The Halo Effect

34

The following night, I met the second man, who from Cleo’s description, was suspect. Exposure for him would mean excommunication from his life’s work, a job that had made him a hero. Cleo had called him Midas, but when he put out his aged hand, Gil introduced him as Keifer. He smelled of cigars and had deep wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth.

At sixty-eight he was the head of the largest Christian charity in the United States. Independently wealthy, he had devoted his life to amassing even more wealth and giving as much of it away as he could. And while I knew this from Cleo’s book, sitting down with him over drinks that night, I pretended I had no idea.

“I haven’t been doing this for very long,” I offered. It had occurred to me that I could use my nervousness to my advantage. Put the men at ease by having them think I was uncomfortable, and perhaps they would be less self-conscious with me.

“Well, that’s even better, isn’t it? Is it your first time?” he asked.

“It would be, yes. If we both decide that this will be pleasurable.”

“Giving is what gives me pleasure.” He smiled at me.

Despite his age, he had a full head of white hair, with no sign of a receding hairline. Tall, with square shoulders and a long face, he leaned back in his chair at the club and watched me answer. It was not yet any easier to be looked at in that unapologetic, assessing way, but I steeled myself against his gaze and played along with his banter.

He was the kind of man you would notice in a crowd because he had presence. I’ve had patients who were like this, so secure in who they are, so successful and so wealthy that they radiate auras of success. And I’ve had female patients who were receptive to men like this and their attention.

“The thing about me, Morgan, is that all I demand is that you enjoy what you are doing.”

I arched my eyebrows.

“I’ll confess why if you’d like to hear.”

It was an effort to stay still, to not say anything, to not rush him. All the patience I usually had was gone.

“Yes, I would,” I said.

“I like giving out money. It’s what I do every day. I enjoy making it, but I love giving it away. In fact, that’s really all I like to do. I’m an easy date.”

“You have me totally confounded.” I laughed.

“I can tell. You should see your face. Lovely, but definitely confounded. It’s very simple.”

He reached into his jacket and brought out a thick pile of bills. The flickering lights were bright enough to see that they were hundred-dollar bills, and there must have been at least fifty of them.

“Your eyes just got a little bigger.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much cash.”

“But you’re worth this much cash.”

“I am?”

He was looking at me again, up and down, appraising me. And that was when I started to slip into the role I’d assigned myself.

It didn’t matter that I was in a place where I didn’t belong, pretending to be someone I wasn’t. It was still my face, and my eyes and my mouth and hands and breasts, and it was still my voice and mannerisms. He was looking at me, and on his face was a look that told me he wanted me.

My breath caught in my throat. His blatant hunger was affecting me. It was a physical thing, like a wind that blew over me. Like a warm rain that dropped and ran down my cheeks.

“Feel this,” he said, and took my right hand, putting it gently on the pile of bills. The paper was smooth under my fingertips and involuntarily I ran my thumb over the edge, fanning them out, feeling their thickness.

“Can we go to a room now?” he asked.

“No. But you can tell me about what would happen if we did take a room. Tell me what you’d expect. We can start there, can’t we?”

He nodded but not happily.

“What would we do in the room?”

“I would lay down these bills on the bed. Ten rows of bills across and ten rows of bills down. A five-thousand-dollar bedspread.”

My face must have shown my surprise. Cleo had never indicated in the book how much money Midas gave her.

“I like what I do,” he said in response to my expression.

“Giving money away?”

“Can you imagine anything better?”

I shook my head.

He called the waiter over. “Would you like a drink, some wine perhaps?” he asked me.

“Whatever you are having.” I wanted to connect to him and this was a simple way.

“Champagne, please. Cristal,” he said to the waiter. And then to me, “I don’t drink anything but champagne. And only Cristal.”

There was something familiar about this, but at the moment I couldn’t focus on it.

“If we were up in the room, I’d baptize you with it.”

“How?” I tried to keep my voice even, but I was afraid it was quaking. The religious overtones of his comments were hard to ignore.

“I’d put the glass to your lips and feed it to you.”

His sensuality was overwhelming. His voice, low and deep, brought me in toward him. Was there a connection between the prostitutes who had been so brutally killed and Cleo’s being missing? Was this man part of that connection?

Unlikely.

I knew the odds. More than two hundred people were reported missing every day in Manhattan.

Midas stopped talking as the waiter appeared. He uncorked the champagne and carefully poured out two glasses.

“Here, let me show you,” Midas said as soon as the waiter was gone. He picked up my glass, and without taking his eyes off me, as if he were, indeed, offering some kind of blessing, he poured just a single splash of the dry wine into my mouth.

“Tell me how delicious that is,” he said.

I swallowed. “It is.” It was.

“Let me give you some more.” He held the glass up to my lips again and I sipped.

“What else would happen up in the room?” I asked.

“I’d feed you goodies. Caviar. Chocolate. Strawberries washed in cream. Whatever you liked.”

“Chocolate,” I said, remembering this part from the book. Cleo always chose chocolate.

He smiled.

I was two people at that table. One playing at being seductive with an older man who seemed to care about nothing but giving women pleasure, and the other, a psychiatrist making every effort to pay attention to the man’s every nuance.

“And then?” I asked.

“I would ask you to open your shirt for me.”

Cleo had written that this was all he wanted. For her to open her blouse so he could look at her lingerie. She said she never minded that. The lights in the room were low. She didn’t even have to get naked.

“And then I’d ask you to lie down on the bed. On the money.”

I flashed on the description that Noah had given me of the bills positioned at the crime scenes. Fifties always soaked in blood. I shivered.

What if Cleo’s disappearance and the murdered prostitutes were connected? Could this well-known and charitable man be the one to commit such deranged acts?

I couldn’t imagine it.

But was he capable of doing something to Cleo to stop her from publishing a book that would expose his secret? A secret he paid her so extravagantly to keep?

Maybe.

Secrets don’t come cheap.

And keeping them is often worth killing for.

“You would have to close your eyes, then.”

“I don’t know if I could do that.”

“You would have to. Close your eyes and tell me how much you like the money. Tell me what you are going to do with it. How much pleasure it’s going to give you. I need to know that I can give you pleasure.” He was slipping into his fantasy. Even though we were just sitting in the bar, he was starting to imagine that we were actually in the room.

“If I gave you all that money, what would you do with it?” His voice was low and urgent. He sounded almost desperate.

“I don’t know…” I hesitated, not knowing what to say. And then I thought I should do what I had done before. Stay with the truth. He would think it was a lie, anyway. All that mattered was to keep him satisfied until he was lulled even deeper into his pornographic dream, when his guard was down, and I could look right into his face, right into his eyes, and ask him the question I had come here to ask and watch his reaction.

“It’s not what I am going to do with it. It’s that you think I am worth this much that makes me so happy. It’s the fact that your giving me money makes you excited. That I could be attractive enough, desirable enough, that you would want to give me all this.”

I hesitated long enough to listen to his breathing, which was now slightly labored.

“I have never been wanted five thousand dollars’ worth,” I continued. “And it makes me really appreciate you. It gives me pleasure.”

“Will you touch yourself? Just there on your neck?” He pointed to a spot under my chin. It seemed an innocentenough place, and tentatively I put my fingers there. I knew the scenario-all he wanted was the tease. And I could oblige him if it helped me figure him out.

My fingers drifted up and down the skin of my neck, not going anywhere near my breasts. The idea that someone was getting pleasure out of watching me, that I was arousing a man with just this little bit of foreplay, that I was almost starting to enjoy my amateur performance, was amazing to me. A small “Oh” escaped hoarsely from his throat.

“What else would you give me besides the money?” I asked, using his distracted state to set my trap. “Would you give me pain, in addition to all that money, if it gave me pleasure?” I asked. “Would you hurt me?”

He looked startled.

“Hurt you?”

“Yes. Don’t you also like to inflict pain with that pleasure?”

He shook his head. “No. Not me. I’ve never done that.” He looked horrified at the thought. Was he bluffing or was he serious? His eyes did not flicker. The pulse point in his neck did not jump and throb. I only had a small window of time left. “Where is Cleo? Tell me,” I said.

“Cleo? I have no idea. Why are you asking me that?”

I could see it in his eyes. He was confused and he was telling the truth. And I felt a little bit sorry for him, sorry that I had lulled him into this erotic state only to shock him out of it with my questions.

“All I want is to give pleasure…” It was almost a cry.