Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (24 page)

I headed across Fairmount Park toward the Schuylkill River, following Kelly Drive, passing the Museum of Art, the row of elegant old boathouses, the Girard Avenue bridge, the clusters of sculpture in the gardens above the river’s banks.

I walked among joggers, skaters, and bike riders for maybe half an hour before I sat, looking out on the water. Watching its motion, the ripples of silver flickering on the surface. Ducks in
pairs. Geese and gulls in flocks. Turtles of all sizes crowding onto an immersed tree trunk near the riverbank. Scullers rowing by. I sat, unaware of time, almost calm.

In truth, I was relieved. I’d shown Susan the files. The awful secret wasn’t mine alone anymore. And, for all her scolding, she’d survived. Hadn’t fainted or puked or even stopped speaking to me.

But that wasn’t all: I was relieved about Charlie. The conversation with the shadow had almost convinced me that he wasn’t—hadn’t been—a pedophile. Those pictures weren’t his. They were, as Derek had said, stolen “personal client information.” The pictures could ruin careers, shatter lives, lead to blackmail. And provide motive for murder.

Which meant, as Susan said, that there would be more suspects in Charlie’s death. I would no longer be alone on the list. Might even not be at the top.

I closed my eyes, felt the late day-sun warm my face. Let the tension out of my shoulders. Recalled the photos. The smiling boy, holding Somerset Bradley’s hand. The spindly young girl holding an ice cream cone, walking with Derek Morris and Jonas Walters.

In front of the Kremlin.

In Red Square.

I was on my feet again, hurrying. Jogging—no, despite my bruises and sore muscles—I was running home. Obviously, the men had been in Russia. In Moscow. I ran along the river, absorbed, not noticing the cyclist coming up behind me.

“To your left!” A guy walking a bulldog screamed at me, and reflexively, without looking around, I jumped off the path onto the slope of grass leading down to the water, stumbled, twisted my ankle, and fell, protecting my already sore hands and knees, so that I rolled over the cement and splashed right into the Schuylkill. I landed sideways, felt the cold wet slap, then the immersion, then my hands and knees sinking into muck. I
tried to stand, but the river bottom sucked at whatever body part I leaned on for leverage. With a final burst, I thrust my torso upward to a standing position, felt my head emerge, then my chest, drew a hungry breath of air, and let my legs sink calf deep in muck, turned to see a small crowd standing at water’s edge, gaping in alarm. A wiry, bearded guy had taken his shirt off, ready for a rescue. In shallow water.

Voices called to me, asking if I was all right. Telling each other what had happened. “This bike went right at her, knocked her over.”

“She just rolled right into the water.”

“They ought to make bike lanes.”

“There. She’s climbing out. Grab her. Pull her up.”

From far away, I watched the bearded guy and a woman in jogging clothes reach out, take my arms, then my waist, pulling me out of the mud and water. Finally, I was again on solid ground. I watched myself thank them, tell them that I was fine. That I lived nearby. The skinny guy offered me his shirt. Another one wrung out my sweatshirt and hung it on my shoulders.

Someone said that the cyclist should be arrested. That the bike had seemed to aim deliberately at me. Someone else agreed. I thought of the incident in Chinatown. What was with these bike riders, coming at me wherever I went?

Unless it wasn’t riders. Unless it was just one. One rider, following me. Deliberately trying to run me down. I was shivering. Dirty. Dripping and soggy. Was I also paranoid?

“You’re bleeding,” the jogger woman pointed at my leg.

Yes. I was. My knees were scraped raw, and bloody water trickled down my legs, into my sneakers. But I didn’t feel pain. I just felt wet. And numb. And I wanted to get away from this well-intentioned group so I could get home.

Laughter was what did it. I don’t know how I started laughing, but I did. The others were angry at the cyclist, worried about me. But when I started to giggle about my clumsiness, retracing
my fall, everyone relaxed. Began laughing, too. Thanking everyone, I refused more help and finally broke away.

By the time I got to Green Street, I’d become accustomed to the stares of passersby. I was bleeding, drenched, cold. And limping. Wounds, old and new, were nagging and annoyed.

I went inside, peeling off wet clothes, looking at my latest scrapes and bruises. Ready to wash off the river in a hot bath. But while the water was running, I went into my bedroom.

The envelope from Charlie’s pocket was on the dresser, where I’d left it. And among the itineraries, just as I’d remembered, was a trip to Russia’s capital.

The papers gave departure and arrival information, hotel accommodations. For a party of five, but the only name listed was Derek’s. Nothing incriminating.

Even so, combined with the photos, the itineraries built the case that the five had traveled to Russia together to have sex with children.

I was trembling. Limped to the bath, sunk into steaming water. Felt the sting of heat on my scrapes and cuts. Leaned back. And soaked. When the bath cooled, I turned the faucet on again, adding more hot. Washed my sores. Watched my skin turn rosy.

Finally, when my blood was again running warm, I stepped into my soft chenille robe, sat on my bed, and called Susan. I didn’t mention falling into the river. Just the itineraries.

“Trips to Russia?” She’d already spoken to Stiles, had told him about the flash drive.

“Travel plans. Flight schedules. Hotels.”

“Get them to me pronto, so I can give Stiles everything at once. This is great, Elle. It proves that other people besides you had motive. It should take the heat off you.”

After the call, I sat on the bed, holding my phone and the envelope. Wondering how Charlie found out about the sex vacations.
About his partner being involved in something so vile. And then I wasn’t sitting anymore. I was lying down. Watching myself, curled with my knees tucked against my chest. Missing Charlie. Wanting to talk to him—not just to the shadowy image I kept conjuring—but the three-dimensional, still breathing Charlie. To hear his rich baritone lie to me again. To touch his face, his hands. Look into the darkness of his eyes. How was it that he was dead? What had happened to him? To us?

I knew, of course. There had been lots of little frictions. Unanswered questions. Unspoken suspicions. Underlying doubts. And then one day, I’d opened a statement from Fidelity, the investment company handling my portfolio.

I’d called him in a panic. “Charlie, Fidelity says I have $17.34 in my account. What do I do? They lost my money.”

He’d been busy. Distracted. Half listening. “Calm down, Elf. What?”

I repeated myself. Asked if I should call them. Or get a lawyer to call them.

A tiny hesitation. “It’s okay, Elf. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” He’d sounded confident. Smooth. Like it was no big deal that over two hundred thousand dollars had been misplaced like car keys. “It’s probably a simple computer error.”

“Charlie, it’s an investment account. With lots of separate investments in it. How can it be just a simple computer error?”

“Let me get on it, Elf. Just be patient and calm down. I’ll take care of it.”

And I’d believed him. That night, he’d assuaged me, saying Fidelity was “working on it.” And the next evening, he told me he’d been busy all day with a big client, had played phone tag with Fidelity. He’d poured me a glass of Shiraz, held it out. Looked into my eyes.

And that’s when the walls crumbled. The floor shattered. The sky collapsed. I’d known. There had been no computer error. No phone tag. Fidelity had made no mistake. No. What
had happened was Charlie. Charlie had taken the money. Had emptied my account, used it for some business venture. Hadn’t bothered to ask. He’d stolen it.

And lied about it.

And that was it: the end. After all the other little lies. After years of Charlie’s slick explanations and questionable excuses, it was that one flash of realization, that one final lie that crushed all trust between us. And with trust went everything else. That night—that instant—our marriage ended. It took another fourteen months for us to admit it. Nothing was said out loud. But we both knew. Our marriage died even as Charlie stood there, looking into my eyes, offering me a glass of Shiraz.

Well, there was no use going over the aftermath. The blame, accusations, excuses. The pitiful efforts at patching things up. No point. I never found out why he took the money or what happened to it. He’d promised to pay it back. But he’d promised a lot of things. Never mind. That was history. And Charlie was dead.

I watched the woman as she lay on the bed for almost an hour, not moving. Still holding the phone, staring blankly at the papers. I could see the heading on the itinerary in her hands, could read the name of the travel agency. Magic Travel. Its address was on Sansom Street in Center City. I knew the street. It wasn’t far from Dr. Schroeder’s office in Society Hill.

Before I left the house first thing the next morning, I went to the computer, opened the files of photos, clicked through, looking for pictures that clearly showed each of the four men’s faces. And I printed them out, one by one.

Magic Travel was a small storefront located between a nail salon and a pizza parlor, across from a parking lot. Outside, a rack supported a couple of chained bikes. Something I’d never have noticed before, but now everything involving bikes seemed
to flash red alert. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. What did I really hope to accomplish? The travel agent might be a criminal—maybe hooked up with the Russian Mafia, arranging sex workers for travelers who booked with them. Maybe I was getting into dangerous territory, should let the police do the investigating and forget it. I could still leave.

But I didn’t. I wanted to find out what was going on, and I knew that the travel agency wouldn’t reveal to the police what they might to a prospective customer. Derek Morris would never have known where in Moscow to go for child prostitutes. Someone had advised him. Maybe someone online or in Russia. Or maybe the travel agent.

I stood in front of the agency, figuring out what I’d say. How I’d approach the topic of unconventional services. I watched the flashing neon sign in the window—a wand and top hat with a neon airplane flying out of it. The name of the business arched above them in gold and green neon cursive. I peeked inside, saw a bike helmet dangling from a coat rack—dark green, not purple. Maps, posters, and displayed brochures lining the walls. Toy model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. A model of a cruise ship mounted on a table. Nothing unusual.

Go on in, I told myself. What was the harm? I’d stay just a minute. Just get a feel for the place, ask a couple questions, and leave.

The receptionist had red hair and blunt fingernails bitten almost to the quick. When she smiled, two dimples popped up, both on one side of her face. The name plate on her desk said, “Cindy.”

“Can I help you?”

Great. What was I supposed to say? I smiled. Hesitated.

A man’s laughter boomed from one of the three cubicles at the back of the room.

I looked around. Saw myself standing at the counter, looking
nervous. I could say, “Hi. Do you by any chance arrange international sex tours?” Or maybe, “Do you have special packages for pedophiles?”

Lord, what was I doing there? I should go.

“My husband, actually his friends, booked a trip here a few months ago. They went to Russia.”

She nodded, waited for me to go on.

I took out the photos. “Do you recognize any of these guys?”

She leaned over, glanced at the photos. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Was there a problem with the bookings? Because if there was—”

“Oh, no. No. It’s—I just wanted to know what their travel package included.”

Her eyes shifted. Her brows rose. Her smile faded, dimples disappeared. “Because?”

Because? What should I say? “Because they’re thinking of going back. With more friends. And I’ll be doing the arrangements.”

Good answer. Quick thinking. She nodded, sat back, asked for information. Names, dates of the trip they’d already taken, so she could look it up. I handed her the itinerary. She typed information into the computer. In the back offices, men were laughing.