Dream Girl(28)

“The missing letter, the lack of proof that the first two calls happened at all.”

“Technology is imperfect. Still, I’m going to give you a technological solution: You order this piece of equipment, a very basic recorder that works on any phone. Attach it to the landline here next to your bed. Technically, it’s illegal to tape people in Maryland without their consent, but it won’t matter as long as you don’t try to use the tape. Right now, it’s my sense that you want the peace of mind that these calls are actually happening. Right?”

“Right.” It’s a relief to feel understood.

She takes out her phone, shows him a website called the Spy Store, points to the model that she recommends. A solution, but it feels like a letdown. He likes her company. He would be happy to be under her warm, watchful eyes. He wants to hear her laugh.

“Even if you think I don’t need it—what if I did want to hire you for surveillance?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“No?”

“It’s not that I don’t like you”—his heart soars a little—“I’ve worked for lots of men I don’t like. Comes with the territory.” And now his heart thuds down, down, down; he could be sixteen again, listening to Mary Ellen King’s earnest assurances that she liked him as a friend. “And it’s not that I think you’re paranoid or delusional. It’s just that—you’re sixty-one years old. You’ve been married three times. Dated quite a bit. I mean, the most basic Newspapers.com search unearths lots of information on your, um, social life. Yet you look back over the last twenty or so years and you can think of only two women who might want to upset you. I’m sorry, but if you think you’ve gotten to the age you are, lived the life you’ve lived, without having more potential enemies than that—you’re not delusional, but you’re not very self-aware. Obviously, the relationship between a PI and a client never works if the client lies to the investigator. But over the years, I’ve learned it also doesn’t work if the client is lying to himself.”

“I can make a more complete list, if that’s what you want.” He says this stiffly, wanting her to know his feelings are hurt, but even as he does, his mind expands and he reconsiders the various candidates. Lucy became convinced he had cheated on her, she was that paranoid. He had cheated on Sarah, but only once, a one-night stand that barely mattered. There were the assistants who worked for him between Gretchen and Sarah, who always ended up in bed with him, but they had pretty much demanded his sexual attention. If anyone was the victim there, it was him. Tara? Their last conversation, so many years ago, had been a little fraught. Yes, maybe the list was longer than he knew.

“That’s admirable,” Tess said. “Most people can’t take such bluntness.”

“So you’ll investigate if I give you a full list?”

“No, no. I didn’t want to say this, it sounds so woo-woo, but I’ve learned to respect my intuition about such things. I couldn’t—I couldn’t spend a lot of time in this apartment. It gives me the creeps. Don’t get me wrong. It’s beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. I could stare out these windows all day. But—there’s something wrong here. I felt it when I crossed the threshold. I don’t know, maybe it’s like the Spielberg movie where it turns out a grave has been desecrated. Only the thing that’s buried beneath your beautiful apartment is jobs.”

“Jobs?”

“There were silos here. Grain silos. There were jobs all over this peninsula. Baltimore’s citizens made things, put them on ships and trains. I know I should be happy, seeing these big apartment buildings going up. It’s property taxes; my kid goes to public school. But this place gives me the creeps, big time. I could never do surveillance here. My partner would probably be cool with it—”

“No, that’s okay.”

He doesn’t want a man’s company. He doesn’t need a private detective. He understands that now. He needs a friend, someone bright and lively, a woman who has read Cheever and knows the origin of gaslighting and makes casual references to the film Poltergeist. And even then—does he really want such a woman or is he simply enamored with this woman because of the plain gold band on her left hand, the casual reference to her “kid”—and her utter indifference to him? There comes a moment in life when everything is the road not taken, when it’s just fork after fork after fork.

*



VICTORIA ORDERS the tape recorder for him and it is, indeed, quite easy to set up. He can’t wait for the next call. Only there are no calls. He finds himself waking in the middle of the night, thinking—hoping—if only for a moment, that the phone has rung. But the phone is quiet and his mind is still. He should be happy—and yet.

Finally, eight days after Ms. Monaghan’s visit, he awakens at 2:08 A.M. He knows that something has brought him out of his dreamless sleep, but it’s not a ringing phone. Was someone whispering his name? Yes, he heard his name, but how is that possible? Gerry, Gerry, Gerry. Aileen calls him Mr. Andersen, when she bothers to address him at all.

It takes a moment for him to realize that there is a slender silhouette by the window.

“Oh, Gerry,” the form says, “your view is so beautiful.”

“Margot?”

“Margot? Who’s Margot? It’s—well, you called me Aubrey in the book. But you and I know I have a different name.”