by Jeff Lindsay
“Monique,” I said at last.
But she just shook her head. And that’s where it stayed.
* * *
—
At least Monique didn’t ask me to take her home. She stayed on with me on my island. That gave me a little hope. I mean, as long as she was right there, hanging out with me every day, who knows? She could get over it, decide I was okay after all. It might be that a whim would take her over, or she’d have a couple of drinks and say what the hell. Or maybe even just change her mind, which women have been known to do?
So she stayed. I guess we even had some fun, just not the kind I’d been counting on. And when the money came in, I got hopeful again. The insurance company paid, and fast. Partly because I only asked for a fraction of what the Daryayeh-E-Noor was worth—but mostly because I knew the government would put the screws to them to get the thing back before the Iranians found out.
So they paid fast, and Monique and I watched the money come in. We watched it together, as it jumped via wire transfer from the Caymans, to Switzerland, to Hong Kong—maybe thirty-some transfers in all, impossible to trace. And I really thought that maybe seeing all that cash might loosen her up. I learned a long time ago the effect that money can have on a woman. It’s even a law—Riley’s Seventh Law: The only real aphrodisiac is money.
And it was a lot of money. Even with my low-ball demand, it was more money than Scrooge McDuck ever had. We watched the money, and I watched Monique, and she seemed just as jazzed about it as I was—but as far as I could tell, it didn’t make her change her mind. I mean, when her cut was confirmed in her offshore account, and she saw how much she’d made, she loosened up enough to give me a hug—but it was a big-sister hug, with nothing on it except “Isn’t that great?” Yahoo.
That was it. Her mind was made up. Riley was a great guy, but his greatness wasn’t worth more than a few hugs. It wasn’t what I wanted. Not even close. But what the hell—I liked being around her. And if it was a little frustrating sometimes—I mean, shit, a LOT frustrating! You should’ve seen her in her bikini!
But that was okay, too. You can get used to almost anything. The days passed, we had a good time, and I kept smiling. Someday, sometime, she would change her mind. I could wait. It was worth it. And if she didn’t change her mind, well—maybe I could think of a way to change it for her. I didn’t know just how I would do that. I just knew I could find some way.
Because there’s always a way. And I always find it.
Just watch me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to Ashley Koehler for her dedicated help in building Riley’s psychological profile.
Dr. A. L. Freundlich gave me immeasurable help by sharing with me his vast knowledge of art and artists, among so many other things.
I also want to thank Bear, Pookie, and Tink for their patient support and blind faith that I would always find a way. Always.
Many male writers thank their wives and say their book could not have been written without their help. But in my case this is literally true. When I am lost in a sea of plot twists, when I have painted myself into a corner, it is always Hilary who applies her wonderful story-sense and finds me a way out.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFF LINDSAY is the award-winning author of the New York Times bestselling Dexter novels, upon which the international hit TV show Dexter is based. He has also written two dozen plays and, among many other things, he has worked as an actor, comic, voice-over artist, screenwriter, columnist, singer, musician, bouncer, DJ, teacher, waiter, chop-saw operator in a foundry, TV and radio host, gardener, sailing instructor, and girls’ soccer coach. Jeff is married to writer-filmmaker Hilary Hemingway. They have three daughters.
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