by Leslie Glass
"Does it show that much?" Maddy was clutching the first early-blooming iris to open in her garden. It was deep purple, one of her favorite colors. She held it out for his inspection. "Pretty, huh?"
He nodded.
Then she shook her head sadly. "The spring flowers are the one thing I love about New York. Everything else sucks," she muttered.
"What about me?" he demanded.
She kept shaking her head. He cost her thousands of dollars a week in vitamins and tonics and physical therapy—not to mention the love she didn't get from her husband. It made her want to laugh out loud that Ite pretended to be her friend while bleeding her dry for his services. Only the abundance of spring blooms in her tiny garden* could cheer her today.
"Oh, oh. Maddy as a hatter today," Derek remarked. "Let's get started. I know what you need."
She made a face and dropped the iris on the bench by the door.
"Maddy as a hatter," he repeated teasingly.
"Stop it," she said automatically.
He was appraising her in the way that made her uncomfortable sometimes, though she didn't know exactly why. He was big, big enough to break every bone in her body. Sometimes that bigness was comforting, but sometimes it annoyed her. He knew far too much about her. He also had far more control over her body than her husband did, and today she didn't want that intrusion on her life. She made another face. She was upset about the argument she'd just had with Jo Ellen Anderson from the employment agency. Jo Ellen was not sympathetic about her very genuine complaints about Remy's flirting with her husband. Sometimes she wondered about them all. Why couldn't they just be happy?
"Now, settle down there." Derek spoke to her as if she were Angus's age. Then he laughed. He was six four, had blue eyes and a wide sensuous mouth, close-cropped, wheat-colored hair, and the kind of body that was displayed on the covers of romance novels. They were about the same age. Derek was a man who knew the power of his looks just like Maddy was a woman who knew the power of hers.
He'd started out as her trainer to keep her weight down, to help with some chronic pain she had, and to keep her strong for skiing, but he turned out to be as good as any chiropractor on ' her spine. He knew where weakness lurked in her muscles, and she had to admit that his vitamin
packets and greens were fantastic. Unlike Wayne, Derek was a health nut who shunned animal fat and carbohydrates, but he had some weaknesses of his own. He talked nutrition all day long, and kept Maddy's weight off with vitamins and cocaine. He'd become much more than her trainer, but Wayne let her have all the money she wanted and didn't seem to mind the relationship.
Now Derek dropped a hand to her shoulder and scooted it across her back, then started rubbing at a tight muscle in her neck.
"Oh, we're in big trouble," he said.
"Yes, we are," she agreed.
Maddy was five ten. With high heels, she was a big girl. But Derek's hands on her always made her feel petite. He always told her she was too beautiful and smart to put up with. a disrespectful husband. Maddy didn't like to think Wayne was slipping away, but what could she do? Divorce was out of the question. She had two small children—and worst of all, she still loved him.
"What happened today?"
"When I came down for breakfast, that little bitch was sitting there in my place having breakfast with Wayne and the boys. I could kill her."
"My, my. Here, start with the Precor. I'm thinking we shouldn't do too much today, just loosen you up and stretch."
"Guess what she served them," Maddy went on while he programmed the machine.
He shook his head. He didn't want to guess.
"Crepes with homemade raspberry jam. The way she stuffs my boys with all that sugar makes me want to puke." She hopped on the Precor, fuming.
"You shouldn't let it happen. They'll be hyper all day," he agreed.
"I fired her," Maddy said exuberantly.
"Wow! Good going." Derek patted her on the back. Then his hand wandered down to her butt and stayed there.
"I won't have her back in the house—don't do that, Derek."
"What?"
"You know what."
"Oh, Maddy, Maddy, Maddy, aren't I always good for you?"
"Not today," she said angrily. "I'm in a firing mood."
"Don't be silly—you'll never get rid of me. Okay, okay." He backed off the ass-patting when she shot him an angry look. "Do ten minutes. I'll be right back." He drifted out into the garden with his cell phone in his hand, and she got to work.
After her session was over, Maddy felt a lot better. That day Derek was good to his word: she did only the ten minutes of cardio, twenty minutes of Pilates mat work, and finally he stretched her out and gave her a quick massage. At nine she kicked him out abruptly. She wanted to be alone, had stuff to do. "Be sure the door is shut when you leave." She turned her back on him, closing him out.
"Jesus, no one likes a party pooper," he muttered.
She didn't see higo. After drinking a glass of water, she took a quick shower with the glass door closed and only two of the six jets on. Before going in, she'd put some eucalyptus oil near the steam jet, and hit the power button. In six minutes the heat and aroma in the handsome pink marble room that served as both shower and steam room would be exactly the way she liked them. While she waited for the steam to fill the room, she downed another glass of water. She did not bother to check the door to the gym. She came in here every day. The door had an automatic lock. She trusted Derek to do as she asked. She felt refreshed and safe, ready to do what she had to do.
Outside her sanctuary the day had started. Her husband was at one of his restaurants—who knew which one? Her boys were at play school. Maddy glanced at her watch. Jo Ellen had promised that she would talk with Remy and get her out of the house by noon. She planned to oversee Remy's packing to make sure that the girl didn't steal anything from the house when she left. Those Culinary Institute people had proved unreliable in the past. The last one had left with the Cuisinart, half the silver, and a bunch of expensive knives. She wasn't going to let that happen again.
Then Maddy thought of her children. She was looking forward to having the boys to herself again, picking them up and giving them a healthy dinner. She told herself she didn't really need a nanny. Why couldn't she be the only mom? She watched the steam build and tallied her tasks. Then, when the pink marble walls were gone and everything was white, she went in and inhaled the eucalyptus-scented steam. Delicious. She closed the glass door and lay down naked on the fragrant teak bench. She was not going to let anxiety about Remy and her husband ruin her day. This was not the first time she'd been forced to take action when
Wayne's affection appeared to wander, and it probably wouldn't be the last. She stretched her body out on the bench and succumbed to the soporific power of steam.
The steam hissed, and she became soothed and dreamy. She did not hear the outer door to her spa open. She did not hear someone come in and move around in her private gym. All she heard was the soft ssss through the pipe. Her body was relaxed, her eyes closed; and for a brief moment her soul was at peace.
When the first blow came, it was only by chance that she had raised her arm to wipe the sweat from her forehead. The attacker lunged, and the point of the knife was deflected by her elbow. She yelped as the blade sliced into the muscle of her upper arm, and the person staggered off balance.
"Bitch!"
"What—!" Maddy jumped up. In the fog she could see only a thick shape and the yellow rubber gloves from her own kitchen sink. She was shocked. It looked like Remy.
"Remy!" she screamed. "Don't!" Blood poured out of her arm, but oddly, she did not feel fear. She was at a disadvantage without a weapon, but she was in her own space, her own house. She did not expect to die. She expected to live a long life, keep her husband, raise her children. No one could take that from her. Rage pumped her full of adrenaline. She wasn't going to let anyone hurt her.
"Get out of here." She kicked out with a bare foot a
nd hit plastic, sturdy plastic. She screamed. What the—? It wasn't raining outside or in the shower room. She realized it was a raincoat, and the person inside of it seemed stronger than the reedy, thin Remy Banks. But she couldn't be sure.
Oh, shit. The knife came at her again. Now she could see it. It wasn't a very long knife, and she still was more angry than afraid. She kicked again. This time she missed the target and lost her balance. As her foot came down on the marble floor, she slid through a puddle of her own blood and fell hard. She thrashed on the slippery tiles, trying to get up as the ghoulish form covered in plastic came at her again. Suddenly her vision was impaired and she couldn't tell if it was one person or two.
She screamed as the knives jabbed at her from both sides—at her hands, her feet, her knees. She fought to protect the soft targets, her breasts, her vital organs, and was struck in the chest over and over as she moved from side to side, trying to get away. Then she started begging for her life.
"No, please!" She didn't want to die. A roar filled her ears as the knife made contact with her forehead, slicing away the scalp over one eye and entering the eye.
Her hands jerked up to the place where her eye had been and finally opened a clear path to her chest and belly. The knife struck her belly button. She screamed one last time as the phone rang. As she turned toward the sound, one of the knives sank into her chest and found her heart.
Three
Alison Perkins watched the numerals on the clock by her bed change from 9:31 to 9:32 as she listened to Maddy Wilson's irritatingly long voice message. Maddy wasn't picking up. She rolled over on the big bed she shared with Andrew, Floyd, and Roxie, waiting for the message to end so she could speak her mind into the void. She was annoyed and wanted it to be known. Just a little while ago Maddy had called her in crisis, demanding instant attention. She'd had it with Remy, had it with poor Leah. Even Derek was pissing her off. Alison couldn't talk to her then because Andrew was having his ten minutes of the day with her and didn't like to be interrupted: Now Andrew was long gone, and it looked as if Maddy was gone, too.
Alison hated that. Everybody was so demanding! Andrew worked all the time, never came home, but had to have her early in the morning, the one time the whole family was together and the kids needed attention, too. Then Maddy had to meet with her about the same old thing, but only after she'd finished with Derek. She expected Alison to wait around for her. Alison's whole life had turned into a waiting game. She'd waited for Andrew to marry her, and now she was trapped with two little kids, always waiting for him to come home.
She'd retreated to bed to count down the minutes to the end of Maddy's session. Floyd and Roxie had followed her. For more than an hour they'd lazed around together. Now they were all up. The black standard poodle was lying on his stomach as close to her as he could get without actually lying across her lap. His large head was propped on crossed front paws. Roxie, the longhaired Chihuahua, was nosing her phone arm, wanting attention. Maddy's message ended, and the beep sounded.
"Maddy, I'm here. You said you'd be done at nine thirty. It's nine thirty-two. Where are you? I have a thousand things to do. I don't have all day to wait for you."
Alison hung up and put the phone back on the night table. Roxie was now running through her bag of tricks. Without waiting for a command, she rolled over. Then she rolled over again and bumped into Floyd. He growled. She twirled again and bumped into the huge poodle a second time. He growled louder, but she had no idea how small she was next to him. She wasn't afraid. She knew what her job was, and she performed it well.
ive me some food. Give me some food. Attention, attention. Alison was distracted from her perpetual feeding of discontent, and smiled at the little dog. Hi, cutie! You beautiful baby."
Despite her claim of business to attend to, the truth was, Alison did have all day. Except for her early lunch with Maddy and her one o'clock appointment with Derek, she didn't have a single thing to do. The girls were gone for the day. They had play dates after play school. Lynn, the nanny, would go get them, escort them to their appointed rounds, then feed them dinner. Alison would put them to bed around eight o'clock, before Andrew would even begin thinking of returning home. She had no idea when he would get back. He'd blown off their Easter vacation and now expected her and the kids to hang around all summer while he did whatever it was he did. To appease her he'd promised to spend a month on the Vineyard in August. But last year, she'd been stuck up there all alone practically the whole time. He'd come only for one weekend. She was still angry about it.
Now she didn't bother to get dressed. She lay in bed, running through her list of grievances, playing with the dogs, waiting for her best friend—who happened to be in pretty much the same boat—to call her back. But Maddy never did.
Four
When the homicide call came in, Lieutenant April Woo Sanchez, commanding officer of the Midtown North Detective Unit, was about to go on vacation. It was Monday. She was leaving Friday. Her mind was on cleaning things up at the shop so she could bolt, and never had she wanted to escape work as much as she did now. She was excited, almost vibrating with vacation anticipation as she rode in an unmarked black Lumina with her driver, Detective Woody Baum.
She was on her way back from a meeting with the chief of detectives, Chief Avise. He'd called her downtown, and as was common with his meetings, they'd met at police headquarters, which was near Chinatown where she'd grown up and begun her career but worlds from where she lived and worked now. From her West Fifty-fourth Street precinct, she and Woody had traveled downtown on the West Side Drive. An hour and a half later they were returning the same way.
At ten a.m., they were circling the tip of Manhattan where the Statue of Liberty could be seen in the bay, holding up the torch of freedom. April's thoughts were crowded with the ten thousand tasks
she had to accomplish at Midtown North before leaving for her first real vacation ever. She and her new husband, Captain Mike Sanchez, were off on the honeymoon they'd already postponed two times since tying the knot in a big Chinatown wedding the previous fall.
Twice NYPD business had gotten in the way, but not like in the old days when Mike had been head of the Homicide Task Force. Back then, they'd often worked together on cases, and it was murder that wrecked their plans. Now things were different. Mike had been promoted to captain. She'd been promoted to lieutenant. They'd moved up in the food chain, had become bigger bosses, and didn't have time to get hitched, move from Queens into their house in Westchester, and take off on a-honeymoon all at the same time. So they'd married, moved into their dream house, and gone back .on the job a week later. Honeymoon postponed. Then an orange alert at New Year's postponed it again, and something came up again in the early spring.
Nearly nine months had passed, and there had been no exotic location, no sitting on the beach, no mai tais or pina coladas. Still, April considered herself more than half lucky. In normal times a promotion would have required her to leave the Detective Bureau and go back into uniform as a supervisor, or an administrator, like Mike.
But nothing post-9/11 would ever be normal times again. The bureau had lost so many ranking officers to retirement and to special counterterrorist units that experienced detectives were at a premium. Mike had left homicide to become commanding officer of the Seventeenth Precinct. But April remained in the bureau assigned to the commanding officer slot at Midtown North after her boss and nemesis, Lieutenant Arturo lriarte, retired. It had seemed like a good thing at the time.
The advantage of rank was that she could come and go without anyone yelling at her. The problem was that freedom was limited by responsibility. All the crimes that occurred in her precinct were on her shoulders. A lot of activity occurred in midtown on the West Side of Manhattan. She was in charge of every complaint—every mugging, theft, break-in, assault, homicide, missing person, whatever. She assigned the detectives in her unit, oversaw every investigation, and followed each case to arrest, prosecution, and trial. Every day, wheth
er it was quiet or busy in the precinct, she had the job of juggling schedules, skills, personalities, and personal problems. She was buried deep in administration, and her head was lost in process almost 24/7. But this time she was determined to make her precious escape.
It was a June morning, weatherwise a perfect New York day—neither too hot nor too cold. The sun was on high. The squawk box was on low. Officers' conversations with the dispatcher were further muted by Woody's whistling through his teeth. It wasn't a real whistle, more like a tuneless little hiss. Usually it bothered her enough to tell him to shut up. Today she paid no attention to it. She was thinking about how every time she went downtown, the rules changed just a little, and change always caused chaos for somebody. In this case it was a big problem. It was a sad thing, but something she shouldn't be handling at all.
Strictly speaking Vice should be in charge of the strip clubs. Vice or DEA. Her task should be limited to preparing her new second whip, Sergeant Eloise Gelo, for taking command while she was gone. The trouble with Eloise was she looked like a lap dancer with a badge. That gave the male officers who dominated in the caveman detective unit an excuse for staring at her with drool hanging out of their mouths rather than taking her seriously. A male problem in a circular kind of way that was not unlike what called her downtown to Chief Avise's office. Girls distracting boys caused disorder at every level of society.
In this case the young son of a U.S. senator from another state had squandered his entire trust fund (she was surprised that this particular senator's son had a trust fund) in some local strip clubs, and he wasn't even twenty-one. So he shouldn't have been served the alcohol, much less the cocaine, that caused him to lose all sense of reason. On top of that, young Peret's cocaine overdose had landed him in a psych ward, where last night he'd been a raving psychotic. Chief Avise was taking the case personally as a serious embarrassment to New York City. He wanted war on the clubs that served underage customers, and the strippers who pushed two-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne, as well as ecstasy, methamphetamine, weed, and cocaine, on boys (and men) who wanted to touch their bodies.
