Authors: Carey Green
“Maybe he’s with some girl, right?”
“I thought about that. That’s why I went to his apartment.”
“Who let you in?”
“I let myself in. Whoever it was had a hard time finding what they were looking for. Besides,” Dylan said, reaching into his breast pocket. I have this.” Dylan retrieved the iPhone and handed it to Vanessa.
“Where did you get it?”
“It was in his apartment. He never went anywhere without it.”
““It’s an iPhone. What am I supposed to do with it?”
“He hacked it to backup all his files. He stores things on it; files and stuff. That’s why I’m giving it to you. Do you have someone who can check it?”
“Dylan, slow down. What’s going on? Check it for what?” Vanessa took the bag and held it up in front of his face moment.
“I’m not sure. That’s why I need your help. Can you guys put some people out there to look for him?”
“It’s not that simple. A missing person report has to be filed, local police involved, his family has to be notified. We don’t just go into ‘Silence of the Lambs’ mode. And unless he’s crossed state lines, it’s not typically a FBI issue.”
“I am begging for your help. Can you pull some strings?”
“To look for him? We’re overworked and undermanned as it is. I wish there was something I could do, but--” Dylan was hanging on her every word, and Vanessa could tell that he was exasperated. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“So what should I do?”
“I think it would be best to wait. Chill out. He’ll pop up, trust me.”
“What do you mean, wait! You and your buddy got me into this mess! How the hell do you expect me to wait?”
“Look, I am trying to help you. If he’s missing, and I say if, then we need to call the police. But I’ve done this work before: it’s almost never the case that someone has been kidnapped. It’s usually drugs, money, or a combination of both.”
“There are no drug or money issues here!”
“I’m just telling you the typical scenario. In either case, you have to either wait a while, or call the police.”
“Fuck that!” Dylan turned towards the street.
“Dylan, you are not a cop. You need to calm down.”
“I’m out of here,” Dylan said, as he turned and walked away.
“Dylan, stand down! Let the police handle this!”
She was speaking to the back of Dylan’s neck. He had had enough. Dylan made a slight gesture of his hand as he turned to leave. Vanessa watched him as he stormed down the street. Dylan was blind with anger as he attempted to hail a taxi at the corner.
Dylan exited the cab in front of the garage in the lower section of his building. He had called the garage ahead of time and had them bring his car up from the basement. Within minutes, Dylan was behind the wheel of his black Porsche Carrera. He slowly pulled out of the garage and made his way west onto the West Side Highway.
He drove the car so little that it was hardly worth owning, despite the fact that it was, indeed, a very cool car. He had purchased it with cash, a post-bonus splurge that seemed affordable based solely on the sticker price. The car had set him back about eighty grand. But factor in the five hundred a month garage fee, the four thousand dollars a year in insurance, never even mentioning the ever-rising three dollars a gallon price of crude, and there was nothing cheap about it. It was a rich man’s toy: comfortable and clean, with responsive handling and endorsed by Motor Trend. For relaxation, he turned on the stereo to a jazz station. They were playing Andrew Hill’s “Judgment.”
Whatever had happened to Binky, Dylan knew that Ray Corbin was involved. There was no one else. Dylan was desperate to speak to Ray, and hoped that the trail would lead to Binky. Luckily, Martha had told Dylan of the one way to reach Ray Corbin in a time of crisis. Each of Ray’s cell phones had been equipped with a custom GPS application that tracked his whereabouts. In case of an emergency, one could log into the companies website and determine Ray’s exact location. Dylan had logged into the network through his Blackberry phone, and determined that Ray was at his house in Connecticut. He had raced back to his apartment and summonsed his car.
He swung onto the West Side Highway and made his way towards upper Manhattan and the Bronx. He passed though Westchester as he made his ways towards the Taconic Parkway. Soon he was snaking down the highway with the Hudson River in view. The road was calm for a Friday evening, and the car was precise and smooth underneath his hands. He took the late cut-off and made his way towards Southern Connecticut.
Dylan found himself driving through bucolic country estates, pristine countryside only one hour from the city. Huge castle-like homes were off in the distance, both pristine and grotesque in their size and scope. It was hard to imagine how so few had amassed so much when so many had so little. He finally came to the she small discreet sign that listed no name or street. It simply said: 12. Dylan made the left turn and began down the small private road that was the entryway to Ray Corbin’s lair.
The mansion that Ray Corbin occupied had been built entirely from scratch. It consisted of a main house, pool house, and several satellite guesthouses that were each large enough for a family of five. From what Dylan had been told, Ray Corbin had been on hand to supervise much of the construction and had even been known to occasionally lend a shovel. The house featured 23 separate rooms, an indoor pool and an Olympic-sized outdoor one, a movie theater and a bowling alley. It was an oversized extravaganza whose construction the neighbors vehemently opposed. No doubt Ray had found a way to grease the hand of the local politicians, not to mention putting half the local construction companies on his payroll.
The circular driveway was a large oval that enclosed a garden. Plants and shrubs of various sizes marked the perimeter of the garden. The garden had a classical symmetry and set of lines that was marked by several large Greek statues. The Greek theme had been extended to the front of the house where two imposing columns marked the entryway, though the exterior of the house was done in red bricks. The house was an odd, hodgepodge of themes that could only have been built by a hedge fund manager. Dylan drove his car to the front of the house, and got out of his Porsche.
Dylan went to the door to knock. There wasn’t even a doorbell. He knocked on the door and could hear a large hollow side from inside. He then tried the door itself and found that it was unlocked. He entered the house with a hint of trepidation.
Dylan walked through the foyer to the living room. Several pieces of large, minimalist art hung on the wall. The furniture was futuristic and modern, like a Californian home in the back of a style magazine.
Dylan explored the first level of the house, then made his way up the second. Though Ray had been in the house for well over a year, it seemed to have an incomplete feel to it. Many rooms were still empty, with pieces of furniture still in various states of assembly. The vacant house, weighted down with expensive objects, felt bereft of any charm or true homeliness. He felt like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining.’
Finally, he came to a closed door upstairs and entered. From what he could tell, the room was a library, with rich mahogany bookshelves all around. There were several deer heads and one of a moose. A collection of different guns in cases lined the room. There were also several intricate models of clipper ships, enclosed in glass cases. It seemed to be the room of a captain of industry, the type of space where a man like Ray Corbin might kick up his heels after a long day on the trading floor.
The room faced the front of his estate. Dylan could see the lights of the gates that he had driven through. A large captain’s desk occupied the area in front of the window. The desk was large and sturdy. The horn of some animal lay across the desk. Dylan went over to touch it, and tripped over the near lifeless body of Ray Corbin.
Dylan nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the body lying in the prostrate position below the window. An empty bottle of pills was lying on the floor. When he checked the body, it was almost lifeless. A breath of life was still clinging to Ray, but barely; his pulse was so light that Dylan had a hard time detecting it. Dylan’s adrenaline was racing as he tried to perform CPR. Ray’s body did not respond, and Dylan used the phone on Ray’s desk to frantically dial 911. By the time the call was complete, Ray’s pulse was completely gone.
Dylan ran downstairs to wait, and the ambulance arrived almost five minutes later. His shirt was drenched with sweat. He couldn’t believe how gingerly the two paramedics were moving.
“Hey!” Dylan shouted, “The guy is almost dead! Can you hurry!”
The two paramedics looked at each other, then at Dylan.
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs! Dylan shouted. “Quick! I don’t think he has much time left!”
The paramedics rushed upstairs. Dylan watched as they attempted to revive Ray with both CPR and defibrillator paddles. Neither of the two worked. After a few minutes, they took Ray down the elevator and into the waiting ambulance. Dylan watched the ambulance drive away as the two police cars drove up.
Two of the police officers headed directly into the house, along with the housekeeper. The other two stayed behind. They walked over towards Dylan and began talking.
Both cops were the spitting image of each other. They could have been brothers. Both appeared to be in their late twenties, jet black hair, uniforms polished to a tee. They were a local version of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
“Are you the person who called 911?”
“Yes,” Dylan said. “I called.” Dylan went to extend his hand, but the officer reached for his pad instead.
“Who exactly are you?”
“I work for Ray Corbin, in Manhattan. I’m a trader.”
“I see. My name is officer Frank Deveraux. This is my partner, Pete. Pete Harper.”
“Gentlemen.”
“What brought you out to the house this evening?” Dylan hesitated for a moment as he tried to synthesize an excuse.
“I had a meeting with Ray Corbin.”
“Oh, he was expecting you?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Peter the shy cop, spoke up.
“So you just drove on out from Manhattan thinking you would pop in for a coffee?”
“Yes. I happened to be in the area. Mr. Corbin always preaches about an open-door policy. I finally thought I’d take him up on that.” Both cops looked at each other. Pete, the one with the pad, continued writing.
“And you found the body upstairs in Mr. Corbin’s study, correct?”
“Yes. He was just lying there. I attempted to perform CPR on him, but it already seemed to be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“He seemed as if he had already stopped breathing.”
“Excuse us for a moment.”
The men stepped away and huddled together. In the meantime, another police vehicle had arrived, bringing the total to four. Both of the new cops had gone directly upstairs. After a moment, Deveraux and Harper walked back over to him.
“I think we need to take you down to the station. You see, the maid was downstairs sleeping because it was her vacation day. She’s saying that even she didn’t know that Ray Corbin was going to be here tonight.”
“So,” Dylan asked, “what does that have to do with me?”
“So if she didn’t know, how the hell did you know?”
“The company computer had logged his location as here. That’s how I knew he was home. So it must be a coincidence.”
“Well, we take coincidences a little bit differently in our line of work than you do yours. That’s why it’s best if you come down with us.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Hey,” Deveraux said, with a shrug of the shoulders. “It’s up to you. You can go voluntarily, or not. You make the choice you feel is best.”
“Can I drive my own car?” Dylan said as he pointed towards his Porsche.
“Don’t worry,” Peters said, sarcastically. “It’s validated.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said as he began to walk towards their squad car.
The ride to the police station took under five minutes. The road was littered with mansions, many on the scale of Ray Corbin’s. Dylan sat silently as he watched the gilded world of wealth float by his passenger side window.
The police station of Cos Cob, Connecticut looked like a fire station or camp lodge. It was a one story structure done up in white columns and red bricks. Dylan tried to remember the last time he had seen the inside of a police station. It was probably the time that he had lost his wallet and needed to file a police report to have his driver’s license expedited.
The quaint exterior of the police station exterior differed sharply from the inside. The station consisted mainly of one large, open room, with various hardwood benches scattered around a hodgepodge of desks. There were at least ten different cops assisting ten different groups of people. The myriad of civilization seemed to be present in that room: young and old, rich and poor, as if crime excluded no one. Deveraux walked him to a bench, and Dylan took a seat.
“Can I make a phone call?”
“Sure. You haven’t been arrested,” Deveraux said, his mouth twisted slightly in a sarcastic smile. “Use your cell. Just don’t leave.”
“Thanks. I won’t.”
Dylan got up from the bench and strolled to a quiet corner of the room. He dialed Vanessa and her voicemail immediately picked up. Dylan left a message explaining briefly the nature of the situation and his present location. He hung up the phone and tried to remember if he had left out any of the relevant details. He hoped desperately that she would pick up the message and phone him back.
Deveraux walked back over to him with a clipboard in his hands. “You’re going to visit with the captain. When he’s ready, he’ll send for you.”
“Thanks,” Dylan said.
Dylan waited on the bench for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, a deputy came out to see him. She was a black girl, tall and thin and still in her twenties. Her slim body seemed to be busting out from the uniform. She spoke loudly as she read from her stack of papers.
“Are you Dylan Cash? I’m Deputy Lucretia Thomas. Captain Martins is ready to see you.”