“He was super-smart, too,” Harold said. “He was going to an Ivy League school in the fall. There’s no way that kid ran away.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
“Foul play.” Harold’s voice was firm. “It had to be.”
“You haven’t seen Max since he disappeared?”
They both shook their heads.
“His mother said Max never forgets her birthday,” Desmond said.
“Poor Galina. I don’t think she can tell what’s real and what isn’t anymore.” The woman shook her head. “She’s certain Max will come back one day. I think that’s all that keeps her alive.”
Chapter 43
After Desmond drove back into the city, he parked his car in the Hyatt’s outrageously-priced-for-anywhere-but-Manhattan lot. What a rip-off, he thought, wondering for the umpteenth time how his sister had come to love such a ridiculous place. He had dinner alone at Michael Jordan’s The Steak House, which was also tucked inside Grand Central. He’d been subsisting on bagels and sandwiches for days, so having a boneless rib eye was a luxury. Afterward, he walked down Park Avenue to Dominique’s apartment. On the way down, his cell phone rang.
“Is this Desmond? Zachary Amberson. We met this morning.”
“Yes, I remember.” Desmond’s tone was noncommittal, but he was curious. He’d been expecting this call.
“I’d like to apologize for that scene earlier today,” Zachary said. “I know it was unpleasant.”
“Not for me.”
There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end. Then: “I’m glad you see it that way.”
“Is Trinity still upset about you working with Dominique against Gary?” Desmond asked.
“She’s a very high-strung girl. The least little thing sends her flying off the handle.” Amberson’s voice was conspiratorial. “Typical female. Overly emotional about absolutely everything.”
Desmond wondered what angle the lawyer was playing, and it dawned on him that whatever dossier Trinity Lytton-Jones had on him, her lawyer knew about as well. The smarmy creep was aware of Desmond’s divorce and figured him for bitter.
“You can say that again. It was funny, her running to her room and slamming the door as if she were a little girl.” Desmond’s thoughts didn’t match his words. He’d wondered how Amberson had convinced Dominique to help him against Gary. According to Sabrina, his sister never would have agreed to it but for those photos—sent by an anonymous tipster—of Gary and his cheerleader girlfriend. What if those illicit shots had come from Amberson himself? He had motive, after all.
Amberson chuckled, as if they understood each other. “I think it would be an excellent idea for us to discuss matters in person.”
“Matters?” Desmond played innocent.
Amberson didn’t take the bait. “Would you mind coming to my office? I believe you said you know the address. I’m very much looking forward to speaking in person, man to man.”
There he goes again with his line of sexist crap, Desmond thought. Did Amberson assume every divorced man who’d served in the military ate that up? But he pretended to, and they made an appointment for the next day.
He was in a bad mood when he hung up, and he looked behind him, feeling eyes on him again. It was the same sensation he’d had around the cops, and it left him wondering if they’d put a tail on him. How could he tell? There were too many people on the street. But the untrustworthy cops were only part of what fueled his anger. It wrenched his guts around to accept that Dominique had effectively been plotting with Trinity Lytton-Jones and her lawyer. How much had his sister hated Gary to plan what she did? His imagination didn’t stretch far enough to picture her drugging her ex with a muscle relaxant. Still, she’d plotted with Sabrina to do exactly that. If he pushed himself, he had to admit that his sister’s temper could fire up like a solar flare. It wasn’t impossible to see how, hating Gary for how he’d mistreated her, she’d cooked up something bad. But working for Trinity, even through the proxy of her seedy lawyer? He started to wonder how well he knew Dominique at all.
Desmond was well aware that, in the aftermath of a crime, relatives always said they never saw it coming. He and Dominique hadn’t been in touch as much as they should have been. She never wanted to come back to Chicago and he had no fondness for New York, so they only saw each other a couple of times a year. They talked on the phone every week or two, and they sent email every few days. Surely, that was enough contact for him to figure out something had changed his baby sister. But he hadn’t had a clue about the drama that was actually unfolding.
That brought to mind Max Brantov, missing boy turned kidnapper and killer. Thinking of the boy’s mother made his heart hurt. To Desmond, there was nothing more awful than losing a child. That idea pinged around his brain, connecting the dots back to his mother. When she’d gone to jail, she effectively lost her daughter. All she saw of Desmond was his weekly visits. When he thought of how his mother must have suffered, even before the ovarian cancer grew inside her, it broke his heart. His mother had sacrificed her life to protect his, and there was no way he could ever repay that.
At Dominique’s apartment, he felt like a trespasser. He went into her bedroom, straightening things up. Had the cops who’d come over dusted for prints or anything else? It didn’t look like it. He opened her closet. When Dominique had been modeling, she’d loved those Italian designers whose names sounded like money when
