William Bouncerman took me home in the limo to shower and clean up properly. I stashed some of the money in the space behind the radiator and put the rest in the safe in the shop. Then I was driven to the girl’s flat across the river. It was a very secure building, which was why the club used it. The girls were encouraged to live there, I was told. None of the ones I spoke to claimed to know Lily well. She hadn’t been there very long, they said, and for most of that tenure, she was Mr. Rottheim’s exclusive companion.
“Technically, we’re not supposed to do that,” a leggy brunette told me.
Apparently, Luke and Lily took to each other immediately, and Lily never did much to entertain the other members. I got the sense the other girls resented her for it and kept their distance. I got the sense they felt the same way about me. With Bouncerman looking on, I wasn’t gonna get anything straight out of them anyway.
But all of them stressed that Maleficium was not a brothel. On that, everyone was adamant. They even used the same adjectives. Clearly, they’d been coached. The rule was, whatever happened on club grounds between consenting adults was consensual and private. None of the men paid the girls or bought them gifts. To do so was grounds for dismissal of all parties involved. Members paid dues, same as any social club—except these were in excess of $80,000 a year, with an equivalent non-refundable enrollment fee. The club interviewed and screened the girls, but they were not employees; it simply made sure they were qualified: not just affable and intelligent (many of them were current or recent college students) but that they looked the part. The club would, where necessary, augment the companions’ wardrobes as appropriate for the role, but that was supposed to be no different than a restaurant supplying a uniform to the wait staff. Regular shopping trips were organized where the girls picked out jewelry, clothes, handbags, and make-up from all the best boutiques. Technically, everything belonged to the club, even the lingerie, and was supposed to be returned at the end of service, but my understanding was that frequently didn’t happen.
The companions were given a “small monthly stipend” of $3,000 to cover food and travel expenses. Time at the club was entirely voluntary, and to encourage it, all meals and drinks on the premises were free. But there were also limits. No young woman was allowed to spend more than three nights a week there, and not for more than two years. Ostensibly, this was to leave them ample time for career and family, both of which were encouraged, although I was pretty sure the real reason was to guarantee a steady change of scenery. To help the companions enter society as successful young women—which, officially, was the point of the program—the club also sponsored quarterly scholarships, which could be applied retroactively. That is, a young woman who was not then enrolled might see a large portion of her student loans disappear, or be paid off entirely. These were not gifts. The companions had to apply, and winners were “selected on merit” by a committee.
Lily Ann Sobriecki, AKA “Laïs,” was much like the rest. William Bouncerman gave me a packet that included several pictures, including one they had found in her apartment of her and her supposed boyfriend. She was a gorgeous sandy-turned-platinum blonde with long legs, elven eyes, and full, permanently pouty lips. She was dressed immaculately. I thought her place would be the same.
“Looks like somebody tossed it,” I said from the door.
There was stuff everywhere.
Bouncerman scoffed. “Looks exactly like your place.”
“I meant the closet, asshole.”
Clothes still attached to their padded hangers tumbled out, including quite a few club dresses. Some hung precariously. Others had dropped in a crumple.
I pointed. “That’s a Chanel blouse getting wrinkled on the floor.”
“We can take it from here,” Bouncerman told the handyman who had let us in, an older guy in a flat cap and cardigan.
For a moment, he didn’t move. He looked at the room like he wasn’t sure he should go. But after a moment, go he did. I was sure the lease agreements were all in the girls’ names, but the property owner understood where the money came from and instructed the staff accordingly. The club accounted for something like a quarter of their income, and they weren’t going to jeopardize that. But I gave the maintenance guy props for giving a shit.
Lily’s unit was fancy but small, basically one large bedroom, with a hardwood floor and elegant recessed lighting. Mostly she was paying for the location—and the view. Out the floor-to-ceiling windows I could see a bit of the river and one tower of the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. It was the kind of place a transplant would rent to prove they’d “made it” in the Big Apple. But there was hardly any room to live. Laundry and storage were in the basement. There was no tub—only a standing shower. You could reach the TV from the bed if you stretched, and the kitchen would struggle to hold two people at once. It was a singles flat. The building’s ample communal spaces—pool, game room, lounge, rental spaces for parties—attested to that.
“So how much of a head start do these other guys have?” I asked as I wandered around, looking for anything that might catch my eye.
He looked at his watch, a fat silver Breitling. “Twenty-one hours,” he said.
“895,000 . . .” I whispered. It was dropping quick. But then, that was the point: motivation. “And you’re sure she didn’t off herself?”
“We’re not sure of anything.”
“What if one of us finds her dead?”
“A body, or conclusive evidence of death, pays a hundred grand,” he explained. “It was in the contract you signed.”
“Yeah, well, the contract was a hundred pages long. I’ve seen website terms of service that were shorter.”
According to the packet I reviewed in the car, my competition had hit the ground running. They had already checked hotels, particularly those that didn’t mind if you didn’t have ID, as well as all the transportation depots. She didn’t appear to have taken a train, taxi, bus, airplane, helicopter, or ferry, nor had anyone she knew used a toll booth around the time of her disappearance. The competition had also flooded social media, promising tens of thousands for credible information. It had worked—in a sense. They had hundreds of tips to sort through. So far, only one had panned out. She was caught on street camera going into a bank in midtown, a big one converted from an old church. But the bank itself wasn’t playing ball.
I knew for a fact she’d turn heads wherever she went, which meant all that work would either pay off quick and they’d find her long before me, or else she knew how to keep a low profile and it was all a waste of time. Either way, there was no sense trying to compete. I needed a different strategy.
“You said they checked the hospitals. What about clinics? She could’ve checked herself into a celebrity job that’s good at keeping things private.”
“We’re confident that’s not the case.”
“What about morgues?”
William nodded.
That was good news. It meant I didn’t have to waste my time with those either.
“Did you check Jersey?” I asked. “Connecticut? Her hometown? Where’s she from again?”
“Minnesota,” he said sternly. “It’s all in the packet.”
“Lotta trouble to hide herself for just being pregnant,” I suggested.
It was true, and I looked for a reaction, but even out of his boss’s presence, William was stoic.
“Definitely left in a hurry,” I said from the bathroom door.
“Why do you say that?”
I picked up a small glass jar from among a mess of makeup, cleanser, astringent, brushes, tissues, and over-the-counter medications, including three kinds of eye drops. I unscrewed the top and smelled the half-used cream, which was speckled with tiny flints of mica.
“Because this is a jar of Fenris.” I held it up. “You have to be on a list to get one.” Then I added under my breath: “I bet your PIs didn’t know that.”
Inside the bathroom, William couldn’t see me from the front door, and I dabbed a pinky in the cream and rubbed it on my cheeks. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” I whispered to the mirror. Smelled great, though.
I replaced the cap and returned it to the menagerie. I opened the cabinet under the sink and boxes of pregnancy tests fell out.
“Hel-lo . . .”
There were several different brands. All were opened with at least one stick missing. I saw wrappers in the trash. I checked the bottom of each box. Similar use-by dates. She bought them all around the same time.
“Panicking,” I breathed. “I know that feeling.”
I returned to the main room and looked around the square flat. “No pictures,” I noted. “No frames. No space for frames.”
“Claimed to be estranged from her family,” William said. “It’s in the—”
“The awesome packet. Yes, I know. What about friends?”
There were numerous fashion magazines stacked about. That was apparently how she spent her down time. There was a collage on the wall: clothes and models from Ferragamo and Victoria’s Secret. She had cut each out perfectly and glued them together.
“How does a girl like her not have friends?” I asked.
I picked up a well-used glass pipe from the night stand. I opened the drawer. “No condoms.”
“Maybe the guys brought them,” he drolled.
“Ha!” I snorted. “Yeah, right.”
I don’t think she entertained there. It didn’t seem like she had settled in at all, in fact. Almost like she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
“You’re sure the Minnesota story checks out?”
Bouncerman nodded. “Why?”
I shook my head. “Just a feeling.”
I lifted her jewelry case. Mostly costume, which suggested some was missing. I made one last pass on my way to the door, stopping to check out the books. There were five, stacked neatly on the floor in the corner. Nothing else was remotely organized, which led me to believe one of my competitors had already flipped through them and then left them like that. I didn’t expect to find anything. To be honest, I was surprised she owned books. I just wanted to see which ones.
“The Purpose-Driven Life,” I said, reading the title of the first. It was a hardcover. They all were. “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Deluxe Edition, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, The Secret, and—” I closed my eyes. “Let me guess: The Prayer of Jabez.” I lifted. “Bingo!”
None of the books had been read. Their spines were too stiff, their pages too perfect, their dust jackets crisp. Gifts, or so the gift receipt static-clinging to the back of The Prayer of Jabez told me. While Away Books. Address near there. But the receipt was just for the one book, not all five, which suggested they’d been gifted at different times.
“What do we know about the boyfriend?” I said, standing up. “Not Christian by any chance?”
William, ever stoic, lifted the packet I had left on the counter and tossed it on the bed.
“I’ll be in the car,” he said, turning for the hall. “Door locks automatically.”
I watched him leave. “Rude much?” I called.
In truth, I wanted him to go and had been pestering him for that very reason.
“Finally,” I breathed and walked back in. “Alright, girl. Where is it?”
I closed the door, locked the chain, and began running my hands along every crease in the floor and ceiling: along the closet, under the kitchenette counter, behind the toilet (gross). Nothing.
“Gotta be . . .”
Rottheim had mentioned a “vigorous” drug habit, which meant she had a place to stash things, same as I did. I checked the bathroom again. I lifted the back lid of the toilet. I knocked on the wall in the cabinet. I dumped her fancy colored jar of Qtips. And then I saw it. Amid the army of hair and skin care products under the sink, way at the back, was a bottle that didn’t belong—a metal spray can, taller than the others. Although the colorful label suggested it was hair spray, it looked cheap and out of place. I swiped it and popped the cap. Spray didn’t work. I shook it. Something faintly rattled. I tried unscrewing the thin lip at the bottom—and it turned.
Stuff fell on the floor. I looked inside the novelty can. Nothing else. Next to my Keds were two crumpled baggies. One had a single dry bud. The other held pieces of colorful cracked candy. Next to the baggies was a stack of photocopied pages, dense with text, that had been folded in fourths and rolled to get them inside the can. I curled one of the corners to glance at the text, but it wasn’t a legal document or secret government plans or anything that made immediate sense to me. I’d have to study it later. I raided the girl’s closet and found a pale lavender handbag, a gorgeous soft-leather Chloé, and put everything inside.
William Bouncerman was leaning against the side of the limo, waiting. Across the street, Silkie struck the same pose against a retaining wall. They were like mirror images of each other.
“Where can we take you?” Bouncerman asked, clearly noting the addition of the handbag.
“I’m good. Got some things I wanna check out.” I patted it. “Hope it’s okay.”
He didn’t say anything in reply. He just opened the limo door. The engine started.
“Mr. Rottheim expects regular updates,” he said. “You’re on the clock.”
And then he drove away.
He thought I was a waste of time. To be fair, I wasn’t sure he was wrong. But his boss was desperate and had ample money to throw at anyone or anything that even had a chance of success. Spending money on me—and God knows who else—was better than waiting around doing nothing.
When the limo was gone, I jaywalked briskly across the street. A taxi honked.
“Are you following me?” I called to Silkie.
“Are you carrying a purse?” he scoffed.
“No.” I stiffened. “If you must know, it’s called a hobo bag.”
“Hobo? That suppos’d to be a joke? How much that cost?”
“It’s not my bag,” I said defensively. “I’m just borrowing it.”
“How much?” he insisted.
I made a face. “Prolly two grand or so. Maybe mo—”
“Two grand!” he shouted. “For a bag?”
“Can we just stick to the subject please? I got a job.”
“From who? The stiff in the limo?”
I pulled out the photo of the couple and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Missing girl.”
“Hahaha! I help you out and now you think you some kinda private detective, that it?”
“No. I was asked, thank you very much.”
“You don’t need my help then,” he said, handing the photo back.
“What? Because of a bag?”
“This ain’t you helping a friend. You wearin a two-thousand-dollar handbag. You gettin paid.”
“Hold up. You still owe me for not finding the guy on the train.”
“You know the rules! No guarantees, no refunds. This ain’t Amazon.”
“Come on, Silkie. I really need your help on this one.”
He watched the passing traffic.
“Please? I’ll owe you.”
“Ha! Owe me? What you got I need?”
“There’s gotta be something.” I raised my hand quick. “I’m not screwing anybody.”
He eyed me skeptically. “See? That’s what I’m sayin. Helpins one thing. Owins something else. If I come collect, how I know you gonna follow through?”
“You seriously don’t trust me? After everything?”
With a skeptical glance, he held out his hand, and I slapped the baggy into it.
“What’s this?” He was expecting cash.
“Recognize it?” I asked.
He examined the contents under his jacket. “Posh. Looks like your girl’s a frequent shopper at the Sour Candy.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Think she’ll head back there?”
“Junkie needs a fix, right? They might know where she hangs out. Besides, Fish owes me.”
“Damn . . .” He shook his head with a smirk.
“What?”
“You really gonna ask Kingfish for a favor?”
“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”
Silkie chuckled. “Your funeral. Anything else up there?” He nodded to the block of flats behind me.
“Not much. A $1,200 blouse. Several thou in shoes. Some facial cream you have to be on a waiting list to get. Something weird, though.”
“Besides a waiting list for cream?”
“A girl like that doesn’t disappear cuz she’s pregnant. And if she does, she takes the Chanel. And the Fenris. Goes to a friend or to her mom’s house or an aunt or something.”
“Maybe she did.”
I shook my head. “They checked.”
“You think she’s runnin? Who’s the client?”
“Name’s Rottheim. He’s Finnish. Checked him out online. Told me he’s dying, got her pregnant, wants to do right by the kid. Blah, blah, blah. You shoulda seen his house, though. Has an elevator.”
“Trust fund?” he asked.
“Troll market.”
“Trolls?” Silkie seemed shocked, as if there was such a thing. He moved back slightly.
“Patent trolls,” I explained. “Rottheim used his inheritance to create a website for tracking and auctioning patents—for valuing and selling other people’s ideas. Present market cap, $12 bill. He’s worth about one-tenth that. Wait, did you really think I meant monsters under bridges?”
He shrugged, looking up at the Manhattan Bridge. “This is DUMBO.”
DUMBO was an overpriced neighborhood in Brooklyn. It stood for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.
“According to the papers, he’s fighting a hostile takeover by a capital investment firm.”
“Guy like that,” Silkie said, “he’s not gonna let some ho bake him a billion-dollar paternity suit.”
“Be nice,” I chided.
“He really dying?”
“Looked like it.”
“Huh.” He looked down the street. “If she has the kid, she can take him to the cleaners. ’Specially if he dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“The kid’s his only heir, right? Lawyers will do it just because the law says they can. Kid has a claim.”
“A legal raid on a multi-billion-dollar fortune.”
“And he ain’t be around to do nuthin. Sharks get paid by the hour, too, so they got every incentive to drag it out, suck his estate dry.”
“You think the sob story’s a cover?”
“Inn’t it always? He’s worried about his legacy all right, but it ain’t no baby.”
I looked the opposite way, in the direction of the limo. “You think they wanna hurt her?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe they just wanna buy her off.”
“Yeah. I guess. But then why the rush?”
Silkie didn’t have an answer.
“Divide and conquer?” I said. “I’ll take Fish. You put the word out.” I thought for a moment. “If she’s on the run, then maybe you should make it clear we’re trying to help.”
Silkie looked at the handbag skeptically. “Izzat true?”