Peninsula
Tuesday, 3:30 P.M.
When Jude arrives back at the house that late afternoon, he finds Rosie inside her small top-floor office. Having become a maker of custom jewelry in her new life as wife and mother, she’s sitting at her converted roll-top desk, bright lamp illuminating a desktop filled with multi-colored beads, stones, hoops, stars, rolls of string, wire fasteners and all varieties of stainless steel hand tools.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, shoulder perched against the jamb.
Rosie looks up at her husband, immediately puts down her work. Jumping up from her desk, she comes to Jude, hugs him tight. He feels her warm body through the sweatpants. He smells her sweet, smooth skin.
“I was worried,” she says. “News of the murder was on TV.”
“Doesn’t take long for the vultures to start circling.”
Rosie raises her right hand, gently touches the butterfly bandage stuck to the ex-cop’s head.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little, a headache. But it was only a slight graze.”
Pulling away, Rosie brushes back long, dark brown hair. Hair that matches brown almond-shaped eyes.
“What’s the press saying?” Jude inquires.
“That there was a homicide in the back lot of Sweeney’s Gym. That there was an eyewitness.”
“They put a name to that eyewitness?”
With a quick shake of her head, Rosie sets an open hand gently on her blossoming belly.
“Names of both the eyewitness and the accused are being withheld pending a gag order.” Exhaling. “Jude, what is going on?”
“What time is it?”
Rosie, glancing at her watch.
“Going on four.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“Day camp. But he won’t be home until after dark.”
“Tell you what,” he says. “I’m going to shower. After I get dressed, I’ll take you to an early dinner at the Algonquin. It might be easier to let you know what’s going on over an Aspen burger and a cold beer.”
* * *
The Algonquin Restaurant/West side of Lake George
Tuesday, 4:30 P.M.
Jude and Rosie are seated on the back dock-side patio of the open-air restaurant.
Their table has an umbrella that blocks out the late day sun. The table is set in a way that allows for an open view of the wood docks, the many pleasure craft tied off to their beams and the wide open lake beyond them.
Rosie wears a cropped white top that shows off her four month pregnancy and thin, dark sunglasses over her eyes. With long dark hair combed back over her forehead, she has the look of a movie star who’s arrived in Lake George for a location shoot.
In contrast, Jude dons his usual uniform of worn Levis, work boots and snug-fitting forest green T-shirt impressed with white letters that spell out “Breadloaf Writer’s Conference ‘09.” Maybe he doesn’t fit the bill of the movie star’s sig other , but he might pass for the bodyguard.
While Rosie gingerly sips an early afternoon Virgin Mary, Jude swigs the first of what he hopes will be several cold Budweiser Longnecks. At the same time, he gives his wife a detailed accounting of the morning’s murder.
By the time he finishes, the food arrives.
Rosie has a turkey club, Jude the Aspen burger he promised himself earlier. The Aspen burger substitutes blue cheese dressing for the usual slice of American.
“So let me get this straight,” says Rosie after a beat. “The killer not only goes by the name Christian Jordan, but his fingerprints, his face, his ID, even his voice support the fact that he is not Hector Lennox. Because after all, Lennox died in Paris a year ago.”
“Mack is convinced that Lennox faked his death and has since undergone extensive reconstructive surgery.” Stealing a swallow of his second cold beer. “It’s not all that uncommon. People who enter the federal protective custody program regularly fake their deaths, then engage in facial and voice reconstruction before changing their names.”
Rosie exhales, sets her right hand gently atop her pregnant
Tuesday, 3:30 P.M.
When Jude arrives back at the house that late afternoon, he finds Rosie inside her small top-floor office. Having become a maker of custom jewelry in her new life as wife and mother, she’s sitting at her converted roll-top desk, bright lamp illuminating a desktop filled with multi-colored beads, stones, hoops, stars, rolls of string, wire fasteners and all varieties of stainless steel hand tools.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, shoulder perched against the jamb.
Rosie looks up at her husband, immediately puts down her work. Jumping up from her desk, she comes to Jude, hugs him tight. He feels her warm body through the sweatpants. He smells her sweet, smooth skin.
“I was worried,” she says. “News of the murder was on TV.”
“Doesn’t take long for the vultures to start circling.”
Rosie raises her right hand, gently touches the butterfly bandage stuck to the ex-cop’s head.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little, a headache. But it was only a slight graze.”
Pulling away, Rosie brushes back long, dark brown hair. Hair that matches brown almond-shaped eyes.
“What’s the press saying?” Jude inquires.
“That there was a homicide in the back lot of Sweeney’s Gym. That there was an eyewitness.”
“They put a name to that eyewitness?”
With a quick shake of her head, Rosie sets an open hand gently on her blossoming belly.
“Names of both the eyewitness and the accused are being withheld pending a gag order.” Exhaling. “Jude, what is going on?”
“What time is it?”
Rosie, glancing at her watch.
“Going on four.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“Day camp. But he won’t be home until after dark.”
“Tell you what,” he says. “I’m going to shower. After I get dressed, I’ll take you to an early dinner at the Algonquin. It might be easier to let you know what’s going on over an Aspen burger and a cold beer.”
* * *
The Algonquin Restaurant/West side of Lake George
Tuesday, 4:30 P.M.
Jude and Rosie are seated on the back dock-side patio of the open-air restaurant.
Their table has an umbrella that blocks out the late day sun. The table is set in a way that allows for an open view of the wood docks, the many pleasure craft tied off to their beams and the wide open lake beyond them.
Rosie wears a cropped white top that shows off her four month pregnancy and thin, dark sunglasses over her eyes. With long dark hair combed back over her forehead, she has the look of a movie star who’s arrived in Lake George for a location shoot.
In contrast, Jude dons his usual uniform of worn Levis, work boots and snug-fitting forest green T-shirt impressed with white letters that spell out “Breadloaf Writer’s Conference ‘09.” Maybe he doesn’t fit the bill of the movie star’s sig other , but he might pass for the bodyguard.
While Rosie gingerly sips an early afternoon Virgin Mary, Jude swigs the first of what he hopes will be several cold Budweiser Longnecks. At the same time, he gives his wife a detailed accounting of the morning’s murder.
By the time he finishes, the food arrives.
Rosie has a turkey club, Jude the Aspen burger he promised himself earlier. The Aspen burger substitutes blue cheese dressing for the usual slice of American.
“So let me get this straight,” says Rosie after a beat. “The killer not only goes by the name Christian Jordan, but his fingerprints, his face, his ID, even his voice support the fact that he is not Hector Lennox. Because after all, Lennox died in Paris a year ago.”
“Mack is convinced that Lennox faked his death and has since undergone extensive reconstructive surgery.” Stealing a swallow of his second cold beer. “It’s not all that uncommon. People who enter the federal protective custody program regularly fake their deaths, then engage in facial and voice reconstruction before changing their names.”
Rosie exhales, sets her right hand gently atop her pregnant
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