“You know it?” he asked, eyebrows arched.
“No, but it felt good to acronymize it before you did.”
My father swooshed his wineglass a bit, then took a sip. I don’t know why, but I did the same. I would rather be drinking an ice-cold root beer in a frosted cup, but we were ensconced in his study, and the fire’s flames were magnificently bouncing off signed first editions of Maya Angelou and James Baldwin.
“TMS is an unconventional treatment for depression,” he said. “It’s an in-office procedure. An electromagnetic coil is placed against the scalp near the forehead. When the machine is turned on, it painlessly delivers a magnetic pulse that stimulates nerve cells in the dorsolateral prefrontal brain cortex.”
I smiled patiently. He enjoyed using those big words, especially when he could run them off in sequence. I had found that it was always better to just indulge him. He always found a way to circle back to the point at hand.
“According to mostly anecdotal evidence, this stimulation seems to ease depression symptoms and improve mood,” he continued. “But it’s typically not used unless cognitive therapy and medications aren’t working.”
“So, she has a pretty bad case of depression?” I surmised.
“Since TMS isn’t a first-line treatment, I would say you’re probably right.”
I considered his words for a moment, then explained to him the web of complications with Randolph Gerrigan bopping his daughter’s therapist and the therapist’s husband speaking to his wife’s patient seventy-five times over the span of a month and claiming it had to do with art. There was also the issue of the two divorce filings that hinted at a string of extramarital relations.
“Sounds like a major clusterfuck,” my father said.
“That would be your professional opinion?”
“It would indeed.”
36
I ARRIVED AT MY office building exhausted and hungry from staying up half the night reviewing my notes and reports. I was angry that people like the Gerrigans lived in a twisted world where they felt like anything or anyone was available for purchase. Not only couldn’t I be bought, but I was going to figure out what was behind it all and bring some justice to Chopper. When I reached down to unlock my office door, I found a small yellow Post-it note stuck to my door. A phone number had been written on it with the simple words Call me.
I opened the door, dropped my gym bag in the chair just inside the door, walked into my office, and dialed the number from my cell phone as I took a seat behind my desk. A woman picked up.
“This is Ashe Cayne,” I said. “You left a message on my door.”
“I did,” she said. “My name is Abigail Symington. I got your name from Blair. He said Tinsley is missing, and you’re looking for her.”
“I am. Do you know her?”
“We were classmates at Oberlin. I lived down the hall from her in the dorm.”
“Have you heard from her lately?”
“That’s why I’m calling you. Can we discuss this in person?”
“Sure. I can meet whenever you’re free.”
“In thirty minutes. At the Bean. I’ll be wearing a yellow shirt and black pants.”
PRECISELY TWENTY-NINE minutes later, Abigail Symington stood underneath the twelve-foot arch of one of Chicago’s most photographed structures—Cloud Gate, otherwise known as the Bean because of its striking resemblance to a kidney bean. The 110-ton gleaming stainless steel sculpture had been erected in 2006 just off Michigan Avenue in Millennium Park and quickly became a magnet not just for tourists but even die-hard Chicagoans who were hypnotized by the distorted reflection of the city’s skyline.
Abigail looked nothing like I expected. She was Filipino and petite, with large brown eyes and long curly hair. She smiled nervously as I approached.
“I only have a few minutes,” she said. “I need to get back to the office for a conference call.”
“Understood.” I nodded to an empty nearby bench. “Let’s go over there.”
We walked over, and once we were seated, she started talking.
“Tinsley and I weren’t really close, but we had mutual friends, so we hung out sometimes. We both are from Chicago, so we had that connection. After school I went to DC to work for the Legal Defense Fund. I moved back here a couple of years ago to work as a paralegal while I study for my LSATs. We kept in touch via social or sometimes we would be at the same parties. I really started to know more about her last year. She doesn’t let a lot of people in. I guess with who her family is, she’s really guarded.”
“Did she ever talk about her family?”
“Not much. She just made it a point that money was not her thing and she was her own person. She’s a very fair person. Very sweet.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“About three weeks ago?”
“Do you remember what you talked about?”
“Very clear in my head. She asked me a legal question about charities.”
“What was the question?”
“She wanted to know if a 501(c)(3) organization was allowed to rent property to a for-profit private company and not charge the company rent.”
“What was the answer?”
“I talked to one of our senior partners. He said it was completely against the law, and both the 501(c)(3) and the private company could get in serious trouble.”
“Why was she asking this?”
She paused slightly, then said, “I don’t know if I’m comfortable answering that. I don’t know if that’s information Tinsley wants to be known.”
“Abigail, Tinsley is missing. No one has heard from her in over two weeks. I’ve been hired to find her. Anything you know, even if it’s sensitive or seems trivial, can be important. I’m trying to piece everything together, so I could use as much help as possible.”
Abigail looked down at her hands, then took a deep sigh. “Okay, but please don’t put my name in any of this. I don’t know all the details.”
“You have my word,” I said.
Abigail wrung her hands a little, then began. “Tinsley met some guys who are
