14. All Roads Lead to Cece

All Roads Lead to Cece

Terry does pick up.

She is quick to confirm for us that all of Grace's belongings, devices included, were sent to her and her husband's apartment in Brooklyn.

Sam and I walk quickly down Tenth Avenue, heading toward the nearest subway.

"The question is," I say, "how much access do you think Dad gave her?"

"A lot more than me apparently," he says. "But as much as Uncle Joe? I don't know. I'd say he used to, for sure…"

"I hear a but there?"

Sam shakes his head. "Well, she had heart trouble a few years ago, and I think she had a heart attack. Before the one that… you know… killed her. It was minor, but she took a real step back from the company after that. She still helped Dad with some creative stuff and branding, but I don't know how involved she was in the day-to-day operation. Joe seemed to step in more, at least in a forward-facing way."

"Was there tension between them?"

"Joe and Grace? Not really, no."

"Not for who had Dad's ear the most?"

"Think you're confusing them with me and Tommy."

I suppress a smile.

"So in theory, if those computers were connected, she could have access to what no one seems to want to tell us about…"

"In theory. Sure."

We take a left, head toward the subway. The wind is picking up, that blustery early-evening cold.

"What's your relationship like with her husband?" I ask.

"We've met a handful of times. I barely have one."

"So this is going to go well?"

We hit the stairs, head into the subway. "Can't really go worse," he says.

Grace's apartment is located in a Beaux Arts building in Brooklyn Heights.

The building is something of a Brooklyn landmark. It's not too far from the promenade, with uninterrupted views of New York Harbor and the Manhattan skyline, yet in the heart of Brooklyn Heights' most famous brownstones.

I know these apartments well. Jack has a friend who lives on the fifth floor, and we were here for a dinner party a few months ago. I doubt the doorman recognizes me but he does give us a friendly hello and immediately sends us up to eight, not buzzing Grace's husband until we are already elevator bound.

When we step off the elevator, her husband is opening his apartment door, offering us a smile.

He looks familiar, which confuses me. I'm sure we haven't met before. I've met Grace's daughter, but he and I have never been introduced. He is not only familiar, but he is striking standing there in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, lean and strong and rugged, with these hazel eyes that bore into you. That are currently boring into me.

He shakes Sam's hand and ushers us inside to the foyer—which is when my confusion starts to lift. It feels less like we've walked into an apartment than into an artist's studio. Photography equipment fills the living room, and the walls are covered with beautiful photographs and portraits.

This is why he looks so familiar. It's not that I've met him in person or know him personally. But I know him, all the same. He is Paul Turner—the (well-known) editorial photographer. I had a friend in college who decorated her dorm room completely in his magazine covers. I've seen his photography exhibits at the International Center for Photography and the Brooklyn Museum. Prints of his work appear on the walls of several apartments I've worked on, including Jack's friend's apartment a few floors below this one.

I nod, working overtime to hide my confusion: Paul Turner was Grace's husband? It feels strange that I hadn't known that. At the same time, why would I have known that? Turner is a common last name. And it isn't like I was asking my father who his colleagues were married to.

"I don't think we've met before," he says to me now. "Paul Turner."

He gives me a smile and runs his fingers through his hair. And I clock it. He is wearing his wedding ring. Grace has been gone for the better part of a year now, and he is still wearing his ring.

I'm not sure if he sees me notice that, but he puts his hand in his back pocket.

I try to pivot in case he did notice. In case it made him feel badly, when noticing it made me feel the opposite. It felt like I was witnessing a gesture of something kind. Something like loyalty.

"It's nice to meet you," I say. "I don't think Grace mentioned to me that she lived in this building."

"Well, she didn't really. We lived over on Pierrepont. This used to be just my work studio. But I'm basically here since shortly after she passed away…" He pauses, as if considering that. "Eight months now."

"Fresh start," I say.

"Something like that."

He clears his throat, his voice catching even at the mention of her, and the last place I want to be is standing there in front of a grieving husband, still wearing his wedding ring, at the start of a night that shouldn't involve us.

"Look, I feel badly, guys, I know that I said it was okay to stop by, but my daughter is in town visiting and she just called, so I'm going to need to keep this real quick. She's five months pregnant. When she calls, I come."

"Sure…" Sam says. "We were just wondering if you still have Grace's office belongings here?"

"Like company files?"

"Terry mentioned that when her office was cleaned out, her work computer was sent to you."

He tilts his head, takes Sam in. "You mean her laptop?"

"Exactly," Sam says.

Paul looks back and forth between us. "Can I ask why?"

"Our father's cell phone is missing," I say. "That's the long and short answer. And Grace may have had access to whatever was on that phone. Family photographs, text messages, certain other communications that feel particularly valuable to us now that he's not… here."

"Why would her laptop have any of that?"

"Apparently, Grace often worked on her laptop at home, especially after she started coming into work less," Sam says. "And IT believes her laptop may have shared files that weren't on the company's mainframe."

"Well, if they weren't on the company's mainframe, wouldn't there have been a good reason for that?"

"Because it was personal," Sam says.

Paul shakes his head. "I'm confused," he says. "So are you looking for personal photographs? Or company data?"

"Point is," Sam says, "we aren't trying to cause any trouble for her or for you, obviously…"

"Why would this cause trouble for me?"

I'm quick to jump in, not liking the look he is giving Sam.

"I think, maybe, what Sam is trying to say is we aren't sure what her computer has on it. But we just want to see for ourselves what is there. We do realize that this is a bit of a strange ask…"

"Just a bit."

"That's not really the point," Sam says.

Paul crosses his arms over his chest, his tone growing more irritated. "If you're asking for access to my wife's personal property, it sure is."

"Actually," Sam says, "it's the company's computer, so I'm not sure why it's here in the first place."

"I'm just going to say, I think whatever this is, I'm going to pass on being involved in it, okay?"

"If you're hoping for compensation, we will gladly replace the computer."

Paul laughs. "I don't want your money."

"What do you want?"

"Well, right now, I want to say good night to you both, so I can hop on the subway and not keep my daughter waiting in the freezing cold."

I shoot Sam a look. This is going the wrong way and it's getting worse.

"I get it. We both get that. My brother is just concerned, we're actually both a little concerned, that something bad may have happened to our father. And we're having trouble getting answers from anyone about what was going on with him." I pause. "And Grace, I really thought the world of Grace, and I think if anyone would have known what was happening with him, it might have been her."

He softens, hearing that. "I get that. And that's probably true."

Then he gives me a small smile, something sad behind his eyes, letting me know he means it.

"Maybe you can just help us with one thing in particular, before you go," I say. "Did Grace ever mention Cece Salinger's interest in buying the company?"

He tries not to react, but I can see in his face that he is surprised by the question. "All roads lead to Cece, huh?"

"How do you mean?" I ask.

"That's a longer conversation than I have time for," he says. "But, yes, Grace mentioned that at some point. She mentioned Cece's interest, but my understanding is that your father wasn't interested. That was all settled a long time ago."

He meets my eyes. And I can see that this longer conversation is one he has no intention of having—tonight or any time. So what else did Grace know about Cece? From how he's looking at me, that suddenly feels like a question too.

"The truth is, I didn't hold on to most of her work files, devices, the rest of it. I didn't bring most of it with me from Pierrepont. It was easier not to have to face everything that reminded me of her."

I look around the foyer—the living room beyond it. There are family photographs on the mantel: photographs of their daughter, Jenny, of Grace holding her when she was a baby, of Paul and Grace's wedding. It doesn't look, at first glance, like what he's saying is true. But what do I know about what he feels like is true to him? Maybe this—this small number of photographs, whatever he has chosen to bring with him here—is just a fraction of it. A life together.

"I appreciate that your father's death is disorienting," he says. "It is for me too, truly, and I never even knew him all that well. But I doubt I even have the laptop. Like I told Tommy, Joe asked for most of her stuff shortly after the office sent it here, and I shipped it out to him—"

"Whoa," Sam stops him. "You spoke to Tommy about this? When was that exactly?"

Paul looks back and forth between us. "I'm pretty sure that's a conversation you need to have with your brother."

Paul's cell phone buzzes and JENNY comes up on his caller ID. His daughter. Grace's daughter. He looks back at us.

"Here's the thing," he says. "Grace worked hard and so she didn't talk much about her work when she was at home. Except to tell me two things. She cared about your father. She thought he was a good man despite whatever people said about him. She told me that."

I look at him, taking that in.

"Problem is the other thing she told me was not to trust his kids."

Then he walks back to the front door, holds it open, and waits for us to walk through it.