The Other Life (28 page)

Quinn pulled out a chair and sat. “Listen, before you got here I made a call . . . to that police detective. I told him. I told him how you found the paintings in Cordell’s closet.”

“What!”

“I had to, Hayden. It was the right thing to do.”

“Are they going to arrest him?”

“I would imagine so. The detective asked me where I could find him, and I told him where Cordell was staying.”

“You didn’t!”

“He broke into the house and stole the paintings. He needs to answer for that.”

“But he could go to jail!”

Quinn nodded. Hayden rose and started to pace.

“I don’t think I would have done that, Quinn,” Lewis said.

“Why not?”

“You know how I feel about Cordell. He can be pretty obnoxious. But I’ve been thinking about it all week, and the thief piece just doesn’t fit. I don’t think he did it.”

“Are you serious?” Quinn asked.

“Honey, you know my track record. My business hinges on the ability to size up a man’s character. Cordell is annoying, but he’s not a criminal.”

“You sound so sure,” Hayden said.

“Not one hundred percent . . . but pretty close.”

“It never made sense to me, either,” Hayden said. “I don’t know if I ever told you this story, but a couple of years ago a woman sitting next to him on the subway left a shopping bag behind. It had two new pairs of shoes inside, so Cordell found her name on the credit card slip, looked up her phone number, called her, and then met her on a street corner to return the package. That doesn’t sound like someone who would steal, does it? But I couldn’t come up with a plausible explanation for finding those paintings in his closet. I figured he was getting ready to sell them on eBay or something.”

“That actually makes sense,” Quinn said. “I was wondering how he was planning on unloading stolen artwork.”

“It just doesn’t jibe for me,” Lewis said.

“But he spent all his free time on those sites,” Quinn said. “Even when I was over there he was wheeling and dealing online.”

Lewis rubbed his cheek, which was sporting stubble after a long day. “I wonder . . .” he began.

“Wonder what?” Hayden said.

Lewis bit his lip. “Maybe that’s where he
found
the paintings. Maybe the thieves were dumb enough to sell them online. I mean, let’s say you’re a criminal who normally steals and fences stolen jewelry. Suddenly you find yourself with a stack of paintings to unload and you know nothing about art. The easiest thing to do would be to list them online.”

Hayden’s face lit up. Clearly he was thrilled at the prospect of exonerating Cordell. Quinn felt a nervous tug in her gut. She didn’t want to see him get his hopes up only to face crushing disappointment.

“It all seems so unlikely,” she said. “Even if he spent hours and hours at those sites, what are the chances he stumbled across a listing for the stolen paintings?”

“Maybe he went looking for them,” Lewis suggested.

“We could check his computer,” Hayden said to Lewis. “It’s in the garage.”

“Wouldn’t that be an invasion of privacy?” Quinn said.

“I don’t think he’d mind very much,” Lewis said, “since we’re trying to clear him.”

A short while later, Cordell’s laptop was on the kitchen table, with Lewis sitting in front of it. Hayden and Quinn watched from over his shoulder as he tried to access Cordell’s eBay account, which was password protected.

“Any ideas?” Lewis asked Hayden.

“Try
julios.
It’s the name of the restaurant where we had our first date, and I know it used to be his e-mail password.”

Lewis tried it but couldn’t gain access. Hayden suggested his own name, Cordell’s sister’s name, and his niece’s name, but no luck. They tried matching up ages and dates of birth with the names, but were still denied. Hayden came up with the name of Cordell’s beloved Bichon, who died years ago, several of his ex-boyfriends, and even the name of the soap opera part he had recently landed. Still nothing. They switched over to craigslist and tried all the same passwords, but still couldn’t access the account.

“Maybe there are some clues in his e-mail,” Hayden suggested.

“You said he uses
julios
for that one?” Lewis asked.

“He used to,” Hayden said. “But he might have changed it.”

The tension was palpable as Lewis accessed Cordell’s e-mail account and typed
julios
into the password prompt. It was, they all felt, their last shot. They held their breath as Lewis hit enter.

Incorrect password.

Quinn looked at her brother’s face. Hope had given way to misery. “I’m sorry,” she said to him.

Lewis continued typing, determined to go through the whole list of possible passwords they had tried for the other accounts. Quinn knew it was futile and wrapped her arms around her brother to comfort him.

“Wait!” Lewis yelled. “I’m in!”

Quinn turned to the computer. A list of names and subject lines appeared. Lewis scrolled down until he found a correspondence between Cordell and someone called [email protected] with the heading “paintings.” They read from the bottom up. The first e-mail was from Cordell, dated several days after the theft.

The response from bellofek1978 came within an hour:

It was signed by “Bello” and included a 917 number.

“Oh, my God!” Hayden cried. “He’s innocent! I knew it.”

“I don’t understand,” Quinn said. “Why didn’t he say anything? Why would he keep this a secret?”

“Maybe he was waiting until he got back from Los Angeles,” Lewis said.

“Right!” Hayden said. “I just remembered. Before he left he asked if we could get together with you two when he got back. He said he wanted to make amends for the misunderstanding. I thought he was going to make a production of asking you to be in our wedding party, but I bet he was planning to make a big deal of returning the paintings and surprise us all.”

“He wanted to be a hero,” Lewis said.

“A hero!” Hayden repeated, his face flushed.

Quinn lowered herself into a chair. “I feel like such a jackass. I got him arrested.”

“I’ll take the laptop straight to the precinct right now,” Lewis said. “I bet they’ll release him.”

“I’ll go with you,” Hayden said. The rosiness had given way to a glow. Hayden was beaming.

Quinn squeezed his hand. “I’m glad it worked out this way. And I’m so sorry for calling the police,” she said. “I really thought—”

He cut her off. “Never mind,” he said. “It’s a happy ending.”

“I can make it even happier,” Lewis said. “His password was
Hayden
.”

QUINN FELT LIKE A DOG FOR HAVING CAUSED CORDELL SO much misery. The police had shown up at the friends’ apartment where he was staying and led him away in handcuffs. He was at the precinct, in the middle of being booked, when Lewis and Hayden arrived with the laptop, insisting on speaking with the detective. An hour later, they walked out the door with the freed suspect and went out for beers. The following day Cordell and Hayden came over and loaded all the things from the garage back into Hayden’s car. Quinn apologized two or three hundred times, and Cordell joked that the next time he was tempted to call her a homophobe, he would keep it to himself.

Quinn stood at the curb as her brother slammed the trunk of his car closed. She hugged him good-bye and then turned to Cordell.

“I’ve been apologizing so much I forgot to thank you for retrieving the paintings.”

“You’re welcome.”

Quinn wanted to make plans to take the two of them out to dinner, but it would have to be a very special restaurant to both thank him for what he had done and make up for getting him arrested. She thought about her schedule for the week ahead and realized that she and Lewis already had plans for a night out—they were going to Walt St. Pierre’s party with Meredith. Then she had a great idea.

“What are you guys doing next Thursday?” she asked.

 

 

THE NEXT FEW DAYS found Quinn bubbling with anticipation about the party. It was exciting to focus on something a little bit glamorous instead of obsessing on her problems. She also thought it would be fun to walk in with her very own posse—Lewis, Hayden, Cordell, and Meredith. She allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy of rubbing elbows with the rich and famous . . . and making an impression. Maybe she and Janeane Garofolo would exchange e-mail addresses and become cyber pals.

Since nothing in her wardrobe would do, she had gone shopping and splurged on a new black V−neck sweater, roomy and flattering enough to hide her expanding belly. She put it on over a push-up bra, which accomplished the task of heaving her swollen breasts higher than she thought possible. The result was enough cleavage to embarrass her.

“You are smokin’!” Lewis said, sneaking up from behind and wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I feel like I’ve borrowed someone else’s breasts.”

He laughed. “You look great, but if you feel self-conscious ...”

As she viewed herself from the side, debating whether or not to change into a different bra, the phone rang and Lewis answered it. Quinn could tell he was speaking to Georgette, and that she had come down with a cold. Her heart sank. Lewis covered the phone with his hand and spoke to his wife.

“She’s running a little fever but said she’d be happy to come stay with Isaac anyway, if we didn’t mind exposing him.”

She has to, thought Quinn. I just can’t take another disappointment. Sure it was just a bit of frivolous fun, but when would she get another chance like this? After all she had been through these past weeks, she felt she deserved it.

On the other hand, Isaac. He had just gotten over a very bad cold, and it was irresponsible in the extreme for Quinn to allow him this exposure.

She sighed and pulled off her earrings. “Tell her thanks anyway and we hope she feels better.” She sat on the bed, dejected.

Lewis relayed the message and got off the phone. He sat next to his wife.

“You go,” he said.

“What?”

“Go without me. I’ll stay home with Isaac.”

That hadn’t even occurred to her, and Quinn felt a buzz of excitement returning. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. There’s no reason we both have to miss it. You’ll have fun with your little gang. Just report back to me on who Meredith leaves with.”

She threw her arms around him. “I will!”

“And promise me you won’t make out with Adam Sandler.”

She laughed. “Not to worry. But you’d better cross your fingers that Jon Stewart isn’t there.”

 

 

THE FOURSOME HAD ARRANGED to meet up at Penn Station. Quinn’s train was a few minutes late getting in, so Hayden, Cordell, and Meredith were already at the information booth waiting for her when she arrived.

They exited Penn Station among the throngs, and were greeted with a wave of umbrellas popping open against the freezing rain. Quinn huddled beneath Meredith’s as they walked slowly and carefully to the taxi line, hobbled by high heels and slippery pavement.

All four of them piled into the back of an SUV taxicab and gave the driver the address. Because she was married to a fleet owner, Quinn knew they were in a favorite model of New York City taxi drivers, as it brought them more fares on slow nights, when passengers sometimes passed up the smaller vehicles in favor of these roomier cabs.

The taxi drove north and east through the slick streets, and Quinn was glad she had opted to leave the car at home and take the train. She hated driving in icy conditions.

As they approached the party venue, Quinn asked Meredith if she knew anything about the place, called simply Ohm.

“I was at a party there once before,” Meredith answered. “It’s sort of an Asian-fusion restaurant-lounge-dance-club with a screening room upstairs.”

“I get it,” Quinn said. “Kind of like a Chuck E. Cheese for grown-ups.”

“And lookee,” Hayden said, pointing to a line of limos out front, “must be a class trip.”

The facility was closed to the public for the event, and admission required a $150 charitable donation per person, and at least one member of the group had to show a printed invitation. Pricey for a night of fun, Quinn thought, handing over her credit card, but for a good cause.

The foursome entered the main dining room of the restaurant, which was dimly lit and elegantly appointed in minimalist Asian fashion. A sleek bar ran the length of the room, and a jazz quartet in the corner played soft music. Quinn was surprised by the thin crowds and low-key atmosphere, but the hostess who offered to take their coats and umbrellas quickly explained that most of the guests were upstairs, where there was dancing and a DJ.

Quinn, Meredith, Hayden, and Cordell followed her directions to the staircase in the back, trying to be subtle about scanning the small groups they passed for famous faces.

They could hear the loud, pounding music through the speakers before they even reached the room. It was a cavernous space, with a loft-height ceiling and lighting even dimmer than what was downstairs. Quinn squinted at the crowd, looking for someone recognizable. She had the odd feeling of being watched, and turned around. When she saw no one she knew, Quinn realized it was probably just a reaction to her self-consciousness. She hadn’t been to a party like this in so long.

“Look!” Cordell said to Hayden. “There’s Jennifer!”

“Aniston?” Quinn said, struggling to see.

“Martinez,” he corrected. “Our Pilates instructor.”

Cordell and Hayden took off in her direction, and Meredith told Quinn she was set on getting an introduction to Walt St. Pierre. She suggested they push their way to the bar in the back for drinks and then try to find him.