Death Match

“Yes.”

“How was the traffic?”

“I was parked on the Cross Bronx about half an hour. Otherwise, okay.”

The chairman shook his head. “That road is a disgrace. I have a weekend place not far from you myself, in Rowayton. These days I usually take a helicopter. One of the perks.” He chuckled, then opened a leather portfolio that lay beside him. “Just a few formalities before we get started.” He took out a sheaf of stapled pages and passed it across the desk. It was followed by a gold pen. “Would you mind signing this, please?”

Lash looked at the top page. It was a nondisclosure agreement. He flipped quickly through the pages, found the signature line, signed.

“And this.”

Lash took the second proffered document. It appeared to be some kind of guarantee of confidentiality. He turned to the back page, signed.

“And this, if you please.”

This time, Lash simply signed without bothering to review the verbiage.

“Thank you. I do apologize, I hope you understand.” Lelyveld returned the sheets to the leather portfolio. Then he placed his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on tented fingers. “Dr. Lash, you understand the nature of our service, I believe?”

Lash nodded. There were few who didn’t: the story of how Eden had grown, over just a handful of years, from a research project of brilliant computer scientist Richard Silver to one of the highest-profile corporations in America was a favorite of financial news services.

“Then you probably won’t be surprised when I say that Eden Incorporated has fundamentally improved the lives of, at last count, nine hundred and twenty-four thousand people.”

“No.”

“Almost half a million couples, with thousands more added each day. And with the opening of satellite offices in Beverly Hills, Chicago, and Miami, we’ve dramatically increased our service range and our pool of potential candidates.”

Lash nodded again.

“Our fee is steep—$25,000 per applicant — but we have never yet been asked for a refund.”

“So I understand.”

“Good. But it’s important you also understand our service does not end on the day we bring a couple together. There is a mandatory follow-up session with one of our counselors, scheduled three months later. And after six months, couples are requested to join encounter groups with other Eden couples. We carefully monitor our client base — not only for their benefit, but to improve our service, as well.”

Lelyveld leaned slightly toward Lash, as if to impart a secret across the massive table. “What I’m about to tell you is confidential and trade secret to Eden. In our promotional material, we speak of providing a perfect match. The ideal union between two people. Our computer intelligence compares roughly one million variables from each of our clients to those of other clients, looking for a match. With me so far?”

“Yes.”

“I’m speaking in gross simplifications here. The artificial intelligence algorithms are the result of Richard Silver’s ongoing work, as well as countless man-hours spent researching the behavioral and psychological factors. But in short, our scientists have determined a specific threshold of matching variables necessary to declare a fit between two candidates.” He shifted in his chair. “Dr. Lash, if you compared these million factors in an average happily married couple, how closely do you think that couple would match each other?”

Lash thought. “Eighty, maybe eighty-five percent?”

“That’s a very good guess, but I’m afraid it’s way off. Our studies have shown the average happily married American couple matches in the range of only thirty-five percent.”

Lash shook his head.

“You see, people tend to be seduced by superficial impressions, or physical attractions that by themselves will be practically meaningless in a few years. Today’s relationship services and so-called Internet dating sites — with their crude metrics and simplistic questio

“I see.”

“The fact remains, Dr. Lash — and forgive me if I remind you of the confidentiality of this information — that during the three years Eden has been offering this service, there have in fact been a small number of uniquely perfect matches. Matches in which all one hundred percent of the variables between two people have been in synch.”

“One hundred percent?”

“A uniquely perfect match. Of course, we don’t inform our clients as to the precise exactness of their match. But over the lifetime of our service, there have been six such statistically perfect matches. ‘Supercouples,’ as they’re referred to in-house.”

So far, Lelyveld’s voice has been measured, assured. But now he seemed to hesitate slightly. The grandfatherly smile remained on his face, but an undertone of sadness, even pain, was introduced. “I’ve told you that we do post-monitoring of all our clients… Dr. Lash, I’m afraid there’s no pleasant way to say this. Last week, one of our six uniquely perfect couples—” he hesitated, then went on “—committed double suicide.”

“Suicide?” Lash echoed.

The chairman glanced down, consulted some notes. “In Flagstaff, Arizona. Lewis and Lindsay Thorpe. The details are rather, ah, unusual. They left a note.” He looked up again. “Can you understand now why we’ve requested your services?”

Lash was still digesting this. “Perhaps you could spell it out.”

“You’re a psychologist specializing in family relationships, particularly marital relationships. The book you published last year, Congruency, was a remarkable study on the subject.”

“I wish more book buyers had felt that way.”

“The peer reviews were all quite enthusiastic. In any case, in addition to being utterly perfect for each other, the Thorpes were both intelligent, capable, well adapted, happy. Clearly, some tragedy must have befallen this couple after their marriage. Perhaps a medical problem of some sort; perhaps the death of a loved one. Maybe it had to do with financial issues.” He paused. “We need to know what changed in the dynamic of their lives, and why they took such an extreme action as a result. If by some remote chance there’s a latent psychological tendency operating here, we should know so we can prescreen for it in the future.”

“You’ve got a team of in-house mental health professionals, right?” Lash asked. “Why not use one of them?”

“Two reasons. First, we want an impartial person to look into the matter. And second, none of our staff has your particular credentials.”

“Which credentials do you mean?”

Lelyveld smiled paternally. “I’m referring to your prior occupation. Before you went into private practice, I mean. Forensic psychologist with the FBI, part of the Behavioral Science team operating out of Quantico.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Dr. Lash, please. As a former special agent, you no doubt retain behind-the-scenes access to places, people, information. You could undertake such an investigation with great discretion. Were we to investigate ourselves, or request official assistance, there might be questions. And there is no point in causing our clients — past, present, and future — u

Lash shifted in his chair. “There was a reason I left Quantico for private practice.”

“There’s a newspaper account of the tragedy in your dossier. I’m very sorry. So it doesn’t surprise me you’re not eager to leave the comfort of that practice, even temporarily.” The chairman opened the leather portfolio, removed an envelope. “Hence the amount of the enclosed.”