Ben made his way to his cubicle and Ron to his. The day shift was long gone, and the floor largely empty now except for a few detectives finishing up their projects. Ron glanced at the vacant cubicles as he passed and felt a pang of envy at the nine-to-five life most of his peers enjoyed. That had never seemed appealing to him before, but now, after a tough year of emotional roller coaster rides and some of the most challenging cases of his career, there was something to be said for being able to clock out and go home, leaving the job on the desktop until the following day.
He flopped down in his worn chair and reached for his phone, the message indicator blinking a notification with the regularity of a metronome. Ron punched in his password and listened to the voice mails – a call from forensics that his results were in and had been emailed to him; another from one of his colleagues with whom he was putting to bed a grisly stabbing death of a teenage runaway skater chick who’d been killed by her stoned boyfriend; one from Sarah Lieberman, a reporter with the New York Times who’d been hounding him for an interview for an article she was working on that would feature Ron as the new face of the NYPD.
The final call was a voice he hadn’t heard for three months, and he sat up, instantly alert, his heart rate increasing by twenty beats per minute.
A female voice.
“Ron? It’s Tess. Tess Gideon. I…I’m back in town. Got a new cell number. Call me when you have a little time to catch up.”
He jotted down the number and replayed the message, savoring the musical lilt of Tess’s cadence, every word to his ear a promise. He’d all but abandoned hope of ever hearing Tess’s voice again when she left New York to spend time in Europe after her father’s savage murder.
But she was back in the city and wanted to catch up.
To pursue that which they’d agreed to leave unexplored until she was on firmer emotional footing.
Ron smiled to himself and tossed the pen aside. His otherwise bleak evening had just brightened.
Chapter 2
Present day, Manhattan, New York
Tess Gideon ambled along the sidewalk, adjusting her sweater against the crisp autumn breeze off Central Park. This was her favorite time of year in the city, with the swelter of the summer months over and winter’s snow still a month or more away. She ran a hand through her raven locks and checked the time – she still had five minutes to make it to the restaurant where she was meeting her cousin, Dakota Reed, who’d arrived in New York for her debut year with the American Ballet Company while Tess had been in Europe.
Three months in France, Spain, Italy, and England had been the break Tess needed. She’d found the vastly different cultures refreshing after growing up on the Upper West Side, but deep down she was still a New Yorker, and there was only one Big Apple. Paris had been wonderful, Madrid a blast, Rome and Florence so-so, and London unlike what she’d been expecting. The combined experiences had afforded her the emotional and geographic distance to come to grips with the murder of her father and boyfriend, and now she felt strangely at peace to be back home, even if staying in a hotel.
She’d moved out of her SoHo loft as her final step in disconnecting from her past before leaving the country, and upon her return had checked into a midtown hotel in anticipation of dealing with her father’s apartment, which he’d owned for thirty years. Her sister, Chrissy, had been badgering her to clean out the place and sell it so she could pocket half the proceeds, but in typical fashion hadn’t been willing to do the work herself, preferring to remain in California, complaining that Tess was stalling by inconsiderately being halfway across the globe.
There was some truth to her sister’s stalling charge, though, and Tess wasn’t looking forward to a foray into her father’s digs. But it was a necessary step in the healing process she would endure with gritted teeth. She’d toyed with the idea of buying her sister out and keeping the apartment – she needed a place to live, after all, and you couldn’t beat the location. Ultimately, Tess had decided to reserve judgment until she got back from Europe and began packing his things. There was no hurry other than her sister’s to get her hands on more cash, which Tess couldn’t have cared less about.
She rounded the corner and spotted Dakota standing outside the restaurant, her dance bag containing her ballet clothes hanging from her shoulder. Wisps of stray hair the color of wet straw had blown loose from her tight bun. It had been nearly a decade since Tess had last seen Dakota, when she’d come to visit Tess’s parents for two days. Dakota had grown into a beautiful young woman, glowing with vitality at eighteen in the big city, her life and career one of endless possibility after being selected from thousands of aspirants to join the company.
Dakota had won a bronze medal at an international dance competition in Florida, which had attracted the attention of the company scouts, who’d invited her to join the corps de ballet and move to New York – the ballet equivalent of winning the lottery. She’d jumped at the chance, and Tess felt a twinge of regret that she hadn’t been around to help Dakota get settled.
“Dakota!” Tess called as she neared. The two women were nearly polar opposites in appearance, Tess’s ebony locks, five-five frame, and tanned skin adorned with numerous tattoos a marked contrast to her cousin’s diminutive stature and pale complexion.
“Tess,” Dakota squealed in excitement, and ran to her cousin with open arms. They hugged for a long moment, and then Tess held Dakota at arm’s length, inspecting her with earnest green eyes.
“Look at you! You’re gorgeous!” Tess exclaimed. “Last time I saw you, you were missing teeth and playing with a doll.”
“Don’t remind me. That was a long time ago,” Dakota said with a smile.
“And here you are. How do you like New York?”
“It’s amazing. I still can’t believe this isn’t a dream.”
Tess glanced at the restaurant entrance. “Well, if it is, it’s one where I’m hungry. How about you?”
“I could eat a salad or something.”
“Then it’s decided.” Tess led her toward the hostess and held up two fingers. The woman nodded and escorted them to a table by one of the picture windows so they could people watch as they dined, and set menus in front of them. They sat, and Tess leaned back in her chair. “You have to tell me all about the ballet. I’m sorry I was out of town when you got here.”
“No problem. I found a place with two of the other girls that’s not too far from the studios, so that’s all taken care of.”
“How do you like dancing with a big company?”
“It’s incredible. Nothing I’ve done prepared me for this. I mean, not the technical challenges – those are easy. Just the level of competition, and dancing alongside names I’ve followed my entire life. It’s hard not to go completely fangirl over them, to be honest.”
Tess nodded. “Are they paying you enough?”
“Sort of. I mean, I’d pay to dance here, so anything I get is gravy.”
“And your schedule?”
“Class every morning at ten, and then rehearsals until five.”
“Wow. That’s a ton of exercise.”
“A lot of it’s just hanging around, waiting for your part.” Dakota shrugged. “I’m happy, and I’m learning a lot.”
The waitress arrived and they ordered. When she left with the menus, Dakota sat forward.
“How about you? How are you holding up?” Dakota asked.
Tess considered the question. “Better now. It was kind of a shock when it all went down. That’s why I had to get away. I couldn’t deal with it – every time I turned a corner there was something to remind me of what had happened.”
“I totally understand. I mean, I can’t imagine what it must be like, but I could see wanting to leave.” Dakota paused. “Are you okay being back?”
“Sure. I mean, part of it seems almost like it was all a dream, you know? The horror of it’s diminished some, and what’s left…” Tess’s voice trailed off, and her expression grew serious. She watched
a homeless man beg for a handout on the sidewalk and then returned her attention to Dakota with a forced smile. “It’ll probably take a while to get used to being back, but it is what it is. And now that you’re here, I can pester you when I want company – assuming you don’t mind having your old cousin hanging out with you.”
“Are you kidding? That would be awesome.”
Their meals arrived, and Dakota picked at her salad while Tess made short work of her lemon chicken. They discussed nothing and everything, easy in each other’s company, and when they were finished, Tess eyed Dakota while the server cleared their plates.
“So, what about boys? You have your eye on any of the guys in the company?” Tess asked.
“Oh, well, not really,” Dakota said as color flooded her cheeks.
“What? Come on, give,” Tess insisted.
Dakota looked away. “I already met a guy.”
“That’s how it starts,” Tess said knowingly.
“He’s totally different. Not in the ballet.”
“Really? What does he do? How did you meet him?”
“He works on Wall Street. I was out with some of the other dancers, and he was meeting someone at the same place. It was like instant…you know.”
Tess nodded. “I seem to remember something like that.”
“So he asked me out, and we totally hit it off. Which is kind of weird, because you’d think we wouldn’t have much in common with our backgrounds and all, but it’s all good.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jeremy.”
“And he’s a banker?”
“Something like that. He manages money.”
“So he’s loaded?”
“I haven’t asked. But he doesn’t seem worried about it or anything.”
“How old is he?”
Dakota looked away. “A little older than me.”
“How much older?” Tess pressed.
“Late twenties.”
Tess tried not to frown. Her thoughts flitted to Ron Stanford, who was a decade older than Tess, and she bit her tongue, having no room to talk – after all, wasn’t she having dinner with him that same evening, to see whether the chemistry they’d felt before she’d left town was still strong? Besides, late twenties and eighteen, while it seemed culturally a little weird, wasn’t really that vast an age difference. She’d met plenty of women in Europe whose husbands or boyfriends were older, and they seemed to work out just fine. Then again, maybe she’d been looking for confirmation of her situation – attracted to an older man who lived in a different universe.
“You spend much time together?” Tess asked.
“Well, between his schedule and mine, not as much as I’d like… But you know, we make time.” Dakota brightened. “Hey, you busy tomorrow?”
“Not really. What did you have in mind?”
“I’ve got rehearsal during the day, and then we’re dancing Swan Lake at the Met in the evening. You want to come watch? And then we can see about getting you on the list or something for the show?”
“I can buy a ticket, I don’t mind. And yes, I’d love to see you dance. Try keeping me away.” Tess hesitated. “But the Met, huh? Not sure I have any outfits that would work for that…”
“Oh, anything you wear will look stunning. Don’t sweat it. Just come, and we can grab a cocktail after. It’ll be chill.”
Chill?
“You talked me into it, Dakota. Just name a place and time and I’ll be there.”
“Cool. Just show up a little before one for dress rehearsal at the theater. I’ll put your name down, and maybe you can get a ticket while you’re there.”
Tess looked down at her jeans. “Sounds like I have to go shopping. Want to come?”
Dakota offered a pout. “I wish. I’ve got rehearsal all afternoon.”
“Your loss.”
“I’m sure. But rain check?”
“Absolutely.”
Chapter 3
The booming bass of a techno beat thumped in the great room of the sprawling mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut. A cloud of marijuana smoke drifted toward the open French doors in the dim light as the host, Charles Stibling, strode through the tangle of naked bodies on the floor. His outfit for the night, head-to-toe black leather, was a departure from his normal suit and tie – the uniform of a retired billionaire hedge-fund mogul infamous for his ruthless attacks against companies he’d earmarked for destruction. His silver hair was gelled into a tousled tumble, and he was almost unrecognizable from his customary staid look, his getup having more in common with Keith Richards on a rough night out than a pillar of the New York financial community.
A nude redheaded woman was riding an African-American man cowboy style off to his right, and he paused to watch her buck and grind, taking in with a glance her cuffed hands on his chest, the wax remnants drizzled across the tattoo on her back, and her buttocks bright crimson from an earlier spanking. Stibling smiled at the woman and then slapped her across the face, which she barely registered; the effects of a cocktail of cocaine, meth, and heroin she’d injected earlier had rendered her numb to her surroundings or any abuse she was subjected to.
The man flipped the woman off and she obligingly assumed a familiar position on her hands and knees as he moved to her face with his engorged member. Another man, also naked and clearly highly aroused, moved behind her. As the pair went to work, Stibling’s attention wandered to a new arrival – a gaunt man in his late thirties, his Caesar-cut hair bleached white, clad in a gold lamé suit.
“Gunter, you made it!” Stibling called out, his interest in the copulating threesome gone. “Welcome, my friend, welcome. The party’s just heating up.”
Gunter paused where a man covered in tattoos, naked except for a studded black leather codpiece, was suspended from the ceiling by hooks driven through his skin. His face was glazed over from drugs and his eyes were closed. Gunter smiled at Stibling as he approached, the effect of the effort more a grimace than greeting, and held out his hand. “Charles, thanks for the invitation.”
“How could I not include you? You’ve done so much…”
“Everything is to your satisfaction?”
“Couldn’t be better. The performers are…spectacular. Truly a notch above anything I expected.”
“Excellent. Paulo is taking care of you?”
“The man’s a miracle worker. Can I get you anything? A drink? A line? Whatever you want, just say the word.”
“I took some ecstasy on the way over. It’s hitting, so I’m good.”
Stibling motioned for Gunter to follow him onto the veranda, where a thin, naked Hispanic man sat, methodically slicing his skin with an antique straight-edge razor. Blood welled from several dozen lacerations on his legs and trunk, and when he was done with the latest one, he stood and screamed obscenities at the gathered guests, who seemed unfazed by his outburst.
A hirsute midget ran toward the man with a whip and began flogging his back, which was scarred from prior beatings, the lash marks a crisscross of white stripes. The bleeding man continued hurling invective, yelling with each blow like a madman.
“Oh, there’s Paulo,” Stibling said, pointing toward a lanky man wearing black jeans and a Metallica concert T-shirt. “He told me that we have a special treat this evening.”
Gunter nodded. “That’s right. A onetime event. I’m quite sure you’ve never seen anything quite like it.” He paused. “It’s Hitoshi Sato. Whom you’ve no doubt heard of?”
“Sato? I thought he’d retired after…”
Gunter shrugged. “Everyone’s got to pay the bills.”
“Ah. Of course. Well, that is unexpected. Hitoshi Sato, in the flesh.”
“In what will be a unique performance, he has assured me.”
“His reputation precedes him.” Stibling’s eyes narrowed as he leaned into Gunter and lowered his voice. “I can’t videotape it? For an additional fee?”
Gunter shook his head. “No. You may keep the props and join in
any of the sex you wish, but it’s forbidden to film any of it. As discussed. That isn’t negotiable. Nothing personal.”
“Pity. But I understand.”
“Good.” Gunter glanced at Paulo. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“Certainly,” Stibling said, and turned to where a pair of nude Thai ladyboys were taking turns sodomizing a young man who couldn’t have been more than a teen, dressed in only a sailor hat and an expression of pain from his rough treatment.
Gunter pushed past a well-dressed couple, the man in an immaculate tuxedo, the woman in an evening gown shimmering with sequins, who were watching the screaming man being beaten by the midget with bored expressions. Gunter nodded to the pair, whose black masks covering their eyes were slim disguise but a requisite formality for admission to the parties, and continued to where Paulo was downing a cocktail with a wince.
“Firewater good?” Gunter asked.
Paulo nodded. “Top shelf. Añejo tequila.”
“Can’t imagine our host having anything less.”
“You want some?” Paulo asked.
“No. I’m good. Where’s Sato?”
“In one of the bedrooms, shooting up. He’s not scheduled to be on for another twenty minutes.”
“This has to go off without a hitch.”
Paulo nodded and leered at a nude woman carrying an ice bucket, whose body was covered with tattoos as well as dozens of elaborate piercings in every conceivable area. She caught the gesture and grinned. “Ice blowjob?” she asked, as businesslike as a bank teller asking for ID.
“Not right now, honey. Maybe later,” Paulo said. “You interested?” he asked Gunter, who pursed his lips and shook his head.
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