"So it is true. You're actually going for Trotta," the lieutenant mused. "And apparently you don't care who knows about it, huh?"
"We like to make 'em nervous," George said.
Harry took a slug of his coffee then spit it back into the cup. "God!" He looked up at George accusingly. "How long did you let me sleep?"
"I'm not exactly sure." George looked at his watch. "Two, maybe three hours, tops."
Harry rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "What's the medical status on the clerk from the market? He all right?"
"He's gonna be okay," the lieutenant told him. "It was just a flesh wound. The blow to his head's nothing major either. He'll be released in the morning."
"What about the perps?"
"All have lived to waste precious taxpayer dollars," George said.
"What were you saying about Trotta?" Harry asked, rubbing his eyes with one hand.
"Just gossiping with the lieutenant."
"You know, something came in about Trotta only an hour ago," the lieutenant told them. "Some B&E report from the Island. Guy who recently showed up dead—word's out he made Trotta unhappy. No proof tying him to the murder, though." He snorted. "Of course not. Anyway, this guy's house was just trashed. Somewhere in… Farmingville, I think it was."
"Farmingville?" Harry stood up. "Is the dead guy Griffin Lamont? 'Cause Griffin Lamont lives in Farming-dale. Lived."
"Yeah, Lamont, I think that's the name," the lieutenant stood up, too. "I can check if you want."
"Yeah," Harry said. "Please. Check the name. And the address, while you're at it."
"Oh, shit," George said. "I knew I shouldn't have let you sleep."
Harry rolled his head, trying to work a crick out of his neck. "Farmingdale's not that far. We could get out there in about an hour, this time of night."
"No," George said. "I'm not driving out to Long Island tonight. Absolutely, positively, definitely not."
Alessandra stood in the kitchen, shaking.
Whoever had done this had been thorough. As far as she could tell, there was little left intact in the entire house. Her couches and draperies had been knifed and torn, the wooden furniture splintered. Every piece of clothing in her closet had been shredded, her cosmetics crushed. Drying paint coated the once-expensive wall-to-wall carpeting and stained the walls. Here in the kitchen, her china had been smashed and ground into the Mexican tile floor along with broken jars of food from the pantry and refrigerator.
The devastation was complete. The quiet old house that had once been her sanctuary had been overrun by violence and chaos.
She closed her eyes as she bent over the sink, afraid she was going to vomit, silently cursing Griffin's immortal soul to hell. In life, he'd treated her as little more than a possession. In death, his grip on her was still as tight as ever.
Where's the money?
Alessandra couldn't begin to guess.
"Mrs. Lamont?"
She quickly straightened up, automatically checking her hair in the broken glass of a photo of Cold Spring Harbor that still hung crookedly on the wall. "In the kitchen."
The police detective pushed open the door, wincing apologetically as he crunched on the remains of her Waterford crystal. He held out the phone. "Call waiting beeped while I was on with the captain. It's a Brandon Wright for you… ?"
Her lawyer. Finally. She took the phone. "Brandon, thank God. The house has been completely ransacked. Can you get over here right—"
"Alessandra, it's nearly two a.m."
"But the entire house is—"
"No, I'm sorry, I can't come out there now." He sighed heavily. "And I know this is not the right time, but I've been meaning to talk to you about this. You're broke. You can't afford me anymore."
She kept her voice calm as she went into the living room, searching desperately for some place, any place to sit down. "I see." There was no longer anywhere to sit in the entire house. She was going to have to take this latest blow standing up.
"I'm sorry. I hate to desert you at a time like this, but if I come out there at two hundred and fifty dollars an hour the drive time alone will—"
"Of course. You're right." The front door was ajar, and as Alessandra watched, two men pushed it even farther open and stepped into the entryway. "Seven years of friendship is worth far less than two hundred and fifty dollars an hour."
Her acerbic comment had completely taken Brandon aback. It was unlike her to speak out. Years of living with Griffin had taught her to murmur her agreement, even when she didn't agree. But Griffin was dead now, and over the past few months her life had taken a rather drastic turn. "Brandon, please. Can't you come out here as my friend?"
Brandon hesitated. In the silence Alessandra watched the two men who had just come in.
One of them was dark and compact. He was probably only an inch or two taller than her own not-quite-statuesque five feet eight, but he was powerfully, muscularly built. The other man was tall and elegantly slender, the perfect example of high fashion, his suit clearly brand-new—this minute's style, in fact. The shorter man wore a raincoat that looked as if it hadn't been to the dry cleaner's in the better part of a decade. Underneath, she caught glimpses of a rumpled dark suit, a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned, tie loosened.
The taller man was a walking ad for the Hair Club for Men, every strand perfectly in place, inventoried and accounted for. The other had thick, dark hair that had to be completely his own, arranged in a style that could only be described as permanent "bed head."
They were cops. Detectives, most likely. She could tell from the way they looked around as they came inside. The shorter one's dark gaze flickered over her, identifying and processing her as completely as he'd taken in and filed the torn sofa cushions and the bloodred paint splattered on the walls.
"I can't," Brandon finally said, just as she'd known he would. "It was different when you were married to Griffin, but now, especially with him dead… I don't think Jeanie would understand."
His wife wouldn't understand that Alessandra could use a little support after her ex-husband was killed by mobsters and her house was completely destroyed? He read her silence correctly.
"I'm sorry, Alessandra," he continued. "But I know what she would think if I went out there at this time of night. I can't help you. In fact, I've got to get off the line. I am sorry."
"I'm sorry, too." Alessandra cut the connection. She was alone. She was completely alone. For the first time in her entire life, she didn't have someone to call, someone to take care of things for her.
Where's the money? Find it. Fast. Or you're next.
For several long seconds, Alessandra couldn't breathe.
"Mrs. Lamont?"
She looked up, directly into the eyes of the cop with the messy hair. His eyes were dark brown and meltingly warm. With eyes like that, a man could get away with a rumpled suit and a grungy raincoat. With eyes like that, a man could get away with just about anything.
His face wasn't particularly handsome, but then again, he wasn't not handsome, either. His nose was a little too big and slightly rounded at the end, his lips too thin, his cheekbones a little too lost in the fullness of his face. He was pushing forty and the stubble on his much-too-stubborn chin was flecked with gray.
"You all right?" he asked.
For half a second, all of the grief and desperation and fear she was feeling almost escaped. But instead of bursting into tears and hurling herself into this stranger's arms, she reminded herself that he was a cop, not a friend, and delicately cleared her throat instead. She didn't have any friends. She had to remember that.
One by one, she'd let her own friends slip away during the seven long years of her marriage. She'd kept her distance from the other volunteers at the hospital, and she'd socialized only with Griffin's business associates. That was the way he'd wanted it. But when Griffin had left, most of his acquaintances had gone with him. And when he'd turned up wanted by the police and then dead, the phone had sto
pped ringing completely.
"I'll be fine," she told the dark-eyed man. And she would be. She might not have someone to hold her, but somehow she was going to get through this. Somehow she would survive. She had to believe that. It was Jane Doe she was worried to death about.
"I'm Harry O'Dell, Mrs. Lamont." He held out his hand, and she took it hesitantly, afraid it would be as warm as his eyes. She managed to shake while hardly touching him, giving him a Ladies' Club smile. Polite yet distancing.
"I'm with the FBI," he added. The smile he gave her in return was crooked, as if she'd somehow amused him and he was trying not to laugh. The gentle warmth in his eyes had been replaced by something much edgier. "And this is my partner, George Faulkner."
"FBI?" She kept her voice low and managed to sound only mildly interested, hiding the fact that her pulse had just kicked into double time, sending icy rockets of fear down to her fingers and toes.
Where's the money?
Was it possible the police knew about the threatening phone call? Why else would they have sent in federal agents? She held the phone tightly with both hands, praying she wouldn't start shaking again.
He didn't offer an explanation for why they were there. He just looked at her.
She could feel him taking in the details of her face, of her hair, of the silk blouse that was neatly tucked into the waistband of her soft wool pants. Like most men, he wasn't just looking at her clothes. He was assessing the body underneath.
She knew what he saw, knew he liked what he saw. With her movie-star-perfect features and softly lidded blue eyes, with her thick blonde hair and perfectly proportioned body, with her elegant clothes and perfectly applied makeup, she was a fifteen on a scale from one to ten. She was drop-dead beautiful.
Too beautiful to have any friends.
"We'd like to ask you some questions, Mrs. Lamont," Harry O'Dell finally said. There was a trace of blue-collar New York City in his voice as well as his face. Brooklyn maybe. Or the Bronx. He wasn't from the Island, though. Alessandra herself had worked hard to eliminate that particular accent from her own speech, and she knew it well.
"We're sorry about the recent loss of your husband," the other man cut in. He was definitely from Connecticut, just as Griffin had been.
"Ex-husband," Alessandra corrected him quickly. A little too quickly.
They exchanged a look and she continued, "The divorce hadn't gone through, but he moved out in January. I considered our marriage over at that time."
Harry nodded. "That's fair. So I guess you weren't too broken up when he showed up facedown in the East River?"
"I didn't kill him, Mr. O'Dell, if that's what you're implying."
"I wasn't implying anything, but I'm glad to hear that." He was silently laughing at her again, despite the fact that the icy look she was giving him would've sent another man running. "Do you know who did this to your house?"
She gave him the same short answer she'd given the local police hours earlier. "No."
He was watching her closely. "No ideas at all?"
"I have ideas, of course. But that's not what you asked. You asked if I knew who did this."
"Who do you think did this?" he asked.
She chose her words very carefully. "If I had to guess,
I'd say it was probably the same people who killed Griffin."
"Any ideas why?"
Where's the money? Find it. Fast.
Alessandra gripped the cordless phone more tightly. "The police seemed to think Griffin was involved in something having to do with drugs."
"And you know nothing about that?"
"Whatever he was doing, he didn't mention it to me. He rarely discussed business with me. He rarely discussed anything with me at all."
Harry gestured to the room around them. "Whoever did this was searching for something. This isn't just random destruction, Mrs. Lamont."
Where's the money? Where's the money?
"I'm afraid I can't help you," Alessandra said.
He didn't say anything for many long seconds. He just watched her, a trace of amusement curling the corners of his mouth. He didn't trust her, didn't believe her, didn't like her.
But he wanted her. Yes, if she had held out her hand, he would've taken it and followed her right upstairs. No further questions.
"Thanks for your time," he finally said.
He started to walk away but then turned back. "Do you have a place to stay tonight?"
"I'll be fine," she said again, hoping that this time she'd believe it, too.
"She's smarter than she looks."
George checked his side mirror as he moved into the left lane on the Long Island Expressway. "That's not uncommon among most members of the human race. You're smarter than you look, too."
Harry shifted in his seat, watching Queens speed past him through the side window of George's car, trying to get comfortable. His shoulder hurt like hell.
"Of course, as long as we're making comparisons, she definitely smells better than you," George added.
Harry glanced at him. "I didn't particularly notice."
George smiled.
"All right, so I did notice. Jesus." Alessandra Lamont had smelled elegant and freshly, sweetly female. She'd smelled like the expensive shops in Paris, like that one tense vacation he'd taken with Sonya two months before they'd split up for good.
He briefly closed his eyes. "What is it about blondes? Why is it I start talking to a blonde, and my vocabulary is reduced to a few dozen words, most of 'em unspeakable in polite company?" He shook his head. "Talking about polite company—that high society crap totally maxes out my bullshit meter. Did she think she was the Duchess of Nassau County or what? And did she seriously think we believed for one second she didn't know that fancy house had been bought and paid for with mob money?" He imitated Alessandra's cultured voice. "Griffin rarely discussed business with me. He rarely discussed anything with me at all." He snorted. "That's because ol’ Griff was no fool. You get a woman like that alone in a room, you don't let her use her mouth for talking. Christ."
The silence in the car stretched on for a half, and then a whole, mile. "Are you done?" George finally asked.
Harry let out a burst of air as he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "No," he said. "No, I'm not done." He had the feeling Alessandra Lamont was going to show up again and again and again in this investigation. And if that was the case, he wasn't going to be done for many, many weeks.
Damn, he hurt all over. He'd hit his shoulder hard, diving to cover the store clerk tonight in that bodega, after the taller of the three perps had opened fire. The gunplay hadn't lasted more than fifteen seconds, but he probably had a new bruise for every one of those seconds.
Still, it had been sleeping with his head on the table in the police station interview room that had done him the most damage. He was getting too old for that. Of course, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually slept stretched out in his own bed over the past few months.
He also couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in the bed of a woman like Alessandra Lamont.
Yes he could. That would have been four years ago, before his divorce. Before—
He interrupted himself. "So what do you think she knows?"
George turned on the windshield wipers to clear away the light rain that had begun to fall. "I think there's definitely something she's not telling us." He glanced at Harry. "And I think despite her Ice Queen routine, she gave you one very serious once-over. I don't know why, but the phrase 'pillow talk' keeps popping into my mind."
"Oh, no," Harry said. "Nuh-uh. No way."
"You've got to admit, it would be a less life-threatening way to blow off steam on your nights off than taking down three armed robbers without any backup."
"I'm not so sure about that." Harry tried to stretch out his legs and hit his already bruised knee on the dash. "Ow. Besides, she's not my type."
"She's beautiful and she's blonde. She's exactly your type. You just sa
id so yourself."
"She's more your type," Harry countered. "She's not real broken up over the husband's death—obviously she married the guy for his cash. She's nothing but a high-priced hooker."
"There's a big difference between exotic dancers and hookers, thank you very much."
"Sorry," Harry said.
"Hookers would be going too far. The dancers I can actually bring to office parties, and God, does that make Nicole squirm." George grinned.
"How is Nicki? I only caught a glimpse of her yesterday. She was moving too fast even to say hello."
"That about describes her." George had been divorced from Nicole Fenster since before Harry had met him, but not a single day passed in which her name didn't come up. "Isn't it convenient, now that we're no longer married, policy allows us to work in the same area, out of the same building? That's why I've stayed partners with you, you know. Because if I did what everyone else has done and asked for a transfer, I'd probably be hooked up with Nic again."
The tires made a shushing sound against the wet pavement as they rode for several long moments in silence.
"Have you had a chance to check out Griffin Lamont's file?" George asked. "Did you look at his picture?"
They'd both seen his body after he'd spent a few days in the river. That was not the same thing as seeing his photograph. "Yeah." Pale hair, pale eyes, pale face. Relatively handsome if you were into mushrooms who never saw the light of day. Of course, most women wouldn't look further than the dollar-sign motif the guy was practically wearing on his tie.
"Can you believe Lamont dumped her?" George laughed. "What was he thinking?"
"Irreconcilable differences," Harry said flatly. "According to the divorce papers, he wanted children, she didn't. Guess she didn't want to ruin her figure."
"Wait—when did you see the divorce papers?"
"This afternoon. While you were shaving for the second time today. I left the file on your desk. See what you miss by being fastidious?"
"I thought I'd be spending the evening with Kim." George glanced at him again. "You know, I bet if you went back to Farmingdale tomorrow and offered Mrs. Lamont a strong shoulder to cry on—"
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