Page 30 of Old Money
“He mentioned that,” I continue, still keeping my own voice casual. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Theo repeats, shrugging. “Just—he’s still there, still serving them, I don’t know. Not the guy I thought he was.”
I look at Jules, alarmed:What the hell does that mean?
She lifts a hand, rolling her eyes:Don’t bother.
I pick up my pizza, backing away from the touchy subject. Then I see Isaac across the table, looking at Theo with worried eyes. I tilt my head, catching his gaze in the silence.
“Guess I’m the pooper now, huh?”
Simon erupts into laughter, spraying tiny bits of pizza across the table, and everyone starts yelling at once—the silence decidedly broken.
***
I stay up late again that night, lying on the foldout bed, waiting until they’re asleep. I don’t know why, but it feels wrong to work on my investigation while they’re awake up there, brushing teeth and slamming doors, and shouting at each other about slamming doors. All their wholesome family noises just make me feel more like a criminal liar.
It’s after eleven when I pull out my laptop.Just a liar, I think.Not a criminal one—not technically. Then I log into my new, secret email account and email the private investigator I’ve paid to dig up personal information on Patrick Yates and his associates.
Re: A.C. contact info
Alice—
Got the address and phone numbers, as requested (see attached). My two cents, let that sleeping dog lie. Looks like a biter to me. —J
Private investigation may be legal, but it’s easy to forget that when your PI is Jeremy. All his emails are like this: one part information, two parts ominous metaphor. Jeremy is what people around here would call “quite the character.” But he’s good at his job. I emailed him before I came to Briar’s Green, thinking at first that maybe I should pay a professional to handle the whole thing. I knew he’d done gigs for two of my former employers. I have no idea why, and I gather that’s part of what makes him good—$350-an-hour good.
The $350 is actually his low-end fee. He made a point of telling me when I first reached out:
And I typically charge a premium for high-profile guys. Higher risk, etc. But I don’t know how much help I’ll be on this one. Rich folks are one thing, but old money’s different.
Another term for Jeremy isparanoid cliché. We exchanged a handful of emails before I officially engaged him for up to three hours of “light touch” work. (Basic data pulls. No boots-on-the-ground stuff.) I then had to set up a new email account specifically for his correspondence, and agree to “destroy” the account once our work was done. Further, I agreed to use it only on my laptop—never on my phone. Jeremy doesn’t do phones, and will only call or text during “life-and-death situations.”
Again, I’m not going there with this guy. I’m not getting run off the road for this one. Copy?
I told him I did indeed “copy.”
Okay boss, I’m on it. I’ll get you a background in a few weeks. Like I said, don’t get your hopes up, but if there’s anything useful out there, you’ll have it. Anything comes up in the meantime, just ring the bell.
Jeremy’s an expensive oddball, but I need someone to track down the intel I can’t—the stuff I can’t even file a request for. Patrick’s lived a whole life since the murder, and I know it hasn’t been squeaky clean. He was a tabloid topic too, those first few years. “Patrick Boozes on the Beach Weeks After Girlfriend’s Suspicious Death.” “Bad Boy Yates Kicked off Campus After Frat Photos Leak.” “ ‘It Got Nasty!’ Blue-Blooded Brat Pack Parties Hard at Patrick’s 21st.” They really wore out that “blue-blooded” angle.
Eventually though, they got bored with him. As Caitlin evaporated into old news (tragic, but old), so did Patrick’s infamy. The details got murky in public memory, and the longer he walked around free—dating models, clubbing in Corfu, hitting the odd charity gala—the more people assumed he had a right to. Patrick skipped out on his last semester of college, taking the trust he’d gotten access to upon turning twenty-one, and moving to Silicon Valley, where he’d run around dumping chunks of it into random start-ups like coins in a slot machine. When, five years later, one of them actually succeeded, Patrick was suddenly a tech mogul—despite the fact that all he’d done was buy himself a title. Five years after that, he’d moved back to New York in semiretirement, even wealthier than he’d been before. He bought one of the old Astor mansions on a wide swath of riverfront property, abutting his parents’ own land—quietly tripling his family’s footprint in the village. And when his uncle stepped down from the Yates Foundation—one year after Susannah began working there—Patrick quietly took his board seat.
Those are the broad strokes of the last twenty years. I’m countingon Jeremy to fill in the dirty details—and I know they’re out there, even if they didn’t make headlines. Patrick managed to live quietly for a while, butThe Club Kidand the “murder fans” ended all that. Now he’s back in the tabloids, and still boozing on the beach with the same old blue bloods—one of them at least.
“Billionaire Patrick Yates’s Boys Night Out in Naples.” I saw theDaily Mailpost this evening, just after leaving work: Patrick and two other men, bottles dangling from their hands, outside a bar. It’s one of a few small items they’ve run this week, following Patrick and Susannah’s “summer getaway.” Thanks to the Google Alert I set up for Patrick’s name (among others), I’ve been following the trip too. According to theMail, Patrick and Susannah have opted for a joint bachelor/bachelorette trip, cruising around southern Italy “with a group of their closest friends.” The whole thing reeks of PR, particularly since all the “close friends” pictured are clearly Patrick’s pseudo-celebrity friends: models, a DJ, a celebrity stylist—names I vaguely know. Today’s post is the first one with a face I recognize: Alex Chapman’s. It’s a grainy, low-lit photo, and his name’s not in the caption. But he’s standing beside Patrick—right where he always was.
I forwarded the piece to Jeremy, and asked him to get me Alex’s contact info, including any workplace numbers and his home address. Realistically, the only way I’ll get ahold of him is by showing up at his door.
I open the attachment of Jeremy’s email, my pulse picking up as I scan the short page. The work address has a Manhattan zip code, but it’s a PO box—no office listed. I can’t be sure, but it’s a good bet that he works from home. And the home address is local—in Briar’s Green, barely five minutes from the club. He’s still got a local cell number too.
“Fuck it,” I say to myself, and whip out my own phone, dialing.
This is silly—not strategic. I don’t even know what I’ll say if he answers, and anyway, it’s not even 6:00 a.m. in Italy. I should wait. I shouldn’t do this—not while he’s yachting around the Mediterranean with Patrick.
But I let it ring. I’m smiling, excited—I can’t help it. The phone clicks and a robotic voice tells me to leave a voicemail, then it beeps.
“Hi,” I say, inhaling sharply. “Alex, this is—”
