Justin hesitated just a split second before he nodded. He didn’t know why he hesitated. He was never going to say anything but okay. “Got somewhere in mind?”
“How about your place?”
“The bad news,” he said, “is that my place isn’t any nicer than here.”
“What’s the good news?”
“There isn’t any good news.”
“Let’s go,” she said, “sweet talker.” And it was the “sweet talker” that did it. He saw her sense of humor and her toughness and her soft spot at exactly the same moment.
That first night was sensational. He wasn’t at all surprised at how sexy she was, how uninhibited and demanding she was in bed. He was surprised at her tenderness and the way, after sex, she kind of rolled into him, collapsing, drained, as if it wasn’t just about the pleasure and the physical relief but also about getting rid of anger and shaking off the outside world and all sorts of things that didn’t have anything to do with him or what they’d just experienced together.
After that, they began seeing each other. Not constantly. Sometimes once or twice a week. Occasionally even three times. They’d have dinner, usually in his small, Victorian house on Division Street at the end of East End Harbor’s historical district. They watched a few DVDs, mostly old movies. They drove into Manhattan one night, had dinner at Barbuto, way west down in the West Village, and spent the night at the Soho Grand Hotel.
And now here they were sitting on his bed, eating the steaks and pasta he’d cooked up, finishing off their martinis. He didn’t even mind that he knew one of the reasons she was smiling and shaking her head affectionately was because she was enjoying the fact that he was a clumsy oaf.
He’d come back into the bedroom with the food and a pained expression on his face, and as soon as he’d set the plates down, he began looking at his right hand with his eyes narrowed. She didn’t have to say a word, just gave him that look, that cocked head, and he said, “I have those stupid electric burners on my stove. You can’t tell if they’re on or off—”
She’d interrupted him, saying, “You mean you can’t.”
He gave her a mock scowl and said, “Okay, I can’t.” And then he said, “But what I can do is burn myself every damn time I go near the stove because I can’t even remember to turn the thing off.”
She’d laughed—laughing at the big tough guy who couldn’t handle a small burn—and she’d taken his hand and softly kissed the blister that was forming, letting her tongue linger and gently lick the heel of his hand until he didn’t really care about the minor burn.
Yes, it was safe to say that right now, right this minute, in this woman’s presence, Justin Westwood was reasonably happy.
When they were done eating, Abby picked up both plates from the bed, saying, “Nobody’d believe it, me clearing the table.” Then she said, “I’ll be right back,” and wearing only his light cotton summer robe, she made her way down the stairs, dropped the plates in the kitchen sink, then half walked, half ran to her car, which wasn’t in his driveway but parked about a quarter of a block away on the street. She was back in his bedroom in less than a minute and in her hand was a red cardboard box. She handed it to him.
“Open it,” she said.
Justin cocked his head a bit to the left, looked at her curiously, and did as he’d been told. He pulled out a small, perfectly round cake. With one candle sticking up in the middle.
“Happy birthday,” she said. Then she reached for a match, struck it, and lit the candle. “June twelfth, right? Think I’d forget?”
“I didn’t know we’d ever even discussed it. So I didn’t think there was anything to remember. I—”
“I know. You haven’t celebrated your birthday in years. I figured it was about time to start again. I mean, since this is the last time you’ll be able to say you’re in your thirties.”
“Thirty-nine’s the prime of life,” he said. “Everybody knows that.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna blow that out?”
“In a minute.”
He put the cake down on a small end table by her side of the bed and then he kissed her. Slow and nice, a lingering kiss that told her a lot more about how he appreciated the gift than he’d ever put into words.
“Now I’ll blow it out,” he said. But as he took one step toward the cake and leaned over, the phone rang.
“Other women hoping to shower you with gifts?” Abby asked.
He didn’t answer, just walked over to the phone, which was sitting in its cradle on the end table on his side of the bed. He looked at his caller ID and frowned.
“It’s the station,” he said.
“Now?”
He nodded, let the phone ring twice more. Then he picked it up, against his better judgment.
“I hope it’s important,” he said into the mouthpiece.
It didn’t take him long to realize that it was.
2
It was a magnificent house. There was no other way to possibly describe it. The house of his dreams. Built to specifications with seven bedrooms in the main house and a guesthouse with three more. There was an Olympic-sized swimming pool that was barely visible from the French windows, almost lost amid the Japanese sculpture gardens, and an angular glass pool house and a man-made freshwater pond that was stocked with an endless supply of koi; and perhaps his favorite thing: the outdoor redwood Jacuzzi and sauna.
There was nothing cheap in this house, from the crystal doorknobs and chandeliers in almost every room to the original Warhols on the walls to the walk-in closets in the master bedroom suite that were filled with three-thousand-dollar men’s suits and even more expensive designer dresses and women’s shoes. The carpets were plush and virginally white, the curtains the most delicate silk. Even the kitchen was magnificent, with a professional Wolf eight-burner stove, a stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator the size of a New York City studio apartment, and gleaming copper pots that seemed to glow as they hung on the walls.
Best of all was its location. In the glorious Hamptons. On the border of chic Bridgehampton and the more blue-collar but charming East End Harbor. The best of all possible worlds. The glamour of the Bridgehampton and Sagaponack beaches and the Calvin Klein and George Soros parties, combined with the small-town simplicity of the village of East End, where the shopkeepers knew you by name and the woman at the post office would ask how your pets were and knew if you were a Mets or a Yankees fan.
He had dreamed about living in a place like this, in a house like this, and now that he was here, alone for the moment, he suddenly wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe strip off all his clothes and take a moonlight swim in the heated pool. That sounded good. It was unseasonably cool outside, so a nice swim, then a quick dash through the chilled air to the sauna. Then open a splendid red wine, an ’85 Mouton Rothschild—he knew there were several bottles in the cellar, he’d checked the very first thing after he’d entered and reset the alarm system. Then, after one glass of the Bordeaux, taken in the living room, perhaps an omelet, something simple, with some caviar on the side. Slowly finish the bottle of wine—in the den might be nice, with the very manly oak paneling and the cracked leather easy chairs. Then slip on a robe and put some Mozart on the stereo and stretch out on a freshly ironed linen sheet, under a goose down quilt, and read Evelyn Waugh. Brideshead Revisited was the book he’d selected for tonight. It just seemed so apt.
But first, there was something he needed to do. The urge was too overpowering.
He climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, went through to the walk-in closet on the left, the one that led to the slightly smaller of the two bathrooms in the suite. He stood before the elegant, conservative suits—he estimated there were fifty, maybe seventy-five—and crisply starched shirts that hung on wooden hangers as firmly as if they were being borne on perfectly formed shoulders. He opened one drawer, then another, and then a third, each one filled with the softest, smoothest cashmere sweaters. He selected a powder-blue cardigan, tenderly removed it fr
om its bag, and wrapped it around him. He loved this sweater and it fit him as if it had been handmade for the contours of his body; plus the color went divinely with his dark blue eyes. He moved to stand in front of the full-length mirror and couldn’t help admiring his looks and his sophistication, reveling in his luck and the unlimited upside that was surely waiting for him in the future.
The noise behind him startled him, and he turned suddenly. Even as he turned, he was aware of how gentle the cashmere was against his flesh. What he saw, standing in the doorway, however, made him forget about the pleasure he was feeling. He was suddenly uncertain about the upside in his future. He touched the hem of the sweater—he couldn’t help himself, tugging at it for a moment of security.
“I thought . . .” he began but didn’t know how to continue, because he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he thought. He was startled at the sight that greeted him, standing in the bedroom doorway, and a little panicky, too. And then he realized what he wanted to say, or at least what he should say, so he tried to finish his thought. He got out the words “You weren’t supposed to—” and that was all he got out before he saw the rise of an arm, and he felt a terrible sting in his left shoulder. His right hand moved to the pain, as if covering it with his palm would somehow help, but then there was more pain in the right side of his chest, this one even worse. Everything slowed down then; the world seemed to turn hazy and dim. And then he realized he wasn’t standing anymore, he was on his knees, tumbling onto the thick Persian carpet that covered the bedroom floor. He heard another pop, and another, then he really couldn’t hear much more. He tried to speak, tried to ask what was happening, and why, but his tongue didn’t work, and his mouth made sounds that even he could tell were not real syllables, that expressed no thought. Through the haze, he saw something rise and fall, felt a horrible jolt in one leg, then the other, then his hip and his arm, and then the worst pain of all in his head, and then he felt nothing.
His very last thought was that he’d put on the wrong sweater. He had wanted the powder blue. But somehow he’d selected the red. Wine red, he thought. Then realized no, he was wrong.
Bloodred.
3
Justin held the phone to his ear as Mike Haversham talked. The young cop told him about the call that had just come in and exactly what the hysterical caller had said. Justin listened quietly, trying to keep his expression stoic and flat. As he listened, Abby jumped onto the bed, one graceful leap, gently put her hands on his shoulders, softly kissed his neck, teasing as well as tempting him. His robe was loosely tied around her and her bare leg was directly in his line of vision. He stared at the only piece of jewelry she usually wore, a diamond ankle bracelet that sparkled against her lightly tanned skin.
When Mike had finished with everything he had to say, Justin just said, “Call Gary, tell him to get there ASAP. I’ll leave here in two minutes and meet him. You wait at the station.”
He hung up, shifted his body so he could face Abby.
“Is everything okay?” she asked. She gave him an evil little grin, an invitation to forget about whatever it was he’d just heard and hop back into bed with her.
“No,” he said. “Things aren’t okay.”
“What’s the matter?” She edged the robe off her right shoulder. And then, vamping, “What could be so bad on your birthday?”
Justin put his right hand up to his face and rubbed the middle of his forehead. He exhaled a long breath, took both her hands in his, and said, “A body was just found. There’s been a murder.”
She looked at him, still smiling the sexy, inviting smile, waiting for the punch line. When she saw no punch line was coming, the smile faded.
He nodded, because he saw the question she was asking with her eyes.
“It’s Evan,” Justin Westwood said. “It’s your husband.”
The silence lasted until he realized he couldn’t let it go on any longer.
“Get dressed,” Justin said gently. “I’ve gotta go to the house. And you should come with me.”
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t cry. Didn’t make a sound. She simply shook her head in tight little motions, as if what she’d just been told couldn’t be true. Then she slid off the bed, not slowly but listlessly, all energy drained from her body, and she began to pull on her clothes.
Justin watched Abby for a second, then he found the pair of jeans he’d tossed onto the floor and the black short-sleeved polo shirt that had been discarded near them. He waited for her to finish dressing and watched as she grabbed what was left of her martini, downed it in one quick gulp, and then walked down toward the living room.
So much for contentment, Justin Westwood thought.
So much for happiness.
Then he blew out the candle on his birthday cake and followed her downstairs.
The Harmon house was only a ten- or twelve-minute drive from Justin’s. Sitting in his beat-up ’89 BMW, he let the first two or three minutes pass in silence. Then he said, as delicately as he could manage, “I should ask you some questions before we get there.”
She turned to him, her eyes still dull, and she nodded.
“Where were you before you came over?”
“To your house?”
Justin nodded. He realized that Abby’s silence wasn’t just due to the shock. He heard the tremor in her voice, understood she was fighting back tears. Knew she was, even more than that, struggling not to reveal any weakness.
“I was looking for your birthday cake,” she said.
“Where did you get it?”
“What does that have to do with anything? How stupid is—”
“Abby, please.”
“Why do you care—”
“Answer the question,” he said. “Please. Just answer the question.”
“At that giant supermarket in Bridgehampton. In the mall. King Kullen.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. What time did I get to your place?”
“Tell me approximately what time you think you were there.”
“Jay, what difference does it fucking make what time— Oh my god.” She shifted in the bucket seat of the convertible so she could face him. The anger biting through her words was both palpable and remarkably restrained. It was the restraint that surprised him, not the hurt or the bitterness. “Do you think I killed my husband?”
“No.” He didn’t hesitate or stumble over his response.
“Then what the hell are you doing?”
“They’re questions that have to be asked. Someone’s going to ask them—I thought it would be better for you if it was me and I asked them now.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Look . . . Abby . . . I’ll know more when I see the crime scene. Evan’s death is going to have repercussions. He’s rich. And I assume you’ll have been left a lot of money.”
“That makes me a murderer?”
“No. That makes it a situation cops have to investigate.”
Now he hesitated again, and Abby picked up on it.
“And I won’t exactly be perceived as the grieving widow, will I?” she said.
“You were having an affair. And I’m not egotistical enough to assume I’m your first.”
He didn’t say it as a question, but she knew she was supposed to give an answer. “No,” she told him. “You’re not the first.” She chewed on her lower lip for a few moments. He made a right turn now off South Hole Road, the road that separated East End Harbor from Bridgehampton, and drove up into the hills. The charming little houses were no more, replaced by imposing gates, long driveways, hedges, and unseen mansions.
“When was the last time you were home?”
“This afternoon.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know.” She bit off the words, speaking through clenched teeth.
“Approximately,” he said. “Two? Three? Six?”
“Three. Maybe four.”
“And what were you doing between three or four and . . . birthda
y cake shopping?”
“Errands.”
“What kind of errands?”
“I don’t want to do this anymore, Jay. Stop it.”
“Abby, was anyone at the house when you left?”
“No.”
“No maid?”
“No. Sara and Pepe were there this morning. Evan gave them the rest of the day off.”
“Was that normal?”
“No.”
“So why’d he do it?”
“I don’t know.” She hesitated. “He knew I’d be out tonight. I guess he wanted to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Jay, I don’t know! I don’t know what he did when I went out!”
“Did he know what you did when you went out?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her hands were clenched tightly, and he realized she was shaking. He couldn’t tell if the shaking was due to fear, anger, or sadness. “What is it you’re trying to get at?” she said finally.
“Some of this is conjecture on my part, but I’ve done this before. I know the drill.”
“And what is that drill?”
“A lot is going to depend on what time Evan was killed. We’ll know that fairly soon. The timing is going to make things complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“You have to understand, I’m talking about appearance now, not reality.”
“Just talk.”
Hades Page 3