The Collector
Page 76

“Creative is my god. Technology my cherished lover.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I know. Part of me says I shouldn’t be because if I did get lucky there’s someone out there who’d kill me for it, given the chance. But I can’t help it. It’s all just fascinating.”
He reached over for her hand. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. And don’t tell me you can take care of yourself. I’m telling you. You’re with me now.”
“Ash—”
He tightened his grip on her hand. “You’re with me. We both may need time to get used to it, but that’s the way it is. I talked to Bob.”
Her mind tried to spin in the new direction. “Who?”
“My brother Bob.”
Among the Giselles and Rylees and Estebans, there was a Bob? “I need a copy of your spreadsheet.”
“He’s at Angie’s today. He and Frankie—that’s Angie’s and Vinnie’s oldest son—are pretty tight. I asked him to talk to Frankie about getting me the information Vinnie had on the Swanson estate, and the acquisitions Oliver brokered.”
“So you can see if there’s anything pertaining to the Nécessaire or to Bastone.”
“Long shot, but why not bet? I’ve got another call in to the Swansons. Which led me to call my mother. She knows everyone, and is indeed mildly acquainted with Miranda Swanson, whom she describes as a fashionable dimwit. My mother’s agreed to make some calls and find out where Miranda Swanson and her husband, Biff, are vacationing.”
“He’s not really Biff. No one’s really a Biff.”
“According to my mother, he is.” He glanced at the phone he’d set on the table as it signaled. “Obviously, I should’ve thought of my mother before. Mom,” he said when he answered. “You work fast.”
She left him to his call, went upstairs for shoes, a ball cap and her sunglasses. She tucked her little zip wallet—keys, some money, ID, in her pocket. She started downstairs, meeting Ash on the way up.
“Where did you go?” he began. “Or rather, where are you going?”
“I went up for what I need to take Earl Grey for a . . . promenade. Or rather what I need for us to take him. You can use a walk in the park, too—and then you can tell me what your mother said.”
“Fine.” He studied her hat—and his eyes narrowed. “You’re a Mets fan.”
She merely put up her dukes. “Go on, start something.”
He only shook his head. “This is a severe test of our relationship. I’ll get the leash.”
“And baggies,” she called out.
Armed, and led by a thrilled Earl Grey, they went down, then took the staircase connecting Tudor City with the park.
“Is it a sign?” Lila wondered. “Walking down the Sharansky Steps—named for a Russian dissident.”
“I think I’ll have had my fill of all things Russian for a while once this is done. But you’re right about the walk in the park. I can use it.”
He let the air wash over him, and the hum of traffic from First Avenue as they strolled behind the tiny, prancing dog along the wide walkway, in and out of shade from locust trees.
From there they walked around one of the greens, into the quiet and calm of a shady urban oasis. Others walked there—pushing babies or toddlers in strollers, walking dogs, strutting along with Bluetooths at their ear or, in the case of the guy with skinny white legs clamped into black compression shorts, bopping to whatever played through his earbuds.
“So, your mother?” Lila asked while Earl Grey sniffed the grass with a full-body wag.
“Looked in her book—if you think my spreadsheet’s something, you should see my mother’s social book. You could plot a war. She contacted another acquaintance who’s friendly with Miranda Swanson. They’re in the Hamptons until after Labor Day, though they both make the occasional trip back to the city to meet friends or, in his case, tend to some business. She got an address, and Miranda Swanson’s cell phone number.”
“Call her.” Lila grabbed his hand, led him toward a bench. “Call her now.”
“Actually, I don’t have to. My mother already did.”
“She does work fast.”
“Like lightning. My mother, who’s also in the Hamptons, netted herself an invite for cocktails at the Swansons’ tonight. The invitation includes me and my date. Want to have cocktails on the beach?”
“Tonight? I don’t have cocktails-on-the-beach—at the Hamptons—wear.”
“It’s the beach. It’ll be casual enough.”
“Men,” she muttered. “I need an outfit.” Dating would break her bank yet, she thought. “Take Earl Grey back, okay?” She dug out her key, passed it to him, then the leash. “I have to shop.”
She raced off, leaving him in her dust. “It’s just the beach,” he repeated.
She performed miracles by her standard. Cool, beachy pink with a low, low back crisscrossed by thin straps. Heeled gladiator sandals in turquoise, and a straw bag, striped with both colors and big enough to hold her main accessory.
A charming teacup poodle.
Her cell phone rang as she added one more coat of mascara.
“Ready?” Ash asked.
“Two minutes.” She clicked off, annoyed he’d managed to go back to his loft, change and come back in less time than it had taken her to dress. She tucked the dog’s provisions into her new bag, then tucked him in with them. She folded the scarf the clerk talked her into—turquoise with hot-pink waves—beside the dog, then dashed out to keep to the two minutes.
Outside, she found Ash leaning against what even she recognized as a vintage Corvette, and chatting with the doorman.
“Let me get that for you, Ms. Emerson.” The doorman opened the car door. “You have a nice evening.”
“Thanks.” She sat a moment, studied the dash as Ash skirted the hood to slip into the driver’s seat.
“You have a car.”
“I do. I don’t get it out much.”
“You have a really hot car.”
“If you’re going to drive a hot woman to the beach, it should be in a hot car.”
“Well played. I got nervous.”