1 Runaway Man (3 page)

I dressed in my Sincere Young Man ensemble: Oxford button-down shirt, V-neck sweater, Harris Tweed sports jacket, corduroy slacks and the hooded navy blue duffel coat that I got at the Brooks Brothers winter sale for 60 percent off. Then I coaxed the elevator downstairs and took off into the wet, chilly New York night.

We keep our company car in a twenty-four-hour garage around the corner on Amsterdam. Our wheels had been my dad’s pride and joy—a somewhat gaudy burgundy 1992 Cadillac Brougham with a white vinyl top and matching burgundy leather interior. He loved that damned boat. Babied the hell out of it. And would have been infuriated that I was taking it out in the slush of a January night. But we can’t afford to maintain a car that we don’t use.

The evening traffic was heavy and slow. I inched my way up the Henry Hudson to the Cross Bronx, then took that to the Hutchinson River Parkway, an icy rain tap-tap-tapping on my windshield. As I headed into the northern burbs, the rain changed over to snowflakes. And I began to get the feeling that I was not alone. I couldn’t make anyone out in my rearview mirror. But I also couldn’t shake the feeling that I had a tail.

Willoughby is one exit past Scarsdale. When I arrived there I found myself in an entirely different world. Instead of sooty slush there was a blanket of pure white snow. Instead of the hustle-bustle of today I encountered a sleepy, charming village where time had stopped in about 1936. There was a town green complete with an honest-to-gosh gazebo. A steepled white church. Tidy little shops with parking on the diagonal out front. It was positively eerie. The snow was coming down pretty hard as I made my way through town, past dignified homes set back behind white picket fences. The snowplows were out. Hardly anyone else was.

I still had the feeling I was being followed. I didn’t see anyone behind me on the deserted road. But I felt it.

The Weiners lived at the end of Powder Horn Hill Road, a relatively new cul-de-sac of immense center-chimney colonials filled with prosperous, happy people leading prosperous, happy lives—as long as you didn’t read their files and know better. As I drew closer to the Weiners’ place, I met up with a family of deer standing in the middle of the road. They didn’t run away from the Caddy. Just stood there. I had to steer around them.

Paul Weiner answered the doorbell. Bruce’s father was a balding, moon-faced man with a pillowy body and soft, round shoulders. He had a cautious, serious air about him. The air of a man you could trust with your money. He wore a cardigan over a plaid flannel shirt, worn khakis and moccasins.

“Good evening, Mr. Weiner, I’m Ben Golden of Golden Legal Services. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” he responded with chilly disapproval. “I just found out you were coming five minutes ago.”

Laurie appeared behind him the doorway, wearing designer sweats and sneakers. She was a thin, tepid looking woman with limp brown hair, horsy features and a complexion the color of wet newspaper. It never fails: Whenever I study up on a married couple who are cheats, I always picture the wife as a shmokin’ hot cougar and the husband as the spitting image of George Clooney. Reality? The Weiners were painfully plain.

“My wife,” he said tightly, “was a bit unclear about what it is you do, son. Are you an intern at a law firm?”

“Actually, I’m a licensed private investigator.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I am not.”

“I suppose you have a license and so forth?”

I took out my wallet and showed it to him.

He looked it over carefully, shaking his head. “And
who
has hired you?”

Peter Seymour had explicitly warned me not to share that information with them. I wanted to know why that was. It’s my natural instinct to be curious about such things. “The law firm of Bates, Winslow and Seymour,” I replied.

Laurie Weiner drew in her breath, her eyes widening.

Her husband was a cooler customer. He just said, “You may as well come in out of the snow. But I’m warning you—I won’t agree to act on Bruce’s behalf until I see something in writing
and
review it with my own attorney.”

The entry hall smelled of potpourri and teriyaki sauce. There was a cavernous department store showroom of a living room that looked as if it was never, ever used. And a brightly lit den directly across the hall, where the Knicks were playing the Bucks on a sixty-inch flat-screen TV.

As I unbuttoned my coat, a teenaged girl came bounding eagerly down the stairs. Sara Weiner was a small-boned, bright-eyed girl with a long, shiny mane of honey-colored hair.

“Are you a friend of Brucie’s?” she asked, gazing at me probingly.

“No, he’s not,” her father said abruptly. “Mr. Ben Golden is here about a legal matter, Sara. And
you
have a history paper to write.”

Sara curled her lip at him and started back upstairs, looking at me curiously over her shoulder. I treated her to my best smile. I got zero back.

Laurie offered me coffee. I accepted. Paul and I went in the den. He flicked off the TV while I checked out the shrine that had been erected in there. A huge glass case was filled with athletic trophies. And one entire wall was lined with framed, laminated newspaper stories and photos.

Paul said, “Bruce’s basketball team won the state championship his senior year. Bruce was the starting center and captain. That’s my boy, right there.…” He pointed to a newspaper photo of a big, dark-haired kid with broad shoulders and a square jaw. A real bruiser. Neither of his parents was particularly large. Nor was his sister. But there must have been some size in the Weiner family tree somewhere. “He’s a ferocious rebounder. He wanted to play at the college level but he’s only six-foot-three. To play under the basket in college you’ve got to be at least four inches taller. We talked about him switching to football. They projected Bruce as a tight end. He decided to focus on academics instead. It was a tough adjustment for him. Basketball was his first love. But I told him, hey, sometimes you just have to face up to reality and move on.”

“Yes, you do.”

“He wants to teach English abroad for a year after he graduates. Has shown no interest in business school, which had been our plan.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“We just want him to be happy,” Laurie said as she showed up with my coffee.

I took it from her and sat on the leather sofa. She sat next to me. Paul settled into an oversized recliner.

I sipped my coffee. It was weaker than I like it. “And is he? Happy, I mean.”

Paul let out a laugh. “Why wouldn’t he be? He’s twenty-one years old. He’s got his whole great big beautiful life ahead of him.” The man’s voice was upbeat but there was wistfulness in his eyes. He sounded as if he wanted to live his own life all over again. Perhaps in Asia this time, with a rotating bevy of petite young women who take excellent care of their feet.

“When did you last speak to Bruce?”

Paul shrugged. “Over the weekend, I guess. Why?”

“Bates, Winslow and Seymour have made numerous attempts to contact him at Canterbury. He hasn’t responded to any of their phone calls or letters. According to his roommate, Bruce left school three days ago.”

The Weiners exchanged a look of surprise.

“Chris told them Bruce took off?” Laurie’s voice quavered slightly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Paul stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So that’s why they sent you here.”

“Yes, sir. My initial thought was that perhaps he’d come home for a few days. Which I gather he hasn’t.”

“You gather correctly.”

“Do you have any idea where he can be reached?”

He peered at me, puzzled. “We’re Bruce’s parents. Why didn’t they just come to us in the first place?”

“Because he’s twenty-one. The bequest is in his name.”

“Bequest,” he repeated. “Somebody’s left Bruce money? How much money?”

“I’m not privy to that information.”

“Well, do you know who left it to him?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve simply been retained to locate Bruce. Do you have any relatives who’ve passed away recently?”

“My folks are long gone,” Paul replied with a shake of his head. “So is Laurie’s father. And her mother was still kicking the last time I looked.”

“She’s kicking all right,” Laurie said glumly.

I kept staring at Laurie, trying to imagine her in the throes of passion with her married lover. Or anyone. I couldn’t. “How about a family friend or business associate?”

They looked at each other blankly.

“Perhaps an elderly neighbor? Someone who took an interest in Bruce when he was a boy?”

“Maybe old man Kershaw,” Paul offered. “He retired to Phoenix a few years back. Bruce used to shovel his driveway for him. The old fellow took a shine to him, remember, Laurie?”

“What I remember is the way he used to stare at Sara when she played in the front yard. That man made my skin crawl.”

“Do either of you know why Bruce might have left school?”

“No idea,” he said.

“Has he ever taken off before?”

“He and his friends go off on little unscheduled ski trips to Bear Mountain,” Laurie said. “He is a kid, after all.”

“But a responsible kid,” Paul said, getting testy. “He’s no partier.”

“I didn’t say he was,” she said, getting testy right back.

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“No one steady,” he said.

“That we know of,” she said.

Which Paul didn’t like. “Laurie, if he had a girlfriend we’d know.”

“Not necessarily,” she shot back.

As the two of them bickered I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway. Someone was eavesdropping on our conversation.

Paul heaved a sigh of annoyance. “You know what? There’s a simple way to get to the bottom of this.” He grabbed his cell phone from the coffee table and speed dialed a number. Waited as it rang, then shook his head at us. “Voice mail.” He left Bruce a message: “Hi Beefer, I was just watching the Knicks get killed and thought I’d check in. Talk to you soon.” He rang off, scrolled his directory and tried another number. “Hi, Chris, sorry if I’m interrupting anything. It’s Paul Weiner … I’m fine, son. Just fine. Been trying to get in touch with Bruce and he’s not … Oh, he is? Uh-huh.… Sure, I understand. Glad to hear it. Okay, thanks.” Paul rang off, gazing at me with amusement. “Somebody gave you a bum steer, young fellow. His roommate just told me that Bruce has been pulling long hours at the library every night this week. He couldn’t answer my call just now because they make the kids turn their cell phones off.”

And yet this very same roommate had told Peter Seymour’s office he hadn’t seen Bruce in three days. Who was Chris Warfield lying to? And why?

“If you hear from him please let me know.” I left my business card on the coffee table and stood up. “Excuse me for asking, but have you folks had any prior dealings with Bates, Winslow and Seymour?”

Laurie lowered her eyes, coloring slightly.

Paul looked me right in the eye and said, “Never heard of them.” He was a good liar.

It was still snowing lightly. There was a thin coating on the windshield of the Caddy. Nothing the wipers couldn’t take care of. I was just about to back out of the driveway when someone came darting out of a door next to the garage, jumped in next to me and dove under the dashboard.

“Just keep going,” Sara blurted out, crouching there. “Drive around.”

“Drive around where?”

“Park down the block or something. Just
go
, will you?”

I backed out of the driveway and started up the street. As soon as I’d gone around a bend, Sara sat up on the seat next to me, tossing her long, shiny hair. She wore an oversized fleece top, a pair of tights and Ugg boots. She was a cute little thing with big brown eyes, a soft, plump mouth and glowing skin. A real doll. A nervous doll. She was wringing her hands.

“I was listening to what my parents were just telling you in there,” she said with great urgency. “And they are, like, totally full of shit, okay? They don’t know
anything.
”

“And you do?”

“Well, yeah. So does Chris. He was lying his ass off to my dad.”

I pulled over to the curb and idled there with the heater cranked up high. We had Powder Horn Hill Lane all to ourselves, unless you count the deer.

Sara was studying me from across the seat with those big brown eyes. “You don’t look like a Ben.”

“My friends call me Benji.”

“I like that much better. Tell me why you’re looking for Brucie.”

“It’s my job. A law firm hired me.”

“Some big fancy law firm in the city?”

“Yes.”

“That totally figures.” She glanced around at the interior of the Caddy. “
This
is your ride?”

“Company car.”

“So what do you drive?”

“I don’t. I live in the city.”

“God, I can’t wait to. It bites out here. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go. A lot of my friends are applying to these small, elitist colleges in the New England countryside. Not me. I want to be in a city where shit happens.” She pulled a hand-rolled joint out of the pocket of her fleece top. “Does your lighter work?”

“I imagine so.”

She pushed it in and waited, gazing at me curiously. “So you’re a real dick.”

“Excuse me?”

“Isn’t that what they call a guy who does what you do?”

“Generally, they call me a private investigator.”

The lighter popped up. She yanked it out and lit her joint, toking deeply on it. “Want some?” she asked, opening her window a crack to let the smoke out.

“No, thanks.”

“It helps me relax. I’m hardwired to excel—academics, music, sports. I’m a little tightly wound.” Sara flashed a smile at me. She had a sweet smile. A set of dimples you could go spelunking in. “Trevor? This guy who I’m sort of boning? He’s really into old Bogie movies. That’s why I asked you about the dick thing. Trevor likes to wear this old gray fodera just like Sam Spade.”

“Fedora.”

“It’s like a hat? He said it was called a fodera.”

“Fedora.”

“Are you sure?”

“I couldn’t be more sure. What does ‘sort of boning’ mean?”