she also picked up the unmistakeable scent of whisky. Fear and booze were a bad combination.
He was walking beside her when he reached out to touch her elbow. Ava recoiled. He realized at once that he had overstepped his boundaries, pulled his hand back, and jammed it into his jacket pocket. “Ms. Lee, I have something I’d like to ask you,” he said.
“I can’t promise I’ll answer.”
“My brother, Glen — you are going to hurt him, aren’t you?”
She wasn’t quite sure what he meant and looked at him sideways. Hughes’ face betrayed nothing. “Does he care about his money?” she asked.
“Passionately.”
“Then I am going to hurt him.”
(27)
She called Glen Hughes from the Delta business-class lounge at Heathrow, although she wasn’t expecting to reach him. So when she heard “This is Glen Hughes,” she was taken aback, and stumbled before saying, “This is Ava Lee.”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you quite so soon,” he said.
There wasn’t a hint of tension in his voice. If anything, he seemed disinterested, bored. Maybe that’s the impression he’s trying to give me, Ava thought. His accent was more refined than Edwin’s, the pace of his words slower, languid.
Ava was sitting at the bar, a glass of wine and a small plate of smoked salmon finger sandwiches in front of her. “I didn’t see any point in wasting time,” she said.
“Indeed not.”
“I’m at Heathrow. I’m scheduled to get into New York tonight around nine o’clock. Is it possible we could meet tonight?”
“There’s absolutely no chance of that. I have a function at the Whitney.”
“I don’t mind working late.”
“Ms. Lee, I’m quite sure you have my address.”
“I do.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll see you here tomorrow morning any time after eleven,” he said and hung up. Ava shook her head. It wasn’t often that she was so deftly dismissed.
She heard the call to board, quickly downed the last of her wine, and gathered her bags to head for the plane.
The business-class cabin was almost full. Ava settled into her seat and waved at the flight attendant, who was already getting impatient with demanding passengers. “I don’t want anything to eat,” she told her. “After we take off, just bring me two glasses of your best white wine.”
As soon as they were in the air, Ava put on her earphones and settled back to watch Martin Scorsese’s The Departed, a remake of one of the best Hong Kong films ever made, Infernal Affairs. Ava wasn’t sure that Scorsese would be able to capture the complexity of the original, and was disappointed to see that he hadn’t. The American version added an unconvincing love triangle and ended in the most predictable way: the bad guy got shot. In the Chinese version, the bad guy, played by Andy Lau, had been left to deal with inner demons that eventually drove him to madness. Maybe, Ava thought, the difference between the gweilo and the Chinese approach to the same story can be found in the film’s titles. The name of the original Cantonese version, translated literally, was “non- stop path,” a reference to Avici, the lowest level of hell in Buddhism. That’s where the Lau character ended up, in a never-ending cycle of torment.
Ava turned off the entertainment system and pulled out her notebook. She had made only rough calculations of what Glen Hughes had actually pocketed; now she wanted to fix a final number. It turned out to be $73,450,000. She wondered how much of it he would be good for. He would start off with denial, of course, as they all did. Then that would give way to accepting minimal responsibility, before finally capitulating. That’s when the negotiations would really start.
Ava wasn’t in the instalment payment business. She and Uncle would take one shot at getting everything they could for the client, collect their commission, and then move on. She had been lucky on her last few jobs: the culprits had been identified early on and the money was still recoverable. The Hughes scam went back ten years, and from everything Edwin had said, Glen Hughes had burned through a lot of the funds in that time.
JFK was a zoo when they landed. Ava waited in line at Customs for more than an hour, her patience wearing thin. But the taxi line was mercifully short and the traffic to Manhattan light; at close to eleven o’clock Ava arrived at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. She hadn’t slept much on the plane, which was unusual for her, and with the time difference it felt like four a.m. She was hungry, but her need to sleep overwhelmed her need for food, and by eleven thirty she was showered and tucked into bed.
She slept a dreamless sleep and woke at nine. It was the longest uninterrupted rest she’d had in weeks. She immediately went to the window and opened the drapes. Central Park gleamed at her, bursting into green under a warm spring sun.
She boiled water in the kettle at the bar and made a Starbucks VIA instant coffee. Then she settled in at the desk and booted her computer. An email message from Mimi confirmed that she and Derek were actively looking for a house in Leaside, an affluent Toronto neighbourhood. She also wrote that Maria had been really happy with Ava’s reaction to her mother’s visit. I don’t know what you’re looking for in a woman, she added, but you seem to have one who is smart, gorgeous, and loves you to death. When I first met her I thought she was perfect for you. Now I’m more convinced than ever. Ava reread the part about Maria, and for the first time since she had left Toronto she found herself really missing her.
She went back to her inbox and saw she had received another message from Michael Lee. She opened it with caution. I hope your current job is going well, he wrote. I just want to remind you to give me a call as soon as it ends. Ava wondered if he knew what she did for a living. She had assumed that this was something her father didn’t know in any detail. Now she wasn’t quite so sure.
She closed Michael’s message and saw that she had one from Frederick Locke. How are things proceeding? Please let me know, and try to keep me updated on a more regular basis, could you? Frankly, this entire crisis is wearing on my nerves. I’m having trouble sleeping and my concentration is shot. I can’t stop thinking about all the possible ramifications of our discovery, he wrote.
Our discovery? Ava thought. She wrote to him, Please stay calm. Everything is under control.
She logged out of her email account and took a shower. When she came out of the bathroom, she took her time dressing. She chose her pink Brooks Brothers shirt and the black linen slacks, completing the outfit with her black leather Cole Haan pumps. She had about an hour to get to Glen Hughes’ residence, enough time, she figured, to take a detour around Central Park.
Ava packed her bag with her notebook and some of the files. She was still left with the three bound with a rubber band, which she carried in her hand.
From the hotel on 60th Street she headed north on 8th Avenue, with Central Park to her right. She had been in, through, and around the park many times. Its southern perimeter was marked by 59th Street, and 110th Street was to its north, a distance of about four kilometres. From west to east the park spanned less than a kilometre. She calculated her route from the Mandarin to Hughes’ place on East 65th to be about eight kilometres, which meant she had to maintain a brisk pace. After ten minutes she knew it wasn’t going to work. Her shoes weren’t built for speed, and the sun was so bright that she was already sweating.
At West 85th she turned into the park and crossed the Great Lawn towards Fifth Avenue. As she exited onto Fifth she saw a sign for the Guggenheim Museum to the north, and another for the Metropolitan Museum of Art to the south. Ava headed over to Lexington Avenue and walked south, past signs pointing to the Whitney Museum of American Art and then the Frick Collection. Glen Hughes had evidently planted himself in the middle of the high- class art world.
She got to 65th Street with ten minutes to spare. Hughes lived in the middle of a row of eight townhouses, each three storeys high. Ava couldn’t even begin to guess what they would cost — three million? six million? One
