Cool and quiet, Laura mused, thinking of the angers and longings and ambitions that churned so violently inside her she wondered others could not see them.
"But you'll find someone before they will," Ginny said. "I have no doubt."
"I do. Fm almost thirty— "
"Ancient," Ginny said mockingly.
"Getting on," Laura said with a smile. "But what if I don't find one? What happens then? Do I dry up and blow away? Or dissolve into a puddle and evaporate? I'd still be here, and I'd figure out some kind of life. I'd make more friends, men and women, especially women: sometimes I like spending an evening with ^em more than with men. I'd run my hotels, and buy some more as soon as I could swing it, and do a lot of traveling and go to concerts and the theater and play tennis, and have a good life. Would that be so awfiil?"
"It's not awfiil; it's the way I live, and I'm having a hell of a good time. But I've had a husband and a couple of kids; I did the whole happy-family scene, before it fell apart. I've done the things most of us want. Don't you want that? Don't you want a family?"
Laura looked beyond the roof garden at the lighted windows of Manhattan's towers. Some of the windows were offices, but many were homes, with single people or with families, all of them with their own stories: love and loss and pain and joy. Voices carried to her from the courtyard below: the shouts and laughter of children, one of her neighbors asking his wife if she wanted to go with him when he walked the dog, another neighbor calling one of the younger children to come to bed. "Yes, of course I'd like a family." She paused. "But I have one, in a way. You and Rosa mother me, and Clay acts like a brother or sort of a son, I'm never sure which, and Kelly is like a sister. That's more family than a lot of people have. And I'm making new friends; I'd make more if I could find the time. I've got more than most people."
"Except there's a big space that's still empty."
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She looked again at the hghted towers. "I don't think about that very much. I have too many other things to think about. Lx)ok where I was eleven years ago. And now everything is going so well, and it all happened so fast, I get a little scared sometimes, as if it can't possibly last, and everything will come tumbling down around me."
"Avoid superstition," Ginny said. "It's disruptive in a well-ordered world. What's that? Is somebody here?"
There were footsteps on the stairs and then Clay stood in the doorway. 'The door was open so we came in. If I'd been a thief I could have walked off with the whole place, and you wouldn't even have known I was here. Hi, Ginny." He bent over and kissed Laura on both cheeks. "You look beautiful. Your hair's getting longer, I like it."
"Just a little. Hello, Myma, come and have some iced tea."
"I'd love some. We walked and it's awfully hot. It feels cooler up here."
Clay sprawled in a chair, drained one glass and poured another. *That saved my life. I was gasping for the last three blocks. I kept wanting to stop in a bar, but Myma wouldn't let me, even though my life was at stake. She's a tough lady."
"And—" Myma prompted.
"And we're getting married," Clay said, his words miming together. *The lady keeps telling me I need her, and I finally decided she's probably right."
Laura was smiling. 'That's wonderful; I'm so glad." She rose and kissed Clay and then Myma. "When will it be?"
"As soon as possible," Myma said. "Qay likes to change his mind at the last minute. He thinks it's a sign of flexibility."
"And she thinks it's a sign of inmiaturity," Clay said with a sigh. "Is there hope for this marriage?"
Myma smiled calmly. "There's hope for you; you're shaping up already."
Laura shot her a quick look. She didn't like Myma any better than she ever had, but she'd thought for a long time that she probably was good for Clay. Now she began to feel uneasy. She wanted Clay to have a wife, not a director.
But Clay was jaunty and unperturbed. "Shaping up is right. I've made more vows than a monastery full of monks. You have no idea how much I'm giving up for marriage—except
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that Vm hanging onto a couple bad habits so I don't totally lose my touch. See, it's like this." He leaned forward and touched Laura's hand. "You've done a lot for me; I owe you a lot. I don't know where I'd be without you—probably on the ran somewhere. I sure wouldn't be where I am, or have as much money, if I didn't have my job with the hotels. Your hotels. And I know you worry about me. So I thought it was about time I settled down."
Myma looked satisfied, but Laura wasn't. "Isn't it better to get married for love than to please your sister?" she asked lighUy.
"You're absolutely right," he said promptly. He reached out and took Myma's hand. "And Myma and I are in love."
"I'm glad," Laura said. It still didn't satisfy her, but she let it drop. How many times had she told herself she couldn't ran Clay's life, and didn't want to even if she could? It was enough that they were friends, and family, and could turn to each other if they needed to. "Now let me tell you my news," she said. "I've just become a shareholder in Salinger Hotels."
"Whatr' Clay looked confused. "Salinger Hotels? You own—? But you can't. The family owns it. They don't let anybody else in."
*There are three outsiders—^I mean three others. A long time ago, when Owen was building two or three hotels a year, he needed extra cash, and he sold part of his holdings to some friends. The only condition—^"
Clay let out a whoop. "You own shares in the Salinger Hotels? You own shares? How about that! You've got it all— the hotels and a piece of the company that son of a bitch took away from you. . . . You're going to sit at a board meeting with old Felix, and he can't kick you out! Hot damn! Hey, we've got to celebrate!" He stopped, a scowl between his eyes. "Condition? What condition?"
**The bylaws say that none of the board members can sell their shares without the approval of the whole board, unless they're selling to a relative of the Salinger family."
Clay's scowl deepened. "So how can you own anything? Shit, Laura, Felix wouldn't approve it; his dumb brother wouldn't either. None of them would." He saw Laura and Ginny exchange a smile. "What's that about?"
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"I said they needed approval unless they were selling to a relative of the Salinger family," Laura said.
"But you're not a relative! You would be if you*d married Paul, but you didn't."
"I know that," she said evenly. "But I'm Alhson Salinger's sister-in-law."
Clay stared at her. Then his face ht up. "Ho-ly shit! Ben!"
"Who's Ben?" Myma asked.
And Laura and Clay told her.
By the end of September, Sam Colby had a stack of reports on Clay Fairchild and the other two vice presidents of OWL Development, who were also vice presidents of the Beacon Hill hotels. The two vice presidents were the kind of guys he might have liked to go bowling with, but to an investigator they were dull and quickly forgotten. But Clay Fairchild—ah, he was a different matter.
Gambling, Colby read from his reports. Very heavy stakes with very high-powered groups. And high Uving: fancy car, good clothes, expensive loft in SoHo, a string of girlfriends— a couple of them fairly well-known models who'd picked out jewelry that Clay paid for—and he had an account at Tiffany's where he bought jewelry for his sister; the clerk knew them both. He couldn't do all that on the salary Felix had said he probably made in his position. So either he won big at cards or he had another source of income.
Quite a pair, the Fairchilds, Colby mused. A pair. Well, maybe they were; maybe they worked the whole thing together. A brother and sister team! Wouldn't that make a film for Paul! Might even be made into a TV miniseries! And the star would be Sam Colby, who everybody thought was rocking and rotting away in a retirement village!
Except that . . . how the hell could he tell Paul?
Maybe he hates her, Colby thought; then there's no problem. But maybe he has a lingering soft spot for an old flame. Then I'd be tfie messenger with the bad news.
>
I won't tell him; I'll wait until I have something more definite, he told himself, and went off to meet him; they were having a drink at Paul's club. Colby had tried to stretch it to dinner, but Paul had said firmly that he and Emily had other
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plans. Colby thought it was mostly that Emily didn't care about Paul's filmmaking and didn't want it to interfere with their dinner, but whatever it was, the best he could do was drinks.
"How was Seattle?" he asked as soon as they sat down.
"I enjoyed your thief; he gave me a lot of background, and he did it on camera. He also sent you his regards."
"He's a good man." Colby was breathing deeply, absorbing through every pore the atmosphere of the Metropolitan Club: subdued, wealthy, and male. He eyed the leathers and gilt and intricate decor of windows and ceilings that recalled a grander age; he reveled in the pungent aroma of cigars; he sank deeper into his chair. He could have stayed forever. "What else did you do out there?"
"Looked up an old friend from college and did some sailing. Tell me about your investigation. How close are you to solving it? How much can I worm out of you?"
Colby laughed. "You can't worm things out of Sam Colby. But I guess it's okay to give you a rough idea. No more than that, though; don't push me for more. This is it: I've got a hypothesis, right? No proof, but strong assumptions based on intelligent analysis of information gathered over a period of time— "
"Sam, cut out the bullshit. I'm already impressed by you. Tell me what you've got."
"I am telling you. What would you think if you found something that all six robbery victims did, or experienced, within a few months of being robbed?"
"I'd think it was worth looking into."
"Right. That's what I've been doing." Colby stretched out his legs. It felt so good to talk to somebody who was intelligent and impressed by him. "This is what I found. The people involved in what those six victims had in common are in a perfect position to conmiit the robberies; they travel often enough to get to the locations where the robberies occurred and back again without attracting suspicion; they live in a way that requires a lot of money; and they have a history of theft and chicanery."
When he did not go on, Paul frowned in thought. "How many people, and how are they involved with the victims?"
Judith Michael
•Two people, and they're executives in a corporation that all six deal with on occasion."
Still frowning, Paul repeated it to himself. He wasn't sure why Colby seemed so afraid of giving away his hypothesis, circling around it like a wary cat, but it was pretty clear that, given time and camaraderie and enough scotch, the whole story would come out. He signaled for another round of drinks. **It's not a crime to be an executive in a corporation or do a lot of traveling or need a lot of money or have a history of theft."
*True," said Colby sadly.
"But it's an interesting set of circumstances."
"Exactly what I said to myself."
"And you've questioned these executives?"
"No, no. I thought about it, but I don't want to alert them."
"Have them followed."
"I thought of that, too. But it could take months."
"Search their homes. Maybe they kept some of the stolen art."
"Could be. But if they didn't, and I don't find anything, they'd know I'm after them and lie low, and I'd be nowhere."
"Or on the wrong track."
*That could be, too. But I trust my instincts."
There was a silence. A new drink had appeared at Colby's elbow, and he picked it up, feeling mellow but suddenly gloomy about his case. "Sam," Paul said, "who are the two executives?"
He looked up. "Why?"
"Why not? What's the big secret? I'm not going to advertise your hypothesis. I'm not a spy from an enemy camp. I'm your fiiend, and maybe I can help you decide what to do next."
"You are a friend," Colby said, nodding. "A good friend. But I can't tell you. It's too . . . tricky."
Paul scrutinized his worried face. "I know them," he hazarded. "Is that it? It's someone I know, and you think I wouldn't be happy to hear it."
Colby took a long drink. What a pleasure to talk to a smart guy. He probably could tell Paul anything; smart guys understand how complicated life can be. 'That's close."
"What the hell, Sam, if they're innocent there's no prob-
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lem—we'll wait until you find the guilty ones—but if they really are pulling off these robberies I'd like to know it. It's always nice to know if one's friends are moonlighting as thieves."
"That's true, but it's a little more complicated than that. Life always is, isn't it? You aren't close to them anymore—^I doubt you cared about both of them, anyway; it was just one of them, and her I guess you don't see anymore . . ." He paused, wondering if he should have gotten into this discussion.
But it was too late. "My God," Paul said. He was very pjile. "You're talking about Laura Fairchild."
"And her brother," Colby added. He was feeling less mellow.
"You're out of your mind. She wouldn't—my God, do you know what you're saying? She's one of the most respected businesswomen in America, she owns an important group of hotels. . . ."He stopped. "They all stayed at a Beacon Hill hotel, is that it? That's your hypothesis? For Christ's sake, Sam, those people stay at every damned hotel in the worid; they spend more time in hotels than in their own homes; that's not anything to connect them!"
Colby wavered, but then he sat up and looked at Paul. *The only thing I've found that those people have in conunon is that they all stayed at a Beacon Hill hotel within six months of being robbed. All six of them stayed in lots of other hotels in that time but not the same ones. Whoever robbed them had keys and security codes. How would they get them? They'd go into a hotel room and make wax molds of keys and find security codes in notebooks or checkbooks or whatever crazy places people write them. That's all they'd have to do. They'd leave die room; nothing would be gone; nobody would be suspicious. And a few weeks or months later there's a robbery thousands of miles away. You think that's such a crazy hypothesis?"
Paul was silent. "It's a good hypothesis," he said at last. "But it doesn't point to Laura. She's not a thief. But even if she were, she wouldn't rob her own guests; she wouldn't jeopardize everything she's got—for what? For a few dollars?"
"For hundreds of thousands, and you know it. You know
Judith Michael
what's been stolen. And she's in debt up to her ears from her hotels. Her brother likes to gamble, too, big-time, not penny-ante stuff, and he's been spending like he wins all the time. And he's in charge of quality control, which means he's all over those hotels. Listen." He hesitated. "You just said she's not a thief. How do you know? She was once, wasn't she? And there was a time when you weren't so sure of her, right? I mean, how come you're so positive now—^"
Paul was out of his chair. "You've been talking to Felix."
"Sure I have. What the hell, Paul, I knew this would happen; you don't like the evidence so you blame me for it. I was only doing my job!" Heads turned in the hushed room and frowns were aimed at Colby. Embarrassed, he lowered his voice. "Could you sit down so we can talk like friends?" When Paul was again in his chair, he said, "She lived with them, she worked for them, why wouldn't I talk to Felix?"
"Because he doesn't know a danm thing about Laura. Why didn't you ask me? I know her better than he does."
*Then why aren't you married to her?"
Paul was silent.
"Because you thought she was a thief—right?—and conned Owen Salinger out of his money and went after yours. So why are you getting mad at me if I think the same thing?"
"Because I was wrong." It was the first time Paul had ever said it, and as he did, he knew it was the truth. It was as if a window had opened, letting in a blast of fresh air: he felt a sense of freedom, a lifting of an enormous weight. Whatever Laura had said that day, and for whatever reason, she
wasn't a thief or a fortune hunter. She loved Owen and he loved her, and even though he was a sick man, he knew exactly what he was doing when he added that codicil to his will.
And she loved me, Paul thought.
"I was wrong," he said again. "We all were. And so are you, damn it. You're wasting your time."
Colby shook his head. "I don't know that. I can't just drop the whole idea because you say so. I would if I could, honest to God, I like working with you and talking to you, and we're going to have a terrific movie—we are going to have a movie, aren't we?"
It hit Paul then. He'd forgotten the fihn. "I don't know. I'll
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have to think about it." But he akeady knew the answer. "Whatever we do, we won't use this investigation unless you come up with another solution."
"/ haven't got one. Don't you understand? Everything points to her, or her brother, or the two of them working together, and I can't just make up something else out of my head! Shit, I knew this would happen, I knew it, I knew it. You wouldn't drop the movie; we've got months in it. And the TV! The network! They want it, right? They've paid for part of it! You have to make it! You can't just drop it and let everybody down!"
"Don't tell me what I can or can't do, Sam." Paul's voice was like steel. Colby had never heard him talk like that. "You have no proof, you said yourself it was only a hypothesis, and I'm not filming you while you hound Laura or put together circumstantial evidence to trap her. If you come up with another solution, call me. If you're given another case to work on, call me. I like you, and I think we'd have one hell of a good film, but it won't be this one, not the way it's going."
"Television ..." Colby said feebly.
"That's my problem, not yours." He looked at his watch. "My wife is waiting for me." He turned and strode out of the room.
Colby felt exposed and clumsy. He'd done everything wrong; he'd even forgotten that he had a job to do. Paul had said he should have asked him about Laura; why hadn't he done that? He needed all the information he could get; why the hell hadn't he asked Paul to give him some?
He looked at his watch. Shit, there was almost an hour before Paul had to meet his wife; maybe he could catch him and calm him down, and then they could talk like civilized men. He ran down the marble stairs to the entrance and saw Paul just going out the door. "Paul! We have time to talk!" But Paul did not pause; Colby watched as he turned toward Fifth Avenue and was swallowed up by the crowds. He didn't hear me, he thought, didn't even slow down.
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