The Family Game(38)
In a reflexive act of self-preservation, I let my eyes slide from his as if nothing had happened, and I continue on my way. If Robert is monitoring me, waiting for me to listen to his tape, then I need to make sure my next move is well thought-out. I need to buy time.
Thinking fast, I calmly take the next left and exit the park, heading towards my favourite local deli. I must have spent almost as much time writing in there as in our apartment since I moved here. I’m pretty sure the man in the baseball cap won’t follow me inside.
I slip into the warmth of the place, a waitress nodding me over to an empty booth. I slide in, my eyes locked on the door as I wait.
After twenty minutes, I let myself relax. My shadow didn’t follow me, and I didn’t catch him passing the large condensation-misted windows. I can’t be sure he’s not waiting out there, but that won’t be a concern until I leave at least.
I order a coffee and a Danish, sipping the hot liquid gratefully as I pore over the internet for more on Bobby’s suicide. The few articles that mention the East 88th Street suicide do not name the deceased, but the description on the tape appears to be true. I can’t find anything about a blonde girl though, so she could be fictionalized. I suppose the question is whether or not a girl disappeared after Bobby died. I know from Lila that the Holbecks’ old nanny left after Bobby, so this could be the person Robert is referring to.
I shiver at the thought of everyone at that Thanksgiving table knowing that Bobby jumped from that apartment. No wonder Billy was so terrified of sleeping in Bobby’s room. For all I know, that’s where he did it. I push the morbid thought from my mind and try to focus on the issue at hand: whether the Holbecks’ nanny resigned after Bobby’s death, or if she simply disappeared.
I cast my eyes across to the fogged diner windows and watch the huddled shapes of pedestrians glide by. Somewhere out there Robert is watching and waiting to see what I do next. If he has killed before, and if he has done so more than once, I am in serious trouble. And yet, I was alone with him in his study, we sat opposite each other; it would be impossible to deny the strange connection we had with such seeming ease. The confusing thing is, Robert Holbeck likes me. And suddenly it dawns on me: that is why he is telling me this. He has chosen me because he likes games, because he likes thrillers, and because he has decided I am a worthy opponent.
I search on my phone for Holbeck family nanny and a couple of grainy paparazzi shots of Nunu standing beside the family celebrity, Lila, come up alongside gossip columns. No sign of the old nanny though. All I have to go on is that she was blonde.
I realize the best way to find a photo of her is to search for ones of Edward and his siblings as children. I head to Getty Images and search Edward’s name.
Photos of the Holbeck brood at various ages fill the screen. Then I catch one. A young Eleanor carrying a swaddled Edward in her arms, beside her a youthful Robert holding her hand, then, in the deep blurry background, out of focus, a figure pushing the two-year-old Bobby in a pushchair, a baseball cap covering her hair. The nanny.
Halfway down the page, I find an in-focus shot. Her face is turned away, half in profile, but I can see she is a woman in her early twenties, beautiful and fresh-faced with her soft blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
My breath catches. It’s her. The woman described in the tape. He was talking about the Holbecks’ nanny.
I squint at the photo credit caption beneath.
(L to R) Robert Holbeck, wife Eleanor Holbeck, with their two sons Edward and Robert, and a family friend, as they attend the Children’s Aid charity luncheon, July 31st 1985.
A family friend. No name. I scroll on, skipping ahead to the late 1990s, getting closer to Bobby’s death date. And I see her again, at some kind of garden party. She gets her own photograph this time beside Eleanor, Pimm’s glass in hand, as they are caught mid-laugh. The nanny’s soft blonde hair is swept back up in a French twist, her pale neck and delicate collarbone bare. She is older here; but now that I consider it, there is an eerie similarity between us. I can’t help but wonder if it’s ever crossed Edward’s mind how much his fiancée looks like this willowy figure from his childhood; I imagine it has crossed Robert’s.
The photo credit reads:
(L to R) Eleanor Holbeck and Samantha Belson at the Melfort Annual Summer Gala, August 7th 2002.
Samantha Belson.
I have a name. Now I just need to find out if she’s still alive.
My next move depends very much on the type of game we’re playing here, and I’ve got exactly three days in which to find that out.
20 The Plot Thickens
Thursday 15 December
‘So, this is for the new book?’
Retired NYPD Lieutenant Deonte Hughley sits across the table from me in a cosy booth at Tom’s Diner in Prospect Heights. He gives me a wry smile as he takes off his pristine cowboy hat and places it gently down on the bench seat beside him.
My American publisher put me in touch with Deonte two years ago after I requested they connect me with someone in the US police force who could fact-check my first novel.
Lt Hughley was keen to help, having recently retired, and was an invaluable resource on my first book, always sparking creative ideas and handling my layman knowledge with diplomatic kid gloves. During the final edit, I spoke with him regularly, running legal and sometimes infuriatingly granular procedural questions by him. At what temperature is DNA evidence completely destroyed? Can a cause of death always be determined? Do cops really like doughnuts?