been with her since her childhood. There was no sense candy-coating the stakes. "I know how frightening it is for you," I said, "but you have to be willing to be alone, for a while. At the very least, you have to be willing to be alone with your own thoughts."
She nibbled at her lower lip, like a timid little girl. "I can’t stand being by myself."
That was a pretty clear message. She needed something — someone — to count on, no matter what she divulged. I touched her thigh, just above the incision. "I promise to stay with you every step of the way," I said.
"But how can you say that?" she asked. "You don’t even know me. How am I supposed to trust you?"
I could have come up with a platitude to sidestep that question, but only an honest response would count with a person whose life had become a lie. "You can’t be sure that I’m trustworthy," I said. "You can never be certain — not with anyone. Eventually, you’ll have to take a leap of faith. You’ll have to go with your gut."
"I don’t know," she sighed. "I’m so confused."
Another small victory; confusion is often the first sign of weakening in the mind’s defensive mechanisms. I didn’t want to seem too eager to breach them. "Shall I stop back in a few days, then?" I asked.
She stared at me several seconds. "Okay," she said. "Yes."
* * *
I made it home just before 11:00 P.M. A message from North Anderson on my voice mail told me I was scheduled to interview Billy Bishop at 10:30 A.M. the next day. Judging from my experience flying to Manhattan on other cases, that would mean taking the 7:30 A.M. shuttle, planning for it to be late by a couple hours, which it pretty much always is.
I decided to hop on the Internet and learn what I could about Darwin Bishop. Yahoo! Came up with 2,948 references, from sources like the Wall Street Journal, BusinessWeek , and CNN Financial News . The pieces told me Bishop had founded CMM with over $40 million of venture capital, that he had recruited engineers and metallurgists out of MIT, CalTech, and the University at St. Petersburg, and that his company had grown to one thousand employees within eighteen months. A mention in the New York Times noted Bishop’s winning bid of $4.2 million for a Mark Rothko oil painting that had been predicted to bring $800,000 at auction at Sotheby’s. His lavish lifestyle caught the eye of Vanity Fair , which published photographs of his vintage car collection and his nineteen-thousand-square-foot River House penthouse, as large as a quaint hotel. The property, located on 52 nd Street, on a cul de sac between First Avenue and the East River, was also home to Henry Kissinger and Sir Rothschild. The penthouse had itself been owned by the Astor family before Bishop picked it up for a mere $13 million. And that was before Manhattan real estate really went through the roof.
I lingered over an archived, older piece from New York magazine entitled ‘Bishop Takes Bride on Ride of Her Life’ that focused on Bishop’s marriage to ‘socialite and Elite model Julia Oakley.’ A photo captured the Bishops in tuxedo and wedding gown, driving a red Ferrari Testarossa down Fifth Avenue. Julia looked ravishing.
Midway through the article, Bishop commented on his first marriage. "Lauren and I had two great years," Bishop had told the reporter. "I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything. We just sort of woke up one day and said, ‘We’re better as friends than we were as husband and wife.’ And let me tell you something: I couldn’t have a better friend."
I chuckled. You had to figure there was a lot more to that story.
I scanned dozens of entries, flew past a couple hundred others, then stopped short when my eye caught one that seemed out of synch with the rest. It was a 1995 article in the New York Daily News , headlined ‘Trouble at the Top,’ that
She nibbled at her lower lip, like a timid little girl. "I can’t stand being by myself."
That was a pretty clear message. She needed something — someone — to count on, no matter what she divulged. I touched her thigh, just above the incision. "I promise to stay with you every step of the way," I said.
"But how can you say that?" she asked. "You don’t even know me. How am I supposed to trust you?"
I could have come up with a platitude to sidestep that question, but only an honest response would count with a person whose life had become a lie. "You can’t be sure that I’m trustworthy," I said. "You can never be certain — not with anyone. Eventually, you’ll have to take a leap of faith. You’ll have to go with your gut."
"I don’t know," she sighed. "I’m so confused."
Another small victory; confusion is often the first sign of weakening in the mind’s defensive mechanisms. I didn’t want to seem too eager to breach them. "Shall I stop back in a few days, then?" I asked.
She stared at me several seconds. "Okay," she said. "Yes."
* * *
I made it home just before 11:00 P.M. A message from North Anderson on my voice mail told me I was scheduled to interview Billy Bishop at 10:30 A.M. the next day. Judging from my experience flying to Manhattan on other cases, that would mean taking the 7:30 A.M. shuttle, planning for it to be late by a couple hours, which it pretty much always is.
I decided to hop on the Internet and learn what I could about Darwin Bishop. Yahoo! Came up with 2,948 references, from sources like the Wall Street Journal, BusinessWeek , and CNN Financial News . The pieces told me Bishop had founded CMM with over $40 million of venture capital, that he had recruited engineers and metallurgists out of MIT, CalTech, and the University at St. Petersburg, and that his company had grown to one thousand employees within eighteen months. A mention in the New York Times noted Bishop’s winning bid of $4.2 million for a Mark Rothko oil painting that had been predicted to bring $800,000 at auction at Sotheby’s. His lavish lifestyle caught the eye of Vanity Fair , which published photographs of his vintage car collection and his nineteen-thousand-square-foot River House penthouse, as large as a quaint hotel. The property, located on 52 nd Street, on a cul de sac between First Avenue and the East River, was also home to Henry Kissinger and Sir Rothschild. The penthouse had itself been owned by the Astor family before Bishop picked it up for a mere $13 million. And that was before Manhattan real estate really went through the roof.
I lingered over an archived, older piece from New York magazine entitled ‘Bishop Takes Bride on Ride of Her Life’ that focused on Bishop’s marriage to ‘socialite and Elite model Julia Oakley.’ A photo captured the Bishops in tuxedo and wedding gown, driving a red Ferrari Testarossa down Fifth Avenue. Julia looked ravishing.
Midway through the article, Bishop commented on his first marriage. "Lauren and I had two great years," Bishop had told the reporter. "I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything. We just sort of woke up one day and said, ‘We’re better as friends than we were as husband and wife.’ And let me tell you something: I couldn’t have a better friend."
I chuckled. You had to figure there was a lot more to that story.
I scanned dozens of entries, flew past a couple hundred others, then stopped short when my eye caught one that seemed out of synch with the rest. It was a 1995 article in the New York Daily News , headlined ‘Trouble at the Top,’ that
Similar Books
