Have You Seen Me?(34)

I like the way he put it.

“Would we meet in your office?” I ask.

“Like a lot of P.I.s, I work out of my home, since so much work is done via computer these days. For meetings I usually suggest a coffee shop. What area would you be coming from?”

“The West Sixties, near Lincoln Center.”

“I live pretty close—on West Ninety-Seventh Street. There’s a diner I like on the corner of Ninety-Ninth and Broadway or I could come down your way. Whichever works best for you.”

I prefer the idea of meeting on his turf, to gain a better sense of him.

“Why don’t we meet at your diner? Does ten A.M. tomorrow work?

“Absolutely.”

Mulroney provides the address for the imaginatively named Broadway Diner, a place I’ve surely passed but can’t place in my mind. He explains that he’s five eleven, with dark hair trimmed very short, and that he’ll be wearing a black blazer.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “I’m five seven, by the way, with long light brown hair and hazel eyes.”

My guess is that he already knows this. He’s probably googled me, has learned what I do for work and who I’m married to, has maybe even figured out my exact address. But hey, that’s what he does for a living.

After signing off, I lean back in my desk chair and exhale. I’m glad I took this step. Even if there’s no obligation, I suspect I’m going to end up hiring him—and he’ll dig up answers for me.

Still, I can feel my pulse racing a little. Because there’s fear seeping out from beneath my relief.

What if Gabby’s theory is wrong? What if in the two days I was gone, I didn’t witness another person being hurt? What if nothing bad happened to me, either?

What if instead I did things that were incredibly foolish? Or wrong, even? Things I’ll totally regret once I learn what they are?





15


When I show up at the diner the next morning, I find that it’s a retro-feeling, old-style diner with red vinyl booths, thick white coffee mugs, and about four hundred items on the menu. I guess it’s appropriate enough. Somehow, I can’t quite picture sitting down with a private eye at a hipster café where they serve avocado toast topped with cumin salt and chia seeds.

Though it’s ten o’clock, the diner is still half full of people finishing breakfast, and the air is ripe with the smells of pancakes, syrup, and bacon. I glance around and don’t see anyone resembling Mulroney’s photo. After hanging my coat on the hook attached to the end of a booth, I slide across the cushion and take a few deep breaths. This all seems so surreal to me, like I’m playing a part in a movie from the 1940s.

I never even had the chance to tell Hugh I was coming here. When I’d wandered down to the den later last night, I found him asleep on the love seat, his long legs draped over the arm.

“Uh, sorry,” he said, as I’d nudged him awake. He glanced bleary eyed at his watch. “Christ, I knew I shouldn’t have lain down.”

“Why don’t you come to bed, honey,” I urged.

“Yeah, maybe I’d better. I’ll have to get a really early start tomorrow.”

And he did, leaving before I was awake. A note from him on the island counter promised he’d be home early tonight.

As I’m trying to grab the waiter’s attention, a man moves from the rear of the diner and sidles up to the booth I’m sitting in.

“Ms. Linden?” he asks quietly. I catch the heavy scent of a leathery aftershave.

“Yes?” I’ve never set eyes on him before.

“Kurt Mulroney,” he says, thrusting out a hand. He’s at least fifteen pounds heavier than he appears in the photos on the agency website, and his hair’s been shaved off rather than trimmed short.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“No problem. Why don’t we move to my booth?” He kicks his chin up toward the back of the room. “We’ll have more privacy there.”

“Sure,” I say, grabbing my jacket and following him to the back booth, where we sit across from each other.

“Let’s get you something to drink first,” he tells me. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.” He catches the waitress’s eye and with a couple of hand signals conveys that I’ll have what he’s having. I take him in for a minute. He’s clean-shaven—no beard or mustache—and he’s got a thin, white hockey-stick-shaped scar slicing through one eyebrow. His black blazer is nicely tailored but snug, as if purchased before the weight gain.

“Ms. Linden, why don’t you start by telling me a bit more about your situation,” Mulroney says.

I flesh out what I’ve already shared, not bothering with the fact that my dissociative state might have been triggered by a fight with my spouse and/or long-dormant stress from discovering the body of a child and then misleading the police and my parents. Which, granted, is a helluva lot to skip but not essential for him to hear.

He listens intently, a thick index finger placed sideways across his lips. Though it may be for show, I can see what looks like concern in his watery blue-green eyes.

“That’s got to be incredibly upsetting,” he says when I finish. “Do you mind my asking if you’re continuing to receive medical help?”