The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [23]
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been trying to locate Alex. Lynn hasn’t heard from him, and he isn’t answering his cell. I just left a voice mail asking him to call you.”
Lynn was Alex’s assistant and also Amy’s neighbor in Brooklyn. They were members of the same church.
“Try his home, please,” I said, pointing toward my phone. “Speed-dial seventeen.”
“The machine,” Amy announced a few seconds later. “You want me to leave another message?”
I nodded unhappily and shoved the keyboard away, frustrated by my inability to learn anything useful. Rising, I put on my suit coat.
“I’m going to go meet this Roxas woman,” I said, as Amy settled the receiver back onto its cradle. “Keep trying Alex’s home and cell. I’d like to talk to him as soon as possible.”
“I will. And don’t forget you have lunch at the Palace hotel with Senator Simpson.”
“Shit.” I had forgotten. My day had been a mess before I heard from Theresa, and it seemed it was only going to get worse. I shook my head, tempted to swear again, and noticed Amy frowning.
“Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
Amy dropped her eyes to my shirtfront and reached out to straighten my tie.
“I could call the super at Alex’s building and have him go up and knock on the door. Maybe Alex isn’t hearing his phone for some reason.”
It was delicately put, but I knew her well enough to read between the lines.
“You mean because he’s home sleeping off a drunk?” I asked quietly.
Amy nodded.
“Lynn came and spoke to me. She’s worried. She thinks it’s time for someone to have a word with his father.”
I sighed, imagining what a conversation with Walter on the subject would be like.
“Are people talking about it on the trading floor?”
“Not yet,” she said, eyes still lowered. Amy was as uncomfortable with gossip as she was with swearing.
“I feel like a jerk. I should’ve spotted it sooner.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Amy said, sounding a little abashed by her own forwardness. “It’s only gotten bad recently. And you can’t always be looking out for other people’s problems.”
“‘Therefore do not worry about tomorrow,’” I recited, “‘for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.’”
“Matthew six,” she said, looking surprised and delighted. “Amen.”
It was a verse I’d learned in family therapy. The only way I knew not to worry about tomorrow was to abdicate responsibility for my life, or to stop caring about the people I loved. Neither seemed like a good idea. I liked Amy, though, and—regardless of what Matthew had to say on the subject—I knew she worried about me.
“Amen,” I repeated.
6
Café Centro is a big place, with intricately patterned stone floors and multiple dining areas separated by rows of brown leather banquettes and gleaming glass panels. Located right next door to Grand Central Terminal, it’s always busy. I gave the maître d’ my name, and he led me on a serpentine course toward a table in the far corner. A woman who looked to be in her early thirties was sitting alone, reading the Financial Times. She had on a crisp white blouse, a tight black skirt, and smoke-colored nylons. Her hair was done up in an elaborate French twist—a term I knew only because I’d helped Kate attempt one once—and she had a turquoise leather portfolio leaning against her chair leg. Delicate half-glasses perched on the tip of her nose. The overall effect was of a Latin Audrey Hepburn playing a Wharton business school grad. Every guy in the place was surreptitiously checking her out. She set down her paper as I approached and offered me her hand.
“Theresa Roxas.”
“Mark Wallace,” I answered, feeling slightly dazzled. Up close, she looked even better.
She lifted a small silver pot to fill two cups with steaming coffee as I sat down, and then nudged one toward me.
“Congratulations on the Nord Stream story. Your name’s in all