The office wasn’t large, about the size of a busy dental practice. The walls were a freshly painted off-white, the framed prints on the walls the sort of generic pastel landscape art designed to put one at ease, if not asleep.
“I’ll be with you in a moment. Please have a seat.”
The young African American receptionist with stylish jade eyeglasses and a beautiful head of long braids pointed us to a small waiting area before she turned her attention back to the receiver in her headset. “Yes... I understand,” she murmured, “that’s correct... would you mind spelling that for me?”
She appeared to be scribbling down an extensive phone message, and I was relieved to see that she was preoccupied. It gave Madame and me a chance to catch our breath and get our bearings.
Downstairs we’d already discussed strategy. The plan was simple. Madame would show the receptionist her set of keys and claim that she’d seen an Asian gentleman drop them when he’d parked his SUV near Dag Hammarskjöld plaza.
If the receptionist offered to take the keys, Madame would refuse to give them up, requesting a chance to speak to the man himself. When he appeared, she’d challenge him, recounting his movements and demand that he give up the name of the person who’d hired him to tail Ellie.
I didn’t like the idea of direct confrontation, but I couldn’t think of a better scheme at the moment, and my former mother-in-law felt confident she could make this work. Maybe she could. Madame was the sort of regal dame with whom most people were reluctant to argue. Secret Asian Man might be one of them.
Given the fact that he was a professional investigator, however, I was willing to bet we were in over our heads. My bookie dad probably would have given us 7 to 3 odds: the long-shot being our actually getting the information for which we came and the more likely scenario landing us unceremoniously on the sidewalk downstairs.
While the receptionist continued talking on the phone, Madame and I settled into the standard issue waiting-room furniture. Madame pawed through the magazines and brochures on the coffee table. I glanced around the room.
“Are you nervous?” I whispered.
“Not at all,” Madame replied, opening one of the office’s glossy brochures. “Just a little impatient.” She dipped into her handbag and pulled out her reading glasses. “This is interesting...” she murmured a minute later.
“What?” I asked, my eyes still on the receptionist.
“This office is being run by a man named Anil Kapoor, but it’s only one branch of a global company. Have a look...”
I took the brochure, and began to read:
At Worldwide Private Investigations, Inc. (WPI), our licensed private investigators, forensic experts, and legal information specialists achieve results. With offices around the globe, we are especially equipped for international investigations, including missing persons, marital and child custody cases, property and copyright disputes, extradition and asset inquiries as well as a host of other investigations and security needs. At WPI, no case is too big, or too small. Whether you are an individual, a C-level executive, or a government official, you can rest assured that our confidentiality is paramount.
Many of our agents are bilingual and are culturally, nationality, and gender diverse. All must clear a thorough background check prior to employment. In addition to military and law enforcement sectors, WPI recruits talent from private service industries such as accounting, computer information systems, and...
I flipped to another leaf of the brochure, where the company bragged about its protective services division, providing security and bodyguards for global corporations and diplomats. Their client list was extensive, and in very small print. I squinted as I scanned the list, pretending that I hadn’t finally reached the age when I needed to borrow Madame’s reading glasses...
Ensor Pharmaceuticals, Gaylord Group, J.P. Madison Associates, Lamelle-Fressineau, Paratech Global, Snap Cola Enterprises, Komiyama Industries, TerraGreen International, XanTell Corporation...
My gaze returned to one of the company names. “Terra-Green...”
“What did you say, Clare?”
I pointed to the brochure. “TerraGreen International,” I whispered, “they’re a client of this office’s protective services division, and Ellie’s husband works for them.”
Madame’s eyebrows rose. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “About two or three years after Ellie and Ric broke up, she was still dropping by the Blend. I remember she’d gone through a stint interning at the TerraGreen labs on Long Island. That’s how she first met her husband, Jerry Lassiter. He was an executive with the company.”
“Did you say labs? What sort of company is this TerraGreen?”
“They make fertilizers and plant foods. Back then, I think Ellie was working on some sort of project to genetically engineer crops.”
Madame frowned in thought for a moment. “Ellie was an intern and her husband was an executive when they first met? Is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“Then there must have been quite a few years between them.”
“He’s at least fifteen years her senior.”
Madame sighed. “It seems we have a classic recipe here. Older, rich husband provides a young Ellie with security and stability, but years later, she begins yearning for the adventure and passion she lost. Enter old flame Ric...”
“But is Jerry Lassiter having his wife followed to document infidelity?” I whispered. “Or is there more to it?”
“What more could there be?”
“Ric was mugged last night. I doubt a professional investigator got involved with something like that.”
“So you think Jerry Lassiter did the deed himself?”
“Or he hired someone to do it. Yes, that’s what I think. What I can’t do is prove it. I’m not even sure of his real motive.”
“Real motive?”
“Don’t you see? He could be after Ric’s hybrid cutting... or he could be out to make it look like someone else is after it, so if harm comes to Ric the police will look for another suspect.”
“Oh, yes. I see. If Jerry Lassiter is afraid of losing his wife to Ric, maybe his solution is to lose Ric first?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, my dear, as far as proving it, we need to start right here with this agency. TerraGreen may be on its client list, but that doesn’t prove Jerry Lassiter hired them to tail his wife.”
“I know, and that’s why we’re going to dump your ‘lost keys’ approach.”
“We are?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are we going to do?”
“I think we should—”
The front door opened just then and I stopped talking. A well-dressed gentleman boldly strode up to the receptionist as if he owned the place. When I caught sight of his face, I realized he did.
Tapping Madame on the shoulder, I pointed to the section of the brochure that displayed the photo and bio of the man standing right in front of us.
Anil Kapoor’s twenty-five-year career spans work for the Drug Enforcement Administration, which led to his work in that agency’s office in Marseille, France; Rabat, Morocco; and Brussels, Belgium, where he served as the technical advisor on U.S. drug intelligence and investigative matters. From there, he moved to the worldwide International Criminal Police Organization more commonly known as Interpol. There he worked for twelve years as the Director of the Criminal Intelligence Directorate, the number-two position in the organization, subordinate only to the secretary general.
Now retired from his official work, he runs the New York branch of WPI. Located near the United Nations and the diplomatic office for which his office often consults, he has assembled a New York team with extensive experience in criminal investigations and intelligence collection from around the world.
Mr. Kapoor’s education and studies include: Princeton University, Bachelor of Arts degree in Sociology and Business; D.E.A. Executive Management and Financial Investigations; Harvard University, graduate course on National and Internal Security; USDA Graduate School Performance Audits.
An attractive man in his fifties, Kapoor looked much like his photo, with the exception of his jet-black hair, which now displayed noticeable strands of silver-gray. He had a full face, olive complexion, and East Indian features. Well under six feet, he had a paunchy physique, but he wore his clothes beautifully: a London tailored suit, a fine charcoal overcoat draped over his arm, a slim attaché case in his hand. Like Madame, he presented himself with a confident air of dignified elegance.
As he spoke to the receptionist, Madame leaned toward me. “Clare,” she whispered. “What do you want us to do?”
“Just go along with me,” I whispered in reply. Then I silently pointed to the brochure and Anil Kapoor’s bio. Madame began to read it over.
“Ladies?” the receptionist called after Mr. Kapoor left the waiting room and headed towards the agency’s offices. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we don’t.” I rose from the couch and moved toward her desk. “This company was recommended to us... and we were in the neighborhood today, visiting friends at the French Embassy, so we thought we might just drop in and ask a few questions...”
I ran out of words, but Madame was ready—
“Oui, oui...” she said, summoning her old French accent. “We’re a bit uncertain about the whole process, comprenez-vous ? But of course if no one is available to talk to us about your company, we can call for an appointment, une certaine autre heure, oui? I believe there’s another agency the deputy secretary recommended...” Madame made a show of looking through her Prada bag. She glanced at me. “Do you have that other agency’s card, my dear, or do I?”
The receptionist quickly spoke up. “I’m sure you won’t have to leave before seeing someone. Just give us another few minutes, and I’ll ask if Mr. Kapoor’s available. If not, I’m sure a member of his staff will answer all of your questions.”
“Merci,” Madame replied.
“Your names please?” the receptionist asked.
Five minutes later, the young woman was escorting us into a corner office. The decor in here was markedly different from the bland waiting room. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls with leather-bound volumes. A thick Persian rug of sapphire, jade, and ruby covered a parquet floor, and the large room was dominated by a substantial desk of dense wood lacquered a shiny black.
Behind a sleek flat-panel computer monitor sat Anil Kapoor. He rose when we entered, his hand moving to smooth his pearl colored tie.
“May I present Madame Marie LaSalle and her daughter, Vanessa LaSalle,” the receptionist announced.
“Madame, mademoiselle,” Mr. Kapoor said. He extended his hand and we all politely shook. Then the receptionist backed out of the room and her boss gestured to the two mahogany chairs in front of his desk.
“What may I do for you today?” Mr. Kapoor asked, discreetly swiveling his whisper-thin computer monitor to the side.
“We have a few questions for you,” I began. “We’re looking to hire an investigator to help... with an investigation.”
One of Mr. Kapoor’s dark eyebrows rose very slightly. “What sort of investigation?”
“Well, the details are... they’re very private. First we have some questions about your agency... you understand?”
Mr. Kapoor shifted in his chair, gave me a polite smile. “I’ll answer any questions, if I can.”
“You see, this is the first time we’d be using you, although a friend of ours recommended you to us.”
“And who might that be?”
“He’s an executive,” I said, “with TerraGreen International.”
“Oh? What division?”
“Division? I... I’m not sure...”
“What country then?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“The U.S. He’s based right here in Long Island.”
“I see.”
“Anyway,” I said, “Jerry mentioned to us that he’s very happy with the case you’re working on now for him...”
Mr. Kapoor’s forehead wrinkled. “Jerry?”
“Jerry Lassiter, of course. He did give me the right agency? You’re investigating his wife, Ellie, aren’t you?”
The man remained quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes studying me and then Madame. “I’d like to be helpful,” he said, “but I’m not familiar with every case this agency handles. And, of course, it’s not our policy to discuss any ongoing investigation. Now, tell me a bit about your needs. What sort of case do you have?” His eyes squinted a fraction. “If you really have one...”
“Of course we have one. It’s... it’s a case of...”
“It’s a missing person’s case,” Madame levelly replied.
“I see,” said Mr. Kapoor. “Man, woman, or child?”
“Man,” said Madame.
“Age?” Mr. Kapoor asked.
“About thirty,” Madame replied.
“And where was he last seen?”
Madame glanced out the window a moment. “The French Riviera.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The beaches of Nice. It’s simply a question of finding the man again, you see?” Madame said. “After he shared himself for a few unforgettable months, he simply disappeared.”
“Oh, yes. I think I see now.” Mr. Kapoor nodded. “It’s a love affair?”
“But of course,” Madame replied.
Mr. Kapoor locked eyes with me. “And exactly how long did this missing man and your daughter have this love affair?”
“My daughter?” Madame repeated. “Non, monsieur. The love affair was mine!”
Mr. Kapoor didn’t appear the sort of man to surprise easily, but his stoic expression cracked just then. His jaw slackened and his throat issued a grunt of incredulity.
“Yours, Madame?”
“Oui!”
He leaned forward. “Do you... have a photo?”
“I do...”
I tensed as Madame searched her bag. I had no idea what she was up to with this tale, but I was grateful she’d come up with something on a dime.
“Here you are,” she said, handing Kapoor a snapshot from her wallet.
He gazed at it, then handed it back. “A very handsome man.”
“Oui,” said Madame with a quick glance at me. “His name is Antonio.”
“And you’d like us to find him for you?” Kapoor asked.
Madame nodded.
Good luck with that, I thought. The late Antonio Allegro might very well have been on the beaches of Nice in his lifetime, but he’d been “missing” for a few decades.
“Well, Madame, I’m happy to inform you that we do have an office on the Riviera, and I’m sure we can accommodate this search. We can coordinate everything from here in the New York office. Would you like us to get started today? I’ll assign a case officer...”
As Mr. Kapoor picked up the phone, I spoke up again. “I think we’ll need to consider it for a few more days, won’t we, Mother?”
Madame nodded. “Oui... you know, it is possible Antonio might still get in touch.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Kapoor setting the phone down again.
“But, you know...” I said. “If Mother does decide to use your agency, she needs to make sure we have the right one recommended to us. Jerry Lassiter is a client here, isn’t he? You can confirm that much at least, can’t you? You are investigating his wife?”
Mr. Kapoor pressed a button on his phone. “Ms. Cassel, if you please,” he said into the intercom. Then he stood and glanced at his slim platinum watch. “I’m afraid I must apologize. I’ve forgotten about an agency meeting.”
“But—”
He extended his hand. “Thank you for your interest in our agency. If you decide to pursue your case, please call Ms. Cassel for an appointment—” He gestured to his office door. The receptionist was standing there, waiting to escort us out.
Less than ten minutes later, we were back on the sidewalk.