About Face (33 page)

I'VE COME TO DISCUSS JONAH GRAY. IS THERE SOMEWHERE WE MIGHT TALK?

Jake is silent, motionless. I knew this would frighten him, and that I'd need to keep us moving forward.

“Everything is quite all right, but it's important we speak. Is there somewhere we might chat?”

“Mr. Donald, is everything okay?” asks the receptionist, getting it I'm not who I said I was.

“Don't be scared. You need to speak with me,” I whisper.

“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” Jake says to her, snapping out of it. “Of course. Right this way.”

We step into the conference room.

“What the hell is going on here?” asks Jake once the door is closed. “Do I need to call security? Because you need to know I will.”

“Why don't you sit down,” I say.

“I'd rather stand.”

“Okay. But if it's all right with you, I'm going to sit down. I've been on my feet forever.” I take the chair at the head of the long conference table.

“Like nine years.”

I'm hoping the soft reference to how long Jonah has been gone, and myself, might jar something loose. Which it doesn't.

“How do you know Mason Brody?”

“I don't.”

“Then—how; why—I don't understand.”

“I know you don't. There's no way you possibly could,” I explain. “I only know about your college friend Mason Brody from you.”

“We've met before?” he goes on, eyes squinting subconsciously as he searches his mind for a previous image of me.

“We have. Only I wasn't the man you're looking at.”

I swallow, then continue in my God-given voice from my previous life.

“I was Jonah Gray.”

My voice startles him. He literally has to grab the back of one of the conference table chairs to keep his balance.

“What the fuck? How did—”

“I mean, I still am technically Jonah. I'm just—now—”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Jonah Gray. I swear. It's really me,” I say, standing up and taking a step toward him.

He heads for the door.

“Fuck this, I'm calling the police.”

“Wait. Don't, please.”

He doesn't listen. His feet speed up.

“Your father's name is Ronnie Donald. He's a portfolio manager for wealthy families. Your mother's name is Florence—everyone calls her Flo—and she's a nurse. Your favorite dish on the planet is the chicken parm at Scalinatella, which we used to always share along with the tubettoni con le cozze. You love big dogs, but you're afraid of little ones, except for Neo, because he's mine.”

Just as he cracks the door, he stops, looks at me.

“How the fuck do you know all this? How are you doing this?”

“It's really me. Jonah. Think about it, Jake. Think about the circumstances surrounding Jonah Gray's life when he disappeared. I had no choice to become someone else if Jonah Gray was to ever really reclaim his life. His name.”

“But, still—I don't—you look—”

“Like another person. I know; I get it. I had no choice. But it's really me.”

He's almost there. I take a quarter from my pocket. I start flipping it in the air.

“The quarter,” he says under his breath.

“The quarter. When you were fifteen years old, on a ski trip in Vermont, you got separated from your classmates. A quarter to
make a call saved your ass. You've carried one with you at all times ever since.”

He takes one out of his pocket and holds it up. I keep flipping mine.

“Me. I keep one with me also. Not because it's going to do a lick of good for me on foreign soil or in the age of cell phones, but because it reminds me no matter where I find myself, no matter what situation I'm in—”

I catch the quarter.

“—I'm going to get through it. And one day, no matter what, get home.”

He closes the door. He walks over to me. He studies my face.

“That's fucking insane, dude. Your face, the way they—you—”

“I missed you, man,” I cut him off.

“I missed you too.”

We give each other a big hug, then check each other out again.

“Don't say it. I'm fat as a fucking house.”

“I … you … I wasn't going to say anything. Except for the fact you're on nineteen now. Management?”

“Management indeed. Come on, we used to both say we didn't want to be brokers forever. Four years ago they offered me a lot of stock and a lot of stress to run all of leasing, so I took it. Obviously, from my waistline, you can see how well I'm handling the stress.”

“How's Tommy?” I ask.

Jake dips his chin for a second.

“He passed away. A couple years ago.”

Tommy Wingate was not just a close friend of my family, the one who gave me my first shot in the commercial real estate world, he was my mentor.

“No.” I say under my breath, grabbing the closest chair to me, a different one than the initial one I'd sat in. “What happened?”

“Heart attack. Right here in his fucking office.”

“No way. Wow. I wish … I wish I had a chance to speak with him again. To tell him, you know—”

“He loved you, Jonah, and he knew no matter what the fuck
happened, there had to have been an explanation for all of it. We talked about you all the time. And when we did, all he ever said was you were the best young real estate mind he'd ever seen. And that he hoped you were safe. We both did.”

I feel a slight smile creep onto my face.

“A heart attack, huh?”

“Look, I always say to people it wasn't such a bad way to go. It was fast, and he was somewhere he loved to be. Could have been worse. He could have been eaten by sharks or something.”

“Where's Perry?” Jake changes direction.

“I don't know.”

“You don't know? We assumed she was with you.”

“She was. Until something happened a few years ago.”

“Which was? Is she safe?”

Safe? I'm not sure whether she's alive or dead
.

“Look,” I wave him off, “it's complicated. The less you know about everything the better. And I really don't have much time.”

“So, then, what is it you want? Why are you here? Why now?”

“Because I need your help.”

“Help doing what?”

“Clearing my name.”

“Just name it, bro. Anything.”

“I need you to contact Detective Tim Morante at the Nineteenth Precinct. And tell him he needs to be on the beach behind the home at Forty-Four Mako in Amagansett tomorrow morning at five thirty a.m.”

“A New York City cop in the Hamptons? Why?”

“Seclusion. Anyway, don't worry about any of that. I just need you to relay this message.”

“Forty-Four Mako. Why do I know that address?”

Thinks for a second.

“Richard Plotkin,” Jake continues. “Rivco's CEO who lives in West Palm Beach and never uses his houses up here?”

He was right. Rivco was a hedge fund we used to represent back in the day. And Richard Plotkin, though from Manhattan, hated
the Northeast; he held this Hamptons monstrosity along with two others as investments. And told me many times way back when he'd never give any of the three up because one day each would go to each of his three children.

“Exactly. We still represent them?”

“We do. You haven't given me much time, Jonah. What if I can't find him?”

“You need to. If it's difficult, tell whomever you get they need to get the message to Morante immediately because it relates to an old unsolved case of his. And that it's urgent. Once you have the man himself on the other end, tell him five thirty a.m. tomorrow on the beach. Alone. Because someone with information about Jonah Gray will be there to meet him. If Morante asks how you know, tell him exactly what happened. Someone you've never seen before showed up in your office and told you to make this call. And that you felt you should, because you want to know the truth about Jonah as much as anyone.”

“What if he asks why he should believe me?”

“Tell him you can't answer that. To believe it or not is for him to decide.”

We both pause. Jake stands up, puts his hands on his head, and starts pacing.

“Fuck, Jonah, I don't know. The authorities were up our asses when all of this shit went down and you disappeared.”

“I don't doubt it. And I'm truly sorry to ask you to do this. But I wouldn't unless I really need you to. As you can imagine, there are only a couple people I could possibly trust to help me, and time is running out. Besides, you've done nothing wrong. You didn't then, you haven't now.”

Jake paces for another second then stops and stares at me. He let's out a long, dejected breath and sits back down.

“Trust me,” I go on, “He'll believe it. He'll be there tomorrow morning. Once you relay the message, tell him you need his cell phone number. He'll ask why. Tell him the guy he'll be meeting said he'll need it to contact Morante should he feel Morante has been
untruthful about coming alone. Because the man with the information about Jonah will be watching. But, you see, I won't be the one calling him. Because he can never have a direct number from me.”

Jake thinks for a second.

“Then who will be?”

“You.”

I walk out of the building. Just as I'm about to hail a cab, my iPhone vibrates. It's a text from Julia.

WE NEED TO SPEAK. HOW ABOUT WE MEET AT THE RESTAURANT A HALF HOUR EARLY FOR A COCKTAIL?

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
2013

At seven fifteen p.m.—fifteen minutes before I'm supposed to meet Julia and forty-five minutes before the two of us are to meet everyone else for dinner—I walk into Il Mulino, the legendary Greenwich Village Italian eatery. I notice Claudio, the silver-haired Maitre d' who runs the show and used to give me a table from a simple text when most can't even get through on the phone, let alone land a reservation. He asks if I have a reservation. I want to joke with him about how an Italian fella can know so much about American football or make fun of the fact I've never seen a human wear their glasses so low on the tip of their nose. Instead, I tell him I'm with the GlassWell party at eight and that I'm early. He cordially offers me a seat at the tiny bar, which hasn't yet filled up, but within minutes will be standing room only as the evening rush is fast approaching.

The bartender asks if I'd like anything. I take a seltzer with lime. Alcohol will undoubtedly be a part of the evening's festivities. Upon this notion, I take the remaining bottle of Life Fuel and knock it back. I chase it with the seltzer.

On my iPhone I start rifling through my file on the Berlin deal.
Before this bullshit, did the Freedom Bank Building look like a good deal, a prime expansion acquisition? Yes. Better than the Berlin property? Hell, no. I need to get that building for Cobus. I owe him that.

As I look through the file, an aerial shot of the business district where the Berlin building—Feuerbach Turm—stands catches my eye. Then I think of an article I just read regarding the new zoning laws that just took effect in that particular portion of the city. I go back to one of the forecasts we were given as part of the building package. It becomes clear to me everyone involved in selling or buying the building may have missed something.

I dial a number. A voice picks up on the other end.

“Hallo?”

It's after midnight in Germany. I'm surprised to hear a live voice.

“Ernst, Ivan. I apologize for calling so late. I was expecting your voice mail.”

Ernst Brecht is handling the Berlin property sale. I am well aware at this point either Gruden & Wayfield or Vienna Shanks is locked in on acquiring the building.

“Ivan Janse,” Ernst responds. “Don't worry about it. Really. I've been working this late every night for a week as we're working toward a close. I'm actually happy to lift my nose up for a moment.”

His English is strong; his heavy German accent even stronger.

Fuck. Is the close he's been working on for my new target?

“I must say, I'm surprised to hear from you,” he adds.

“Why is that?”

“Last we spoke, I felt it was pretty clear de Bont had moved on. How have you been?”

“I've been well, Ernst, thanks. Are you telling me the property is off the market?”

Real estate is always about the dance …

“The property has not yet been sold, if that is what you are asking.”

And I've had my share of jaunts around the ballroom.

“In that case, there's some information I could use. I was going
to leave you a message to e-mail it first thing tomorrow, but the sooner I receive it the better.”

“What is it you want?”

“A most likely scenario capital-improvement schedule for the next five years of major building equipment. I had requested one following a review of the offering materials, but in reviewing the file I see it was never received.”

“Is that right? Hmm—I remember your request and thought I sent it on.”

He had. And it had been received. But I couldn't let him think the next little piece of information I'd be handing him was the reason for the call.

“In any event, not a problem. I'll send it off as soon as we hang up.”

“Thank you, Ernst, that's appreciated. And again, I'm sorry for calling so late.”

“Not a problem. Business is business.”

“Yes it is. Speaking of which, from what I understand there were two firms seriously interested in your property so let's just say while I'm interested in the fact it hasn't turned over yet, I'm happy you were, at least, according to the rumors in the marketplace, leaning toward the private player.”

True, there were two major firms interested in the property at last notice—one private, one public. But the public firm, Gruden & Wayfield, is the one with whom they are about to make the deal.