The Tower of Songs Page 2

  My latest assignment wrapped two days before. The client in question was a Belgian beauty named Kimberley; a former model married for a dozen years to a trust fund kid turned pseudo real estate developer. She had a four-bedroom loft on Bond Street, two kids in private school nearby, a staff of nannies and help, and an ironclad prenup that would have left her with ten million, should the marriage end for any reason. It had once seemed like a lot. Her husband, Cody, once seemed like a good man. Now he had a twenty-two-year-old girlfriend, an English tart who looked depressingly like Kim two decades earlier.

  The girlfriend’s name was Katie. She did a bit of modeling, but mostly aspired to influence people on Instagram. Kim was prepared to pay her off, but I convinced her it wouldn’t be necessary. Katie just needed someone more tempting—cooler, richer, whatever—than her current married sugar daddy. With the help of Roy Perry’s club connections, I managed to get her in front of Ian Kahn, a nightlife and hotel magnate, divorced and looking. He had a thing for blondes with a posh accent, if two of his four ex-wives were any indication. One night at Libra in the West Village we made sure he spotted her. He didn’t stop looking until she looked back. Sometimes cupid’s job is rather easy. Roy placed the item in Page Six: Ian “Killer” Kahn’s newest hot young thing . . . Old playboy Cody was yesterday’s news. Consider Kim’s marriage saved, if not full of unbroken vows. She told me to stay in touch, adding that her husband was going on a golf trip soon, and her kids would be away at camp. If not with me, Kim would be exacting her revenge sex with someone soon, and she’d also keep the lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed. Maybe she’d ask her husband what he thought of Ian Kahn sometime, just to see him squirm.

  Sin in the city, it seemed my job was recession-proof. As long as I stayed clean-ish and stuck with the impersonal cases involving affairs of the heartless.

  But what fun is that?

  I saw her waiting by my stoop and knew by the troubled look on her fresh face that this was about more than a marriage. She was somewhere in that discomforting range between late high school and early college, full of precocious arrogance and useless facts. She stood there in an expensive-looking red sundress, her black hair swept back in a high ponytail, her wide eyes peering over sunglasses that tipped at the point of a button nose. She straightened up as I approached.

  “Mr. Darley?” she asked.

  “That’s right. Do I know you?”

  I tried to step around her, down the steps to my apartment. She moved with me, blocked my entrance.

  “No, you don’t, my name is Layla Soto,” she said. “I think you’ve met my father, Danny Soto, a few years back.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “He was Charlie McKay’s boss,” she said, “at Soto Capital, my dad’s fund.”

  The name was not one I liked to hear. Charlie McKay, my old teammate, an Olympic swimming champion turned millionaire trader with a soul sold to Satan. The association had almost killed me on more than one occasion. It had also given me my fifteen minutes as an investigator, a D-list, days-long brush with fame.

  “I think I talked to your dad once,” I told her. “But I don’t really remember, sorry.”

  Of course, I remembered him. He was a toxic presence, a supercilious snake of a man dressed in black. I recalled how Charlie McKay had lusted for his approval after a profitable day in the markets.

  “I also know Steven Cohen,” she said. “He goes to my school.”

  If invoking the McKay name was a punch to the gut, mentioning Stevie Cohen next was a left hook to the jaw. I staggered and set a hand on my gate.

  My ex, Juliette Cohen, had a son, Stevie. I still missed him, but Juls and I agreed that it was best for me to stay away. His therapy was not going well; the night terrors had not subsided. Thanks to a case I pulled them into, then eight-year-old Stevie killed a man. It was an act of astonishing bravery, saving my life and that of another, but it would take time for him to recover from the psychological scarring.

  He may never.

  “You’re calling out the greatest hits. How’s Stevie doing?”

  She shrugged. “He’s in fourth grade, I’m going to be a senior. I only know him because he’s sort of famous at school, because of . . .”

  “Because he killed somebody.”

  “I guess. He was out for a few months. Everyone was talking about it when he came back.”

  “So, what is it I can do for you, Layla? You writing a story for your school paper or something?”

  She motioned toward my front door. “Would you mind if we talked for a few minutes?”

  No way was I letting her inside my place. I was notorious enough around the neighborhood. No one was going to witness me leading an underage girl into my home, no matter how innocent or business-oriented the meeting.

  “I’ll give you five minutes,” I said, “but not here. Why don’t we walk over to Piccolo around the corner? You can tell me about your dad over a coffee.”

  She glanced over my shoulder, then turned and scanned the street behind her. Her eyes were quick and mistrusting and full of worry. She covered them with her sunglasses.

  “We need to speak in private,” she said. “My father is missing. I think he’s been abducted. I know it. He’s been taken. Please, I think my whole family is in danger.”

  Chapter 2

  I should have sent the kid on her way. Nothing positive could come of hearing her out. If someone snatched her billionaire dad, what was I supposed to do about it? Call in the feds? The best I could offer was false hope and bad advice.

  We agreed on a walk around the block. She refused to speak inside any establishment where anyone might eavesdrop, and I wouldn’t let her inside my apartment.

  “I’m sure your family has security,” I said. “Everyone at your father’s level has it. Even if you don’t see them . . .”

  “Of course we have security,” she said. “I’ve had an armed driver taking me to school since I was ten. If I could trust them I wouldn’t be talking to you, obviously.”

  Obviously, says the exasperated teenager.

  “What about the cops, Layla? That seems like a pretty obvious place to go.”

  She gave me the sort of withering look that only a sharp teenage girl can pull off. “That is the last place I would go,” she said.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because whoever took my dad has a lot more power than the NYPD. There’s nothing they could do. Besides make things worse.”

  “But you think I’ll be able to make things better? Listen, just because you’ve heard of two cases . . .”

  “No, I don’t think you’ll be able to make anything better,” she said, stopping at the corner. “I think my dad is probably dead. I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

  She spoke with a cold certainty that was disconcerting.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want you to find out why. Because I think I know who’s behind it.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “His mom. My grandmother, Eileen.”

  I didn’t have anything for that. Layla lowered her head and continued walking the block. The heat didn’t seem to bother her. I looked at the back of her dress—dry as can be. I was sweating like a hostage. My blood was not made for these climates. My t-shirt was drenched, my forehead dripping. I thought quitting drinking would help with my perspiration issues. Not as many toxins to sweat out and whatnot. That wasn’t it. Behind her back I snuck another hit off the vape, waited for her to continue. We circled Third Avenue and approached my building. She stopped, looked back at me.

  “My family is seriously fucked up,” she said. “That’s why I think you’ll help me. Because you understand that part.”

  No argument there, kiddo.

  She’d done her homework. In the twisted family sweepstakes, mine was hard to top. A father who might have become as rich as hers, until it emerged that his fortune was built on a half-bright Ponzi scheme. The only impressive part was how long he’d been able to maintain the charade. Now he was serving life in federal prison down in North Carolina. A mother who drowned drunk in a bathtub a few years later, then the only son, yours truly, a convicted felon . . . and that was before all the madness of my unlicensed investigative practice began. The Darley clan knew their way around fucked-up-ness. So, fine, I was listening. I knew I should have turned my back on her, gone inside and answered my next divorce inquiry, dispelled another mistress, but that comment had me standing at her attention.

  “Will you help me?” she asked.

  “I doubt I’d be able to.”

  “But you’ll try?”

  “You’ll be wasting your money.”

  “It’s mine to spend,” she said.

  “You worked hard for it, huh?”

  “I’ve done nothing for it, but it’s still mine.”

  “For now.”

  “My dad might be missing, but he’s not a crook,” she said. “I think my trust fund’s pretty safe.”

  “So did I.”

  Sweating on the sidewalk, bickering with a rich teenager, so much for dignity.

  “Look, you’ll be well paid,” she said. “Just help me out, okay?”

  “For a few days, no promises.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve done worse for less.”

  She smiled at that. “Not to worry, Soto Capital treats its employees well.”

  “Only as long as they keep performing.”

  “True. You do remember my dad, don’t you?”

  “‘There is no try, only do or do not,’” I said, recalling my only conversation with the man. “ ‘And you will do it until it is done.’ ”

  “Knew it. Dad loves his Star Wars. That’s his favorite Yoda line. He used it on you?”

  “He might have.”

  We returned to my stoop and stopped together. She glanced up and down the block, hugged her bare arms around her body as if she were cold, then looked up into my eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “I knew you’d say yes.”

  She turned and began to walk west toward Union Square.

  “Hold up,” I called. “I’m going to need some more information.” I didn’t add and money, though that was a rather motivating factor as well.

  “Check your email,” she replied.

  I watched her hurry down the block before she turned right on Third Avenue and disappeared from view. I considered our encounter, wondered what I’d just agreed upon. I hadn’t taken much persuading. It would be a nice check for not much work. I didn’t intend to expend much effort. But not for the first time, I wondered about my latent death wish, the pull of self-destruction that was always there, lurking just beyond conscious thought. Over the last several months, off the booze, life had taken a turn for the better. I was strong and healthy and not quite as haunted. I was having success with my cases. Word-of-mouth was picking up. Now I could feel all that stability receding. It was as if the sidewalk was opening under my feet. The beast that resides beneath this cursed island was stirring again. Ready to pull me down once more into the murk.

  The devil comes in many forms, most of them attractive. The well-dressed gentleman with a smirk and a promise—that was an old favorite. But sometimes he shape-shifts. Sometimes he—or she—may appear as a teenage girl, dressed in red, who speaks without emotion when discussing her surety that her father is dead. And what to make of her belief that it was her grandmother behind it, Danny Soto’s own mother?

  Check your email, she said, as if her visit to me was just a formality.

  I unlocked my door and stepped inside the apartment, breathing in the stillness. I missed Elvis. The hound had been dead over a year now. I knew it was almost time to return to a shelter and adopt a new guy, but I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. I doubted whether I was fit to parent even a pup. Yet the silence of an empty apartment without a pet felt unnatural. It would never feel like home without an animal to greet you.

  Alas, no dog, no booze, none of the creature comforts I’d loved for so long. I didn’t get the itch to drink too often these days, but my meeting with Layla Soto left me thirsty. That should have been a sign in itself. I opened a sparkling water from the fridge, thought about packing the one-hitter. Before opening my laptop and checking that email, I turned on some music. Leonard Cohen. Since that baritone bard died I had become rather obsessed. His deathbed album, You Want It Darker, might be the finest self-composed eulogy ever written. It was something close to religion for the faithless. It put me in the proper frame of mind for whatever was waiting in Layla Soto’s email.

  It was sent from an encrypted account. The sender was listed as “Mirrasoft—LS,” the subject line read SEE BELOW. I clicked the email open. It read:

  Dear Mr. Darley,

  Please review the attached content and video, which

  has been secured using Mirrasoft encryption. I will be

  back in touch shortly. When a blocked number appears

  on your phone, please answer it.

  Regards,

  Layla

  There were two attachments. The first was a screen shot of a previous email, also sent from an encrypted account, addressed to nicole.soto96@gmail.com, presumably Danny’s wife. This one read:

  Mrs. Soto,

  We need your husband for a short while. Report to no

  one and there will be no problems. Otherwise, there will

  be consequences. We are watching.

  The note was unsigned. I clicked on the next attachment. A video file appeared on my screen. Crisp black-and-white security footage, the camera looked down on an opulent high-ceiled lobby. I watched as elevator doors opened in the back of the frame. Two women emerged, each pushing one arm of a wheelchair. Seated between them was a slumped man dressed in black. His limbs were loose. There was a hood pulled over his head, which lolled forward, his chin to his chest. As they approached the camera, the women stopped and made eye contact with the lens. One of them reached down and removed the hood. The other grabbed the man by the hair and pulled up his head so the camera could capture his face. They posed for a moment, then pulled the hood back on and wheeled him away. It had been a few years since we met, but the face was unmistakable. It was Danny Soto.

  The entire video was twenty-seven seconds. I played it again, pausing on the faces, noting the empty lobby desk behind them. The women looked like Tarantino ninjas, as if they were in costume. Tight black fatigues, shoulder holsters, black hair cut in crisp bangs across their foreheads. They were Asian and very tall, both beautiful in a severe and scary way.

  They brought to mind my former partner, Cassandra Kimball, sought-after dominatrix when she wasn’t assisting my investigations. She had that same look. There had been a time when I considered her my closest friend. She knew more about me than anyone else. She was my confessor, my protector. The one person I trusted above all.

  That is, until she lied to me, used me, and let me down. It was Cass who pulled me into that case with Stevie Cohen. Ultimately, it was her fault that the kid would be a haunted, scarred mess for the rest of his boyhood, and perhaps beyond. She wasn’t present when he pulled the trigger and saved my ass from a vengeful meth-head white supremacist. In fact, she’d been in prison, suspected of the crimes that hateful psychotic committed. But she set it all in motion—by bringing me into her troubled love life and lying about the true nature of things. I was there when she was released from Rikers, but found I couldn’t forgive, not yet anyway. She told me she was resettling in the city, after her ill-fated sojourn upstate in the Catskills. I said welcome home. Then I ignored her requests to get together. That was a little over a year ago. Like the drinking, I knew my ghosting of Cass wouldn’t be permanent, but if and when we did reunite, it would be on different terms, my terms. No more mysterious Cass, who consumed the secrets of others but shared none of her own. If she wanted to be a part of my life, I would need to be allowed into hers.

  I was staring at these faces, these female ninja-guards, with Danny Soto unconscious between them, and cursing the memories of Cass, when the phone rang. I looked at the screen, a blocked number as the girl indicated.

  “Layla?”

  “You watch it?”

  “I’m looking at it,” I said. I checked the time-and-date stamp at the top of the video. Last Thursday, 10:08 p.m. “Where were you when this happened?”

  “Out,” she said. “I got home around eleven. I figured my dad was asleep. It’s not like I checked on him.”

  “Who were you out with?”

  “A friend, not that it’s your business.”

  “It is if you want my help.”

  “I was at a concert, okay? With my music teacher.”

  Who could have been paid off to keep her out of the apartment while the abduction took place . . . There’d be time for that later. I examined the two ladies alongside the wheelchair.

  “Layla, have you ever seen these women with your father?”

  “No.”

  “Think hard.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “I’d remember women who looked like that.”

  “So, this stuff was sent to your mother? Did she forward it to you?”

  “She did.”

  “The email was pretty clear about not sharing it with anyone. Why would she do that?”

  I heard her sigh into the phone. “I doubt that even occurred to her, that I might count as ‘someone.’ My mother doesn’t understand boundaries.”