Imani walked toward the promenade, mentally rehashing her conversation with Tonya to avoid considering the craziness of what she was about to do. Philip had been right, she admitted. The minute she’d brought up acting, Tonya had become extra defensive.
Not that she’d ever thought him wrong. As she crossed the street, Imani accepted that she’d wanted to rankle her tenant. The woman’s stubborn refusal to respect a reasonable rule in the interest of a twelve-year-old boy’s health was beyond insensitive. She’d thought bringing up Tonya’s failed career might remind her whose home she was in, perhaps make her a bit more humble and agreeable. Instead, the subtle dig had emboldened their young interloper. Tonya was not a woman who easily backed down.
Imani entered the tree-lined park overlooking the East River and scanned for passersby. An older woman walked a dog in front of the iron fence cordoning off the water-view brownstones. She wouldn’t be much help in a fight, Imani thought. But she might be able to call police.
No other people were visible. It was too dark. Too cold. The sun vanished before five o’clock in winter, taking with it the ten-degree temperature difference between tolerable and intolerable. No one wanted to be out once Earth’s star dipped below the horizon. Not gangsters. Not burglars. Not drug addicts.
Maybe kidnappers, though. Perhaps murderers.
Imani couldn’t be sure that MickyKline_Drinks wasn’t one, or both, of the two. Still, she had to meet him. He’d claimed to have information that might explain what Melissa had been thinking or doing before she’d disappeared, which he clearly wasn’t willing to share with the cops nor likely with a large husband looming in the background. As a therapist, she was used to getting people talking. He’d be more open with her alone.
Or he’d try to grab her too.
Imani stroked the handle of the blade in her coat pocket. She’d absconded with one of Philip’s eight-inch knives. The Shun blade had been her husband’s favorite until he’d switched it out for a forged German brand that he’d believed slightly more durable, albeit less attractive. The knife she’d taken was long and pointed like a shark’s tooth, and probably sharper. It was constructed of Damascus steel, Philip had once explained, which meant that it had been crafted from layer upon layer of metal, much in the same way samurai swords were fashioned. The result was a lightweight blade around a solid core, ready to stab and slice and carve without breaking. It was only the leather sheath encasing it that prevented the point from making her bleed.
The knife would only be useful to her if she got in trouble while in close contact and managed to pull it out in time. However, she didn’t intend for her conversation with Micky to bring her nearer than six feet. She’d promised herself that she’d take off running the second she got a bad vibe.
Imani reached one of the candy-cane streetlights beside the railing separating the promenade from the train tracks below and the highway beyond. She stood in its glow, hoping that someone might notice her in one of the buildings above and pay attention to any screaming. Even if people heard, though, there were no guarantees that folks would care. New Yorkers were adept at ignoring “street noise.”
Her breath steamed in front of her face. She’d removed her mask in hopes of creating trust and, more importantly, preserving distance. If Micky wasn’t a killer, then he wouldn’t want to get within a sneeze-length either.
Imani looked through the cloud of her condensed breath to see a man entering the park. Like her, his face was also uncovered. Again, she sensed that she’d seen him before—not only from his Instagram photos but also in person.
As he drew closer, the fog in front of her face bloomed. Micky didn’t appear that big. Several inches smaller than Philip, if she hazarded a guess. Of course, Imani reminded herself, his relatively small stature compared to her husband didn’t matter since he was considerably taller than her, and Philip wouldn’t be able to get to the park in time if things got physical.
“Mrs. Banks.”
Imani stiffened. Somehow he’d learned her surname. Her Instagram profile only had her first name followed by the letter B and a 3. She’d wanted anonymity. It wouldn’t do to have patients tracking her life, bringing up special moments during their sessions as if she were their friend.
“Did Melissa tell you my name?”
The question stopped him. “No. I…” An exhale blurred the bottom half of his face. “I’m here to tell you what I told Mrs. Walker before she…”
Imani braced herself for the end of the sentence. Died. Disappeared.
“Well, before whatever happened, happened,” he said.
“What did happen?” Imani tried to keep her voice gentle and inquiring, despite her fear. “I know you want to tell someone.”
The man looked up. Even in the streetlight’s dim glow, she could detect the hurt in his strained expression. “It’s not what you think. I reached out to Mrs. Walker to discuss abusive behavior by her husband.”
Imani stiffened. Nate hadn’t hit Melissa. She was sure of it. However, she was also certain that an obsessed kidnapper would justify his actions by calling the husband a “bad guy” and “abusive.”
“I’m an actor,” Micky continued, “so I know a lot of female actresses, some of whom have auditioned for Mr. Walker. He pressures young women to perform sexual acts with him under the guise of getting into character. He promises them parts for their participation and ‘bravery.’ Their commitment to roles. Then, after he’s gotten what he wants, he discards them. No pay. No movie roles. They’re left feeling absolutely ashamed.”
Imani struggled to reconcile her image of Melissa’s husband with this new information. She’d seen Nate work a room, flirting and cajoling. On the scholarship committee, she’d seen him throw his weight around, albeit always in someone else’s interest. He’d never demanded anything for himself. However, Imani supposed that she’d never seen him in a capacity where he would have needed to.
“You personally know women that Nate did this to?”
“Yeah.” The cloud in front of Micky’s face grew thicker.
“Why haven’t any of these women pressed charges?”
It was the wrong question, Imani knew. As a therapist, she realized that the right one would have expressed sympathy for Micky and his victimized friends. It would have suggested that she understood and empathized with their lack of power in relation to Nate and how difficult things must have been for them. But the part of her that had once considered Nate family felt the need to express a little loyalty. For all she knew, Micky was a crazy stalker making up stories.
“It wasn’t always like today,” Micky said. “Now men are getting canceled or whatever for this behavior. But this happened to my gi—” Micky wiped his hand over his mouth. “This happened to my friend over a decade ago when she was barely out of her teens. She really thought she was auditioning for a risqué role. When it became clear that the part was a pretense, she’d already gone so far.” Micky shuddered. “Now she has a kid. She doesn’t want to come forward and have her child read horrible things about her mother.”
Once she’d got Micky explaining, his words had come out fast and furious. Imani’s brain raced to keep up. Micky’s friend had a child. Did that mean Nate had an illegitimate kid? Was that what this man was saying? Was that what he’d told Melissa?
Before Imani could ask, a whoosh of air pushed her from behind. A big truck barreled out of its burrow beneath the promenade, its top reaching eye level, its screeching overwhelming any attempt at conversation. Imani’s hands were already in her pockets because of the cold. But her thumb went to the knife’s smooth handle. Micky didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He seemed to be telling the truth. Still, if he planned on doing anything, the time for it would be when traffic could drown out any calls for help.
As quickly as it had arrived, the giant semi vanished into the distance. Micky hadn’t stopped talking, despite the noise. “At the very least, this guy should suffer some marital consequences for abusing his power,” Micky said, already mid-monologue. “I guess I also thought, if she knew, Mrs. Walker wouldn’t ever blame my friend if the news came out. She’d realize that her husband had pressured young women into things using false pretenses of auditions and their desperation to break into the industry. He’d manipulated them. It wasn’t my friend’s fault.”
Micky threw up a hand. “Anyway, maybe you can tell the police that or, I don’t know, tell them that I will tell them that and there’s no need for any sting operation or whatever they’re planning. I don’t have Mrs. Walker, and I never thought if I told…”
Imani had so many questions. But the way Micky trailed off only lent itself to one. “How did Melissa react when you told her?”
A stream of hot air swirled from Micky’s lips like cigar smoke. “Like you’d expect,” he said. “Like she was going to kill him.”
The words were hot coals pressed to her chest. “Melissa wouldn’t have stood for what you’re saying,” Imani conceded. “But she also wouldn’t have left her child. Even if she killed Nate because he started threatening her or something when she confronted him, she wouldn’t have left Ava. She would have made sure that her daughter understood what had happened.”
Imani didn’t know whether she was saying the words to convince Micky or herself. On some level, she needed to hear them aloud. She needed to see their impression in the air, to know that she’d spoken in her friend’s defense, even if she was no longer completely convinced of it.
“She could have panicked,” Micky said. “Or she might not have been thinking clearly. If she was drinking…”
The last word echoed in Imani’s mind, bringing with it an audible sense of déjà vu. She’d heard him say that before. What are you ladies drinking? Imani imagined the man before her, visible only from the waist up.
Suddenly, she knew where she’d seen him before. “You work for Philip!”
Micky’s cold-reddened face seemed to lose its color. He shook his head.
“You do. You were the bartender at Coffre.” Imani could suddenly see him passing her and Melissa two dirty martinis—extra dirty, as per Melissa’s request. She could see his hazel-brown eyes. His grin and quip that they were on the house. “Not only because you two are beautiful,” he’d explained, “but I hear you know the owners.”
Micky backed up.
“Melissa and I went in for drinks all the time when it first opened,” Imani called after him. “You were behind the bar.”
Abruptly, he turned around and took off toward the park exit. Imani didn’t dare follow. Just as she’d been spooked by his knowing her identity, he had to feel similarly scared that she could tell police exactly who he was. She knew better than to chase a frightened man.
Micky’s confirmation wasn’t necessary. She’d recognized him—and that meant she knew something else. Tonya was the only actress with a kid who’d been working with Philip for years. And she’d already admitted to auditioning for Nate.
Tonya’s sensitivity about her acting career wasn’t about professional failure, Imani decided. Nor had Nate’s scholarship for Layla been out of the goodness of his heart. For eleven years, Tonya had been raising Nate’s illegitimate child. She’d wanted Nate to own up to his responsibility. Or she’d wanted revenge.