she called the security guard who’d returned to his station in the foyer, she discovered he’d been called to the eighteenth floor on what turned out to be a false alarm. He apologized and asked if she’d encountered any difficulties during his absence. Reluctantly, she said no, deciding to wait until she talked to Wilson. She tried Wilson again. There was still no answer, so she called Brattle House and got Anita, the live-in house manager. She left a message for Wilson to call when he arrived, no matter how late.

For the next hour while waiting for Wilson to return her call, Emily sat in her living room with the bottle of Shiraz, deconstructing her day and its disturbing end. The first thing she’d done was drop off her completed manuscript, The Psychology of Illusion: Perception, Bias, and Assumed Truths, at Random House a week earlier than planned. Then she did some last minute shopping on Fifth Avenue. After grabbing a bite to eat at Cafe Europa on Fifty-Seventh Street, she took a cab to her office at Columbia University where she packed up her remaining personal items, saw a few long-standing clients, and said good-bye to colleagues. In between these preparations to leave for Boston, she reminisced and obsessed about Wilson. No matter what happened in their lives or how many other people they dated, it seemed they kept coming back to each other. Their physical chemistry had been apparent from the first day they met, but it was a deep emotional and spiritual connection that bonded them, despite their very strong-willed natures. They were both fiercely independent people who didn’t want anyone telling them what to do. The consequence, not surprisingly, had been an on-again, off-again relationship with some rather painful arguments. While packing items from her office, she began recounting their last big argument eight months earlier, the one that had led to postponing their wedding.

Wilson had flown to New York City for the weekend. During dinner at a trendy Upper West Side restaurant, they began commiserating about how little time they spent together. Several minutes later, after having fully vented their relationship woes, Wilson had asked his dispiriting question.

“Should we consider postponing the wedding until our schedules get lighter?”

Emily became emotional, launching them into a dialogue neither one of them would soon forget.

“I can’t believe you’d consider putting us through this again,” she said.

“Through what?” he said.

“Through another breakup,” she said, throwing her hands into the air.

“This is not a breakup,” he said, reaching for her hand, but she withdrew it.

“Seems like one to me.”

“Why always assume the worst?”

“Experience!” she said, loud enough for the waiter to come to the table and ask if everything was okay.

“Look,” he said in a soft voice, leaning across the table. “As long as I’m in Chicago traveling around the world for Kresge and you’re in New York writing books and counseling patients, getting married is only going to make us more frustrated.”

“So you want me to give up my practice and move to Chicago?”

“No! I’m just asking whether it makes sense to postpone the wedding until I can move to New York.”

“Interesting word, postpone. What does it mean? Defer? Delay? Hold back? What are you holding back, Wilson?”

“I’m not holding anything back. I’m trying to avoid something that could make us feel guiltier than we already do about putting our professional lives first.”

“And what’s that? Commitment?”

He frowned at her. “Don’t do this, Emily.”

“I’m not doing anything. You’re doing it.”

“I just asked a question. What I wanted was a conversation, not an argument.”

“You’re right. Cancel the wedding. We’re not ready for this,” she said, standing up. She took off her engagement ring and placed it in the middle of the table. Then she walked out the door and hailed a taxi. Wilson got a hotel room in the Upper West Side for the night.

Early the next morning, door chimes yanked Emily from her sleep. She came to the door a little groggy, still struggling to tie her robe. It was Wilson with a peace offering. Coffee and hot croissants from the Silver Moon Bakery. He put his arms around her, telling her he was sorry and that he wanted to get married as soon as possible. She said she was sorry, too, and that he was right. They should wait until their lives were less out of control before they discussed marriage again.

After a day immersed in their passions, they became more rational and grounded, deciding to postpone the wedding indefinitely. It had all seemed so logical at the time. For the next eight months they both pursued their careers with a vengeance. The last time they’d been together was one hundred and six days ago.

Emily looked at the clock. It had been an hour since she left messages for Wilson. As she took another swallow of wine, her cell phone rang right on cue. It was Wilson’s ID. Thank God.

“Emily, you okay?” Wilson said, concerned by the tone of voice in her message. But he didn’t turn the scrambler on. He was in no mood for games. Besides, Emily knew the phones were monitored.

“It’s so good to hear your voice,” Emily said, her voice cracking slightly.

“You sound frazzled. I know I’m asking a lot to have you drop everything and come to…”

She interrupted, “It’s not that, Wilson. There’s no place I’d rather be right now.”

“What is it, Em?”

“A man with a gun followed me into the foyer of my apartment building tonight.”

“Oh God! Did he hurt you?”

“No. I’m an emotional wreck, but he didn’t hurt me. He gave me a message for you.”

“What did he say?” Wilson said, his stomach twisting.

“He said: tell your boyfriend to stay out of any investigation into Daniel Redd’s death or what happened to his father in Sun Valley. Both of you will live longer that way.”

“That was it?”

Emily hesitated a moment. “Then he said: goodnight, Ms. Klein. Please forgive the intrusion. After that he left,” she said, deciding to tell him about the gun barrel along her chin when they were together. She was well acquainted with Wilson’s dragon-slayer side. The last thing she wanted was for him to do something irrational, based solely on impulsive emotion-something that could turn out to be stupid.

“God, I’m so sorry, Em. The same message was given to my mother yesterday over the phone. I didn’t mention it when we talked because I didn’t want to worry you. Things are obviously getting more serious…”

“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together,” Emily said, interrupting again. “I’m fine now. I just needed to