Page 48

Back outside, she didn’t know what to do next.

She could visit the local police, but what good would that do?

It was unlikely they’d share information, since she wasn’t family.

Baker said Fiona was from here, so what kind of family and friends wouldn’t bother with a missing persons poster?

Julia hadn’t seen any in store windows or on telephone poles.

It was either extremely sad or extremely strange, or perhaps both.

The drive to Bennington was long enough for Julia to be hungry and tired. The Irish pub down the street called her name.

The Black Rose was just what Julia expected—dark and dreary, with a beer smell perfuming the air. An oddly enticing aroma made her crave a basket of fries and a drink. A healthy diet was hardly her top priority.

She ignored the stares of several patrons, all old men nursing beers, to grab an empty stool at the far end of the bar, near an old-fashioned jukebox that she couldn’t believe still worked.

It played a song from the Foo Fighters, a tune Christian especially loved and would sing out of key at any opportunity.

It’s so sad… what an idiot.

The menu she perused had a tacky residue, a thin film of old grease that made her question ordering food, but hunger beat out her misgivings. It occurred to her that if the old stereotype held true, the person best in position to help her was the man asking what she wanted to drink.

“Do you have white wine? And I’ll take a veggie burger, too,” she said, still craving the fries, but knowing she’d regret that choice later.

The bartender took her menu and put in the order.

He was the opposite of David—fair complexion with a Lincoln beard.

The look made Julia think of a leprechaun, an observation she wouldn’t dare share, especially in an Irish bar.

She’d say he was middle-aged, in his mid-fifties, with a wrinkled face, weathered and worn from too many stories and late nights.

Short and stocky, he had a body shaped like a keg and wore a flannel shirt with rolled sleeves, showing off his tattooed arms.

When he returned with the wine, Julia was ready with her phone.

He put the pinot grigio down in front of her before directing his attention to the image Julia shared, a picture she’d taken at the campfire.

She pointed to Fiona, who looked ravishing in her small top and red wrap skirt, the magic hour’s golden light casting her in an angelic glow.

“Do you know this woman?” she asked.

He gave her a wry smile. “Oh yeah, sure, that’s Fiona Maxwell,” he said, speaking with a Boston accent she didn’t expect this far from home. “Nice shot. My cousin was a friend of hers back in high school. They were theater geeks together. I saw a couple of her local shows.”

“Oh, I didn’t know she acted.”

“Acted like a pain in the ass mostly.” He chuckled. “That girl had a nose for trouble, but that’s not unusual around here. I think Fiona had big dreams of becoming a Hollywood star or something. She and her best friend, Bella, poor girl.”

“What happened to Bella?” Julia couldn’t believe she was finally getting some information.

“Sad story there. She killed herself about five years ago. Her fiancé dumped her just before the wedding. She didn’t take it well. Fiona found her in the bathtub—you can figure out the rest.”

Julia’s hand reflexively went to her mouth. What a horribly tragic story. She felt heartbroken for both women and Bella’s family, too. Fiona wasn’t just David’s sexy fling. She was a young woman with a life full of hopes and dreams—and loss.

“Do you know that she went missing?” Julia asked.

The light in the bartender’s eyes went out as if someone flicked a switch. “No, I didn’t hear that,” he said. “When?”

“A few days ago. I just met her while on vacation at Lake Timmeny. The police have been searching for her. I expected it to be a bigger deal down here where she’s from, but I haven’t seen one missing person poster yet.”

The bartender didn’t look surprised. “That whole family is extremely private—they don’t air much of anything, good news or bad.”

“I don’t get it. A woman is missing. And even if the family is private, wouldn’t the police be putting the word out?” Julia couldn’t fathom such a lackadaisical response to any emergency, let alone one of this magnitude.

“It’s, umm… complicated,” said the barkeep, assessing the room, wary of prying ears. Luckily, the bar was relatively quiet. Even so, he dropped his voice. “Fiona’s circle isn’t the type you want to get involved in. It’s more like the kind you want to run away from.”

“What do you mean?” Julia asked.

“These people, Fiona’s family, they do business that isn’t exactly on the up and up. I shouldn’t really get into it, not here, but Fiona’s father—his name is Jim Tracey.” The bartender looked uneasy, as if he’d just said Voldemort’s name aloud. “But everyone around here calls him Jimmy T.”

“Tracey?” Julia squinted her eyes. “But Fiona’s last name is Maxwell.”

“Yeah, she was divorced but kept her married name, probably because Tracey carries a lot of connotations in town.”

“How so?” Julia’s curiosity kept rising.

“Her dad, Jimmy T, is kind of old-school, if you know what I mean—like he’s connected, organized crime, the Mob, all that.

Jimmy made a small fortune working the smut trade in Times Square before Giuliani cleaned it up in the nineties.

I lived there before and after, so I saw the transformation myself.

It definitely got sanitized, but business is business, and Jimmy T kept his hands in things.

You seem like a nice lady. I’m only telling you this so you’ll get away from here and stay away. ”

“What do you mean, he kept his hands in things ?” Julia prodded.

The bartender sighed, but he could tell Julia wouldn’t give up easily.

“I told you about Fiona’s best friend, Bella, right?

That she killed herself? Well, it was because an old boyfriend of hers sold a…

um… private video of them to a porn website that had a lax vetting process.

The video was uploaded, unbeknownst to Bella, to the internet for all to see.

So the night before the wedding, her bitter ex sent a group text with a link to the video.

The would-be groom was included, and boy, was he ever pissed, so much so that he couldn’t go through with the wedding.

You’ve heard the term ‘revenge porn,’ right? ”

Julia nodded.

“That’s what this was. But the guy who uploaded the video didn’t know that Jimmy T owned that website.

It was a carryover from his Times Square business—and Jimmy didn’t like that the FBI showed up asking questions about it.

Illicit digital content crosses state lines, so it gives the Feds an opening to investigate.

I mean, porn is legal and all, but only when both parties consent.

The website went dark, but I doubt Jimmy T got out of the business. ”

“Did the guy who posted the revenge porn get arrested?” Julia sure hoped the answer would be yes.

“No, he had a little slip and fall from a bridge. Ended up in the Walloomsac River with his neck broken. Terrible accident, if you know what I mean.” A shadow crossed the bartender’s face.

“Oh,” said Julia, getting a much clearer picture.

The bartender glanced at the photo of Fiona again. “I know that guy, too,” he said, pointing to David, who sat beside Fiona around the campfire.

Julia almost recoiled. How would this man know David?

“Not sure how you got involved in this mess,” said the bartender. “But that guy there”—again, he pointed to David—“helps Jimmy T run his businesses. Like, he recruits girls and manages a bunch of these adult websites for him.”

Julia’s blood went cold. Before he got lucky with his investment in the electronics company, David boasted about his talent scout business to anyone who’d listen. Was that the talent he was seeking—naked girls for adult entertainment?

“He’d come in here a lot, so I know him well enough,” the bartender said, not sounding happy about it.

“And he said the strangest thing to me. After Jimmy T put the heat on him for being sloppy about the Bella thing—it was his job to verify the content had the proper consent—he got all drunk, loose-lipped, and started talking shit about his boss—which is dangerous, but whatever, this guy’s ego was too big to care.

He told me they didn’t know who they were messing with.

He even bragged to me about knowing how to commit the perfect murder—a surefire way to never get caught.

Naturally I asked him how, and he answered with a riddle.

I’ll never forget it. He said: ‘How do you shoot someone without ever pulling the trigger?’”

“How?” Julia wanted to know.

The bartender smirked. “Beats me. He never did say. And it’s not a hitman—that was my guess.

He just smiled with a look of superiority.

Listen, it’s not my place to give advice, but if I were you, missing person or not, I wouldn’t go around asking questions about Fiona, or her family, or their business in this town. It’s not safe. Do you understand?”

His eyes drilled into her, driving his point home.

“Got it.” Julia finished her pinot grigio in one big gulp. “Thanks for your time. I think I’ll take that sandwich to go.”