Genuine Fraud(20)

“Listen, I have to—”

Forrest appeared at her elbow. He was languid and slouching. “You found a friend,” he said to Jule. He said it as if speaking to a puppy.

They had to leave immediately. Jule stood up. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “I got a head rush. I’m nauseated. Can you take me home?” She grabbed Forrest’s wrist and pulled him toward the lobby doors.

“You were fine a minute ago,” he said, trailing behind her.

“Great to see you,” she called to Paolo. “Goodbye.”

She had intended Paolo to stay rooted in his seat, but he got up and followed Jule and Forrest to the door. “I’m Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone,” he said, smiling at Forrest as they walked. “I’m a friend of Imogen’s.”

“We have to go,” Jule said.

“Forrest Smith-Martin,” Forrest responded. “You’ve heard, then?”

“Let’s go,” said Jule. “Now.”

“Heard what?” said Paolo. He kept pace as Jule pulled Forrest outside.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jule said. “Something is wrong with me. Get a taxi. Please.”

They were outside now, in heavy rain. The Barbican Centre had long walkways leading to the street. Jule pulled Forrest along the pavement.

Paolo stopped under the shelter of the building, unwilling to get wet.

Jule flagged a black taxi. Got in. Gave the address of the flat in St. John’s Wood.

Then she took a deep breath and settled her mind. She decided what to tell Forrest.

“I left my jacket on my seat,” he complained. “Are you sick?”

“No, not really.”

“Then what was it? Why are we going home?”

“That guy has been bothering me.”

“Paolo?”

“Yes. He calls me all the time. Like, many times a day. Texts. Emails. I think he’s following me.”

“You have weird relationships.”

“It’s not a relationship. He doesn’t take no for an answer. That’s why I had to get away.”

“Paolo something Bellstone, right?” said Forrest. “That was his name?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he related to Stuart Bellstone?”

“I don’t know.”

“But was that the last name? Bellstone?” Forrest had his phone out. “On Wikipedia it says—yeah, the son of Stuart Bellstone, the D and G trading scandal, blah, blah, his son is Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone.”

“I guess so,” said Jule. “I think about him as little as I possibly can.”

“Bellstone, that’s funny,” said Forrest. “Did Imogen meet him?”

“Yes. No.” She was flustered.

“Which is it?”

“Their families know each other. We ran into him when we first got to London.”

“And now he’s stalking you?”

“Yes.”

“And it never occurred to you that this stalker Bellstone might be worth mentioning to the police in terms of investigating Immie’s disappearance?”

“He has nothing to do with anything.”

“He might. There are a lot of things that don’t add up.”

“Immie killed herself and there’s nothing more to it,” snapped Jule. “She was depressed and she didn’t love you anymore and she didn’t love me enough to stay alive, either. Stop acting like there’s anything else that could have happened.”

Forrest bit his lip and they rode in silence. After a minute or two, Jule looked over and saw that he was crying.





In the morning, Forrest was gone. He was simply not on the fold-out couch. His bag was not in the hall closet. His fuzzy man-sweaters were not lying around the room. His laptop was gone and so were his French novels. He had left his dirty dishes in the sink.

Jule wouldn’t miss him. She never wanted to see him again. But she didn’t want him leaving without saying why.

What had Paolo said to Forrest the night before? Only “I’m a friend of Imogen’s” and “Heard what?”—and his name. That was all.

He hadn’t heard Paolo call Jule Imogen. Had he?

No.

Maybe.

No.

Why did Forrest want Paolo investigated? Did he think Imogen had been stalked and murdered? Did he think Imogen had been romantically involved with Paolo? Did he think Jule was lying?

Jule packed her bags and went to a youth hostel she’d read about, on the other end of town.





THIRD WEEK OF FEBRUARY, 2017

LONDON

Eight days before Jule left for the youth hostel, she called Forrest’s cell from the London flat. Her hands were shaking. She sat on the kitchen counter next to the bread box and let her feet dangle. It was very early in the morning. She wanted to get this call over with.

“Hey, Jule,” he said. “Is Imogen back?”

“No, she’s not.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “Then why are you calling me?” The disdain in Forrest’s voice was palpable.

“I have some bad news,” Jule said. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?”

“Where are you?”