Edison fastened his teeth around Joe’s jeans and tugged. The dog didn’t know where to pull him because he couldn’t see the simulation, but he knew something was wrong. He whimpered.
Slowly, Joe reached up and took the cap off his head. His hands shook so hard he dropped it. Dr. Plantec picked it up and put in on the desk.
“I think that’s enough for today,” she said. “We definitely captured a lot of activity.”
Joe forced himself to nod politely. “Excuse me.”
He fled the room with Edison. It had been worse than he’d expected. He’d only lasted fifteen (cyan, brown) seconds. At least he hadn’t fainted or thrown up. Celebrate the little victories.
When he barged into the lobby, Marnie jumped.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
Joe dredged up the best approximation of a reassuring smile he could muster. Judging by the expression on her face, it wasn’t convincing. He took a deep breath and petted Edison’s head, his hand lingering on the dog’s velvety ears.
Marnie held a black tube in her hand. She’d been behind her desk, touching up her lipstick. The tube reminded him of the ones he’d handed off to Vivian the day before. “What kind of lipstick is that?”
Marnie’s eyebrows rose. “Christian Dior 999.”
The colors strobed in his head (scarlet, scarlet, scarlet — very apt for red lipstick). “Is it easy to come by?”
“Pretty much,” she said. “Though it’s fairly expensive.”
“How much does it cost?”
“Around fifty dollars a tube,” she said. “If you’re birthday shopping.”
Joe stared at the black tube in her hand, thinking of the ones Edison had found. A woman would be careful with lipstick that cost fifty dollars (brown, black).
“Dr. Tesla?” she asked.
“I’m going to my office for a minute.” He had to change his shirt. It was soaked with sweat. But he wasn’t frightened anymore. He was thinking about the lipstick.
Chapter 7
Vivian petted the warm nose of a draft horse named Hercules. The horse and carriage were waiting at the Fifth Avenue entrance to Central Park for tourists who would pay for a ride through its leafy precincts. If she’d had the money, she’d have done it herself.
It was a fantastic day — blue sky, bright sun, the bite of autumn in the air, and the leaves had started to turn yellow and orange. Fall was her favorite time of year, and New York was her favorite place to be.
She nodded to Mac, the carriage driver. He’d retired from the post office about ten years before and turned to driving carriages so he could stay outside all day. She’d seen him about once a week since she got kicked out of the Army and moved home.
“May I give Hercules a carrot?” she asked.
“Like I could stop you, girlie.”
The horse grabbed the proffered carrot with his warm lips and tucked it into his mouth. The carrot crunched as he chewed. Vivian stroked the horse’s neck, then checked her phone.
“Off for a run?” Mac asked.
“Almost late, too.” She tossed him a wave and jogged north into the park. She’d be at the reservoir in five minutes or so. Sun warmed her shoulders, cool wind fresh against her cheeks. She could run all day in these conditions.
A man in blue sweatpants and a gray hoodie caught up to her. Dirk. They jogged along together.
“You’re the last jogger under fifty who wears sweatpants.” She tapped her sleek, black leg. “It’s all about spandex.”
“I couldn’t fight off the women if I wore spandex on these fine legs,” he said. “I’m wearing this for your protection.”
“Always the altruist.” She grinned. “And always deluded.”
Dirk was actually a pretty good-looking guy — light-blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled chin. And he would look fine in spandex, but she’d never let him know that. He was unbearable enough already.
“Denial,” he said. “Want to bet I can beat you in the first loop?”
“How about an easy loop to warm up?” she asked. One loop around Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir was a little over a mile and a half. “I want to talk.”
She and Dirk settled into an easy rhythm. They’d been running together since their Army days. They’d probably logged a thousand miles in Afghanistan and New York. She preferred running next to the calm blue lake here than out in the hot deserts where she had to worry that the ground might explode, or a sniper might drop her.
“Mr. Kazakov likes you,” Dirk said. “Says you’re steady.”
Light glinted off the blue surface of the pond. “Katrinka says you’re a blond god.”
“Smart kid.”
“Maybe Hephaestus.” He was the ugly god. She wondered if Dirk knew that.
“A god’s a god,” he said. “Immortal and badass.”
“Remember that purse I told you about?”
“Prada. Expensive. Dug up by a dog.”
Dirk sounded out of breath. She slowed. “Not just expensive, really expensive, even for Prada. That arm ornament could put Lucy through college.”
“She still waiting to hear about her student loans?”
Vivian didn’t want to get into that. “I called Prada and found out who bought the bag.”
“Yeah?”
“An investment banker named Sandra Haines.” She wondered if Sandra had run this very path. Lots of people did.
“Bet she was glad to hear from you.”
“She might have been.” Vivian skirted an uneven patch in the trail. “Except she’s dead.”
She practically saw his ears prick up. Dirk was a cop, and he had cop instincts. “Natural causes?”
“Not unless you count being hit by a train as natural.”
“Can be,” he said. “Depending on the circumstances.”
“About a year ago, she allegedly jumped in front of a subway train.” Vivian looked out across the shining water at the sky and the gray trees dazzling in their autumn finery. So sad to think of people throwing away any chance to be part of the good things in life. A tragedy to instead choose to die alone underground. She sighed at the thought that Tesla was making that choice every day.
“Guess Prada bags don’t buy happiness,” Dirk said.
“I dug a little deeper—”
“Course you did.” He kicked his running up a notch, as if he wanted to run away from her findings.
“A lot of folks jump in front of trains in New York. About one a week.”
He whistled. “That many?”
“New York’s a big place. Lots of sad people and trains.” The leaves floating on the water looked like tiny gold boats.
“Why do I think you didn’t invite me out here to talk about what a big, sad place New York is?” he asked.
“How’d her purse get buried in a tunnel over two miles from where she was hit?”
“Rats? Cats? Crazy homeless trannies?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”
They finished the rest of the lap in silence. Both sped up at the end because they were too competitive not to. Dirk won by half a length and settled back into a comfortable jog for the second lap.
He flashed a victor’s grin. “You’re losing your touch, Viv.”
“Distracted,” she said.
“Sure,” he said. “Sun was in your eyes. Perfectly understandable.”
She punched him in the shoulder. “If it were just this purse, maybe I’d buy your theory, but the lipsticks, too?”
Dirk’s blue eyes looked thoughtful. He had a damn adorable thoughtful look. Part of his blond god persona. It kept his private life too complicated for Vivian to follow. “Rats collect things. So do people. Maybe someone or something liked the smell.”