A young woman wearing a University of Wisconsin sweatshirt was shoving a camera in my face. Her girlfriends were already posed at the rail.
“Sure,” I said.
I took a few steps back and aimed the zoom lens. I was facing east, toward the Fifth Avenue entrance, looking out over the top of the Rink Bar below us. Flags of the United Nations’ 192 member states encircled the rink area and flapped in the breeze. I zoomed in, then out-then in again.
“Tell us when,” the woman said.
I wasn’t focused on them. I zoomed in over their heads, peering between the flags of Japan and Jamaica. On the other side of the plaza, a man was standing in the second-story window above Dean & DeLuca. It was the perfect vantage point from which to look down into the Rink Bar. He was almost entirely concealed by the curtains he was standing behind, but I noticed him because of the camera with the long telephoto lens in his hands. This afternoon’s hearing had apparently expanded the media interest beyond me and Saxton Silvers to me and Mallory.
“Ready when you are,” the girls from Wisconsin said, but I was still focused on that photographer in the window. I saw him adjust his lens, and although I couldn’t be certain, he seemed to be shooting rapid-fire frames of the Rink Bar. I did a little triangulation in my head, and my gaze followed the aim of his lens. It was pointed in the direction of the statue of Prometheus-and then I froze.
A woman had taken a seat at the same table that I had shared with Ivy on our first date. She was alone.
And it was precisely four P.M.
Tony Girelli stared over the top of his menu.
He couldn’t be sure it was her. The stylish wide hat shaded her face, and her sunglasses were huge. At this hour and in the shadows of tall buildings, there was really no need for that much protection from the sun. And she had shown up at the right place at precisely the right time. He decided to give it a test.
“Vanessa!” he called out.
It was almost imperceptible, but Girelli definitely saw her flinch. He laid his menu aside and kept watching.
Finally she glanced in his direction. Girelli tightened his stare, and although her eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses, he sensed her fear. Girelli knew all the signs-the tightening of the expression, a leg gone restless, the posture suddenly rigid.
Without warning, she bolted from her chair and ran for the exit.
Girelli launched himself after her, pushing aside a waiter, two women at the bar, and everyone else in his way.
On impulse, I ran.
“Hey, give me back my camera!” the college girl shouted.
I was already at full speed, thinking only of getting to the bar’s exit at the top of the stairs on the other side of the plaza.
“Stop that guy!”
I could have tossed the stupid camera back at her, but I kept running, passing one flagpole after another, watching the commotion in the Rink Bar below as that man-whoever he was-bowled over tables, chairs, and people alike in pursuit of…
The thought that it might be Ivy had me flying on pure adrenaline. There was no denying that I had seen a woman take a seat at our table at four o’clock, watched her jump up and run, and saw another man chase after her.
My God, could it be?
She was halfway up the stairs, the man a few steps behind her, and I was approaching the top of the stairway from the opposite direction when someone screamed:
“A bomb! That man in the trench coat has a bomb!”
It was bedlam throughout the plaza.
Hundreds of tourists screamed and scattered, and the stairway was suddenly jammed with the surge of utter panic. I lost sight of the woman and the man in the ensuing stampede, and suddenly I was broadsided by what felt like a charging rhinoceros. My chest hit the sidewalk, and the air raced from my lungs. The moment was a blur, until I realized that I was pinned beneath two of New York’s finest.
“Don’t move!” a cop shouted.
“You got the wrong man!” I yelled back.
“You’re under arrest!”
My heart sank as the cold metal cuffs closed around my wrists.
32
MALLORY WAS ALONE IN THE BACKSEAT OF A TAXI, PEERING THROUGH the window as she drank from her go cup-a double vodka tonic she’d mixed before leaving her apartment. It wasn’t even dinnertime, but she would have liked nothing better than to crawl into bed and sleep till morning.
“You’re quite the piece of work,” she said quietly to her reflection in the glass.
Storefront after storefront raced by her, the driver catching every green light as they sped south on Fifth Avenue. She downed the rest of her drink, laid her head back on the headrest, and stared at the taxi’s tattered felt ceiling.
Today’s court hearing had gone exactly as planned. Her reaction to it was nothing like she’d expected. Accusing Michael of conspiring with a secret lover to hide assets left her with the uneasy feeling that “what goes around comes around,” and Mallory knew she wasn’t exactly standing on solid ground.
She’d met Nathaniel three months ago at the fitness studio. Mallory was serious about her workouts and didn’t make small talk with guys who grabbed an eyeful of her body. But one day her Pilates instructor had failed to show up, and Nathaniel was kind enough to share his and turn a private lesson into a semi-private. Nathaniel was good-pairing with him was almost like having two instructors. So she kept up the semi-privates for a couple of weeks, and by week three they were going for coffee afterward. By week four they were sleeping together. The man was fun in bed, but it wasn’t just that. He filled a need.
You don’t love me, Michael. You like me, but you don’t love me.
The cab stopped between Eighth and Ninth avenues, and Mallory stepped out. It was their usual meeting spot, one of the few places where she felt comfortable meeting her lover in public.
Therapy was a spacious lounge with killer decor, a friendly atmosphere, and cozy sitting areas. The food was good enough to get it a spot on Hell’s Kitchen, and its tasty drinks bore memorable names like Freudian Sip. Most important-and in keeping with Mallory’s low profile-Therapy was one of the best gay bars in the city. Of course, meeting in a gay bar didn’t take all the risk out of a heterosexual affair. While Therapy wasn’t known as one of those places where investment bankers went looking for boy toys, it drew its share of Wall Street types, and Mallory was all too aware that one of them might have some connection to Saxton Silvers. Her little joke was that at least she would hear them coming. They’d be the ones humming Fagin’s refrain from the Broadway hit Oliver: In this life one thing counts, in the bank large amounts-or something like that.
Mallory found Nathaniel waiting upstairs, where the lighting was low and the tables were arranged cabaret style. Stage shows here ranged from the whacky to the sublime, but the night was too young for live entertainment, so the booths in the back gave them relative privacy. Nathaniel had insisted on seeing her tonight, his text message saying, Urgent. She tried to smile as she approached, but her mind was busy searching for a way to tell him that she was in no mood for sex.
He rose and gave her a hug. No kiss. His smile was awkward. Right away, Mallory knew something was up.
“Are you okay?” she asked as she slid into the booth.
“Yeah, fine,” he said.
He cast his gaze downward at his hands.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Now he was looking toward the bar. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Mallory’s throat tightened. This was starting to feel like a page out of her first marriage. All of the bad signs were there.
“Look at me,” she said.
Slowly his gaze drifted back toward her. Their eyes met, and Mallory’s heart sank.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
He grimaced, as if in pain. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Us,” he said. “It’s over.”