“That’s how they got my security system codes,” I said. “Where did it send to?”
She shook her head. “Proxy servers so many times removed that it’s just about impossible to find. But I rooted it out. It should be gone.”
“How did it get onto our system in the first place?”
“I’m working on that. I-”
My intercom buzzed, and Jillian said, “You have a visitor.”
I looked at Dorothy, who shrugged. “Name?” I said.
“Belinda Marcus,” Jillian said.
52.
“I’m worried sick about Marshall,” Belinda said. “I think he’s going to have a heart attack.” She was wearing a light brown scoop-neck linen top with sequins around the neckline. It sort of belled out at the midriff. She threw out her thin arms and embraced me. Her perfume smelled like bathroom deodorizer.
“I’m sorry, Belinda, did we have an appointment?”
She sat and folded her legs. “No, we did not, Nick, but we need to talk.”
“Give me one quick second.” I turned my chair and typed out an instant message to Dorothy:
Need bkgd on Belinda Marcus ASAP.
How soon?
Immediately. Whatever you can get.
“I’m all yours,” I said. “Can I get you a Coke?”
“The only soda I drink is Diet Pepsi, but I don’t need the caffeine. Nick, I know I should have called first, but Marshall had to go in to the office, and I got a ride with him. I told him I wanted to meet a girlfriend for coffee in the Back Bay.”
“Why did he have to go to the office?”
She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s about Alexa. It has to be. Nick, I’ve been wanting to talk to y’all privately, without Marshall, since this whole nightmare began.”
I nodded.
“I feel like I’m being disloyal, and he’d probably kill me if he knew I was telling y’all this. But I-I’m just at my wit’s end, and someone needs to say something. I know Marshall’s your old and dear friend, and you barely know me, I understand that, but can you please promise me Marshall will never find out we spoke?” She bit her lower lip and held her breath and waited for my response.
I paused a moment. “Okay.”
She let out a sigh. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Nick, you need to know that Marshall is… he’s under a great deal of pressure. All he wants is to get his beloved daughter back, but they… they won’t let him hand over what they want, and it’s tearing him up inside.”
“Who won’t let him?”
She looked at me anxiously. “David Schechter.”
“How do you know this? Does he talk to you about it?”
“Never. I’ve… just heard them arguing. I’ve heard Marshall pleading with him, it would break your heart.”
“So you must know what Mercury is?”
She shook her head violently. “I don’t. I really don’t. I mean, it’s a file of some sort, but I have no idea what it’s about. I don’t care if it’s the answers to next Sunday’s New York Times crossword puzzle or the nuclear codes. We’ve got to give it to them. We’ve got to get that girl free.”
“So why are you telling me?”
She studied her fingernails. It looked like a brand-new manicure. The polish matched her blouse. “Marshall is so deep in some kind of trouble, and I don’t know who to turn to.”
I looked at my computer screen. An instant message had popped up from Dorothy. A few lines of text.
“I’m sure he trusts you,” I said. “You’ve been married for, what, three years, right?”
She nodded.
“You were a flight attendant when you met Marshall?”
She nodded, smiled. Her smile was abashed and ruefully embarrassed and pleased, all at once. “He saved me,” she said. “I’ve always hated flying.”
“That’s got to be a Georgia accent.”
“Very good,” she said. “A little town called Barnesville.”
“Are you serious? Barnesville, Georgia? I love Barnesville!”
“Have you been there? Really?”
“Are you kidding, I dated a girl from Barnesville. Went down there a bunch, met her parents and her brothers and sisters.”
Belinda didn’t look terribly interested. “What’s her name? Everyone knows everyone down there.”
“Purcell. Cindy Purcell?”
Belinda shook her head. “She must be a lot younger.”
“But I’m sure you’ve eaten at her parents’ restaurant, Brownie’s.”
“Oh, sure. But Nick-”
“I’ve never had anything like their low-country boil.”
“Never had that dish, but I’m sure it’s good. Southern cooking is the best, isn’t it? I miss it so.”
“Well,” I said, standing. “I’m glad you came in. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but it sure was helpful.”
She remained seated. “I know what people call me. I know some people think I’m a gold digger because I happened to marry a wealthy man. But I didn’t marry Marshall for his money. I just want what’s best for him. And I want that girl back, Nick. Whatever it takes.”
AFTER SHE’D left, I called Dorothy in.
“You ever meet a Georgian who preferred Pepsi to Coke?” I said.
“I’m sure they exist. But no, I haven’t. And I’ve certainly never met a Georgian who uses the word ‘soda.’ Every soft drink is always ‘Coke.’ You didn’t really date a woman from Barnesville, did you?”
“No. And there’s no Brownie’s.”
“A good one about the low-country boil, Nick. If you’ve never had that, you’re not from Georgia. What tipped you off in the first place?”
“Her accent’s wrong. Words like ‘square’ and ‘here,’ she drops her R’s. Georgians don’t talk like that. And then there’s the way she keeps calling me ‘y’all.’”
“Good point. ‘Y’all’ is always plural. She’s not from Georgia, is she?”
“I don’t even think she’s southern.”
“Then why’s she faking it?”
“That’s what I want to find out. Can you do a little digging-?”
“Already started,” Dorothy said. “As soon as she said ‘Pepsi.’”
53.
Unlike Belinda Marcus, Francine Heller never wanted to be a rich man’s wife.
My mother had gone to the same small-town high school in upstate New York as my father. She was the class beauty. In her old photos she looked like Grace Kelly. Whereas my father, to put it delicately, was no Gregory Peck.
From the moment Victor Heller saw her, he launched an all-out campaign to win her over. My father was a live wire, a charmer, a wheedler. He was a force of nature. And when he wanted something he invariably got it.
Eventually he got Francine, of course, then kept her in a gilded cage for decades.
It was pretty clear what he saw in her-that sylphlike grace and almost regal presence, accompanied by an appealing frankness-but it was less clear what she saw in him besides the fact that he wanted her with a relentless, outsize ambition. Maybe that was all it took to win over an insecure girl. She needed to be needed. Her parents were divorced-her mother had moved to the Boston area, and the girls stayed behind with Dad, not wanting to change schools. They shuttled between parents. Maybe she craved stability.
Money certainly wasn’t part of the bargain, and I don’t think she ever fully understood Victor’s hunger for it. Her father, a lawyer for the State of New York, would reuse teabags to save a dime.
It was hardly a match made in heaven. Being married to the Dark Prince of Wall Street turned out to be a full-time job. She had to attend endless galas and cocktail parties. At every charity event the names of Mr. and Mrs. Heller invariably appeared in the printed program, in the shortest list of the biggest donors. Not merely the Patrons or Sponsors or, God forbid, the coupon-clipping Friends. Always the Benefactors, the President’s Circle, the Chairman’s Council, the Century Society.