“I understand that,” Mulroney says. “What we generally charge is seventy an hour, but I would cap the job for now at two thousand dollars, and when we reach that point, we’llreevaluate. I’ll keep you constantly abreast of the progress, and if after the first day I have any reason to suspect we’re going to hit a dead end, I’ll let you know.”
“And I’d receive the remainder of my retainer back if we decide to halt the investigation for some reason?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, I’m on board.”
We cover a few more details. Mulroney’s going to email me a contract later today, and he explains he’ll need a couple of photos of me, which I promise to shoot over to him. Then he slides a slim notebook from his inside jacket pocket along with a Bic pen and asks what I was wearing when I resurfaced on Thursday, my exact home address as well as the Greenbacks office address, and for any details that might be even slightly relevant. I fill him in on the fact that my purse is missing as well as my phone, and I also describe the charge at Eastside Eats.
“Okay, a piece of the thread to follow. That’s the only charge?”
“Right. I’ve been wondering whether I might have been mugged and the person grabbed the purse along with my phone. But wouldn’t a mugger have tried to use the card again after buying lunch? Or one of the other cards?”
“He might have been looking mainly for cash. You carry much on you?”
“I think I had a few hundred dollars on me at the start of the week. I like to use cash when I can’t write something off for business.”
He shrugs. “If a junkie grabbed your purse, it would havebeen plenty for a few fixes. This place Eastside Eats. You ever been there before?”
“No, but I checked online and it’s the type of place I might stop in.”
“Anything of note on your calendar for last week? Places you might have gone—or people you might have seen?”
“I had an appointment at one o’clock on Wednesday with a Dr. Elaine Erling—at her New York City office, not the Larchmont one—but I didn’t keep it. There’s a chance that at some point over those two days I showed up at WorkSpace on West Fifty-Fifth Street, where I rent a small office. I hadn’t planned to go in those days—my intention was to work from home—but who knows?”
He stuffs the notebook back into his pocket and reaches across the table to shake my hand.
“We’re going to figure this out for you, Ms. Linden,” he says. “And we can start immediately.”
“Thank you.” His words have triggered a rush of relief, though there’s still fear pulsing lightly beneath it. “What can I do to assist in this?”
“For the moment, the most important thing is to be available so I can check in with you regularly and ask you questions as they come up.”
“You can count on it.”
Mulroney raises a finger for the check, and the waiter nods with a smile.
“You do a lot of meetings here?” I ask.
“A fair amount. I also like to stop by at the end of the day and think through my cases.”
I offer to pay for my own coffee, but Mulroney insists it’s on him.
“Oh, wait,” I exclaim as he lays down a few bills. “I almost forgot.”
I fish through my purse and extract the gallon-size Ziploc bag I’ve stuffed with the bloodied tissues. Mulroney’s right eyebrow, the one with the scar, shoots up.
“These were in my coat pocket, though I don’t have any memory of putting them there.”
He cups the bag in one hand and peers at the contents intently.
“Did you have any cuts or bruises last week?”
“No, but I’ve gotten nosebleeds in the past. Can we do a DNA test to find out whether the blood is mine or not?”
“DNA’s going to take a few weeks. Plus, you’ll need to buy one of those home paternity tests. Actually, I think we should start instead by checking the blood type on the tissues, which can be done quickly and might tell us all we need to know. What type are you?”
“O negative.”
