“Blessed.”
He chuckled. “Good-bye, Laura. For now. Maybe Gloria and I will have you over for dinner some night soon. Are you free this week?”
Laura tried to keep her voice even. “No.”
Stan opened the door for her. “What a pity. Where are you going to be?”
“None of your goddamn business,” she said while her true destination floated across her mind: Australia.
RICHARD Corsel closed his files and locked them in the cabinet. He was getting closer to discovering the truth. A friend of his at the Bank of Geneva in Switzerland had learned that David Baskin’s money had been split up into at least two accounts and transferred back to the United States. One was in Massachusetts. With a little luck Corsel could discover where the account was in less than a week.
“Good night, Mr. Corsel,” his secretary said.
“Good night, Eleanor.”
Richard clutched his briefcase tightly and headed out toward the parking lot. It was already dark now. A gentle fall breeze blew through Boston, pushing Richard’s hair in the opposite direction from where it had been combed. Never mind. The workday was over. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and sorted through his key ring in search of his car keys. Naomi had asked him to pick up her stuff at the cleaners’. She had also reminded him to buy some white socks for the kids. Richard shook his head. He couldn’t understand how his six-year-old twins could go through socks so fast. What the hell were they doing with them? Wearing them over their shoes?
With a tired sigh, he unlocked his car door and slid into the front seat. He tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat next to him. There would be traffic on the highways now. Maybe he should use the local roads. He put the key into the ignition . . . and a gloved hand grabbed the back of his neck.
“Hello, Richie,” a voice whispered in his ear.
Corsel’s eyes bulged. “Who the hell—?”
He was silenced by the sight of a large butcher knife near his throat. “Shhhh, Richie, not so loud. You wouldn’t want to make me nervous, would you? My hand has a tendency to shake.”
As if for emphasis, the hand shook. The blade coarsely caressed the skin on Richard’s neck.
“Who?”
“Shhh, Richie, I’m doing the talking right now, okay? Don’t turn around and don’t try to get a glance of me in the rearview mirror. If you do, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
The knife now rested quietly against Corsel’s throat. He could feel the coldness of the metal. “Y-yes,” Richard managed. “My wallet is in my jacket pocket.”
“I know that, Richie, but I’m really not interested in petty cash. I’ve got plenty of money of my own—you know what I mean?”
Richard swallowed, the knife moving along with his throat. “Wh-what do you want?”
“You see, Richie, that’s your problem. You ask a lot of questions, you know? You don’t see me asking a lot of questions. I don’t ask how Naomi’s new job at the boutique is, do I? I don’t ask how the twins, Roger and Peter, are doing at their new school, right? So why are you so interested in other people’s business?”
The intruder’s warm spittle pricked Richard’s right ear.
“Now the way I look at it, Richie, you can do one of two things. One, you can go about your usual business and keep snooping around into Baskin’s money. That’s up to you, Richie. I wouldn’t want to pressure you. You do what you think is best for your family, but I should warn you: it would make me very unhappy if you continued to snoop, Richie. It’s not nice. Do you know what I mean?”
Corsel felt his whole body quiver.
“Now let me give you choice number two. See how you like this one, Richie, and then make up your mind about what you want to do, okay? Choice two: you forget all about Baskin’s little transaction with your bank. You can go back to business as usual and not speak to his wife about it anymore. In return, you and your family will live happily ever after. You will never see me again. Sound nice?”
Richard managed a nod.
“But don’t decide now, Richie. Think over your two choices for a while before you make up your mind. I’ll be able to figure out which option you chose and act accordingly. Any questions?”
Richard shook his head.
“That’s it, Richie. You’re learning already. I’m going to disappear now. If you turn and see my face or if you decide to chat with the authorities, well, let’s just say it would be an unwise move on your part. It may force me to get to know little Roger and Peter better. Do you understand, Richie?”
Corsel nodded again, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to stay calm. He pictured himself sitting at the breakfast table on a typical morning having a nice bowl of Cap’n Crunch with Naomi and Roger and Peter and . . . and the psycho in the backseat, his knife slashing across their throats. The screams, the sound of the blade ripping skin, blood spraying all over the place, his wife’s blood, his children’s blood.
Oh, God, what do I do now? What do I . . . ?
Suddenly, the car door opened and the blade was off his throat. Richard was afraid to breathe. He listened to the car door slam closed. He shut his eyes and waited five minutes before opening them again.
When he reached home, Naomi lectured him for forgetting to pick up the laundry at the cleaners and for not buying the kids some white socks. Richard’s response was to give all three of them a hug.
EARL’S penthouse was something out of Architectural Digest. Literally. So much so that the magazine had devoted a cover story to what they called “The High-Rise in the Sky.” And it was gorgeous. Everything in the penthouse had been done in white: the walls, the chairs, the sofas, the tables, the carpet. The only smatterings of color were the large and varied assortment of paintings that adorned the walls. But somehow the white scheme worked, and more interesting to Architectural Digest, Earl had designed the penthouse totally by himself.
There were also plenty of windows, all of them offering a fantastic view of Boston. From the gleaming living room, Laura stared out at the lights of the Prudential Building. She moved her glance toward the harbor, where occasional lights from boats broke up the blanket of darkness covering the sea. From way up atop this skyscraper, you would never guess how dirty that harbor actually was. But God, she loved Boston. True, she had never really lived anywhere else. Her family had left Chicago and the Midwest when she was just an infant, so she really could not make a comparison. But Boston was her city. And David’s.
He chuckled. “Good-bye, Laura. For now. Maybe Gloria and I will have you over for dinner some night soon. Are you free this week?”
Laura tried to keep her voice even. “No.”
Stan opened the door for her. “What a pity. Where are you going to be?”
“None of your goddamn business,” she said while her true destination floated across her mind: Australia.
RICHARD Corsel closed his files and locked them in the cabinet. He was getting closer to discovering the truth. A friend of his at the Bank of Geneva in Switzerland had learned that David Baskin’s money had been split up into at least two accounts and transferred back to the United States. One was in Massachusetts. With a little luck Corsel could discover where the account was in less than a week.
“Good night, Mr. Corsel,” his secretary said.
“Good night, Eleanor.”
Richard clutched his briefcase tightly and headed out toward the parking lot. It was already dark now. A gentle fall breeze blew through Boston, pushing Richard’s hair in the opposite direction from where it had been combed. Never mind. The workday was over. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and sorted through his key ring in search of his car keys. Naomi had asked him to pick up her stuff at the cleaners’. She had also reminded him to buy some white socks for the kids. Richard shook his head. He couldn’t understand how his six-year-old twins could go through socks so fast. What the hell were they doing with them? Wearing them over their shoes?
With a tired sigh, he unlocked his car door and slid into the front seat. He tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat next to him. There would be traffic on the highways now. Maybe he should use the local roads. He put the key into the ignition . . . and a gloved hand grabbed the back of his neck.
“Hello, Richie,” a voice whispered in his ear.
Corsel’s eyes bulged. “Who the hell—?”
He was silenced by the sight of a large butcher knife near his throat. “Shhhh, Richie, not so loud. You wouldn’t want to make me nervous, would you? My hand has a tendency to shake.”
As if for emphasis, the hand shook. The blade coarsely caressed the skin on Richard’s neck.
“Who?”
“Shhh, Richie, I’m doing the talking right now, okay? Don’t turn around and don’t try to get a glance of me in the rearview mirror. If you do, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
The knife now rested quietly against Corsel’s throat. He could feel the coldness of the metal. “Y-yes,” Richard managed. “My wallet is in my jacket pocket.”
“I know that, Richie, but I’m really not interested in petty cash. I’ve got plenty of money of my own—you know what I mean?”
Richard swallowed, the knife moving along with his throat. “Wh-what do you want?”
“You see, Richie, that’s your problem. You ask a lot of questions, you know? You don’t see me asking a lot of questions. I don’t ask how Naomi’s new job at the boutique is, do I? I don’t ask how the twins, Roger and Peter, are doing at their new school, right? So why are you so interested in other people’s business?”
The intruder’s warm spittle pricked Richard’s right ear.
“Now the way I look at it, Richie, you can do one of two things. One, you can go about your usual business and keep snooping around into Baskin’s money. That’s up to you, Richie. I wouldn’t want to pressure you. You do what you think is best for your family, but I should warn you: it would make me very unhappy if you continued to snoop, Richie. It’s not nice. Do you know what I mean?”
Corsel felt his whole body quiver.
“Now let me give you choice number two. See how you like this one, Richie, and then make up your mind about what you want to do, okay? Choice two: you forget all about Baskin’s little transaction with your bank. You can go back to business as usual and not speak to his wife about it anymore. In return, you and your family will live happily ever after. You will never see me again. Sound nice?”
Richard managed a nod.
“But don’t decide now, Richie. Think over your two choices for a while before you make up your mind. I’ll be able to figure out which option you chose and act accordingly. Any questions?”
Richard shook his head.
“That’s it, Richie. You’re learning already. I’m going to disappear now. If you turn and see my face or if you decide to chat with the authorities, well, let’s just say it would be an unwise move on your part. It may force me to get to know little Roger and Peter better. Do you understand, Richie?”
Corsel nodded again, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to stay calm. He pictured himself sitting at the breakfast table on a typical morning having a nice bowl of Cap’n Crunch with Naomi and Roger and Peter and . . . and the psycho in the backseat, his knife slashing across their throats. The screams, the sound of the blade ripping skin, blood spraying all over the place, his wife’s blood, his children’s blood.
Oh, God, what do I do now? What do I . . . ?
Suddenly, the car door opened and the blade was off his throat. Richard was afraid to breathe. He listened to the car door slam closed. He shut his eyes and waited five minutes before opening them again.
When he reached home, Naomi lectured him for forgetting to pick up the laundry at the cleaners and for not buying the kids some white socks. Richard’s response was to give all three of them a hug.
EARL’S penthouse was something out of Architectural Digest. Literally. So much so that the magazine had devoted a cover story to what they called “The High-Rise in the Sky.” And it was gorgeous. Everything in the penthouse had been done in white: the walls, the chairs, the sofas, the tables, the carpet. The only smatterings of color were the large and varied assortment of paintings that adorned the walls. But somehow the white scheme worked, and more interesting to Architectural Digest, Earl had designed the penthouse totally by himself.
There were also plenty of windows, all of them offering a fantastic view of Boston. From the gleaming living room, Laura stared out at the lights of the Prudential Building. She moved her glance toward the harbor, where occasional lights from boats broke up the blanket of darkness covering the sea. From way up atop this skyscraper, you would never guess how dirty that harbor actually was. But God, she loved Boston. True, she had never really lived anywhere else. Her family had left Chicago and the Midwest when she was just an infant, so she really could not make a comparison. But Boston was her city. And David’s.
