The Good Twin(34)

It was good for Charly to have her grandfather with her. She’d always been close to the old man. Herman wasn’t as overtly negative toward Ben as Rick had been, but Ben didn’t actually feel any warmth from him. Still, Herman helped keep Charly distracted from the pain she felt.

Three days after Rick’s death, they held the first viewing at Frederick Canton Funeral Chapel on West Eighty-Second Street. Rick had deteriorated so much over the past three months that Charly had chosen to keep the casket closed. Her family was small—her father had no siblings. She had an aunt and uncle on her mother’s side and two cousins, one of whom lived in London and sent his condolences.

The room at the funeral home overflowed with flowers, sent by Rick’s many friends, the men and women who worked with him, and by his numerous clients. A twenty-by-twenty-four-inch picture of Rick was sitting on an easel, and framed pictures of him with his wife and Charly were placed on a table. By 3:00 p.m. it was standing room only, and the visiting guests spilled into the corridor. All of them, upon seeing Charly, told her what a wonderful man her father was and how he’d be missed. If Ben was within earshot, he had to choke back the bile in his throat.

The evening viewing and the next day’s viewings were just as crowded. On the third day, the funeral was held at Park Avenue United Methodist Church, and the pews were filled. Ben, Ted Manning, and two other executives from Jensen Capital Management were pallbearers. Charly sat in the front row with her grandfather, his arm tightly around her shoulders. After the minister’s service, at least a dozen people gave eulogies. The ground at the cemetery was too frozen to bury Rick, so after the church service, about fifty of those closest to him and Charly were invited back to Rick’s apartment, where food and drinks awaited.

The next day, Charly’s grandfather left to return to Florida, and Ben drove him to the airport. On his way back into Manhattan, he sent a text from his burner phone to Danny Clark. Three nights from tonight, Ben told him. I have Knicks tickets, and she’ll be alone in the house.

Consider it done, Clark texted back.

Ben slipped the phone back in his pocket, a smile on his face.



Three days later, on a Friday afternoon, Ben called Charly at the gallery. “Graham just called and invited me to a Knicks game—courtside seats courtesy of a business client. Would you mind terribly if I went?”

“No. Go ahead. I could use some time alone.”

He knew she’d understand. Although Jensen Capital Management had a luxury box at Madison Square Garden, sitting in the box didn’t come with the sweat and sounds of being on the floor. Only once before had he scored a seat there.

Ben did go to the Knicks game with Graham, although it was Ben who’d gotten the courtside tickets through a client. That put him in the view of the cameras from time to time, even though he wouldn’t need to account for his whereabouts to the police. Still, on the off chance Charly turned on the game—which was highly unlikely, since she hated basketball—she might catch a glimpse of him there.

He loved all sports, but especially basketball and especially the Knicks, even though they ended up disappointing him every season. Normally, he’d be engrossed in the game, screaming at the good plays and booing the bad calls. Tonight, he barely saw the players. He kept thinking about what was happening at his home. Along with the last payment, Ben had given a key to Clark, with instructions for him to enter from the rear door. Charly was likely to be in bed early, and their bedroom faced the front. She wouldn’t hear the back door open, and if Clark was quiet enough, she wouldn’t hear him creep up the stairs. With luck, she’d even be asleep. He hadn’t asked too many questions about how Clark would kill her; he just knew she’d be slain in the house, then carried away in a trash bag. He hoped it wouldn’t be painful for her. He wasn’t a monster. He didn’t want her to suffer.

The game dragged on, going into overtime before it ended in a Knicks loss. When he exited the Garden, he quickly flagged down a cab and headed uptown to his home. The master-bedroom window on the second floor was dark. Did that mean it had gone as planned? Or did Clark take Ben’s money, then bail on him?

Ben turned his key in the lock and, once inside, headed right to his bedroom. He turned on the light and saw . . . nothing. Charly wasn’t in the bed, although the covers were unmade. He looked around the room and saw no sign of a struggle. He checked Charly’s jewelry drawer. She always took off her four-carat, square-shaped diamond engagement ring before getting into bed, sleeping with just her diamond wedding band. It was there, in its blue Tiffany box. He backtracked down to the first floor and scrutinized the rooms. Nothing was out of place. Good, he thought. It had to have gone smoothly.

Just one piece was left. He needed to see pictures of Charly’s dead body.





CHAPTER 24

It’s done. Ben told me last night that he’d returned home, and Charly was gone. The only thing left is to wait for the pictures—pictures of her dead body. Any day now, my role will begin.



Jake picked me up for our weekly lunch date at 9:30 a.m. He’d refused to explain why we were leaving so early, insisting he wanted to surprise me. I got in his truck, and we drove south for twenty minutes and then across the Mid-Hudson bridge. The Hudson River looked stark, the leaves gone from the bordering trees, the air colorless. When we got to the other side, Jake turned north, onto Route 9, and drove for another fifteen minutes before pulling into a driveway, past a stanchion that said VANDERBILT MANSION NATIONAL HISTORIC SITE.