The app offers several secret entrances.
Tonight, we will use the one at Saks Fifth Avenue department store. The venerable Saks, located between Forty-Ninth and Fiftieth Street on Fifth Avenue, has a high-end jewelry department called the Vault. It’s located in the basement. Behind that, you’ll find a door that used to lead to a dressing room. It is locked, but we with the app can open it with a key fob. You enter through the door and take the steps down a level to an underground passage. The passage leads to an elevator under a high-rise on Forty-Ninth Street near Madison Avenue. The elevator only stops on the eighth floor. At this point it takes an eye scan. If your eye doesn’t pass the scan, the elevator doors do not open into the private suite.
It’s good to be rich.
To be approved for this app you must have a net worth of over $100 million. The monthly costs are exorbitant, especially for someone like me who uses this service frequently. The app’s service is simple: Match rich people with other rich people for sex. No strings attached. It is high end. It is boutique. But mostly, it is sex.
The app has no name. Most of the clients are married and crave the ultimate in confidentiality. Some are public figures. Some are gay or otherwise LGBTQ+ and fear exposure. Some, like me, are simply wealthy and seek sex with no attachments or repercussions. For years, I picked up women at bars or nightclubs or galas. I still do on occasion, but when you get past the age of thirty-five, this behavior feels somewhat desperate. In my somewhat dubious past, I hired prostitutes. There was a time when, every Tuesday, I would order both dim sum and a woman from a place on the Lower East Side called Noble House—my own version of Chinese Night. I believed at the time that prostitution was the oldest and a (per the House) Noble profession. It is not. When I worked a case overseas, I learned about human trafficking and the like. Once I did, I stopped.
Like with the martial arts, we learn, we evolve, we improve.
With that option gone, I tried working the once-fashionable “friends with benefits” angle, but the problem is, friends by definition come with strings. Friends come with attachments. I don’t want that.
Now for the most part I use this app.
Username Amanda sits on the bed wearing nothing but the provided satin-trim Turkish terry-cloth robe. Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, a rosé champagne, is poured. There are chocolate-dipped strawberries in a silver bowl. A first-rate sound system can play whatever musical stylings suit your taste. I usually leave that to the woman, but I’d prefer no soundtrack.
I like to listen to her.
Username Amanda rises, smiles, and saunters toward me with a flute of champagne. Myron always says that a woman looks sexiest in a terry-cloth robe with wet hair. I used to pooh-pooh said sentiment in favor of a specific black corset and matching garter belt, but now I think Myron may be onto something.
We learn, we evolve, we improve.
The sex tonight is great. It usually is. And when it’s not, it is still sex. There is an old joke about a man wearing a toupee—it may be a good toupee, it may be a bad toupee, but it is still a toupee. The same with sex. I’ve heard often that sex with a stranger is awkward. I’ve rarely found this to be the case. Part of this might be my expertise—the techniques I traveled the world to learn involve more than fighting—but the secret is simple: Be present. I make every woman feel as though she is the only one in the world. It is not an act. A woman will sense if you lack authenticity. While we are together, this woman and I, it is just us two. The world is gone. My focus is total.
I love sex. I have lots of it.
Myron waxes philosophical on how sex must be more than what it is—that love or romantic entanglement enhances the physical experience. I listen and wonder whether he is trying to convince me or himself. I don’t like love or romantic entanglements. I like sharing certain physical acts with another consensual adult. The other stuff doesn’t “enhance” sex for me. It sullies it. The act itself is pure. Why muddy that with the extraneous? Sex may be the greatest shared experience in the world. Yes, I enjoy going out for a gourmet meal or a good show or the company of dear friends. I appreciate golf and music and art.
But do any of those compare to an evening of sex?
Methinks not.
This is one reason I liked prostitution. It was a straight transaction—I got something, she got something. No one owed anybody anything at the end of it. I still crave that, to leave the room knowing that my partner got out of it as much as I did. Perhaps that’s why I am good at it. The more she enjoys it, the less I feel in her debt. I also have a tremendous ego. I don’t do things that I’m not good at. I’m a very good golfer, a very good financial consultant, a very good fighter, and a very good lover. If I do something, I want to be the best.
When we finish—ladies first—we both lie back on the cream-colored Mulberry silk sheets and down pillows. We take deep breaths. I close my eyes for a moment. She pours more of the sparkling rosé and hands me a flute. I let her feed me a chocolate strawberry.
“We’ve met before,” she says to me.
“I know.”
This isn’t uncommon. Her real name is Bitsy Cabot. The superrich travel in rarefied albeit similar circles. It would be strange if I didn’t know most of the women. Bitsy is probably a few years older than I am. I know she splits her time between New York City, the Hamptons, and Palm Beach. I know that she is married to a rich hedge fund manager, but I can’t remember his first name. I don’t know why she’s doing this. I also don’t care.
“At the Radcliffes’,” I say.
“Yes. Their gala last summer was wonderful.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“It is, yes.”
“Cordelia throws a good party,” I say.
You probably think that I can’t wait to get dressed and leave—that I don’t ever spend the night so as to avoid any attachment issues. But you’d be wrong. If she wants me to stay, I stay. If she doesn’t, I leave. Sometimes she is the one to leave. It doesn’t really matter to me. I sleep the same whether she is here or not. This bed is quite comfortable. That’s all that really matters.
She isn’t going to reach me by staying. She isn’t going to repel me either.
One major point in favor of the overnight: If we do stay, I often get a spectacular morning encore without the hassle of finding another partner. That’s a nice bonus.
“Do you go to the gala every year?” she asks.
“When I’m in the Hamptons,” I say. “Are you on any of the committees?”
“The food one, yes.”
“Who does the catering?” I ask.
“Rashida. Do you know her?”
I shake my head.
“She’s divine. I can message you her contact.”
“Thank you.”
Bitsy leans over and kisses me. I smile and hold her gaze.
She slips out of bed. I watch her every move. She likes that.
“I really enjoyed tonight,” she says.
“As did I.”
Another thing that may surprise you: I don’t have a problem with repeat engagements because in truth there are only so many fish in this particular sea. I am honest about my intentions. If I feel that they want more from me, I end it. Does this always work as cleanly as I’m making it sound? No, of course not. But this is as clean as it gets and maintains what I require.
For a few more moments I don’t move. I bathe in this afterglow. It’s two a.m. As much as I’ve enjoyed tonight, as much as I am certain I would relish an encore or two with her, I try to imagine spending the rest of my life only making love to Bitsy Cabot. To any one person, really. I shiver at the thought. I’m sorry—I don’t get it. Myron is married now to a stunning, vibrant woman named Terese. They are in love. If it works out as Myron hopes, he will never know the flesh of another.
I don’t get it.
Bitsy heads to the bathroom. When she comes out, she is dressed. I am still in the bed, my head propped in my hands.
“I better head back,” she says, as though I know where back is. I sit up as she says, “Goodbye, Win.”
“Goodbye, Bitsy.”
And then, like all good things, it’s over.
* * *
The next morning, I have a car service take me to the airport to visit my old FBI boss, PT.
I used to love to drive. I am a big fan of Jaguars and still keep two at Lockwood—a 2014 XKR-S GT that I use when I’m out there and a 1954 XK120 Alloy Roadster, which my father gave me for my thirtieth birthday. But when you reside in Manhattan, driving is out of the question. The borough is basically a parking lot that sways forward. One of the great things that money can buy is time. I don’t fly private or have a driver because I crave more comfort in my life. I spend the money on those items because at the end of your life, you will crave more of what the annoying experts coin “quality time.” That’s what private jets and chauffeur-driven cars allow you to do. I have the ability to buy time—and that, when you think about it, is the closest thing to buying happiness and longevity.
The driver today is a Polish woman from the city of Wrocław named Magda. We talk for the first few minutes of the journey. Magda is reluctant at first to engage—exclusive drivers are often schooled on not bothering the upscale clientele—but I find every human being is a tale if you ask the right questions. So I probe a bit. I can see her eyes in the rearview mirror. They are a deep blue. Blonde hair peeks out of her chauffeur cap. I wonder about what the rest of her looks like, because I’m a man, and at heart, all men are pigs. It doesn’t mean I would do anything about it.
Today’s vehicle is a Mercedes-Maybach S650. The Maybach brand gives you a wheelbase stretch of eight inches, so that your chair can tilt back forty-three degrees. The plush seat has a power footrest, a hot-stone massage setting, and heated armrests. There is also a folding tray/desk so as to get work done, a small refrigerator, and cupholders that can cool or heat, depending on your preference.
Come to think of it, perhaps I do crave the comfort.
Teterboro is the closest airport from Manhattan for private aircraft. I flew into Teterboro with Swagg Daddy after our night of quasi debauchery in Indianapolis. When we reach the well-guarded gate on the south end, Magda is waved through straight to the tarmac. We pull up next to a Gulfstream G700, a plane that hasn’t really hit the market yet. I’m surprised. The G700 is expensive—close to $80 million—and government officials, even top-echelon, clandestine ones like PT, are not usually that extravagant. Middle Eastern sheiks use the G700, not FBI agents.
I have no idea where we are going or when we will be back. I assume that I am to be flown to Washington or Quantico for my meeting with PT, but I really do not know for certain. Magda has been instructed to wait for me. She gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. I would insist on doing it myself, but that might be patronizing. I thank her, climb the plane steps, and step inside.
“Hello, Win.”
PT sits up front with a wide smile. I haven’t seen him in nearly two decades. He looks old, but then again, I guess he is. He doesn’t rise from his seat to greet me, and I notice the cane next to him. He is big and bald with huge gnarled hands. I bend toward him and stretch out my hand. His grip is firm, his eyes clear. He gestures for me to sit across from him. The G700 can hold nineteen passengers. I know this because someone is trying to sell me one. The seats are, as you might expect, wide and comfortable. We sit facing one another.
“Are we going anywhere?” I ask.
PT shakes his head. “I figured this would be a good spot to meet privately.”
“I didn’t know the G700 had been released yet.”
“It hasn’t been,” he says. “I didn’t fly in on this.”
“Oh?”
“I use a government-issue Hawker 400.”
The Hawker 400 is a far smaller and older jet.
“I’m borrowing this for our meeting because it’s more comfortable than the Hawker.”
“That it is.”
“And because the Hawker probably has listening devices on board.”
“I see,” I say.
He looks me over. “It’s really good to see you, Win.”
“You too, PT.”
“I hear Myron got married.”
“He invited you to the wedding.”
“Yeah, I know.”
PT doesn’t elaborate, and I won’t push it. Instead, I try to take the lead.
“Do you know who the dead hoarder is, PT?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure, Win?”
I don’t like the glint in his eye. “I only saw a corpse photo of his face,” I say. “If you want to show me more—”
“No need,” he says. As I said, PT is a tall man. You can see that even as he sits. He rests his palms on his high knees, as though posing for a statue. “Tell me about the suitcase.”
“You’re not going to tell me who the victim is,” I ask, “or do you not know?”
“Win?”
I wait.
“Tell me about the suitcase.”
His voice has an edge. It is meant, I assume, to intimidate, but directed at me it comes across as something more worrisome.
It comes across as fear.
“I’m waiting,” PT says.
“I know.”
“Why won’t you tell us about your suitcase?”
“I am protecting someone,” I tell him.
“Noble,” PT says. “But I need to know.”
I hesitate, though in truth I knew that we would get to this point.
“Whatever you tell me stays between us. You know that.”
PT leans back and gestures for me to go ahead.
“My aunt gave me the suitcase when I was fourteen,” I begin. “It was a Christmas present. She made one up for all the males in the Lockwood family. Only the males. She gave the females a small makeup bag instead.”
“Sexist,” PT says.
“We thought so too,” I say.
“We?”
I ignore him. “I also detested the bag, the whole idea of leather monogrammed luggage, really. What’s the point? I didn’t want it, so a female relative and I traded pieces. I took the makeup bag with her initials on it. She took my suitcase. Oddly enough, I still use the makeup bag as my travel toiletry bag. Like an inside joke.”
“Wow,” PT says.
“What?”
“You’re dancing, Win.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve never heard you overexplain like this. I assume it’s because you don’t want to tell me who the female relative was?”
He is correct, but there is no point in stalling. “My cousin Patricia.”
He looks confused for a moment. Then he sees it. “Wait. Patricia Lockwood?”
“Yes.”
“Dear Lord.”
“Indeed.”
He tries to take this in. “So how did her suitcase end up in that closet at the Beresford?”
The FBI would have figured out about the suitcase eventually. It’s in their files. That is one of the three reasons I decided to come clean. Reason One: I trust PT as much as you can trust someone in this situation. Reason Two: If I gave PT this information, he would probably share what he knows with me. And Reason Three: The FBI will sooner or later put it together without my help and then, alas, Cousin Patricia and I will appear as though we had something to hide.
“Win?”
“After the two men murdered my uncle,” I begin, “they made Patricia pack a suitcase.”
My words take a few seconds to register. When they do, PT’s eyes go wide. “You mean…good Lord, are you talking about the Hut of Horrors?”
“Yes.”
He rubs his face. “I remember…that’s right. After they murdered your uncle, they made her take some clothes. To distract or something, right?”
I say nothing.
“So what did they do with the suitcase?”
“Patricia doesn’t know.”
“She never saw the suitcase?”
“Never.” I clear my throat and speak dispassionately. From my tone of voice, I might have been talking about office equipment or bathroom tile. “Patricia was blindfolded and gagged. Her hands were bound behind her back. They threw her and the suitcase in the trunk and drove off. When they stopped, they made her walk through the woods. She doesn’t know how long, but she thinks for at least a full day. They never spoke to her. Not the whole time they walked. When they got to the shed, they locked her inside. She finally took off the blindfold. It was dark. Another day passed. Perhaps two. She isn’t sure. Someone left granola bars and water. Eventually, one of the men came back. He used a box cutter to slice off her clothes. He raped her. Then he took her clothes, threw down a few more granola bars, and locked her up again.”
PT just shakes his head.
“He did this,” I continue, “for five months.”
“Your cousin,” he says. “She wasn’t the first victim.”
“That’s correct.”
“I forget how many others.”
“We know of nine others. There may have been more.”
His jowls hang slacker now. “The Hut of Horrors,” he says again.
“Yes.”
“And they never caught the perpetrator.”
I don’t know whether he is asking or merely stating what we both know. Either way, his words hang in the air between us for too long.
“Or perpetrators plural,” PT adds. “That was the odd part, right? Two men kidnap her. But only one keeps her captive, is that right?”
I correct him. “Only one raped her. That is her belief, yes.”
In the distance, I can hear the whir of a plane taking off.
“So most likely…” PT begins, but then his voice sputters. He looks up at the cabin ceiling, and I think I see something watery in his eyes. “Most likely,” he tries again, “the hoarder was one of those two men.”
“Most likely,” I say.
PT closes his eyes. He rubs his face again, this time with both hands.
“Does what I’ve told you clarify things?” I ask.
He rubs his face some more.
“PT?”
“No, Win, it doesn’t clarify a goddamn thing.”
“But you know who the hoarder is, right?”
“Yes. It’s why I’m back. It’s the case I could never let go.”
“You aren’t talking about the Hut of Horrors, are you?”
“I’m not,” PT says. He leans forward. “But I’ve been searching for that hoarder for nearly fifty years.”