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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The house isn’t what I expected. There is no marble or gold or tacky columns or original Picassos or any of that stuff. The house seems more inspired by the Smithsonian than anyone from the Gilded Age. The opening room isn’t a ballroom or living room—it’s a stunning two-floor library that reminds me of Beauty and the Beast except, well, more. There are signed first editions from Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Harper Lee. I remember that when Victoria was found, the note was written by someone calling themselves the Librarian. Is there anything to that? Probably not. Rich people have libraries. It’s one of their things.

There is a stegosaurus skeleton and a cosmonaut’s spacesuit worn by Yuri Gagarin. There is the hatch to an Apollo capsule that landed on the moon. There are series of original letters between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson. I know all this—what these things are—because they have index cards next to them.

Two women are waiting for us at a wooden library table toward the back. There are tables in the middle of the library and the front of the library, but I suspect that we were sent this way so as to be impressed by the belongings. If that was the aim, mission accomplished, though I thought, I don’t know what impressing me with your overpriced artifacts is going to do for either of us .

A Black woman in an impeccably tailored suit rises and stretches out her hand. I recognize her, though I don’t know how. Like maybe she’s a talking head on TV or been on the news or something like this. She has that look, whatever that means. She reeks of professionalism.

“Lenore Spikes,” she says to me in a soothing FM-radio voice. “I’m chief counsel and senior vice president of Belmond Industries. This is Jill McClain. She is a notary public who will witness and notarize your signature. Your attorney has already provided us with your bank information so we should be able to wire the payment in a matter of seconds.”

The four of us sit at the table. I sign. Lenore Spikes sends a message on her phone.

“The money is wired,” Spikes says, rising. “Shall we?”

“One second.”

I bring up my bank app. I don’t use it very often and it takes me a minute or two to sign in. I look at the balance and whoa nelly, it’s already updated. Because I know she worry-checks the account balance often, I send Molly a short text:

Yes, there is an extra $100K in our account. I’ll explain later.

I add a heart emoji. Molly counters almost immediately with that double-exclamation-point reply.

Arthur pulls me aside. “I’ll wait here in case you need me.”

“I’m not going to need you.”

“I bill by the hour and Belmond is paying.”

“Then again I might.”

Arthur slaps my back. “Thatta boy.”

Lenore Spikes leads me down a corridor. “Do you know anything about Archie?”

Archie Belmond. Victoria’s father. “Not really.”

“You’re from Newark, right?”

“I was born there, yeah.”

“Archie too. Beth Israel Hospital. He grew up next town over. In Irvington. No money. His father was a house painter, his mom filed for a storefront accountant. Archie was a high school math genius. When he was seventeen he came up with an idea for a home monitoring device that allowed health care providers to track vital signs and symptoms. You know those stories about guys who start their businesses in their garage?”

I nod.

“Archie’s family didn’t have a garage. Or a car. There was a janitor who worked at the local Y. He knew about an unused room in the basement. No air-conditioning, barely any heat. That’s where Archie started what is now Belmond Industries. And when Archie hit it big, he gave that janitor ten percent of the business. You don’t know that part of the story. Archie didn’t want the credit, and the janitor didn’t want it out there. You see all this cool stuff in the library?”

I nod.

“Nothing stays more than two months at the house. That’s why you see those index cards. The Belmonds loan them to museums. They’re constantly in circulation. And the family only buys from private collections and makes sure the public now has the chance to see them—often for the first time. The Belmonds have created the largest charitable foundation in the country. You don’t hear about it because Archie doesn’t like the attention, especially for doing good. He makes the donations and insists there are no thank-yous, no banquets, no naming any buildings after him. It’s not his way.” Then: “You’re wondering why I’m telling you all this.”

I shrug.

“You think you’re about to meet spoiled rich people. You’re not. You have a picture in your mind of what they’ll be like. You’re wrong. Archie grew up with nothing. He met Talia, his wife, at Princeton. She was an American Legion scholarship kid from Columbus, Ohio. First generation to go to college. Her father worked for the post office. These are good people. And despite the trappings, they’ve been through a lot.”

Lenore Spikes made a left and headed down the corridor toward a room with cathedral ceilings. “Want to hear the cheesy end of my story?”

“Sure.”

“That janitor who owns ten percent of the company had a daughter. She ended up going to law school and now works as the company’s chief counsel.”

“You’re right,” I say.

“How’s that?”

“That is cheesy.”

She smiles and opens the door. I enter a conservatory with a glass cathedral ceiling and an impressive amount of foliage. The four Belmonds—Dad (Archie), Mom (Talia), Son (Thomas the Tee), Daughter (Victoria)—stand in various locations as though a director placed them before the curtain rose. Victoria is in the right-hand corner, wringing her hands. I look over at her and she offers me a tentative smile. As for the others, I know more about them than I let on to Lenore Spikes. The Pink Panthers sent me biographical sketches. Thomas, who stands with a drink in his hand, is married with two daughters, lives down the block, works for Belmond Industries in the nebulous position of marketing vice president. By all accounts, he is a decent enough fellow, what they used to call a pillar of the community, but I also know that he had rough early years, with arrests that he’d have served prison time for had he been poor, but when you’re rich it’s breezily dismissed as youthful indiscretion and you get a pass. I don’t begrudge the guy for that. I begrudge that we don’t give others that same chance.

The mother, Talia Belmond, rose from a forest-green wingback chair. She had the regal bearing, her hair completely gray and pulled back into a ponytail, highlighting her blue eyes and high cheekbones. She wore what looked like a men’s white button-down shirt (I don’t know why I say men’s—doesn’t a woman’s white button-down blouse look the same?) with the sleeves rolled up on the knotty forearms.

And finally, the first to come over and greet me, is Archie, the family patriarch. He has a roly-poly quality, a little soft in the middle with a big smile and a bald head. He sticks out a pudgy hand and shakes mine with relish. He introduces himself. His wife follows suit. When his son approaches, I keep my hand at my side.

“Sorry about the other night,” Thomas the Tee says to me.

“Yeah, that was messed up,” I say. “Do you threaten to kill anyone who wanders onto your property?”

“We are security conscious,” Thomas says. “But we would have never hurt you.”

“Your man assaulted me, so that’s a lie,” I say.

“I meant—”

“You don’t live here, do you, Thomas?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So what were you doing here that night?”

He stiffens. “Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“My family lives here.”

“And what, you decided to join your security detail?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I was here visiting and then the sensor went off. It’s been a while since someone trespassed.”

“And your normal reaction is physical assault and threatening murder?”

“You trespassed.” Thomas looks over at his father. Archie Belmond clears his throat, throws on an awkward smile, and says, “I think it’s time for everyone to leave so I can talk to Mr. Kierce alone. I just wanted everyone to meet you, so that you know that we stand as united in what we are about to discuss.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t ask for clarification. The family files out. First Talia, who hasn’t said a word, then Thomas. Before he leaves, he says, “I’m sorry about what happened. Truly.”

He sounds sincere, but I choose not to respond. I try to meet Anna’s—I know that sometimes I call her Victoria, but in my head, she’s always going to be Anna, I think—eye but for a while she seems to be avoiding mine. She is last out and before she closes the door behind her, she finally looks at me and gives me the slightest nod of approval.

Archie Belmond and I are alone now. It was interesting what Lenore Spikes had said about the man. I always suspect the rich will look different or act different and most of the time they do. Not special or better . It isn’t always something obvious like clothing or jewelry. Archie Belmond is wearing jeans and a blue pullover. Could have been Old Navy for all I knew. But still you can usually tell. Here I couldn’t. There were no giveaways in Archie’s looks or manner. He was comfortably nondescript.

“Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice,” he begins. “I also apologize for all the legalese. You met Lenore?”

“Yes.”

“So maybe you get it. She’s a stickler for these things.”

“I understand,” I say.

“I will try not to waste more of your time. I know you’ve spoken to Victoria. I know you think maybe you saw her in Spain while she was…” He stops, closes his eyes.

I consider correcting him here, that there was no think or maybe , that I did indeed see his daughter, but what would be the point?

“It’s been fourteen years since she came back. You know that, right?”

“I do, yes.”

“So let me be honest here—you’re not the first person to sign one of those agreements. We’ve hired dozens of investigators over the years—the first ones while Vic was missing, of course. The FBI stayed on it. I’m not saying they didn’t. You have a child, right?”

“Yes,” I say.

“No one cares about your child like you do. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“So we hired our own people. And then after, when we finally got Victoria back… she lost eleven years of her life. Just gone. Nothing. And I don’t know if I want those years back for her—I imagine not—but the person or people who did this to her never got caught. Never paid a price. And Talia and I, we can’t live with that.”

He had a glass of what looked like iced tea. “Did someone offer you a drink?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“I understand you’re a decorated police officer,” Belmond continues.

“Used to be.”

“And now a private investigator.”

“I don’t have a license.”

“Arthur says you do jobs for him.”

“I do.”

“So I want you to do a job for me. For us, actually. The whole family.”

“You said you hired other investigators.”

“Yes.”

“I imagine big ones with tremendous resources.”

“Yes.”

“Why would I learn more?”

Archie Belmond looked off, took a small sip, and said, “None of them knew about Spain.”

I nod slowly. “So you believe me when I say I saw her?”

“Victoria sought you out after seeing your picture, not the other way around. So yes, I believe you.”

So here we are.

He takes a deep gulp of iced tea now. “Was Victoria okay?” he asks. “I mean, when you were with her in Spain. Did she seem in pain or…?”

“No,” I say. “She wasn’t in pain.”

He nods, closes his eyes, takes another gulp. “Allow me to put my businessman cap on for a moment, if I may.”

“Go ahead.”

“Talia and I want to hire you to investigate what happened to my daughter. You will work for us. You will tell me and only me what you know. The NDA also includes all the work you do for me as attorney product, so you can’t be compelled to tell anyone what you learn. I want you to tell me everything you learn—and then, when we are done, when we know all we can about what happened to our daughter, I want you to have nothing to do with what we do with that information.”

I think about this. “Let’s say I get very lucky. Let’s say I find the kidnapper.”

“You tell only me.”

“What about the police?”

“That’s up to me. All work product belongs to me. I may share it with the police. Or I may choose not to.”

“I’m not sure I like that.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kierce, but this part is not negotiable. I’m not going to subject my still-traumatized daughter to new headlines or a lengthy trial. I won’t let her be victimized again by whoever did this. Are we clear?”

I say nothing.

“If her kidnapper is found, you tell me. That’s it. That’s your role. What happens after doesn’t concern you. You won’t be involved.”

He seems to be talking about vigilantism. Meting out justice and revenge via his own resources. I understand his viewpoint. The odds of me finding the people responsible are very low—but the odds I would find enough to arrest and convict after all these years are infinitesimal.

Belmond wants to handle it himself.

I understand that. But I don’t like it.

Archie Belmond pushes through my hesitation. “Let’s talk specifics and compensation,” he says. “I want to hire you for the next three months to work exclusively on what happened to Victoria. Your pay will be half a million dollars plus all expenses.”

I try not to look wide-eyed and slack-jawed, but I don’t think I’m fooling anyone.

Half a million dollars, ladies and gentlemen.

Plus the one hundred thousand I already made just by coming here.

“Half of the money will be wired to you today,” he continues. “Half when you finish in three months.”

I’m a man of morals and scruples and all that, but seriously? Five hundred grand? That’s not just money—that’s life-changing money. That’s a better (or at least easier) life for my family. I’m adding up the pros and cons of accepting this job, and the pros are winning big-time. My mind is swirling. I don’t know if I’m being objective or seeing dollar signs, but if I say no, I probably get no more access to the family and learn nothing more. I don’t want that. Yes, I realize that Archie Belmond is, in some sense, buying me off. If I agree to this, I can’t ever tell my tale about Spain to… well, again, who would I tell it to anyway? Who’d believe me or care? What would I say happened? Still, that’s clearly what Belmond is doing here, right? He is paying money to keep whatever happened in Spain a secret. Or is he? Does he already know? Does Victoria remember? Has she always remembered?

If I turn down this offer, I’ll never know.

Odds are this investigation will go nowhere anyway. I’m good, damn good, but I’m not that good. If I refuse his offer, however, I’m out of the game. It’s over. But if I accept, if I stay in the game, if I can keep swinging the bat, at least there’s a chance.

Oh, and half a million dollars, ladies and gentlemen. Half a million!

I clear my throat. “I’ll need access to everything—family members, old friends, police files, investigator reports.”

“Of course,” Belmond replies. “In turn, we will ask you to be discreet as possible.”

“You don’t want me to kick up attention. I get that.”

“So are you in?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m in.”

“Fantastic. Let’s start now, if you don’t mind. What happened with you two in Spain?”