Jean liked her stepson, but they were not close. She and Michael tiptoed around one another like polite houseguests. Jean understood the young man’s allegiance was always to his mother. He once hinted to Jean that his mother left his father for darker reasons than his father would ever admit. Now, as Jean sits in the pew, she can only imagine what those darker reasons were. She longs to tell Michael his father is a bigamist scumbag. But she refrains, knowing it’s just a matter of time before the whole world finds out.
Among the notables in the congregation are Vance Packer, the newly elected Manhattan District Attorney, and his wife, Heathia. Packer is a tall, thin, patrician man, who hails from a long line of dedicated public servants who staunchly believed that God and country must come before personal ambition. He is a member of the faded WASP elite—a man who attended Groton, Harvard University, and Harvard Law School and prays that his background will not be held against him. He has worked hard to eradicate the “privileged son-of-a-bitch white guy” image that now haunts those of his ilk. Before entering politics, he rolled up his shirtsleeves (literally) and worked with the poor as a pro bono lawyer for the Urban Justice Project.
Today he’s standing front and center in his most characteristic pose: Arms crossed, head slightly bent like President Kennedy’s official White House portrait, with a gloomy expression on his aging boy face. In public, Packer always tends to look like he’s at a funeral, giving the impression of a man of extreme gravitas. In private, he’s more animated, but still careful. He’s not a person to ignore public opinion, nor does he rush to judgment.
The Packers are social acquaintances of the Sunderlands, which is to say that they know each other chiefly from the glittery galas and pricey political events around town, not because they hang out with each other like real pals. Packer knows this brazen crime is the first great test of his first term in office. He’s under enormous pressure to bring the fugitive Maud Warner to justice.
Vance Packer was brought up with the Mauds of the world: Prep school debutantes swathed in privilege who treated their good fortune with disdain because they had scant appreciation for how lucky they were. Having attained from birth the status so desperately sought by others, they had no idea what to do with it. He’s seen too many rich kids with no guidance get caught up in the riptides of addiction and neurosis. Their wasteful lives were both a caution and a source of anger to him.
Packer is also keenly aware that all New York is watching closely to make sure justice is done in this case. He knows that if an African American or Hispanic male had walked into The Four Seasons, suspicious eyes would have followed him to the Sunderland table. Odds are they would have tackled the guy before he even drew the gun. But the Maud Warners of the world—older, white, well-dressed women of privilege—are perceived to be no threat. Maud waltzed out of there because no one could fathom it was she who’d pulled the trigger. Her crime and improbable escape are a publicity nightmare for Packer’s office and the NYPD.
Once she’s been apprehended, Packer has vowed to show the world that former debutantes like Warner are not above the law. On the contrary. The hammer’s going to come down even harder on her. Lady Justice may be blind, but the public is an all-seeing, all-hearing, all-Facebooking, all-tweeting mob, ready to pounce on him for being too lenient. People have even dared approach him in the church to say he better make an example of her—“if you ever catch her, that is.” Their snarky remarks rankle him more than he cares to admit.
Meanwhile, with every law enforcement agency in the country looking for Maud, Packer’s mind is less on the service and more on Detective John Chen. He’s dispatched Chen, armed with search warrants and a list of contacts, to D.C. to get the goods on Maud.
“Find out everything you can about Ms. Warner. And I mean everything—from the day she was born. No—make that from the day she was in utero. We want to be prepared when we catch her,” Packer instructed Chen.
And yet…Packer has an uneasy feeling about this case. There are whispers about the victim. Maybe Sunderland isn’t the great man of probity everyone thinks he is. For instance, Chen has told him that Sun’s wife, Jean, didn’t come to the hospital to keep a vigil over her husband, and that another, younger woman was constantly at his side—a woman calling herself Mrs. Sunderland. Packer doesn’t want to hear it.
“Sun Sunderland’s not on trial here. Find Warner,” Packer commanded.
Chapter Fifteen
Though Burt Sklar is one of the first people to arrive at the church, he’s one of the last people to enter the doors. He stays outside, meeting and greeting his fellow mourners with a solemn air, not only to make absolutely sure they all know he’s in attendance, but mainly to be filmed by the news crews.
Sklar was desperate to be included among the roster of distinguished speakers paying tribute to Sunderland, knowing how good for social life and business that would be. Sklar has always been dependent on reflected light. However, when he offered to give his “best friend” a eulogy, Jean turned him down flat, thus depriving him of his big moment in the funereal sun.
Sklar enters the church and heads down the aisle to the front to the pews reserved for “friends and family.” He’s intercepted by an usher who gently steers him to an aisle seat near the back, the funeral equivalent of Siberia. Seething, he sits down and bows his head in ostentatious grief. As he stews about this fresh insult, he’s startled by a tap on his shoulder. He looks up and sees Magma Hartz, who is being ushered down front. Magma leans down and whispers, “Oh, Burt, you poor dear man. This must be so difficult for you—I mean, knowing that bullet was meant for you. I was there, you know. Saw it all. Thank God you survived.” The usher moves the Magpie on.
Sklar tenses, wondering exactly what she saw. Did anyone see him use Sunderland as a shield? In this day and age of cell phones, he knows it’s possible that someone might even have recorded the event. But wouldn’t they have come forward by now? Unless maybe they’re going to save it to blackmail him. No…he’s just being paranoid, he thinks. And though he feels that paranoids are the only ones who notice anything these days, he pushes the idea out of his mind. Worry is not his forte. Optimism is.
As the service progresses, Jean is well aware she’s the focus of attention. She sits with a sad expression on her face, like a theatergoer pretending to be moved by a play she despises. During the eulogies, she finds it a teeth-gritting challenge to hear over and over what a great and good and honorable man her husband was. To keep from screaming, she imagines what they’d be saying if they knew the truth about the loathsome rat. She wonders if anything—any goddam thing—Sun ever said to her was true, most of all the words: “I love you.” Jean is worrying about the onslaught of legal woes she will soon face, not to mention the cataclysmic public scandal that will erupt when the whole sordid affair comes to light.
As Tony Bennett sings a haunting version of “I’ll Be Seeing You in All the Old Familiar Places,” there are audible sobs in the crowd. Greta reaches out to comfort her friend. A tearless Jean squeezes Greta’s hand so hard her nails bite into Greta’s palm.
Two and a half hours later, the church doors open. Swells of organ music echo out onto the street. The Honorable Sun Sunderland has been laid to rest with all the pomp and pageantry expected to accompany great men to their graves. The grand service has helped people forget the bizarre circumstances of his death—for the moment. Mourners filing out of the church are hit by the glare of cold sunlight and scatter, eager to resume their busy lives.
No one pays attention to the veiled woman standing off to one side, waiting for Burt Sklar.
Chapter Sixteen
Burt Sklar exits the church and spots the veiled woman, a slim figure in a patent leather raincoat, glinting like a black sequin among pebbles. He gives her a discreet nod of caution and walks on ahead. Sklar leads her to an old-fashioned luncheonette on Lexington Avenue, figuring it’s the last place any of the pampered mourne
rs would deign to dine. They sit in a booth at the back.
“So how was it?” the woman says, removing her veil.
“The bitch seated me in the boondocks.”
“And you’re surprised? She’s gotta figure you know about me.”
“Yeah, well…she’ll be sorry…” Sklar reaches across the pink Formica table and takes both her hands in his. “How’ya doin’, Dany baby?”
“Oh, just great! I’ve been in a fuckin’ hospital for the past four days watching him die, wishing he would, then hoping he wouldn’t, then wishing he would. Fun times!”
“Fun times are coming, baby, I promise you. Let’s order. I’m starving.”
“How is it you can always eat?” she says, disgusted.
“I’m a growing boy.”
Sklar orders sandwiches and coffee for them both. Danya chews on the end of a straw and stares at Sklar.
“So what happens now?”
“Now the fun begins.”
“For who?”
“For whom,” Sklar corrects her.
“Oh, yeah? Maybe for yoom! Not for me!” she snaps. “I don’t have shit to show for all these wonderful years of sex, lies, and terror. No savings. No real cash. No house of my own. I’m getting too old to strip. What’s gonna happen to me, Burt? That sadistic fucker better have left me something. But not in the will. She won’t let me have diddly-squat it if it’s in the will.”
Sklar looks at her without saying anything.
“What, Burt…? I fuckin’ hate it when you stare at me like that. It creeps me out. I can’t figure out if you’re a lap dog or a serial killer.”
“Can I ask you a question, sweetheart?”
“No. I mean you’re gonna ask it anyway so just fuckin’ ask it! What?!”
“Calm down, baby. I know you’re upset…The night we all met—?”
“Jesus H! Don’t remind me!”
“Didn’t you know I was interested in you?”
“Um, let’s see…Well, I guess if I had an IQ below the national fuckin’ speed limit, I might have missed it. Of course I fuckin’ knew. Why do you always ask me this question?”
“But you preferred Sun.”
“Why are we going into this now? Again!”
“Because Sun’s gone now. So I want you to help me understand a little more about why you preferred him over me.”
“Geez, Burt…Like I’ve told you a thousand times, I never had a dad…Well, I mean I did have a dad—a bad dad—abusive son-of-a-bitch that he was. I thought Sun was gonna be a good dad. But he turned out to be the bad dad I already had and worse—as you fuckin’ know very well. Go figure!”
“You once said that if Sun hadn’t been there, you and I might have—”
Danya throws up her hands in exasperation. “Jesus H! I need a cigarette! Can I smoke in here?”
“No.”
“Fuckin’ health Nazis rule the world. I’m going outside. I’ll be back.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“Not unless you wanna help me pee too. Where’s the john around here?”
Sklar points to a door at the back of the shop. He watches her walk away, savoring the sight of her perfect ass and the wiggle in her step.
He recalls the first time he ever clapped eyes on Danya Dickert at King Arthur’s, the upscale gentleman’s club in D.C. where he took Sun one night for some guy relaxation after a conference-heavy day. They were sitting at a front table, enjoying the show, when a raven-haired, lithe-limbed, busty beauty in a diamond thong and white lace bra, pranced onto the stage, snaked herself around a silver pole, dipping and twirling her way into his fantasies. Sklar stuck a hundred-dollar bill in her white satin garter and she gave him a heart-melting smile. He was planning to come back to the club alone to meet her when Sunderland turned to him and issued a command, “Burt, go tell the manager we’d like that girl to join us.”
Sklar did as he was told, as usual. Soon afterwards, the young woman bounced up to their table with the perky confidence of a cheerleader.
“Hi! I’m Danya!” she chirped.
Both men stood up. Sun pulled out a chair for her, obviously surprising her with his gallantry.
“Will you do us the honor of joining us?” Sun said.
Do us the honor? Who’s he kidding with the fake courtliness? Sklar wondered.
Sklar knew firsthand that his friend had no respect for strippers or any woman who worked in the sex industry. Yet it was his contempt for them that fueled his desire. After their mutual divorces back in the day, he and Sunderland had frequented strip clubs and upscale brothels together in an attempt to exorcise their failed marriages. One drunken evening, Sunderland had confessed to Sklar that he could only achieve ultimate sexual satisfaction with women he felt superior to, and dominated in dangerous, sadistic ways. He needed special women to put up with his proclivities. These were not women he could ever bring into his world or love in an affectionate way. Though he had loved his wife, he had never desired her in the way he desired women for whom he had no respect. He tearfully told Sklar he was resigned to never truly falling in love. Through the years, Sklar had helped his friend lead a risky double life, up to and including Sunderland’s remarriage to Jean.
Danya sat down and talked with the men until her next set. She declined a bottle of champagne, which was unexpected since Sklar figured she got a cut of the tab. Instead, she sipped a Shirley Temple. Sklar surmised that the golden hue of her skin meant she was from mixed race parentage. He sat staring at her, trying to figure out the stew of genes that had produced such a stunning beauty.
Danya’s upbeat conversation was as aimless as a sunny cruise heading nowhere. She was gorgeous, playful, a little raunchy at times, and very relaxing to be around—a woman who made men feel sexually powerful and intellectually unchallenged. Yet, underneath all her peppy sweetness and light, Sklar sensed a darker reality. She struck him as wounded game, ill-used by men and vulnerable to abuse. Just Sun’s type. In short, Danya was the exact opposite of Jean, that smart, elegant icicle Sun had married to further his social ambitions.
Sklar turned on all his charm for Danya, sure he would impress her with his lively conversation and jokes. Yet for some unfathomable reason, Danya preferred Sunderland to him. He still can’t quite get that through his head. By the end of the night, the heat between the two of them was like a sauna. Sun’s avuncular gravitas had obviously appealed to her more than his own gym rat vigor. Sklar had no choice but to stand by and let this flirtation run its course, like all the others. Up to now, Sunderland had managed to keep his dicey sexual needs in check so they never interfered with his big important life. However, when Sun kept on inventing excuses to come to D.C., Sklar knew this relationship was different. Danya and Sunderland were in love, and it broke his heart. But he would wait.
Danya arrives back just as the food is delivered.
“I thought you quit smoking,” Sklar says.
“I thought so too.”
Sklar digs in as Danya leans back on the banquette, her arms crossed, wincing as Sklar devours an egg salad sandwich, chewing too heartily.
“You oughta try one of these. Delish.”
“I asked you a question, Burt. What’s gonna happen to me?”
Sklar washes down the last bite of his sandwich with a large swig of Coke. He wipes his mouth, pushes his plate away, and assumes a businesslike attitude.
“Okay, let’s talk,” he says.
“I’m waiting.”
“Do you understand that under the present circumstances you have no rights to Sun’s estate?”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“Sun understood this very well. And that’s why you and your humble servant here are now inextricably intertwined.”
“English please.”
Sklar pauses for effect and clears his t
hroat. “You and I are now partners of a kind.”
She narrows her eyes. “Partners of what kind exactly?”
“During his lifetime, I helped Sun set up an arrangement for you—for all three of us, actually.”
“What arrangement?”
“He knew you’d have no legal rights to his estate. So he wanted to make sure that if anything ever happened to him, his love for you would be reflected in, let’s say, a concrete way.”
“Okay…That’s nice…Can you be more specific?”
“Truthfully…? The most important thing now is that you trust me, Dany.”
“What’s new? I’ve always trusted you, Burt. Who’s always handled everything since the beginning? You!”
“True. But now, you have to do absolutely everything I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. You have to obey my orders.”
Her jaw drops. “What the fuck?! You sound like Sun before he used to tie me up.”
“This is not a sex thing, baby. This is a legal matter. You may be forced to fight for what’s rightfully yours.”
“If it’s rightfully mine, why do I have to fight for it?”
“That’s life, baby. You have to fight for things. That’s why you have to trust me.”
Danya shakes her head in exasperation. “You know, Burt, things were great when me and Sun first started out. But then after the marriage and the miscarriage, things got really bad. You were there. You saw the bruises. And that time you took me to the hospital…? Remember? I don’t know why I didn’t just leave. I really don’t. But he could always talk me back like it was never gonna happen again. Plus, he told me he’d kill me if I left, so…” Her voice trails off.
“I’m sorry, Dany. You know I understand.”
“You think he really would have killed me?”
“No. But he’s gone now. And I’m gonna take care of you.”
“Yeah, but you sound just like him telling me I have to obey you and all this shit. What’s this about anyway?”
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