imagine a murderous response. But that’s all it was-imagination.
Pierro had a motive; Mrs. Pierro did too, for that matter. But so, it seemed, did virtually everyone who’d run across Gerard Nassouli. There were forty or fifty envelopes in those boxes back at Trautmann’s place, and who knows how many more that went up in his bonfire. Forty or fifty people with motives, some perhaps better than Pierro’s. But how many of them had had houses half a mile from where Nassouli’s body was found? And how many of those had put their houses up for sale a week after Nassouli disappeared? How many of those houses had been priced to move so quickly?
“A fucking fairy story,” I heard Shelly DiPaolo’s voice say in my head. And she’d be right. I didn’t even have a schizo to back me up on this one. But another part of me was unconvinced, troubled by the coincidences, and thinking about how one might trace the Pierros’ movements on a March day nearly three years back.
“A fucking fairy story,” I said aloud. And one that nobody cared about. Nobody mourned Gerard Nassouli; he’d left behind no family. And nobody would argue that the world wasn’t a better place without him. I rubbed my eyes again and got up and drank a glass of water.
Maybe it was my own ruffled feathers fueling this. Maybe I was pissed off because they’d lied to me, both of them, from the get goPierro about being clean, Helene about everything else. But that wasn’t a surprise, not really. Clients do it all the time, and I’d half-known that these clients were no different. Maybe it was because I’d thought better of Helene. I’d liked her. I’d liked the way she was with her kids, and I’d liked her photographs. I’d liked her style. I’d thought she was smart, and that she had better judgment than this, or at least better taste.
The intercom buzzed. She was right on time.
Helene walked in with her big shearling coat on her arm and her cheeks red from the chill outside. She wore snug, suede pants in a fawn color, a pink cashmere sweater, and low boots. A brown leather tote bag hung from her shoulder. She looked around.
“This is nice, John. Wonderful light, and great ceilings,” she said. She was smiling and her brown eyes sparkled and her chestnut hair was loose and glossy. She looked brand-new. Her makeup was nearly invisible and a faint perfume moved around her, something with roses.
Helene focused on me, and her pretty smile faded, replaced by an equally pretty look of concern. “Oh lord, your wrists, your face-you’ve been hurt again, haven’t you? It was over all this, wasn’t it? Oh, John, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. I just need some more sleep.”
Her brow furrowed deeply. “This is too much, really. I… I’m so sorry, John.”
I shook my head a little and told her to sit. I offered her a drink. She sat at the kitchen counter and asked for a seltzer. I poured two. She drank some of hers and set it down. She propped her elbows on the counter and rested her chin atop her clasped hands and looked at me. I looked back. The manila envelope was on her right, not three feet away. She never glanced at it.
“There’s some news since we spoke this morning,” I said. A frown moved quickly across her face and vanished, like a breeze rolling across a pond. She stared at me, waiting for it. I told her about Mills and Trautmann and who’d killed whom. She thought about it for a while, her face blank, then she gave a tiny shrug.
“I should think he’d be easier for the police to track down than that Trautmann,” she said, without much concern. She sipped at her drink some more. I shrugged back at her.
“Maybe.” Helene was quiet, watching the bubbles rise in her glass.
“We’re so grateful, John, Rick and I both,” she said, finally. I nodded.
“Is Rick still in San Francisco?” I asked.
“He’s taking the red-eye home tonight. But he’s so happy after talking to Mike, he could probably fly back under his own steam. Speaking of which… we wanted you to have this.” She reached into her bag and drew out a small envelope. She handed it to me. It was heavy, ivory-colored stock. Inside was a check. It was a big one, and it was made out to me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s just a token, really,” she said. “We’re so lucky that we had you to stand by us. I don’t know what we would’ve done otherwise.” I handed the check back to her.
“Thanks, Helene, but no thanks,” I said. She looked surprised and confused. “It’s a nice gesture, but not a good idea. Technically, I work for Mike. He pays me well and passes along those costs to you, probably with a hefty markup. It’s because I work for him, and not you, that what I do can stay confidential. Taking money from you complicates things.” But Helene was insistent.
“But we want you to have something-a bonus-for everything you’ve done. We can give it to Mike, and he can pass it along to you. That’s okay, right? Or do you want cash? We could do that too.”
“You can do whatever the hell you please,” I said, surprised by my own sudden anger. “It’s your money. If you’re determined to get rid of some, I can think of a dozen charities that could use it.” Helene drew back, her face stiff. She was very still.
“I’ve offended you somehow, John,” Helene said softly, the accent more distinct in her lowered voice. “I don’t know how, but I must’ve, and I’m very sorry. It’s the last thing I meant to do. If you’d like us to make a charitable donation, of course we will. Just tell me where to send it.” I was quiet and so was she, for what seemed a long time. My eyes flickered down the counter to the manila envelope, and Helene’s eyes followed.
“Jesus,” she said, in a slow, tired sigh. She shook her head. She pressed her palms together in her lap and looked down at them and took a deep breath. When she spoke her voice was flat and exhausted.
“You looked. And now you’re angry with us-angry with me. You, too? Why, because I lied? Because you saw the pictures and read the papers, and now you think that I’m a whore and Rick’s a crook? Is that it? You’re mad because you worked so hard, and got hurt, and it turned out to be all on account of a whore and a crook?” She ran out of breath and stopped. She shook her head a little.
“You’re mad? How do you think we feel? All you did was work for a whore. It could’ve been worse. You could’ve woken up one morning to find you’d married one.” She laughed, harsh and bitter. A tear rolled down her cheek, and then another, but she did not sob or sniffle.
“I was nineteen, for god’s sake. I was a kid-too stupid, too full of myself. Were you never like that? Am I the only one?” A shudder ran through her and her shoulders shook but she bit back whatever was welling up. “And Rick-back then, he wasn’t much more than a kid himself. He was finding his way, trying to make something out of his life. And the world he found himself in just didn’t seem to want any part of him.” The breath left her again and she paused, still shaking her head.
“You want an apology? Fine, we’ve got plenty of those-even more than we’ve got money. That’s all we do now is say we’re sorry. I say I’m sorry to Rick, for being… for not being what he thought I was. He says he’s sorry to me for the mistakes he’s made. He breaks down; I hold him together, and he says he’s sorry for that too. We both say it, silently, to the children, and we pray they never know any of this.” She stopped and held her glass, as if she was about to drink, but she didn’t. Her voice was exhausted, too thin and strained to carry anger or sadness or anything other than her plain words.
“Jesus, I am just so tired of it all. I just want it to be over. But what’s one more between friends, huh, John?” She straightened herself in her seat and put her hands in her lap. Tears were still rolling slowly down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I let you down. I’m sorry you think I’m a whore. I’m sorry Rick and I weren’t worthy of your efforts. There, does that about cover it?” She stood and pulled on her coat. She reached down the counter and took the envelope and tucked it in her bag. She chuckled ironically.
“Maybe you should have some kind of test for prospective clients; find out beforehand if they measure up to your moral standards. Find out if they’re the kind of people who deserve your help. Then you could avoid these problems.” She wiped her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand, and drank some seltzer. Then she looked at me and shook her head. She put her hand lightly on my arm.
“I’m sorry, John. That was… that wasn’t right. This has been so terrible. It’s taken such a toll. I wish you could’ve known us before all this. This isn’t us. We’re… we’re good people. I know that must sound stupid to you.” She squeezed my arm gently and moved away, unhurried, to the door. I spoke as she reached for the knob.
“You ever go back to East Hampton?” I asked. She turned around.
“It was expensive to keep up, and there were vandalism problems, too, and it took so long to get out there, that’s why we sold it,” she said.
Her answer was matter-of-fact and mundane, low-key and unexceptional. It was delivered smoothly, but with pauses and stops in all the right places, so it didn’t seem practiced. It was the best kind of lying. But it was the
