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An image flashed through Matteo’s head: a table of judges, holding up signs that read ‘3’. Then the full impact of the doctor’s comment struck home.
“Wait a minute. Amnesia? She’s lost her memory?”
“I’ve said all I can say, sir. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss further details with anyone other than her next of kin or an individual legally authorized to act on her behalf, so if you could give us some information, please? Her full name. The responsible party to contact.”
Anthony Pastore. A brute of a man who wants out of a marriage to a woman who trembles in his presence.
“Mr. Bellini? Can you tell us who to contact?”
Amazing, how easily the lie came to his lips.
“Me,” Matteo said. “I’m the person to contact.”
“Are you a relative?”
“Lawyer,” Matteo said briskly. Well, it wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. He hadn’t said he was Ariel’s lawyer, only that he was one.
“And the patient’s last name?”
Matteo hesitated.
“Mr. Bellini? The patient’s last—”
“Bennett,” Matteo said, because, after all, what was one more lie? “And I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER FIVE
According to Matteo’s iPhone, Lake Serene was almost a five hour drive from the city.
Too much time.
He called the same charter service he’d used flying to and from Texas. It was located at La Guardia airport, easy and quick for him to reach. He made the call as he taxied to his condo to pick up an overnight bag.
“This is Matteo Bellini.”
“Yes, Mr. Bellini. How may we help you?”
“I have to get to Lake Serene.”
“In upstate New York?”
“Right. And I need to get there ASAP.”
He could hear the clerk’s fingers tapping on his computer keyboard.
“You can fly into the Lake Serene Municipal Airport, or into Adirondack Regional.”
“I’m assuming the municipal airport is near the town, right?”
“Well, yes, but you said ASAP.”
“Absolutely.”
“The kind of jet that would get you there quickest can’t land at the muni. Fly into the regional, rent a car, it looks like maybe a fifteen mile drive to Lake Serene. But I should tell you that you’re gonna pay almost twice as much for the faster plane, and—”
“Do it,” Matteo said. “And arrange for a vehicle once we land.”
“You want something with a driver?”
“No driver. Just something that will fly almost as fast as a plane when I step on the gas.”
“Got it, sir. When will you be here?”
Matteo glanced out the taxi window. They were half a dozen blocks from his place. For once, traffic was light. He did some fast calculating. Three more minutes in the cab, five to toss the few things he’d need into a carryon, then twenty, twenty-five minutes to La Guardia.
He leaned forward and tapped on the partition that separated him from the driver. The cabbie opened the partition and their eyes met in the mirror.
“I want you to wait for me once you drop me off on Central Park West. Then you’ll take me to La Guardia airport. Five hundred bucks if you get me there in twenty minutes or less. Deal?”
The cabbie grinned. “Deal.”
Matteo nodded. “Twenty five minutes,” he said into the phone.
In fact, he made it in twenty.
* * *
The flight seemed to take forever.
Matteo filled the time by first messaging Janet and telling her to cancel his appointments for the next two days. Then he went online, Googled concussions and ended up learning enough to make him more concerned than he already was.
Grade 1 concussions were minor. You banged your head, you said “ow,” it hurt a little and you might have blurred vision or some nausea, but all that passed in fifteen minutes.
Grade 2 concussions were a little more serious. Symptoms were similar to grade 1, but lasted longer, though not for more than a day.
Grade 3 concussions were bad news. Nausea. Dizziness. Blurred vision. Confusion. Memory loss. And the symptoms lasted, although no one could predict for how long. A day? A week? A month?
A muscle in his jaw knotted.
For all he knew, Ariel Pastore’s condition was serious.
So was his.
He was standing on shaky legal ground.
Shaky?
He sat back and stared out the window. Night had overtaken the swift-flying silver jet. He could see nothing through the thick cloud cover.
He wasn’t on shaky ground, he was on quicksand.
He’d told the doctor a bunch of lies. At best, if you were feeling generous, they’d been lies by omission.
He’d let the man think he was Ariel’s attorney.
He’d given him her maiden name.
He hadn’t mentioned she had a husband.
To top things off, he hadn’t phoned Tony Pastore to tell him his wife had not only been found, she was hurt.
Okay.
Matteo put his hand to his forehead and rubbed at the headache he could feel starting in his temples.
He’d fucked up.
He was a lawyer. He knew right from wrong, and what he’d done had been wrong. A husband had the right to know something had happened to his wife.
Maybe. But that didn’t mean he had a legal obligation to be the one who gave him the news, especially since Pastore was no longer his client.
Dammit, this was like a bad game of chess, with the pieces moving back and forth, back and forth…
Matteo leaned back in his leather seat
Maybe he’d simply overreacted.
Yeah, well, who wouldn’t? That scene Saturday night, then the confrontation with Pastore, then the call about Ariel… Still, none of that gave him the right to keep Pastore in the dark. He was Ariel’s husband.
But it hadn’t been Tony’s name and number they’d found in her pocket. It had been his, and didn’t that put him squarely in the game?
Matteo got to his feet, walked to the small serving cart at the rear of the plane, opened the mini-fridge and took out a bottle of water. He twisted the bottle cap, brought the water to his mouth, took a long swallow.
Saturday night, she’d pleaded for his help. Sunday, she’d asked Pastore about him. Sometime between Sunday and Monday, she’d run away. With an envelope of cash and his card in her pocket. No ID. No other information.
Just his name and number.
Something ugly was going down. It centered on her. Why?
It was a big question, and Ariel had the answer. It was only logical to keep quiet about her having been found until he’d spoken with her.
Yes. That made sense. He’d talk to Ariel, talk to her doctor, and when he had all the facts, he’d contact Tony.
“Fifteen minutes to touchdown, sir,” the pilot’s disembodied voice announced. “Got some weather out there. Snow. Please make sure your seat is upright and your seat belt is fastened.”
Matteo took a seat, belted himself in, then looked out the window. The lights below them were almost lost in the falling snow.
Moments later, they were on the ground. A long, low car stood nearby, some kind of American sports car. Not the best thing for snow, but it would be fast. A kid in jeans and a baseball jacket handed him a clipboard and a set of keys. Matteo scribbled his signature, thanked the kid, tipped him, and then he was on his way.
* * *
By Manhattan standards, the hospital was small, but it wasn’t the one-or-two room structure he’d half-expected.
A security guard stopped him at the door.
“Visiting hours are over, sir.”
“I had a phone call from a Dr. Charles Stafford. Someone—someone close to me has been in a car accident.”
The guard took a long time looking him over. Matteo was on the verge of telling him to get the hell out of the way when
he nodded and pointed toward a long counter against the wall behind them.
“Reception will help you.”
Matteo nodded his thanks.
