The Hunt

20

We spent a few more minutes pressing Iggie about the driver of the other Lamborghini, but he steadfastly maintained that all they’d spoken about was their shared passion for cars that cost more than the gross national product of certain developing countries.

Then Phyllis’s voice cackled out from a hidden intercom. “Igor? Igor, baby, your ten-thirty appointment is waiting in the lobby. And there’s a call holding for you, too. Don’t you think it’s time your little friends were leaving?” For Iggie’s sake, I hoped the intercom was audible only in the conference room, as this wasn’t the sort of communication to inspire trust and confidence in one’s employee base.

After the tag-team browbeating we’d delivered, Iggie was so thrilled to be rid of us he barely protested when Abigail told him she wouldn’t be able to stay for lunch, after all, and I was fairly certain he didn’t see her crossing her fingers behind her back when she assured him she’d be in touch to reschedule. He escorted us through the sea of cubicles to the exit, following the same return path he’d used with Camilla Gergen and her team and steering a wide berth around his mother’s station.

As the front doors slid apart, I turned to glance back, curious as to whether my hunch about Iggie’s next appointment was right.

Sure enough, over by the reception desk, Clay Finch and several of his colleagues balanced awkwardly on a circle of beanbag chairs, struggling to make small talk with Phyllis as they waited for Iggie. Clay somehow managed to look stiff even when sunk into the purple vinyl of his beanbag, and his legs were so long that, with his size-sixteen feet planted on the floor and his rear planted only a few inches higher, his knees were bent up around his ears. I gave him a big smile and wave on the way out.

Peter and I had more than an hour between our Igobe visit and our meeting with Caro and Alex, and Abigail and Luisa hadn’t participated in the Forrest family breakfast of champions, so we decided to retreat to the University Café in Palo Alto. Late on a Monday morning the café was only moderately busy, its customers a mix of student and faculty types from the Stanford campus nearby and a handful of men dressed in the local venture capitalists’ uniform of khakis, button-down shirts and computer bags bearing the logos of Internet start-ups and tech conferences. “ Sand Hill Road is nearby,” Abigail explained as we sat down. “That’s where a lot of the venture-capital firms have their offices.”

Luisa and Abigail ordered pancakes and an egg-white omelet, respectively, while Peter drank orange juice. I could have chewed off the one arm I didn’t devour earlier for a nice, cold, caffeinated soda, but with less than twenty-four hours to go on my dare I managed to restrain myself and demurely sip a mineral water instead. I secretly hoped I wouldn’t actually end up playing tennis at noon, but if I did I wanted to be able to demonstrate to Peter that my relative level of hydration had no impact whatsoever on my athletic ability-I was useless either way.

Regardless, I’d never thought I’d look forward with such anticipation to a tennis game, especially one in which I personally was expected to play. This anticipation had little to do with my hope that the game might not take place and even less to do with the chance that this would be the day when Peter would see Caro and realize he’d preferred life with her. Instead, it was almost entirely due to how much I was looking forward to ensnaring Alex Cutler.

While Iggie’s story about purposely ditching Hilary hadn’t done much to improve anyone’s opinion of him, it had passed Abigail’s mental polygraph test. But she’d told us in the car she was equally confident he was lying about not knowing the driver of the other Lamborghini. Which, along with the ACVLLC phone number and vanity plate, further validated our working hypothesis that the driver and thus Hilary’s abductor had been Alex Cutler. At least, this was the working hypothesis of everyone but Peter, who remained unenthusiastic about casting blame in Alex’s direction.

“Why else would Hilary have gotten into the second Lamborghini, then?” I asked, reaching my fork over to sneak a bite of Luisa’s pancakes. A couple of hours ago this would have been a perilous maneuver, but now that the nicotine gum had worked its magic, she was tamer than Spot and even pushed her plate closer so I could better help myself. “Hil might not have noticed it wasn’t Iggie at the wheel until she was in the car, but once inside she never would have stayed unless she already knew the driver. She’s too street-smart for that. And you introduced her to Alex yourself.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “But it seems premature to jump to conclusions based on some similar initials, a couple of descriptions of a ‘preppie’ guy, and the fact that Alex invested in Igobe. We still don’t even know for sure what kind of car he drives.”

“I know what kind of car he drives,” I said confidently. “I’ll bet you anything he pulls up to the tennis club in a Lamborghini.”

“I don’t want to bet,” he replied.

“Are you sure? Betting is fun. Especially when I win.”

“Rachel, it would be bad enough to find out Alex has done something to Hilary. It would be even worse to find that out and then owe you whatever random thing you’d insisted on betting me for.”

“Why do you think I’d bet something random?”

“Maybe because the last time I lost a bet to you I ended up having to personally prepare every available recipe for pigs in a blanket so you could conduct a scientific taste test?”

“First of all, it was a small price to pay for the advancement of haute cuisine, and second of all, there’s a strong argument to be made that losing that particular bet was a lot like winning.”

“What argument is that?” he asked.

“Now we know for a fact how to make the best possible pigs in a blanket. We never again have to lie awake nights worrying that we’re making inferior pigs in a blanket.”

“By we you mean me, right? Because I don’t recall you doing any of the cooking.”

“It’s simple division of labor,” I said. “You’re better at cooking and I’m better at taste-testing. My palate is more refined. It worked out perfectly.”

“As you would say, how exactly are you defining perfectly?”

“Well, this is a fascinating discussion the two of you are having, but there may be a way to solve the Lamborghini question before you see Alex,” interjected Luisa.

“What’s that?” asked Abigail, who also seemed happy for discussion of the pigs-in-a-blanket bet to draw to a close.

“Perhaps Ben has heard from the guy he asked for a list of Lamborghini owners in the area. It’s already early afternoon on the East Coast, and his contact should have had time to check by now,” said Luisa.

Ben’s offer of the previous night had completely slipped my mind-it was hard to keep much in there given all the space Alex Cutler, Che Guevara, Petite Fleur and the Rice-a-Roni jingle were hogging up. “That’s a good idea,” I said, “Let’s call him again.” I turned to Peter. “But are you absolutely sure you don’t want to bet Alex isn’t on that list before I make the call? There must be other cocktail-hour finger foods we need to perfect.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

I pulled my BlackBerry from my bag and dialed Ben’s number, but it went right into voice mail without even ringing. “He must have turned his phone off,” I reported, waiting as his recorded voice told me to leave a message at the tone. I did as instructed, quickly summarizing our talk with Iggie and asking about the Lamborghini owners and Hilary’s receipts.

My message complete, I disconnected and left the BlackBerry on the table, which I generally considered a grave lapse in cell-phone etiquette, but most of the venture-capital guys were doing it and I wanted to have it handy should Ben call back right away.

“What if Alex does drive up in a Lamborghini?” said Abigail. “What happens then?”

“When Alex drives up in a Lamborghini,” I corrected her. “I guess we start talking about Hilary and how she’s missing, and then we see how he reacts. It’s probably too much to hope that he’ll confess, but he might give himself away somehow. And assuming he doesn’t confess, we follow him once he leaves the club. If all goes well, he’ll lead us to Hilary.”

After some debate, we agreed that Peter and I would drop Luisa and Abigail at a nearby car-rental agency so that they could pick up a separate car. “Call us or text us before you leave the club,” said Luisa. “Then we can trail Alex, as well, just in case you lose him or he realizes what’s happening and tries to lose you.”

This seemed to be as good a plan as we were going to come up with, and it was nice of Luisa to offer to sacrifice her trip to the mall. The nicotine gum seemed to be bringing out the best in her, even if I worried that it couldn’t be healthy to go through nearly two packs of the stuff in as many hours.

It was after noon, so we paid the check and prepared to leave. As I picked up my BlackBerry, I saw that the little red light was flashing, indicating I had a new message. At the same moment, Luisa’s phone started buzzing from within the depths of her oversized handbag.

I peered at the BlackBerry’s screen. The new message was a text, from a number with a four-one-five area code. I recognized it immediately: it was the number from which Hilary had sent her truncated S-O-S early Sunday morning. “Wait!” I called to Peter and Abigail, who were already heading toward the door.

Luisa, meanwhile, was tossing items from her purse onto the table as she tried to locate her buzzing phone. “Aha,” I heard her mutter as she finally pulled it out of the bag along with a silver compact, two pairs of sunglasses, a Spanish-language paperback of Borges essays, a silk scarf, a wool scarf, three lipsticks, a fountain pen, and a Filofax bound in shiny crocodile.

My awe at what Luisa kept in her bag was almost enough to make me forget the message waiting for me on my own phone. I clicked it open.

False alarm. I am in love!!! Hope I didn’t worry you too much. Will explain all later. H

I read the text three times over in disbelief. A false alarm?

Luisa was staring at the screen of her own phone, a furrow of annoyance creasing her usually smooth brow. She muttered something else, and while I had never taken Spanish, I knew enough to recognize it as the sort of word that didn’t get taught in high-school Spanish classes. At least, not the sort of high school in which I’d been enrolled.

Worldlessly, she lifted her gaze to meet my own, and wordlessly, we exchanged phones.

The message on Luisa’s screen was identical to the one on mine.