“Greta, I’d like you to meet Danya Sunderland,” Magma says. “Danya, this is your hostess, Greta Lauber.”
“Hello, Danya,” Greta says warmly, shaking Danya’s limp hand.
“Hi,” Danya whispers.
“Would you care for a drink or anything before…?”
Danya shakes her head. “I just wanna get this over with.”
“Come with me,” Greta says.
“Courage, dear.” Magma releases Danya’s arm and joins Hobbs on the couch.
She cuddles up next to Hobbs with an air of accomplishment. She and Hobbs are the proud architects of this momentous meeting. They will both benefit, no matter the outcome: Hobbs, professionally; Magma, socially.
Greta walks Danya across the room to the corner where Jean is finishing up her scotch in determined little sips. Huff springs to his feet like a guard dog.
“I’m Squire Huff, Mrs. Sunderland’s lawyer,” he barks.
Danya steps back in alarm. This frightened young woman is such a far cry from the predatory stripper of Huff’s imagination, he can hardly believe his eyes. Can this timid, fresh-faced beauty be the same sexy stripper of tabloid fame? Or the “shiny insect” Jean has described to him? Jean stands up, motioning Huff to step aside.
Greta makes the introduction. “Danya, this is Jean Sunderland. Oh, but then I guess you two have already met,” she says with an embarrassed little laugh.
Jean and Danya eye one another warily.
“Greta, dear, I wonder if we could have some have some privacy?” Jean says.
“Of course.”
Much to everyone’s disappointment, Greta leads the women toward the blood-red library adjoining the living room.
Huff follows. “I think I should be present, Jean.”
“I think not.” Jean closes the double doors in his face.
The doors click shut. Jean and Danya, the two Mrs. Sunderlands, stand staring at each other for a long moment. Danya is about to say something when Jean raises her index finger to her lips and presses her ear against the door. She waits a until she hears the lull of conversation start up in the next room. When she is absolutely sure no one is listening, she turns back to Danya who is staring at her intently.
Their grim expressions gradually melt into smiles. They rush toward one another and embrace. It is the heartfelt embrace of co-conspirators who are meeting for the first time after their plan has been set in motion. It is the encouraging embrace of accomplices who have come far, but who still have far to go.
They spend a good half hour in the library, whispering about the events which have led up to this meeting—some of which were expected, and one of which was not. They go over their stories like actresses, making sure they still know their parts.
Just before they go back into the living room, they raise an imaginary glass for a toast.
“To Maud, true blue!” Jean says.
“To Maud, true blue!” Danya echoes.
“Don’t fold!” they say in unison.
Jean opens the library door.
The women enter the living room looking shell-shocked. Greta, Magma, Hobbs, and Huff bolt up, dying for news of the outcome. Danya and Jean don’t say a word. Danya walks out of the living room, chased by Magma.
“What happened?” Magma says eagerly.
“Nothing. Let’s go,” Danya says.
Jean sits down to finish the rest of her scotch. Greta and Huff run to her.
“How it did go?” Greta says breathlessly.
Jean raises her glass. “It’s a start.”
Chapter Forty
It was an open secret at the Gypsy’s that aside from dealing cards and taking care of the bank, Pratt supplied quality weed to players. On account of that, I first steered clear of him. I had a horror of drug dealers because of Alan. I swore I’d never befriend one.
Would that things in life remained so clear-cut!
It soon became apparent to me that Pratt was a decent guy, despite his avocation. He helped people out when they needed it, giving them money or a place to stay. Unlike some of my erstwhile “society” friends, when Pratt gave his word, he kept it. He didn’t shy away from pals who got into trouble.
It was Pratt who took me aside and told me that I could actually use my “old bag” image to my advantage. He taught me how to play what I call Street Poker, which is about as far from classical, by-the-book poker as breakdancing is from the minuet. I learned that poker on the highest level isn’t really about the cards, and that the greatest players in the game can actually smell fear in their opponents. Convincing bluffing is the real key to a successful poker career. And like pretty much everything in life, poker is about people. You have to know when and whom to bluff.
“Play the player,” Pratt advised me. “Don’t let the player play you.”
Pratt’s taking a big risk having me stay here in his cabin, and I’m very grateful. He doesn’t seem at all concerned I’m on the run. He’s helped felons and fugitives before. He gave me his word he’d help me if the time came, no matter what I’d done. He has a strange honor code, like many of the poker players I’ve met. I always sensed a merry world of criminality bustling all around me at the Gypsy’s. Because I loved poker, I chose to ignore it, never dreaming one day I’d be the most wanted criminal of all.
As I surf the web on Pratt’s computer, I’m amused to see myself referred to as a “folk heroine,” mainly because I shot a rich scumbag and evaded the police for so long. America loves outlaws. Pratt’s in the kitchen sorting marijuana joints and pills into plastic baggies with a person he introduced to me this morning as “Cadillac Dan,” despite the fact the guy drove up here in a beat-up old Ford pickup. Dan seems like an okay guy, although it took me a while to get used to the sight of his jowly face emerging from the primordial sea of prison tats covering his neck and arms. Unlike Pratt, Dan’s a dealer who’s done time. But that’s because he grew up poor. By way of contrast, my brother’s first dealer was his roommate in boarding school—a clean-cut preppy with the face of a choir boy and impeccable manners. Our mother loved him. He got a job in his father’s company after college. But if he hadn’t had money, he’d be in jail.
Surfing around the web, I’m interested to see that Danya Dickert Sunderland has given an exclusive interview to a blogger named Brent Hobbs. It’s been picked up by all the news services. I read the piece very carefully. I especially like the part about the blue satin dress she wore for her wedding to Sun. In fact, she wore a white suit that day. When I finish, I know one thing for sure: This guy Hobbs may have thought Danya was talking only to him.
But, my true blue satin doll, I know you’re really talking to me.
Time to get myself captured.
The Turn
“Life is not always a matter of holding good cards,
but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.”
—Jack London
Chapter Forty-one
Manhattan District Attorney Vance Packer has a headache. A big one. He’s standing in the middle of his office with Detective Chen. The two men are watching a loop of breaking news on CNN.
“Here it comes,” Packer says, wincing.
The CNN anchor speaks: “And for those of you who are just joining us… Maud Warner arrived in New York this morning, two days after she was captured wandering in a daze through the streets of Washington, D.C. Appearing to be in shock, Warner hasn’t spoken a single word since her arrest. She’s currently under observation in a state psychiatric ward.”
The anchor does a recap of the crime, accompanied by stock footage. Scenes of Sunderland’s star-studded funeral appear on screen, featuring a close-up of Packer descending the church steps amid the well-heeled mourners. Disgusted, he aims the remote at the TV like a gun, and switches it off.
“I hate funerals. Siddown, John,” Packer says, taking a seat.
“You think she’s really in shock?”
“Could be an act,” Chen says.
“You know who’s going to defend her, right?”
“I heard. Lydia the Legend herself.”
John Chen has been a detective in the NYPD for years. He’s known for his thoroughness and hunches that strike gold. This is his highest profile case to date, a challenge both he and Packer—as the new D.A.—are well aware of.
“So talk to me about our silent socialite. What’d you find out about her in D.C.?”
Chen gives a recap of his trip and the items he discovered in Maud’s apartment, including the target practice sheets, the unused meds, and the article Sklar sent her.
“The most interesting thing about this woman…? She plays poker.”
Packer shrugs. “What’s so interesting about that? I play poker with a couple of women in a home game.”
“Trust me, the dive where Warner plays ain’t no home game. It’s like a road company Rikers. I had to take a long shower afterwards. But forget all that. The point is not so much where she played. It’s who she met playing poker.”
“Like who?”
“Hear me out. I found this newspaper article in her apartment about an older lady poker player who also happens to be a lawyer. I think you know her: Joyce Kiner Braden?”
“Sure, I know Joyce. Terrific lawyer.”
“She said to say hello to you, by the way.”
“So you went to see her?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“A hunch. I read the article. It was mainly about a case she’d just won. A woman in Richmond killed her father who was once a prominent assemblyman. It made local headlines. Braden got her off using the E.E.D. defense.”
“That makes sense. Braden specializes in that defense. Keep going.”
“It happens that Sklar sent Warner this article. There’s a note from him saying, ‘Poker player like you… E.E.D. defense. Enjoy! Burt.’”
“Sklar sent her the article? I wonder why?”
“Who knows? That’s not my point. I talked to Braden and found out Warner met her at a poker tournament in Atlantic City. Coincidence? Maybe. Braden wouldn’t say if Warner purposely sought her out. But I’m betting she did. I think she went up there with the express purpose of making Braden’s acquaintance.”
“Why?”
“So she could learn more about how people get away with murder.”
“Because…?”
“Because she’s planning to get away with murder. Walking into a restaurant and shooting someone point-blank is crazy, right? But not so crazy if you think you can use the fact it’s so crazy to get away with it.”
“E.E.D…” Packer says pensively.
“Exactly. Anyway, that’s my theory,” Chen says.
Packer considers. “It still takes balls to actually do it.”
Chen chuckles. “You wanna talk about balls? This lady climbed three flights of a rust pile fire escape to play in poker hell with Satan and his crew almost every night of her life. That takes balls. She may be nuts. But she may be smart nuts too. You know all the stuff you have to avoid if you’re planning to kill someone. You gotta think about DNA, cameras, cell phone records, eyewitnesses, getting rid of the body. It’s a lot to plan. No…if you really want to get away with murder these days, do it in plain sight and play crazy. Gonna be hard to prove Grandma Moses wasn’t nuts when she did this thing.”
Chapter Forty-two
God bless Lydia Fairley! True to her word, she’s defending me now. If I love her for nothing else, it’s for getting me transferred out of the state’s soul-crushing psych ward into the comforting chintzy atmosphere of the Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic.
Lydia hasn’t seen me in years, not since I left New York. When I enter a room reminiscent of a granny’s parlor she winces at the sight of me. I know I look like hell in my baggy gray hospital garb with my greasy, straggly hair, and sallow complexion. But that’s the whole point. I’m trying to look like hell—not that I had very far to go, having been deprived of pricey cosmetic enhancements and peace of mind for years on end. Still, since my capture, I’ve totally perfected the slack-jawed, vacant-eyed, listless shuffle of the seriously deranged. I’ve studied Joan Crawford in Possessed. I feel my actress mother would be proud of my performance.
The attendant leads me to a chair and gently sits me down opposite Lydia.
“Hello, Maudie,” Lydia says with great compassion, searching my lined, exhausted face for any sign of recognition.
I stare into space. A human husk. Lydia glances at the strapping female attendant, who shakes her head sadly.
“Call when you’re ready,” the attendant says and leaves.
Lydia clasps my limp right hand in both of hers, a gesture of love and reassurance. I don’t react. I don’t look at her. I’m a zombie.
“I’m not sure you can hear me, Maudie. I’m going to talk to you anyway. First of all, let me say how very sorry I am about Alan. I know how you two were close….I also know better than anyone the hell you’ve been through these past few years. I don’t blame you for wanting to take a shot at Sklar. I’m just sorry things have turned out the way they have. But I’m your lawyer now. We’re going to get you through this, Maudie. I promise.”
I still don’t react. She goes on.
“I don’t how much you know about what’s happened since the shooting…”
She proceeds to recap the whole Sunderland bigamy saga, and how Jean Sunderland has become Burt Sklar’s latest financial victim in a scheme reminiscent of the one he used on my mother. I know all the things she’s telling me, and a great deal more.
Much as I’d love to, I can’t reveal my cards to Lydia. As my lawyer, she can’t know the truth—not yet. I may be able to tell her the truth one day, if the two of us wind up together in some old age home, reminiscing in our rockers. But for now, she has to believe I’m off my rocker.
Only three of us are in on the series of events which have led to this moment.
Chapter Forty-three
After my mother died and I moved down to D.C., I tried my best to forget Sklar. I really did. But somehow, I couldn’t help myself. I began to track him, which was easy. Sklar was a relentless self-promoter who constantly posted stuff about his glamorous life on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. There were always squibs about him in the New York Social Diary, Page Six, The Reliable Source, and Washington Life. He loved posting selfies with tag lines like: ‘Here I am at the Council on Foreign Relations with my best friend, Sun Sunderland,’ or ‘Going to the Lincoln Memorial today to contemplate life,’ or ‘Kennedy Center honors tonight! Box seat. Can’t wait.’ Shit like that. I noticed he was down in D.C. a lot with his best buddy, Sun Sunderland.
My dear brother Alan died of an overdose on October 10, 2013. I blamed Sklar. My harmless guilty pleasure in tracking him amped up into an obsession. I was attracted to the thing I most despised, which made me very dangerous.
The week before Thanksgiving, I read that Sun Sunderland and his wife were coming down to D.C. for a gala dinner at the National Gallery. Sklar posted a picture of himself on Facebook outside the Hay Adams, where he was staying with his “best friend” Sun Sunderland. Sklar posted another picture of himself on Instagram with some ambassador outside Café Milano, where they were about to have lunch. I had nothing much to do until the Gypsy’s game that night. So just for the hell of it, I drove to the restaurant and waited outside in my car, figuring I’d see Sklar in the flesh. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I saw him. I was so angry at him because of Alan. But, somehow, I liked the idea of spying on him, knowing I could ambush him at any moment. Stalking for stalking’s sake. Then, just like at the poker table, luck changed everything.
Sklar left the restaurant alone at two o’clock and hailed a cab. I followed behind in my car. They drove to a ho
use in a residential area off New Mexico Avenue in Wesley Heights. I parked just close enough to see and not be seen. Sklar kept the taxi waiting as he walked up and rang the doorbell. A woman in a bathrobe opened the door. She was holding a cloth to her face. A girlfriend, I wondered?
Moments later, who should appear at the door but Sun Sunderland! He tried to kiss the woman good-bye, but she quickly shied away and slammed the door. Sunderland gave Sklar a dismissive little shrug. Both men chuckled as they got into the waiting taxi. The taxi drove off. I stayed. Needless to say, I was intrigued.
I was even more intrigued when I found out from a neighbor that a Mr. and Mrs. Sunderland lived in that house. I decided to pay a call. I had no idea what I was going to say to this woman. I figured I’d just have to wing it. I rang the bell. When she opened the door, I saw the reason for the cloth. She was nursing a badly swollen eye and a split lip. She peered at me warily from her good eye.
“Mrs. Sunderland?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“May I come in for a moment?”
“Who’re you? Whaddya want?” She sounded like she had a mouthful of cotton. She was obviously in pain.
“I…I’m a friend of Jean Sunderland,” I blurted out, without even thinking.
That got me in the door pronto. I lied and told her my name was Sue and that Jean had sent me to talk to her. She told me to call her Danya. She wanted to talk. I sure as hell wanted to listen. I was fortunate to have caught her at a most vulnerable moment.
“How long’s she known about me?” Danya asked, dabbing her face with the damp cloth.
“Oh, quite a long time,” I lied.
“She knows about the marriage and everything?”
I was absolutely flabbergasted when she said this. It was all I could do to keep a straight face.
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