THE OUTER office had been redecorated since the last time she had been here, the architectural symmetry of French Empire traded in for Midcentury Modern. The receptionist—a woman named Karen who had been here as long as Hemingway could remember—ushered her straight through the maze of cubicles to the big corner office. The plaque on the door read DWIGHT R. HEMINGWAY III.
When she walked in, the man behind the desk got up, came to her, and embraced her extended hand in both of his. Then he gave her a kiss on each cheek and held her at arm’s length—something that seemed to be happening a lot lately.
“You look wonderful, Allie.” He smiled as he spoke. “Radiant, even.”
“Thanks, Uncle Dwight, but I’m a little old for compliments.”
Her uncle laughed. “Ah, yes, Alexandra, the eternal pragmatist. The Hemingway women are never too old to be told they’re beautiful—just look at your mother.”
“How’s Miles?” she asked. Even though she was here on business, a certain amount of respect was due. Besides, a lot of her family information came from these moments.
“He’s glad to be out of LA, I think. That series was killing him. Broadway’s been good—”
“I’ve read the reviews.”
“Well, we’re spending time out in the country. If you ever want to get away from the Big Apple . . .” he let the sentence trail off.
“Uncle Dwight, I don’t have a lot—”
“—of time.” He nodded and mixed a smile in with the movement. “I know. What can I do for you?”
She hadn’t seen him since last Christmas. He had taken her to lunch. They ate at Atelier, sitting at the family’s usual table. The meal had started out full of awkward silences but eventually they found common ground and the afternoon disappeared over Scotch and catching up. He dropped her off at her place and she promised to keep in touch. To do this more often. But even as the Bentley pulled away, and he waved from the backseat, she knew they wouldn’t. And here they were, more than six months later, and she hadn’t so much as sent him an e-mail.
“This is all confidential,” she said.
Uncle Dwight waved it away. “Everything we talk about is confidential, Allie.” He was talking about her parents.
She was talking about a man who took children apart with a hacksaw.
“Have you heard about the boys we’ve found in the East River?”
He nodded and his handsome face tightened up. “Of course.” He walked around his desk and sat down in the big leather chair. The skyline spread out behind him was wiped out by the thunderstorm hammering down. Every now and then the gray throbbed with lightning, as if a giant fuse had blown.
“We’re lean on leads and I need a favor. A big favor.”
He stared at her, his lawyer side trumping the uncle. Listen first; ask later.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a padded envelope. She handed it across the desk. He peered inside then dropped it to the desk.
“That’s heroin,” she said.
“Okay.”
“It’s been colored with some sort of vegetable dye. I assume the color should make it easier to track down a point of origin.”
“Okay.”
“That heroin was found in the house of a man who murdered a lot of children.” She handed a photograph of Trevor Deacon across the desk.
Her uncle didn’t bother picking it up, as if contamination might be an issue.
“His name and address—including his former telephone number—are on the back. I don’t care about the drugs, Uncle Dwight. As far as I’m concerned, they’re a nonissue. Whoever sold them; whoever supplied them; whoever cut them—it doesn’t matter to me. But I need to know about this man. I need to know where he went, what his habits are, and I’ve hit a wall. There’s not a lot of pink heroin out there, so that’s something.”
Her uncle leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not that kind of a lawyer, Allie, you know that.”
“Look, Uncle Dwight, I know the corporations you represent. I’m not asking for secrets. I’m not asking for names. You have my word—my personal word—that I want nothing from these people except information that will help me figure out Trevor Deacon’s habits. You still represent Redfoot Industries?”
He nodded. It was a tentative, almost guarded, gesture.
“I don’t care about Mr. Yashima’s business dealings. But his beginnings are not as auspicious as his Wikipedia entry portrays. If anyone can find out where that comes from, it’s him. I am asking you for the favor.
“I need to speak to the man—the actual street dealer—who sold this stuff to Deacon. I can’t get down the food chain that quickly. All of Deacon’s phone records and e-mail accounts are clean. I don’t have any leads.”
He stood up and turned to the rain beyond the window. For a few moments he stared out at the dark gray that had swallowed the skyline. When he turned back, his face was a mix of doubt and indecision. “These are not people that like questions, Allie. I can do this. But if you are lying to me, if anyone is prosecuted because of this, there will be repercussions. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I promise this is not about drugs.”
Her uncle dropped his eyes to the desk, to the photo and envelope she had given him. “Give me three hours,” he said. Then he steepled his fingers and looked at her. “But I need something in return.”
Here it is, she thought. “What?”
“Don’t be so suspicious. I want you to call your father.”
“I called him last month. He was out.”
“That was the month before.”
She thought about it for a second, then nodded. “You’re right. It was.”
“I’m not trying to get between you two because personally I don’t see a need for it. You and he have a relatively good relationship. He worries about you. He’d just like you to be—”
“More like Amy.”
Dwight shook his head. “That’s not fair. To him or to you. He doesn’t want you to be anything like Amy. He has boundless respect for you and for what you’ve done with your life. Sure, he would have wanted more grandchildren, but only if you wanted to have them.”
She felt her hand head for her stomach and she consciously stopped it.
“He just worries about you being bombarded by the worst that humanity has to offer. Any father would be.” He nodded at the envelope on the desk. “Maybe a career where you didn’t carry around heroin.”
“Is this you talking or him?”
“Both, I guess. But he misses you. So do I. I’m not asking you to take family vacations. I would just like a little—” he paused, which he rarely did “—damage control.”
She thought about calling him on that. Because they both knew it was bullshit. Her mother—her father’s second wife—cared very little about anything except for her Bergdorf charge card and the bells and whistles that went along with being the wife of Steven Hemingway. It had always been that way and Hemi had long ago come to accept it. “Okay,” she said after a moment of silence. “I’ll call but I want him to stop sending me those checks. I’m fine. I don’t need anything. When I needed help, he was there. I took the money for the down payment on my place.”
“Which you paid back.”
“I don’t want the money.”
“What should he do with it? Burn it?”
She had thought about this one on the way up—as the family lawyer, Dwight knew what was going on. “It’s not that I don’t want any of the money, Uncle Dwight. I just don’t want it now. I don’t expect him to leave it to the church—it will probably end up being left to Amy and Graham and me. When that happens, I’ll worry about it. Until then, I haven’t earned it.”
At that, Dwight smiled. “It’s not about you earning it. It’s about your father wanting to give you something while he’s still here. He doesn’t send you any more money than he sends Amy. The difference between the two of you is that Amy cashes the checks.”
“I’ll call him.”
“I’m flying out to the North Shore on Sunday. You want to come along?”
She pointed at the envelope on the desk. “I can’t leave this case right now but I’ll call him. Pinky swear. And as soon as I get a break, you and I will play a few rounds of tennis. How’s that?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Why is it I always believe you when you lie to me? I always have.”
She got up and came around the desk, gave him a hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Because I have good intentions.”
“Evidently you’ve never heard about the road to hell.”
She thought about the mutilated children they had found. “It’s not a road, Uncle Dwight, it’s a superhighway.”