south and ease
into a longer stride. It takes less than fifteen minutes to reach
the Chase Manhattan Bank on Eighty-Sixth.
By the time I exit, I’ve obtained a safe-deposit
box, stashed the jewels and the red leather address book, and
pocketed the key.
I’m heading toward home when my cell rings. “Greene
here. Where are you?”
“Near Ninetieth. I’m working off last night.”
“We need to talk. I’ll be at Blockhead’s Burritos on
Second at Eighty-First.”
At a little after eleven thirty, Greene sits down
across from me. We order a burrito to split and two iced teas.
After we each take a couple of sips Greene says,
“How did you get home last night?”
I can’t give Bill up. At least not yet. Not until I
know the truth.
I jam my mind into third gear and take a couple of
sips for a delay. “Why do you ask?”
“I was told you weren’t there.” “But I was. Who was
looking?”
“It doesn’t matter. Kingsley-Smythe died last night.
Massive coronary. The EMS came. Kept him on support until the party
was over. Didn’t want to upset the guests.”
It’s amazing how easy the lies can come once you’re
into them. I gasp, then plunge into mine. “Oh, my God. No. I didn’t
know. He had a meeting. Sent me home with the chauffeur.”
Even though I’m zipped up to my neck in my warm-up
suit, I feel icy cold. Then it’s true, Kingsley-Smythe was killed. And it looks like I’m the only witness—other than the
Cardinal’s murderer.
I take a couple more sips and say, “Will there be an
autopsy?”
Greene’s brow creases. “Why would there be? Besides,
that’s up to the Greenwich coroner.”
“But didn’t he die in New Jersey?”
“I guess you could say he technically kicked the
bucket in New Jersey.”
He looks at the bottom of his empty glass for a few
seconds, then says, “I guess you can say that since they kept him
on life support. But they pulled the plug in Greenwich.”
So they pronounced Kingsley-Smythe dead at a
Greenwich hospital. How very convenient. No autopsy. No probing
questions.
We both stare away. Then Greene says, “I do have
some good news. They picked up Angela’s ‘plastic surgeon,’ Haley
Granger, and his group last night. Guess the gang got a little
careless. I helped process them this morning. Looks like they’ll be
cooling their heels in lockup until the arraignment.”
My first thought is Angela. “Will my sister have to
testify?”
He shakes his head. “She’ll probably have to come up
when the case is brought to trial.”
————
The burrito lies like lead in my stomach, so I walk
back to the townhouse and flop on one of the chairs in the living
room.
I should feel relieved that my treasures are safely
stashed. Instead, I’m just short of indulging in a few “poor me”
tears over the ever elusive Bill Cotton. Is he telling me the
truth? I don’t think so. And what in hell am I doing here?
What did I think I was going to do? Save the world
from a group of stupid high-powered jerks that are playing
dangerous games in New Jersey? End prostitution forever? Cut off
the Colombian pipeline?
Duncan’s old admonition, “Just another cockamamie
stunt,” echoes. But things are much worse than cockamamie this
time.
I haven’t picked up the phone to call Angela or my
parents since I paid the first visit to The Castle, and I
desperately need to hear a familiar voice. News about Harley
Granger is the perfect excuse to call my sister.
The phone rings forever before Angela answers.
I give an overly enthusiastic, “It’s me. I’m so glad
I caught you. What’s new?”
There’s a long silence on her end. One I didn’t
expect. I hoped for the same enthusiastic response from a sister
who’s missed her sib. Instead I get a wary, “Oh, hi. How are
you?”
How am I? I’ve stepped into Angela’s shoes, albeit
willingly, and she wants to know about my health? No questions
about how the New Jersey party turned out? No questions about
Caro’s
into a longer stride. It takes less than fifteen minutes to reach
the Chase Manhattan Bank on Eighty-Sixth.
By the time I exit, I’ve obtained a safe-deposit
box, stashed the jewels and the red leather address book, and
pocketed the key.
I’m heading toward home when my cell rings. “Greene
here. Where are you?”
“Near Ninetieth. I’m working off last night.”
“We need to talk. I’ll be at Blockhead’s Burritos on
Second at Eighty-First.”
At a little after eleven thirty, Greene sits down
across from me. We order a burrito to split and two iced teas.
After we each take a couple of sips Greene says,
“How did you get home last night?”
I can’t give Bill up. At least not yet. Not until I
know the truth.
I jam my mind into third gear and take a couple of
sips for a delay. “Why do you ask?”
“I was told you weren’t there.” “But I was. Who was
looking?”
“It doesn’t matter. Kingsley-Smythe died last night.
Massive coronary. The EMS came. Kept him on support until the party
was over. Didn’t want to upset the guests.”
It’s amazing how easy the lies can come once you’re
into them. I gasp, then plunge into mine. “Oh, my God. No. I didn’t
know. He had a meeting. Sent me home with the chauffeur.”
Even though I’m zipped up to my neck in my warm-up
suit, I feel icy cold. Then it’s true, Kingsley-Smythe was killed. And it looks like I’m the only witness—other than the
Cardinal’s murderer.
I take a couple more sips and say, “Will there be an
autopsy?”
Greene’s brow creases. “Why would there be? Besides,
that’s up to the Greenwich coroner.”
“But didn’t he die in New Jersey?”
“I guess you could say he technically kicked the
bucket in New Jersey.”
He looks at the bottom of his empty glass for a few
seconds, then says, “I guess you can say that since they kept him
on life support. But they pulled the plug in Greenwich.”
So they pronounced Kingsley-Smythe dead at a
Greenwich hospital. How very convenient. No autopsy. No probing
questions.
We both stare away. Then Greene says, “I do have
some good news. They picked up Angela’s ‘plastic surgeon,’ Haley
Granger, and his group last night. Guess the gang got a little
careless. I helped process them this morning. Looks like they’ll be
cooling their heels in lockup until the arraignment.”
My first thought is Angela. “Will my sister have to
testify?”
He shakes his head. “She’ll probably have to come up
when the case is brought to trial.”
————
The burrito lies like lead in my stomach, so I walk
back to the townhouse and flop on one of the chairs in the living
room.
I should feel relieved that my treasures are safely
stashed. Instead, I’m just short of indulging in a few “poor me”
tears over the ever elusive Bill Cotton. Is he telling me the
truth? I don’t think so. And what in hell am I doing here?
What did I think I was going to do? Save the world
from a group of stupid high-powered jerks that are playing
dangerous games in New Jersey? End prostitution forever? Cut off
the Colombian pipeline?
Duncan’s old admonition, “Just another cockamamie
stunt,” echoes. But things are much worse than cockamamie this
time.
I haven’t picked up the phone to call Angela or my
parents since I paid the first visit to The Castle, and I
desperately need to hear a familiar voice. News about Harley
Granger is the perfect excuse to call my sister.
The phone rings forever before Angela answers.
I give an overly enthusiastic, “It’s me. I’m so glad
I caught you. What’s new?”
There’s a long silence on her end. One I didn’t
expect. I hoped for the same enthusiastic response from a sister
who’s missed her sib. Instead I get a wary, “Oh, hi. How are
you?”
How am I? I’ve stepped into Angela’s shoes, albeit
willingly, and she wants to know about my health? No questions
about how the New Jersey party turned out? No questions about
Caro’s
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