husband. It was impossible.
Bianca whirled around and hustled down the stairs. In the dim light of the wine cellar, she clenched both fists and decided her husband’s infidelities required something extra, something special. Her beloved Dorothy Parker had said it best:
“It serves me right for keeping all my eggs in one bastard.”
* * *
“Are you sure this will work?”
“I’ve got it under control,” Leeser whispered into the phone.
He paused, suppressing his anger as his partner spoke.
“I’ve got it under control,” he repeated, doing his best to sound emphatic. “Cusack’s taking the job. He’s in financial trouble.”
“How do you know, Cy?”
“I ran the credit reports.”
Leeser paused again, wincing at his partner’s reply and checking for Bianca. He was oblivious to Freddy of the lifted leg, this time sniffing around the carton from Iceland.
“Give me a few months,” said Cy, “and Cusack’s father-in-law will be eating out of my hand. I bet we get Caleb Phelps as a client.”
Leeser hung up and felt his shoulders slump. Nobody ever made him feel this impotent. Not even Bianca, who required ten times the care and maintenance of his Bentley. He headed into the kitchen to check the Bolognese sauce, eager to knock back a glass of Mollydooker and forget about his partner.
Cy arrived just as Bianca tipped 1961 Chateau Latour into the sauce. By her calculations every ounce she poured, every gulp and gurgle of the dark garnet perfection, added $256 to the pot filled with five bucks of Ragú.
“Not again,” Leeser muttered, wondering if he could list his wife on eBay.
“Freddy, Ginger,” called Bianca. “Who likes Bolognese?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHE ’ S A KILLER …
The next morning, Rachel turned east at Sixty-ninth and Madison, careful to avoid a direct path between Doc’s clinic and the Colony Club. Repetition was careless in her profession, careless even here in New York. The city salted everything with two measures of chaos and a big dose of the unexpected.
At Lexington and Sixty-fifth Rachel spied a woman, probably a nanny, screaming at her little red-haired boy. He wailed and bawled his eyes out, trying desperately to rip free from her clutch. She had lost it, her face bloated by exasperation or exhaustion, her free hand raised to strike.
Rachel put her mission on hold, passed to the left, and hip-checked the nanny. The young woman lost hold of the boy’s hand and skidded to the pavement, scraping her chin on the curb.
“Are you okay, little man?” Rachel asked the boy. He said nothing and sucked his thumb, not bothering to wipe the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Watch where you’re going,” the nanny hissed, struggling to sit up, rubbing blood from her chin.
“The kid comes with a warranty,” Rachel warned, pulling the woman to her feet. “Mine.”
With that, she continued down Lexington before turning west on Sixty-fourth toward Fifth Avenue. The nanny gaped, her jaw hanging slack. Rachel never bothered to look, though. She had crossed into the kill zone.
“We have a date, Henrietta.”
* * *
By eleven A.M. Henrietta Hedgecock traded her Chanel suit for a black, one-piece Speedo. She tucked long white locks inside her swim cap, blue with a Nike swoosh across the front, and appraised her arms and upper body over the cool chop of the pool’s water. Hedgecock approved of what she saw. All her efforts—clothes, exercise, and trips to the salon, not to mention a thousand different moisturizers—paid off.
Even at age seventy-six, Henrietta turned heads among New York’s haut monde of high-minded philanthropy and abused livers. Which was why she regarded the Colony Club’s pool as a safe house. Men never swam in it, and members seldom ventured into the basement. No hard stares of appraisal. No need to worry how she looked.
Henrietta relished the temporary respite. She was not wearing jewels from Tiffany or makeup from the
Bianca whirled around and hustled down the stairs. In the dim light of the wine cellar, she clenched both fists and decided her husband’s infidelities required something extra, something special. Her beloved Dorothy Parker had said it best:
“It serves me right for keeping all my eggs in one bastard.”
* * *
“Are you sure this will work?”
“I’ve got it under control,” Leeser whispered into the phone.
He paused, suppressing his anger as his partner spoke.
“I’ve got it under control,” he repeated, doing his best to sound emphatic. “Cusack’s taking the job. He’s in financial trouble.”
“How do you know, Cy?”
“I ran the credit reports.”
Leeser paused again, wincing at his partner’s reply and checking for Bianca. He was oblivious to Freddy of the lifted leg, this time sniffing around the carton from Iceland.
“Give me a few months,” said Cy, “and Cusack’s father-in-law will be eating out of my hand. I bet we get Caleb Phelps as a client.”
Leeser hung up and felt his shoulders slump. Nobody ever made him feel this impotent. Not even Bianca, who required ten times the care and maintenance of his Bentley. He headed into the kitchen to check the Bolognese sauce, eager to knock back a glass of Mollydooker and forget about his partner.
Cy arrived just as Bianca tipped 1961 Chateau Latour into the sauce. By her calculations every ounce she poured, every gulp and gurgle of the dark garnet perfection, added $256 to the pot filled with five bucks of Ragú.
“Not again,” Leeser muttered, wondering if he could list his wife on eBay.
“Freddy, Ginger,” called Bianca. “Who likes Bolognese?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHE ’ S A KILLER …
The next morning, Rachel turned east at Sixty-ninth and Madison, careful to avoid a direct path between Doc’s clinic and the Colony Club. Repetition was careless in her profession, careless even here in New York. The city salted everything with two measures of chaos and a big dose of the unexpected.
At Lexington and Sixty-fifth Rachel spied a woman, probably a nanny, screaming at her little red-haired boy. He wailed and bawled his eyes out, trying desperately to rip free from her clutch. She had lost it, her face bloated by exasperation or exhaustion, her free hand raised to strike.
Rachel put her mission on hold, passed to the left, and hip-checked the nanny. The young woman lost hold of the boy’s hand and skidded to the pavement, scraping her chin on the curb.
“Are you okay, little man?” Rachel asked the boy. He said nothing and sucked his thumb, not bothering to wipe the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Watch where you’re going,” the nanny hissed, struggling to sit up, rubbing blood from her chin.
“The kid comes with a warranty,” Rachel warned, pulling the woman to her feet. “Mine.”
With that, she continued down Lexington before turning west on Sixty-fourth toward Fifth Avenue. The nanny gaped, her jaw hanging slack. Rachel never bothered to look, though. She had crossed into the kill zone.
“We have a date, Henrietta.”
* * *
By eleven A.M. Henrietta Hedgecock traded her Chanel suit for a black, one-piece Speedo. She tucked long white locks inside her swim cap, blue with a Nike swoosh across the front, and appraised her arms and upper body over the cool chop of the pool’s water. Hedgecock approved of what she saw. All her efforts—clothes, exercise, and trips to the salon, not to mention a thousand different moisturizers—paid off.
Even at age seventy-six, Henrietta turned heads among New York’s haut monde of high-minded philanthropy and abused livers. Which was why she regarded the Colony Club’s pool as a safe house. Men never swam in it, and members seldom ventured into the basement. No hard stares of appraisal. No need to worry how she looked.
Henrietta relished the temporary respite. She was not wearing jewels from Tiffany or makeup from the
Similar Books
