The somber blue eyes meet mine, skeptically at first, then…am I imagining?…as if recognizing someone else in pain.
“Did you name her after Mary your housekeeper?” I ask.
“Nooo,” she says, and turns, catches up to her brother heading for the door.
“Hey Munchkins,” Jakes calls after them. “Did you see the white leopard and the polar bears? Did you have ice cream?”
They ignore him.
Chiara drops back to smile at him. “Sure did,” she tells him in a sexy Italian accent. “We went to the Children’s Zoo too. Saw baby lambs.”
They beam at each other. She has long brown hair; wears her deep V-neck sweater tight under her jacket.
Jakes said he moved in for the kids? Sure he did.
The little girl reaches the door and just stands there, head bowed, starting to cry. The boy next to her starts banging and hollering, “I want Daddy!”
My heart breaks for them.
The elevator has stayed open. I enter, and Jakes almost follows.
“I would do anything for those kids,” he snarls over the yowling and banging. “Do you understand? Anything.”
“Start by comforting them,” I snap as the door slides closed.
The car drops and my stomach falls away. I press my brow to my hand, trying to breathe again.
30
Out of work actress…out of work actress…What a bastard!
My heart is whamming so hard it hurts. What now? Where do you go when you’re feeling raging and rotten?
A few reporters mill before the building, looking bored. There must have been more of them earlier, turned away, told that Greer wasn’t there. Some of them eye me in my old track suit, probably figure I’m someone’s personal trainer. I stomp past them, across Fifth seeking a place to cool off.
The benches lining the outside of the park won’t do. Too many happy people moving past, and the ornate building I just left taunts from across the street.
So into the park I go; cross the Seventy-ninth Street transverse and follow paths south to the zoo. Better yet, the Children’s Zoo; something pulls me to where those sad little kids were.
I follow more paths and enter, find a seat under a tree.
Glare at the only cow in Manhattan. And a potbellied pig and a white baby lamb nuzzling toddlers. Parents and nannies smile, their phones snapping the little ones.
Did Peter’s children mope the whole time they were here? (And how odd: since hearing Chrissy, I’ve started to think of him as Peter.) The stress in that home must be awful.
I get out my phone, go online, and discover that the children’s names are Abby and Teddy. I find Facebook pictures, and a holiday celebration at their school: Peter lifts Teddy to put a dreidel on the Christmas tree; helps Abby drape a popcorn string over boughs. Both kids look happy; no Chrissy in sight.
Again I hear little Teddy yowl, I want Daddy!
It was no act, the man loves his children. The idea I had of him is changing, and I frown in confusion. Is this the same guy I called a narcissist monster?
Well, Mafiosi love their children too…
I watch noisy kids grinning and crawling into the wide-open, happy mouth of a big blue whale, and my breathing starts to slow. Forget Nick Jakes! He’s a patronizing jerk!
At the other end of my bench are a young mom and her little boy. He’s clamoring for his just bought, melting-fast fudgsicle; her problem at this moment in her life is getting off its sticky wrapper.
Sweet. It makes me want to cry.
And then I frown.
In my phone, I go back to the picture of Abby Greer hanging a popcorn string.
Her doll was pretty – why did she say it wasn’t? Its blond hair was messy and needed a brushing, but its face was pointy-nosed perfection because it’s a doll; they’re manufactured to look perfect.
The name Mary also seems odd for a doll. Old-fashioned somehow.
I sigh, wonder what now, stare at my phone.
Then press, tap…I go back to the days-ago pictures of Chloe Weld’s brownstone surrounded by yellow tape, police and gawkers. I scroll more, find today’s photos of Greer in his tux with his football, and of his Fifth Avenue apartment building where a doorman and co-op official turn away a crowd of reporters.
What’s this? A new tape has gone up, of Greer ducking reporters this morning as he heads into work. Like a celebrity, they mob his car as it dips into a parking garage, then thrust their mikes at him as he heads through parked cars to the steel doors of an elevator. He looks tired as he shakes his head and says no comment. One female reporter looks like she’s flirting.
I find an updated article: same stuff but at least this new piece mentions the case’s time discrepancy.
…the star hedge funder has admitted to being the date of Ms. Weld, but continues, through his lawyers, to insist on his innocence in her murder. Sources confirm that he was heard arguing with her shortly before midnight, although authorities report that the young woman died hours after that. Colleagues continue to express full confidence in both Mr. Greer’s moral character and innocence….
My phone dings as I read, and there’s a text from Joe.
Where r u? Staying out of trouble? ☺
Cute smiley face. I text back, Yes. I’m at the Children’s Zoo. It’s nice.
Glad to hear, he answers. Great R&R! He signs with a winky face.
I fend off a dumb sense of guilt.
I am at the kids’ zoo, right? He didn’t ask where I was half an hour ago - not that I would have told him - but he cares and he’s keeping tabs on me and I should feel that that’s nice, right?
A baby lamb approaches, seems fascinated by me and wants to nuzzle. I reach out and stroke her warm little face, scratch gently behind her ears. Aww… She drops her face to my hand and closes her eyes, loving the affection. My mind drifts into fantasy. Would my life have been different if I’d been born on a farm? I imagine gauzy images of caring for animals and forking hay. Bliss… I give a final pat to the lamb, who totters next to the chocolate-smeared little boy now holding animal food his mom got from a dispenser. She shows him how to hold his hand out just right. The lamb licks his tiny palm; he squeals in delight.
So incredibly sweet…now I’m really, seriously going to cry.
My phone chirps. I check it and blink.
Peter Greer.
My pulse leaps. I spend seconds bracing myself, then answer.
“Thank you,” he says, “for visiting Chrissy.”
“You’re welcome.” Heart pounding, hand gripping the phone. “Hope it helped a little. Your brother-in-law is something.”
“Do tell.”
I rise, walk jerkily away from the mom and her child. “He controls your wife, pushes too much medication on her.”
“I know, horrible. I’ve told her to resist him. Recent stress has derailed her.”
“He feared I’d go to the media, tried to offer me hush money.”
“Argh, I’m sorry. Ignore him.”
“Also I don’t think he likes you. You’ve brought them more family debacle.”
A soft laugh. “His favorite term. He has no imagination, just jealousy.” From his end come sounds of tumult: men’s voices, phones dinging, someone hollering about derivatives.
“Jealousy?” I ask, stopping to frown. A tot on a scooter zooms past.
“Yes and it has nothing to do with recent events.” Peter hesitates. “I’ll explain. Are you free tonight?”
“For what?”
“I’d like to see you.”
Breath stops.
What to do, what to do? In a flash I see Chrissy saying, You’re pretty. He’ll be after you next. But I remember his kiss. Insanely, it pulls. The man is pure sex. Even his voice is sexy – plus he loves his children. The whole catnip-to-women package, except that he’s married and a murder suspect.
“No,” I say, swallowing hard.
“Okay. Thought I’d try.”
He gives up so easily?
Seconds pass, and stretch. I’m disarmed enough to blurt, “Why is Nick Jakes jealous?”
“Worse than jealous. He’s after revenge - what?” A male voice has called to him; he excuses himself for a second.
The patronizing jerk wants revenge? I’m suddenly in knots wanting to know more. What to do? I squint up to the sky as if the answer’s there. It’s starting to cloud over. Rain threatens.
Peter’s back, announcing hurriedly that he has to go, and repeats his question. Please will I see him tonight?
“No…” I breathe, walking. But I want to.
“If you change your mind, I’ll be at home. You’ve seen the alley; I’d like to show you nicer scenery.”
I say nothing. The heart’s really thrashing.
“I understand,” he says, lower-voiced, intense. I can almost feel his lips touching the phone. “The headlines, the allegations – but the cops have us linked on their radar; what woman would be safer with me? Not to mention I’m blitzed from no sleep catching up here. If you come I’ll probably pass out on you.”
I pace fretfully over gravel, thinking of Peter’s kiss and wanting to know more about Jakes. Double conflict - no, internal storm warning! Wildly flapping red flags!
“Your silence says yes,” he presses.
Feel so torn… “What about Nick Jakes’s jealousy?”
“I’ll tell you tonight.”
“No…” I say again, trying to keep my voice steady. “But - quick question?”
“Shoot.”
Surprise almost makes me laugh. “Of all the words…I was going to ask about your gun. What kind is it?”
“Stay away from guns, they’re dangerous.”
“I used to think that, now I want one and it takes forever to get a permit. I’m told you can get a little .22 right off the street, they’re everywhere.”
“.22s are the worst! They’ll blow up in your hand; by the time you get one half the city’s used it.”
My question was a trap: Chloe was killed with a .22, and maybe Darcy Lund. Distraction at Peter’s end should have made it hard to fake a response, yet he sounded immediately horrified. That drops my defenses more. No, end this. Don’t go to him.
“What you saw is a Beretta APX compact,” he says hurriedly. “Semiautomatic 9mm designed for concealed carry.”
The tumult at his end is suddenly louder; someone’s hollering in what sounds like Chinese.
“Gotta go,” he says. “If you change your mind, I’ll be home by nine.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“I’m hoping you will.”
31
I disconnect, grab my knees and heave deep, deep breaths. It’s crazy, he can send his pheromones over the phone.
Crisis averted. Now what?
I straighten and turn on the path, decide I need to think. Can’t do it here among kids and parents and bleating baby animals, so I head south through the main zoo, past the skating rink, and across most of Sheep Meadow. The grass is lush and cool, and with the sky turning darker people are gathering up their blankets and leaving. I find a spot near some twentysomethings playing a stubborn game of Frisbee. I sprawl on an elbow, and get out my phone.
Worse than jealous, he’s after revenge? Peter’s comment seems credible because I saw Nick Jakes’s nastiness. I start to research him more carefully.
Tap and scroll…
He’s had his problems, Nick has. A comment in Bloomberg about his “brief foray into finance” contains a linked note, which I click and find my way to another article. Three years ago his new hedge fund tanked after just twenty months. He blamed “bad intel” from his brother-in-law, star financier Peter Greer; threatened legal action but never followed through.
Did Chrissy plead for peace, or was angry Nick just one of those losers who blames others?
He’s after revenge…
I glance up. A half-formed thought glimmers, then fizzles.
And the Frisbee players have stopped, tired and peering up to the sky. It’s getting darker and a strong breeze gusts. Leaves fly rustling from trees ringing the park; branches stir before looming skyscrapers to the south, solemn apartment houses to the east and west.
It’s almost scary, watching the last warm days slide away into Fall.
I get to my feet, brush off bits of grass stuck to my pants, and start to walk. The thought that niggled moments before creeps back: a wild new suspicion about Nick Jakes.
Could it be?
I let it grow.
Approaching Columbus Circle, the blare of traffic grows louder, distressing after the park. I stop near the subway entrance with my wheels turning and feel torn again; get my phone out, stare down at it.
Shouldn’t do this, but a controlling impulse takes over.
My trembling fingers text: Nick’s jealousy is about his tanked hedge fund?
Oh he’s fast, Peter is, because his answer comes in seconds: Yep. Smart lady. Please come tonight.
I pace, caught between fear and temptation. The latter pulls.
I text back: You’re exhausted.
You’d wake me he answers, and I close my eyes for a moment; text no more.
What is it about women and bad boys? Good-looking alpha cads: maybe something atavistic pulls us to dominant fighter types. In caveman days they could defend and bring the hunt home…
Though my new thought about Jakes also pulls…
I resume pacing, storming at myself. There’s no way in hell I can rationalize this.
Compare Joe to Peter: The bland boy versus the bad boy.
Joe is a good man waiting patiently for me to heal and respond to his affection. So what if his personality tends to range between bland and fretful? He’s kind! Caring! How stupid to throw that away for even a minute with someone who is possibly dangerous?
So guilty do I feel that I stop in my tracks, and text Joe. Done with R&R. Need me for rush hour?
I wait, lean on a rail looking down, and watch people stream down the subway steps. Joe must be busy with a customer, but in minutes an answer comes. You should be in Maine ☺
I smile. Type that I’d rather be working.
Wait, he texts back. I want to call you.
My phone chirps seconds later. I cover one ear over the roar of the traffic.
“I’ve been wondering,” Joe says. “What made you decide on the zoo?”
I’m a little taken aback. “It brings back memories.”
“Well, I had the oddest feeling.”
“Oh?”
“Because you hate uptown. You’ve said the mere thought of going there gives you hives.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I saw Greer’s apartment building online. It’s on Fifth in the Seventies - that’s why you were up there, isn’t it?”
My lips part. Caring is one thing, but I’m speechless.
“You talked to Greer?” Joe continues. “Got upset and crossed to the park to recover? Is that it?”
He’s made me feel defensive, angry.
“No, I spoke to his wife,” I say, stiffening. “He offered help with Kim’s case if I paid her a visit. She’s a depressed shut in. I didn’t mind.”
“Greer offered help and you believe it?” Joe’s incredulous. “He’s manipulating you! Have nothing to do with any of them. Let the police do this.”
“They’ve stopped working Kim’s case,” I retort, more loudly than I’d intended.
A van honks over Joe protesting something I can’t make out. He sounds…what? Hurt? Jealous? That can’t be…I’ve been upfront about not getting serious with anyone at this point in my life.
He’s been stewing since figuring out why I was at the zoo?
At what point does solicitous become controlling?
Biting out the words, I say, “Let me do what feels right.”
“Okay, sorry.” He pulls back, realizes he’s overplayed the mother hen bit, and tries to sigh casually. “So,” he says. “You’re coming back for rush hour?”
; “If you need me,” I hedge, sounding less keen. I move toward the subway steps.
“Well, Joselito and Mel are doing fine…”
“In that case, maybe I’ll head home. I’m tired.”
“That’s good. Yes, better to rest.” His voice tries to rise jovially. “Take more time! You can still go to Barbados!”
“No, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We’ve each tried to lighten our tone. Still, when we say good-bye, it’s stiff.
32
The train is crowded. I hang onto a pole as the bright car lurches through blackness. In the flickering window my reflection looks back at me, strained but intense. Thoughts churn; one in particular gets wilder, devastating.
I barely hear the shriek of brakes when we stop at Fourteenth Street. Slow to react, I wind up squeezing through the closing train’s door, catch myself in a stumble, then mount the cement steps to the street. In minutes I’ve covered the blocks back to my apartment, a tired, hungry, sweaty mess.
It’s almost six. Into the microwave I throw something brown, then in the bathroom I start to fill the tub, pour in lavender soap crystals, watch them foam in the rising water. It’s mesmerizing, watching the suds surge and froth. Nice.
I run back for dinner and eat in the tub, the sudsy, scented water helping ease tension more than I’d expected. A few suds splash into the whatever-it-is…meatloaf, I guess, and I’m so hyped that I almost laugh. I finish, reach the plate to the sink, rise to shower and shampoo; rinse, get out, dry…
…and in the bedroom pull on my black T-shirt, black tracksuit and Nikes.
I look at myself in the mirror. Why the tracksuit? Going someplace?
I don’t know, I don’t know. I’m still hearing, Please come tonight…
It troubles me that I want to.
But before I can even think of going or not going, what troubles me worse – has never let go – is that split second that started it all: seeing, on the first night, those bruises on Chloe’s wrist. Would I have followed her if I hadn’t seen them? Definitely not, and before my brain turns to complete mush because I still hear little Teddy Greer’s I want Daddy, I have to re-think this. Find out.
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