He was being honest. Annie Ryder would wind up with the hundred and seventy-five thousand. All Jeremy wanted was the necklace. He didn’t need Max to recut the stones. He had a diamond cutter lined up in Belgium and was booked on a KLM flight to Brussels tomorrow night.
“What do you think?” Jeremy said. “Enough business for one night?”
“More than enough.”
Jeremy picked up the remote to the stereo, turned up the music, and spent the next five minutes artfully shedding a few ounces of nylon and spandex. When the dance was over, he stood in the middle of the room, gloriously naked and heart-stoppingly desirable.
Leo pulled back the sheets. “Come to Papa, baby.”
Jeremy crawled into bed, and the fat, pasty man pulled him close, shoved a thick tongue into his mouth, and reached down between his legs.
Jeremy moaned convincingly. It was all in a day’s work.
Chapter 40
There are three reasons why I love Paola’s restaurant. First, there’s the incomparable Italian cuisine that Paola Bottero brought to America from Rome.
Second is the unabashed hospitality that greets me every time I walk through the door. Tonight was no different. Paola’s son, Stefano, welcomed us with an enthusiastic “Buona sera, Dr. Robinson, Signor Jordan” and warm hugs that made me feel like we weren’t customers but friends invited over for dinner.
And third, it’s my go-to place to bring a date after I’ve made a fool of myself.
“You’re nothing if not predictable,” Cheryl said after we’d been seated and our wine had been poured. “Every time you and I have come here, it’s been for dinner and an apology.”
“There’s a method to my madness,” I said. “If you dump me, at least I still get a great dinner out of it.”
“I’m not going to dump you. I love being with you. I’m just not sure I can handle living with you.”
“I’m sorry. I really screwed up last night.”
“I’m not sure you screwed up. I think you were just Zach being Zach.”
“But it’s not the Zach you deserve. You planned this fantastic evening, and when the phone rang, I walked out on you.”
“Ran out.”
“In my head, I kept thinking, ‘You’re a cop. This is what cops do.’ But it wasn’t a cop call. It was...”
I stopped. This was tougher than I thought, and I was afraid I was going to make matters even worse.
“It was what?” Cheryl said.
I drank some wine. “This morning I went to the diner, and I told Gerri what I did. Her immediate reaction was, ‘Why did you walk—’ Sorry. ‘Why did you run out?’ And I said, ‘That’s what I do whenever there’s a damsel in distress.’”
Cheryl laughed.
“Well, at least you’re laughing,” I said. “Gerri went batshit. She told me Kylie was definitely not a damsel in distress. And she’s right. Kylie can handle herself. She kicked a guy in the balls today. The poor bastard probably won’t walk straight for a week.”
“I agree with Dr. Gerri. Kylie can fend for herself.”
“Anyway, I thought about it, so this afternoon, when I had five minutes, I googled ‘Men who try to rescue women.’ I’ve got what you psychologists call the White Knight Syndrome.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Zach. No, you don’t.”
“I don’t?”
“Absolutely not. Would you like my professional opinion?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Instead of googling everything that troubles you and then accepting as gospel whatever some idiot blogged about on the Internet, why don’t you talk your problems out with a shrink?”
“I’m in luck. I’ve got one right here.”
“Fat chance. You’re going to have to find one you haven’t slept with.”
“Hmm... that’s going to be a challenge.”
She dipped two fingers in her water glass and flicked it at me. “This conversation is officially over. Let’s talk about some fun stuff — like what did Howard Sykes think about my idea?”
“Nervous, but willing. Can I just say one more thing on the topic you don’t want to talk about?”
“One, and that’s it.”
“I just want you to know I’m trying. I told Kylie we were going out to dinner and not to call me. I figured if I were trying to lose weight, I wouldn’t stock the house with Oreos and Häagen-Dazs ice cream. Same principle. Out of sight, out of mind.”
She didn’t say a word. This time, the conversation was officially over.
For the next hour, we ate, we drank, we laughed, we talked — dinner was everything I could have hoped for. We were both too full to order dessert, but that didn’t stop Paola from sending a mind-blowing lemon tart to our table and then joining us for five minutes to catch up on how we were doing.
As of that moment, we were doing just fine.
And then my cell rang. I looked at the caller ID, hit Decline, and shoved the phone back into my pocket.
“Who was it?” Cheryl asked.
“It was Kylie, but I’m not accepting calls from damsels in distress this evening.”
Cheryl laughed. “Are you serious? Was it really Kylie? After you told her not to call?”
“Looks like I’m not the only one who needs a shrink,” I said.
Our waiter was just bringing me the check when Cheryl’s phone rang. She took one look at the caller ID, and her expression changed. This was a serious call. She answered.
I could only hear her side of the conversation. She didn’t say much, but the few words she did manage to get out sounded ominous.
“Oh no. Are they sure? Oh God, I am so sorry.” And finally, “Zach and I are at 92nd Street and Madison. Pick us up. We’re going with you.”
She hung up, and tears were streaming down her face. “That was Kylie,” she said. “She just got a phone call from the captain of the Four Four in the Bronx.”
“Jesus. What happened?”
“They found Spence’s body in a vacant lot. He was shot through the head.”
Part Three
Some Days Are Diamonds. Some Days Are Stones.
Chapter 41
“Any details?” I asked.
“Bare bones,” Cheryl said. “Anonymous tip to 911. First cop on the scene was able to ID Spence — his wallet was on the ground. No cash, but his emergency contact said ‘Wife: NYPD Detective Kylie MacDonald.’ That kicked the system into high gear. It’s like ‘officer down’ once removed. That’s all I know except that Kylie is on the way to identify the body.”
“God, I hope she’s not driving.”
“She’s not that crazy, and even if she tried, no one is crazy enough to let her.”
We were on the corner of Nine Two and Madison, and I stepped off the curb to get a better look down the avenue. Flashing lights about a mile away. No sirens, but moving fast.
“Here they come,” I said to Cheryl. “I don’t know when I’ll be home, but I’ll text you and keep you posted.”
“Text me?” she said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Zach, where’s your head? I’m going with you.”
That threw me. “Cheryl, it’s a crime scene. Since when does—”
“Since when? A police officer’s husband was murdered. It’s my job to evaluate Kylie to determine whether or not she’s fit for duty, and having done this far too many times in the past, I can tell you my best guess: she’s not.”
“Sorry,” I said. “We’re all in shock. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
She didn’t say a word, and I wondered if I’d just undone the last two hours of brilliant fence-mending with one dumb remark.