Twenty Years Later(80)
They ended their run at 9:00 a.m. and each headed back to their hotel to shower and change. Avery arrived at the restaurant first and was seated at a table for two on the outdoor patio. She sipped coffee and scrolled through her phone. Christine Swanson had gotten back to her on the research Avery had asked her to do on Natalie Ratcliff. Christine believed in only two modes of communication—text messages or face-to-face meetings. And so, when Avery checked her phone she found it filled with foot-long texts from Christine containing links to articles and stories about Natalie Ratcliff, her husband, and his wealthy family, along with Christine’s own commentary. As Avery scrolled, she learned that Natalie Ratcliff wrote books for the pure joy of storytelling, not due to any fiduciary obligation to support her family. Her in-laws more than had life’s finances covered. The Ratcliffs owned and operated the second largest cruise line conglomerate in the United States, the fourth largest in the world. But unlike the other behemoths in the industry, Ratcliff International Cruise Lines was privately owned with no outside money.
Avery scrolled through the texts and found a link to Forbes magazine’s 2019 list of wealthiest Americans. The Ratcliff clan held several spots. Natalie Ratcliff’s husband, Don, was worth $1.4 billion and the posh apartment at One 57 suddenly made more sense to Avery. Natalie’s father-in-law, and the longtime CEO of Ratcliff Enterprises, held a healthy $3.5 billion net worth. Avery looked up from her phone, took a sip of coffee, and contemplated her far-fetched idea about Natalie Ratcliff and her friend, Victoria Ford. As she mulled the possibilities and worked to connect the dots, she spotted Walt walking along the sidewalk toward the entrance of the restaurant. Out of his running shorts and sweaty shirt, he wore khakis and a dressed-up T-shirt. He had the build of a man who kept himself in shape, and she noticed again how attractive he was. Not for the first time this weekend, Avery wondered what the hell she was doing.
“I’m sorry?” the waitress asked.
Avery, suddenly aware that she had spoken her thoughts aloud, cleared her throat. “Oh, nothing. Sorry. Actually”—Avery turned over the coffee mug opposite her—“my . . . breakfast mate just arrived.”
Breakfast mate?
The waitress smiled and poured from a carafe of coffee she carried. Avery emptied two cream containers into Walt’s coffee and stirred as her mind continued to run. She had come to New York to procure a falsified passport from the man she had been put in touch with named André. The only person—she was told—who could be trusted for such a task. André didn’t have the greatest bedside manner, Avery had been warned, but she should trust him explicitly, and listen to anything he had to tell her. She had come to New York under the ruse of chasing the story of Victoria Ford. Both projects were now in full swing and would command much of her concentration. And yet here she was, starting a relationship with a man who lived in Jamaica and who came back to New York once a year to exorcise the demons that still haunted him from a previous relationship. If there was ever a playbook for failure, Avery was following it. Still, she couldn’t stop images from the previous night from flashing in her mind. She quickly shook the memories away as she watched Walt walk onto the outdoor patio. He smiled when he spotted her.
As he sat down across from her, Avery removed the spoon from his coffee mug. “Two creams, no sugar,” she said.
Walt’s face carried a curious look. “Good guess. But what if I took my coffee black?”
“You don’t.”
Walt looked at her with a creased forehead.
“It’s a weird thing with me. I pay attention to other people’s coffee habits. I saw two empty creams on the coffee bar in your hotel room on Saturday. Sugars were untouched.”
Walt slowly nodded. “Very creepy, but I sort of like it.”
The waitress came and they ordered breakfast.
“Streets are getting full,” Walt said, looking at the people who walked past the outdoor café, and the traffic in the street.
“I know. It’s sort of sad. The city sort of felt like it belonged to just the two of us for the last couple of days. Now everyone’s coming back to intrude.”
“We accomplished a lot. And now that our weekend is over, we need to figure out where we go from here. This is your project, Avery. I just agreed to provide access to the case files. But we’ve poked some serious holes in the investigation, and now I feel an obligation to do more. I want to reach out to some people and discuss what we’ve found. I’m not sure where that might lead, but the Cameron Young case is technically still open. A district attorney or a congressman or a senator somewhere might care enough to put some resources into it. I can work my contacts and see if anyone is willing to listen.”
“That would be great. I appreciate anything you can do. And Emma Kind will be thrilled. But despite everything we’ve uncovered this weekend, I can’t get past the fact that Victoria’s blood was found at the scene. No matter how many holes we poke in the investigation, or how many other potential suspects we come up with, her blood is a hard obstacle to overcome. Whether we try to get the case reopened, or if I just cover it on American Events, the blood is an issue.
“I spoke with Livia Cutty yesterday morning to ask about the science behind DNA evidence. She said that if the blood at the crime scene matched the DNA sample taken from Victoria’s mouth swab, it’s her blood. One hundred percent, or very close to it. So we might be able to prove that Victoria didn’t cut herself with the knife, but that doesn’t disprove that the blood at the scene belonged to her.”