The Girl on Prytania Street Page 7

  My legs and hands trembled while I responded to his message.

  Are you sure? After all of these years?

  Yes, the team couldn’t restore the deleted files until now. Technology keeps evolving at the speed of lightning and we finally found the right tools to access the files. I can send the pictures over if you are willing to verify them.

  I want to see them now.

  I had been secretly hoping that the pictures had never existed and that they had been a fantasy I had simply made up. My phone buzzed again and the images flashed on my screen. I didn’t have to stare at them for more than a split second to recognize them. Zoe naked and in poses that she couldn’t have invented herself. Poses that I knew she didn’t willingly make on her own, or did she? I studied her face. She was smiling in some shots as if she was enjoying what she was doing. I looked deep into her eyes and searched for the Zoe I knew, but she wasn’t there. I looked carefully at the background. The pictures hadn’t been taken somewhere seedy as the sheets she lay on were crisp, white, and clearly a thousand thread count of pure cotton. The tears refused to fall. My body was too numb to have a normal reaction to the bombshell that had been dropped on me. Who were you, Zoe Givens? How could I have been so blind? How could I have let you down? Why didn’t you ever reach out to me? I never truly knew you, did I? Robotically I sent a reply.

  They are the same ones I saw on her laptop. Please tell me that you’ve charged and arrested the bastard. I knew he was bad news since the moment I heard his name.

  We have Jay Simmons in custody for possession of child pornography given Zoe’s age when the pictures were taken; however, we cannot charge him for anything more than that. We still have not found any proof that he had anything to do with her disappearance. The messages they exchanged revolved purely around literature, writers, and their literary ambitions. There was nothing sexual about them. I hate to admit it, however, aside from these pictures, I would be proud to call Jay Simmons my son.

  Did he confess to taking the pictures? I held my breath and waited for the response. If he had confessed, then it would at least give me some peace of mind that I wasn’t completely insane.

  No. He claims that he has never seen those pictures in his life and that he is one of the few young men who refuses to watch pornography. In his words,“not for moral reasons but for the sheer fact that watching other people having sex is not as interesting as we are made to believe. Besides, I’m not an idiot. Sex is available on pretty much every street corner. Is it impossible to believe that some of us have greater ambitions than simply getting off?

  You don’t believe that bullshit, do you? It’s clear that he is lying. He took those pictures or knew whoever did. What twenty-two-year-old doesn’t watch porn? His whole righteous act is a front for the monster that lurks underneath, can’t you see that. He was nineteen when he started spending time with Zoe. What nineteen-year-old wants to spend time with a thirteen-year-old girl unless sex is on the table? Why couldn’t he hang out with someone his own age? Why her?

  Kate, I understand how painful this is for you. However, we have to have faith in the legal system and have patience. We cannot let our emotions destroy a young man’s life. I don’t know if Jay Simmons is guilty or innocent and it’s not my place to be the judge of that. I will keep you posted on any new information. When you get back to New York, I ask that you please stop by the station, so we can further discuss this matter.

  Does Richard know?

  Yes, I have informed him of the development.

  I will stop by the station as soon as I get back to New York.

  I shut the text window and opened a deep web browser. I typed in hit man. How to kill someone in police custody. Getting away with murder. New York area. A list of options immediately popped up. There was Dmitri from Queens, Michelle from the Bronx, Troy from Brooklyn, and hundreds of other names from all over the country. They all promised the same thing; the job would be discrete and free of any incriminating evidence that would link the murder back to me. I clicked on Dmitri’s profile. He was a 32-year-old male who worked with the Russian mafia and was asking for ten grand for the hit. He promised that the job would be complete within 48 hours and demanded a 50% payment upfront. It was an easy logical solution to a problem that needed to be solved. If Detective Ryan refused to extract justice, then I would take matters into my own hands. I would contact the hit man and then get rid of this phone. Afterwards, I would hop on a plane to a faraway island where no one spoke a word of English. I would dye my hair and gain weight.

  I was about to press the contact button when I stopped myself. Was I really prepared to kill Jay for my lack of parenting skills? Maybe the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree and Zoe had only repeated the mistakes I had made. The mistakes that still haunted me to this day. The mistake that had found me after sixteen years. The memory was still fresh in my mind.

  “I’m sorry,” he said crashing into me. His water stained the blouse I had bought for my first official day as a college student. I was seventeen and ready to start my life afresh. The last few years had been difficult with losing my mom and all of the pain that came with saying goodbye to a loved one, but I was determined to put all of that behind me and focus on the future.

  “It’s okay.” I blushed not wanting him to know that he could have spilled a bottle of red wine on me and I wouldn’t have protested. I knew who he was. Everyone on campus and the entire country knew his name.

  “Nigel Thomas, I believe you’re in my literature class,” he said extending a hand.

  The fact that he remembered my face was enough to send me into panic mode, but I remained collected. “Yes, I’m Kate Smith. I’m looking forward to your class.” I instantly regretted the words as soon as I said them. They were too eager, too full of worship, but I couldn’t help it. He was a Pulitzer Prize-winning author and he recognized my face. He knew that I was in his class. I wasn’t invisible.

  “Kate, will you do me the honor of having a cup of coffee with an old fool? You see, I’ve only arrived in town and haven’t the faintest idea where to get a decent cup.”

  “Sure, there’s a great place on the second floor,” I said, casually falling into step with him. I shot him a quick glance. I knew that he was in his late forties from his biography. However, he appeared at least a decade younger with baby blue eyes, boyish dimples, and fresh sense of fashion that was sophisticated yet modern. He beat any of the guys my age by a long shot. My mind raced with writing-related questions that I could ask him. What tips could he offer? I was awestruck, and I couldn’t help it. Unlike other girls who typically gushed over athletes and boy bands, writers had always been my rock stars. He was literally a living, breathing demi-god and he had chosen me out of the countless other faces on campus.

  “Do I have something on my face?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I have a copy of On the Streets of Peace and Blood in my backpack.”

  “Why are you carrying that drivel around? Surely, there are better things a young lady can entertain her mind with.”

  “No. It’s epic. The book is brilliant. No one writes like you anymore. I was literally Jacques and Francis, don’t say figuratively, when I mean literally, I mean literally. I morphed into these characters. I could feel every tear Monique shed and was shocked by every lie that Isabella told. I cried when Marque got married and my heart broke a million times over when Gerome died. It is brilliant. You’re brilliant, to be able to pick your thoughts and see where all that inspiration and pure poetry comes from would be like a dream,” I gushed unable to hide my outright obsession with the man and his work.

  “You’re giving me too much credit, love,” he said opening the door to the coffee shop for me.

  “No, I’m not. Your book is like Les Misérables, War and Peace, and Jane Eyre with a dash of utter brilliance.” We ordered our drinks and he let me babble on about how wonderful he was.

  “We should do this again,” he s
aid after we both had finished three cups of coffee each.

  “Really?” I asked. My hands were jittery from caffeine and nerves. The man was not only a genius but witty and had a wicked sense of humor. I had no idea why he would be interested in spending time with a nobody.

  “I happened to stumble across a fantastic little tapas and wine bar near my apartment, would you be too embarrassed to accompany an old fool to dinner?”

  “When?” I asked immediately.

  He grinned at my eagerness probably thinking that I was naïve, but it didn’t matter. He had invited me and I wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to pick his brain. Would he be interested in becoming my mentor? My mind flooded with the possibilities. “Are you busy now?” he asked.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 6 p.m., and I had calculus class in ten minutes. “No. I’m wide open.”

  “Lovely,” he said extending his arm. I took it reluctantly; however, I figured he was only being an English gentleman. We walked arm and arm through the snow-filled street while the frosty air nipped at our cheeks. The Christmas lights filled me with childlike wonder, and for the first time in years, I felt alive and that my dreams were truly possible.

  “How long are you going to be in New York?” I asked already panicking at the thought of him going back to England.

  “My contract is for a year with the possibility to extend to five years if I would like to stay longer.”

  “Are you thinking of staying longer?”

  He gave me a long look. My stomach filled with butterflies. It was the first time I had ever felt that sensation and all of the epic love stories that I had read suddenly made much more sense. I was Elizabeth, and he was my Mr. Darcy. Logically, I knew that he couldn’t be my Mr. Darcy because he was already married making him someone else’s Mr. Darcy. Her name was Debra, and she was a brilliant and beautiful sculptor. They didn’t have any children, but they had been married for over a decade. I was guilty of watching every one of his interviews and reading every bit of information that I could get my hands on. They were a power couple and practically royalty in England.

  “The possibility has crossed my mind,” he said opening the wooden door to the bar.

  Inside, it was dark, quiet, and filled with sophisticated men and women sipping on wine and brandy. We took a seat and he glanced at the menu. “What do you prefer the Cheval Blanc or the Chateau Laffite?” he asked.

  I had never had a sip of wine in my life and he might as well have been speaking Latin. “Can I see the menu?” I asked not wanting to appear wine illiterate. I should have been busy getting drunk while in high school but with a dying mother that hadn’t really been an option. I had taken a sip of a wine cooler as a dare once, but that didn’t count, did it? I guess I was the nerd. The good girl who wanted to get life right.

  He handed me the menu and I quickly scanned it hoping the descriptions would give me an idea of what was both sophisticated and cost-efficient. I was lucky enough to have been left with a healthy savings fund and money from my mother’s life insurance policy, but I had to wait a few years before I could get my hands on it. “I think they made a mistake,” I said looking at the prices.

  “How so, love?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “It says that this bottle is $160,000 and the other one is $33,000.”

  “And that would be the correct price.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “What is in this stuff that makes it so expensive? Unicorns and Harry Potter level magic?”

  He gave me a wink. “That would be about right. Let’s start with the Cheval Blanc to appeal to your more sensible approach to spending.”

  My mouth hung open in disbelief. “I can’t. I don’t have any way to pay for my half. Can we go somewhere else?” I mentally calculated the amount I would have to scruff and save in order to even come close this level of decadence.

  “Don’t worry about it, love. This is on me. After all, I’m the old fool who invited you out to this place.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked naively. “Isn’t this against school rules?” I had read somewhere that relationships between professors and students were strictly forbidden.

  “Who is going to tell on us? I know I won’t.” He gave me another wink and my insides melted. I didn’t want to come across as unworldly, but I wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “Not me. I guess I’ll accept a glass if you’re absolutely sure it’s not any trouble or anything.”

  “If it were any trouble, I wouldn’t have asked in the first place.” He was so calm and sophisticated as if ordering insanely expensive wine was as common as brushing your teeth.

  He coolly ordered the bottle and then poured us each a glass. I giggled as the liquid passed my lips. I felt like a grownup. Here I was sipping wine at a tapas bar with a literary superstar. Maybe my luck had changed and the hardships that had come my way were now a distant memory.

  After countless glasses, the room started to spin slightly. My cheeks were warm and my body was on fire with both love and the alcohol. The time was flying. It must have been past midnight already. The man could quote Keats, Poe, Frost, Hughes, Homer. He had traveled the world and had sold millions of books and now he was sitting here with me. I felt his fingers stroke my cheek. “My darling, Kate. With the earth and the sky and the water, remade, like a casket of gold. For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.”

  “I love Yeats,” I said. At this point, my words were slow, slurred, and I felt unlike myself. Is this what being drunk felt like or was this what being in love felt like? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t had any experience in this department. It was embarrassing to admit that I was a late bloomer.

  His lips met mine. They tasted of wine, roses, and the promise of an enthralling future. “Debra …” I remembered his wife. “You have Debra. You can’t be my Mr. Darcy.”

  “Shhh,” he whispered. “Tonight there is only you and I. I’m not thinking about Debra and neither should you.” His kiss grew more intense and forceful. “Come with me,” he said taking my hand.

  “Where are we going?” I asked not really aware of where I was anymore.

  “They have a special room at the back where we can be alone and drink some more, talk some more.”

  “Really?” I asked overjoyed that the night wasn’t over just yet. I took his hand and followed him blindly into the V.I.P. room. The waiters didn’t pay us any attention as we walked into the dark room which was filled with plush sofas and blazing candles. We sat side by side on a couch. Another bottle of wine appeared and Nigel took out a small package from his jacket pocket. He spread a white line of powder on the table and snorted it.

  “Cocaine?” I asked surprised that he would be into such a thing. “But why?”

  “Don’t be a prude, love. All of the great minds have an addiction of one sort or another. Voltaire, King, Van Gogh, all of them. This is how I wrote On the Streets of Peace and Blood. Give it a try my sweet Kate,” he urged.

  “I can’t,” I said a sudden clarity overcame the buzz brought on by the wine.

  “Oh, darling, don’t be a prude. You do want to be a literary superstar, don’t you?”

  “What does this have to do with being a literary superstar?” I asked.

  “When I wrote On the Streets of Peace and Blood, I was on nothing but cocaine, coffee, and the occasional croissant. Best month of my life.”

  “Wait. You wrote that book in a month?”

  “You sound surprised, love. Try this stuff and I promise you’ll have a Pulitzer by your name by next year.”

  I hesitated, but he gave me another kiss that left me hungry for more. I wanted to consume his genius, his scent, his very essence. Above all, I wanted to please him more than anything, so I snorted the white powder and gave Nigel another deep kiss which was full of fire, fury, and a hunger that I never knew existed. I wasn’t this girl. I had kissed exactly one boy in my entire life and that was on the cheek. I felt Nigel’s hand on my chest, und
oing my blouse and then bra. I was exposed, terrified but unable to say no.

  “You’re trembling my sweet, Kate,” he whispered. “Is this your first time?”

  “Yes,” I shyly admitted quickly covering my chest with my arms.

  “Shhhh, don’t tremble.” He removed my arms from my chest. His mouth was on my nipple and his hands were unzipping my pants.

  “No,” I whispered. “I can’t, please. Please take me home,” I begged.

  “Don’t be silly, of course you can. Can’t you see how beautiful you are? These breasts are enough to inspire volumes of poetry. You’re inspiring me, can’t you feel that, Kate? I feel as if I could write another novel this very night.”

  I was naked as I watched him unzip his pants. He covered my mouth in another kiss as he stretched my body out on the couch and climbed on top of me. The next part was a painful blur that seemed to stretch on for hours. I must have passed out because when I woke my body was covered with my jacket and my head hurt like hell. I scrambled to put on my clothes.

  “Honey, you want me to call you a cab?” asked a waitress who stood over me.

  “Where is he?” I asked frantically scanning the room for Nigel.

  “Who? The man you were here with?”

  “Yes, Nigel. We came here together.”

  “Here, he left you this note.” She handed me a napkin which I grabbed and immediately read.

  Kate,

  Thank you for the time we spent together. I apologize that I must leave you like this. I have an early day tomorrow. See you in class.

  Nigel.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 2 a.m. Without warning a flood of tears gushed out of my eyes. The blonde waitress gave me a sympathetic glance. “Rough night?” she asked.

  I didn’t know how to respond. I was confused, overjoyed, sad, a mixed bag of emotions. Did he really have an early morning? Why hadn’t he woken me up? We had so much in common, didn’t we? He had felt a connection too, hadn’t he? “I don’t know,” I said. “It was great, but then …”