“How is your search proceeding?” she asked, once the pleasantries had been exchanged. She had already taken a quick glance at her watch.
“I haven’t found her yet,” I said.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” Dr. Patel said.
“Or maybe she’s in a position where she can’t be found.”
Dr. Patel nodded. “Unfortunately, nothing has changed since your last visit,” she said. “I’m still not able to discuss specifics about our sessions.”
“I was certain you wouldn’t,” I said. “But I came to discuss something altogether different. Or maybe it’s related. I’m not sure.”
“What would that be?”
“Randolph Gerrigan,” I said.
I looked closely for a tell, a tightening of her jaw, a quick eye blink, the straightening of her back. Not a single twitch. A true professional.
“What about Randolph Gerrigan?” she said.
“Are the two of you familiar?” I asked.
“He’s an acquaintance,” she said. “I know of him because of Tinsley. But he is not a patient of mine.”
“Maybe that depends on what you mean by patient,” I said.
“I’m a physician, Mr. Cayne. There’s only one definition of patient, and it’s very simple. It doesn’t apply to Randolph Gerrigan.”
“What about adulterer?” I said. “Is that also a simple definition?”
She moved slightly in her chair. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this. What exactly is your point?”
“C’mon, Dr. Patel, let’s not go around and around. You and Randolph Gerrigan are more than acquaintances. You’re lovers.”
She smiled confidently, almost relieved. It wasn’t the response I had expected. “Is that what you’ve come to discuss with me?”
“Is that protected by patient-doctor confidentiality too?”
“Doesn’t need to be,” she said. “My relationship with Randolph Gerrigan is none of your damn business. A word to the wise. If I were you, I would focus on what you’ve been hired to do and not poke around in places where you shouldn’t be.”
“So, I can take that as a yes?”
“Take it as a courteous warning that you are going places where you don’t belong,” she said, standing. Her smile tightened. “People who get into things over their head tend to drown.”
THERE WAS NO EASY way to get to Stamford, Connecticut. This small city was tucked away in the southeastern part of the almost rectangular state, making it just under an hour’s drive from New York City’s LaGuardia Airport, depending on the unpredictable traffic snaking up the busy I-95 corridor. Connecticut’s biggest and only commercial airport sat an hour and a half north in Hartford, just underneath the Massachusetts border. Mechanic and I took a gamble with I-95 and got lucky. We pulled our black Mustang into a visitor’s spot half an hour before our scheduled meeting with Blair Malone.
We rolled the windows down to take in the bucolic countryside as we sat in the car for a bit. We didn’t want to appear too eager. Judging by all the glass and steel and the percentage of foreign cars parked in the lot, GFX Financial was quite a successful enterprise. The trees blew softly in the warm wind.
After a few minutes, Mechanic said, “I don’t care how much money they paid me, I couldn’t live like this.”
“You got something against trees?”
“There’s just too much of everything,” he said. “Too many trees. Too much green grass. Too many Volvo station wagons with college stickers in the back window. Too many damn golf courses.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “I was with you until the golf courses.”
“I mean there’s even too much space in their parking lots,” he said. “They’re all the size of football fields.”
“Welcome to the great vastness of suburbia,” I said.
“You can’t do simple stuff like stop by the corner and grab a slice of pizza or walk to a deli and grab a cold brew. You need a car to go everywhere.”
“Same thing in LA,” I said.
“Yeah, but at least in LA there’s somewhere to go. There’s nothing to do here but plant gardens and ride horses.”
“The industrious can always play golf.”
My cell phone buzzed. Gordon confirmed our dinner at eight o’clock at a steakhouse called Porter House Bar and Grill in the Time Warner Center at 10 Columbus Circle. By the time we got back to the city, I’d be ready for a nice cut of meat.
We entered the modernist glass tower, and after passing muster with the receptionist, an overly serious security guard escorted us upstairs to a conference room overlooking the back of the property. More grass and trees and a flat nine-hole golf course with a few water features. Three foursomes were working their way around the plush fairways.
The door opened, and Blair Malone walked in. He wore dark-blue denims, a powder-blue patterned dress shirt and suede riding shoes with shiny Ferragamo buckles. He was tall, broad shouldered, and in great shape. His chestnut-colored hair had been cut perfectly. He looked at both of us, trying to decide who was Ashe.
I stood and extended my hand. “Ashe Cayne,” I said. His grip was firm, as I expected. “This is my associate, Dmitri.” Mechanic stayed seated on the opposite side of the table and nodded.
“So, how can I help you?” Blair said, closing the door behind him and taking a seat at the head of the table.
“Tell me what you know about Tinsley,” I said.
“Where do I start?”
“Whatever comes to mind first.”
“Tinsley is a very independent girl. She has a great heart. She’s a free spirit. She’s beautiful and fun. She doesn’t care about stuff lots of her friends care about. For good or for bad she’s her own person.”
“What doesn’t she care about so much?”
“Her family’s money.”
“She doesn’t like being rich?”
“I didn’t say that. She doesn’t like the way it controls people.”
“Being poor can control a person too.”
Blair shrugged. “I have to admit that I don’t know about being poor,” he said. “But I imagine it’s controlling too.”
“What can you tell me about her family?”
Blair took a beat before answering. “That was a problem for her. I never realized it until I met
