“I’m afraid I did not learn of your letter until just now, Ms. Moran, or I would have gotten back to you sooner. But, yes, I’ll make time for your show.” Across the table, Clarence’s eyes shot open. “Have you spoken yet to Madison Meyer?”
“We’re optimistic that all the relevant witnesses will appear.” The producer was keeping her cards close to her vest.
“If Madison’s anything like she was the last time I had contact with her, I’d show up at her front door with a camera crew. There’s nothing more compelling to an out-of-work actress than the spotlight.”
Clarence looked like he was going to jump out of his chair.
“I’ll let you work out the details with Clarence,” Frank said. “He’ll have a look at the calendar and get back to you.”
He said good-bye and returned Clarence’s phone to him.
“I’ll make scheduling excuses until she finally takes the hint?” he asked.
“No. You’ll make sure I’m available. And I want to do it in L.A. I want to be a full participant, on the same terms with all the other players.”
“Frank, that’s a bad-”
“My mind is made up, Clarence, but thank you.”
Once Clarence had left him alone, Frank took another sip of his scotch. He had gotten where he was by trusting his instincts, yes, but also because he had a raw talent for controlling the telling of a story. And his instincts were saying that this television show about Susan Dempsey would be just another story for him to control.
Talia watched from the hallway beyond the den as her husband’s assistant left the apartment.
She had been married to Frank for ten years. She still remembered calling her parents in Ohio to tell them about the engagement. She’d thought they would be happy to know that her days of auditioning for bit roles and advertisements were over. They would no longer have to worry about her living alone in that sketchy apartment complex in Glassell Park. She was getting married, and to a wealthy, successful, famous director.
Instead, her father had said, “But didn’t he have something to do with the death of that girl?”
She had heard the way her husband had spoken to Clarence and to that television person on the phone. She knew she had no chance of changing his mind.
She found herself twisting her wedding ring in circles, watching the three-carat diamond turn around her finger. She couldn’t help but think that he was making a terrible mistake.
10
Laurie was exhausted by the time the 6 train stopped at her local station, Ninety-Sixth Street and Lexington. As she climbed the stairs up to street level, her new Stuart Weitzman black patent pumps still not broken in, she quickly reminded herself to be grateful for her freedom to ride the subway without fear, like everyone else. A year earlier she wouldn’t have dared.
She no longer scanned every face in every crowd for a man with blue eyes. That was the only description her son, Timmy, had been able to offer of the man who had shot his father in the forehead, point-blank, right in front of him. An elderly woman had heard the man say, “Timmy, tell your mother that she’s next. Then it’s your turn.”
For five years, she had been terrified that the man known as Blue Eyes would find and kill her and Timmy, just as he had promised. It had been nearly a year since Blue Eyes was killed by police in a thwarted attempt to carry out his twisted plan. Laurie’s fears hadn’t entirely died with him, but she was slowly beginning to feel like a normal person again.
Her apartment was only two blocks away, on Ninety-Fourth Street. Once she reached her building, she gave a friendly wave to the usual weeknight doorman on her way to the mailboxes and elevator. “Hey, Ron.”
When she reached her front door, she slipped a key into the top bolt first, then a second key into the doorknob, and then secured both locks behind her once she was inside her apartment. She kicked off her heels while she dropped her mail, purse, and briefcase on the console table in the entryway. Next was her suit jacket, which she tossed on top of her bags. She’d find time to put everything away later.
It had been a long day.
She headed straight for the kitchen, pulled an already-open bottle of sauvignon blanc from the refrigerator, and began pouring a glass. “Timmy,” she called.
She took a sip and immediately felt the stress of the day begin to peel away. It had been one of those days when she hadn’t had time to eat or drink water or check her e-mail. But at least the work had paid off. All the pieces for Under Suspicion to cover the Cinderella Murder were coming together.
“Timmy? Did you hear me? Is Grandpa letting you play video games already?”
Ever since Greg was killed, Laurie’s father, Leo Farley, had stepped in as a kind of co-parent for Laurie’s son, Timmy. Timmy was nine years old now. He’d spent more than half of his life with only Mommy and Grandpa to take care of him.
She couldn’t imagine how she would have managed to continue working full-time if it weren’t for her father’s help. He lived one short block away. Every single day, he walked Timmy to and from school at Saint David’s on Eighty-Ninth Street off Fifth Avenue and stayed with Timmy in the apartment until Laurie returned from work. She was far too grateful ever to complain, even when Grandpa allowed Timmy small indulgences like ice cream before dinner or video games before homework.
She suddenly realized that the apartment was completely silent. No sounds of her father talking through a math problem with Timmy. No sounds of Timmy asking his grandfather to repeat all the favorite stories he had already heard from Leo Farley’s days with the NYPD: “Tell me about the time you chased a bad guy with a rowboat in Central Park,” “Tell me about the time the police horse got away on the West Side Highway.” No sounds of videos or games coming from Timmy’s iPad.
Silence.
“Timmy?! Dad?!” She bolted from the kitchen so quickly that she completely forgot she was holding a glass. White wine sloshed onto the marble floor. She trekked through it, running into the living room with damp feet. She tried to remind herself that Blue Eyes was dead. They were safe now. But where was her son? Where was Dad?
They were supposed to be here by now. She rushed down the corridor to the den. Her father blinked at her from his comfortable leather chair. His feet were on the hassock.
“Hi, Laurie. What’s the rush?”
“Just getting some exercise,” Laurie said as she looked over to the sofa, where Timmy was curled up with a book in his hands.
“He was wiped out from soccer,” Leo explained. “I could see his head dropping even on the walk home from school. I knew he’d fall asleep the minute he settled down.” He looked at his watch. “Oh boy. We’re going on two hours. He’ll be up all night now. Sorry, Laurie.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m-”
“Hey,” he said. “You’re white as a sheet. What’s going on?”
“I’m. It’s just-”
“You were scared.”
“Yes. For a moment.”
“It’s all right.” He sat up in his chair, reached for her hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze.
She might have been taking the subway matter-of-factly like everyone else these days, but she still wasn’t normal. When would things be normal?
“Timmy,” her father said. “He said something about wanting takeout Indian food. Who’s ever heard of a nine-year-old who likes lamb saagwala?”