conscious of her sexuality at a young age—had probably lost her cherry to a neighbor kid in her early teens. Like him, she was part of the so-called 'Webporn' generation, that crop of sex-desensitized kids who found wanton intercourse an irresistible short-cut to status and adulthood—giving rise to the recreational promiscuity that Thomas's Gen-X father had openly envied, and destroying what used to be sound psychological generalizations regarding teen sexual activity.
She was a post-party-girl woman, Thomas decided, goal-oriented and rule-averse, cynical and hang-up-free, who would use the tools God gave her, tradition-be-damned. That was the role that she had chosen from the rack of identities modern society offered. Even so, there was a reserve to her manner, an earnest anxiousness that belied her brassy talk. A whiff of naive idealism. For whatever reason, being cool and conscientious never seemed a comfortable fit.
'Does Gyges recall any mention of the Argument?' Thomas asked.
'No. But then we never asked.'
'So there's a chance…'
Her eyes probed her mirrors, and she tapped her blinker. 'There's one way to find out,' she said.
Gyges, it turned out, lived in The Beresford, on the Upper West Side overlooking Central Park. Thomas found himself craning his neck like a yokel as they walked to the entrance, intrigued by the uneasy marriage of industrial dimensions and Italian renaissance motifs. When Sam flashed her FBI badge, the doorman simply shrugged as though he were a palm-reader confronted by yet another extraordinary inevitability. People were hard to surprise, nowadays.
'Do you get air miles with that?' Thomas quipped as they marched through the posh lobby.
Sam smiled, once again rummaging through her purse for charitable change: a UNICEF box had been set on a table between the lifts. 'Just miles,' she replied, punching the elevator pad with pennies in hand.
The air was scented—the smell of rich wives, shopping to and fro, Thomas imagined. He studied his distorted reflection in the elevator's brass doors, wondered whether the motto set into the ornamental shield, Fronta Nulla Fides , wasn't some kind of joke on the residents. A screen in the elevator featured CNNet clips of all the top stories, from the chaos in Europe, the Iraqi civil war, to the latest Chiropractor details. Apparently another spineless body had been found, this time in Queens. Live. On-the-scene. It was like watching murder through a fish tank, Thomas thought.
The man who greeted them at the penthouse door was short, barrel-chested, and sported one of those dark, heavy beards that always made Thomas think of hairy backs. His eyes were red-rimmed. He wore his blue jeans pulled up too high on his waist. Thomas knew instantly he was one of those guys who spend far too much time sucking in their gut in front of the mirror.
'Thank you, Mr Gyges. I know—'
'Hello, Agent Logan.'
Thomas raised his eyebrows. He hadn't been sure what to expect—certainly not decisive recognition.
'I never forget a voice,' Gyges said, reading his mind. 'Otherwise, I've never seen her before in my life.'
'But you have,' Sam said.
Gyges shrugged. 'If you say so… And you? Have I seen you before?'
'No, Mr Gyges. I'm Thomas Bible.'
Gyges nodded warily.
'Dr Bible is a psychology professor over at Columbia, Mr Gyges. He has a few questions he'd like to ask.'
'Do you now? Forensic or therapeutic?'
'The two can sometimes be the same. But I'm not a boo-hoo grief counsellor, if that's what you mean.' Thomas paused, licked his lips. 'I'm a friend of Neil Cassidy.'
Gyges's face went blank. 'Please come in,' he said.
They followed him through a marbled foyer into a palatial living room designed and decorated in the archipelago style all the rage among the rich and famous: monumental rooms broken into various 'intimacy convergence zones'. But the effect—whatever it was supposed to be—was undone by the trash scattered about the furniture. The man
She was a post-party-girl woman, Thomas decided, goal-oriented and rule-averse, cynical and hang-up-free, who would use the tools God gave her, tradition-be-damned. That was the role that she had chosen from the rack of identities modern society offered. Even so, there was a reserve to her manner, an earnest anxiousness that belied her brassy talk. A whiff of naive idealism. For whatever reason, being cool and conscientious never seemed a comfortable fit.
'Does Gyges recall any mention of the Argument?' Thomas asked.
'No. But then we never asked.'
'So there's a chance…'
Her eyes probed her mirrors, and she tapped her blinker. 'There's one way to find out,' she said.
Gyges, it turned out, lived in The Beresford, on the Upper West Side overlooking Central Park. Thomas found himself craning his neck like a yokel as they walked to the entrance, intrigued by the uneasy marriage of industrial dimensions and Italian renaissance motifs. When Sam flashed her FBI badge, the doorman simply shrugged as though he were a palm-reader confronted by yet another extraordinary inevitability. People were hard to surprise, nowadays.
'Do you get air miles with that?' Thomas quipped as they marched through the posh lobby.
Sam smiled, once again rummaging through her purse for charitable change: a UNICEF box had been set on a table between the lifts. 'Just miles,' she replied, punching the elevator pad with pennies in hand.
The air was scented—the smell of rich wives, shopping to and fro, Thomas imagined. He studied his distorted reflection in the elevator's brass doors, wondered whether the motto set into the ornamental shield, Fronta Nulla Fides , wasn't some kind of joke on the residents. A screen in the elevator featured CNNet clips of all the top stories, from the chaos in Europe, the Iraqi civil war, to the latest Chiropractor details. Apparently another spineless body had been found, this time in Queens. Live. On-the-scene. It was like watching murder through a fish tank, Thomas thought.
The man who greeted them at the penthouse door was short, barrel-chested, and sported one of those dark, heavy beards that always made Thomas think of hairy backs. His eyes were red-rimmed. He wore his blue jeans pulled up too high on his waist. Thomas knew instantly he was one of those guys who spend far too much time sucking in their gut in front of the mirror.
'Thank you, Mr Gyges. I know—'
'Hello, Agent Logan.'
Thomas raised his eyebrows. He hadn't been sure what to expect—certainly not decisive recognition.
'I never forget a voice,' Gyges said, reading his mind. 'Otherwise, I've never seen her before in my life.'
'But you have,' Sam said.
Gyges shrugged. 'If you say so… And you? Have I seen you before?'
'No, Mr Gyges. I'm Thomas Bible.'
Gyges nodded warily.
'Dr Bible is a psychology professor over at Columbia, Mr Gyges. He has a few questions he'd like to ask.'
'Do you now? Forensic or therapeutic?'
'The two can sometimes be the same. But I'm not a boo-hoo grief counsellor, if that's what you mean.' Thomas paused, licked his lips. 'I'm a friend of Neil Cassidy.'
Gyges's face went blank. 'Please come in,' he said.
They followed him through a marbled foyer into a palatial living room designed and decorated in the archipelago style all the rage among the rich and famous: monumental rooms broken into various 'intimacy convergence zones'. But the effect—whatever it was supposed to be—was undone by the trash scattered about the furniture. The man
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