Trump Tower (71 page)

“The Feebs?”

“FBI,” Forbes nodded, then continued. “The husband is officially considered a person of interest in his wife's murder. At the same time, they want to talk to David and Tina Cove. She left the country on Friday night, kind of suddenly, and boarded a flight to Hong Kong. David also left suddenly sometime on Friday. He's got a plane at Teterboro. The pilot filed a flight plan for Houston but never arrived. The police located his car at the airport in long-term parking but haven't located him yet. Whether the Coves have anything to do with Mrs. Essenbach . . . who knows. A coincidence? The cops don't know . . . yet.”

Belasco asked, “What about the vicuna-coat kid, Carlos Vela?”

“He's clear. He told the cops he went to see Mrs. Essenbach because he wanted her to know he never took anything from her.”

“And he didn't,” Belasco reiterated.

“As for the elevator operator, Tejeda, he was banging her. Apparently, he wasn't the only one on the staff. Seems she liked young guys.”

Belasco reached into his pocket and took out his Metro Card. “The cops wanted to see this. I found it at home.”

Forbes waved him off. “They've seen the CCTV tape at Seventy-Seventh Street. You were there. They also dropped your phone LUDs. In case you might have called some Mafia creep to knock her off.”

“I don't know any Mafia creeps.”

“After checking your phone calls for the past thirty days, they couldn't find any, either.”

“Thirty days? They checked every call I made?”

“And received,” he added. “They've eliminated that woman who works here, Antonia something, and the actor Seasons. But there are three things that continue to interest them.”

“Which are?”

“First, the man coming out of Essenbach's apartment after Antonia arrives with Seasons. She kissed him in the CCTV footage. Name's Clarence O'Bannion. He comes up on radar screens as a minor hood. Pretends to be well connected but probably isn't. He's now a person of interest.”

“Second?”

“The guy who appears to be taking a photo of Cove and Essenbach downstairs in the food court.”

“You really think he's taking a photo? Maybe he's just walking by.”

“Turns out your friend Mr. Cove has friends in Colombia and Mexico.”

Belasco shrugged, “Just because he knows people who . . .”

“Does business with them. Makes money? Loses money? Steals money? What if he cheated someone and Mrs. Essenbach turns up with him in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

He hadn't thought of that. “You mean somebody thinks she's involved with him, and she winds up getting murdered by mistake?”

“Odds are long . . . but, then, every guy who wins a hundred million bucks playing the lottery says, I never thought it would happen to me.”

Belasco tried to take it all in, then fell onto his couch. He looked at Forbes and sighed. “I sometimes wonder . . . you know . . . if God really does have a plan for the universe. Doesn't look like it most days. Maybe all he does is sit there and roll the dice and move the little pieces around the board.”

“Sorry, pal, metaphysics is above my pay grade.”

He grinned. “What's the third thing?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“The cop who shaves his head, Stoyanov, he's bothered by the fact that you didn't tell them that Mrs. Essenbach was going to sue you.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't think it was relevant.”

Forbes warned him, “Motives for murder are always relevant.”

B
ELASCO WAITED
until the end of the day before he phoned Antonia to say he wanted to speak with her immediately. She started making excuses about being too busy, about being too upset about Mrs. Essenbach, about having a conflicting appointment with her dentist. But he told her, “Five thirty,” in no uncertain terms, and she showed up on time.

“This is awful about Mrs. Essenbach. And before you say it, I was wrong bringing Tommy into the building. But Mrs. Essenbach said to me that she was a huge fan, so I thought if I introduced them . . .”

He handed her two printouts from the envelope Riordan had given him. “I need you to explain these.”

The first was Tony Gallicano's original e-mail to Donald Trump saying that Belasco reported “insufficient” grounds for Carlos Vela's dismissal. The second was the e-mail actually sent from Gallicano's computer where the word “insufficient” was changed to “sufficient.”

She read them, “I don't know anything about this,” and tossed them onto Belasco's desk.

He handed her another printout. “You see the time you logged into your computer? That's when you got to the office that morning.”

“So what?” She was becoming nervously defiant. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Look at the log-in times. Your computer stayed on for the entire day. His was only on for two minutes. Then eight minutes later, someone logs onto his computer again and stays on for the entire day.”

“This has nothing to do with me. You need to speak with Tony . . .”

“This has everything to do with you.” He handed her another printout. “Those are the computers on your floor. Yours was the first logged-on that morning. Except for the two minutes that Mr. Gallicano's computer was on, none of the others logged on for eight minutes. That's Mr. Gallicano. It's fifteen minutes later before anyone else on the floor is logged on.”

“So what? This doesn't prove . . .”

“You were alone in the office. You logged on to Mr. Gallicano's computer, hacked his e-mails, changed insufficient to sufficient and logged off.”

She crossed her arms and stared past him. “Antonia did nothing of the kind. You can't prove that Antonia . . .”

“Then why . . .” he handed her yet another printout . . . “did Antonia receive an e-mail in her private Gmail account from Mr. Gallicano's computer during those two minutes when he was logged on?”

She didn't say a word.

He reminded her, “Everything is backed up. I've got incontrovertible evidence that violates any number of company rules. What's more, you have, probably, also broken the law.”

She scowled, then warned him, “And I know everything about you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I know everything. Absolutely everything. I know about . . .” She blurted out, “I know about your wife and son.”

“What?” He felt the blood rushing out of his face.

“That's right . . . everything there is to know about you. If you make trouble for me . . .”

He had to fight hard to control his temper. “You have two choices. Tender your resignation, or I take this to Anthony Gallicano who will summarily fire you. Along with your firing will come a formal investigation into all of your activities during your employment here. At that time, I will recommend that the police be brought in.”

“You do that,” she snapped, “and Antonia goes public with what Antonia knows about you. When people find out . . . when Antonia tells them . . .”

“When Antonia tells them what?”

“Everything.”

He exploded, “That my wife was killed?”

“Everything.”

“That I lost my child?”

“Everything.”

He paused for a second, then said in a softer tone, “Antonia, you need serious help.”

She railed, “Antonia will get even.”

“But Antonia won't be working here anymore.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

He pointed toward the door. “You resign . . . or you're fired. Either way, clear out of your office within twenty-four hours.”

She leaned forward and then screamed at him at the top of her lungs, “Antonia says, fuck you,” and stormed out of his office.

It took him a while to calm down.

Eventually, he opened his laptop and began writing a report, outlining everything she'd done. If she didn't resign, he intended to send it to Donald Trump, Anthony Gallicano and Carole Ann Mendelsohn.

But long before he finished writing this, he sat back and thought about what had happened all those years ago on a rainy night in Paris.

He'd never discussed it with anyone here. He never wanted anyone here to know. But now, someone knew.

And for one slight moment, he thought
, maybe it's time
.

In an odd way, it was as if this thing that he'd carried inside him for all these years had suddenly been set free.

Someone here knows
.

It is no longer a secret
.

He finished writing that report, saved it, but didn't send it, and went home.

Rummaging through a carton at the back of the closet in the hallway, he found the silver picture frame he'd put away a very long time ago.

He hadn't looked at it in years.

His eyes filled with tears.

No longer a secret
.

For the longest time, he clung to that photo.

And after a while, he stopped crying.

Then, before he went to bed, he cleared a space on his night table, put the frame there, and angled it so that he could see it.

No longer a secret
.

He fell asleep looking at the beautiful, young, smiling wife who stood next to her husband, so proudly holding their newborn son.

TUESDAY

Z
eke had his usual car and driver take Cyndi, Carson and him up to Yankee Stadium at five o'clock, then rush back downtown to be at NBC at 6:30 for Alicia.

Getting out at Gate 4, they made their way past several security checkpoints—the guards all loved Cyndi's Yankee uniform, which looked real except for the pinstriped hot pants—and to the entrance of the ultraprivate Legends' Suite.

Given wristbands to show they had access, they were escorted by a Yankee hostess through a series of blue-lit dining rooms—with flat-screen TVs everywhere—to a table where, the hostess reminded them, everything was free.

“It always tastes better that way,” Cyndi remarked.

On one side of the room there was a huge buffet with meat, fish, salads, vegetables, fruit, and desserts. Nearby was the largest mountain of every kind of candy that any of them had ever seen.

Zeke shook his head. “Dentists must love this place.”

“Dentists are probably the only people who can afford it,” Carson said. “This is Yankee fan heaven.”

“Is this what the private side of Wimbledon is like?” Zeke asked him.

“Wimbledon is good, but the food is much better here. Look at this place. And no waiter at Wimbledon in the players' dining room would know what to do if you wanted . . .” he pointed to two young teenage boys walking away from the candy mountain, each juggling four boxes of Cracker Jacks . . . “that.”

Someone from the staff reminded them, “If you don't want to eat now, we will bring you anything you want while in your seats during the game.”

“That's another difference with Wimbledon,” Carson said. “No way can you get a cheeseburger and a Bud at center court.”

They debated the buffet, but after they ordered drinks at their table and a waiter came by to ask if he could bring them anything, Cyndi ordered a salad, Zeke went for the roast beef and Carson had the lamb.

The three of them sat eating their early dinner, looking out at the field, stopping every now and then to say hello to people who came by the table.

When a couple of middle-aged guys asked if Cyndi would take a photo with
them, she said sure. Then two teenage boys nervously approached the table to ask if they could take a photo with her, too.

“Have you noticed,” Carson said quietly to Zeke as Cyndi in her hot pants stood in between the two overgrinning boys, and one of the hostesses snapped the picture, “every time someone comes near the table, a hostess appears to ask if she can get something for us.”