I count to ten again. Then again. I get as far as thirty-four before I realize I need to do something more effective.
I text:Listen, asshole.
Nope. Too ladylike.
I delete and start again:Listen, motherf—r.Better. Much better.I’m sick and tired of taking your s—t.
He answers:Cute. What is this? Are we playing Mad Libs?
Me:Yeah. The I Hate Your F—g Guts version. If you’re so dissatisfied with the way I’m doing my job, WHY AM I STILL HERE?
Him:Okay. I hear ya.
Me:Really? I don’t think you do. You’re tone-deaf and people-deaf. The way you’ve been motivating me? You probably call it Tough Love. To me it feels like Easy Hate. No wonder everybody at the FBI detests you. Well, maybe not everybody. Just the people who’ve worked with you.
Him:Keep going. I’m enjoying this.
Me:Really? I guess that proves what a sadist you are.
And what does that say about me, that I put myself in this situation?
Him:Okay. I’m sorry. Happy now?
Me:No. “Sorry” doesn’t even begin to cut it.
Actually, I’m thrilled that he went even that far. I was expecting eitherElinor, you’re overreactingor that classic male-to-female put-downHoney, you’re being too sensitive.
CHAPTER 56
IT’S A GLORIOUS SUNDAY at the end of October, with no Ben, no Lily, and no Hailey around. Even the dogs are gone, on a playdate with Sidney the schnauzer. Bright and early—well, not exactly early; more like noon—I call the gallery and proceed to do what the FBI calls a ruse interview: an approved way to deal with what’s known as open-source information. I’ll tell whoever answers that my name is Megan Greer—the same alias I used when I talked to Ben’s ex-wife—and that I’m calling from an employment agency called Careers Unlimited, another name I made up. (I forgot how much I enjoy the thrill of intelligence-gathering. I gotta say, it feels good to be back in the saddle.)
As the phone rings, a moment of panic sets in. What ifit’s one of the people I spoke to at the party? Will they recognize my voice?
A young woman answers. She’s new, perhaps one of the interns, and pure Valley Girl. She ends every sentence with a question mark.
“Good afternoon?” she says. “Harrison Gallery? This is Brittany?”
“Hi, Brittany. I’m calling from Careers Unlimited to inquire about someone who recently worked there,” I tell her. “He gave the gallery’s name as a previous employer and said you’d be someone I could talk to.” (Another FBI information-gathering technique: referencing false information.) Brittany doesn’t question why I’d be calling on a Sunday. Good. Bullet dodged.
“Hold on a minute?” she says. A short pause. And then…
“This is Rodney,” a male voice says. “May I be of assistance?”
“Yes. I’m calling from Careers Unlimited,” I repeat. “We have a new client who worked at the Harrison Gallery. He said his name was Lou something. I can’t check because our system is down.”
“Hmm. The only Lou I remember is Luis Escarra,” Rodney says.
“Yes,” I say, scribbling the name down. He pronounced itLew-ees,so that means it’s spelled L-u-i-s. (Memo to self: Nicely done.)
“He was employed here a while back in shipping. But I really don’t know anything more than that. The person you’d need to speak to won’t be in until tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, I’ll call back then,” I say. But actually, I’ve got all I need.
Forget Facebook, Instagram, TikTok. The Luis I’m looking for doesn’t strike me as someone who posts cute cat videos. I log on to a bunch of people-search sites, starting with Spokeo, PeopleFinders, and Intelius. Cross-referencing all the Luis Escarras, I eliminate most of them by age (any Luis under twenty or over forty) and location (any Luis not within commuting distance of the Harrison Gallery). That leaves just two. Actually, just one. I rule out Luis Escarra, MD, gynecologist.
PeopleFinders gives me an address in Stamford, Connecticut. As soon as I drop Hailey at school on Monday, I’ll head there. My GPS is already set.
CHAPTER 57
