Robert Leavitt had never heard of Selina Royce, or at least that was the way he played it. He posed with his hand on his chin, as if digging deep into his memory bank, and then shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t remember anyone by that name. Where would I have known her?”
Jane was beyond playing games. She reminded him of the Texas cable network that Andrews Global Network had bought and the date when Selina had been transferred to New York. Then she told Robert the date of the awards banquet at which he had been sitting next to her, apparently as her escort.
“Well, then, I must have known her at the time. I just can’t remember her,” he decided. “But give me a few days and I’ll see if I can find her in the personnel records.” Then he asked casually, as if it were of no concern, “Why are you interested in her?”
“Just that she turns up in stories and morgue shots covering the early years of the company,” Jane lied, trying to sound convincing. “She seems suddenly important to Andrews Global Network, and then she just vanishes.”
He shrugged. “No one comes to mind, but I’ll find out what I can.”
Lying bastard, Jane thought. He’s protecting Andrews, both the man and the company. Let’s see what he comes back with after he’s pretended to check his records.
The next morning, on the train back to Connecticut, she thought about her fiancé and his college roommate. Was Bob’s accounting of Kay’s tragic end the truth, or had he been constructing his friend’s alibi? Did he know about the monthly payments to Selina, or was that a secret Andrews had kept from him? She felt sure that Bob liked her, thought she was right for Bill, and would defend her from the company guardians who would like to be rid of her. But when push came to shove, Bob was Bill’s friend and confidant. She had to expect that he would check with Bill before he shared any secrets with her.
Jane reached home and was delighted to find that Art was not camped out on her doorstep. She wanted some time to herself to dig even deeper into the murder of Bill’s first wife. She also wanted to get to her office and give the address of Kay’s computer to the newspaper’s information systems specialist. She knew that given time, he would find his way through Kay’s firewall and into her hidden secrets. But her message lamp was blinking, and when she listened it was Art’s voice. “I’ve got some news that will blow your panties off,” he said. “Maybe now you’ll show me just a bit of respect.”
She thought he must have mastered the intricacies of his washing machine or figured out which end of the vacuum cleaner connected to the hose. But when she called his number, he insisted on coming right over. He had an angel, and one of his plays was going to be produced. She couldn’t deny him his moment of “I told you so.” Art had never hurt her. Just exhausted her. She told him to come over. The she went out to buy a bottle of champagne.
“Billy Rifkin,” he said, mentioning a New York impresario as soon as he was through the door. His intentions were like hers. He was carrying a bottle of cheap champagne with a plastic cork.
“Which play?” Jane asked as she set the glasses on the coffee table.
“The one about the president’s daughter,” he said proudly. “His secretary called and said he had heard about the play and wanted to read it. I sent it, and two days later I had Rifkin on the telephone.”
“He called you?” Jane asked, exaggerating her excitement.
“Called to congratulate me. He said it was ‘genius.’ He also mentioned ‘thrilling, exciting, memorable, and surefire hit.’”
“Wow!” she allowed as Art popped the cork. She remembered the first act of the play, written while they were still married. Lucky if it makes television, she had thought to herself. But Billy Rifkin was known for his insight into audiences. He didn’t back losers. So there must be something that she had missed completely.
“To wonderful reviews,” she said, raising her glass.
“To a great box office,” he added as the second toast.
Art began talking, and there was no turning him off. He took her through the plot of his play and then the more dramatic individual scenes. He ran through a gallery of actors whom he might consider for leading roles and wondered whether he should open first on Broadway, or if it might be best to bring the play over from London. It was the Art who had dazzled her as an undergraduate, assuming that he was already an important world figure. Now she found him childish and presumptuous. But still, she listened attentively. It was an important moment for him.
When he had told his story twice and speculated on all the implications of his success, he asked about Jane’s new life. He was no longer in awe of William Andrews or open-mouthed at Jane’s incredibly good fortune. The phone call from Billy Rifkin had raised him into the heaven of superstars where he was now Andrews’s equal in stature and in a far more prestigious field.
Her response was positive but tepid. A wedding date had been set, and plans were generally on track. She wasn’t sure that their bedroom would be ready on time, and she still hadn’t convinced the best man that a football jersey wouldn’t be appropriate attire. But she supposed that, in the end, everything would work out.
“You sound like you’re organizing a blood drive,” Art said. “Shouldn’t you be a bit more excited?”
“I will be,” Jane said, trying to crank up a bit of enthusiasm. “Right now I’m weighed down in details.”
She was a bit giddy from the champagne, but as soon as Art made a triumphant departure, she dressed for the office. She was still working for the paper, even though she had filed only one column in the past week.
She found Sam Simon, her company’s information systems guru, in his office. Sam was in a T-shirt emblazoned with a beer-company logo. A ponytail, streaked with gray, hung down his back. The office looked like a garage workshop with clusters of monitors and racks of circuit boards all interconnected with fiber-optic cable. She gave him the phone number and machine number of Kay’s computer and told him about her problems with the firewall.
“A dial-up link?” he asked in horror.
“It’s an old setup,” she said. “It probably hasn’t been used in years.”
He sighed in exasperation. “It will take a lot of time. But on the other hand, the firewalls they used back then were child’s play.” He pinned the information to one of his several keyboards and promised he would look into it, “first chance.”
She found Roscoe at his desk. “Any news?” she asked.
“Aren’t you supposed to be telling me if there’s any news?”
Jane blushed, then apologized. “I haven’t been covering my beat, have I?”
“There’s only so much you can do from a telephone booth in Manhattan. The stories we cover are up here in Connecticut.”
She begged his indulgence until after her honeymoon, promising that she would keep her apartment and be in the office “three or four days a week, at least.” But then she went back to the question she had meant to ask. Had his promised investigation into Selina Royce turned up anything?
There were no problems in Paris, Roscoe told her. A French reporter had found her at the address Jane had provided. Her name was over the mailbox, so she didn’t seem to be in hiding. The reporter had identified her and would keep an eye on her to see who came calling. San Antonio was another matter. They couldn’t find any relatives in the area. And there was no Selina Royce in the records of the cable service that Andrews Global Network had bought. As far as her station was concerned, she never existed.
“I’ve seen her picture, Roscoe. I read the news report about her transfer to New York.”
He held up a hand against Jane’s protest. “I know she’s a real person. All I’m saying is that you’re never going to find her in San Antonio. And I’ll bet you won’t find her anywhere in Andrews Global Network’s records, either. The connection between the lady in Paris and the one who vanished from New York has been pretty much erased.”
“Maybe the paper trail is gone,” Jane said. “But people must remember her. The top executives in the company must have known who she is. William Andrews’s ever-faithful secretary must have talked to her. Or at least forwarded messages to her.”
“Any of them apt to talk about her?” Taylor wondered aloud.
“None of them ever tell me anything,” she said bitterly. “I can’t even find out where he’s having lunch.”
“Maybe if you had a bit more time …”
She knew exactly what Roscoe meant. If she weren’t rushing into a wedding, she might, over time, find some answers. But she probably wasn’t going to learn anything in the next three weeks. And the things she learned after the wedding probably weren’t going to do her any good.
She phoned Robert Leavitt and asked if she could meet him for lunch the next day. He wouldn’t be available the next day, his secretary announced. Would Jane care to tell her exactly why she wanted a full hour of Mr. Leavitt’s time?
“Oh, it’s silly,” Jane lied. “I need some ideas about William’s wedding gift. Mr. Leavitt has known him for so long, I thought he could …”
“Isn’t that sweet,” the secretary gushed. “Let me see … tomorrow is out. Would Wednesday be all right?”