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CHAPTER SIX

Marty tries to get me to talk, but I don’t give him much. He hates silence and fills it with self-help jargon and discussions about his new workout regimens. Right now, he is singing the praises—yes, the upcoming pun is intentional—of something called Cycle Karaoke, which is exactly what you think it is.

“Guess what my favorite cool-down song is,” he says.

“‘If I Die Young’?”

“No!” he says with that puppy-like enthusiasm. “‘Save a Prayer’ by Duran Duran.”

He glances at me to see my reaction. When we first met, “Come Undone” by Duran Duran came on my car radio. He had never heard of the song. He had never heard of Duran Duran.

We are on Park Avenue now.

“Okay,” I say. “You can drop me off on the corner over there.”

White Shoe Law is on Park Avenue and Forty-Seventh Street, near the MetLife Building and across the street from the Lock-Horne Building. I jump out fifteen minutes before the Peyton Booth divorce mediation.

I am nothing if not ready.

Like almost everyone in New York City, I wear a backpack. In it, I have caps from various delivery services—Prime, UPS, DHL, FedEx. I have caps from Con Ed, Verizon, Sprint, Spectrum. I can’t carry uniforms for all these companies, obviously, but I can (and do) carry a neon-green reflective vest with the word SECURITY printed on the back. It does the trick. I also have various fake identification/credentials I can slip into a clear plastic name badge. You’d be shocked at how easy it is to move about with these, but in this case, I don’t need much.

I’ve already donned the FedEx cap and the reflective vest. I hold the envelope in my hand and wait on the corner. I hope that I’m not too late, but Arthur is blowing up my phone like a stalker. Up ahead I see a black SUV pull up to the front of the building. Peyton Booth steps out with a confident air. He sports a fake tan, a light gray business suit sans tie, and a crisply ironed shirt so white I almost reach for sunglasses. I don’t know what brand of shoes he’s wearing and I’m too far away to know for sure, but I can tell they even smell expensive.

I hurry toward him, envelope in hand. Two other suited men, both with ties, step out of the car with him. His attorneys, I deduce. That may make this all the more delicate for Peyton, but that’s all up to him.

“Courier delivery for Peyton Booth,” I say.

As I hand him the envelope, one of the two lawyers, a big guy, steps in my way and puffs out his chest. I know this kind of poser. I’m small and South Asian. Easy pickings, he thinks. But I also always mentally prepare. I focus on—need be—how my knee will slam into his balls.

Takes away the size advantage.

“Is this a subpoena?” Puffy Chest asks me.

I point to my FedEx cap. “Does this say subpoena delivery service?”

“Oh, I’ve seen servers pretend to be a lot of things.”

“That sounds unethical,” I tell him with top-notch fake earnestness. “But no, I’m not a server. I was told to give this to Mr. Peyton Booth and that it was very private.”

Puffy Chest doesn’t like it, but I scoot around him before he can ask more questions. I jam the envelope into Peyton Booth’s chest, try and fail to make eye contact, and hurry away. When I’m around the corner on Forty-Eighth Street, I take off the cap and vest. Then I wait and watch. Peyton Booth and his attorneys enter the building. I give them a little bit of a lead before following. I want them to get up to White Shoe before me—but not too long before me.

When they get their passes and head down the corridor, I make my move. I show my real ID to the woman at the same security desk on the Forty-Eighth Street side of the building and get a pass to the tenth floor.

Arthur is waiting for me when the elevator opens.

“What the hell, Kierce? Our client is already in the conference room.”

Arthur is not what you expect. He’s a tall, lanky glass of water, only twenty-four, and already a partner here. How did he make partner so young? He’s a genius. He graduated law school at sixteen. He wears his hair long. He favors suits with vests, a pocket watch, and dangling feather earrings.

Behind him I see Peyton Booth’s two attorneys. No Peyton.

That’s good.

“The mediation,” Arthur continues, “starts in five minutes. I need—”

“Here.”

I hand him the other envelope I had in my backpack. The one I gave Peyton Booth was unsealed so he could open it fast. This envelope is the opposite—sealed with envelope moistener and one of those long strings you have to keep unwrapping.

Arthur frowns and starts on the string. “Are you serious?”

“Gotta hit the head,” I say and rush down the corridor toward the bathroom. I have been in this bathroom maybe five other times in my life. I have never seen anyone else use it. I’m hoping my luck will hold, but if not, I can wait.

Peyton Booth is there. And only Peyton Booth. My luck, if you call this that, holds.

“Who are you?” he asks.

I lock the door behind me. If someone needs a toilet, they can always find another one.

“That doesn’t matter,” I say.

His face goes as white as that crisply ironed shirt. “So this is, what, a shakedown?”

The only shaking I see is his hands. He has the envelope. The photos of him with that other man, the ones I took near Rose to the Occasion, are back in the envelope as though he doesn’t want to see them again.

“I was hired by your wife’s attorney to see whether you were abiding by the infidelity clause of the prenup you and your wife signed.” I point at the envelope in his hand. “This is the evidence that you were not.”

“So how much?”

“Pardon?”

“To keep this quiet. How much?”

I’m genuinely curious now. “How much are you offering?”

He raises his chin, the businessman again, back in control. It’s a business deal now, a corrupt one, and that puts him back on terra firma. “Give me a number.”

Yep, master negotiator. Or so he thinks. Negotiation 101: Never be the first to give a number. Let your opposition make the first move. You can learn this from reading pretty much any book on negotiating or watching repeats of Pawn Stars . Rick and Corey always ask, “How much do you want for it?” as they launch into making any deal.

“How much do you want for it?” I try.

“You go first.”

“Ah never mind,” I say. “I can’t think of a price, so let’s just move on.”

I start for the door.

“One hundred grand,” he says.

Whoa. That’s the opening bid. I could probably get a lot more. That would change everything, wouldn’t it? Get me out of debt. A better apartment for Molly and Henry. Maybe some babysitting help so Molly can go back to work. I’m tempted to counter at a million, but I’ve let myself get distracted with this long enough.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Peyton,” I say to him. “You’re about to head into a meeting. You are going to agree that your prenup is null and void and then you and your soon-to-be ex will negotiate what one hopes will be an equitable deal for you both.”

He waits for me to say more. Another negotiating tactic. I don’t bite.

“And then?”

“That’s it. I was hired to see if you broke the infidelity clause of your contract. You did. Mission accomplished.”

“And what becomes of these…?” He can’t say it so he just raises the envelope in the air. He keeps his eyes on me as though he’s afraid to make eye contact with what’s inside. Just to clarify, I gave him my three clearest photos of him with the man. I also left him a note to meet me here and not to say anything to anyone. To make sure, I wrote on the envelope, “Look at these right away but don’t let anyone else see.” Seems he abided by that.

“I destroy them,” I say.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“How do I know you won’t keep a copy?”

“You don’t. Come to think of it, I had planned on deleting everything, but you’re kind of scaring me now, Peyton. So I’ll keep a set with my will. Just in case something happens to me.”

“Suppose something happens to you and it’s not because of me.”

“Too bad now,” I say. “You should have thought of that before you made that veiled threat.”

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“We don’t really have time for this,” I say. “If we aren’t back soon, someone is going to think you have a case of constipation that would take down a mule. Simply put, I’m okay with exposing that you committed infidelity per your prenup. That’s my job. That’s what you signed on for when you drew up the deal with your wife. What I’m not okay with is unnecessarily outing you. I’ll do it if I have to—to prove that you broke your prenup. It gets morally hazy if we swim into that space, and I’d rather stay on dry land. Does that make it clear?”

“That photo is blackmail,” he says. “You’re not the good guy here.”

I think about that. “Yeah, I kinda am.” I turn and unlock the door. “Either way, I’ll see you out there.”

The Booth divorce mediation does not take long.

It takes place in a conference room with a big glass wall, so I’m able to watch from down the corridor. I can’t hear, of course, but I find it odd how many conference rooms have glass walls that both intrude on privacy and cause unnecessary distraction. There are six people in the conference room. Husband Peyton and wife Courtney sit across from one another, their lawyers on both flanks. The body language tells me everything. Peyton caves quickly. This surprises his wife. I can see a stunned Courtney Booth turn to Arthur, seemingly unhappy in victory. The lawyers all shake hands. Husband and wife avoid eye contact.

Team Peyton exits first and briskly. Arthur follows. He beams and gives me a thumbs-up. Courtney Booth is right behind him. She looks perturbed.

“Thank you,” Arthur says to me.

I nod. I’m ready to move on, but Courtney Booth has other ideas.

“What the hell was that?” she snaps.

“A win,” Arthur replies. “Your husband just agreed to rip up your prenup.”

“Right, sure. Out of the goodness of his heart?”

“This is a divorce action,” Arthur says. “No one does anything out of the goodness of their heart.”

“I don’t like it,” she says.

“This was a good meeting, Courtney. A really, really good meeting.”

She turns to and on me. “You’re the one who took the photos?”

“Yes.”

“Was he screwing Britney Griffin?”

I don’t say anything.

She glances back at Arthur. “Didn’t we hire a private investigator to take photos?”

“We hired him to break the prenup. Mission accomplished.”

“So that whore Britney gets off scot-free? Oh no. I want that bitch outed. She was my neighbor for God’s sake. My friend. And then she—”

Here I make a mistake. I say, “It wasn’t Britney Griffin.”

That surprises her. “It wasn’t?”

In for a penny… “No.”

“So who was it?”

“I don’t know a name.”

She steps up closer to me. Courtney Booth is very attractive and far taller than I—statuesque, modelesque, and I confess she smells great. “Why haven’t I seen the photos?”

I look toward Arthur.

Arthur says, “It doesn’t matter, Courtney.”

“Don’t tell me what matters, Arthur. You work for me, correct?”

“Yes.”

Courtney is still glaring at me. “I want to see the photos. All of them.”

“There are a lot,” I say. “It’s a big file.”

“I don’t care.”

I nod. “Fine,” I say. “I can email them to you.”

“You do that.”

With one last glare she must have learned at soap-opera-acting school, Courtney spins and struts away. Arthur moves next to me. We wait until she’s in the elevator.

Arthur asks, “Did you watch Tad Grayson get released?”

“I did.”

Neither one of us says anything for a moment.

“The head lawyer ELI assigned to overturn his conviction,” Arthur says. “She works here. Her name is Kelly Neumeier.”

I flash back to the lawyer who spoke at the prison. “I know.”

“She worked the case pro bono.”

“I know.”

“Kelly is good, Kierce. Ethical. Principled. I like her.”

I don’t care, but I don’t say that. I don’t blame the lawyer. I don’t blame the system. I blame mostly me, but I don’t bother with that right now. “His conviction wasn’t overturned,” I say.

“Right,” Arthur says. “It was vacated.”

“So the DA could retry him.”

“They could,” Arthur says with great care. “But…”

I know. He knows. They won’t. There isn’t enough evidence anymore. It would be impossible to reconvict, and the DA’s office doesn’t really have the stomach to try. It would be embarrassing and an unpleasant reminder for all. I get all that. No one really cares anymore.

Arthur reads my mind. “It can’t be you, Kierce. Anything you find, any evidence you dig up, will be dismissed.”

I nod. “I better go.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I wait.

“Courtney Booth’s email address,” Arthur says. “Do you want it?”

“No.”

“You’re not sending her the photos?”

“I’m not sending her the photos.”

“She won’t be pleased.”

“I gather that.”

“She probably has a legal right to them.”

“You’re the one with the law degree.”

“Work product on her case. She could sue you.”

I shrug and start toward the elevator. “What’s one more?”