Breaking the Bank (35 page)

“Sorry,” she said. “I won't say it.”

“No one is going to believe your story,” he said.

“I can't help that, can I?”

He studied her, as if trying to get a sense of who she might be, what she would—and wouldn't—do.

“All right,” he said finally. “Maybe it's better that I don't know where you got it. Our main focus is Weed, and clearing you from any possible involvement in his death.”

“We're in good shape with that, right? I have an alibi; I can provide the corroboration you wanted; you vetted the outfit. What else do we need?”

“There is one more thing I haven't brought up yet.”

“What's that?”

“Costello mentioned something about a gold locket. She thinks it's in your possession.”

“Do you mean this?” Mia dug it out from under her dress; she had taken to wearing it concealed.

“That fits the description, yes.”

“Why is she asking?” Mia asked.

“She contacted a few local currency dealers. One of them said that you had approached him with the bill.”

“Solomon Phelps,” said Mia, remembering with distaste that cool, blue gaze.

“Right. He said that when he asked you where you got it, you lied. And that you had a very unusual piece of jewelry, one that he thought might have significant value.”

“So what if it does?” asked Mia defensively. “It's mine; I bought it.”

“From whom? Can you provide a receipt?”

Mia thought of the empty, darkened shop, the disconnected number.

“No,” she said. “I can't.”

“I somehow figured that would be the case.” His fingers moved to his tie again, as if seeking its reassurance.

“Is there a problem with my having it? It's not like it's been reported stolen or missing. Or has it?” That Gerald Mofchum might have sold her a piece of stolen jewelry was too disheartening to contemplate.

“That's what Costello and her crew are working on now. So far, there's no evidence that it was acquired unlawfully. But paired with the bill, it doesn't look good for you.”

“What can I do about it?”

Cox looked at her steadily. “Not much,” he said at last. “We'll just have to see how far Costello wants to take it.”

A
FTER
C
OX LEFT
, Mia decided she would stay in the apartment, despite Fred's loudly voiced concern about her safety. But once the shock of Patrick's visit had worn off a bit, Mia was not worried, at least not about that. She replayed the entire scene, several times, in her mind. Not once did she catch a glimmer of violence, brewing or actual. Crazy as it might have seemed to Fred, she was certain that Patrick would not harm her.

The mailbox downstairs had been stuffed, and she now sorted through its contents, discarding the junk, saving any real correspondence for last. In this category was another postcard from Julie that read,
I don't care if I get skin cancer; my tan is amazing. I'll fill you in on the details when we speak, but I really think Dean is The One. XOXOXOX

The postmark was weeks ago; clearly, Julie
had
been trying to stay in touch. Mia felt a pang when she thought of their last conversation but squelched it. There was also a two-page, single-spaced letter from the
author of
All That Trash,
in which he thanked her profusely for her editing.
You really saw to the heart of this story, and helped me bring it to life,
he wrote
. If the book does well—and it certainly seems poised to—I owe it to you.
Mia read the letter three times before putting it aside. What a sweet man. And what a thrill it was to think that her work could help give birth to this larger, more significant work.

But the distraction of the mail lasted only so long, and soon Mia was thinking of Eden. Again. She had not spoken with her in days, and she suddenly felt like she couldn't bear one more second without hearing from her. She called, waiting impatiently as the number rang and rang. No answer. Finally, she heard Eden's breathless message and then the ubiquitous beep. Mia wasn't sure whether she wanted to talk to her daughter badly enough to call Lloyd's parents, but, after about a minute, she decided that she did.

Lloyd's mother, Virginia, answered.

“Mia dear, how
are
you?” she asked. She sounded so worried. God only knew what Lloyd had been telling her. Mia fought the bitterness that seemed to flood her mouth.
It doesn't matter,
she told herself.
It doesn't matter what they think. I love Eden. And Eden loves me.

“I'm fine, Virginia; how are you?”

“Oh, getting along, getting along. We had a lovely holiday with Eden, just lovely . . .” She trailed off, clearly embarrassed. “But we missed you, dear. We really did.”

“Well, um, I missed you, too.” This, actually, was true.

“Well, I suppose you're calling to talk with Eden,” Virginia said brightly. Clearly, that was sufficient soul-baring for one conversation.

“I am actually. Is she there?”

“No, Lloyd took her to see a play over at the college; they're doing
A Christmas Carol.
I would have gone, but my arthritis was acting up so I had to stay behind.”

“That's too bad,” said Mia, wanting to get off the phone now.

“Aging and its discontents,” said Virginia. It sounded like she was striving for lightness. “I'll have Eden call you when she gets back, all right?”

“I'd appreciate that,” Mia said. “Thanks so much.”

“Not at all, dear,” said Virginia. There was a pause. “I do hope everything will be all right . . .” she said, sounding tentative again.

“Everything is fine. Really.”

“Oh, I'm glad to hear it,” Virginia said. “You know how much we love Eden . . .”

“Happy New Year,” said Mia, just wanting to end this.

“Happy New Year to you, too.” Virginia's voice sounded thin, as if it were stretched on a rack and was ready to snap.

A
FTER THAT HIGHLY
uncomfortable exchange, Mia went back into her bedroom to attack the piles of clothing once more. When the phone rang, she was sure it was Eden, and she made a lunge for it.

But it was Lloyd.

“I heard you talked to my mother,” he said by way of greeting.

“I'm sorry her arthritis is bothering her.”

“Thanks for the sentiment. I'm sure she appreciates it.”

Was he being sarcastic?

Did she care? “How was the play?” she asked, stuffing a hanger back into the closet.

“Not bad for a piece of provincial theater. Eden loved it, though. She's ready for Dickens now. I'm going to get her the book.”

“Is she right there? Can I talk to her?”

“She's actually not here now.”

“Where is she?”

“She's out with my father.”

“Well, would you make sure she calls me when she gets back? I want to talk to her.”

There was a major pause, enough time for Mia to start feeling anxious. Was he trying to
prevent
her from talking to Eden? Because that was what it felt like.

“Actually, I think you and I need to talk first.”

“Okay,” she said, abandoning the strewn clothes once more. “I'm listening.” She nudged the clothes aside and made a place for herself on the bed.

“I've been thinking that maybe Eden shouldn't come back to New York in January.”

“What?” Mia experienced this last comment as a physical attack.

“You heard me: she needs a change of environment.”

“Did Eden suggest this, Lloyd? Or is this your idea?”

“It's my idea, of course,” said Lloyd at his most lofty. “I'm still the parent. The one in charge.”

“Like I'm not?”

“Not exactly.”

“That's a crock, and you know it,” she spat.

“Is it?” he asked. “Look, I told you that I didn't know what you were doing, but that whatever it was, it had to stop. Eden's told me everything—about the visits from the police, the fact that you spent the night in jail. She's freaked out, Mia. Totally freaked out. You're in some kind of trouble. I can see that and I'm even sympathetic, I really am. Still, sympathy has its limits. I can't let you or whatever crazy mess you're in hurt Eden. So I think it would be better if she didn't go back to New York, at least not right away.”

“You can't do that! It violates the terms of the divorce agreement!”

“Under the circumstances, those terms are no longer . . . operative. And I know that any family court judge
you
might care to petition will back me up.”

“I'm calling my brother; that's what I'm doing. I'm hanging up on you right now and calling my brother. He'll know what to do to get her back home where she belongs—”

“I've already spoken to your brother. And he agrees with me that, at the moment, it might not be in Eden's best interests to be living with you.”

“Stuart. Said. That?” The enormity of this betrayal was like having her head dunked suddenly into black water, cold and churning. She had to struggle for breath.

“Yes, he did. He said that he agreed you were volatile, unstable, and—”

Mia put the phone on the bed, under a mound of clothes. Lloyd continued to talk, enumerating her many failings as a mother and as everything else, too, but his voice, his deep, rich, mellow voice, was rendered inaudible by the mounds of fabric. She didn't care about what he was saying. The only thing she cared about was Eden: how to get to her, how to get her back. She sank to the floor, allowing herself to howl, to wail like the wounded thing that she was; she remained there until her breathing was less ragged and the howls had subsided to whimpers. When she reached for the phone again, Lloyd was gone. She called Stuart's office, and someone answered on the second ring.

“Is Mr. Saul in the office today?” she asked.

“Yes, he is; would you like me to transfer you to his secretary?”

But Mia had already hung up. He was there. Good.

Mia endured the subway ride into Manhattan in a kind of rage-steeped fugue. Everyone in the car infuriated her: the man seated to her left, with his open-legged sprawl, squeezing against her thighs and hogging her space; the young woman across the aisle tweezing her eyebrows with the kind of narcissistic abandon that should have been reserved for her own bloody bathroom; the kid whose iPod was cranked up so loud Mia could discern all the lyrics of the rap tune he was grooving to; the overweight mom who barked at her toddler while impatiently yanking on his hand.

By the time she reached Fifty-ninth Street and Lexington Avenue she was ready to pop. She marched the few blocks to Stuart's office on

Park Avenue, signed in at the security desk, and zoomed to the twenty-first floor in a sleek, empty elevator. Fortunately, she knew Stuart's secretary, Anita, well enough to ask her to keep the visit a surprise until she was actually upstairs.

“Is it his birthday or something?” asked Anita.

“Something,” said Mia darkly.

Stuart's office was posher than posh. There was heavy mahogany paneling everywhere, thick carpeting that soaked up the sound of any human footfall, hulking leather-covered chairs in the reception area, and enough floral arrangements to stock a funeral parlor. She waited outside the door while Anita knocked discreetly, and then, in response to Stuart's “Yes?” Mia walked into the office.

“Hey, Mia!” said Stuart, getting up from his desk. “Anita didn't tell me you were here.” He crossed the room, reaching out his arms to give her a hug.

“Fuck you,” she said, nimbly sidestepping the embrace. “Fuck you and your phony good cheer.”

He stopped, looking stunned. “What's with you anyway?” he said. “What's with me? What's with
you
?” She was so angry she had to hold on to her own wrists; otherwise, she would start hurling things: the crystal paperweight, the stapler, weighty law tomes, or the brass clock that squatted on the gloomy, ostentatious credenza.

“Would you please keep your voice down? You're in my office, for Christ's sake.” His eyes glanced nervously toward the door, which Anita had tactfully closed behind her.

“I know where we are.”

“I don't even know what's bugging you; care to clue me in?”

“Lloyd,” she said, his name pure bile in her throat. “Lloyd is bugging me.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Did
you
?”

He fingered the collar of his shirt, looking uncomfortable. “Well, yes, I did, but—”

“No
buts,
Stuart! I'm not interested in your
buts.
Lloyd just told me that he's not bringing Eden home in January. And that you said you'd back him up!”

“That's not exactly what I said.”

“That's what you meant, though! And that's what he heard. Eden. He's taken Eden away from me, and you're just going to stand there and let him do it.” She started to cry then, not as loud or hard as before, but with an even deeper, more piercing kind of sorrow.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the arm. “We're going to take a walk.”

Once outside, she and Stuart headed west and north, past the hot-dog vendors and the T-shirt hawkers, past the gorgeous old Plaza Hotel, past the flocks of fat, jaded pigeons that could scarcely be bothered to move out of their way, until they reached Central Park. Mia hardly minded the sharp wind biting her ears; it was an almost blessed distraction from her fury with her brother, her grief about Eden.

She was still crying, albeit more softly now, and Stuart handed her his crisply pressed linen handkerchief. She took mild pleasure in filling the snowy square with mucus, tears, and the cloudy black remnants of her mascara. When she was done with it, she balled it up and let it fall from her hand. He could pick it up if he wanted to, but he seemed oblivious.