Chapter 26

Henry Kimball was in Philadelphia, parked across the street from a building owned by Rebecca Grubb, when his phone rang. The number said it was from Shepaug, Connecticut, and he instantly knew that it was bad news.

"Hello," he said.

"Is this Henry?"

He recognized Lily's mother's voice. "It is. Hi, Sharon. What's going on?"

"Oh, sorry to bother you, Henry, but David thought it would be worth giving you a call and I guess that I agreed with him. Lily's gone missing. She took a walk into town this afternoon and she never returned."

"Did she have her phone with her?"

"No, of course she didn't. I've dialed her number, but she'd left it by the couch in the living room."

"Did you call the police?"

"Well, we did. They were here earlier, and they were helpful, but I'm not sure there's too much they can do right now."

"What time did she take the walk into town?" he said.

"Same time she usually does. Probably around three o'clock. She's usually back by five at the absolute latest."

"And she walks through the woods, usually?"

"I think so. Maybe she's there now. Maybe we should go look for her." Sharon's voice was rising in pitch.

"No, don't go look for her," he said. "The police can do that tomorrow morning, and if the police won't do it, I'll come down, okay?"

"Okay," Sharon said. She sounded scared. Henry felt as though she knew what he did, which was that something bad had happened to Lily.

"You don't think she's taken the train up to see you, then?" she said, as though the idea had just occurred to her.

"Maybe," he said. "If she shows up here, you'll be the first to know, okay? Try to get some sleep, and call me first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, Henry," she said. "You've always been such a good friend."

Henry sat in the car for a moment on the dark street, the phone in his hand. He tried to slow his thoughts down, to think rationally about what might have happened to Lily. If Ethan Saltz had gotten to her in Shepaug—and it sounded as though he had—then he had either killed her and left her, in which case she was probably lying in the woods, or he'd killed her and taken the body with him, in which case she was anywhere. Maybe in some dumpster or in a shallow grave that would never be uncovered. Or maybe he had taken her alive. If it was one of the first two options, then there was nothing much he could do now except make it his goal in life to find Ethan Saltz and make him pay. But if Lily was still alive—and until he knew otherwise, he would make the assumption that she was—then it was crucial that he find Ethan as soon as possible.

The fact that he was already in Philadelphia was a good thing. Before leaving from Cambridge to drive down here Henry had done research into the name that Lily had given him. Robert Charnock, owner of Charnock Gallery. It seemed possible, maybe even probable, that Saltz was Charnock, if for no other reason than the fact that there was so little information about Charnock and so few pictures of him online. He owned a high-end gallery, which would make one think he had a very public presence, but it was clear he avoided exposure. There had been, however, a wedding announcement from six years earlier—Charnock married a woman named Rebecca Grubb. She, unlike her husband, had a fairly robust online presence. She was a divorcée with two children. She was on the boards of several Philadelphia arts institutions, including the Mütter Museum, and she ran her own charitable organization called SEAP, or Society for the Encouragement of the Arts in Philadelphia. Henry found her address, a house in Rittenhouse Square, one of the tonier parts of Philadelphia.

And that was where he was sitting, on a street of brick town houses that reminded him of Beacon Hill in Boston. His plan had been to sit and watch the front entrance. It was just past eight at night, and he was hoping to catch sight of Charnock coming or going, hoping to get a good enough look at him to see if he really was Ethan Saltz. But now that he'd gotten the phone call from Sharon, everything had changed. He got out of the car and crossed the road, going up the stone steps to Rebecca Grubb's front door.

There was a very old knocker on the door in the shape of a lion's head and he rapped several times, then waited. Just as he was about to knock again, the door opened a crack and a woman peered out from behind the door chain. Her skin had the glossy look of someone who had just removed all her makeup. "Can I help you?" she said.

"Hi, you must be Rebecca Grubb. I'm very sorry for the late call, but I was hoping to speak to your husband."

"Robert's not here right now. What is this about?"

"I'm a private investigator." Henry pushed one of his fake cards—identical to his real card but with a different name—through the crack in the door and she took it but didn't look at it. "I'm employed by someone who has been conned out of a great deal of money, and in my investigation it has become clear that the prime suspect is someone who has also had business dealings with your husband. Sorry for being so vague, but the reason I'm here bothering you is because I thought your husband would like to know as soon as possible that he might be in some financial jeopardy. I tried to find a phone number for him, but..."

"Yes, he likes to remain anonymous," Rebecca said. "He's really not here tonight. He's scouting for antiques on the Maine coast."

"Is it possible for you to give me his cell phone number? I really do think he'd like to hear what I have to say."

He watched her think about it. She had a bland but pretty face, her hair pulled back and held with a floral-print headband, and Henry thought that he'd never seen such a smooth forehead on someone who wasn't a child. "I'm sorry," she said, "I don't give out my husband's cell number, but I'm happy to get a message to him from you."

"Do you think he'll be at the gallery tomorrow?"

"Doubtful," she said, "but his schedule changes all the time. Chris Salah will be there, though—he's the one who really runs the gallery. In fact, he's probably a much better person for you to speak with than my husband if it has anything to do with a client of the gallery."

"Great," Henry said. "Chris Salah. I'll check in with him in the morning." He took a step back from the door.

"His phone number is probably on the website," Rebecca said, her voice suddenly friendlier now that Henry was backing away.

"Thank you again, you've been very helpful to someone who knocked on your door in the middle of the night."

"It's not quite the middle of the night," she said.

"How long have you been married to Robert?" Henry said.

She moved her mouth to the side while she thought, then said, "Four years now."

"Was he running a gallery here when you met him?"

"God, no. He was a dealer, though, an art dealer, but it was all online. I'm the one who convinced him to have a gallery. You don't really think he's in financial danger, do you?"

"Please don't worry about it. The person I'm looking into did take quite a lot of money from my client, and then your husband's name showed up as another potential client for this same person. Does your husband like to gamble with his money?"

"With my money, you mean?" she laughed. "No. My husband is only interested in art. I mean, he loves to sell a painting, but unless he leads some kind of secret life, I don't think he's investing in get-rich-quick schemes."

Rebecca didn't seem worried, and Henry thought it was probably because her husband had no access to her own wealth. He could also tell that she'd decided that he was harmless, and for a moment he considered pulling out his phone, showing her the old headshot of Ethan Saltz, then asking if that was her husband. He wasn't sure she'd tell him, though, and he was sure that as soon as he did that, she'd become very suspicious, probably warn her husband that someone had come around snooping. He decided he could wait until morning to confirm the identity of Robert Charnock.

"Well, that's good to know," he said. "I'll call on Chris Salah in the morning. You've been very helpful."

Henry had been parked outside of the Charnock Gallery since dawn when a stylish man he assumed was Salah bounded up the steps at ten a.m. and let himself in the front door. During the night he'd managed two fitful hours of sleep in the backseat of his car, then gone to a twenty-four-hour diner for coffee and to use their restroom to clean up.

He knew he would have to act fast if and when Salah arrived. The most important piece of information was whether Robert Charnock was actually Ethan Saltz. If he wasn't, then he needed to go back to the drawing board, also called the internet, and keep looking. But if Charnock was Saltz, then he'd need to find out where he was. Either he had kidnapped Lily, or he had killed her and hidden the body. Henry pushed that latter thought, the most likely scenario, to the back of his brain.

Henry got out of the car and walked across the tree-lined street to the stone steps that led up to the Gothic fa?ade of the gallery. There was a simple sign by the ornate front door that indicated that the Charnock Gallery resided here, and below the sign was a doorbell and a speaker box. He pressed the bell.

A muffled voice came through the speaker box, saying hello.

"I'm looking for either Robert Charnock or Chris Salah," Henry said.

"Did you have an appointment?"

"I'm here on an urgent criminal matter," he said. "I'm a licensed private investigator and Rebecca Grubb told me to come here."

"I'll be right there."

The man who opened the door was about what you'd expect a high-end gallery manager to look like. He was dressed in salmon trousers and a linen-ish jacket in a blue check. He was very slender and had an impeccable haircut. "I'm Chris Salah," he said, as Henry stepped through the opened door. "Is Robert okay?"

"I don't know," Henry said. "I haven't spoken to him. Is there a place we can sit?"

"Sure, sure," he said, and they went down a short hallway tiled in black-and-white and into a cluttered office with two desks, one that sat in a bay window and one that was pushed against the opposite wall. "Robert's not here," Salah said, "so we can sit at his desk."

Henry looked around the small office space. It could have been the offices for an insurance company except that on the largest wall hung an enormous abstract oil painting and on Charnock's desk there was a small ballerina sculpture that looked like it might have been a Degas. Salah must have seen Henry's eyes go to the sculpture and said, "It's a fake, but Robert always says it's the best fake he's ever seen."

"First things," Henry said, and pulled up a photograph on his phone, leaning across the desk to show to Salah. "Can I confirm that this is your boss, Robert Charnock?"

Salah looked at the photograph and frowned, and for a moment Henry thought that he'd just run out of luck. Then Salah said, "About ten years ago, sure."

"Thank you," Henry said, taking a seat across from Salah. "I don't mean to be dramatic, but there's been some confusion about Charnock's real identity, and I wanted to make sure that we are talking about the same man."

"Is he in trouble?" Salah asked, his voice more excited than concerned.

"He isn't," Henry said. "But I do need to locate him as soon as possible. Do you know where he is?"

Salah sighed. "I think he's in Maine right now. He travels a lot, going to antique stores and estate sales. It's his absolute passion. I can call him for you if you'd like."

Henry had expected that and said, "No, that's okay. At least not right now. To be honest with you, the fact that you've identified his picture is very helpful. The case I'm looking into is some low-level financial fraud and there was some confusion over whether Robert Charnock was actually the owner of Charnock Gallery. Does the name Ethan Saltz mean anything to you?"

Salah shook his head, but then said, "The name's familiar. He might be one of our buyers. I can check for you."

"That would be great," Henry said.

Salah slid behind his own desk and booted up his laptop that was placed on top of a stack of art books.

"Let me see, let me see," Salah was saying as he punched at his keyboard. "What's the spelling of the name?"

"First name is Ethan, and second name is Saltz. S-A-L-T-Z."

"Huh, nothing," Salah said. "I could have sworn..."

"That's okay," Henry said. "It was probably nothing."

"Wait, let me try something else." He clicked some more, then said, "There's an Evan Saltzman in here. That's why that name sounded so familiar."

"Do you know Evan Saltzman?" Henry said.

"I don't. I mean, I recognized the name, but I've never met him. We recently sent him a refund for a painting he returned, which is why the name was familiar. It was a lot of money." Salah laughed.

"Would it be possible for me to get his address?" Henry said.

Salah seemed to hesitate. "Uh," he said. "I'm not sure I should give out that information. I probably shouldn't have given you his name at all."

"Why not?" Henry said. "You sell art, right? I mean, it's not exactly top-secret information."

Henry watched as Salah clenched his teeth slightly, and knew that unless he changed course this conversation was over.

"Listen," Henry said. "You seem like a smart guy, so I'm going to do you a big favor." Salah nodded. "Your boss is potentially in big trouble," Henry continued. "In real big trouble. It's a financial scam that he seems to be involved with, and I think he's going to go down with this ship. The question is: Do you want to go down as well?"

Salah pressed a hand to his chest. "I don't know anything about what you're talking about. Seriously, believe me. As far as I know, we just sell art here."

"I believe you, Chris," Henry said, "but that doesn't mean that you won't be implicated. You obviously have access to financial records because you just told me about a cash transaction that went to Evan Saltzman. I just don't think you're going to have plausible deniability."

"Why would I need to have plausible deniability?" he said, his voice rising a little in pitch. "Should I be worried?"

"Well, your boss should be very worried," Henry said, "and you should be a little worried. I'm going to be honest with you. There's a third party who is about to give up your boss for financial impropriety. The reason I'm trying to find Robert Charnock—the reason I need to find him—is to give him the opportunity to tell his story before this third party does. It's that simple. It's very, very important that I find him, and soon."

"I can call him," Salah said, pulling his phone out from his pants pocket.

"It would be much better," Henry said, "if I could just go find him and speak with him. If you call him, I think he's going to shut down immediately, and that is not going to go well for him. Do you really think he is actually somewhere on the coast of Maine looking for art? Is it possible he's somewhere else?"

"It's possible," Salah said, "but I have no idea. I think you think I have more involvement with this place than I do. I really don't. I just work here."

"Okay, okay," Henry said. "I believe you. But what would be helpful is if you could give me the address for Evan Saltzman that you have on your computer. I'm only asking because it's possible that your boss was once someone named Ethan Saltz and having that address might help us locate him.

"If it helps," Henry added, "I will never reveal that you divulged this information. Right now I just want to find your boss and give him a chance to cooperate before he gets in very big trouble. You'd be doing him a favor."

Henry was watching Salah's eyes and could tell he didn't know what to do. "Maybe if you just excuse yourself for five minutes to use the bathroom," Henry said. "That would work as well."

"Okay," Salah said after a moment. "I actually do need to go and use the bathroom. What's your name again? Did you give me your card?"

"Oh, sorry," Henry said, handing him the fake card that identified him as Ted Lockwood. Salah left the room.

Henry moved fast, sitting down behind Salah's computer. He was staring at some kind of customer database with a number of fields—the customer's name, email address, physical address, place of business, methods of payment, a list of transactions. Salah had left the page for Evan Saltzman up and Henry photographed it with his phone. There was an address, but it was only a post office box in a place called Tohickon, Pennsylvania. He quickly looked at the amount of the most recent transaction—the refund—and saw that it was for $120,000.

Henry stood up just as Salah came back into the room. Salah's face was pale and damp along the hairline, like he'd splashed it with cold water.

Before leaving, Henry said, "Chris, there's no reason for you to believe everything I'm telling you, but you did the right thing this morning. Your boss is a bad man, and you should get away from him. Okay?"

"Am I in trouble?" Salah said.

"No, but you should get your résumé up to date."

Back in the car, Henry set his GPS for Tohickon, Pennsylvania.