“I see.”
“Does that seem reasonable?”
“I’m not your boss.” He was angry or resigned. Jake couldn’t tell which.
“I know you aren’t my boss. But you seem upset.”
“You followed me.”
“There was a reason.”
“What?”
He tapped his pen against the open page in his notebook. A scared woman with a walker was the reason. And he had to say it. To tell him right now.
“The reason is that I heard you were the last person to see Charlotte Ward.”
The phone went silent. No dial tone. He was still on the line, just not talking. Then he did.
“Who told you that?”
“I can’t say.”
“Sheryl Goldfein? She’s always been a gossip.”
“Abram.” He waited. “Is it true?”
“Ask yourself why she would tell you that.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has motives.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t know what they were. It was best to play along. “But we can talk about those later. Right now I want to know-were you the last one to see her?”
“It’s private.”
“Why?”
Silence again. He didn’t expect him to answer. But for him to be like this… Secretive. Defensive. He refused to even review the basics.
“Mr. Russo, it’s private because it is.”
“Were you the last to see her?”
“I’m the only one who will admit it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m the only one who will go on the record.”
“Who do you think saw her?”
“I have to go.” Closing the conversation. It was now or never. Be aggressive, or lose the chance to learn more. The man knew something.
“I think you know why she died. You know why Charlotte Ward died on the beach that night. But you don’t want to tell me the truth.”
Silence.
“I think you don’t want to tell me because you were part of it.”
Silence again. He pressed.
“Are you there?”
“Meet me tonight where you found me. On the beach. Don’t tell anyone you are coming out there. And don’t let anyone see you go. If you do, I’ll leave.”
“The same time?”
“No. Late, very late tonight.”
“Tonight? OK. How late?”
“Very late.” His voice turned serious. “Make it 8:15. PM.”
He hung up the phone. Jake held his in his hand and looked at the log. They’d only talked a few minutes. But Abram knew something. The only problem was the condition Abram had set. At night and alone on the beach-it sounded a lot like what had happened to Charlotte Ward.
CHAPTER 24
When he left to interview Simeon Rothschild that afternoon, Kaylie was waiting outside his door. She sat in front of her own, her shorts sliding up her legs. The tan didn’t stop. He didn’t have time to banter with her now, but she didn’t want to banter. She wanted to make plans.
“We’re supposed to go out.” She was still sitting down, chewing on a piece of grass. He looked down and closed his door.
“I’m sorry, I just made an appointment for tonight.”
“When?”
“Around eight.”
“What’s your appointment? Are you ditching us? You agreed to have drinks.”
“I’m not ditching.” He put his keys back in his pocket. “I’m just saying that I have plans.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure. I’m going for a long walk on the beach.”
“Romantic,” she said and tilted her head. “We’ll go out when you get back.”
“Will your friends wait?”
“They can handle it.” She reached up for him to help her stand. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. Close to him. Then she turned and opened the door to her apartment. It was unlocked.
He didn’t like going out with big groups and playing the memory game with names and faces. He hated trying to get in a word before splitting up the check. But he was still looking forward to it. After meeting with Simeon Rothschild and Abram Samuels in one day, he guessed he was going to need a drink.
Rothschild’s secretary made Jake wait ten minutes. She didn’t bother smiling. He sat in a chair and settled in. Not that the waiting room wasn’t impressive. The building was small, but even the fourth floor had an unobstructed water view. From the couch it looked like a painting on the wall. Jake was staring at it when the secretary said he could go in and see Rothschild.
He was sitting at a perfectly clean desk, wearing a white shirt with the top two buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled up. He might have cleaned the desk, but he was staying loose. He thrust up his chin and stared at Jake. His light clothes made his black eyes look even darker.
“Let’s start things off right. How do you like your steak?”
Jake sat down in front of the desk and got out his notebook. Leather-bound books in back. Another view of the beach to the side. And abstract art posing on every wall. The man knew how to make an office, and probably a lunch, too. But he couldn’t start eating steak again.
“I’d love a salad.”
“A salad? For a guy like you?”
“I had a big breakfast.”
“Understood.”
Rothschild pressed a button on the desk and started speaking.
“Tell Jean-Gil to bring us two steaks, medium. And a salad. I’ll have water. Mr. Russo?”
“Actually, just a salad is fine-”
“What will you have to drink?”
“I really don’t need the steak.”
“To drink?”
“Water.”
“Two waters,” Rothschild said and tapped the button again. “If you don’t want our steak, we can let it sit. It’s very good.”
“I see.”
“Jean-Gil studied in France. I keep him here and cycle him through some of our communities. He’s got a great touch. A real sense of food.”
“I see.” He looked at his notebook and Rothschild laughed.
