About Face (15 page)

“Perry, Max—why don't you take, um—”

I turned around and looked at Gaston. He was looking at Neo.

“Neo,” I said.

“Why don't you both take Neo out for a walk. Explore the property a bit.”

Perry looked at me.

I nodded.

“It's a good idea. Gaston and I need to talk.”

As Gaston gave Perry a verbal lay of the land, I continued to look out into the valley. I heard them behind me, but not really. I was consumed with the wide-angle lens view of the world in front of me. I started thinking about my father. I remembered what he looked like the last time I saw him. In a coffin.

The door slammed. I turned around. Gaston took a seat on a huge, white couch adorned with what seemed to be a hundred brown throw pillows.

“What comes next, Jonah? What do you want?”

“I want a new identity,” I said.

“Passports, ID—let's say I can handle documentation needs for all three of you. Then what?”

“I didn't say passports, Gaston. I said a new identity.”

I walked over and sat down a few feet away from him on the couch.

“I want to literally change my identity. Become a different person.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Plastic surgery. I don't want to look like Jonah Gray again. I can't. Not if I'm going to keep on living. Not if I'm going to go the places I need to go. Not if I'm going to get a chance to clear my name.”

“Jonah, that makes no sense. What you need is time, which you can take here. Time to get all the facts in order, put the missing pieces together, clear your—”

I started shaking my head.

“No,” I broke in, “it's not that easy. Too much has happened. It's not like I can just turn myself in and say, wait! Please! This is what really happened.”

“Why not?”

“Because there is evidence against me on one side. And people who want me dead on the other.”

“Jonah—”

“I can never go home, Gaston—”

At least, not yet.

“Even trying to clear my name will take time. I have no choice but to forge a new path. As a new person. I have thought long and hard about this. There simply is no other option.”

What I wasn't telling Gaston was that clearing my name was only part of the mission. I had to find out the true mystery behind those eggs. What they meant. If I didn't, everything that had led to this exact moment would have been for nothing. There was no way I could leave Valens, Switzerland, as Jonah Gray. Jonah Gray was a wanted man the whole globe over.

And with all that had gone on, I had way too much unfinished business.

“I told you about the insurance money. Cash will never be an issue as my existing accounts never need to be touched. The first order of business is accounts being set up in numerous tax-shelter countries aside from Switzerland. The second order of business is turning this place into a plastic surgeon's office.”

“Forget it,” Gaston said. “I simply can't be party to this, Jonah. I know you are in trouble. And I genuinely believe you have been dragged into something you didn't ask for. But I have a lot to lose here—a family, a career, my whole life. I can give you this chalet to take a little time to get this situation sorted out. But that, unfortunately, is all I can give.”

“Gaston, please. We both know I have the money, and you have the resources.”

“Jonah, I'm sorry. I have too much to lose. More than you could ever know.”

He stood up from the couch. He looked down at me.

“Like I said, my home is your home for a bit of time. And I'll be happy to provide whatever essentials I can in the meantime, as well as what you might need once you leave.”

He turned and started to walk toward what looked to be the kitchen.

“That's it?” I said. “Years of loyalty as a family, numerous clients sent your way that probably accounted for a good portion of your business, and that's it?”

Forget that we were a good part of Gaston Piccard's ability to own a country chalet, this was life or death. I may have been surrounded by luxury, but I needed to remain in survivor mode.

Get what you need. Always. Leave the mess for later.

“My father and I talked about a lot of things, Gaston. We talked about you.”

He stopped in his tracks.

“You said it yourself, Gaston. My father wasn't just a client, he was a friend. And friends talk. I know about your clients—who they are, which tax havens they prefer. How much money they are avoiding taxes on.”

He turned around.

“Bullshit, Jonah. I don't buy it.”

“The Lowensteins hide family money behind numerous shell corporate entities in Luxembourg and the British Virgin Islands—
about a hundred million in each jurisdiction. The Berks, who own—shit, I forgot the name of it—that big-box chain of home-repair stores all over the world—anyway, they've got closer to a billion spread out around Gibraltar, Belize, and Vanuatu.”

Silence.

“Buy that? If you'd like, I'm happy to keep going. In fact, I think there may have been a story or two involving some celebrities.”

Gaston took a defeated breath and returned to the couch.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

The cab comes to a stop on Thirtieth Street between Park and Madison. I pay and get out. As I hear the tires pull away from the curb behind me, I look up and notice the sky has gone gray. I look at number 166 and think Scott Green must have been a smart, sensible guy. Beautiful brownstone, no doubt a strong property as far as the buy. Great neighborhood, without great neighborhood pricing. Probably three or four million for the townhouse. Upper East or West Side would be double that.

I don't have a game plan, aside from assessing the situation once the front door opens and devising a game plan. The building is interesting. It looks to be prewar, but some of the architecture suggests a facelift around this last turn of the century. The basement and parlor-floor-level facades are limestone. Above them the building rises in red Philadelphia brick, four stories in all, and is topped off with a copper mansard roof.

I head toward the wide staircase that gracefully fades left leading up to the porch and entrance. When I take the first step, I'm surprised when the front door opens. A sixty-something couple
exits. All of a sudden I hear voices behind me. I turn around. Two men who appear in their forties are approaching the house.

What's going on?

I keep moving so as not to look suspicious. The couple exiting leaves the front door a couple inches ajar for me. I push it open. Off to the left, just past the entrance foyer, is a small table with a tall candle burning on it. Beyond that I can see into the dining room. The long table is covered with cakes, pastries, bagels with all the trimmings, pitchers of water, juice, and coffeepots. Immediately I get it.

Scott Green was Jewish.

And I am apparently now making a shivah call.

I slowly move through the downstairs floor. Unlike a party where people are looking to introduce themselves, socialize, this is obviously different. Everyone around me is keeping to their own, quiet, respectful. I decide floating around silently, looking to seamlessly blend in and find Green's home office, is the way to go, but I'm apprehensive. What if the widow or some family member finds me snooping?

I find my way into the living room, a high-ceilinged, warm room with a predominantly deep-red theme. The walls, the couches, the area rugs over the dark wood floor—all deep, rich red like blood at the exact moment it comes through skin. Old World, wrought-iron chandeliers with candles hang from chains above.

It doesn't take long to identify Green's widow. She's sitting on a plush, burgundy love seat. She's a slight woman, pretty. Her hair is brown and straight past her shoulders. She's wearing black pants, a matching black blouse, and comfortable black Tod's Ballerinas on her feet. Her face is sad but shows a forced half smile as she speaks with some people offering their condolences. Her eyes are also dark, focused. She's sitting gracefully, legs crossed. In the moment she strikes me as strong, confident, and sweet.

I walk toward her, unsure of where to begin. Time is thin. I overhear the conversation she's having end with, “No, really, I'm fine to get it myself. I need to stretch my legs.”

I move in.

“I'm truly sorry for your loss,” I say, extending my hand.

She takes it. Her hand is tiny and even more delicate than I would have guessed. Though her grip is bordering on firm, I can't help noticing I could crush her fingers like dried leaves.

“I appreciate that,” she replies, now fully standing. She can't be taller than four foot ten inches.

Her expression can't suppress her puzzlement.

“I was wondering—” I continue, stepping left away from the immediate people around us as she takes her hand back, “if we might just speak for one second. You see—”

“I'm sorry,” she cuts me off, “and I apologize if I should remember your name. There have been so many people coming and going, and, well, as you might imagine—”

“Of course. I understand. This must be a really difficult time.”

She's waiting.

“I knew your husband through work. We were involved together on the Freedom Bank Building. It turns out—”

“You work at GlassWell?” she interrupts, her eyes hardening a bit.

“No. I work with a different firm. We're in the process of purchasing this particular property, and, well, if we might—”

Whether it was the mention of knowing her husband from work, or this particular deal, her comfort level with my presence changes right before my eyes. In a blink, she's pissed. Her face goes sour.

“How dare you?” she seethes. “You have the nerve to just walk into my house? My husband's house? Like all is fine and well?”

Tiny Woman becomes aggressive. She starts toward me like she's going to make a move. Like perhaps she's going to reach out—for her, up—and grab my balls as hard as she can. Or take the closest hot coffee she can find and throw it in my face. I actually start backing up.

“I apologize. I certainly have no intention of upsetting you,” I respond, my hands up slightly in front of me in a conciliatory manner. “If we can just speak for a second, maybe—”

“Really? If we can just speak? You people—you people are responsible for him being dead!” she goes on, her voice elevated.

I look around. We're now making a full-blown scene.

“You get the fu—” she starts before reeling in her voice. She comes even closer. “You get the hell out of this house,” she snarls.

I take a deep breath.

“Please. Mrs. Green, I know you're upset. But if you'll just take a couple moments to speak with me, I think—”

A burly middle-aged guy stuffed into a suit a couple sizes too small walks over to us. He gently touches Green's widow's arm.

“Is everything okay?” he asks her, but looking at me.

“Everything is fine, Richard. This gentleman was just leaving.”

She turns her back on me and starts off.

Shit.

Not good.

I need answers. I need to see Green's home office. I can take my chances and head upstairs. By the time the cops are on their way I'll already have my answer, and I have no problem taking care of whoever gets in my way.

But do I really want to cause all-out chaos in this poor woman's home? With all she's going through?

And what if I find something useful?

What if the pen really did come from here? What if I need this woman on my side?

Less than three days.

“Please,” I call after her one last time. “Please, Mrs. Green, if you'll just speak with me maybe together we can—”

She doesn't even turn back. Burly Man puts his hand on my shoulder.

“You heard her,” he interrupts.

Running on sheer instinct, surprising both of us, I rip his hand off me.

“Who the fuck do you think you're touching,” I growl.

Looking into his eyes, without a word, I let him know the next time he touches me, his hand comes off. Realizing I have already
drawn way more attention to myself than I'd like, I turn and leave. I retrace my steps through the first floor, and open the front door. It's raining now. Inside, next to the door, is an antique-looking, hand-painted umbrella holder. I grab the tallest one, a blue-and-white golf umbrella.

I may be exiting. But I'm not going anywhere.

I descend the staircase. At the sidewalk I turn right. After thirty feet, I stop. I face the Greens' brownstone again.

The rain is heavy, like a flash flood. The umbrella is huge. A smaller umbrella and I'd be getting soaked from the thighs down. A steady stream of heavy drops pelts the taut nylon overhead so hard it's loud.

My iPhone rings. I check the number and pick up.

“What's keeping you?” asks Cobus.

“I've been in the bathroom. I went up to grab the file, and let's just say I never made it back down. Must be one of those sandwiches they served.”

I hate lying to Cobus.

Then again—technically—every single word ever spoken between us has been a lie.

“Ouch,” he responds. “Great timing. Not to be insensitive, but where's your head at? You down for the count?”

Jonah Gray?

Ivan Janse?

Down for the count?

Are you serious?

“Just a germ or two running through me. Not even close.”

“Good to hear—because I need your eyes and ears. I'll forge ahead with Arnon, then we can get back to the target tomorrow to review any items we still have questions about. I seem to be on schedule to meet Elman before dinner. You going to make it?”

“Hard to say, but I'd rather play it safe. Why don't I shoot for the restaurant at eight.”