The next several weeks were among the loneliest in my life. My one true friend seemed to have abandoned me. I had lived such a tightly circumscribed life, the fixed stars of my personal cosmos had always been centered around Maddy. As long as she was there, across the table or at the other end of the phone, what else did I need? But now I was completely aware of the emptiness. I felt like a pianist who had lost a hand.
I was at my club one night, having finished my fitful exercise routine and a steam, and about to enjoy a well-deserved martini, when another of the members came up to my table. “Say, Walt,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all,” I replied. I liked Dewey. He had been a few years behind me at school, but we knew each other socially from both the city and Long Island. Unlike most of the members, who came here to get away from their wives, I came here for companionship. He was agreeable, and we usually saw eye to eye on the decline of everything from the overall quality of new members at the various clubs of which we were both members to the general ineptitude of our elected representatives in Albany and Washington.
Dewey sat, looking uncomfortable. “Look here, I hope I’m not being out of line with what I’m about to ask.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I know you’re friends with Madeleine Winslow.”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe it’s none of my business, but I saw her the other night.”
“Nothing unusual about that.”
“No, of course not. But what I mean to say is that I saw her with a man. Vicki and I had a sitter, and we thought it would be fun to go downtown to this little Italian place we’ve read about. I didn’t recognize the fellow, but it most certainly wasn’t her husband. I know Winslow slightly, and this man looked nothing like him. Darker. I just thought I should mention it, if you take my meaning.”
“Ah,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this news. Another man? Who was he? Which little Italian place? I wanted to press, but tact prevented me. “Well, er, the Winslows have separated.”
“Have they? Sorry to hear it. They always seemed like such a nice couple. She’s a real beauty, and I remember him when he played hockey.”
“Yes, it’s very sad.”
“Well, I guess that explains it. Sorry for busting in.”
“Don’t mention it. Glad I could clear things up.”
He stood up to leave.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Dewey,” I said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“All right,” he replied, sitting down. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
I wound up convincing him to join me for dinner too. Our conversation veered to the usual subjects, and, by the time we left the table, we had pretty much exhausted them. We parted on the street with vague but well-meant promises to get together for tennis once the weather warmed up.
As I walked home in the rain, my mind was turning over Dewey’s news. Another man? What the hell was going on? Normally I would have called Maddy to tell her the gossip, but this time not only was she not talking to me but the gossip was about her. I was half-tempted to go by her house and get to the bottom of things. Despite the rain, I suppose I thought that seemed like a good idea because that’s what I did. My reasoning was doubtless affected by the fact that I had drunk several martinis and half a bottle of the club’s claret.
The lights were on in the house when I rang the doorbell. It was around nine-thirty. When there was no answer, I rang again. Eventually Gloria came to the door, opening it a crack, looking terrified, but she relaxed when she saw it was me. Still, she didn’t invite me in, keeping the door chained.
“Mister Walter,
buenas noches.
”
“Good evening, Gloria. Sorry to stop by so late. Is Mrs. Winslow in?”
“No, Mrs. Maddy is not here.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back?”
“No, Mister Walter. She out late every night. And last week too.”
“Who is she out with?”
She shook her head. “I not know. Different men. Please. I go to bed now.”
“I see. Sorry to disturb you. Can you please let Mrs. Winslow know I came by?”
“Yes, Mister Walter.”
“Well,
buenas noches.
”
“
Buenas noches.
” She smiled and hurriedly closed the door. For a moment I thought about staying and waiting for Maddy to come home. But I had no idea when she might return or with whom. And I was getting soaked.
I had nowhere to go but home. Who else could I turn to? Harry? Not likely. Ned and Cissy? I supposed, but I didn’t know if they’d be of any help. Claire? The idea was absurd. As I was lying in my bed, I realized I had to do this myself. I knew I had to find Maddy and speak to her. It was the only way. But how?
I also knew it would be almost impossible to know what Maddy was doing without her telling me herself. The only other way was for me to follow her. I imagined myself in a trench coat, hovering in the bushes and playing the fool, acutely aware it was something I could never do. But that didn’t mean someone else couldn’t do it. I knew our firm occasionally retained private investigators, and so the next day I had Marybeth get me the number of an agency we often used.
That afternoon a man named Bernie came to my office. He was stocky, had a mustache, and wore a florid tie and thick-soled shoes. I had never had a reason to use him in the past, but I knew that he was a former police officer and that a number of my colleagues vouched for him.
“How can I help you, Mister Gervais?” he asked.
“This is a personal matter,” I explained. “I want to make that clear up front. So please be sure to bill me personally, not the firm.”
“Doesn’t make any difference to me, sir. What’s the job?”
“I would like you to keep an eye on someone.”
“Who might that be, sir?”
I handed him the photograph of Maddy and me from my desk.
“Your wife?”
“No, she’s a friend.”
He looked at the picture. “Nice-looking woman. You got any more recent photos?”
“I’ll get some. But she looks just the same.”
“Okay. So what’s the situation?” He sat with an open notebook on his knee, pen at the ready.
“Her name is Madeleine Winslow. I have known her since we were children, and she is my oldest friend. She recently separated from her husband of almost twenty years, and it has been a real shock to her. Several weeks ago, she stopped returning my phone calls. That is unusual because we rarely go three or four days without speaking or e-mailing. A friend of mine told me he saw her out with a man the other night at a restaurant downtown. I spoke with her son’s babysitter, and she told me that Mrs. Winslow has been out every night, usually with different men. Frankly, I am concerned because she is acting very much out of character, and I need to make sure she is all right. I am also concerned about the welfare of her son, who happens to be my godson. What I’d like you to do is to keep an eye on her, find out where she is going, what she is doing, and who she is doing it with.”
“Sure. No problem.” He put his pen down.
Personally, I loathe it when people say “no problem.” It is one of my pet peeves. When they are working for me, it’s not their problem. It’s their job. “And, of course,” I added, after taking a deep breath, “I am sure I don’t need to ask you to be discreet. She must not know she is being followed.”
“Of course.”
We then discussed his fee and a few other details. I promised to e-mail him more recent photos of Maddy and then wrote out a check for his retainer. He said he’d be in touch in a few days if there was anything to report. I was impressed by his professionalism. We shook hands, and he left. I know some people might think I was going too far, sticking my nose into Maddy’s business, but I didn’t care about that. The only thing that mattered to me was being sure she was all right. For the next few days, I waited. There was no word from Bernie or Maddy.
Following a weekend of worrying, I heard from Bernie on Monday morning. “I followed the subject over the course of three nights,” he told me on the phone. “The first night, she left her house around eight o’clock. She took a taxi down to a restaurant in Tribeca. There she met a man. He’s Greek, a Yannis Papadakis. Age thirty-eight, profession shipping. Marital status, divorced. Physical description, approximately six-foot, athletic build, brown hair, brown eyes, clean shaven, no distinguishing characteristics. I’ll e-mail you his photograph.”
I had never heard of him. “Go on,” I said.
“The subject left the restaurant with Papadakis at just after eleven
P.M
. Both had a lot to drink. You’ll find a copy of the receipt in the file I will send you. Papadakis paid the check with a Centurion card. There was a car waiting for them. A late-model Cadillac Escalade. It then drove them a short distance to Papadakis’s apartment nearby on Beach Street. The subject entered his apartment. At three
A.M
. subject left the apartment and the Escalade drove her home. Shall I go on?”
“Please.”
Bernie cleared his throat. “The next night, Friday, the subject again left her house around eight o’clock. This time she took a taxi downtown to an Italian restaurant in Soho, where she met a man named Steven Ambrosio. Age forty-two, profession investment banking. Marital status, single. Physical description, approximately five-eleven, slim build, shaved head, brown eyes, clean shaven, no distinguishing characteristics. The subject left the restaurant with Ambrosio around midnight, and they took a taxi uptown to Ambrosio’s apartment on East Sixty-Eighth Street. Again, around three
A.M
. subject exited the apartment and took a taxi home. Again, I will send an e-mail with photographs of Ambrosio and receipts. Any questions so far?”
Again, the man was unknown to me. “Not yet. Please proceed.”
“On Saturday, the subject was picked up around three
P.M
. by Papadakis, this time driving himself in a Porsche 911. I followed them to Southampton, where Papadakis has a weekend house on Ox Pasture Road. It was difficult for me to park so I had to make do with circling the block. The neighborhood is home to many wealthy people, and the police patrol it regularly. I was, however, able to ascertain that the subject and Papadakis went to a party at a house in Sagaponack on Daniels Lane. It is likely that illegal substances were consumed. At approximately one
A.M
. subject and Papadakis returned to Ox Pasture. The next day they went for lunch at Nello in Southampton around one
P.M
., and then they returned to Manhattan. Again, Papadakis paid, and I can provide a copy of receipt. Subject arrived home around five
P.M
. She did not go out last night.”
“Thank you, Bernie,” I said. “Very thorough.”
“Will you require my services further?”
“Yes.” I was thinking. “Yes, I’ll need you to keep following Mrs. Winslow. The only difference is the next time she goes out I want you to call me and tell me where she is.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then he said, “I understand, Mister Gervais. I need to inform you that if you are contemplating assaulting the subject or violating her rights in any way, I would be considered an accomplice. I won’t be a party to that, sir.”
I laughed lightly. “Oh god, what? No, no. Please, Bernie. Don’t worry about anything like that. I have no intention of assaulting Mrs. Winslow or breaking the law. I just need to speak to her. And since the mountain won’t go to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain.”
“Okay, Mister Gervais. I’ve got your cell phone number. I’ll follow her again tonight, and if she goes out, I’ll call you.”
There was no call from Bernie that night. The next night, however, my cell phone rings shortly after eight. “Good evening, sir,” he says. “The subject is on the move. I’ll call you again when she has reached her destination.”
“Excellent. Thanks.” For the next quarter of an hour or so, I pace my apartment, clutching my cell phone, checking my watch, patting and repatting my pockets to make sure I have my wallet, a handkerchief, comb, nail clippers, pen. When the second call comes, I head to the elevator clutching the phone to my ear. Bernie gives me the name and address of a restaurant in the West Village. I am secretly relieved it’s not out in Brooklyn somewhere. I can remember when traveling below Forty-second Street at night was as unusual as visiting the dark side of the moon. These days the most fashionable neighborhoods in New York are the ones that had once been the poorest. I step outside, where I have a car waiting, and give the driver the address.
“Subject is seated in a booth in the back,” reports Bernie. “She is not with either Papadakis or Ambrosio. I haven’t been able to ascertain the name of the man yet. Roughly fifty, graying hair, expensive suit.”
“Thanks, Bernie. I won’t require any more than that. If all goes well tonight, you can send me your bill in the morning. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck.”
Around nine o’clock, I arrive in front of a brightly lit bistro. I glance around for Bernie but don’t see him. The streets here are still cobblestone. But the former slaughterhouses and commercial buildings have been renovated, and are now boutiques, hotels, restaurants, and nightclubs.
I tell the driver to wait, and walk inside. It’s crowded with a cross section of hip, young Manhattan. Scruffy artistic types in black T-shirts commingle with young bankers, and pretty girls are everywhere. I can see why there aren’t many older people. It’s very hard to hear. I head to the bar and fight my way in. In my J.Press suit, I look out of place, like someone who wandered in from the wrong movie. Eventually the bartender acknowledges me, and I order a martini.
I look around the restaurant, searching for Maddy and praying she doesn’t see me first. It’s not easy because the seating area is not all visible from the bar. Finally, I spot her. Sitting in a corner with a gray-haired man, just as Bernie said. She is talking animatedly, the way she does when she’s had a few drinks. I see there is an open bottle in a wine bucket near the table.
Immediately I duck my head to avoid being seen. I turn my back and try, with difficulty, to look comfortable. But pretty soon I am elbowed aside by a young man who hasn’t shaved in several days. He’s wearing a porkpie hat and orders drinks for a group of friends, and I retreat ignominiously to a corner. It is clear I can’t just linger here. I need to act or leave.