Uh-oh, the old lawyer thought, she's started cursing. A bad sign. I'd better hurry because she's really in her cups.
He looked at her with a neutral smile. 'The offer is a considerable one, Mrs. Winslow,' Mankiewicz pointed out patiently. 'You have to take into consideration the penthouse apartment on Montgomery Street. That's worth a couple of million bucks. Plus all your jewelry. That's worth another couple of million.'
'Yeah?' Gloria said. 'Well, that's peanuts to the almighty Winslows and you know it.' She took another sip of her vodka and set it down. Jesus God, she thought, I'm getting a real buzz on.
'You've got to remember that practically the entire Winslow fortune, everything, is in Althea Winslow's name.' He paused a moment, clearing his throat again. 'Your husband has virtually nothing, except his salary. Not even the house you lived in is in his name.'
'I know all that shit,' Gloria said truculently.
'If you go to court,' the old lawyer continued, 'you might end up with even less. Besides which, your legal bills would be astronomical.'
Gloria knew that what he was saying was true, but she honestly didn't know what to do. Sign or not sign?
God, she thought, if only Christos were here to help me. He would know what to do.
But Christos was not here and never would be again, and Gloria felt as if she herself had signed his death warrant. In the meantime, she was confused, and didn't know which way to turn. Except to the bottle.
It's the only thing that kills the pain, she thought. And the guilt and loneliness.
What the hell was the old lizard saying now? Young and beautiful and rich? Get on with her life? What life? she wondered bitterly.
But before Gloria could ask Raoul Mankiewicz what he was talking about, the house phone rang. She picked up the extension on the table next to her. 'What,' she said impatiently.
'Mrs. Winslow,' the manager said, 'there are two police detectives here to see you.'
Despite her alcoholic haze, Gloria felt an involuntary tremor run through her, and fought to control herself. 'Send them up,' she said. She slammed the receiver down and looked over at the old lawyer.
'Well,' she said, 'it's my lucky fucking day, I guess. First, you. Now, the cops.' She barked an acidic laugh. 'Would you do the honors, Mr. Mankiewicz?' She held out her glass for a refill.
She was now visibly drunk, even beginning to slur her words a bit, but Raoul Mankiewicz did not want an argument with her right now. No. Best to humor her. He got up, took her glass, and made her a weak vodka and tonic.
'Here,' he said, bringing it back to her. 'Don't worry about these policemen, Mrs. Winslow. I can handle this.'
Gloria looked up at him and took the drink. 'Not like you're handling the settlement, I hope,' she said nastily.
He ignored the jibe and sat back down.
It was only moments before the doorbell rang. The old lawyer went to answer it. Gloria saw him return with a man and a woman, the same two who'd questioned her before.
Raoul Mankiewicz introduced them as Janie Yee, a slight, pretty, but strong-looking Asian woman, and Stanley Cohn, a once handsome and athletic man going to fat. Homicide detectives. 'They just want to ask a few questions,' he said.
Gloria looked up at them. 'We've met,' she snapped belligerently, 'and I still don't know a damn thing.' Then she took a sip of her drink.
'Why don't you take a seat,' Mankiewicz asked them.
They took chairs facing the couch where Gloria sat. Janie Yee began the questioning. 'Mrs. Winslow,' she said, 'there are just a few details we need to clear up. This is an ongoing investigation, as you know.'
Gloria didn't bother responding.
'Mrs. Winslow . . . that is, Mrs. Althea Winslow,' Janie Yee continued, 'told us that on the night of the attempted murder you led her and your husband to the spot where the sniping occurred.'
'So what?' Gloria sneered. 'How was I to know somebody would try to shoot him?'
Stanley Cohn took over. 'We're just wondering, Mrs. Winslow, why you took them to that spot. So is your mother-in-law.'
'I don't think this line of questioning is relevant,' Raoul Mankiewicz said, before Gloria could respond, 'and I don't think Mrs. Winslow here is in a frame of mind to answer questions right now—'
'Mr. Mankiewicz,' Janie Yee interrupted, 'we would be glad to close this case. After all, the perp is dead. It's just that Mrs. Althea Winslow has indicated that. . . well, that until this divorce is over, she is going to continue to pursue this matter.'
'That is blackmail, pure and simple,' Raoul Mankiewicz said heatedly, 'and you know it.' He looked from one detective to the other. 'I suggest that if you have any further questions for Mrs. Winslow you make an appointment. Right now we're discussing her divorce settlement.'
'Uh-huh,' Stanley Cohn said. 'Well, maybe we'll come back another time, then.' He motioned for Janie Yee to follow him as he started for the door. 'Thanks for your time, Mrs. Winslow,' he said. He turned to the old lawyer and nodded. 'Mr. Mankiewicz.'
Gloria swirled her finger around in her drink, and didn't look up at the departing detectives. Raoul Mankiewicz showed them out, then came back in and sat down.
He stared at Gloria. 'Do you understand what's going on?' he asked her.
'Who gives a fuck,' Gloria spat out, and returned his gaze.
'You'd better,' the old lawyer retorted. 'Those cops are not going to leave you alone until this divorce settlement is signed. That's what this is all about.'
Mankiewicz paused, but Gloria didn't reply. She took her finger out of her drink and licked it off.
'Althea Winslow has obviously put a lot of pressure on the mayor's office and the police commissioner,' he continued, 'and she's not letting up until the divorce is over. If you sign, the cops disappear. If you don't, they are going to keep pestering you. Now I don't know whether or not you had anything to do with this attempt on your husband—'
'Go fuck yourself,' Gloria snarled. 'I didn't have a goddamn thing to do with it! Whose side are you on anyway?'
'Yours, Mrs. Winslow,' the old lawyer said patiently. 'That's why I say sign this settlement, take the money, and forget about the Winslows. Althea Winslow and the cops are not going to forget you until you do.'
Gloria stared at him through her fog. God, I'm so sick of this, she thought. I'm sick of this old lizard. I'm sick of hearing about that old bitch, Althea. I'm sick of the cops. I'm sick of everything. And suddenly something went click in her head.
'Gimme a pen,' she slurred.
Raoul Mankiewicz sighed with relief and handed her a fountain pen along with four copies of the settlement. 'Sign each copy where I've indicated with an X,' he said.
Gloria quickly scrawled her signature on all four copies, then slammed his pen on the coffee table. 'There,' she said. 'Happy?'
'I think you've made the most intelligent decision considering the circumstances,' the lawyer said, putting the papers in his briefcase. He retrieved his fountain pen and got to his feet. 'It won't be long before all this is finalized. I'll be heading back to Los Angeles tonight, so if you need anything, you can get me there. In the meantime, I'll be in touch.'
And he was gone.
Gloria looked around the living room, hoping to feel a sense of relief that this was finally over and the old lawyer was gone. But no relief came.
I'm sick of holing up in this fucking place, she thought. I'm sick of the drinking. It's not fun anymore. Not without Christos.
She grabbed her handbag and keys and left the apartment. Outside the hotel she began to walk. The vodka had done its trick, but it had also heated her up. She'd gone a few blocks without paying much attention to where she was when she realized she was on the fringes of the Tenderloin. Surrounded by low-life bars.
I met Christos in one of these dumps, she thought. I think I'll just have a little celebratory drink in memory of him. Maybe I'll even luck out again.
She opened the door to a grungy joint with lots of tacky neon signs. It reeked of stal
e beer. Ah, just the thing, she thought. Nobody I know would ever come to a place like this. She looked around in the dim interior and saw an empty booth. She walked over to it, and sidled into the side facing the front door, the better to see the clientele as they came in. The waitress came over and Gloria ordered a double vodka straight up, with ice.
She didn't notice the young woman at the long bar behind her. A young woman with long, straight, dark hair who was wearing a T-shirt that was too tight for her and exposed her navel.
While Gloria celebrated, the young woman watched her, a gleam of pure evil in her eyes.
63
The Big Apple seemed to have been polished expressly for Hunt's visit. The sky had been a cloudless, cerulean blue all day, with the skyline standing out with crisp, incredible clarity. The air was fresh, and the temperature rose no higher than the mid-seventies while the humidity remained low, a relief from the baking, steamy heat of the previous days.
Dorothy-Anne couldn't imagine a more perfect afternoon to be with Hunt.
Incandescent with joy and breathless with anticipation, she tore through the luxurious lobby of the Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue and Seventy-sixth Street, making a beeline for the concierge's desk. Hunt had wisely steered clear of the Hale Hotel, where the staff would instantly recognize Dorothy-Anne. And besides, the Carlyle was the one place in the city where the rich, the famous, and even the infamous could count on utter discretion.
Here their privacy would be respected and assured. Here her own staff would be unable to keep tabs on her, and gossip.
The chicly dressed young woman waited until Dorothy-Anne was inside the lobby before following her. She looked around, as if searching for someone, then pretended to consult her watch, craning her neck and looking around some more. She watched as the concierge greeted Dorothy-Anne and called upstairs to announce her. As Dorothy-Anne hurried over to the bank of elevators, the young woman went back outside, plucked a cell phone out of her purse, and punched a preprogrammed, automatically dialed number.
When a voice answered, she said, 'Tell Carmine the woman's at the Carlyle Hotel. Ask if I should find out who she's visiting.'
She was told to wait. Then the voice came back on the line. 'Carmine says you're to do nothing. Keep a low profile and keep me posted.'
Dorothy-Anne arrived at Hunt's suite flushed with excitement.
'Hello, beautiful,' he said when he opened the door. He beamed at her, a golden radiance seeming to surround him.
Dorothy-Anne stepped into the entry hall, and Hunt closed the door. She turned around to face him.
'Hello, beautiful yourself,' she said huskily, and he took her in his arms and they kissed passionately.
After a moment Dorothy-Anne pulled back. 'Let me take a good look at you. I haven't seen you since you got out of the hospital.'
Hunt stood back and threw his arms out theatrically. In one hand was an ebonized cane with a solid silver handle carved in the shape of a horse's head. 'Well? Am I distinguished, or not?' he demanded, all smiling, pearly white teeth.
'Very distinguished,' Dorothy-Anne responded, her heart choking with emotion at the sight of the cane, thinking of what he had so recently been through, of his close brush with death.
I'm so lucky that he's alive, she thought.
He saw the look on her face and took her in his arms again. He began peppering her with little kisses, all over her face and her neck, then nibbling tenderly at her ears.
'I'm so glad to see you,' he whispered.
Dorothy-Anne pulled back again. 'I'm glad to see you, too,' she said. 'But you really should have let me meet you at the airport.'
'No,' Hunt said. 'I knew you were busy, and I had a limo pick me up.' He grinned. 'But now that I'm here, I want to dominate all of your time. From this moment till the time I leave.'
'I'm all yours,' Dorothy-Anne said.
Forever and ever, she thought, as long as I have anything to say about it.
She said, 'We'll use my car and driver while you're here. It'll be easier to get around.' She gave him a peck on the lips. 'Come on, let's go sit down. You should take the weight off your leg.'
He arched his eyebrows. 'Bossing me around already?'
'Only for your own good.'
They walked arm in arm to the chintz-covered sofa in the sitting room, which was elegantly furnished with formal but comfortable English and French pieces. Through the large, extravagantly draped window, Dorothy-Anne saw that the lights of the city were beginning to shimmer, like millions of stars being born. And on the coffee table, she noticed a silver tray holding two crystal flutes and a bottle of Louis Roderer Cristal in a silver bucket of ice.
They sat down, holding hands. Hunt spread his leg out in front of him, and laid his cane down.
'I see you've thought of everything,' she said, indicating the champagne.
'To celebrate,' Hunt said. 'It isn't every day I get to see you. Here, I'll pop the cork.'
'Nonsense,' Dorothy-Anne said. 'You sit still. I'm quite proficient at champagne corks.'
She popped it expertly, filled the glasses, and handed one to Hunt.
He held his flute aloft, and she touched it with hers.
'To us,' Hunt toasted, looking into her eyes.
'To us,' Dorothy-Anne repeated, returning his gaze.
Dorothy-Anne took a sip. The champagne was bubbly and tasted delicious. She set her glass down and looked at him. 'Have you thought about what you'd like to do while you're here?' she asked.
'You bet I have,' he answered, grinning mischievously.
Hunt took Dorothy-Anne in his arms, and she melted against him, pressing her head to his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart. Then his lips sought hers and he kissed her mouth, her eyes, the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat.
Dorothy-Anne felt the sweetness of surrender. A shiver of anticipation ran through her and they began to undress, leaving a trail of shed clothing to the bedroom. They lay down together, side by side, facing each other in the middle of the big bed.
'Your leg,' she said.
'What about it?'
She looked down at his knee, still in its brace.
'Can I?' she asked.
'Sure. Go ahead.'
She touched it gingerly, frowning as she stroked her fingers ever so lightly across it.
She looked up at him. 'Does this hurt?'
He shook his head and smiled. 'Actually, that feels quite nice.'
'But you're sure we should do this? I mean, I don't want to make your injury worse.'
'Don't worry,' he laughed. 'This is the kind of injury I'd welcome.'
She slid her hands smoothly up his legs to his hips and flat belly, and across his chest, her face not showing the slightest degree of embarrassment. He took her head in his hands and pressed her against him, burying his face in her hair. He inhaled deeply.
'Mmmmm,' he murmured. 'You smell like sugar and spice and everything nice.'
'That,' she said, lifting her head and tossing back her hair, 'is because you're horny.' She smiled, her hands feeling behind her and touching his tumescence. 'Come to think of it, is there ever a time you're not horny?'
He gazed up her, his eyes deep and intense. 'Oh, lots.'
'And when might that be?'
'Whenever I'm not with you.' He grinned. 'But then I think about you and—bing! Old Johnson down there stands at attention.'
'Then we'd better do something about poor Old Johnson,' she said solemnly, bending over Hunt and covering his mouth with her own.
Their kiss was a passionate embrace that went beyond words. It said they had both shed their emotional baggage, and no longer had to hide their hunger. Finally guiltless and carefree, each of them surrendered body and soul to the other with a generosity of spirit that was unconditional, flexible, and deeply humbling because it knew no bounds.
Ever heedful of his injury, she whispered: 'I'll do the acrobatics for us both. You just lie back and enjoy the ride.'
; Then, straddling him like a jockey, she placed him inside her and began moving herself up and down, up and down, her face knit in concentration.
His breath soughed from his lungs. She was warm and moist, and in no time he lost himself inside her. Then she felt him tense, and he begged her to stop.
'It's too soon!' he gasped.
But she shook her head. 'There's no need to hold back, Hunt,' she said softly. 'We've waited for too long. Let it go. Let it come!'
And with a cry that was part joy and part agony, he exploded inside her, all the accumulated fears and anger and frustrations that had been throttled up inside him bursting like a geyser, darkness suddenly turning into brilliance, the poisons swallowed by the lust of her thighs, the tenderness of eyes, the love in her heart.
Afterward, as they lay in each other's arms, neither of them found it necessary to speak. They understood the potency and perfection of the love they shared.
When they partook of one another again, it was slower, and with less urgency and more concentration, allowing themselves time to linger and explore each other's bodies, reaching a plane of contentment so fulfilling, so sublime, and so precisely in tune, it seemed almost impossible.
I never believed I could feel like this about a man again, Dorothy-Anne thought blissfully. Thank you, God. Thank you for answering my prayers.
And that was when it dawned on her that the greatest gift of all had been bestowed on her: she felt no remorse for making love with Hunt. Absolutely none.
On the contrary, she felt rejuvenated, and knew from the depths of her heart that wherever Freddie was, this is what he would have wanted.
The tropical storm brewing off the coast of Africa had been on a feeding frenzy. It had picked up enormous strength in the heated waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and was now whirling savagely to the northwest, veering slowly but surely toward the Windward Islands, gathering power as it barreled across the water.
Its progress was being closely tracked. From out in space, weather satellites kept an eye on it. Closer to earth, a modified C-130, equipped as a flying weather station, was checking it out up close.
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