She turned from the window. Her skin was ghastly pale. “So Robin Burrell’s murder was a control freak’s ploy to camouflage his motive for killing Riddick.”
“Essentially, yes.”
She leaned her head against the glass and muttered something under her breath. I missed it.
“What?”
“I said I should have killed him.” She continued staring out the window. “I mean that, Fritz. With all my heart. I should have blown him into the water.”
WHEN WE REACHED Grand Central, Megan and I went for a drink at the Oyster Bar. She fiddled with a white wine. I took two fingers of Maker’s and then two more. I might have been happy with a whole fistful. The Oyster Bar is a good place for this kind of drinking. You feel like you’re at the bottom of a deep cavern, sealed off from the outside world. For all you know, the outside world might be gone. Up in smoke. Vaporized in a single white flash. The only woes and problems left in the entire world might be the silly ones you’re nursing in the underground bar along with your silly drink. If you think about it, there ought to be a sense of hope embedded in a notion like that. I suppose on some days there is.
Megan switched to water after her glass of wine. We didn’t talk much. We watched a couple at the bar having an argument. Corporate types, boxed neatly into their suits. He seemed to be taunting her, and she seemed to be taking the bait. I was tempted to go over and tell them both to quit it, which was when I realized it was time to let the rest of the ice in my drink melt away.
“You should go see your girl,” Megan finally said. “If I had a girl, that’s what I’d do.” She looked up toward the ceiling. “I don’t know about you, but my head’s swimming with questions I know full well I’m not going to find any good answers to.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Big ones. Stupid ones. The mankind kind.”
I skidded my glass on the table. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I’m not asking you to. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
I tossed some bills on the table. The corporate couple had stopped arguing and were playing kissy-face as we passed them on our way out. There’s mankind for you.
Out on the street, the light was fading fast, nearly gone. Forty-second Street was slipping into its black-and-white mode. Collections of silhouettes swam both ways across the street. Taxis, taxis, taxis…nothing but taxis. God knows which twenty of them were honking.
I said goodbye to Megan at Fifth Avenue. Actually, I didn’t say goodbye. She squeezed my hand, and in half a minute, she was passing the library lions. I considered angling across Bryant Park to my office but then congratulated myself for not being a complete fool. Megan was right. I should go see my girl. I needed to do some work on that front.
I peered down Fifth for a last glimpse of the small detective, but the dusk had swallowed her up. I hoped she wasn’t still carrying around her big stupid questions. A woman like that worries me.
THIS JUST IN
James Puck
He’s back! Loose lips are telling this reporter that Marshall Fox and KBS Television have mended fences and are ready to put pen to paper for a three-year renewal of Fox’s popular late-night show, Midnight with Marshall Fox. With Fox’s ex-boss, former KBS director of programming Alan Ross, behind bars and awaiting the first of what promises to be a string of trials running longer than some of the shows Ross himself heralded at KBS, the popular entertainer released a statement declaring his “satisfaction that the disinfectant they’re using over there at KBS seems to be working.” Since the dropping of all criminal charges against him five months ago, Fox has been splitting his time between his ranch outside of Jackson Hole and his beachfront estate in Maui, working on a book about his recent roller-coaster ride through the public zeitgeist. Responding to a call from this reporter concerning the increasingly erratic behavior of Fox’s estranged wife, Rosemary Boggs Fox (and who hasn’t seen the photographs at this point?), Fox replied, and I quote: “What can I say, Jimmy? Fruitcake. It’s not just for Christmas anymore.” Unquote. My, my. Don’t the beautiful people say the most beautiful things?
Meanwhile, in related dirt…
About the Author
Richard Hawke lives in New York City. He is the author of Speak of the Devil, and under the name Tim Cockey is the author of the award-winning “hearse” novels. Visit his website, www.RHawke.com.
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Cold Day in Hell Page 33
