Trump Tower (41 page)

“What for?” Rebecca asked.

“For everything my father tried to build. For us. For him.”

“Where do I even begin?” Rebecca wanted to know. “You see the mess they left? That's the mess they've made in my life . . . in our lives.”

Gabriella said, “Then we begin by cleaning up the mess.”

“If you need help . . .” Belasco offered.

“Yes,” Gabriella said, “we need help. We need to hire people to help us clean up that mess, and we need help to stay in business. This was my father's business. And his father's business . . .”

“And Johnny's business,” Rebecca cut in.

Gabriella was having none of it. “I refuse to let you walk away.”

Rebecca sighed, “She's too young to realize . . .”

“I am not,” Gabriella said sharply. She turned to Pierre. “I graduate next year. I'm at Sarah Lawrence. I'm half an hour away. I will do what I can until then. I've got this summer to help. I'll be here for her. But we need help.”

Pierre thought for a moment. “You're insured, right?”

“I suppose,” Rebecca said.

“You'll have to check your insurance, but you should be covered, at least for a lot of it. I'll find someone to help you clean up the place and put everything back together. My accountant will come in to go over the books . . . he was going to come in today . . .”

“I forgot again, I'm sorry . . .”

“That's all right. We'll put the place back together, go over the books, and I'll also see what I can do about keeping the detectives on the case.”

“Thank you,” Gabriella said.

For the first time, Rebecca looked at him, reached out, and took his hands in hers. “Thank you.”

He smiled at her, waited until she let go, then said, “I'll be right back.”

Outside the conference room he asked Riordan and the detectives, “Are you finished with Mrs. Battelli?”

“Yeah,” Riordan said, then looked at the detectives to check. Both of them nodded. “At least for the time being.” He added, “She doesn't understand.”

Belasco admitted, “Neither do I.”

He asked Riordan to make a copy of the CCTV footage of the two men in raincoats, and to let him also have a copy of the videotape his people made in Rebecca's office. Then he went to find Little Sam, his human resources supervisor. He asked to see a personnel file, took a piece of paper, copied down a phone number from the file, wrote a name next to the number, and returned to the conference room, where he handed the piece of paper to Gabriella.

“Call this fellow. Tell him I said it's all right. Tell him if he has any questions, he can call me. Tell him that I suggested you hire him to help you clean up the place. He needs a job, and he's a very good worker.”

Gabriella looked at the paper. “Carlos Vela?”

Belasco nodded. “I'll vouch for him.”

D
OWNSTAIRS
in his own office, Belasco dialed a number and waited for someone to answer.

A man picked up the call on the fourth ring, and sounded still asleep. “Hello?”

“Did I wake you? It's Pierre Belasco.”

“Yeah . . . that's okay, what's up?”

“We had a break-in late last night. On the nineteenth floor. The police are here, but they're . . .”

“Not very helpful?”

“Not much to go on, apparently.”

“What do you want me to do?” Timmins asked.

Belasco answered, “Call the cavalry.”

“G
o get Billy,” Ricky pointed down the hall. “Quick. The cat. Go get him.”

Amvi was too frightened to move. “What is it?”

Hughie and Jules and the woman in Ricky's underpants all ran to the door.

“Where'd it go?”

“Fucking music is too loud.”

“Go get the cat.”

“Turn down that fucking music.”

And all the time, the chubby redhead was still screaming, “Help . . . help . . . help . . .”

“Go on, go on,” Ricky begged Amvi, then poked his head out the door and called to the animal. “Here Billy . . . here Billy . . .” He looked at Amvi again, “Go on then, get the cat and bring it back.”

“It's not a cat.” She didn't budge.

“I can't, luv,” he pointed to the ankle bracelet. “If I leave it goes off. I'll get arrested again. But you can . . . go on . . .”

She repeated, “It's not a cat.”

He looked up and down the hall. “Bloody hell. Where is it?” He turned to Hughie and Jules, “Go on, get the fucking cat.”

Just then, a completely naked woman walked out of the second bedroom and into the living room, saw the commotion, said, “Pardon me . . . didn't know you had company,” turned around, and went back inside.

“Who was that?” Ricky asked.

Hughie said, “Shari.”

“Who's Shari?”

“Bugs' girlfriend.”

“Who's Bugs?”

“The other bloke banging Shari.”

By now Amvi was shaking. “I must go. I must leave. Please . . .”

“Wait till we find Billy . . .”

That's when the elevator door opened, and Joey stepped out with a very short redhead. “What's going . . .” He spotted Amvi. “Pocahontas?”

The ocelot darted into the elevator.

“Hey,” Miguel, the elevator operator yelled, “Get out . . .”

“Wait!” Ricky screamed. “Don't leave with my cat . . .”

Joey picked up the ocelot and asked, “Pocahontas . . . what are you doing here?”

“Nice cat,” the redhead said.

“Who's she?” Amvi asked Joey.

“Who's Pocahontas,” the redhead wanted to know.

Amvi shouted, “Wait Miguel,” jumped into the elevator and the doors shut.

T
he moment she spotted Mrs. Essenbach getting out of her chauffeur-driven Jaguar, Antonia understood why this woman had sued several plastic surgeons. Her face was so tightly pulled back, Antonia worried what might happen if she tried to laugh.

“Mrs. Essenbach?” Antonia went to the curb to greet her.

“Miss Lawrence.” The woman stepped out of the backseat with some help from her chauffeur, then extended her hand to Antonia. “You must be . . .”

“Yes, ma'am.” They shook hands. “I'm very pleased to meet you, and thank you for coming to see me.”

She was dressed in a beige pantsuit and was wearing a flowery Hermès scarf around her neck. “I confess to being intrigued.”

“Shall we go inside?” Antonia motioned toward the doors.

The two of them walked through Chelsea Market.

“Isn't this wonderful?” Antonia tried to engage Mrs. Essenbach in conversation.

But the woman was having none of it. “This place smells of fish.”

They went into a snack bar and ordered coffee—Antonia made a point of paying—then sat at a table as far away from the other customers as they could.

“How quaint,” Mrs. Essenbach said, “paper cups.”

Antonia didn't know what to say, so she tried, “Do you ever shop here?”

“Shop?” Mrs. Essenbach looked surprised. “I haven't been inside a supermarket in . . . I can't even remember. Maybe, twenty years. Do you shop?”

“Here?”

“Anywhere.”

“Yes.”

“And what do you buy when you shop?”

She thought to herself,
what kind of a question is that?
“I buy . . . I guess I buy the usual things.”

“Usual for who?”

“Usual . . . for me.”

“Which is?”

“Milk? I don't know . . . eggs, coffee, butter . . . toast?” She shrugged, “The same things everyone else buys.”

“Hardly.”

“Don't you buy milk and eggs?”

“That's why I have help. Frankly, I don't know what they buy.”

Antonia tried to make a joke. “Besides champagne and caviar.”

From Mrs. Essenbach's expression, it was clear that she didn't find that amusing. “You said you could help me.”

“I said I'd like to try.”

“Is that not the same thing?”

“Well . . . it could be. I work in the Trump Organization. My boss reports directly to Mr. Trump himself. So let's say that I have certain access . . .”

“I understand. Now tell me, how are you going to try to help me? You, and your . . . certain access?”

Antonia forced a smile. “When I was informed that Mr. Belasco made you promises . . . well, Mrs. Essenbach, we're a business that keeps our promises. Our word is our bond.”

“One would not have thought so from the meeting last night. I was hung out to dry.” She shook her head. “I repeat . . . how are you going to try to help me?”

“I, for one, find Mr. Belasco's behavior despicable.”

“Clearly your Mr. Trump doesn't because like all the others, he voted against me. And from what I've learned this morning from several people, it
seems everyone is standing by Mr. Belasco. At least, I haven't heard anything to the contrary. Still, that doesn't answer my question.”

“The board members were clearly following Mr. Belasco's lead.”

“He assured me that he had no influence.”

Antonia stoked the fire. “That's what he said?”

“He did. But more important than that is his . . . let's call it what it is . . . his betrayal. We were very close.”

That surprised Antonia. “Very close?”

She slowly smiled. “On a personal basis.”

“You and Mr. Belasco?”

“You can see why his betrayal is twice as difficult for me.”

Antonia didn't believe it. Not with this woman. And anyway, she'd always assumed that Belasco was gay. She'd never seen him with a woman. She didn't even know if he had a personal life. But that didn't really matter. If Mrs. Essenbach was saying . . .

“You seem surprised.”

“Not surprised that Mr. Belasco would find you . . .” She looked for the right words and the only thing she could think of was, “exotic and irresistible.”

“He is . . . I'm sure you will agree . . . a very attractive man.”

“Absolutely,” Antonia nodded. “And he is, particularly, discreet. I mean, none of us who work closely with him even suspected . . . we never knew . . .”

“Extremely discreet,” Mrs. Essenbach agreed.

There's no way that anything ever happened
, Antonia said to herself.
But if she keeps saying it did and other people start to believe it . . .
“I'm shocked that a man like Mr. Belasco could, under those circumstances . . . I mean, if he told you. . .”

“He did tell me,” she insisted.

“. . . yes, of course . . . I meant, the fact that he told you he would make it happen and then . . .” She paused for effect. “I'm shocked beyond words.”

“How do you think I feel? A man like that . . . under those circumstances . . . indeed.”

“This needs to be made right.” She looked straight into Mrs. Essenbach's eyes. “What do you suppose would happen if Mr. Belasco was forced to admit or, for that matter, forced to deny that you and he were . . . close? Or that he made you a promise?”

“You tell me.”

She thought to herself,
you would murder him the same way you murdered your husband
. “It would be much too embarrassing.”

“For me?”

“For him. At the same time, it would put pressure on your neighbors, the very people on the residents' board who voted against you.”

“Why would they care who Pierre . . . well, you know.”

“They'll care because they're very private people. They live in Trump Tower, as you do, because it affords them real privacy. If Mr. Belasco was forced to make an admission in public . . . say, if he was forced to testify . . . Mrs. Essenbach, can you imagine any of your neighbors being willing to expose themselves to public ridicule and the press simply to save Mr. Belasco's job?”

She thought about that.

“Then what you need to do is call Mr. Belasco's bluff,” Antonia said. “Your neighbors will not stand by him. Put him on the defensive, and they will desert him. Rather than expose himself to public ridicule, he will walk away from Trump Tower. At that point, whoever takes over from him will give you what you want in order to restore confidence in the building management.”

It was as if a light suddenly went on in Mrs. Essenbach's head. She started to grin. “And who do you suppose might take over if Mr. Belasco were to leave?”