Alicia's spirits jumped. "Then, he's got a record—a history of pedophilia. How the hell did we ever allow him in?"
"Hang on here. No record. The complaints were all dropped."
"Dropped? All of them?"
He nodded, chewing slowly. "Seems he's pretty well-off financially. Made a lot of money on Wall Street in the eighties and retired as a young millionaire with lots of time on his hands and a yen for kids."
Good as the meal was, Alicia found her appetite waning. "He buys his way out."
"Or threatens his way out, like he's trying to do with you. He's got a shark for a lawyer. Nasty SOB who loves to go for the throat."
"In other words, those weren't just empty threats."
"Afraid not."
"You're really making my day."
"Sorry. Just thought you should know what you're up against."
"I guess I already knew. Fineman called yesterday."
"What he say?"
"Pretty much what you overheard. Told me I could expect to spend the next three to five years in and out of courtrooms, burning up every penny I earn in legal fees, then spending much of the rest of my working life paying off the punitive and pain-and-suffering damages he expected the court to award his client. Of course, I could avoid all that if I saw the light, realized how mistaken I was, and withdrew my complaint."
"What a sweet guy. Goes to prove lawyers get the clients they deserve."
Alicia leaned back and fought a wave of depression as a string of rationalizations raced through her brain: Kanessa hadn't been done any physical harm, and she didn't have enough self-awareness to have suffered any long-term psychological damage. And at least Floyd Stevens was out of the Center for good, so the kids there were safe from him. Maybe he'd been hurt and frightened enough by the beating to keep his hands to himself from now on.
The fact that she was allowing these thoughts to exist depressed Alicia even more.
"You okay?" Matthews asked.
"No."
"Know what you're going to do?"
Alicia stared at him. "What do you think I'm going to do?"
He met her gaze. "I haven't known you very long, but I can't see you doing anything else but hanging in there."
The sudden surge of warmth for this virtual stranger took Alicia by surprise. There'd never been a chance that she'd cave in—on something else, maybe, but never on anything like this—and he'd recognized that. For some unfathomable reason, she found herself smiling.
"How could you know that?"
"I don't know. I just sense it. It's part of what I find so attractive about you."
Uh-oh. There it was, out in the open, flopping around on the table. She chose to ignore it.
"You don't think I'm crazy?" she said.
"No. I think you're principled."
She wished it were principles. She wished it were that simple.
And then he reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
"And I want you to know that I admire you for it. And you should also know that you're not alone in this. There's still a few things I can do."
"Like what?"
"I learned a few things in Vice. One of them was that these pedophiles don't change their spots. You can't cure them. A stretch in the joint, years of couch time with an army of shrinks, nothing changes them. The minute they think nobody's watching them—or sometimes even if they suspect they're being watched—they're out on the prowl, hunting."
"Compulsive behavior." Alicia knew all about it.
"Right. And that can work to our advantage."
Our? When had it become his problem too?
Easy, she told herself. He wants to get this guy as much as you do. Don't get your back up. He wants to help. Let him.
She wondered why she found that so hard to do. Maybe because she'd been on her own for so long, taking no help from anyone, making all her own decisions, solving all her problems by herself. Was that why an offer of help seemed almost like… an intrusion?
"How?"
He smiled. "Leave that to me."
Alicia straightened and found herself smiling. "You know, Will, I think I'm getting my appetite back."
Oh, no. Had she just called him "Will?" Where had that come from?
But it was true. She was hungry again. And she had to admit, it felt good to know she had someone on her side.
They finished off the shrimp and green sauce, argued over who paid, with Will winning because he had longer arms and had snagged the check. They parted at the front door with Will promising to keep in touch.
Alicia was halfway back to the Center before she realized she'd never got around to telling him about her serious long-term relationship with that up-and-coming importer, Joseph Hermann.
4.
Before sifting through the pile of "While You Were Out…" message slips piled on her desk when she got back to the Center, Alicia checked her personal voice mail. She had one message.
"This is Benny. Call me." He left a number.
Her pulse quickened. The arsonist. She closed her office door and called the number immediately.
"Yeah?" said the same voice.
She heard traffic noises in the background. He was no doubt at a pay phone.
"Is this Benny? I'm returning your call."
"Yeah. This is about the Murray Hill place, right?"
"Right."
"Yeah. I can do that."
"Good. But I need more than that." Jack's comment about a fire leveling the whole block gnawed at her. "I don't want it to spread."
"No prob. You're dealing wit' a pro, here. The inside'll cook. It'll be done to a turn, crisped to ash before it shows outside. The water boys'll be there by then, and if they ain't, I'll call 'em myself. And that'll be it. A surgical strike. With no one the wiser."
"You're sure? Absolutely sure? And no one will get hurt?"
"Guaranteed. Piece a cake, honey. You'll be countin' your money in no time."
Benny obviously thought she was doing this for the insurance. Let him.
"Great," she said.
"But I wanna be countin' mine tonight. Like we agreed, half up front, half the morning after. In cash, know what I'm saying?"
"I know."
Benny's fee would just about clean her out. Was it worth it? Did she really want to do this?
Yes.
"Where do we meet?"
5.
Alicia stood on a chair and stared out at the night through one of her skylights. She faced northeast. Toward Murray Hill.
Benny had said he'd do the job tonight.
"I'm workin' another job farther uptown," he'd said.
"But why wait? Your place is empty and ready to go. Piece a cake."
Another job waiting… arson sounded like a booming business.
And then the police scanner she'd bought on her way home this afternoon squawked behind her. Something about shots fired near Madison Square Garden. Not what she wanted to hear.
Smoke reported from a house, on East Thirty-eighth.
That was what she was waiting for.
She knew she'd never see the flames or smoke from here, but something drew her to the window anyway. She'd stay here, squinting into the darkness until the alarm came through on the scanner. Then she'd run downstairs, snag a cab to Murray Hill, and stand there on Thirty-eighth Street, watching the flames burn that house to the sidewalk.
A tremor ran through her body and she wobbled atop the chair. She steadied herself against the skylight frame and closed her eyes. Her frazzled nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She wasn't cut out for this.
God, what have I done? I actually hired someone to burn down the house. Am I out of my mind?