Last Girl Ghosted(94)
And since that day, Bailey Kirk had been drinking too much. Taking too many pain pills. His mother was worried. She’d lost one child to drugs and alcohol; she knew the signs of someone in trouble.
“Come home,” she told him. “I don’t like the way you sound. Let us take care of you.”
The temptation was strong. His room was just as he left it—lacrosse team pennants on the wall, navy blue bedspread over a twin mattress, the desk where he’d done—or hadn’t done—his homework, a shelf of old yearbooks. When he went back to that room—during visits, on the holidays—he went back to his teenage self with his mom doing laundry and making his breakfast. It was a good thing, a soothing thing. A blessing to be loved by parents who took you in when you were low, let you go again when you were strong enough to pick yourself back up.
But no. He’d been on his own since college, never had to go back, not like his sister, or his brother. Never asked them for anything, not a dime.
“You’re persistent.” The voice snapped him from his thoughts.
Marty Friedman, Wren’s longtime accountant, was not easy to reach, not willing to talk about his clients. Now, the small old man stood before him looking more like a character out of Lord of the Rings than a financial adviser, with a smart suit and round spectacles, a cloud of wild white hair, ears too big for his head, a bulbous nose. Bailey’s calls had gone unreturned, and this visit was unannounced. He told the receptionist that he’d wait until Mr. Friedman could fit him in. This was important. He wouldn’t leave until they’d spoken.
He supposed she could have called security, or the police, and Bailey would have had no choice but to vacate the private premises. But she didn’t, gave him a look with those deep blue eyes, and asked him to wait.
“I called your firm,” said Marty, rubbing at his chin. “Turner and Ives. They say you’re on medical leave. That the case you’re investigating is no longer your responsibility.”
“Is that so?”
The man dug his hands into the pockets of wool pants. That suit probably cost more than Bailey made in a month—crisp lines, elegant drape. Bespoke, Bailey guessed for a man that size. Bailey by contrast wore jeans, a distressed leather jacket, a gray T-shirt that had seen better days. In fact, he’d slept in it—as much as he slept these days. He was going to be asked to leave; that was obvious. And if he didn’t go politely, he’d be escorted out. Not the first time that had happened.
“You’re not looking well, young man,” Marty said finally into the silence that was probably only awkward for Bailey. The other man had been sizing him up. “Can I get you some water, some coffee?”
“I have some questions about Wren Greenwood,” he said.
“I told you over the phone, I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients.”
“She’s missing, Mr. Friedman. She’s left her home, her friends, her job. She has disappeared.”
“So you say.”
“Do you say something different? Have you heard from her?”
The other man regarded him behind the round lenses of his glasses that picked up the light coming in from the window and obscured his eyes. Bailey saw the receptionist rest her hand on the phone, anticipating a call to have Bailey escorted from the building.
But Marty surprised them both.
“Come to my office,” he said. “Beth, honey, will you get Mr. Kirk a glass of water?”
What was this, 1950? But the receptionist, Beth, gave a quick, officious nod. “Of course, Marty.”
Bailey followed Marty through thick glass doors, over a plush navy blue carpet, and into an office that looked more like a study in a grand old house.
Family man. Avid reader. Philanthropist. Scholar. Bailey liked to visit a person in the space they’d created because it spoke volumes. An elaborately detailed model of a sailboat under a gleaming glass case. It All Adds Up from Long Island, New York, read the script on the stern. Pictures of various big-eyed, round-cheeked children in matching silver frames of different shapes. A shelf of industry trophies and prizes, a certificate acknowledging a huge donation to a home for abused women and children called Safe House. A large standing globe, a painting of a chocolate Labrador retriever. Charley 2000-2013.
Beth glided in with Bailey’s glass of water in a tall glass tumbler, embossed with the firm logo. He took it, thanked her, and drank it, feeling better almost instantly. She closed the door behind her, flashing him a polite smile before she disappeared.
“Have a seat,” said Marty.
Bailey joined him in the comfortable sitting area. The couch was plush, so Bailey sat forward on the seat. He couldn’t afford to sink in; he was too tired. He needed to stay alert.
“I know you have a duty to respect your clients’ privacy. But when was the last time you heard from Wren Greenwood?”
Marty removed his glasses, and took a handkerchief from his pocket—monogrammed of course—and cleaned the lenses.
“I can tell you what I told the police. I had been trying to reach her for several days. She’d made a couple of strange withdrawals, cash, a Bitcoin transfer. I wanted to discuss with her the long-term health of her portfolio. As you know, due to recent global events, the market has taken a hit. She’d sustained significant losses.”
Yes, a virus in China had spread, several countries in Europe were going on lockdown, borders closing, airlines failing, the cratering of the stock market due to a stark decrease in oil prices. The news was all panic and chaos. Bailey was barely paying attention. He didn’t have any money in the market. He didn’t believe in it, kept all his money in a savings account that seemed to grow and grow because he never did anything but work. Until now, when he mainly just lay around brooding, and searched the web for some hint of Wren and the ghost.