Of course, if the child were to wake, that would be an excuse for Ginnie not to go.
Yes, no?
But she couldn’t do it, use her daughter as a ploy against her husband. Still, she smiled to herself, thinking: It had been a good plan.
Five minutes later they were up the dimly lit hall, ringing the Bassetts’ doorbell. The door opened. Cheeks were bussed, hands gripped, pleasantries exchanged.
Carole Bassett was in jeans and T-shirt. Ginnie’s eyes dipped to the outfit then to Henry but he missed the telling glance and accompanying grimace of her thin glossy lips. The men veered to the bar, where the magic potion sat, and—thank goodness—Carole apparently remembered that Ginnie drank wine exclusively and thrust a Pinot Gris into her hand. They clinked, sipped and headed into the living room, which offered a partial view of Central Park. (Henry was resentful that the Bassetts, new to the building, had happened to decide to move to the neighborhood just as that particular unit became vacant. Henry’s and Ginnie’s faced 81st Street.)
The men rejoined their mates.
“Ginnie, you want to try some?”
“Sure, she will. She loves scotch.”
And Palmolive is my favorite brand. Right next to Duz. “Already have wine. Don’t want to spoil the experience.”
“You’re sure?” Arnie said. “Cost eight hundred a bottle. And that’s because my guy got me a deal. And I mean deal.”
Carole said in a low voice, eyes wide, “He got us a Pétrus for a thousand.”
Henry barked a laugh. “You are shitting me?”
“Cross my heart.”
Ginnie noted her husband glance at the spot on her body where Carole was doing just that. It was just a T-shirt, yes, but quite tight and made of thin silk.
Arnie: “The Pétrus? It was heaven. I nearly came.” He pretended to looked shocked at his own words. “Listen to this: We bribed the maître d’ to let us sneak it into Romanee. They don’t have a corkage policy, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Ginnie said with mock astonishment. “Oh, my God.”
Arnie added, “I know. A restaurant like that.”
The couples sat and conversation meandered. Carole asked about Trudy and the schools they had planned for her (not as outrageous as it seemed, Ginnie had learned; Manhattan parents must plan early for their offsprings’ education). The Bassetts were a few years younger—early thirties—and were just thinking about children now.
Carole added, “Next year sounds good. For conceiving, I mean. It’ll be a convenient time. The company’s putting a new maternity leave plan in place. A friend of mine in HR told me about it. He said he wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I should wait to get pregnant.” She laughed wickedly. “It’s sort of like insider trading!” and studied Ginnie’s face to see if she got the risqué joke.
Got it and stepped on it till it was dead.
“Have to give up the wine,” Carole had said. “That’ll be hard.”
“You won’t miss it. Only eighteen months.”
“Eighteen?” Carole asked.
“Breast-feeding.”
“Oh. That. Well. It’s pretty much optional nowadays, isn’t it?”
The men talked about business and Washington and all the while examined their glasses as if the amber liquid inside were unicorn blood.
Carole rose, saying she wanted to show off a new print she’d gotten from her “favorite” gallery in SoHo. Ginnie wondered: How many galleries did she have?
They were halfway across the living room floor when a man’s voice intruded.
“Hi, there, little one.”
Everyone froze. Looking around.
“Aren’t you a cute little petunia.”
The baritone words oozed from the speaker of Ginnie’s phone, sitting on the coffee table. Her wineglass tumbled to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces and she lunged for the Samsung.
Arnie said, “Wasn’t the Waterford. Don’t worry—”
“What is that?” Carole asked, nodding to the phone.
It was what Henry and Ginnie called the “Nanny”—actually a state-of-the-art baby monitor. The microphone was next to Trudy’s crib and sensitive enough to pick up the child’s breathing and heartbeat.
And could also pick up the voices of anyone in the room.
“You’re coming with me, honeybun. I know somebody who wants to give you a whole new home.”
Ginnie screamed.
She and Henry bolted for the door, flung it open and sprinted down the hall, followed by the Bassetts. Henry raged at her, “Did you lock the fucking window?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“Stay asleep, little one.”
Ginnie’s mind was a swirling tornado. Tears streamed and her heart vibrated in her chest. She lifted her phone and touched voice on the monitor app. She shouted into the microphone—it was a two-way system: “The police are here, you son of a bitch. Don’t you touch her. I’ll kill you if you touch her.”
A pause, as perhaps the intruder was noticing the monitor. He chuckled. “Police? Really? I’m looking out Trudy’s right window and there’s not a cop to be found. Better be going. Sorry, your little dear’s still snoozing; I’ll have to say goodbye for her. Bye-bye, Mommy. Bye-bye Daddy.”
Ginnie screamed again. Then: “Now! Now! Open the door!”
Henry fumbled the keys and Ginnie ripped them out of his hand, shoving him aside. She unlatched the door and pushed it in. She detoured into the kitchen to grab the first butcher knife in the block and charged to her daughter’s room, swung it open, flipped the overhead light on.
Trudy stirred slightly at the intrusion. But didn’t wake.
Henry pushed inside an instant later and they both scanned the small room. No one. The window was still locked. And the closet was empty.
“But . . .”
She handed the husband the knife and picked up and clutched her child.
Arnie and Carole were right behind them. Relief flooded their faces, seeing the baby girl.
“Is he here?” Carole asked in a tremulous voice, looking around.
But Arnie, the high-tech entrepreneur, was shaking his head, picking up the monitor near Trudy’s crib. “No, he’s not. He could be a hundred miles away. He hacked into the server.” He tossed the device back onto the table.
“So he could hear us now?” Ginnie cried, grabbing it from him and shutting it off.
Arnie said, “That doesn’t always cut the connection.” He unplugged it and added, “People do it just to mess with you. Sometimes if there’s a video monitor they do screenshots of the kids or videos and post them online.”
“What kind of sick fuck’d do that?”
“I don’t know what kind. I just know how many. A lot of them.”
Arnie asked, “You want me to call the police?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Ginnie said. “Just leave please.”
Henry said, “Honey, really.” Glancing at his friends.
“Now,” she snapped.
“Sure. Really sorry,” Carole said. She embraced Ginnie with what seemed to be true concern.
“And,” Arnie offered, “don’t worry about the wineglass.”
After they were gone, Ginnie took the knife once more and, carrying still-snoozing Trudy, checked every room, Henry with her. Yes, all the windows were locked. There could have been no physical intrusion.
Back in their bedroom, Ginnie sat on the bed, wiped tears and fiercely cradled her daughter. She glanced up and saw her husband dial three numbers on his mobile.
“No.” She half rose and took it from him. Hit disconnect.
“What’re you doing?” he snapped.
She said, “It’s going to ring in a minute. Nine one one’ll call back. You tell them you hit it by mistake.”
“The fuck would I do that for?”
“If I talk to them, a woman, they’ll think it’s a domestic and might send somebody anyway. You have to tell them it was a mistake.”
“Are you crazy?” Henry raged. “We want them to send somebody. We got hacked. That asshole fucked up our evening.”
“The police are not going to hear that we left our daughter alone to go drink some overpriced liquor with two idiots just because you want a new client. Do you really think that’s a good idea, Henry?”
The phone rang. No caller ID number. She handed the unit to him. Glared into his eyes.
He sighed. And hit accept call. “Hello?” he answered pleasantly. “Oh, I’m really sorry. Nine one one is first on my speed dial, I hit it by mistake, calling my mother. She’s number two . . . Yes, it’s Henry Sutter . . .” He gave the address, apparently in response to another question. “I’m really sorry . . . Appreciate your following up like this, though. Good night.”
Ginnie walked into Trudy’s nursery and, one-handed, pulled the crib after her into the guest room. “I’ll sleep here tonight.”
“I think we should—”
She closed the door.
Ginnie tucked her daughter into the crib, nearly—but not quite—smiling that the girl had managed to sleep through the excitement. She pulled off the thousand-dollar dress and angrily flung it into the corner of the room. Then she climbed into bed without moisturizing her face or brushing her teeth. She shut out the light, knowing that that, unlike for her daughter, sleep would be a long time in coming tonight. If at all.
But that was okay. She had lots to think about. Most important, what she would say to the lawyer tomorrow, the one she’d talked to a couple of times about the possibility of divorce. Until tonight she’d waffled. Tomorrow she would be telling him to proceed as quickly and as relentlessly and brutally as he could.
CHAPTER 38
Unprofessional, I guess.
But sometimes you do things for yourself. Because you have to.
I’m walking away from the Upper East Side coffee shop, near Henry and Virginia Sutter’s apartment, where I’ve been sitting for the past half hour. I was across the street. It was some building, I’ll tell you. Can’t imagine living in a place like that. Wouldn’t want to, probably. Beautiful people live there. I wouldn’t be welcome.
Doing things for yourself.
It was all pretty easy, visiting vengeance on the Shopper. I’d simply followed Henry home from the Starbucks in Times Square where we’d collided that afternoon.
You’d spilled this on me, it would’ve cost you big time, you Walking Dead asshole. This shirt cost more’n you make in a month. I’m a lawyer . . .
Once I found his address, I cross-referenced deeds with DMV pictures. And got his ID. Mr. Henry Sutter. Married to Virginia. I was stymied briefly—data mining records didn’t show they own anything with a CIR DataWise5000 inside. But then I peeked at Facebook. Henry and Ginnie, her preferred nic, had actually posted pictures of two-year-old Trudy? Fools . . . but good for me. Babies in the city equal baby monitors. And, yep, a simple scan of the house revealed the IP address and a brand name. I executed a handshake exploit with the network then ran Pass Breaker on my tablet and in no time at all, I was in. Listening to Trudy’s soft breath and coming up with a script for my conversation with the young ’un that was sure to destroy Mom’s and Dad’s peace of mind for the immediate future.
(Opens up a world of possibilities. After all, I’m not wedded to the DataWise5000 idea. Other options are good too.)
I keep walking, loping really. I pass by the subway entrance. It’s a long walk to Chelsea but I have to use shanks’ mare (my mother’s mother’s expression, even though I don’t think she ever saw a mare in the flesh or walked more than a few hundred feet from car to her Indiana Piggly Wiggly); I’m worried about getting recognized. Those damn CCTVs. Everywhere.
What about dinner? I wonder. Two, no three sandwiches tonight. Then I’ll work on my new miniature project, a boat. I don’t usually make them. There’s a whole world of seafaring model makers (like airplane and train people—something about transportation has bloated the field). But Peter said he liked boats. So I’m making a Warren skiff for him. A classic rowboat with reciprocating oars.
Then maybe Alicia will come over. She’s been upset lately, the past returning. The scars—the inside scars—more prominent. I’m doing what I can to make it better. But sometimes I just don’t know.
Then I’m thinking again of the fun I’ve just had, recalling his face earlier in the day, all sneery and handsome, after we collided outside of Starbucks.
Walking Dead . . .
Well, Henry, that’s a good line. Clever. But I’m thinking of better one:
It has to do with the last laugh.
“Hey.”
Amelia Sachs walked inside Nick Carelli’s apartment.
“Kind of like your old one.”
“The view’s brick here, not maple trees and lilacs. But all things considered, not bad.”
“You got a TV.”
When they were together, Sachs recalled, they’d never owned one. Too much else to do.
“I’ve been watching some of the cop shows. You watch those?”
“No.”
Too much to do now too.
“They ought to do a show about you and Lincoln.”
“He’s been approached. He’s said no.”
She handed him the big cardboard moving box she’d brought. It contained some of his personal effects from when they lived together: yearbooks, postcards, letters, hundreds of family photos. She’d called him to say she’d found these things in her basement, thought he’d want them.
“Thanks.” He opened it up, rifled through the contents. “I thought this stuff was gone for good. Hey, look.” Nick held up a photo. “Our first family vacation. Niagara Falls.”
The family of four, the classic cascade behind them and a rainbow from the particles of water. Nick was about ten, Donnie seven.
“Who took it?”
“Some other tourists. Remember pictures back then? You had to have them developed.”
“Always tense when you got them back from the drugstore. Were they in focus, the right exposure?”
He nodded. More foraging. “Oh, hey!” He picked up a program.
New York City
Police Academy
Graduation Ceremony
At the bottom was the date he’d graduated. The cover featured a seal: Training Bureau. Preparing the Finest.
His smile faded.
Sachs was recalling her own graduation ceremony. That had been one of the two times in her life when she’d worn white gloves. The other had been at the police department memorial honoring her father after his death.
Nick put the program back in the box, gazing at it fondly for a moment. He closed the carton up and asked, “Glass of wine?”
“Sure.”
He stepped into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and a beer. He poured her a glass of Chardonnay.
Another memory, of the two of them, triggered by the smell and the tap of metal on glass and his fingers brushing hers.
Boom . . .
She shot the recollection dead. She’d been doing a lot of sniping like this lately.
They sipped the oaky wine and the beer and he showed her around the place, though there wasn’t much to see. He’d gotten some furniture out of storage. Picked up a few things, borrowed from cousins, bought on the cheap. Some books. Several boxes of documents. And then there were the case files of People of the State of New York v. Nicholas J. Carelli. The many documents were spread out on the kitchen table.
Sachs looked over the framed pictures of his family. She liked it that he had them on the mantelpiece for all to see. Sachs had spent a lot of time with his mother and father and had enjoyed their company. She’d been to the funeral when Nick’s dad passed. She thought too about Donnie. He’d lived in BK, not far from Nick. After he was arrested Sachs made an effort to keep up with the Carellis, Nick’s mother in particular. Eventually, though, the contact grew wispier and finally ceased altogether. As often happens when the fulcrum of common connection between two people vanishes—or one of them goes to prison.
