had an honest conversation about the blog. Her mother told her all the horrible things that had happened to her when she was young. How her mother hadn’t believed her. How she tried to forgive her mom after she died, but never did get past it. How she started keeping a journal two years ago. How she started the blog on a lark, then received an online comment from a book editor asking Adrienne to contact her.
And after telling her daughter the entire story, Adrienne still remained worried only about Ramona. She assured her that the book was being published under a pseudonym. That no one would need to know her mother had written it. But Ramona didn’t care about any of that. She had hugged her mother and said, “If it were up to me, I’d want the whole world to know. I’m so proud of you.” And since then, they were back to the way they were. No more secrets. They promised.
“You know I have debate team.” She tried one more time to persuade her mother to stay in the city. “Can’t you write at home?”
“I’ll get more done out east. And, honestly, the further away I can get from the scene of the maggot crime, the better. We may need to replace those floorboards.” She feigned a shudder. “Trust me. I’ll be fine.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
They both knew that unlike their promise not to keep any more secrets, this was a promise they had no control over. But, just like the feeling of her mother’s hand in hers, the words were a comfort.
Chapter Forty-Six
The lobby of the Park Manhattan was typical for a midtown office tower. Lots of marble. Lots of glass. Expensive but nondescript art. Post-9/11 security guards manning the front desk, insisting on identification and issuing electronically monitored guest passes before granting entry.
On this particular day in this particular office tower, one of the security guards had already made the phone call they’d requested. The call was to a Margene Waters, former secretary to George Langston, former partner at the law firm of Mascal amp; Blank. Could she please come downstairs? She had a floral arrangement requiring a personal signature.
“How do you know she’ll talk to us?” Ellie asked.
“I don’t,” Rogan said. “Worst thing that happens is she tells Langston we’re asking about him and his farce of a lawsuit against his buddy, Bolt. Pretty sure the Moffits will have already let that cat out of the bag. The way I see it, secretaries feel one of two ways about any given boss: fiercely loyal to the ones who are good to them, and eager for karma to catch up to the rest. You met George Langston. He seem like the kind of guy to remember Secretary’s Day?”
The security guard nodded in their direction when the woman they were looking for stepped out of the elevator. Margene was about forty years old, dressed professionally in a navy sheath dress. Her five-inch, bright- white heels were the only giveaway that she wasn’t one of the lawyers at the blue-chip firm.
When they explained they had some questions about George Langston, she glanced back toward the closing elevator doors, already planning her retreat from the conversation.
“We can talk somewhere else if that would be better,” Rogan said. He flashed the smile Ellie had seen work magic so many times before. “Bet you know a coffee shop around here that brews a way better cup than whatever insta-java stuff they have upstairs. On us. We just need some background info.”
“You’re real police, right?” She had a heavy Long Island accent. “Not some fringy private investigators or something?”
“Why would a private eye be asking questions about George Langston?” Ellie asked.
“Half the partners who got pushed out last year have either sued the firm or are getting sued for poaching clients. It’s like Lord of the Flies since the downsizing. All the staff knows we’ll get fired in a New York minute for helping any of the old guard.”
Now Ellie had a smile to match Rogan’s. Ladies and gentlemen, they had found themselves a talker. They assured her they weren’t interested in the internal workings of the law firm, and then made their way to a Starbucks on Sixth Avenue.
Margene didn’t even wait for them to ask a question before launching in. “So the suspense is killing me. What in the world could two police detectives want to know about George?” She emphasized his name as if it alone captured the very essence of his uninterestingness.
Rogan followed their game plan of easing into the subject gently. “Something bad happened to one of his daughter’s friends. It would help us put some of the information in context if we had a better sense of the family dynamics.”
“Ramona’s okay, though, right? You don’t think she did anything wrong.”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” Rogan assured her.
“Oh, thank God. That girl is such a little sweetheart. Hard to believe she grew up with George. I mean, not that he’s a bad guy, but-well, have you met him?” They nodded. “Okay, so then you know. I mean, some of the girls upstairs thought he was adorable in this old-fashioned way, but I never quite got it. He’s just… he’s so
… pent-up. Maybe the fact that Ramona’s so laid-back is proof of the whole nature-over-nurture thing. Or maybe it’s because of Adrienne. Now, boy, did George get lucky there.”
Ellie was beginning to wonder whether this woman was even breathing between sentences. “So it sounds like you know Ramona was adopted, and that Adrienne came into the picture later?”
“Oh, of course. Everyone knew. I mean, I wasn’t there when it all went down, but people talk. No one-not even the girls who were kind of into him-could believe George was marrying someone like Adrienne. I mean, she’s gorgeous. And such a doll. So, on the one hand, it’s like, how the hell did he land her? But on the other hand, you could kind of tell that George would be watching all the other partners when Adrienne was around, like she might embarrass him or something. Don’t get me wrong. He absolutely loves her. But George is so class-conscious, you know?”
They didn’t, but they were about to.
“Seersucker suits in the summertime. Bow ties. He wants to be taken so seriously. But”-she lowered her voice to a whisper-“you know his father was a building superintendent? That’s right. He didn’t come from money. You’d think he’d be proud of it, but-whatever. At least he married a great woman and raised a great daughter. That’s gotta say something.”
“How about friends?” Rogan asked.
“Same kind of thing. Always chasing the social ladder. Honestly? I think it’s why he got pushed out. The partners here didn’t respect him enough. And he was having a hard time bringing in clients, too. People issues, you know? People can tell when you’re not comfortable in your own skin.”
“Isn’t he friends with some muckety-muck doctor?” Ellie said it like she wasn’t sure of the details.
“Oh, that’s David. David Bolt. Yeah, those two go all the way back to middle school. David told me once-I’m sure George didn’t like it-that George’s dad was the super in David’s family’s apartment building. That’s how they got to be friends. More like brothers-you know how guys can be? Better friends to each other than us girls, I hate to say. David was actually the one to get Ramona into that fancy school. I was the one who drafted the letter to the headmistress. In fact, George might’ve been pushed out earlier if it weren’t for David throwing him business here and there.”
“What kind of work?” Rogan asked.
“You know, a drug company matter, usually litigation. Sometimes it was work for the patent department. One matter was a construction project for NYU Medical Center. But it was always one little thing or another, not enough to make George a rainmaker or anything. Not even enough to save him from the ax, as it turned out.”
Margene had nearly drained her frothy whipped-cream coffee drink and was starting to look at her watch. They thanked her for the information and got her home number in case they needed to contact her again.
“I didn’t mean to make him sound like a bad guy,” she said. “Once I get on a roll, I’m hard to stop. And it’s always so much easier for some reason to go straight to the imperfections. George is a very nice man at heart.”
Her post-gossip pangs of guilt must have still been kicking, because as they walked out onto Sixth Avenue,
