Caught

Apparently, an “erotic dancer” (read “stripper”) named “Desire” (maybe not her real name) had given the story to a local newspaper. The story spread from there. “Desire” had set up a blog, describing her trysts with Farley Parks in rather horrifying detail. Wendy considered herself pretty worldly, but the specifics made her cringe and blush. Yowza. There was a video too. Eyes half shut, she clicked it. No nudity, thank goodness. “Desire” sat in silhouette. She offered up more graphic details in a breathy, machine-altered voice. Thirty seconds in, Wendy shut it down.

Enough. Got the point. And it really wasn’t a good one.

Okay, slow down. Reporters are taught to look for patterns, but there was nothing subtle about this one. Still, she needed to do the research. The search’s first page of “Farley Parks” hits was loaded up on the scandal. She clicked for the second, found a dry biography. Yep, there it was—Farley Parks had graduated from Princeton twenty years ago. Same year as Phil Turnball and Dan Mercer.

Coincidence?

Three men in the same graduating class from the same elite university ruined in the past year by scandals—the rich and powerful have a way of drawing these sorts of troubles. It could be just that. A coincidence.

Except that the three men may have been closer than classmates.

“Suitemates.” That was the word Phil Turnball had used. Phil and Dan were in the same suite. A college suite implied more than two people. If it were just Phil and Dan, you’d say roommates. Suitemates? That implied at least three, maybe more.

So how to find out if Farley Parks was in with them?

Wendy only had the Turnballs’ home number. They’d probably still be at Blend. So who else would know about roommates?

Jenna Wheeler, Dan’s ex, might.

It was getting late now, but this was hardly the time to worry about being phone appropriate. Wendy dialed the Wheelers’ home number. A man—probably her husband, Noel—answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“This is Wendy Tynes. May I please speak to Jenna?”

“She’s not home.”

Click.

She stared at the receiver. Hmm. That seemed rather abrupt. She shrugged and put the phone down. Turning back to the computer, a strange thought hit her: Facebook. With silly quasi-peer pressure mounting, Wendy had opened a Facebook account last year, accepted and requested a few friends—and pretty much did nothing else with it. Maybe it was an age thing, though there seemed to be plenty of folks older than her populating these social sites, but when Wendy was younger—not to sound like an old fart—when a man “poked” you, it meant something, uh, different from what it did on Facebook. Intelligent people she respected were constantly sending her silly quizzes or throwing things at her or inviting her to Mafia Wars or posting on her wall—were the double entendres intentional?—and she felt like Tom Hanks in the movie Big, the part where he keeps raising his hand and saying, “I don’t get it.”

But she remembered now that her Tufts graduating class had its own page, complete with photographs old and new and information on classmates. Could there be a page for those who graduated Princeton twenty years ago?

She signed on to Facebook and did a search.

Pay dirt.

Ninety-eight members of the Princeton class had signed up. The front page had tiny photos of eight of them. There were discussion boards and links. Wendy was wondering how to join the group so she could get access to everything when her cell phone started buzzing. She checked it and saw the little logo signaling a phone message. Call must have come in while she was at Blend. She scrolled through the incoming call log and saw the most recent had come from her former place of employment. Probably something about her nearly nonexistent severance package.

But, no, the call had come in less than an hour ago. HR wouldn’t call this late.

Wendy dialed in for the message and was surprised to hear the voice of Vic Garrett, the man who’d fired her on . . . was it really just two days ago?

“Hey, sweetums, it’s Vic. Call me pronto. Hugely important.”

Wendy felt a tick in her blood. Vic was not one for hyperbole. She dialed his private line in the office. If Vic was gone, he’d forward it to his mobile. He picked up on the first ring.

“Did you hear?” Vic asked.

“What?”

“You may get rehired. At the very least, freelance. Either way, I want you on this.”

“On what?”

“The cops found Haley McWaid’s cell phone.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“They found it in Dan Mercer’s hotel room. Apparently your boy is responsible for whatever the hell happened to her.”

ED GRAYSON lay alone in his bed.

Maggie, his wife of sixteen years, had packed up and left while he was being interrogated for the murder of Dan Mercer. No matter. Their marriage was dead, had indeed been dead for a while, he guessed, but you still go through the motions and hope, and now that hope was finally gone. Maggie wouldn’t tell. He knew that. She wanted to wish problems away. That was her way. Pack the bad away in a suitcase, stick it on the top shelf of some closet in the back of your mind, close the door, and plaster on a smile. Maggie’s favorite phrase, something her mom in Quebec had taught her, was “You bring your own weather to the picnic.” So both women smiled a lot. They both had smiles so great you sometimes forgot that they were meaningless.

Maggie’s smile had worked for many years. It had charmed young Ed Grayson, swept him off his proverbial feet. The smile seemed like goodness to him, and Ed wanted to be near that. But the smile was not goodness. It was a façade, a mask to fight off the bad.

When the naked pictures of their son, E. J., first surfaced, Maggie’s reaction had shocked him: She wanted to ignore them. No one has to know, Maggie said. E. J. seems fine, she went on. He’s only eight years old. No one actually touched him—or if someone had, there were no signs of it. The pediatrician found nothing. E. J. seemed normal, untroubled. No bed-wetting or night terrors or extra anxiety.

“Let it go,” Maggie urged him. “He’s fine.”

Ed Grayson was apoplectic. “You don’t want this scumbag put away? You want to let him keep doing this to other kids?”

“I don’t care about other kids. I care about E. J.”

“And this is what you want to teach him? ‘Let it go’?”

“It’s what’s best. There’s no reason the world has to know what happened to him.”