“It sounds like these boring, basic, affable Midwesterners were involved in a business that they didn’t really understand.”
“Well, it wasn’t entirely their fault. Putin has been cracking down as well. Being gay is equivalent to being a child molester in both countries, so when you get caught and do time, it isn’t pretty. So the conventional methods of smuggling that have worked so well for years are simply evaporating.”
“But obviously there are still gay and trans people in China and Russia,” I point out.
“Obviously,” says Pez, finishing his salmon and cream cheese. “Fucking tyrants, you know? Their first step is always to flagrantly deny reality in order to pretend that they control it. Dumb people are always overawed, but eventually they fall.”
“You are very hopeful.”
“Gotta stay positive.”
“So how does Henley fit into all of this?” I ask.
“Well, after these affable, boring, basic Midwesterners had yet another shipment seized and destroyed, they were about to give up altogether, and that’s when your brother got involved. He was idealistic about it. He wanted them to keep going. He bought them endless drinks and endless meals and told them what good patriotic Americans they were, helping to promote human rights in a totalitarian country. Even though he was using a different last name, they eventually figured out who he really was. And that was when they got greedy.”
It all adds up. Henley reaching out to the only people around who made any sense to him. Overpromising. Underdelivering.
“They tried to blackmail him, didn’t they?” I ask.
“Precisely,” says Pez. “You got it.” He stares at me sadly, sizing me up.
“So then what?” I ask.
“Well, you can play it out from there,” he says. “They threatened to expose his louche and luxurious lifestyle in China—the women he was sleeping with, the drugs he was doing, the conversations he was having about what comes next in China after communism. They said that they would wait until they were safely back in Michigan and then rat him out to the Party unless he used his connections at Nylo to help them smuggle porn into the country and distribute it.”
“And that’s why he had to leave,” I say.
“I am actually unclear about that,” says Pez. “You told me he was asking for a job here in the company? It is possible that he never actually told them no. I don’t actually know what happened with that part of it. That’s where things get hazy.”
“Who would know the truth?” I wonder.
“Henley, of course. I’m trying to get access to his email and phone records. And then these affable, basic, boring Midwesterners would know. I’ve tracked them down.” He pauses for effect. “You won’t believe this, but they’re actually here in New York. Whether they’re here because of Henley or it’s just a coincidence, I don’t know.”
“It seems far-fetched that they would be the ones running this scavenger hunt game,” I say. “Smugglers and blackmailers don’t usually become serial murderers.”
“I agree with you,” says Pez.
“So what else have you learned?” I ask him, staring at the wall, not sure how all of these pieces fit together.
“In one day?”
“Yes, what else have you learned in one day?”
“Well, I did do some background work,” he says, sighing. “Stuff the cops never would have got around to doing since they were so quick to classify your father’s death as an accident.”
“Such as?”
“His cardiologist told me that he had come in for an appointment earlier in the year. The cardiologist said that there was nothing irregular in any of his tests and that he was frankly surprised to learn that Prescott had a stroke. Although, he was quick to inform me that these things can sometimes come on fast in a person your dad’s age and that Prescott had always been prone to high stress and a poor diet.”
“Even as skinny as he was,” I say. “He ate nothing but garbage and drank like he was trying to embalm himself.”
“So that’s something,” Pez continues. “It doesn’t mean that he was murdered or that there was anything exceptional about the way he died. All it means is that there is a possibility there is more to it than we thought.”
“What else?” I say.
“I have done deep dives into the background for all the transportation that has been provided as part of this game,” says Pez. “Let me start with the most hopeful and obvious lead: the helicopter. Hiring a helicopter and pilot for an indeterminate amount of time is not cheap. The helicopter company is American Helicopters. Nothing strange there. But I figured out who is paying for it and where the money is coming from. You’re not going to like this.”
“Where is the money coming from, Pez?”
“According to the receipts, all of the transportation was hired or purchased anonymously using funds from a discretionary account supposedly set up and managed by your father. So the money is coming from you.”
“That just seems so insane,” I say.
“Of course it is,” he says. “Actually, I kinda fell in love with this lady at the bank. She is about my age and she has two grown children who live with her, which is not ideal, but we definitely had chemistry. Anyway, you don’t care about that. I looked at the signature on the account and on the checks and they were definitely his signatures, but they were two different versions of his signature. One was a little spikier than the other. I asked her for a description of the person who opened up the accounts and she actually remembered your father rather well, even
