The Angel of Eden (2 page)

After a tentative tap on the door I opened it to find a gray-eyed waif, auburn hair wringing wet from the rain, wearing no lipstick I could discern, scarlet or otherwise. Her well-scuffed flats would have been sensible if they hadn't been soaked and her beige belted trench coat was much too thin for February. Petite and very pretty, she clutched a battered leather briefcase to her chest as if it held her life savings.

She extended her damp hand. “Mr. Madison? I must look a sight.” She gave me an uncertain smile. “I forgot my umbrella. I considered going back for it but didn't want to be late.” Then she grinned widely and warmly, showing a confidence that seemed at odds with her apologetic words.

I took her arm and ushered her inside. “Margaux Bennet, it's nice to meet you, wet or not.”

She freed one hand from her briefcase and shook mine. Hers was cold and damp. “Please call me Bennet. Everybody does. Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

“Well, thank you for the chocolates.” I helped her off with her coat. The cream-colored pullover she wore over a miniskirt was damp around the neck. “Would you like to dry off?” I gestured to the hallway. “The bathroom's just to the right down the hall. Help yourself to a towel. And while you're doing that, why don't I make us a coffee?”

“Any chance of something a little … stronger?” A mischievous smile lit up her eyes.

A lady after my own heart. “Would brandy do?”

“Perfect. It's cold out there!” She gave a little shiver as if to prove her point. She set down her briefcase, slipped off her shoes, and padded down the hall in her nylon feet, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood.

When she came back, her cheeks were pink and her hair had been tidied so it cascaded in curly ringlets to her shoulders. I detected a delicate hint of perfume. She looked around the apartment like an insurance appraiser. “Very nice place, Mr. Madison.”

The main living area was one large room; with the judicious placement of a high credenza, I'd managed to screen off a section of it for my office. I handed her the brandy snifter. “Please call me John, and have a seat.” I plumped myself down in my desk armchair. She sat on the sofa, curled up her legs, and made an unsuccessful attempt to pull her skirt down to cover her knees. A nice view. I'd had the “great legs” part right, anyway.

She took a staggeringly large gulp, enough brandy to paralyze a horse, and smiled. “That's better,” she said, tipping her glass toward me. “Much appreciated. I saw a photo of you taken a couple of years ago. You haven't changed much. Don't see a lot of guys with beards, although—” She caught herself. “What I mean to say is, they're coming back in fashion again.”

“A photo of me?”

“Yes. Where was it? I can't remember. Newspaper, maybe? You were born in Turkey but raised here—right? I can see that in your face.” She bubbled on, “Kind of dark and exotic looking.”

She was certainly forthright. “Well, I'm relieved you approve.”

Bennet laughed and looked around the room with what seemed to be another admiring glance. Her eyes lingered on the paintings that had once belonged to my brother Samuel and then shifted to the precious Mesopotamian artifacts displayed on glass shelves that he'd brought back from his research trips. “You have great taste.” She noticed the box of chocolates on the side table beside my chair, half empty. Her cheeks dimpled. “You've eaten an awful lot of those already.”

“Well, yes. I assumed that's what they were meant for. How did you know I like that brand?”

“Claire Talbot told me.”

An art world diva who loved to gossip, Claire had a rep for being as rapacious as a hyena. But she did know me pretty well. I could just imagine the rundown of foibles she'd given Bennet. “Claire a friend of yours?”

“No. I found an article online that said you two had once collaborated on a charity art show, so I contacted her. I wasn't sure how best to approach you and wanted to get some background.”

“Background for what, precisely?”

“The article I'm writing about you.”

Two

I
set my glass down carefully on the desk top. In recent years my life had been more interesting than most—including some scrapes with the law—but someone going to the trouble of writing about it caught me off guard. “An article about me. To be published? For what reason?”

It occurred to me that I was in the hands of a scammer. A woman who preyed upon people's egos to dash off some digital masterpiece, throw it up online, and charge the subject a hefty fee for the pleasure of seeing his life story in print. “Let's cut to the chase. You're expecting me to pay for this
project—
correct?”

“Oh, no. I've given you the wrong impression. I've been hired to do it.” I stared at her. She blushed and went into damage-control mode. “I'm sorry to have put that so clumsily. People say I have a habit of being too blunt.”

“Hired by whom?” I imagined a hatchet job orchestrated by a disgruntled client, angry heirs challenging established provenances.
A headache started to form behind my right eye.

“Lucas Strauss.”

I frowned. “Never heard of him. What's his interest?”

“I'm not sure exactly. He had me pitch the idea to
American Archaeology
magazine. A profile of you and your recent trips to the Middle East. I understand your brother was quite an expert in ancient Assyrian culture. And of course there's tremendous interest in Mesopotamia with the war going on and all …”

She paused, catching the puzzled look on my face. “It will definitely be published—with your cooperation or without it. Strauss is very determined and he has a lot of media contacts.”

I threw back some brandy and tried to stem my rising annoyance. Freelancers often pitched ideas to magazines, but a third party hiring them to do it seemed odd. “Who is this Lucas Strauss and why would he have any interest in me?”

“I can answer the first question for you.” She picked up her briefcase, snapped the locks, and fumbled with the papers inside. “Here,” she said, handing over a single page.

The photograph looked as if it had been printed off the internet: an imposing man dressed in a tux, his longish white hair swept off his face. The arresting blue eyes framed by dark brows contrasted oddly with the hair. He had slim, elegant fingers and the formidable scowl of someone used to having others do his bidding. A dead ringer for Christopher Lee. The short biographical text underneath indicated that he was unmarried, born in 1929, and educated at Harvard.

“Is he a collector? Did he know my brother?”

“He's an illusionist. A famous one. He only takes on private sessions as a spiritualist now but was once one of the foremost magicians in the world.”

“A magician. As in ‘hocus pocus'?”

She carried on as if she hadn't heard me. “I'm afraid that's all I can tell you. He didn't explain why he wanted me to take on the job. I know this must sound bizarre.”

“Oh, just a little,” I laughed. It creeped me out that a complete stranger was taking such an interest in my life. I didn't care for that kind of scrutiny, especially by some hack trickster. “Look, Bennet, I don't know what kind of game is going on but I'm not interested in playing it. I don't even know if you're who you say you are. I think we should end this conversation.”

She made no move to get up. “There is no game. Not on my part anyway. I'm entirely legitimate. I make my living ghostwriting for celebrities.” She rattled off some names, including a former baseball commissioner and a film actor in her early twenties who'd barely had enough life experience to warrant a paragraph. “You're welcome to verify all that,” she said, handing me a business card. “This is my editor. I do a lot of work for her publishing house. Feel free to check me out.”

When this didn't generate the response Bennet wanted, she persisted: “I've been hired to write this piece and it's going to happen. I'm not in a position to turn down paying jobs. Anyway, wouldn't you want to be involved so you'll be cast in the best light?” She dangled that last remark with a sympathetic turn of her lips that seemed sincere. “As to Lucas Strauss's motive, I'm as much in the dark as you.” She pulled out her phone and looked at the time. “I'm starving. Any chance you'd be interested in dinner? There's a neat little place not far away. The chef does Loire Valley cuisine.”

“It's Valentine's Day. I have a prior engagement.”

Her lips now flirted with a pout. “Oh. It's just. Claire Talbot told me you weren't dating anyone at the moment.”

I cursed Claire under my breath. “There's much about my life I don't share with Claire.” I walked over to the closet in the vestibule.
Her coat was still damp. “I'm afraid I've run out of time. I hope you've warmed up by now.” I saw out the window that the rain hadn't let up. “You're welcome to borrow an umbrella.”

She rose reluctantly, stepped into her shoes. I helped her on with her coat. She took the umbrella and, putting on a suitably humble expression, made another plea.

“Please at least consider it. Times are difficult for writers, you know. I haven't had any real work in months and Strauss promised a generous fee. Are you sure you can't help me out?”

“I'm sorry,” I said with a stony-faced shake of my head.

She had one more pitch in her repertoire. Her face lit up as if she'd just thought of the idea. “How about I arrange for you to meet Strauss?”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Aren't you even the least bit curious?”

“No. And now I'll thank you for your time.” Her shoulders slumped. I handed her the briefcase, held the door open politely, and watched her walk down the corridor.

Once she'd gone, I poured myself another healthy measure of brandy, put on Coldplay, sank back in the armchair, and stared at nothing. Life had been good throughout the last year except in one important respect. The physical and emotional punishment I'd endured on my last visit to Iraq had left me weakened. I suffered from sleep paralysis and the episodes had grown longer and more frequent. I'd wake up and find myself unable to move a muscle, unable to speak. It terrified me and I'd begun to fear falling asleep. A specialist had reassured me it was a common enough experience and said my anxiety likely made the syndrome worse. I'd taken to drugging myself with sleeping pills. On top of that, the blood disorder I'd been diagnosed with last year, a genetic anomaly that medicine couldn't put a name to, still worried me.

Until the accident that claimed Samuel's life and nearly killed me, I'd taken my strength and endurance for granted, looking forward to the future. Lately, though, I'd grown afraid for my well-being.

The only remedy I'd found for those night terrors was to indulge in punishing physical exercise. Mostly that took the form of rock climbing and extreme trekking. If I pushed myself to the limit, the experience seemed to stabilize me. In January, with a client who'd become a friend, I'd tackled the Devil's Path in the Catskills. Three days were recommended to cover the entire route, considered the riskiest and most challenging on the East Coast. We accomplished it in two, climbing the treacherous route up six mountain peaks, the highest almost four thousand feet. On our second night out a downpour turned into freezing rain, lashing our faces—and nothing focuses the mind like trying to gain a handhold in a rock crevice smaller than your baby finger when you can't open your eyes to see. My more cerebral fears and worries fled in the face of such immediate physical danger.

But the relief was always temporary, typically lasting only a few weeks. And now I had another worry. Bennet's peculiar proposition unnerved me. More than I'd let on.

Three

D
espite the rain I was obliged to go out. I'd found a rare street-parking spot on East Twenty-first at Gramercy Park but needed to move my car before six
P.M
. I welcomed the brisk, fresh air and hoped a change of scene would dispel the gloom that had settled over me after my conversation with Bennet.