Little Black Dress Page 7

  My fingers inched toward the keyboard.

  At that moment, Bri scooted into my office with two donuts nestled in a paper napkin. “I missed you yesterday! Look what I got at the ad sales meeting,” she said gleefully.

  “You’re the best,” I said, and meant it. I broke off a bit of the chocolate glazed and popped it into my mouth.

  “What are you doing tonight?” she asked, helping herself to the coconut cruller. “Want to hit happy hour at Coquine?”

  I glanced at my in-box, my messages, and the stack of magazine proofs and groaned for effect. “I have to work, honey.”

  “Again.” Bri sighed. Then she leaned forward and pointed to my wrist. “Hey, ce qui s’est passé? What happened? It’s all red.”

  I looked down and saw that she was right. How could I have failed to notice the marks from the handcuffs? I quickly covered them with my sleeve. “Oh, that! My bracelet clasp was stuck, and I was trying to get it off. I’m such a klutz.”

  Happily, Bri seemed to believe me. “Dumdum,” she said affectionately.

  You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

  And at that moment, I made a new rule: Don’t live a life you don’t want to talk about.

  Later, I emailed Michael and gave him the go-ahead on the new profile; we could have lunch, I wrote, in the Metropolitan conference room. I’d order in sandwiches from Pain Quotidien.

  When I finally left the office at 9 p.m., Eddie the janitor was emptying the recycling into his giant blue bin.

  “Get home safe, Jane,” he called.

  “Thanks, Eddie. You too.”

  He chuckled. “Only six more hours and I can call it a night.”

  I flagged a cab, but as I rode uptown I realized I wasn’t quite ready to call it a night myself. So I had the driver drop me at a new wine bar just off Amsterdam Avenue.

  A test.

  With its pressed-tin ceiling and exposed brick lit by strings of tiny white lights, Hop & Vine felt intimate and welcoming. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Pinot, which came in a fishbowl goblet, accompanied by sliced baguette and butter flaked with sea salt.

  “Anyone joining you?” the bartender asked as he polished the bar’s copper surface. He flashed a sudden grin and leaned toward me. “Or do you need a little company?”

  I glanced around the room. I saw a handful of prospects, the way I so often had: two banker types, just released from work and happily guzzling bottles of red, and an attractive, studious-looking guy—glasses, professorial sport jacket—thumbing through The New Yorker.

  But I didn’t want to talk to any of them.

  I turned back and smiled at the bartender. “It’s just me tonight,” I said.

  His eyes sparked with interest. “Really,” he said, topping off my wine, though I’d barely had a single sip. “A beautiful girl like you?”

  I nodded. “But if you don’t mind,” I added, as gently as I could, “I’d like to just sit here quietly. I brought a good book.”

  Chapter 25

  Walking into my therapist’s office the following Monday morning felt as nerve-racking as going to the Red Room. I wore my primmest dress (black knee-length linen, with a white lace collar), as if it could balance out the hedonistic story I was about to tell.

  Because it was time to come clean. Time to reveal my secret, sex-filled summer.

  Dr. Jensen smiled as I sank into the familiar leather couch. “Good morning, Jane,” he said. “Did you know that today is a special day?”

  I nearly spit out my coffee. Had he read my mind? Did he somehow know what I was about to do? “Well, uh, yes, maybe?” I stammered, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to my chest like a shield.

  “You’ve been coming here for two full years,” he said. “As of today.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding in one long whoosh. “Oh!” I said, relieved. “Wow. Well, happy anniversary to us.” I mimed lifting a glass for a toast.

  “A lot’s happened in two years,” he said.

  “You can say that again.”

  How far I’d come in those 730 days! First I’d been the worried wife, and then the depressed divorcée, and then what? The naughty nympho? The term made me snicker, and Dr. Jensen seemed to prick up his ears.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I wonder how many times you’ve asked me that in two years,” I said, dodging the question.

  He gave a little half-shrug. “It’s a big part of the job description.”

  I took another deep breath and let it out slowly. If I had something to say, there was no time like the present. “I have a confession to make.”

  Dr. Jensen leaned back in his chair. “All right, then,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  Quickly, before I could lose my courage, I said, “I’ve been having sex. Lots and lots of it. With strangers.”

  “You have?”

  Dr. Jensen had always seemed so unflappable—well, suddenly he looked seriously flapped.

  Apparently, asking him about other women’s sex lives was one thing; admitting to my own wild sex life was another thing entirely.

  He put his glasses on and peered at me through them, quickly composing himself. “This seems like something we should talk about, Jane,” he said. “It sounds…risky.”

  I nodded—yes, it had definitely been risky.

  And then, in a rush of relief, everything came tumbling out: my first fling with Michael and my cab ride with Ethan; man-shopping at Eataly and cradle-robbing on the High Line; the Red Room and the radiator.

  Dr. Jensen’s eyes widened several times, but he did his best not to react.

  “I’m sure you’re judging me,” I said, “even though you’ll deny it. And that’s okay. I’m not ashamed of anything. But I could have been a little…smarter. Safer.”

  Dr. Jensen shook his head. “My job isn’t to make judgments,” he said. “My job is to listen, and to draw you out. And, occasionally, to challenge you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So tell me, Jane. What have you learned from these…experiences?”

  “Besides check a guy’s pockets for handcuffs?” I asked ruefully.

  Dr. Jensen allowed himself a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Besides that.”

  I had to ponder the question for a minute. It wasn’t as if I’d embarked on my great sexual adventure because I was hoping it’d be educational.

  But, come to think of it, I had learned a lot: about desire, about power, and about human connection—emotional and physical. By taking control of my sexuality, I felt like I’d finally taken control of my life.

  Dr. Jensen might be doubtful about my methods, but he couldn’t argue with the results.

  “You know how, at the end of Westerns, the cowboy and his girl always ride off into the sunset?” I asked.

  Dr. Jensen frowned slightly. “Jane—”

  “This isn’t a digression, I swear. And sorry for interrupting you. What I’m trying to say is that I’m happy to spend an hour or two with a handsome cowboy. But when the sun starts to go down, he and his horse can hit the high, dry, and dusty on their own.”

  “Metaphorically speaking,” Dr. Jensen said, trying to follow me.

  “Yes. Metaphorically speaking, I’m not riding on the back of anyone’s horse ever again.”

  Dr. Jensen laughed. “You certainly have a way with words, Jane.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “The point is, I like being in control. This summer has been about what I want and what I need—not what someone else wants and what someone else needs. And I can’t tell you how freeing that is.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Dr. Jensen said. “You’re not chained to the past anymore—to James and his betrayal.”

  “Or handcuffed, as the case may be,” I said.

  My therapist laughed again. “Exactly. By the way, I brought you something,” he said. “For the two years.”

  He pushed a small cardboard box toward me across the desk.

  I leaned forw
ard and looked inside. Nestled in blue tissue paper was a tiny, spiny cactus. A pink flower sat on top of it, just like a little hat.

  Delighted, I leapt up and gave Dr. Jensen a hug.

  I couldn’t help myself. And anyway, it wasn’t like I tried to kiss him.

  Okay, I thought about it.

  But only for a second.

  Chapter 26

  “Whatcha got in the box?” the doorman asked as he pushed the heavy glass door open for me.

  The question startled me, and I looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man, his navy-and-gold cap tilted rakishly on his head. I hadn’t seen this doorman on my way in—or, for that matter, ever before in my life.

  “Wait—where’s Manny?” I asked. “He was just here.”

  The new guy grinned, and two deep dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Manny the Silent? He had a plane to catch. Summer vacation—you know how it goes.” His voice held the faintest trace of a Brooklyn accent.

  “Wow, I never realized until right this second that I’ve never heard Manny speak!” I laughed. “He just nods and smiles.”

  “Wait until he’s off the clock,” the new doorman said, leaning toward me confidentially. “Then you’d better staple his lips together if you want him to shut up.”

  I looked at his shiny brass name tag and then peered up into his dark brown eyes. “I take it you know him, Anthony?”

  Anthony nodded. “He’s my dad’s best friend. I’m filling in for him for the next two weeks.” He put his hands on his hips, mock-tough, as he stood in the open doorway. “So are you going to tell me what’s in the box or what?”

  There was something so charming about his overgrown boyishness that I couldn’t help but smile. “Have a look,” I said. I held out my prickly new roommate. “It’s a cactus of the Matucana genus, and I am absolutely not going to kill it.”

  He laughed. “Are you in the habit of killing succulents?”

  “Not on purpose,” I said.

  “May I?” He took the box from me and gently touched the bloom with the very tip of his finger. “I recommend a good houseplant fertilizer with trace elements. Just dilute it to a quarter strength. Give her plenty of water now, but taper off in the fall.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you a cactus specialist?”

  He ducked his head modestly. “No. But I’m getting my PhD in botany.”

  “Wow. That’s really impressive,” I said.

  “Manny calls me Flower Boy,” he said, flushing a little.

  “Well, you’re a lot bigger than he is,” I said. “So next time, you just go like this.” I held up a fist and shook it threateningly.

  Anthony laughed. “That’s a terrible idea,” he said.

  “You’re a lover, not a fighter,” I said. “Right?”

  “Exactly,” Anthony agreed. He smiled at me. “What about you?”

  I tossed my hair over my shoulder and smiled in return. “Both,” I said.

  As I reached out and took my cactus back, my fingers brushed lightly against his. I felt the familiar sweet jolt of electrical attraction.

  “Have a good day,” I added.

  Then I stepped through the door and into the golden morning sunlight.

  “Tell me your name at least,” Anthony called after me.

  I walked a few feet more and then I stopped.

  Might I, someday, want the services of a cactus doctor?

  I turned around, hurried back to him, and pressed my card into his hand.

  “Thank you,” Anthony said, flushing again. “Can I call you? Can I call you right now?” He was already patting his pockets for his phone.

  Laughing, I waved good-bye, and then, still giggling, I strode down the street.

  New York looked spectacular this morning. The yellow cabs, the mirrored office buildings, the emerald-leafed street trees: everything was bright and loud and full of life. I was Jane Avery: single, thirty-five, and living in the best city on earth.

  Maybe my phone would start ringing soon, and maybe it wouldn’t.

  Maybe I’d pick up.

  And maybe I’d just keep on walking.

  “I’m not on trial. San Francisco is.”

  Drug cartel boss the Kingfisher has a reputation for being violent and merciless. And after he’s finally caught, he’s set to stand trial for his vicious crimes—until he begins unleashing chaos and terror upon the lawyers, jurors, and police associated with the case. The city is paralyzed, and Detective Lindsay Boxer is caught in the eye of the storm.

  Will the Women’s Murder Club make it out alive—or will a courtroom thriller ensure their last breaths?

  Read on for a sneak peek at the shocking new

  Women’s Murder Club story.

  Coming soon from

  It was that crazy period between Thanksgiving and Christmas when work overflowed, time raced, and there wasn’t enough light between dawn and dusk to get everything done.

  Still, our gang of four, what we call the Women’s Murder Club, always had a spouse-free holiday get-together dinner of drinks and bar food.

  Yuki Castellano had picked the place.

  It was called Uncle Maxie’s Top Hat and was a bar and grill that had been a fixture in the Financial District for 150 years. It was decked out with art deco prints and mirrors on the walls, and a large, neon-lit clock behind the bar dominated the room. Maxie’s catered to men in smart suits and women in tight skirts and spike heels who wore good jewelry.

  I liked the place and felt at home there in a Mickey Spillane kind of way. Case in point: I was wearing straight-legged pants, a blue gabardine blazer, a Glock in my shoulder holster, and flat lace-up shoes. I stood in the bar area, slowly turning my head as I looked around for my BFFs.

  “Lindsay. Yo.”

  Cindy Thomas waved her hand from the table tucked under the spiral staircase. I waved back, moved toward the nook inside the cranny. Claire Washburn was wearing a trench coat over her scrubs, with a button on the lapel that read SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. She peeled off her coat and gave me a hug and a half.

  Cindy was also in her work clothes: cords and a bulky sweater, with a peacoat slung over the back of her chair. If I’d ducked under the table, I’m sure I would have seen steel-toed boots. Cindy is a crime reporter of note, and she was wearing her on-the-job hound dog clothes.

  She blew me a couple of kisses, and Yuki stood up to give me her seat and a jasmine-scented smack on the cheek. She had clearly come from court, where she worked as a pro bono defense attorney for the poor and hopeless. Still, she was dressed impeccably, in pinstripes and pearls.

  I took the chair across from Claire. She sat between Cindy and Yuki with her back to the room, and we all scooched up to the smallish glass-and-chrome table.

  If it hasn’t been said, we four are a mutual heart, soul, and work society in which we share our cases and views of the legal system, as well as our personal lives. Right now the girls were worried about me.

  Three of us were married: me, Claire, and Yuki; and Cindy had a standing offer of a ring and vows to be exchanged in Grace Cathedral. Until very recently you couldn’t have found four more happily hooked-up women. Then the bottom fell out of my marriage to Joe Molinari, the father of my child and a man I shared everything with, including my secrets.

  We had had it so good, we kissed and made up before our fights were over. It was the typical: “You are right.” “No, you are!”

  Then Joe went missing during possibly the worst weeks of my life.

  I’m a homicide cop, and I know when someone is telling me the truth and when things do not add up.

  Joe missing in action had not added up. Because of that I had worried almost to panic. Where was he? Why hadn’t he checked in? Why were my calls bouncing off his full mailbox? Was he still alive?

  As the crisscrossed threads of espionage, destruction, and mass murder were untangled, Joe finally made his curtain call with stories of his past and present lives that I’d never heard before. I found plenty of
reason not to trust him anymore.

  Even he would agree. I think anyone would.

  It’s not news that once trust is broken, it’s damned hard to superglue it back together. And for me it might take more time and belief in Joe’s confession than I actually had.

  I still loved him. We’d shared a meal when he came to see our baby, Julie. We didn’t make any moves toward getting divorced that night, but we didn’t make love, either. Our relationship was now like the Cold War in the eighties between Russia and the USA, a strained but practical peace called détente.

  Now, as I sat with my friends, I tried to put Joe out of my mind, safe in the knowledge that my nanny was looking after Julie and that the home front was safe. I ordered a favorite holiday drink, a hot buttered rum, and a rare steak sandwich with Uncle Maxie’s hot chili sauce.

  My girlfriends were deep in criminal cross talk about Claire’s holiday overload of corpses, Cindy’s new cold case she’d exhumed from the San Francisco Chronicle’s dead letter files, and Yuki’s hoped-for favorable verdict for her client, an underage drug dealer. I was almost caught up when Yuki said, “Linds, I gotta ask. Any Christmas plans with Joe?”

  And that’s when I was saved by the bell. My phone rang.

  My friends said in unison, “NO PHONES.”

  It was the rule, but I’d forgotten—again.

  I reached into my bag for my phone, saying, “Look, I’m turning it off.”

  But I saw that the call was from Rich Conklin, my partner and Cindy’s fiancé. She recognized his ring tone on my phone.

  “There goes our party,” she said, tossing her napkin into the air.

  “Linds?” said Conklin.

  “Rich, can this wait? I’m in the middle—”

  “It’s Kingfisher. He’s in a shoot-out with cops at the Vault. There’ve been casualties.”

  “But—Kingfisher is dead.”

  “Apparently, he’s been resurrected.”

  My partner was double-parked and waiting for me outside Uncle Maxie’s, with the engine running and the flashers on. I got into the passenger seat of the unmarked car, and Richie handed me my vest. He’s that way, like a younger version of a big brother. He thinks of me, watches out for me, and I try to do the same for him.