“Gary and Dominique were found in an old house in Pennsylvania yesterday. They died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“You’re a liar.” Klepper made a wet sound that was a mix of a gasp and a sob. “I talked to Gary on Friday evening. Everything was going the way it was supposed to.”
“Here’s how it played out. Max abducted Dominique and Gary, and he drove them to an old house in the Poconos. Max left, and he never came back. There was something wrong with the furnace. That’s how they died.”
“Gary wanted an alibi.” Klepper’s whisper was as rough as sandpaper. “He didn’t say anything about his wife. Just that he needed an alibi.” He stared up at Desmond, and his round eyes were pleading. “Are you absolutely sure he’s dead?”
“I’m positive. You can talk to the cops if you don’t believe me.”
“But there hasn’t been anything on the news about it.” Klepper’s voice had the plaintive whine of a small child learning there’s no Santa Claus. “Gary’s famous. If he was dead, it would be all over the news.”
“They died in rural Pennsylvania. The cops haven’t been able to reach Gary’s wife, who’s technically his next of kin. I don’t think the state troopers were calling gossip sites. It’ll probably be in the news tomorrow.”
Klepper’s eyes were full of tears, and his nose was running. He wiped it with the back of his sleeve, then ambled to his feet, making little gasping sounds. “I’m going… to hit the… men’s room,” he mumbled, grabbing his leather satchel before rushing out of the room.
Desmond had wanted to see Klepper’s reaction to Gary’s death, but now that he had, he almost regretted it. The lawyer was dirty, but Desmond didn’t believe he’d known Gary was dead. The man was a sleazeball, not a murderer.
While Klepper was gone, Desmond pulled up a map of Roosevelt Island and Lighthouse Park on his phone. He zeroed in on the area, taking a look at a satellite view and a topographical one. It wasn’t much of a park, just a few blades of grass and a panoramic view, from the look of things. He straightened up, tapping his fingers idly on the desk. It showed in incredible amount of nerve on Max’s part to actually kidnap Gary and then charge his friend a ransom. Was this just crass opportunism on Max’s part? Was it possible that he’d driven away from the house, unaware that he was leaving Dominique and Gary to die there? No, more likely, Max knew Gary was dead and was trying to capitalize on the fact that the information wasn’t public yet. Catching him while he picked up the ransom that evening might be the only chance to grab him before he ran.
Klepper had left his computer open, and Desmond couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a closer look. He didn’t think the lawyer was lying, exactly; more likely, he was omitting certain facts that could send him to jail. His email inbox looked like a junk mail folder, full of Fresh Direct orders and promos from jewelers and Facebook notifications. According to Gmail, Klepper had more than thirty-five thousand unread messages. If there was such a thing as an email hoarder, Desmond had found him.
He decided to focus, searching for emails from anyone named Max. There were a bunch, but a scan of the subject lines looked distinctly unpromising. Next, he tried Gary Cowan. There were hundreds. One from a month back caught Desmond’s eye. It was from Gary, with the subject heading “Look at this. More fraud!!!” Desmond clicked on it.
Found more of Trin’s papers. They don’t match up with the corp’s public filings. Not sure what kind of a scam she’s pulling. Can you figure it out? Can she be sued / dragged into court with this??? Can I use it to threaten her?
There was an attachment filled with numbers. Klepper’s response wasn’t very helpful.
Hi Gary,
I looked into this. The discrepancies are because the Sardanapalus Corporation isn’t publicly traded, so they don’t have to release a lot of these numbers. The bottom line is that they don’t have to tell regulators or the public this stuff.
Are you free for dinner next week? I met someone and it would be great if you could meet her!
Tom
Desmond was disgusted with himself. He hated people prying into his business, so it felt all wrong for him to do that to anyone else. He closed the mail program, and as it shut down, he saw a photograph open on the screen. It was a white girl wearing a low-cut black dress and a very aggressive push-up bra. She was pretty in a trashy way, with very light blond hair and ghostly pale skin caked with makeup thick as what Dominique used to wear in fashion shows. Her eyes were ringed with raccoonlike black kohl. She was sitting in a restaurant between Tom Klepper and Gary Cowan, her red lips parted, smiling widely. Her head rested on Gary’s shoulder.
Curious, Desmond clicked through to the next shot. The same woman was sitting in a dimly lit restaurant, looking at someone off-camera and holding up a water glass. Her wrists were so thin they might’ve snapped like twigs after the shot was taken. The girl wasn’t posing for the camera. She looked engrossed by whomever she was with, but he was off-camera. Desmond wondered if she even knew the photographer was there.
Klepper came back into the room, snuffling. He had a ball of wadded-up tissues in one hand. “What are you doing?”
“I wanted to look up Roosevelt Island,” Desmond said.
“Oh!” Klepper yelped, when he saw the girl on the screen. “I shouldn’t have left that open.”
“Why? You stalking this girl?”
“Of course not.” Klepper’s tone was way too bright. Desmond had a feeling he knew what was in the satchel, and that Klepper hadn’t been telling the truth about being off cocaine. “That’s my girlfriend.”
“She looks kind of young for you.”
“Age has nothing to do with attraction. When two people
