“You know something, you’re right,” I said with a laugh. “If there was ever a meal that should be expensed to the company, this is it.”
“Amen,” she said with a laugh of her own. The free and easy kind. Relaxed. Uninhibited.
Music to my ears.
Like the sound of someone’s guard beginning to drop.
Chapter 65
AT LUNCHTIME SUSAN walked into Angelo’s, one of the oldest and best restaurants in Little Italy and not that far from the FBI offices. Dr. Donald Marcuse was waiting for her at a secluded booth in back.
“Susan. Such an honor. Imagine, getting you out of the office.”
Susan found herself smiling. Donald Marcuse always knew how to put her at ease: sarcasm. He was mainly a forensic psychiatrist, who often worked with the Bureau, but she’d seen him for about six months after the breakup of her marriage.
“Your hair looks great, by the way,” he said. She was wearing it in a short bob these days and had started to touch up the brown lately, which just killed her, slayed her.
“Just for informational purposes,” Susan said, “not that I really give a shit, but is that considered a sexist remark these days?”
The doctor shrugged. “Here’s my theory: if a woman can say it, then so can a man. I don’t know if the theory holds up to scrutiny.”
“Probably not. It sounds too logical.”
They ordered lunch, then talked about current affairs and the wicked ways of New York until Susan glanced at her watch.
“Enough fun for the day, huh?” Marcuse said, and smiled pleasantly. “What’s really on your mind?”
For the next few minutes, Susan told the psychiatrist what she knew about Nora Sinclair. Then she asked him to fill in as many blanks as he possibly could. She wanted to know what had turned Nora into a killer and what kind of killer she was.
As was her style, Susan took notes as Marcuse talked. She would review the notes back in her office and possibly share them with O’Hara.
According to Marcuse, a “black widow” was a woman who systematically murdered spouses, sexual partners, and occasionally other family members. An alternative to the “widow” was a “for-profit crime” killer. With this type of killer, everything was just business. The primary motive was profit.
“Almost all female serial killers kill for profit,” said Marcuse, and he would know.
The doctor continued, pleasantly and matter-of-factly. Nora probably had a firmly implanted belief that men are not to be trusted. Possibly she was hurt herself.
Even more likely, her mother was hurt by a man, or men, when Nora was young.
“Maybe Nora was abused as a child. Most of my peers would say so. I don’t much care for that kind of easy answer myself. Takes all the fun out of it.”
Donald Marcuse finally stopped talking about Nora and looked at Susan. “She’s gotten under your skin, hasn’t she? It’s not like you.”
Susan looked up from her notes. “She’s so dangerous, Donald. I don’t give a shit if she was abused. She’s pretty and charming, and she’s a murderer. And she isn’t going to stop.”
Chapter 66
THE PHONE IN the Westchester house rang the next morning at about eleven. Nora picked up, thinking Craig was confirming their lunch date for later that afternoon.
She was wrong.
“Nora, is that you?”
“It is. Who’s this?”
“Elizabeth,” she said. “Elizabeth Brown.”
Shit. Connor’s sister was calling from Santa Barbara and Nora immediately felt a little dumb that she didn’t recognize her voice. After all, technically speaking, she was her houseguest.
The concern, however, was short-lived. Elizabeth’s guilt-induced sweetness picked up where it had left off. She couldn’t have sounded nicer.
“I’ve been worried about you,” she said. “Are you doing okay?”
Nora smiled to herself. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I’m holding up. I really appreciate your checking in. You know, at first I was a little wary about staying here. Of course, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“Oh, please, I hope you’re not thinking that’s why I called,” she said. “Nothing could be further from my mind.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Besides, I wouldn’t have the time to deal with selling the house even if I wanted to.”
“I take it you’re busy with work.”
“Yes. I’ve got two buildings that I designed in construction right now and a third about to break ground.”
“The glamorous life of an architect, huh?”
“I wish,” she said with a sigh. “No, I’m afraid I’m somewhat of a cliché when it comes to how many hours I’ve been putting in. Maybe it’s just the best way for me to keep my mind off Connor.”
“I know,” said Nora. “I’ve taken on three more clients recently—three more than my schedule can actually accommodate.”
The two continued to talk for a few minutes. There was nothing forced about the conversation. No hesitation. Every sentence seemed to flow naturally.
“You know, this is a shame,” said Elizabeth.
“What’s that?”
“The circumstances under which we’ve gotten to know each other. We have a lot in common on our own.”
“You’re right, we do.”
“Maybe if your travels bring you out this way, we can get together for lunch, or something. Or if I come back to New York?”
“I’d like that,” said Nora. “I’d like that a lot. It’s a date.”
In your dreams, Lizzie.
Chapter 67
A LITTLE BEFORE twelve-thirty, I pulled into Connor Brown’s driveway—that’s how I always thought of the place: Connor Brown’s house. Before I even came to a stop Nora was walking out the front door.
She was wearing a light summer dress, sleeveless with a red and green floral pattern. It showed off her tan nicely, not to mention her legs. She got in my car and announced that she was starving.
“That makes two of us,” I said.
We drove over to a restaurant called Le Jardin du Roi in the town of Chappaqua. It was upscale without being overly fancy, and I guess the mix of white linens and wooden beams qualified it as suburban chic. We took a table for two in the far corner.
It was a half-business, half-ladies-who-lunch crowd. With me in my suit and Nora in her blousy summer dress, we looked to have both halves covered. Nora was without a doubt the most attractive of the women in the restaurant, though—and the head turning done by all the other men in suits confirmed it.
A waiter came over. “Can I bring you both anything to drink?”
Nora leaned in across the table. “Will you get in trouble if we have wine?” she asked.
“Depends on how much,” I replied, cracking a smile. When she smiled back I assured her, “No, I won’t be breaking any company rules.”
“Good.” She picked up the wine menu and handed it to me.
“No, go ahead,” I said. “You decide.”
“If you insist.”
“Would you like a minute?” asked the waiter.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” said Nora. She pulled the wine list toward her and immediately ran her index finger down the page, stopping midway.
“The Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” she announced. It was a decision made in less than six seconds.
“A woman who knows what she wants,” I said as the waiter nodded and walked off.
Nora shrugged. “At least when it comes to wine.”
“I was thinking more generally.”
She shot me a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“Take your career, for instance. I get the distinct impression you knew from an early age that you wanted to be an interior decorator.”