Like Paul Rice, Mindy knew Sam had done it. She would never tell anyone, of course, including James. But it wasn’t the only secret she was keeping. Striding into her office, she passed Thayer Core, sitting in his cubicle like a caged animal, scrolling through a long list of e-mails. Mindy stopped and stuck her head over the edge of the cubicle, looking down at Thayer as a reminder of her authority over him.
“Have you printed out the notes from yesterday’s meeting?” she asked.
Thayer pushed back his chair and, as if to thwart her authority, put his feet up on his desk and crossed his arms. “Which meeting?” he said.
“All of them.” She moved away, then stopped, as if remembering something. “And I also need a hard copy of Lola Fabrikant’s sex column.”
When Mindy was safely in her office, Thayer muttered, “Can’t you read it on your computer? Like everyone else?” He got up and strolled through the maze of cubicles to the printer, where he retrieved Lola’s column. He read it briefly and shook his head. Lola was fucking James Gooch again. Could Mindy really be so dense that she didn’t know Lola was writing about her own husband? Ugh. It meant he and James Gooch now had one degree of separation. But James gave Lola money, and since Thayer enjoyed the same privileges as James for free, he couldn’t really object.
“Here you go,” Thayer said with a flourish, placing the printout on Mindy’s desk.
“Thank you,” she said, continuing to stare at her computer.
Thayer stood for a moment, watching her. “Can I have a raise?” he asked.
This got her attention. Putting on her reading glasses, she picked up the printout and glanced at it, and then him. “How long have you been here?” she asked.
“A month.”
“I’m already paying you a hundred thousand dollars a year.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Check back with me in five months, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Fucking old bag, Thayer thought, returning to his cubicle. But surprisingly, Mindy wasn’t that bad, not as bad as he’d thought she’d be. She had even taken him out for a beer and asked him all kinds of uncomfortable questions about where he lived and how he was surviving. When he told her he lived on Avenue C, she grimaced. “That’s not good enough for you,” she said. “I see you in a better place—like a walk-up in the West Village.” She’d given him advice about getting ahead, suggesting he attempt to appear “more corporate” by wearing a tie.
For some reason, he had taken her advice. The woman was right, he’d thought, upon returning to his disgusting apartment. It wasn’t good enough for him. He was twenty-five years old. There were men his age who were billionaires, but he was making a hundred thousand a year, an enormous sum compared to that of his friends. After scouring Craigslist, he’d found an apartment on Christopher Street, a walk-up with a bedroom that was barely large enough to contain a queen-size bed. It was twenty-eight hundred a month, which ate up three quarters of his monthly salary, but it was worth it. He was moving up in the world.
Seated behind her desk with her reading glasses perched on her nose, Mindy carefully read the latest installment of Lola’s sex column. Lola had quite a way with the description of the sex act and, not content to limit it to plumbing, also provided a detailed account of her partner’s physical characteristics. The first four columns had featured Philip Oakland as her lover, but this column and the previous one were most definitely about James. Although Lola called the man the Terminator, which made Mindy laugh out loud, the description of his penis, with its “constellation of tiny moles on the shaft, forming, perhaps, Osiris,” was James. Nor was it only the comments about his penis that gave him away. “I want to know every part of you. Including the dirty place,” the Terminator had said. It was exactly the same argument James had used on Mindy in the early years of their marriage when he’d wanted to try anal sex.
Putting the column aside, Mindy went back to her computer and, typing in the address of the Litchfield County real estate agency, scrolled down and found the photographs and description of a house. The past weekend, looking at real estate, the agent had explained that there was very little in their price range—there was hardly anything on the market for under a million three. She did have the perfect house for them, but it was a little more expensive. Did they want to look at it anyway? Yes, they did, Mindy said.
The house was a bit of a wreck, having only been recently vacated by an aged farmer. But these kinds of houses almost never came up. It still had twelve original acres, and the house, built in the late seventeen hundreds, had three fireplaces. There was an old apple orchard and a red barn (falling down, but barns were very inexpensive to restore), and it was located on what was considered one of the best streets in one of Litchfield County’s most exclusive towns—Roxbury, Connecticut. Population twenty-three hundred. But what a population. Arthur Miller and Alexander Calder had lived nearby, as well as Walter Matthau. Philip Roth was only miles away. And the house was a steal—only one point nine million.
“It’s too much,” James protested in the rental car on the way back to the city.
“It’s perfect,” Mindy said. “And you heard what the real estate agent said. Houses like this one never come up.”
“It makes me nervous, spending all that money. On a house. And it needs lots of restoration. Do you know how much that costs? Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yes, we have the money today. But who knows what will happen in the future?”
Indeed, Mindy thought now, pressing the intercom button on her phone. Who knew? “Thayer,” she said, “could you come into my office, please?”
“What now?” Thayer asked.
Mindy smiled. She’d been pleasantly surprised by Mr. Thayer Core, having discovered that he was not only a crackerjack assistant but a fellow trafficker in evil, paranoia, and bad thoughts. He reminded her of her very own self at twenty-five, and found his candor refreshing.
“I need another hard copy,” she said. “In color.”
In a few minutes, Thayer returned with a printout of the brochure for the house. Mindy clipped the brochure to Lola’s two sex columns about James and placed a Post-it note on top on which she’d written, “FYI.” She handed the stapled pages to Thayer. “Could you messenger this to my husband, please?”
Thayer flipped through the pages and, nodding in admiration, said, “That ought to do it.”
“Thank you,” Mindy said, shooing him away.
Thayer called the messenger service to pick up the package. He slipped the papers into a manila envelope and, as he did so, emitted a little laugh. He’d ridiculed Mindy Gooch for months, and while he still found her slightly ridiculous, he had to give the woman credit. She had balls.
A couple of hours later, Mindy called James. “Did you get my package?” she asked.
James murmured a terrified assent. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it,” she continued. “And I want to buy that house. Immediately. I don’t want to wait another day. I’m going to call the real estate agent now and make an offer.”
“Great,” James said, too scared to sound enthusiastic.
Mindy leaned back in her chair, curling the phone cord around her finger. “I can’t wait to get started on the renovations. I’ve got all kinds of ideas. How’s the new book coming, by the way? Are you making progress?”
In the penthouse apartment in One Fifth, Annalisa Rice studied the seating chart for the King David event, writing the numbers of various tables next to each name on the twenty-page guest list. It was, as usual, a tedious process, but someone had to do it, and now that she had replaced Connie Brewer as the chairman of the event, the duty fell to her. She suspected Connie hadn’t wanted to give up her position, but with Sandy’s trial coming up, the other members of the committee didn’t think Connie’s involvement was a good idea. Connie’s presence would remind people of the scandal involving the Cross of Bloody Mary, and instead of covering the event, reporters would write about the Brewers instead.
&nbs
p; The gala was in four days and was expected to be even more spectacular than the year before. Rod Stewart was performing, and Schiffer Diamond had agreed to host the event. After Billy’s death, Annalisa and Schiffer had become close, at first finding solace in each other’s company and then seeing their mutual sorrow blossom into an actual friendship. Being public figures, they found they had some things in common. Schiffer suggested Annalisa hire her publicist, Karen; meanwhile, Annalisa had introduced Schiffer to her crazy stylist, Norine. Lady Superior was on hiatus, and Schiffer would often pop upstairs in the late morning for coffee, which they’d take on Annalisa’s terrace; sometimes Enid would join as well. Annalisa relished these moments. Enid was right—a co-op was like a family, and the antics of the other residents were always a source of gentle amusement. “Mindy Gooch finally took my advice and hired Thayer Core,” Enid reported one morning. “So we won’t have to worry about him anymore. James, meanwhile, is having an affair with Lola Fabrikant.”
“That poor girl,” Schiffer said.
“Mindy or Lola?” Annalisa asked.
“Both,” Schiffer said.
“Poor Lola, nothing,” Enid exclaimed. “That girl was a gold digger. Worse than Flossie Davis. All she wanted was to live in One Fifth and spend Philip’s money.”
“Don’t you think you were a little cruel to her, Enid?” Schiffer asked.
“Absolutely not. One has to be firm with that kind of girl. She was sleeping with Thayer Core behind Philip’s back and in Philip’s bed. I suppose she’s like a virus—she keeps coming back,” Enid said.
“Why did she come back?” Annalisa asked.
“Sheer, misguided determination. But she won’t get far. You’ll see,” Enid said.
Now, recalling this conversation, Annalisa found she couldn’t blame Lola for wanting to live in One Fifth. She, like Enid and Schiffer, loved the building. The only problem was Paul. Having heard about Schiffer and Philip’s engagement, he kept insisting she use her influence to get Philip and Enid to sell him their apartments, pointing out that Philip and Schiffer would need a bigger apartment, and wouldn’t Enid want to move as well? No, Annalisa replied. The plan was that Schiffer and Enid were going to trade apartments, then Philip and Schiffer would combine the two thirteenth-floor apartments into one. Then Paul suggested they move to a bigger apartment, to something in the price range of forty million dollars. To this, she’d also objected. “It’s too much, Paul,” she said, wondering where his rabid desire for the bigger and better would end. They’d put the discussion aside when Paul briefly became obsessed with buying a plane—the new G6, which wouldn’t be delivered for two years. Paul had put down a deposit of twenty million dollars but complained bitterly about the unfairness of life, because he was number fifteen on the list and not number one. His obsessions, Annalisa noted, were getting more and more out of control, and just the other day, he’d thrown a crystal vase at Maria because she’d failed to immediately inform him of the arrival of two fish. Each fish cost over a hundred thousand dollars, and had been specially shipped from Japan. But Maria hadn’t known and had left the fish sitting in their containers for five critical hours, during which time they might have died. Maria quit, and Annalisa paid her two hundred thousand dollars—a year’s salary—not to press charges against Paul. Annalisa hired two new housekeepers instead of one, which seemed to mollify Paul, who insisted the second housekeeper be on fish duty twenty-four hours a day. This was disturbing but paled in comparison to Paul’s attitude toward Sam.
“He did it,” Paul said one evening at dinner. “That little bastard. Sam Gooch.”
“Don’t be crazy,” Annalisa said.
“I know he did it,” Paul said.
“How?”
“He gave me a look. In the elevator.”
“A thirteen-year-old boy gave you a look. And you know he did it,” Annalisa said, exasperated.
“I’m having him followed.”
Annalisa put down her fork. “Let it go,” she said firmly.
“He cost me twenty-six million dollars.”
“You ended up making a hundred million dollars that day anyway. What’s twenty-six million compared to that?”
“Twenty-six percent,” Paul replied.
Annalisa assumed Paul was exaggerating when he said he was having Sam followed, but a few nights later, as she was preparing for bed, she discovered Paul reading a detailed document that didn’t appear to be the charts and graphs he normally perused before going to sleep. “What’s that?” she demanded.
Paul looked up. “It’s the report on Sam Gooch. From the private detective.”
Annalisa snatched it out of his hands and began reading aloud. “‘The suspect was at the basketball court on Sixth Avenue…Suspect attended field trip to the Museum of Science and Technology…Suspect went into 742 Park and remained inside for three hours, at which time suspect exited, taking the Lexington Avenue subway to Fourteenth Street…’ Oh, Paul,” she said. Disgusted, she ripped the report into pieces and threw it away.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Paul said when she returned to bed.
“I wish you hadn’t, either,” she said, and turned off the light.
Now, every time she thought about Paul, a knot formed in her stomach. There appeared to be an inverse relationship between the amount of money he made and his mental stability. The more money he made, the more unstable he became, and with Sandy Brewer absorbed in the preparations for his trial, there was no one to keep Paul in check.
Putting aside the seating chart, Annalisa went upstairs to change. The depositions for Sandy’s upcoming trial had begun, and being among several people who had seen the cross, Annalisa and Paul were on the list. Paul had done his deposition the day before and, following the advice of his lawyer, claimed to have no recollection of seeing the cross, or of any discussions about it, or of Billy Litchfield’s potential involvement. Indeed, he claimed to have no recollection of Billy Litchfield at all, other than a belief that Billy might have been an acquaintance of his wife’s. Sandy Brewer had been at the deposition and was relieved by Paul’s faulty memory. But Paul didn’t know as much as Annalisa did, and to make matters worse, the lawyer had informed her that Connie Brewer would be at her deposition that afternoon. It would be the first time she’d seen Connie in months.
Annalisa selected a white gabardine pantsuit of which Billy would have approved. When she thought of him now, it was always with a slight bitterness. His death had been both pointless and unnecessary.
The deposition was held in a conference room in the offices of the Brewers’ law firm. Sandy wasn’t there, but Connie was sitting between two members of the Brewers’ legal team. At the head of the table was the counsel for the state. Connie looked frightened and wan.
“Let’s begin, Mrs. Rice,” said the state counsel. He wore a misshapen suit and had boils on his skin. “Did you ever see the Cross of Bloody Mary?”
Annalisa looked over at Connie, who was staring down at her hands. “I don’t know,” Annalisa replied.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Connie showed me a cross, yes. But I can’t say if it was the Cross of Bloody Mary or not.”
“How did she describe it?”
“She said it belonged to a queen. But it might have come from anywhere. I thought it was costume jewelry.”
“Did you ever have a discussion with Billy Litchfield about the cross?”
“No, I did not,” Annalisa said firmly, lying. Billy had died for the stupid cross. Wasn’t that enough?
The questioning continued for another hour, and then Annalisa was dismissed. Connie walked with her to the elevator. “Thank you for doing this,” Connie murmured.
“Oh, Connie,” Annalisa said, and hugged her. “It’s the least I can do. How are you? Can’t we have lunch?”
“Maybe,” Connie said hesitantly. “When all this is over.”
“It’ll be over soon. And everything will be okay.”
�
�I don’t know about that,” Connie said. “The FCC has barred Sandy from trading because he’s under investigation, so we have no money coming in. I’ve put our apartment on the market. The lawyers’ fees are huge. Even if Sandy does get off, I’m not sure I want to live in New York anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Annalisa said.
Connie shrugged. “It’s just a place. I’m thinking we should move to a state where no one knows us. Like Montana.”
That evening when Paul got home, Annalisa tried to tell him about her day. Going into his office, she found him standing before his giant aquarium, staring at his fish. “Connie says they’re going to have to sell their apartment,” she said.
“Really?” Paul said. “What do they want for it?”
She looked at him in astonishment. “I didn’t ask. For some reason, it didn’t seem appropriate.”
“Maybe we could buy it,” Paul said. “It’s bigger than this place. And they’re desperate, so we could probably get it for a good price. Real estate is going down. They’ll have to sell quickly.”
Annalisa stared at Paul, the knot in her stomach tightening in fear. “Paul,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want to move.”
“Maybe not,” Paul said, keeping his eyes on his fish. “But I’m the one with the money. Ultimately, it’s my decision.”
Annalisa stiffened. Moving slowly, as if Paul were unbalanced and could no longer be trusted to react like a normal person, she edged toward the door. She paused and said softly, “Whatever you say, Paul,” quietly closing the heavy double doors behind her.
One Fifth Avenue Page 45
