Reckless by Andrew Gross

across the street from the Lake Avenue Lower School in Greenwich.
    Three weeks had passed since the Glassman murders. Still no link to their killers had been found.
    At a little after two forty in the afternoon, a stream of kids began to emerge from the gray concrete building. Moms, in capri pants and yoga outfits, chatting with other moms or on their cells, pulling up their SUVs. Some of the kids carted stuff from school, brightly colored presentation boards or artwork, knapsacks slung over their shoulders. Others carried baseball gloves or lacrosse sticks, shouting excitedly about the Rangers’ playoff game tonight or American Idol . The cars pulled up; the kids climbed in; the moms waved good-bye to one another and drove away.
    The entrance quieted down.
    A couple of minutes later, Hauck saw the small, sandy-haired boy in jeans and a Derek Jeter jersey come out, holding on to the hand of an older man. His grandfather. He carried a piece of paper all rolled up, a red knapsack slung over on his back.
    Hauck remembered him as he saw him three or four years ago. In April’s car.
    Evan.
    It was his first day back at school after the incident. The local papers had picked it up. A couple of school officials came out and watched as he and his granddad made their way to the parking lot, making sure there were no reporters badgering them.
    Hauck wanted to make sure too.
    The boy had done well. He had snapped a couple of photos that might one day be used as evidence. He was a chip off the old block. His mom would have been proud.
    Hauck didn’t know what had made him come here. Other than it made him feel close. Still attached. Mindful of his promise. He hadn’t forgotten. He wouldn’t.
    See, I wasn’t just passing through, he said.
    The boy climbed into a silver Volvo wagon and his granddad drove away.
    Hauck had an urge to follow him. But he just put the car in gear and remained there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    I t took some time for the picture of Dani Thibault to begin to come together.
    Merrill had hoped it might all just be a big waste of his time. A bit of overcaution on her part that would calm a few fears but ultimately lead nowhere.
    It wasn’t.
    Hauck tapped on the office phone, deciding whether to call her.
    Thibault had lied about where he had gone to school. He had lied about having served in the Dutch army, assigned to a peacekeeping mission in Kosovo. He had lied about his connection to the Belgian royal family too. The truth was he had dated a party-happy cousin of the queen for a couple of weeks and maybe attended a family outing or two with her where the photos that hung on his office walls were taken. The relationship fizzled out, except for the requisite gossip-column snapshots of the two of them in posh clubs that Richard Snell had located on the Internet.
    For the most part Thibault’s career consisted of a few progressively more senior positions in various shady banks, managing wealthy clients’ money and setting up hard-to-pierce financial trusts. He had taken his name and part of his background from a man who had been killed fifteen years ago in France.
    Who does that, Hauck wondered, but a person with something very important to hide?
    These last two weeks, Hauck had learned everything he could about Thibault’s personal affairs. He knew where he got his suits in London—at Kilgour on Savile Row. He knew where he stayed while in Dubai—at the Burj, seven stars. He knew what restaurants he frequented when he was in New York—Veritas, Daniel, Spartina. He paid his bills. There were no liens or judgments against him. His e-mail traffic showed a variety of normal business and personal contacts. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe a bit of a kinky side when it came to Merrill. He didn’t even seem to have anyone else on the side.
    And he hadn’t committed any crimes.
    All Hauck found was a shadowy past that surely covered up something that the man had gone to great lengths to conceal. Even from Merrill.