“What did you mean when you said that you pay a price for everything?”
Ariel answers with a blank look.
“The other day, when you were talking about your previous marriage. You seemed to be saying that at a certain point, you were no longer willing to pay the required price for that old life of yours. What was that price?”
Ariel feels a nearly overwhelming urge to tell the truth, to let it all come tumbling out in one big gush that will knock over everything in its path, like the tsunami that swept through Lisbon in the eighteenth century, leveling the medieval old city, leaving in its wake the perfect space to build something modern, something intentional, something beautiful.
But she can’t.
“You’ll see,” she says, and walks away.
*
“Sorry, your name again?”
“Pete Wagstaff.”
“And you’re asking if I know anything about the end of Laurel and Bucky’s marriage?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s so weird. I just saw her. After, like, forever. I hadn’t seen Laurel since she left New York, what, fifteen years ago? Then out of nowhere, boom, I run into her in a bookstore where she apparently works. That’s. So. Weird.”
“Yes it is certainly a coincidence. So her marriage to Mr. Turner?”
“Yeah, well, to begin with, that wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven. Laurel was in truth a little superior with him.”
“How so?”
“Well, she’d been this actress, and then she was doing something in book publishing, and she thought she was so cultured, but Bucky was so finance-y. Maybe he thought she was a little too artsy, and she thought he was a little too crass. Though she didn’t have any trouble spending his crass money.”
Maybe she did, Wagstaff thinks. But he’s not on the phone to argue with Tory Wasserman.
“Anyway, the last time I saw them together was at this big party in the Hamptons, at Charlie Wolfe’s estate. We were seated at the same table. All of a sudden Laurel returns from I don’t know where, looking a little green, and she and Bucky get up and leave with another couple.”
“Who was the other couple?”
“I don’t remember. Then next thing, I’m not seeing her at the gym anymore, she’s not doing lunches or dinners, not returning calls. I run into Bucky one night, he says they had a spat, taking some time apart. That time apart turns into forever. Laurel never returns to New York, no one knows what happened to her. And then I run into her just a few days ago. So weird.”
Wagstaff can feel himself crashing from the long night of cocaine, followed by the short disco nap, and now a third espresso. He’s jittery, quite possibly stupid, and he thinks he may have missed Tory Wasserman’s overarching theory. “So what do you think made their marriage fall apart?”
“Well, some people thought that something happened between Laurel and Charlie.”
Wagstaff feels his heart start to race, yet again. “Something happened? Like an affair?”
“Um … not exactly.”
“Then what?”
Silence. “Hello?” He’s worried that the call was dropped.
“Yeah, I’m here. But listen, this has to be off the record.”
“Of course,” he says. “This can be on background.”
“What does that mean? Like, exactly?”
“That means I can use your words, but not attribute them to you by name. I’d refer to you as a source who knew the couple at the time.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says. “No, I don’t think so. No quotes from me at all.”
“Okay. Agreed. So?”
“So Charlie used to have a reputation for being a little, uh …”
“Forward?” Wagstaff offers.
“No. Forceful.”
Holy shit. “A little forceful?”
“No, I guess not a little. Just forceful.”
Wagstaff feels like he’s going to spontaneously combust. “Are you saying he had a reputation for sexual assault?”
“No, it wasn’t a reputation.” The objection doesn’t sound very strenuous. Or sincere. “Just rumors. It’s what some people said.”
Some people. Wagstaff needs to tread carefully here. He doesn’t want to spook this woman; he needs her to lead him to the next step. “Anyone in particular?”
Tory doesn’t answer.
“I won’t use your name. I promise.”
She still doesn’t respond.
“This is a man who’s about to become vice president, and maybe the next president of the United States.”
“So, wait a sec: You already knew, before you called? That Charlie was involved?”
“You’re not my only source,” Wagstaff says, both honestly and not. “But I need all the corroboration I can find. This sort of accusation, you know, it doesn’t stick easily, not to any man, and certainly not to someone like Charlie Wolfe.”
Wagstaff can imagine that Tory Wasserman has a lot to lose, getting involved in this. Anyone would. But maybe she has more.
“If this man is a serial rapist,” Wagstaff continues, “isn’t that something the American people need to know before he becomes the vice president?”
“Off the record?” Tory asks. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Off the record: Charlie Wolfe is definitely a rapist.”
*
It isn’t until her connecting flight is in the air that Ariel feels confident that she’s actually going to get home. She still has no phone, no computer, no internet access. She doesn’t want any. What she wants is to sleep. She knows that this ordeal isn’t over; in fact a large part of it hasn’t even begun. This long flight might be her only chance at relaxation for a long while.
Relaxation. Did this count? Would she ever again enjoy the luxury of genuine relaxation?
*
“My name is Pete Wagstaff. I’m calling about an old incident involving Charlie Wolfe.”
“Oh boy.” Sigh. “I already told you people: I can’t discuss this.”
“We’ve never spoken before, Captain Pulaski. Who do you mean, you people?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
Wagstaff looks down at his notes. Tory Wasserman provided him with the names of a handful of other women, but first Wagstaff wants to check out this lead about the incident that really matters, at least for the first article that he’s going to write. He’s now certain that it will be a series. This is going to be front-page news for a while.
“I’m calling to confirm that fourteen years ago, Laurel Turner presented herself to your station house to report a sexual assault committed against her by Charlie Wolfe.”
Wagstaff doesn’t actually know the date of the report, nor its location, nor that any report was ever filed by Laurel Turner or anyone else against Charlie Wolfe. These are all guesses that he’s throwing out there for the policeman to confirm or deny or clarify.
But this cop doesn’t say anything.
“Hello? Captain Pulaski?”
“I have no comment.”
And the line goes dead.
This is certainly not evidence, Wagstaff knows. But at the same time, it is almost certainly proof.