Long Gone

“I have no idea, but if they know about these pictures, that could certainly be a reason they’re inquiring. Of course, why in the world they’ve imagined any connection between you and that girl is one of a number of unknowns we’re dealing with right now.”

“They also asked me about Dad. And about ITH. They obviously tracked down the same records my friend Jeff got from the state. Someone used the ITH name to open the gallery, and they know that’s one of my father’s corporate entities. They must think I was the one pulling the strings. The pictures on that thumb drive prove I’ve been telling the truth. Whoever opened the gallery did it to sell those pictures, and used me as the cover.”

Art steepled his fingers toward her. “So what is it that your instincts are telling you to do right now, Alice?”

It was funny to see Art here, in this cigar-and-brandy-styled office, wearing a thousand-dollar suit, talking to her the way a grown-up lawyer would speak to a grown-up client. She had known him her entire life. She could still distinctively remember concluding that he was the wisest person on earth after he taught her not to pull her arms through her coat sleeves until she’d first put on her mittens, protecting even her wrists from the cold.

She’d seen him in less noble moments as well, slurring his speech on their living room sofa as he and her parents debated politics, films, literature, life, until three in the morning up in Bedford. Art had been a dirty old man even when he was young. The eternal flirt, always happy in the company of whatever eye candy happened to be at his hip for the weekend. She’d realized early on that Art’s friendship with her father no doubt assisted his ability to land that steady stream of short-term, high-caliber escorts (not a euphemism in this context), but what she had once seen as an amusing penchant for bachelorhood bore a new level of creepiness now that she realized her father apparently shared it.

“My instincts? I really wasn’t kidding about the running-away thing. An island and a margarita the size of my head are sounding pretty damn good right now.”

“Too early to start talking about going fugitive.”

She smiled but then realized he was not. “You’re kidding, right?”

He shrugged. “I can’t joke about these things. What do you think I say to a client who has a private jet, a passport, and enough money in an offshore account to live the rest of his days, when he’s looking at a twenty-year sentence because the SEC suddenly decides corporations should be honest about the value of their own stock? Those conversations get a little dicey-not just on the ethical issues but, you know, whether or not someone’s really prepared to walk away from their home, family, reputation, and country. But look, none of this applies to you. You haven’t been arrested, and they obviously don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest, so we have some time.”

Yet, she wanted to add. None of this applies to me… yet.

“Well, if I’m not-what did you call it? going fugitive-then my instinct was for us to put together everything we have to explain how someone’s framing me, and maybe you could present it to the police. Convince them to take a closer look at George Hardy, or try to find out who was really behind the gallery.”

He pointed to her like she’d just answered a trivia question correctly. “See? That’s why people hire lawyers, Alice. Good, law-abiding, honest people like yourself are predisposed to trust the police. You’ve been told all your life that you have nothing to fear in the truth. Nearly every client I have who winds up in tension with the government wants to do the same thing. But my job is to force you not to follow your instincts.”

“But I’m actually innocent.”

“That and an apple might get you an apple. These guys who’ve been questioning you hear the same thing from every lying, guilty dirtbag they encounter. I’m innocent. I didn’t do it. If you’d just listen to me. All that does is inoculate them. They’re trained not to believe you. They will twist anything you say to inculpate you further. And if you do happen to say anything that casts doubt on your guilt, they’ll make it their number-one objective to go out there to rebut it. Trust me on this: you do not help yourself by talking to them.”

“But shouldn’t we at least tell them about these pictures on the thumb drive? What if it has something to do with that missing girl, and they don’t know?”

“It’s not your job to help them find that girl. And don’t take this personally, if you and that dumbass of an ex- boyfriend of yours could figure out these thumb drives, I’m pretty sure the NYPD already knows about the pictures.”

It was no surprise that Art shared her father’s opinion of Jeff.

“So what do I do? My father thinks George Hardy and his church have something to do with all this. Seems hard to believe a church would be involved in child pornography, but I guess any nut can start himself a religion these days. From what I could tell on the Web, Redemption of Christ is just Hardy and a bunch of wackos willing to follow him around the country. I don’t even think they have an actual building.”

“I’ll start pulling up research on them. See what we can find.”

“Maybe there’s someone involved in the church who had some connection to my father around the time ITH was formed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because even if they thought he’d make a convenient political scapegoat, they’d still have to know about ITH to be able to use the company name.”

“We resolved the issue without litigation by making payments over time through a trust. It’s fairly standard.”

“Okay, but I’m still wondering what happened to the person who originally threatened the lawsuit. What was her name? Julie Kinley? I mean, she accused my dad of stealing her screenplay idea. Is it possible she’s still pissed off all these years later?”

“The allegation might seem scandalous, but it’s the kind of claim that gets thrown around all the time in the entertainment industry. As it happens, I did in fact follow up on this issue already. The former employee in question passed away last year.”

“Julie Kinley’s dead?”

He nodded. “I had a paralegal do a public records search so we could locate her. The road stopped at her death certificate. She died last March.”

“Damn. I got myself all worked into a frenzy, thinking we’d find out that she’d been following George Hardy around the country for his protests. Thought I’d sic the police on her instead.”

“Afraid not. A dead woman can’t exactly be trailing Hardy around on the protest circuit, can she?”

“Maybe someone else who was involved, who would know about ITH and my father’s connection to it? Maybe her lawyer or something?”

“Corporate names are easier to look up than you might think, but sure, I’ll think again about anyone else who was involved in that transaction and see if there’s any connection to this church. In the meantime, Alice, I know this cuts against every impulse of every fiber in your being, but your number-one job right now is to do nothing. Don’t talk to the police. Don’t talk to your friends, at least not about anything having to do with this investigation. Don’t try conducting your own investigation, because if they tap your phone or search your computer or have you followed, it might wind up looking like you have a personal involvement in this.”

“I do have a pretty damn personal involvement.”

“You haven’t been listening to me, Alice. The government will interpret your actions in the very worst light. They won’t think you’re snooping around trying to save your own hide. They’ll think you’re covering your tracks. You absolutely must trust me on this. I have an entire firm of lawyers and investigators here. I am good at what I do. And my phone can’t be tapped, and my computers can’t be searched. Try to go back to your life. See some shows. Try some new restaurants. You still want to work? You know my offer to help you out on that has always been open.”

She shook her head. The way she saw it, accepting help from Art was no different than taking it from her father. And yet here she was, receiving his legal counsel, arranged for by her father, when she clearly had no way of paying the astronomical fees someone like Arthur Cronin must charge for his services.

“You take care of yourself, all right?” He patted her head, as he had since she was a child. “And tell Ben I said hello. My secretary says he stopped by yesterday, but I missed him.”

“He came to your office?”