Esther nodded. I turned to face my daughter again, but Joy was gone.
I tore off my apron and dashed for the elevator. I made it in time to see Joy enter the car and the doors close. I slammed my finger against the button and the doors opened again. Joy frowned when she saw me.
“Joy—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“But—”
“If we’re going to fight, let’s do it in the street,” she hissed.
There were six other people in the elevator, casting curious glances at us. I gritted my teeth, willing to wait until we got outside—but not a moment longer.
When we reached the lobby level, Joy slipped through the art deco elevator doors before they even opened all the way. I raced to catch up. The Beekman Hotel’s lobby was small, and we were across it and out the front door in seconds. Still Joy kept walking, her heels clicking on the wet sidewalk.
I shivered, wishing I’d brought my coat. The threatening downpour had not yet arrived. Instead, there was a misty precipitation that seemed to hover in the air, turning flesh clammy and clothes damp. The street was busy with Saturday night traffic. Headlights gleamed like halos in the haze as they raced uptown. A Gala tour bus rumbled out of the UN plaza. But the sidewalk was deserted save for a couple coming out of a brightly lit liquor store and a few teenagers across First Avenue, slamming their skateboards on a makeshift jump along the dark sidesteps of Trump World Tower.
“Joy, wait,” I pleaded, running after her.
She stopped dead and whirled to face me.
“Joy, please understand. I only have your best interests—”
“Blah, blah, blah.” She folded her arms. “I’ve heard this speech before. Try something original.”
“Okay. I know this guy makes you feel special. I know that because I know his type—”
“Right. You’ve exchanged, like, ten words with Tommy, but you already know he’s a ‘type’?”
“Listen, Joy. You’re special. Special to me. Special to your father. But not to this guy. He’s an operator.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “Tommy does think I’m special. He’s teaching me all sorts of new things—”
In the kitchen or the bedroom? I nearly shot back.
“He’s an amazing man,” Joy went on. “It’s you who can’t face reality. You don’t want to let me grow up. Well, you’re going to have to face it. I am grown up. I’m gone.”
She turned to walk away. I grabbed her arm.
“What tales does Tommy tell you?” I asked her. “That his marriage is in trouble? That he’s going to divorce real soon.” I used air quotes on the real soon part. “Does he tell you his wife doesn’t understand him?”
“It’s my life, Mom. Let me live it. What do you care if I mess up. How does that affect you?”
“Oh, Joy,” I said, looking for strength from the heavens. “How can I make you understand—”
That’s when I saw the free-falling body, the black silhouette blotting out the lights of the Beekman Tower like an instant eclipse.
I grabbed my daughter, dragged her backwards with me, up against the building. She squirmed in alarm. “Mom! What are you—”
The body hit the sidewalk with a sickening sound, like an overripe watermelon splattering on a slab of concrete. Joy turned her head, saw the blood, and screamed. I hugged her closer, shut my eyes, and bit down on my own lip so I wouldn’t. Someone in a passing car cried out. I heard the squeal of tires on wet pavement, then footsteps. A hand clutched my arm.
“Are you okay, lady?”
I opened one eye. A black teenager in a denim jacket with the words FREN Z CLUB emblazoned on its pocket stared at me with wide eyes. He had a red bandanna covering his head, a skateboard under his arm.
“I think so,” I stammered. Then I looked at my daughter. Her head was still tucked into my shoulder.
“Damn, that dude just fell out of the sky!” the kid cried. He stared at the corpse.
I could see the victim was male. He’d landed on his side and his head was turned, so I couldn’t see his face. The dead man wore a black dinner jacket, similar to the one Matt was wearing. I stopped breathing. He had hair like Matt’s, too, thick and black.
Joy slowly pulled away from me. Tears stained her cheeks. Her face was ghostly white. She saw the corpse and began to tremble.
“Mom... who is it?” she whispered in a little girl’s voice.
The teen crouched over the victim. “Dude’s dead, man.”
His skateboarding friends rushed up to join him.
“Dang, Z! Did you see that?!”
“That’s messed up!”
I heard other voices.
“Call 911! Get an ambulance here!”
A gray-haired gentleman rushed toward us, Burberry raincoat billowing in the wind. He’d come from the direction of the United Nations building. I held Joy by her shoulders, fixed her with my eyes.
“Stay right here.”
I waited until she nodded in response, then I approached the body. It seemed to take forever to walk those few steps. I circled around, moving into the street. Traffic was at a standstill, so I didn’t have to watch for cars.
Finally I saw the dead man’s broken face. I recognized him. It wasn’t my ex-husband, thank god. The corpse was Carlos Hernandez of the Costa Gravas delegation to the United Nations—the man my ex-husband had threatened to throw out of the building a little over an hour ago, in front of one hundred and fifty witnesses.
Twenty
In New York City, a dead man on the sidewalk always attracts a crowd, and one was forming now. Corpses attract sirens, too. I heard them wail in the distance.
Tearing my gaze away from the body, I hurried back to my daughter. Joy was hugging herself, shivering. I put my arm around her.
“Who is it?” Joy asked, her voice trembling. “It’s not... Dad—”
“No, no, honey. It’s no one you know.”
More people arrived. Soon it would be New York’s Finest, and the questions would begin. I took Joy’s arm.
“Come on.”
She resisted. “Where are we going?”
“Back upstairs, to the Top of the Tower. We’re going to find your father.”
Joy surrendered and I took the lead. We reentered the lobby, dodging a bellboy and the desk clerk; both were scrambling to join the mob outside. One of the elevator’s doors opened. The car was filled with faces I recognized from the party. They appeared serenely decaffeinated, all of them calmly chatting among themselves.
It was clear they hadn’t yet noticed Carlos Hernandez’s swan dive, and I wondered if the mood would be the same upstairs. If it was, I knew it wouldn’t be for much longer.
When we arrived at the Top of the Tower, the restaurant was less crowded, but far from empty. Ric was chatting with a reporter from the London Times. Monika Van Doorn, who’d been glued to Ric’s side since she’d arrived, was now nowhere in sight. Had she left? I looked around for my ex, but I didn’t see him. The booth where he’d been making calls was empty except for a few scraps of paper.
I noticed the heavy burgundy curtains were still drawn, blocking the view of the outside balcony. I crossed to the side of the room and stepped through a doorway. Misty rain beaded the veiled window behind me, and the winds were more tempestuous this far above the street. It was also very dark because the clouds had grown even thicker. My eyes needed a moment to adjust to the gloom. When they did, I paced the length of the narrow balcony.
I saw no evidence of a struggle, no blood or broken glass, no sign that anything violent had happened at all. I gripped the stone railing and leaned over the edge. Fighting a wave of vertigo, I spied the body directly below.
Presuming Carlos Hernandez fell straight down—and I didn’t see any ledges for him to strike or flagpoles to bounce off of—then he went over the side right where I was standing. That made me feel queasy, but I continued surveying the scene.