JM01 - Black Maps (21 page)

“How did you meet him?” She thought for a moment.

“I’m not really sure. It was at a party, I know that. I think one of my roommates knew him. I was living with about a half-dozen girls back then, in a real ratty place in the East Village. Third-floor walk-up, bathroom in the kitchen, that kind of thing. The oldest girl was maybe twenty-two, and not a one of us had been in town longer than a year. I think one of them maybe dated him for a while.”

“And you—did you date him too?” She looked up at me, with only the faintest smile on her face.

“Yes, I did. I dated him too, for a while.”

“How long a while was that?”

“Three or four months, I think.” We were quiet for a minute, working on our sandwiches. I drank some water. Alex sighed heavily and settled into some deeper level of sleep. The wind rippled puddles in the bottom of the boat pond and pushed some damp leaves around. Two pigeons landed near our bench and eyed our lunch.

“Did you sleep with him?” Helene was unfazed. If anything, she seemed vaguely amused. She chuckled softly and shook her head a little.

“ ‘Dating’—is that term in style again? I’m too old to know. I guess it’s not very clear as far as sex goes, is it?” She drank some water. “But to answer you—yes.”

“Just during the three or four months that you were dating?” She nodded. “What happened with him? Why did it break off?” Helene shrugged a little.

“I don’t know that there was a big reason. I don’t think it was some deep romance for him. I know it wasn’t for me. Probably, better things came along, one way or another.”

“And after that three or four months, did you see much of him?”

“I did for a while. He’d invite me to parties and things. We’d have dinner every so often.” She drank some water and looked at me, smiling a little. “Is this really part of your investigation, or are you just a gossip?” I ignored her question, and we both ate some more.

“How long did you stay in touch, after you’d stopped dating him?”

“Six or eight months, maybe a year.” I did a little figuring and a little guessing.

“Until around the time that picture was taken?” Helene smiled again and nodded.

“Yes, around then.”

“And then what happened? Why did you lose touch?”

“I guess I had better things to do with my time,” she said, and took a bite of her apple.

“You part on good terms?”

“Oh, yes—very friendly.” She chewed slowly, looking at me.

“What was he like?” I asked.

“Gerard? Well . . . he was charming, really. Old-fashioned good manners. Very generous, with gifts and favors and things. And quite the man of the world—at least to my eyes back then. Seemed like he’d been everywhere and knew everybody. Knew all the hot spots, and he could always get a table. Knew just what to order, the wines and everything. ’Course back then I still had hay in my hair, so I probably wasn’t the best judge.” She thought a little more. “And the man loved a party, that’s for sure. Not that he was a big drinker or one of those guys who’d be dancing on the tables. That wasn’t him. He just liked the feel of a party—the liquor flowing, the food, cigars, pretty women, music—he liked being right in the thick of the good life.”

“What kinds of gifts and favors was he generous with?”

“Gifts? I don’t remember, but he was always buying things out of the blue. Not huge things, not like a car or anything, but nice stuff. A Hermès scarf once, a camera—that kind of thing.”

“And the favors?”

She ate some more of her apple. Her eyes skidded away from mine. “He helped me with a couple of jobs. My first catalogs. He knew the people who ran the company.” Alex stirred a little, and Helene shushed him and rocked his stroller until he settled down.

“Did you meet Rick through Nassouli?” She shook her head.

“Indirectly. Rick had just moved to London. I was there working for a few weeks, with another girl who knew Gerry. Gerry had given Rick this girl’s number. The three of us met for drinks; five months later, Rick and I got married. That was eleven years ago.” She smiled again. The wind was picking up a little. Helene pulled a small, blue blanket out of the diaper bag and covered Alex.

“Last week, a guy told me some different things about Nassouli. Some very ugly things. That Nassouli used people, and corrupted them. That he went through women like candy, and that when he was done with them, he’d hand them out to friends, as gifts. He talked about other stuff too—videos, blackmail, things like that. Very dramatic, very nasty.” I took another bite of the apple. It was good—tart and crisp. “You know anything about that?”

So far my questions hadn’t seemed to trouble Helene much. She’d been matter-of-fact, vaguely amused even, and only a little evasive. If it wasn’t genuine, it was an impressive facade. But now there were some cracks. Helene drank some water and coughed and studied the Alice in Wonderland statue that stood across the empty pond from us.

“I didn’t know anything about his business. I met some of his business friends—I guess all his friends were business friends—but I didn’t know any of them, except for Rick. So if this person was talking to you about business, I can’t help you with that.”

“It wasn’t just about business, Helene.” She drank some more water and chuckled ruefully to herself.

“Back then, Gerard had this whole . . . scene around him. Girls he’d dated who . . . hung around him—kept going to the dinners and the parties, kept taking the gifts and the favors. They had a good time doing it, from what I could tell.” Her voice faded.

“He ever ask them for anything in return?” She was quiet for a while, looking at Alice, across the pond, thinking about rabbit holes, maybe.

“Not in so many words, but . . . yes, I think he did.” Helene filled her cup and drank, and stared at the empty boat pond. Her face was still, and her skin seemed very smooth in the gray light. The wind ruffled her chestnut hair. She drew her coat a little closer around her.

“What kinds of things?” I asked. She shook her head. Didn’t know, or wouldn’t say. “Were you a part of that scene?” I asked, softly. Again it took her a while to answer.

“I drifted to the edge of it, I guess. I was new to New York then . . . new to everything. I didn’t catch on right away. But eventually I did, and I knew it wasn’t for me.” She drank some water. “I suppose that’s what the picture is about.”

“But you parted on friendly terms, you said.” She nodded.

“We did. Like I said, Gerard never asked in so many words. He was charming and polite, and also very slippery. He’d say things in a way that gave him an out if you called him on anything, and that gave you an out too—that let you say no, or ignore him or pretend to misunderstand him without having to be too blunt about it. It was a real talent he had.”

“Rick know about this?” She nodded. “Is that why he didn’t stay in touch with Nassouli?” A shrug. “And you guys never saw him when you moved back to New York?”

“No.”

“Never even ran into him?” She shook her head. “Really? Isn’t that a little odd? I mean, in certain circles, New York can be a pretty small town.” She shrugged again. “When was the last time you saw him?” She stared at Alice and thought about it and shook her head some more.

“I don’t really know. It was a long time ago . . . over a dozen years, I’d think.” She picked at the remains of her sandwich, dissecting it, but she ate nothing more.

“Rick didn’t tell me about any of this. How come?” Another shrug.

“I never knew anything about Gerard’s business, and I hadn’t even met Rick then. I guess he just didn’t think it had anything to do with . . . this fax thing.” Her eyes met mine, and she smiled wryly. “And truth be told, John, my husband’s pretty traditional—you know, a nice Italian boy from Long Island. I don’t expect he’d be too comfortable discussing the history of my love life with many people.”

I asked Helene if she’d ever heard of Michael Lenzi, Nick Welch, Kenneth Whelan, Steven Bregman, Bernhard Trautmann, or Al Burrows, and she shook her head no to each name. I thought she might have blanched when I mentioned Trautmann’s, but I could have been mistaken. We were quiet for a time. The wind picked up some more, and every so often a cold raindrop fell. One landed on Alex’s cheek, and he looked annoyed and rolled over. Helene pulled up the stroller’s cloth canopy, and gathered up the lunch things.

“I should really be getting him back,” she said, and stood. “It was nice seeing you, John. I hope I was some help—to you and to Rick. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” She handed me a small, round package. “We never got to the cookies. You take them home. They’re really very good.”

I rode the subway downtown, eating cookies and thinking about Helene. She’d confirmed her involvement with Nassouli, and explained some of it. In her own way, she’d validated Burrows’s description of the man. She’d been uneasy at points, though that’s often the case when people talk about their youthful indiscretions. And I’d gotten the sense of things left unsaid—again, not so unusual. I’d also gotten the sense that, when it came to appearing ingenuous, Helene Pierro was at least as good as her husband. By the time I got to my stop, the cookies were gone.

I had some time before I could try Kenneth Whelan in Singapore. I spent some of it calling Mike.

“No smoking gun, then? No prior career in adult video?” he asked, after listening to my report.

“Not that she admits to,” I said. “She knew the guy, dated the guy, had sex with him, broke up with him.”

“. . . and declined to be a part of his little stable afterward,” Mike added.

“. . . and parted friends, and lived happily ever after. You know her socially—any of this surprise you?” I asked.

“Not really. She’s never struck me as a shrinking violet, and she’s never pretended she was raised in a convent. Anyone who came to New York on her own, to model, when she was barely old enough to vote, has probably been around the block a time or two.”

“You don’t think she was a bigger part of Nassouli’s scene?”

“I don’t think so,” Mike said after a while. “From what I’ve seen, Helene’s not the hanger-on type.”

“So what type is she?”

“She’s smart . . . a bit of a loner. She shows up at some social things— the fundraisers, mostly—and I think she’s on the board at her daughters’ school. But mostly she goes her own way.” He paused. “Any of this help us with Pierro’s problem?”

“Hell if I know,” I admitted.

At around seven I placed a call to Singapore. All I had was the main number for the bank that employed Whelan, so that’s what I dialed. A woman answered. She had a high, girlish voice with a faint English accent. The connection wasn’t great, and there was a noticeable delay on the line. From the main receptionist I was passed to a couple of other people, and in the process I discovered that Whelan wasn’t just another expat employee out there, he was the head guy for his bank in the whole Asia-Pacific region. I figured that would reduce my chances of reaching him, but I was wrong. After about ten minutes I found myself on the phone with Whelan’s personal assistant, a Ms. Li, who asked in precise, unaccented English what I wished to discuss with Mr. Whelan.

“Tell him it’s about MWB and Gerard Nassouli,” I said. She put me on hold again. She was back in less than a minute.

“Hold, please, for Mr. Whelan,” she said. And then Whelan came on.

“This is Kenneth Whelan. What can I do for you, Mr . . . Marsh, is it?” He had a deep voice, and even across the spotty connection he sounded like a radio announcer.

“It’s March,” I said. “I’m calling to ask you a few questions.” And I told him my story. Whelan was quiet after I finished, for long enough that I wondered if we’d been cut off. But he was there.

“I don’t know that I can help you much, Mr. Marsh. I dealt with Gerard Nassouli many years ago, when I was with another institution. We did some advisory work for an MWB client. They were looking to acquire a U.S. company . . . an automotive parts manufacturer, as I recall. They ended up not doing the deal—I can’t remember why. It was all pretty straightforward. I never had much else to do with Mr. Nassouli after that, other than at some social events.”

“It’s March, Mr. Whelan, like the month. Do you recall the last time you saw Nassouli, or spoke with him?” Another pause.

“Not precisely, no. Certainly it was several years ago, long before the MWB blowup. Perhaps five or six years.”

“And you’ve not seen him or spoken with him since?”

“No.”

“Besides me, has anyone else contacted you regarding your dealings with Nassouli or MWB?” Whelan was quiet for a long while.

“No, no one, Mr. Marsh. No one but you has mentioned Nassouli to me in many years.”

“My name is March, Mr. Whelan, like the March Hare. How long ago were you posted to Singapore?”

“It’s been about three years, now,” Whelan said, and then I heard Ms. Li’s voice in the background. “I’m sorry, that’s all the time I can give you. I hope this was useful. Good-bye, Mr. Marsh.” There was a click, and all I heard was the hissing of the ether.

“It’s March,” I said to no one.

Chapter Fourteen

Rick Pierro’s suit looked good. It was medium gray—darker than the cloud-filled sky, but lighter than the Town Car that idled at the curb— and it hung with an easy, liquid drape from its master’s big frame. Though it was nearly noon, and had been raining hard since dawn, its trouser creases were sharp and supple. Pierro stepped briskly onto the pavement, into the café, and across the room to greet me.