Killing Time (29 page)

My Ulysse Nardin phone rang and I immediately assumed it was either Rory or Nicole therefore I didn’t bother to check the caller ID.

“Hello?” I answered after a few seconds.

“Aurélie?” a female voice inquired.

“Yes?”

“It’s . . . Kaysa Compston. I was wondering if you would like to come by to have lunch with me? If you prefer not to meet here at the apartment then I could schedule us a table at Café Boulud. It’s convenient for both you and me,” she explained in a rushed voice.

“Lunch at Café Boulud is perfect, sweetheart. Is . . . everything okay?”

“Never been better. I just wanted to see you before you left for Paris. I’m sure Jason and I will be there for the funeral but he also has business in France so we will probably pop in and out. We might not see each other.”

“Okay. Well, what time do you want to meet?”

“Is one o’clock all right for you?”

“Yes, that is okay.”

Kaysa cleared her throat. “Good, I will see you then. Goodbye.”

I set my phone down and wondered how she’d managed to acquire my number but what difference did it make? I had a feeling this would be a major breakthrough in the case and hopefully work towards pushing me forward in my investigation. I needed all the help I could get at this point.

I DRESSED EXTREMELY CASUAL FOR
lunch at Café Boulud or as casual as I could get without sticking out like a sore thumb. I wore an asymmetrical Versace dress, tights and black Chanel booties that were only four-inches since I had no wish to slip and fall on the icy streets of Manhattan.

A cab dropped me off shortly before one o’clock at the understated yet elegant restaurant. I immediately consulted the Maitre D’ who gladly showed me to our table. “Mrs. Compston should be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” I replied as I shrugged off my black wool coat and hung it on the back of my chair.

I sat down and our waiter immediately came to the table. “Would you like anything to drink while you wait?”

“Yes, an Evian over ice is fine,” I replied before I began to peruse the menu.

Although Café Boulud was one of my favorites, the general tone in Kaysa’s voice suggested much more than a mere social call. What the hell was she hiding or did she know something about my sister’s death I didn’t? I couldn’t quite figure it out yet; the puzzle pieces still weren’t fitting into place.

I didn’t have much time to wonder as I spotted her walking towards our table followed by the Maître D’. She looked elegant and chic as usual in a classic beige Chanel suit, sheer white thigh highs and beige Mary Jane Tribute pumps. Her blonde hair, sleek and pale, was cut into the perfect bob and complimented her alabaster complexion and cerulean blue eyes.

She looked every bit the society wife and no one would have suspected the lifestyle she truly lived with her husband. Ironically, the same man who would have been my brother-in-law had I stayed with Grayson.

I smiled brightly as she sat down before she asked the hovering waiter for a flute of Dom Perignon champagne. She looked at me with my Evian water and stopped him as she said, “Can you make that two glasses, please?”

“Wow. Are you ordering for me now, too?” I inquired though my voice continued to be light.

A look of trepidation passed through her blue eyes. “I’m sorry . . . if you didn’t want one—”

“Kaysa, it’s fine.” I placed my hands in my lap as I met her gaze. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Jason is out of town on a business trip and when he’s away, he allows me to be myself. It’s a break from the twenty-four-seven TPE and I can feel like a human being again,” she explained as she traced the tablecloth with a perfectly manicured finger.

“So, you’re still intact? Your mind—psychologically speaking—I mean?”

She laughed a little though her blue eyes wandered away from mine. “Barely. I manage but it gets hard. Sometimes, I disappear inside myself and it gets harder to come back from the brink when I finally have freedom. I am so afraid one day I will wake up and realize I have lost my identity in its entirety. It’s a scary reality to contemplate.”

“Join the club—I’m pretty sure most society wives feel that way.” I sighed out loud, my patience short and next to nonexistent at this point in our conversation. “Why did you set up this meeting, Kaysa?”

Her eyes finally met mine. “Did you know I graduated from the University of Heidelberg? I have a degree in Social Sciences and there are just huge gaps in my brain where I don’t remember what I studied? The classes I took or the students I befriended in Germany? Sometimes I slip into German when I am speaking to Jason and he gets so angry . . . I honestly don’t know how much longer I can live like this, Aurélie.” She grabbed her gold choker chain-collar. “I don’t know how much longer I can wear this before I start having full panic attacks about getting someone to remove it from me once and for all.”

Her tone deeply disturbed me though I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible. “I don’t know what you want from me, Kaysa.”

She reached down to her beige Birkin and pulled something out of it before she grabbed my hand underneath the table and pressed it into my palm before closing my fingers over it.

“I know Rory doesn’t want you to write the book about Trésor. I heard him and Jason talking a couple days ago, just before he left for his business trip. They talk all the time around me—him and his friends—because they think I am a blank slate already.

“I don’t want your pity—I
chose
this life. I have to keep telling myself that. It’s not the same as being a sex slave or being abducted from some far off Republic in the Caucasus. I grew up in a Western country to a middle-class family with good humanistic values that loved me, cherished me and treated me with the utmost respect. Everyone is damaged in some way once they become an adult and I just put my own situation down to . . . faulty wiring. There must be something wrong with
me
if I want to live this way.”

Kaysa paused as the waiter set down our fluted glasses of Dom Perignon. “Ladies, feel free to consult the menu and I shall be back to take your orders shortly.”

I swigged from mine as I watched Kaysa down hers in several gulps. “Don’t worry, I’ll order another one when he comes back.”

“What’s on this—” I looked down at the device in my palm, “—flash drive, and why are you trusting me with it?”

“It’s my journal. I have kept one religiously since I began . . . my journey . . . with Severin. He’s still the love of my life you know. I miss him even now. I would rather be his toilet slave than to stay with Jason but he has refused to take me back for such purposes. His last toilet slave, Ellie, she turned him off them for life. The stupid bitch killed herself because he told her she disgusted him.”

“I’m sorry . . . toilet . . . slave?” I inquired out loud.

Kaysa pursed her lips. “Use your imagination or better yet ask Rory when you get home. Just don’t tell him you had lunch with me. I don’t want it to get out we were seen consorting with one another like a couple of close girlfriends. You are a reporter after all and I am giving you something that will make you millions of dollars. It’s my life story you can turn into a book. As long as you change all the names and hide enough about my family background they won’t find out it was me. All I ask is that we split the proceeds by half and I trust you to be honest with how much money you make?”

I sipped from my Bellini again. “What do you plan to do with the money, Kaysa?”

She leaned over towards me and said in a soft voice, “I plan to get away. Buy a little place in Sweden, maybe Denmark and just disappear. I don’t want to live my life like this anymore. I’m tired . . . and I am starting to get old. Soon he will dispatch of me anyway for someone younger and . . . more pliable.”

“How old are you if you don’t mind me asking—”

“Thirty-eight.”

“I would have never known,” I replied before I attempted another smile.

“I have good genes and have never had to resort to plastic surgery. Needless to say, I am done with this whole lifestyle. I have outlived my usefulness so to speak. I only wish to start over again.”

The waiter came back. “Are you two ready to order?”

“Yes, we are. I will have the Salade Gourmande and another glass of Dom Perignon, please.”

I merely looked at the menu before I said, “I will have the House Smoked Sturgeon, please.”

He grabbed our menus and I waited until he was out of hearing distance. “Listen, I inherited some money from Trésor. I can get you enough now to get away. I can continue to wire you money once you are settled somewhere. Why wait? Plus, once this book comes out, don’t you think people in the community are going to put two and two together? They aren’t stupid—you
know
that. It might be too late if you don’t leave as soon as possible.”

Kaysa looked around the restaurant in anguish. “Where would I go?”

“Do you have access to your passport?”

“Not my American one, no.”

“Then use your German passport or go on down to the Swedish consulate and get one from them. Isn’t your father an ethnic Swede and don’t you still have your birth certificate? Can anyone there translate your birth certificate from German to Swedish?”

“I can, I speak both languages, but I don’t have to because I still have my German passport and it is valid for another year—”

“Then use it as soon as we end our lunch. Go to the airport, purchase a ticket and leave with the clothes on your back. You have my phone number and it isn’t going to change. Just keep in touch.”

“But . . . I don’t have any money other than Jason’s credit cards.”

I reached into my purse, pulled out three separate checkbooks and immediately wrote her a two thousand dollar check from my Chase account. I then wrote her another two thousand dollar check from an account I had at Bank of America and yet another account I had at Manhattan Credit Union.

“That’s six grand, which is nothing. That is why as soon as you figure out where you are going to live, I need your info so I can wire you fifty thousand euros—”

“—Kroner, you mean. Denmark doesn’t use the Euro and has no plans to adopt it as far as I know.”

“So you’re going to Denmark?”

“Yes, there are plenty of places to hide there and I don’t have any family ties. The first place Jason would send a private investigator would be Germany or Sweden. I can’t go back to either of my native homelands.”

The rest of lunch, we spent planning her escape and she promised me she would cash the checks and go straight to the airport.

By the time I arrived home from our lunch, I rushed to my laptop and immediately booted it up. I began to check my accounts and true to her word, the money had been removed from all three. I immediately plugged the flash drive in a USB port and clicked to open it on my computer. There were MS Word documents, almost one hundred of them, chronologically arranged by month and year. I opened the most recent month and realized with stunning clarity she’d documented everything that had happened to her at the hands of Jason Compston. Her last entry was dated that very same day.

My phone vibrated and I grabbed it before I stared down at the text message:

Kaysa: Able to get same day flight for cheap. Only a third of what you gave me. Haha. Will be in touch with account and router number ASAP. Thank you. K.

I smiled and couldn’t help as a tear slid down my cheek. I still planned to investigate my sister’s murder and would continue to actively work on her case. However, for the time being, I’d helped someone who was still alive and able for me to save.

I knew this wouldn’t bring my sister back but it sure as hell felt good to
do
something instead of just talking about an issue. My conscience felt better, lighter and clearer than it’d felt in years.

Chapter Eighteen

Rory

RORY CAME HOME TO FIND
Aurélie in a particularly good mood. She embraced him and kissed him on the lips and he buried himself in her scent. He still loved everything about her even now.