followed them out, collecting the silent bodyguard, and led the little party through the lower levels of the house. Manda and Orlando talked critically about how shaky Dina had looked, as if it never occurred to them that I might repeat their comments to her.
We emerged through the garages to the driveway where a big silver BMW sat at a rakish angle on the gravel, the driver still behind the wheel. He hopped out when he saw us approaching and opened the rear doors. The engine was already running to maintain the climate control – either for his passengers’ benefit or his own.
‘How did you hear about Torquil?’ I asked before they could climb inside.
Orlando froze in the middle of digging in her handbag for her sunglasses, glanced at Manda. ‘His father called, asked if I knew where he was. He called all of us, I think,’ she said carelessly, and Manda nodded in agreement.
I tilted my head to take in the pair of them. ‘Is Torquil playing some kind of game with his father?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Orlando demanded, flipping the designer shades in place. They were huge and very dark, with such ornate side arms it must have been like walking around in blinkers.
‘It’s not a difficult question,’ I said coolly, moving sideways so she’d have to step round me to get into the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bodyguard shift his position, caught the way Manda gave a tiny shake of her head to prevent him intervening, then asked with reluctance, as if she didn’t really want to know the answer, ‘What kinda game?’
‘The kind that might get taken too far.’
‘You don’t think—?’ Manda began, stopped and tried again. ‘You think he had something to do with his own kidnapping? That’s crazy.’
‘Maybe it is.’ I shrugged. ‘But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t someone close to him.’
‘But … why?’
There was something just a little off about her responses, but I couldn’t entirely put my finger on what exactly. Maybe it was just down to the fact that we’d never had the kind of relationship that involved exchanged views or confidences, and it was proving an awkward fit now.
Orlando gave a heavy sigh, tipping the glasses up onto the top of her head so she could confront me with a naked gaze.
‘Look, Charlie, Tor’s a weird kid. Life is just one big game to him,’ she snapped. ‘Who knows?’
‘But you
That got a reaction I wasn’t quite expecting. Orlando turned white then flushed scarlet. Her eyes darted sideways, as if looking for a viable escape route, or maybe just hoping for intervention from her friend. It wasn’t forthcoming.
Orlando didn’t quite scramble her way into the Bee-Em’s rear seat, but it was as close as you could get without entirely abandoning her composure. Heedless of the danger to her manicured and painted nails, she grabbed at the interior door handle and yanked the door shut. If I’d been any nearer, I would have lost fingers.
The bodyguard with the broken nose didn’t say anything, but made it clear that opening the door to speak to her further was not an option. I glanced at Manda. She shrugged and calmly walked around to the other side. The bodyguard waited a moment longer, just to make sure I got the hands-off message, then took the front passenger seat.
I stepped back as the car pulled away faster than it needed to, leaving little divots in the gravel. I watched the brake lights flare briefly before it turned out onto the street, then it was gone.
‘Oh yeah,’ I murmured. ‘You know about that all right, don’t you, Orlando?’
‘Hey, Charlie!’
I turned. McGregor was standing in the open garage doorway, one hand on the frame and his cellphone open in his hand. ‘It’s the boss,’ he said. ‘He wants you back at the office, a-sap.’
I started to walk back towards the house. ‘Fine. What’s the rush?’
‘Apparently Mr Eisenberg’s en route to the office. He wants to talk to you and Mr Armstrong,’ McGregor said, handing me the phone. ‘The kidnappers made contact.’
It was nearly 10.30 a.m. The kidnapping was almost exactly twenty-five hours old.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Brandon Eisenberg swept into Parker’s office three-quarters of an hour after his appointed time, with an entourage in double figures.
This included an icy blond woman in a lace-edged cream designer suit that seemed to emphasise all her hard edges rather than soften them. I had to look twice to recognise her as Nicola Eisenberg from the video clip Parker had siphoned off Torquil’s PDA. It was tempting to mention the fact she looked different with her clothes on, just to see if the barb would penetrate that cool facade. Somehow, I doubted it.
Of the others, I noted the red-haired Gleason, still standing protectively close to her principal, but wearing a slightly less possessive face than she had done the night of the charity auction, when Eisenberg’s wife was not in attendance.
Nicola Eisenberg had come with her own personal bodyguard, too. A solid-looking older guy who, I guessed, Eisenberg had selected as much for his middle-age and bland looks as for his experience.
The remainder of the party were assistants, and assistants to the assistants, and extremely high-priced legal people in handmade shoes. The latter were easy to spot by the way they mentally priced up the fittings through narrowed eyes as soon as they came in.
Leaving McGregor on guard with Dina, I’d travelled into Manhattan from Long Island by the fastest means possible after Parker’s summons. That meant I’d used the Buell. Fortunately, it was a house rule to keep a spare business suit at the office, so while I couldn’t remotely compete with the power couture on show as they all trooped in, I was at least no longer in my bug-splattered bike leathers.
Parker rose to greet them, urbane and radiating competent composure. Brief, forgettable introductions were made and he gestured the Eisenbergs to the low client chairs, clustered around a coffee table in the centre of the room.
There was seating for six in comfort, and hierarchy was quickly established by who got a seat and who was forced to stand. Eisenberg seemed slightly bored by the jockeying for position, as if people behaved like this around him all the time and he’d learnt simply to let them get on with it.
Nicola Eisenberg pretended not to notice. I understood she’d just flown in from Nassau, no doubt utilising the Lear 85 Torquil had mentioned so artlessly that day at the riding club. Maybe she was just suffering from executive- jet lag.
‘So,’ Parker said once the dust had settled. ‘You wanna read us in?’
To my surprise, it was Eisenberg himself who took a long inward breath. He glanced momentarily towards the most senior-looking of the lawyers, sitting bald-headed and gaunt-featured to his left. The man stared back, inscrutable, which didn’t seem to afford much by way of sound legal advice.
‘I trust I can speak frankly and in complete confidence, Mr Armstrong?’ Eisenberg said then.
Parker’s eyebrow twitched at the implied slur to his reputation, that the man opposite had felt the need to ask. ‘Of course,’ was all he said, voice neutral.
‘As you are no doubt aware, it seems that our son, Torquil, was kidnapped yesterday morning from a beach on Long Island.’
‘“It seems”?’ Parker repeated. ‘An interesting choice of words, sir, considering one of my people witnessed the abduction.’
The lawyers frowned collectively. Eisenberg ducked his head a little. ‘Relax, Mr Armstrong. I was not doubting that Miss Fox saw what she says she did, nor was I insinuating that the kidnap did not take place.’
His gaze swept over me, standing behind Parker’s desk where the light from the nearest window fell over my shoulder into the room. ‘I’m sure Miss Fox is aware of how highly I … value her skills,’ he added, and there was a tinge of regret and reproof in his tone, as if all this could have been avoided if only I’d accepted his job offer.
‘You think he arranged his own abduction as some kind of prank,’ I said, just to watch the lawyers squirm. They didn’t disappoint me. Nicola Eisenberg continued to look detached from the whole experience.
Eisenberg pursed his lips. ‘I can’t say it didn’t cross my mind at first.’
