Reckless

“To Bank AGRO. In Amsterdam,” Hauck concluded, checking Thibault’s history.

“No. To manage some investment fund in Switzerland, as Gruen recalled,” the Brit corrected him. “It’s been almost fifteen years. The records are boxed away in some warehouse somewhere.”

“Switzerland? I don’t see that in Thibault’s background anywhere,” Hauck said, flipping through his papers.

“No,” Snell confirmed, “you won’t.” The Brit seemed to be hesitating, as if he was holding something back.

“Gruen asked me why I was interested in Thibault after all these years. Not to divulge anything, I said he had a cash bequeath set aside for him, that he’d been named in a will. Which seemed to generate no small surprise…”

“Why?”

“Because Herr Gruen, as it happens, seemed to recall that the Dieter Thibault who worked at their bank went missing while on a business trip to France and was never seen again. A year or two after he left.”

Hauck stopped writing. “That would be 1994 or ’95?” he said, surprised.

“He said that one of Thibault’s clients had read about it somewhere and passed it along to the bank. As I said, fifteen years ago. I went so far as to wire him a photo of your Thibault, from the Internet.”

“And?”

“And the Thibault who worked there was apparently short and already starting to go bald,” Snell said flatly.

“Oh,” Hauck grunted, his mind flashing to Merrill Simons, sinking back in his leather chair.

Thibault had falsified his past. More than that, he had taken over someone’s identity. A likely dead person’s. If that was false, everything about him could be false. Who did that—except a person with a great deal to hide? Hauck thought of Merrill. The awkward smile, the hopeful expression on her face when she talked about how she hoped things would turn out. I suppose you could say we’ve fallen in love.

“It would be of help if you could find me a set of fingerprints,” Snell said. “Or better yet, a sample of his DNA. Soon as you give me the go-ahead, we’ll track down just who this bugger really is.”

Chapter Twelve

Wednesday and Saturday nights Hauck coached a team of twelve-and-under kids in a local youth hockey league. The dad of his second-line winger was the sponsor: the Trident-Allen Value Fund Bruins.

Hauck had played peewee and Catholic league hockey since his early days in town, when he was more of a football star. When he moved back, he’d played defenseman in an over-forty league until a bullet from the Grand Central bombing case (coupled with another to his abdomen) put an end to his playing days.

Now he took some joy in teaching the kids a few of the basic skills and how to come together as a team. Not to mention twice a week he got to lace up the skates—though a few of the kids could outrace him end-to-end without even busting, and he could barely spray up any ice these days.

Wednesdays, they practiced at the Dorothy Hamill rink in town. That night, he picked Jared up at Annie’s place. He had taught the boy how to skate and Jared liked being on the ice in makeshift pads and a helmet with a stick in his hands. Hauck thought it was good for him to be with the regular kids. And Annie agreed. There was always a shoot-around net set off in one of the corners and Jared would try to steer pucks into it, never quite able to lift them off the ice. Every once in a while he’d call out to Hauck in an elated voice. “Look, Ty, er, coach, I scored a goal!”

That night, practice was getting a little spirited. They were playing a team from Long Island that weekend that was supposed to be really strong and nothing seemed to be working. Jeremy Purdo, the goalie, was stopping everything that got to him, daring the offense to get one by. By the time Annie showed up after nine to take Jared back, tempers were flaring. He didn’t want to leave until the team did. Hauck said it was okay for her to let him stay.

The frustration on the offense grew. “Schuer, you’re supposed to be over here!” Tony Telco, the first-line center, shouted. Another kid yelled, slamming his stick, “Balzon, are you even awake, dude?”

Maybe Hauck let it go on a bit too long.

Near the end, a shot from the point came in and there was a scrum in front of the net. One of the attackers went down as the forwards tried to jam the puck in the net. Jared skated close by.

“Hey!” Hauck blew the whistle loudly, trying to settle everyone down.

For a second, no one stopped. A lot of pushing and shoving. The pile moved closer to Jared. Hauck grew a little worried. He skated in Jared’s direction and blew the whistle three times. “Alright, that’s enough, now!”

The players finally stopped and the puck squirted out of the pileup in front of the goal. With everyone standing around, Jared slowly wove his way in and pushed out his stick, lifting a neat chip shot past Purdo, the sprawled goalie, who shot out his stick to try to stop it as the puck went by.

“Goal!” Jared shouted, raising his stick into the air.

For a second everyone just stood around, Jared’s call echoing through the rink. Then the buzzer went off and the rest of the attacking squad shot their sticks up. “It’s in!”

Jared gleefully looked around. “Goal, coach! Goal!”

“It’s a goal!” Hauck confirmed, signaling with a point toward the ice that it was in.

The members of the power play all skated over, smirking at the goalie, patting Jared on the helmet. Even Purdo came up and tapped his stick against Jared’s pads. “Sweet one, dude!”

Jared made his way along the boards to where Annie was seated, bundled in a knit cap and muffler. “I scored a goal, Mom!”

“I saw! I saw! Yes, you did, babe.”

Hauck skated over. He affectionately patted Jared on the back. “So whaddaya think, you ready to take a regular shift?”

“I don’t know, Ty. Maybe it was a little lucky.” He had a smile as wide as the Long Island Sound.

And so did Annie, beaming, except there was a hint of tears in it.

Chapter Thirteen

In the stylish dining room of her Normandy on Dublin Hill Road, Merrill Simons sat around the dinner table with her guests.

On her left was Ralph Tamerin, founding partner of Tamerin Capital, a large hedge fund in town, and his wife, Kitty; Tom Erkin, a wealthy investor in biotechs; Ace Klein, the flamboyant president of U-Direct! who had his own cable show; and George and Sally Ravinowich, wealthy investors whose famous yacht was one of the largest schooners in the world.

Dani was holding court as well.

Merrill had assembled the evening for him; he was hoping to stir up a little interest for the buyout of an auto-parts company in the Baltic he was trying to put together. She watched how he worked the table. Charming and worldly, he created confidence by painting a picture of prior deals he had done over there, along with their dazzling returns.

Deals, Merrill was now realizing, she had never quite seen.

She’d decided not to confront him with any of her suspicions just yet. She’d asked about certain things, and for each question Dani always had a glib reply. She decided to wait until something firm from Talon came back.

And for now, everyone seemed suitably dazzled. Except for George, who was even more dazzled by the Del Dotto cabernet.

“Merrill, this is first-rate juice,” he said, tipping over the third empty bottle. Dani had made sure the wine steadily flowed.

“I bet there’s another one or two down there,” Merrill replied. Wine was always Peter’s thing, not hers, and his cellar, from which they used to entertain a who’s who of industry, was one of the perks of the divorce. She smiled impishly at Sally and Kitty. “I’m sure Peter wouldn’t mind.”

Normally, she would have asked Roger, who handled things like that, to bring it up, but he was overseeing the desserts in the kitchen, so she headed out of the dining room to the door leading down to the basement.

On the way she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She knew she looked good for forty-four. She’d had a little work done, like most of her friends. Eyes smoothed, tummy tucked, a little Botox, of course. But she still looked perfectly natural. She worked out regularly and had her own private yoga instructor. She smoothed out her ruffled, white off-the-shoulder blouse and headed down.

One thing you could definitely say was that Merrill Simons knew how to entertain.

In the basement, she passed through the gym, the yoga studio, the private surround-sound theater with fifteen seats. The accumulated toys of her twenty-two years with Peter. While he was growing in the firm, they were able to share each other’s rise into means and importance. They were invited to lavish parties, traveled to exotic places. Had the kids in prestigious schools. They had science wings and squash centers named after them.

But once Peter reached the top, everything seemed to change. He grew to think he was the most important man in the universe, and the people he surrounded himself with usually verified that fancy. He no longer seemed to recall that she knew him as an insecure bond trader who couldn’t even decide what tie to wear. He became a fixture on CNBC and took calls from finance ministers from around the globe. He traveled with knockout Ivy League assistants. First it was the kids, then it was the stress and demands of the job. He stopped touching her. Then it was the long-legged lingerie model with the hard-to-pronounce name.

Now, Merrill mused, how the power that be had swung.

He had the dwindling stock price and the impossible-to-get-rid-of-at-any-price apartment.

She had the hundred-million-dollar settlement!

She went to the wine room and opened the ornate Lalique etched doors. It was a giant space, Peter’s showcase, packed with prestigious first growths and cult wines from California only a Wall Street CEO could afford. She went over to the far wall, remembering from where they had pulled the Del Dotto. She took out the last two bottles of the case. She heard the door reopen behind her and spun around.

Dani came in.

“You scared me,” she said, her heart skipping a beat. “What are you doing down here?”

“I needed a break,” he said, a sly look on his face. He shut the door.

He went up and took the bottles from her and placed them on the table. In the chill of the cellar, she realized her nipples were showing through.

Dani smiled. “A proper hostess never serves her own wine.”

“Emily Post, I suppose?” she asked, brushing past him.

“No. Dani Thibault.” He grinned. He moved his hand along her slim body and drew her to him. “You smell intoxicating, darling…”

“Dani, please. Everyone’s waiting. Not here…”

“Everyone’s talking about interest rates and how Obama is screwing them.” He shifted her around so that his pelvis pressed against her rear and she felt him all hard. “Trust me, they don’t even know we’re gone.”

“You’re crazy,” Merrill said, trying to pull away. “Besides, Roger may come down any second.”

“Roger’s got his dick in the crème anglaise…” He kissed her neck, running his tongue along the curve of her exposed shoulders. “And I’ve got mine in…”

He cupped a hand over one of her breasts and with the other pulled the blouse out of Merrill’s jeans, deftly pinning her hips against the table. It sent sparks of excitement mixed with uncertainty traveling down her spine. “Dani, please…”

She felt the warmth of his lips brush along her neck and almost involuntarily felt herself shifting against the hardness pressing against her.

“It’s the fucking wine cellar,” she said, her blood heating, and at the same time wondered what the group around the dinner table, two of whom were in her garden and book clubs, would say.

“Exactly.” Dani grinned, mischief in his eyes.

With one hand he unbuckled her gold chain belt and flicked open the snap of her jeans. Merrill felt a flame of desire dance through her. With the other, he ripped at his own belt and zipper and slid his trousers down. This was rougher than he usually was, more forceful, and she thought, for a brief second, that it was as if it was almost in answer to her own doubts and fears. He slid her red panties down.

“Goddamnit, Dani, please…”

Merrill wanted to pull herself away, end this, but before the words made it to her lips, he had lifted her up against his pelvis and pushed inside. She gasped at the first feeling of the size of him filling her. He rocked, pinning her by the thighs, and her blood surged with the secrecy of what they were doing, holding off the forces of weakness and shame. She begged herself to say Stop, stop, but all she heard was her own trembling breaths, everything intensifying. Her skin started to heat, and Dani’s animal grunts became louder and more excited.

The banter at the dinner table was a million miles away.

They both came within a minute, shivers of satisfaction relaxing Merrill’s spine. She shut her eyes, feeling both as alive as she ever had and angry at her own weakness at the same time. She felt used—used in many ways tonight.

“Who are you?” Merrill whispered as he pulled out of her, leaning against him.

“I’m the man who makes you feel alive again,” he said, releasing his hand from her waist. “What more do you need to know?”

Dani lifted away. He rebuckled his pants. He took the two bottles. “I’ll take these up,” he said. “You may want to get yourself together.”

Merrill rose, readjusting her blouse and pants. She didn’t turn around, even after he had left. Instead she closed her eyes.

I meant, really, who are you, Dani?

Chapter Fourteen

Later, after everyone had left, Merrill took off her earrings in the bedroom while Dani took a shower.

Up until tonight, deep down, she had always really trusted him. She’d been sure that whatever might come out would only confirm the feelings she had for him.

But tonight she sensed something completely different in him. A side she’d never seen before. She’d watched him operate, and a ripple of suspicion had wormed through her that he might, in fact, be using her to gain access to people. She observed him artfully describing his deals, the opportunities that the Baltic and Eastern Europe were now presenting, in that polished, sexy accent of his. The network of contacts she had never quite met. The history of past deals she saw no evidence of.

She had never really seen them, had she?

For the first time, she saw him as someone trying to weave a kind of spell. As an operator. And then there was the way he had taken her in the wine cellar. An animal side of him she had never felt before. Rougher than he had ever been. Almost as if he had sensed some suspicion in her. And was telling her something.

I’m the man who makes you feel alive.

She felt his arms wrap around her again. Coming at her from behind. The exhilaration that both thrilled her and repulsed her. C’mon, Merrill, she said, composing herself. Your mind is getting away from you. This is crazy. This is not your style.

She placed a bracelet in the jewelry box on her dresser and pulled off her ruffled blouse. She spotted Dani’s wallet on the night table.

She had to know. But something suppressed her urge to look inside.

If he wanted to keep part of his past life secret, that was his business, not hers. He had never harmed her, never asked for anything. He made her feel youthful and vibrant and wanted again. The rest…

Why are you giving yourself over to doubt?

But gradually the urge to know him more deeply took hold of her. She went over to the nightstand in her bra and panties, hesitating, the temptation fighting her better instincts. She opened the billfold, listening for confirmation that Dani was in the shower.

It was a billfold he had bought at Harrods in London. Dani always walked around with wads of cash. Euros and dollars. He was like a walking cash machine.

Where did it all come from?

Merrill slipped it open. In the card folder, there were several credit cards: Amex, one personal, one from the business; Visa; a Eurocard; and several bank cards, from here and in London. All made out to Daniel Thibault or D. Thibault. Or Christiana Partners. These she had seen many times before.

Behind the see-through window, there was an international driver’s license. His face. Dieter Franz Thibault. The address was the apartment Dani maintained in London. Behind it, there was another local Dutch license as well.

A tremor of shame traveled through her. This was silly. Suspicion was not a space she felt comfortable being in. What was she even looking for? Dani was a charming and generous man. He had proved it countless times to her. It wasn’t about what was in a person’s wallet. She could see into his heart. She wasn’t some schoolgirl carried away by her feelings…

Feeling guilty and foolish, Merrill quickly scanned the remaining cards. There was the University Club in New York. He must’ve gone to Cambridge or the LSE, like he said, to be a member there. Some other private clubs in the city. One Alfred Place in London. Various other membership cards in places like Paris and Madrid.

She quickly fanned out some business cards. A private banker at ABN AMRO in Amsterdam. A contact from Cerberus Capital, one of the largest private equity firms in the U.S. Everything was normal. No secrets.

See. There’s no scary man in the attic, Merrill. Dani is who he says he is. She shoved the contents of his wallet back inside, starting to feel like a fool.

The shower stopped. Merrill heard Dani climb out.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he called. She could hear him toweling off.

“I’m just taking my jewelry off.”

“Along with everything else, I hope,” he called.

She went to put the wallet back, when fumbling, her heart quickening, some photographs fell out of the inside flap. “Oh, damn…”

The first was of the two of them. Sailing off the Dalmatian coast last August. Dani could handle a skiff like the snap of a bra. She hadn’t felt so swept off her feet since she was a young girl. They had anchored and made love on the deck in a rocky cove. It filled her with biting shame to even be questioning those memories.

She was about to fold the wallet back up when the second photo came out. It had been stuck to the first.

Something made her look more closely.

The photo was of two women. One was young, in her thirties, her hair pulled back in a bun. The second woman was older, maybe in her seventies, hardened lines across her drawn, unpampered face. They stood in front of a streetcar. It looked like any undetermined European city.

Merrill was struck by the faces.

There was something remarkably familiar in them.

It was Dani. In both of them. Merrill stared wideeyed. The resemblance was clear as day.

One could be his twin, definitely. But he had never mentioned one. The older woman, Merrill thought, bringing the photo into the light, the older woman could be his…

It gave her a start. The feeling of doubt reflexively springing back up. Can’t be…

Dani had told her many times his parents were dead. Since his university days. His father had died in an automobile accident, his mother from cancer. He said that he had no sisters. No family. They had been in Europe several times together. He’d never said anything about any relatives.

But the similarity was unmistakable.

This had to be his mother. And his sister. Maybe even a twin.

Merrill searched for the signs of age on the photo. Maybe it was from long ago. But the edges were still remarkably firm. And what she saw next sent her head spinning even more.

In the background, on the streetcar, behind the two women, was an advertisement. It was for a film. Partially blocked by the two women in front of it.

They died when he was at university, Merrill said, but the image she was looking at was the same in any language.

The film was The Dark Knight. Heath Ledger starring as the Joker.

You had to have been in a cave somewhere the past year not to have been aware of it.

The Dark Knight had come out only last year.

Chapter Fifteen

It was after eleven, that same night, when Kevin Mitman turned his BMW X5 onto John Street, the kids finally dozing in the back.

Timmy had only calmed down about the game a few minutes ago. The Rangers coming back from two goals down in the third against the Devils and won in overtime. Petr Prucha, Melissa’s favorite player, had tipped in the winning goal. The crowd went crazy. When Prucha had skated out for his star-of-the-game ovation, Tim stood on his chair and cheered, fists in the air. As they left the Garden, they even bought Melissa his number 25 jersey.

In the front passenger seat, Kevin’s wife, Rosemary, stirred.

“We’re home!” Kevin said.

“Mmmm.” Ro opened her eyes. “How’re you doing, honey?”

“Not bad. Everyone’s asleep.”

“No, we’re not!” Tim suddenly chimed in.

Ro glanced at the clock and groaned. “Well you will be soon, mister.”

They were supposed to have left the night before. Up to Mount Snow for a few days of skiing on their spring break. But then some business things came up and Kevin figured they might as well go to the game, as opposed to giving the seats away, though Ro, who thought hockey duller than listening to the business channel, had to be dragged.

“I’ll get the kids in bed,” she said. “You take out the recycling.”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” he said with a sigh. The driveway was fifty yards long and it was twenty degrees. Doesn’t driving count for anything?

He wound the SUV down toward their home, a large ranch on two backcountry acres, which they’d bought when Kevin had taken over the family’s printing company. It was pretty remote—a twelve-minute drive from town and the nearest market. You don’t want to forget the milk, he always joked. But they liked it. They had deer and even coyote and in the spring, the same geese always on their pond.

Kevin was about to turn in. “We’re here, gang…”

Suddenly something didn’t seem right. Instead of turning, he slowed at the gate.

There was an empty black van parked on the side of the road—unusual, because no one ever parked out here. The nearest house to them was hundreds of yards away. Everyone had driveways and garages large enough to hold a dozen cars.

He noticed something else too.

“Ro, did you leave the lights on in the house?”

“No,” she said, staring down the driveway. They were always strict on that one. Thousand-dollar electric bills and Kev’s business was soft. “Just in the foyer,” she said. “Like we always do.”

From the street, they could see lights on throughout the house.

“Shit!” Kevin pulled up on the darkened street, keeping out of sight.

In the back, Timmy leaned forward. “What’s going on, Dad?”

“I don’t know.”

Melissa woke up. “Why aren’t we turning? What’s happening?”

Kevin turned to Rosemary. They’d all heard about the string of burglaries in the backcountry. The local papers had had it all over. They were supposed to be in Vermont. He flashed through the possibilities. Who would have known? The newspaper delivery people. The mailman. The gardeners…

He passed the house and pulled up to a stop about a hundred yards down. “What do we do, Ro?”

“There’s no way we’re going in there, Kev.” His wife shook her head, fear in her eyes.