The Quickie Part 5

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER EIGHT the next morning when the barista at the Starbucks across from Paul's Pearl Street office building raised an eyebrow at me in surprise. Jeez, I thought. You'd think she'd never seen a disheveled, emotionally demolished woman ask for the entire top shelf of the pastry case before. After last night's Battery Park epiphany, I'd called Paul and told him that Bonnie wanted me to stay over in the city for old time's sake. Then I'd wandered up Broadway, like the homeless person I now was, until about midnight. I'd made it all the way to The Midtown, just south of the Ed Sullivan Theater, when my legs quit on me. I had just enough strength to toss the questionable orange-speckled bedspread into the corner of my three- hundred-dollar-a-night closet before I pa.s.sed out. Pretty pricey, but Paul could afford it. I woke up at 7 a.m., left the hotel without showering, and caught a taxi on Seventh Avenue, heading downtown to the financial district. For the first time in a month, I had a game plan. I knew exactly what I had to do.Interrogate Paul.I didn't care what it took. I'd be both good cop and bad cop. I was tempted to bring the hotel phone book along in case I had to beat the truth out of him. One thing was certain. Paul was going to tell me what the h.e.l.l was going on if it was the last thing he ever did. And based on the way I was feeling as I stood in the Starbucks across from his office, that was a distinct possibility. "Anything else?" the barista asked, pus.h.i.+ng my five-figure-calorie breakfast across the counter. "You don't have anything else," I told her. In an oversize purple velvet wing chair positioned by the window, I read the FBI report, cover to cover. I stared at the autoradiographs - the DNA vertical barcodes - for both crime scenes until my vision blurred.There was no mistake, no denying what the pages said. I didn't have to know what variable number tandem repeat meant or what the heck an STR locus was to see that the two samples were one and the same.I put the report down, and with one eye on the revolving doors of Paul's black-gla.s.s office building across the narrow street, I commenced a world-record round of compulsive eating. Hey, alcohol and nicotine were out. What's a very p.i.s.sed-off, pregnant cop supposed to do? I was licking chocolate icing off my fingers fifteen minutes later when, through the scrum of business suits and power ties, I spotted the sandy head of a man Paul's height turning into the office building. Good- looking guy, no denying it. That was one constant about my husband. Maybe the only one. I knocked back the last of an espres...o...b..ownie, slowly brushed myself off, and grabbed the latte-stained FBI report.Come out with your hands up, Paul, I thought as I crossed the still-shadowy canyon of Pearl Street. Your p.i.s.sed-off, pregnant wife has a gun in her handbag.But as I stood in line behind a FedEx guy at the security desk, I noticed something odd. Paul was in the open door of one of the elevators. Here we go again, I thought. Unlike the rest of the invading, pin-striped financial army, he was making his way out, like a salmon swimming upstream, a lone salmon. Whatever, I thought, taking a quick step toward him through the crowd. This saves me an elevator trip. But as I got closer, I noticed the carry-on strapped across his chest. And the shopping bag in his hand. The blue Tiffany shopping bag. I stopped dead-still, and stayed silent as I watched him head toward the doorway.

Chapter 99.

CARRY-ON? TIFFANY BAG? Where was Paul going? What the h.e.l.l was happening now? Did I really want to know?Yes! I needed to find out, I decided, as I watched him flag a taxi. His cab was pulling out when I whistled and caught the next one pulling in. "At the risk of sounding cliched," I told the orange-turbaned driver. "Follow that cab." So we did. Up to Midtown Manhattan. Then through the Midtown Tunnel onto the Long Island Expressway. When our cabs reached the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I called Paul's cell. "Hey, Paul. What's up?" I said when he answered after a couple of ring-a-dings. "Lauren," Paul said. "How was your sleepover?" I could actually see him through the rear window of the taxi in front of me, holding his cell to his ear. "Terrific," I said. "Listen, Paul. I'm bored out of my mind. I was thinking of heading down to see you for lunch today. What do you say? That be okay?" Here it is, Paul. Your moment of truth. "Can't, babe," Paul said. "You know Mondays are impossible. We got six earnings reports coming in that have to be crunched and recrunched. I can see my boss from my desk right now. He's knocking back beta- blockers with his venti. If I get out of here by eight tonight, I'll be lucky. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, promise. How are you feeling?" The green sign we were speeding under said "LaGuardia Airport." I had to hold my hand over the mouthpiece on my cell in order to m.u.f.fle a sob."Just fine, Paul," I said after a second. "Don't worry about me. See you tonight." If not sooner, babe!At the airport, I had to flash my badge and NYPD ID in order to get past the security checkpoint without a ticket. Then I stayed well back in the torrent of people as I followed Paul down the departures concourse, past the regiments of newsstands and gift shops and open bars. He stopped suddenly, about a hundred feet ahead of me. He sat down at Gate 32. Keeping my distance by a bank of pay phones, I felt like an ulcer exploded open in my stomach when I saw his destination.Was.h.i.+ngton, DC.

Chapter 100.

IT COST ME $175 to snag a last-minute seat on Paul's flight. What was I saying? It cost Paul $175. Excellent.Watching from a restaurant across the departure concourse, I literally flinched as Paul was checking in for the business-cla.s.s boarding call. That was because the attendant at the counter did something more than a little odd after he handed Paul his ticket stub. He punched Paul's fist playfully - as if they were old pals! What was that all about? I s.n.a.t.c.hed a discarded newspaper from the boarding area to s.h.i.+eld my face as I pa.s.sed through the front cabin, but I needn't have bothered. A glance showed me that he was engrossed in conversation with the man on his right - another frequent flier, I supposed. If there was a good thing to say about my second-to-last, back-row seat in coach, it was that there was no way for Paul and me to b.u.mp into each other during the flight. Oh, and it had a handy barf bag. One that I made use of promptly after takeoff. Pregnancy and motion sickness and watching your world go up in apocalyptic flames - really bad combination. "Sorry," I said to my thoroughly disturbed female executive neighbor, who was on the phone. "Baby on the way. Morning has broken." The really tricky part came when we landed in Was.h.i.+ngton. Paul, along with the rest of the corporate-cla.s.s dweebs, got off first. So I really had to hightail it out to the arrival gate in order to see which way he'd gone. But by the time I'd made it to the taxi line on the street, there was no sign of him.d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it! What a waste this whole trip down here had been.I was doubling back, heading up the escalator, when I saw him coming out of the men's room. He'd changed into jeans and a nice blue sweater - and he wasn't wearing his gla.s.ses anymore. What kept me from screaming his name right then and there, I don't know. His a.s.s was so busted it was unreal. Instead, I just double-timed it back down the stairs and continued to trail my deceitful husband. I needed to know firsthand just how deep he'd sunk the blade into my back. Paul went directly past the taxi line through the sliding gla.s.s doors into the street. The doors were closing when I saw him do something that made me stop in my tracks and just stare. He opened the pa.s.senger door of a s.h.i.+ny black Range Rover that was idling at the curb. I decided to run then. By the time I'd made it ten feet outside, the sleek luxury SUV was already moving, tires shrieking as it cut off a minibus and shot into the left lane. My eyes strained to get the license plate number as I ran across the exhaust-stained pavement after it. It was a DC plate starting with 99. I gave up on the rest of the plate number and tried to get a quick look at the driver. I wanted to see who, or more specifically what gender, the person was who had just picked up my husband. But the windows were tinted. I discovered that little fact about the same moment that I tripped over a golf bag and gave the hallowed ground of our nation's capital an enthusiastic, chest-b.u.mping high-five.

Chapter 101.

NOT EXACTLY SURE where to start looking for Paul, I decided to pay Roger Zampella, the contact detective listed in the FBI report, a visit. I'd never met Roger face-to-face, of course. He turned out to be a large, well-dressed African American with a smile brighter than the polished buckles of his polka-dot suspenders. When I called him from the airport, he'd immediately invited me over to his squad room at the Metro DC Second District Station on Idaho Avenue. I arrived to catch him just beginning an early lunch at his desk. "You don't mind if I eat while we talk, do you, Detective?" he said, flipping his silk pink-and-green repp tie over his shoulder. He tucked a napkin into the white collar of his two-tone baby blue banker's s.h.i.+rt before upending a brown lunch bag onto his desk with a flourish. A small apple slid out, along with a Quaker oatmeal bar about the size of a used bar of soap. He cleared his throat. "My wife," he explained as he tore open the bar's wrapper with his teeth, "just saw the results of my latest cholesterol test. I got an F-minus. You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about a robbery? I should have told you, I'm in Homicide now." "It's actually from nearly five years ago," I said. "I was wondering if you could recall anything about it. The case number was three-seven-three-four-five. An armed robbery at the Sheraton Crystal City Hotel in Arlington, Virginia, across the river from the capital. The perpetrator -" "Left some blood," Detective Zampella said without any hesitation. "The ticket-broker thing. I remember it." "You have a good memory," I said. "You never forget the open ones, unfortunately," he said. "You said something about a ticket broker?" Zampella sniffed at the oatmeal bar before he took a dainty squirrel nibble. "The Sheraton, this is the one out near Reagan National Airport, was hosting the annual NCAA football coaches' convention," he said as he chewed. "All the big schools' coaches and a.s.sistant coaches receive Final Four tickets every year for free. These ticket brokers - glorified ticket scalpers, if you want my opinion - just set up shop in the hotel and buy them up. Pay out cash right there and then. Illegal, of course, but we're talking about college recruiters. They've been known to bend a few rules." "How much cash are we talking about here, Roger?" "A lot," Zampella said. "Some of the games go for a thousand bucks a ticket." "And there was a robbery?" Zampella went to take another little bite, decided to h.e.l.l with it, and dropped the whole thing into his mouth. He chewed twice, swallowed, then cleared his throat. "One of these brokers apparently came down a couple of nights before the convention," he said. "And somebody must have gotten wind of who he was, and they robbed him of his suitcase of cash." "Get a description?" I said. "Anything at all?" Zampella shook his head. "Guy wore a ski mask." A ski mask? Wow, Paul was really original. Not to mention completely insane. "Where'd the blood come from? Anybody figure that out?" "When the broker was handing over the case, he had second thoughts and hit the thief in the chin with it. Guy was a bleeder, I guess. Ruined the carpet." "What did the thief do then?" "He took out a gun, threatened to blow the guy away. That's when the broker gave it up." "How much did he get?" "Half a million, maybe more. The broker said it was only seven thousand, but that's because he didn't want to get in trouble with the IRS, or maybe the Mob. This guy was a major ticket guy." "Suspects?" I said."There was no hit on the blood. We interviewed several guests on the broker's floor. There were, like, two thousand people at the conference that night. We weren't going to set the world on fire for some slick, probably Mobbed-up a.s.shole ticket broker who was tripping over himself to lie to us. We went by the book and, you know how it is, moved on to the next thing, forgot all about it. Until now, that is. What are you doing? Gathering new material for a revival of Unsolved Mysteries ?""It's actually personal," I told the detective. "A friend of mine, a jeweler, was pistol-whipped and robbed in a Midtown Manhattan hotel last month. I remembered seeing the abstract on your case when I looked into it. You wouldn't happen to have a copy of the hotel register, would you?" "I did put one in the file," Zampella said, checking his watch. "But it's been - what? Five years? G.o.d knows where they buried it." "I know I'm being a pain in the neck," I said. "But do you think you could make a couple of calls and track it down for me? After I take you out for lunch, of course. DC has a Morton's, doesn't it?" Zampella glanced at his scrawny apple. Then he reached for his pin-striped suit jacket on the back of his chair. "As a matter of fact," he said, standing up. "There's one right here in Arlington."

Chapter 102.

TWO HOURS AND TWO FILET MIGNONS with home fries later, we were back in Zampella's office, and I was going over the very hotel register I needed to see so urgently.Zampella thought he had heart trouble? When I glanced at the top of the second page, I could have used a defibrillator and a shot of epinephrine.There it was in black and white - Paul Stillwell.Something inside me swayed dangerously. Even after all the evidence, I was hoping for some eleventh- hour reprieve. Yet here was the opposite. More and more proof of Paul's - what? Lunacy? Secret life? I couldn't believe it. Paul had actually robbed a sports ticket broker of half a million dollars? And I'd thought finding out secret stuff about Scott Thayer was devastating. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with men? Were they all legally insane? No, I answered myself. Not all of them. Just the ones who had the misfortune to make my acquaintance. Or the other way around. I thought about the Range Rover and the Tiffany bag and the fact that Paul didn't wear gla.s.ses down here in DC. I turned to Zampella, half snoozing behind his desk. He'd had a martini with his steak. "You think you could do me just one more favor, Roger? Just one, and I'm gone." "Shoot," he said. "I'm looking for an owner's list of 2007 Range Rovers. DC plates starting with ninety-nine.""More Unsolved Mysteries material, huh? All right, you got it. But fraternal order of police cooperation aside, this has to be the last one. My lieutenant is due back from a department conference any second. There's a bookstore right down the block. Why don't you catch up on some reading, and I'll see you in about an hour."It was more like half an hour. I was sitting in front of the magazine rack, paging through a Vanity Fair, when Zampella tapped me on the shoulder."I think you dropped something, miss," he said, handing me an envelope with a wink before heading off toward the exit. I ripped the sheet of paper out of the envelope. The list was twenty-one vehicles long. I traced my finger down the owner's column, looking for Stillwell. No dice. I did it again more slowly. Again nothing. I rubbed my overcaffeinated, tired eyes. What the h.e.l.l? It was worth a shot. I went into the bookstore's cafe, sat down, and pulled out the hotel guest list. One by one, I cross- referenced each Range Rover owner with the hotel list. It was maybe fifteen minutes later, pins and needles tingling my b.u.t.t, when I found a match. Veronica Boyd. 221 Riggs Place. Veronica? I thought, seething. I knew it! A woman! Paul, you G.o.dd.a.m.ned b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I jumped out of my seat and bolted for the front door. I needed to rent a car. And maybe do some surveillance work.It was time to find out exactly what - oh, and most especially who - Paul had done.

Chapter 103.

THE HOUSE WAS A QUAINT attached brick residence on a low-key, but definitely upscale street in a neighborhood north of Dupont Circle. The rainbow flags outside the coffee bars and the restaurants housed in its old stately buildings reminded me a lot of Greenwich Village, the more yuppified parts, anyway. From my rented Ford Taurus parked at the corner, I kept my eyes locked on the gleaming black door of 221 Riggs Place. A quick scan of the block didn't reveal any black Range Rovers among the several other brands of luxury vehicles parked along both sides of the narrow, tree-lined street. Well, what do you know? I thought, squinting at the shutter-lined upper windows of the house. In his secret life Paul seemed to be doing darn well for himself. But was it his house? I truly didn't want it to be. If I ever wanted to be completely wrong about something, it was this.Let there be some explanation, Paul. Something I can stomach.I was about to take a spin for a restroom break an hour later, when the front door finally opened. None other than Paul came down the brick stoop of the town house, carrying the blue Tiffany bag.He pressed the key fob in his hand, and the headlights of a hunter green convertible Jaguar on the far corner glowed with a double bloop.That really wasn't fair, I thought, sublimating the urge to plow the rented car broadside into the Jaguar. Why couldn't we have the Jag in our dimension? Next up, I tailed Paul through the afternoon traffic. We made a turn onto 14th Street and pa.s.sed a bunch of lettered side streets, S Street, R. I followed Paul left onto Q Street, then right onto 13th Street and around the rotary to O Street. I watched as he pulled into the parking lot of an ivy-covered brick building. The Chamblis School, said a bra.s.s sign on its wall. This couldn't be good. Not a chance in h.e.l.l that this was the happy ending I was looking for. I parked at a hydrant, feeling like I was in a trance as I watched Paul get out of the Jag, carrying the Tiffany bag. So, Veronica Boyd was a teacher? I could just about picture her. Preppy and little and blonde. Not to mention young. And very attractive, of course. Was that what this was all about? I thought, starting to fume in the car. Out with the old, in with the new? I watched Paul return to the Jag three minutes later. What in the world? She was young, all right. A three- or four-year-old girl wearing a plaid jumper threw her arms around Paul's neck. He closed his eyes as he hugged her and then opened the bag. The little girl removed a white teddy bear wearing a silver necklace and kissed it. Paul lifted her up under her arms and carefully put her and the teddy bear into the car. I was still sitting, immobilized, when Paul maneuvered the purring Jag around the wagons, SUVs, and Hummers of the other parents picking up their kids. When he stopped at the corner, I got a good look at the girl through the back window. My lungs quit. No inhaling. No exhaling. I recognized that pin-straight nose, those blue eyes, that sandy hair. The girl was as beautiful as Paul was handsome. She'd gotten all of his looks. I couldn't believe it, absolutely couldn't. The pain was unreal, impossible to imagine without actually experiencing it, open-heart surgery without anesthesia. Things were a thousand times worse than I'd ever thought they could be. Paul had pulled off the cruelest trick possible. A baby, I thought. Paul had had a baby.Without me.

Chapter 104.

I ARRIVED BACK at 221 Riggs Place just in time to see Paul coming back out of the house with his little girl, and a Dora the Explorer bike complete with training wheels. I nodded ironically as he popped the smiling child onto it and headed the bicycle south down the sidewalk.Off to the playground, no doubt. I always knew Paul would make an excellent father. When they were out of sight, I emerged from the Taurus and headed for the stoop. Just one more thing to do here, I thought as I climbed the stairs mechanically and rang the doorbell. One final detail to take care of. I just needed to core out the very last remnants of my heart. "Yes?" said the woman who opened the door. She was blonde, all right, but not preppy. And not little. At least not her chest. I guessed she was about my age, which, honestly, didn't help one bit. I scrutinized her heavy-handed makeup, the way her tight black skirt cut into her tummy. She looked like she'd recently put on weight. An attractive woman desperately battling the onslaught of her late thirties. Welcome to the club. I stared into her dark brown eyes under the razor streaks of blonde, an off-putting clash of light and dark. When I smelled her perfume, something cold drew across my stomach. Like a razor. "Veronica?" I finally spoke. "Yes," she said again. I noticed she had an accent, Texan maybe, definitely southern. I took out my badge. "I'm Detective Stillwell," I said. "May I please have a word with you?" "What's this about?" she said tensely, not budging from the doorway. I couldn't tell if she knew me or just didn't like badges. I took out the DMV printout I'd gotten from Zampella. "Do you have a 2007 black Range Rover?" I asked the blonde woman. Paul's other wife? "Yes," she said. "What about it?" "I'm investigating a hit-and-run accident. May I come in? It will only take a moment." "Why does a New York City detective want to investigate a hit-and-run accident in Was.h.i.+ngton, DC?" she asked, keeping herself wedged in the doorway. I already had an answer for that. "I'm sorry. I should have explained. My mother came down three days ago with her church group. She was the victim. If there's some sort of problem, I could always just go ahead and have your vehicle impounded." "Come in," she said, stepping to the side. "This has to be some kind of mistake." There was an off-white pub mirror and a cute espresso-stained mail desk in the front foyer. The design was contemporary, moderately tasteful. The rooms were sunny and cozy. She led me into the kitchen, where she'd opted for retro appliances. A pink mixer sat on the butcher-block island next to a bag of flour. She was cooking dinner for Paul? Sweet girl."My daughter Caroline's fourth birthday is today, and I have to make a Dora the Explorer cake or the world will end," Veronica said, staring into my eyes.The world has ended, I felt like saying as I looked away."Coffee?" she asked. "That would be fine," I said. "Thank you." She opened and closed a cupboard over the sink. I stood there light-headed, fighting to stay on my feet. What the heck was I doing here? What was I trying to get out of this? Down the hallway, I spotted a vanity wall, photographs on floating shelves. "May I use your bathroom?" I asked. "Down the hall to your right."The walls of the hall seemed to collapse in on me as I saw Paul in one of the photos. He was on a sunny beach with Veronica and the baby, who was maybe one at the time. Surf spraying, the sand like powdered sugar. The next shot - to my heart - was of the two of them, Mommy and Daddy, their cheeks together in midlaugh, red-eyed with city lights twinkling behind them.The third photograph hit me like a serrated blade between my eyes. A half-naked Veronica in an open nightgown, Paul resting his chin on her shoulder as he cupped her ripe, pregnant belly in his hands.By the time I got to the fourth, and final, photo, a thousand-megaton blast in my skull had mushroomed. Paul, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.Veronica's breath was suddenly at my back. "You're not here to ask about some car accident," she announced. I stared at their wedding photo for another moment, dry-eyed. It had been taken on the same beach as the first photograph. A minister was there. White flowers in Veronica's blonde hair. Paul in an open-throated, white silk s.h.i.+rt. Smiling. Beaming, actually. She wisely jumped out of my way as I stumbled toward the front door.

Chapter 105.

IT HAD ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING! Not just everything that had happened in the past month - my entire marriage.That thought hummed like high-voltage electricity through my head as I drifted in the direction Paul had gone with the little girl, Caroline. All my covering up. Gutting my friends.h.i.+ps. Blowing my police career to smithereens. I had actually blackmailed the district attorney, hadn't I? I covered my mouth with my hands. I had nothing left, did I? I made the corner. Across the busy street was some kind of park. I looked out at a trio of street musicians and a group of old men playing chess under the trees. Other people were strolling along the path or lounging around a big white fountain. Everything was dappled with sunlight, like in that famous Renoir in all the art books. As I came past the fountain, I spotted Paul pus.h.i.+ng his daughter on a swing. He helped Caroline down and guided her to the sandbox as I arrived at the chain-link fence. The two of them seemed to love each other very much. I walked around to the other end of the playground and was a few feet behind the bench Paul was sitting on when the four-year-old came running over to him. "Daddy, Daddy!" she said. "Yes, love?" Paul said. "Can I have a drink?" Paul reached into the basket of the bicycle and fished out a juice pack. I felt it in my stomach when he poked the straw through the foil. Then he knelt down and gave her another hug. Even from behind, I could sense the joy radiating off Paul as he walked his little girl back to the swings."Is this seat taken?" I said as he came back to his bench.

Chapter 106.

AT FIRST PAUL FROZE. Then spasms of shock, fear, concern, and sorrow crossed his face. For a second, I thought he was going to bolt and start booking for the park exit. Instead, he suddenly sagged down on the bench and put his head between his knees. "Where do you want me to start?" he finally said quietly as he rubbed his temples. "Let's see," I said, tapping my finger against my lower lip. "There are so many choices. How about the first time you cheated on me? Maybe the time you robbed a ticket broker at the Sheraton? Or no, no, no. The day you secretly got married. Wait, I've got it. My favorite. Tell me about the time you had a baby without me!" Scalding tears ran down the sides of my face. "I was barren and you needed to have a kid? Was that it? 'Sorry, Lauren, you sterile waste of life. I need to be fruitful and multiply with some other woman behind your back'?" "That wasn't it," Paul said, looking at me, then out at his daughter. "She was an accident." "You think that matters in the slightest?" I said, my face raw with anger. Paul wiped at his eyes and looked at me. "Just give me a second," he said, standing. "Then I'll tell you. I want to tell you everything." "How considerate," I said. Paul rolled the bike over to where the nannies were gathered. He spoke to one of them and then returned without the bike. "Imelda works for the people next door. She'll take Caroline back. Why don't we walk and talk. I knew this had to happen someday." I shook my head. "I didn't."

Chapter 107.

"IT WAS ALMOST FIVE YEARS AGO," Paul said as we took the strolling path at the park's perimeter. "I picked the short straw on that bulls.h.i.+t a.n.a.lyst's-convention thing in DC, remember? I was p.i.s.sed off. Things weren't going real well between me and you and . . . Anyway, I was in the lounge at the Sheraton, nice room, piano bar, trying to drink away the memory of yet another ludicrous meeting, when this loud, drunken moron storms in and demands that the Patriots game be put on." "I want to hear about your secret family, Paul. Not some stupid hotel bar story," I spat. "I'm getting there," Paul said. "Every time there's a first down, this character has another shot of orange brandy. In the middle of the fourth quarter, he downs his eighth or ninth shot and proceeds to throw up all over the bar. "I'm talking projectile action! As the bartender tosses him out, I look over and Veronica, who was standing on the other side of the guy, is staring at me, wide-eyed as I am. And I said, 'Let's just be glad he didn't stay for the postgame celebration.' That's how we met." "Wow, that's sweet and kind of funny," I said with a sneer. "You really had your groove on that night, huh?" Paul looked at me. "I can argue or I can explain. Not both." "Or get shot in the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es," I said. "You left that one out." "Shall I continue, Lauren?" he asked. "If you please would," I said. "I can't wait to hear the rest of this riveting tale." "So, basically, she invites me to have a drink with her. It was innocent, I swear. I wasn't trying to do anything. I don't expect you to believe that, but it's the truth. After a couple of more drinks, we're just sitting there, talking, telling our life stories, and this stocky guy walks in. "Veronica keeps staring at him, and then she says that she knows him. Turns out, Veronica used to be a Tampa Bay Buccaneers cheerleader." "Football?" I said, tilting my head. "That's funny. Considering the basketb.a.l.l.s under her s.h.i.+rt, I was leaning more toward the NBA." "She used to go out with one of the Tampa Bay a.s.sistant coaches," Paul continued, "and she said she remembered the guy at the bar buying Super Bowl tickets from her old boyfriend. She tells me the stocky guy is some kind of bigwig shady ticket broker. She points to the briefcase the guy is carrying and says it's probably full of hundred-dollar bills. We drink some more and talk about what we would do with that kind of money. Finally, Veronica stands up to go." Paul stopped walking and peered at me. "You sure you want to hear this?" "You want to protect my feelings now?" I said. "Of course I want to hear the punch line." Paul nodded as if pained. " 'I dare you,' she whispers in my ear. 'I'm in two-oh-six.' And off she goes. "So, I sit and drink. Three scotches later, I see this stocky guy get up, carrying his briefcase. I let him leave. But then I find myself on my feet, following him. Just as a joke, I kept telling myself. No way I'm going to rob anybody. But I follow him to his room. "Then, I don't know what got into me. I was wasted, upset, alone, and excited all at once. A couple of minutes later, I knock on the guy's door, and when he opens it, I'm punching him in the face." Paul and I both stepped out of the way as a bike messenger zipped between us. "Wait a second," I said. "The report said you had a gun." Paul shook his head. "No, we just fought. He must have made that up in order to make himself look better. He was strong. He bloodied my nose with a shot, but I was too scared to lose. I just teed off on him until he went down. Then I grabbed the briefcase, and I ran." "To two-oh-six?" I said. "To two-oh-six," Paul said with a grim nod.

Chapter 108.

I STUMBLED ALONG the path like the sole survivor of a terrorist bombing. I remembered where we were in our marriage at the time. Not a good place. It was after we'd learned we couldn't become parents. A year of having s.e.x like it was a science experiment. Paul having to humiliate himself with plastic cups in specialist after specialist's bathrooms. All for nothing. We'd turned on each other then. We didn't announce it, but I could see it now, vividly. That was what had happened back then. I decided that I couldn't care less. I suddenly stopped short and slapped Paul. Hard! As hard as I could! "Keep going?" he said as he rubbed his jaw. "Good guess," I said. "I wake up the next morning, and at first I have no idea where I am or what's happened the night before. On the desk are two neatly divided piles of hundred-dollar bills. Veronica is sitting there in a bathrobe, pouring coffee. Fifteen minutes later, I'm walking out of her room with a gym bag full of four hundred thousand dollars." I shook my head. I was actually asleep, wasn't I? Dreaming this. No, I realized. I was tripping. Somewhere along the course of this bizarre day, I'd been drugged. I rubbed my eyes. Paul goes off on a business trip and pulls off a heist? I asked the next logical question. "What did you do with the money?" "Caymans," Paul said. "A buddy of mine on the trading desk was going down there. He set it up for me. If there's a good side to this, it's that. Four-plus years of extremely aggressive investing later, we're looking at a little over one point-two million." I tried to let that rather large sum sink in. I was experiencing major difficulties, though. Paul continued, "Three months after I stole the money, I get a call that puts ice in my blood. It's Veronica. She tells me she's pregnant. At first I'm insane. I tell her I want a paternity test, I want to talk to my lawyer, but she says to calm down, she's not going to boil any rabbits. She just wanted to be nice. She thought I should know that I had a daughter coming into the world. Whatever I wanted to do was up to me. "So I debated and didn't do anything for a long time, but eventually I went down to meet Caroline. One thing led to another, and well . . . One day a week, I take the shuttle down here and become Daddy." "For the past four years?" I said. "Work knows about this?" Paul shook his head. "I just telecommute." "What about Veronica? You want me to believe you're not still s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her?" "It's true," Paul said.A second later, I found myself screeching with my hands around his throat. " Bulls.h.i.+t! You married her!" I screamed. "I saw the pictures in the hall!"Paul pulled my hands off him. "No, no, no!" he said, holding his hands out before himself protectively as he backed away. "That was all for Caroline's sake. We wanted her to think she has a regular daddy like everybody else. We had a photographer take some pictures. That's all. She thinks I'm a pilot." My eyes felt like they were filled with acid, burning deep into the sockets. "And who does Veronica think you are?" Paul shrugged. "She knows who I am," he said. "That makes her in the minority, Paul, don't you think?" I said. "Does she know about me?" "From the start.""You f.u.c.ker!" I said. I was insane with rage. I felt like biting him. "Do you know who you are? Because I don't. Is your new job a bulls.h.i.+t story, too?""No, that's actually real," Paul said, suddenly sitting down on an empty bench. "Let's face it, Lauren," he said after a little while. "When you and I found out we couldn't have children, our marriage started sliding badly. We both were feeling hurt, screwed up. Then you got promoted to Bronx Homicide, Lauren, and that was all she wrote. Turnaround after turnaround. Double, triple s.h.i.+fts. Don't get me wrong, I didn't blame you. I just never saw much of you. I really didn't think there was a chance in h.e.l.l of us getting back together. "But things are so different now, Lauren. You're pregnant. It was like somebody hit a 'pause' b.u.t.ton, then remembered the two of us after four years and just hit 'play' again. Caroline is in my heart, but I'd be willing to give up even her for you. There's an actual 'us' again, a future. I'm ready to do anything for that." Paul gripped my hand. "I've always just wanted us. You know that. From the first time I set eyes on you. We can work it out, Lauren. This . . . s.h.i.+t - It's just a stupid, horrible detour. All the lies are over now." "That sounds really sweet, Paul," I said, pulling my hand away. "Really wonderful and nice, except for one thing. One small detail." He looked at me quizzically. Now it was my turn to hurt him. Let's see how he liked getting his heart napalmed. "You left something out. Something really important, Paul. The cop I watched you kill. I was there when you killed Scott, dumba.s.s."

Chapter 109.

PAUL'S FACE SEEMED TO CRUMBLE in front of me. "You were where? " he asked."At Scott's place in Riverdale," I told him. "You must have read our e-mails, but guess what? You were too late. He'd just been with me, Paul. Right before you cracked his skull open, we'd been in bed together. Turnabout is fair play, no? So how does it feel?"Apparently not too good. Paul's mouth was gaping wider than The Scream 's. "So you were . . . How did . . . ," he stammered."That's right, Paul," I said. "Surprise, surprise." I grabbed his wrist, squeezed with all my might. "Who the h.e.l.l do you think has been keeping you out of jail all this time? Your fairy G.o.dmother? I covered things up for you, destroyed my career - everything I was - in order to keep you out of prison. I actually felt sorry for you. Can you imagine that?" Paul put his hand out toward my face. I slapped it down. Other strollers started making a wide berth around us. "And come to think of it," I snarled. "How dare you kill Scott when you knew you were being unfaithful to me? Who the h.e.l.l are you? Thief. Murderer. Bigamist. What am I missing?" I slapped him again, and it felt so good. "Scott had a wife and three kids!"Paul broke my grip, then walked away. He stood along the other side of the path so that I wouldn't hit him again, I a.s.sumed. After a while, he did something astounding. He started laughing."You want to let me in on the joke?" I said, red-faced, walking toward him. "I could use a real rib-tickler right around now." Paul turned to me. "Sure," he said. "Here's the punch line: I didn't kill Scott because he was sleeping with you. I had no idea about that, Lauren." He folded his arms across his chest and gave me another smile. I didn't get it, not a word he was saying. "I killed him because he was blackmailing me," said Paul.

Chapter 110.

NOW IT WAS MY TURN to put my head down between my knees. "Blackmailing you?" I asked. Paul nodded. "A year ago, Veronica came up to New York. She has a friend who's a model or something who gets her work. Eleven o'clock in the morning, she finds herself in the middle of a drug raid, and I get this frantic call at work to go and try to help her out."I walk into this apartment down in SoHo, expecting a million cops, but there's only one. Scott Thayer. I'd gotten there too late, though, because Veronica got scared and told him we had money. He takes me into the kitchen and tells me he's a reasonable guy. He'll let everybody go free for ten grand cash."I felt a sharp pain in my neck. My skin felt clammy."So I gave it to him," Paul said. "A month goes by. One day I'm coming back to my desk after lunch, and Thayer's sitting at it, holding a picture of you. He tells me that you two work out of the same precinct house, and for another twenty grand, not only will he not turn me in - nice guy that he is - he won't tell you about Veronica."Paul looked at me. I stared back at him, my mouth gaping. "So I give him that. It was when he came back the third time that I realized it would never end. He wanted fifty thousand. Instead of giving it to him, I decided I'd rather take a shot at wrapping things up my own way." I listened to flute music from somewhere in the park. It sounded like a dirge at my own funeral. I'd thought Paul had fought for me. That his killing Scott had been about me. But it was over money, blackmail. "You understand that Thayer wasn't content to keep on blackmailing me," Paul continued. "He wanted all of it. He came after you to get another hook into me. That's all he wanted with you, Lauren." "So you killed him, Paul?" I said bitterly. "You're a gangster now? Robbing people and shooting cops. Maybe you should cut a rap alb.u.m." Paul squinted down at the ground, then shrugged. "Things just kind of kept on happening. One thing led to another." A scintilla of compa.s.sion rose inside me. The same thing had happened to me, hadn't it? I pushed the sympathy away as quickly as I could. The last thing I would do was feel sorry for Paul. "Listen, Lauren," Paul said. "Why don't we call it the mother of all midlife crises? I'll do whatever you want now. Give the money back. Or we can just go. We'll drive to Reagan International straight from here. A million point-two dollars tax free is a lot of money. Why don't we just go and spend it? Raise our kid on a sailboat. You're mad now, but you betrayed me, too, remember? Let's just . . . go. C'mon, Lauren. We can do this together."

Chapter 111.

I SAT THERE, staring at my incredible con man of a husband. What an amazing liar he was. Then I dropped my eyes to the pavement, my shoulders slumping. The world seemed to slow suddenly, the music in the air, the sound of traffic. It was official. I had given Paul everything that I possibly could. My love, my work, my reputation. And now I had absolutely zero left. I was still sitting there, agonizing, when Paul's daughter appeared again. The nanny Paul had spoken to stood waiting a few feet away with another toddler and Caroline's bike. "Daddy!" she said. "Pictures! I want to show Imelda the pictures." "Not now, love," Paul called to the girl. "Later, sweetheart." "But they're my brothers," the girl said, pulling a black-and-white photograph out of Paul's jacket before he could stop her. It fell to the ground as he tried to s.n.a.t.c.h it back. "You're mean, Daddy," the four-year-old said with a pout. "I want Imelda to see the picture of my new twin brothers."My eyes strained in their sockets. What!Paul stared down at the small, square photograph, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Show her later, Caroline," Paul snapped. Imelda took one look at him before quickly grabbing Caroline's hand and pulling her away. I bent and lifted the precious picture off the pavement. I nodded once, twice. It showed a sonogram. Two fetuses. Twins. I pictured Veronica again. Of course she looked like she'd recently put on weight. She was pregnant! I looked at Paul's face, almost with fascination. He'd lied so effortlessly to me. Again and again. He would never stop, I realized. There was something deeply, incredibly wrong with Paul. He would say anything, do anything. How could anyone tell lies like this? How could anyone do the awful things he'd done? Even the way he'd just snarled at his little girl. I'd protected a monster. "I know exactly what we're going to do now," I said, letting the black-and-white picture fall to the cobblestones. "What I should have done when this whole thing started." I whisked out my cuffs and snapped them onto his wrists. "Paul, you're under arrest."

Chapter 112.

NANNIES, CHESS PLAYERS, AND JOGGERS were outright gaping as I dragged a handcuffed Paul out of the park. Of course they looked at us. Good G.o.d, he was twice my size. "You sure this is the right thing to do, Lauren?" he whined as I perp-walked him two long blocks back toward my Taurus. "A million dollars? You still love me or you wouldn't have covered for me. Which isn't going to go well for you, either. You'll get charged as an accessory to murder. The baby will be born behind bars. You're not really thinking this through." "Unfortunately for you, Paul, I'm tired of thinking," I said. "Thinking is what got me into this mess. I'm just doing what's right. Trying to, anyway." I stopped suddenly as we pa.s.sed Paul's parallel-parked Jaguar. "Where are the keys, Paul? Let's end it in style. Give me a taste of that million dollars. Maybe I'll change my mind and drive to the airport." I jabbed Paul in the small of his back. "But don't bet on it." I took the keys from his jacket pocket and then pushed Paul into the pa.s.senger seat. I went around to the other side. I was sliding the key into the ignition, when Paul popped open the glove compartment. A second later, I felt something hard sticking under my right armpit. "Time to cut all the bulls.h.i.+t, Lauren," Paul said, digging a small revolver into my ribs. Idiot! I thought. Of course, he had a gun. The ticket broker hadn't lied about that. Paul had. "Hey, I thought you said you didn't have a gun," I said."You still haven't picked up on the theme here, Lauren?" Paul said. "I tell you only what you need to hear. Now get the cuffs off me. Right now! ""Then what? You're going to shoot me?" I said as I did what he asked. I didn't have a choice. "Might as well, Paul. You've done everything else to me." "Hey, you're the one who started this game. Slapping cuffs on me," Paul said. "That's what you think this is, don't you?" I said. "Some kind of game? News flash, Paul. You killed a man. You're a mur-der-er." Paul's face scrunched in rage. He turned bright red, his eyes glittering with fury."News flash? Let me tell you something. You know what it's like to have a wife with bigger b.a.l.l.s than you? While you were out kicking a.s.s, I was busy downtown kissing a.s.ses, so you could have nice things. But that's JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU!!!"Paul pistol-whipped the dashboard savagely, then pressed the gun barrel to my temple. "You want to know how I felt when Veronica made me that offer at the Sheraton? For the first time, I felt like a man! I got a chance to step away from this namby-pamby investment firm, law degree, 401(k) bulls.h.i.+t I've been wasting my whole life on." Paul took a deep breath, then released it. The gun stayed at my temple. "I did it, Lauren," he whispered fiercely. "I took what I wanted, and then I went and got my prize. Let me tell you something. I remember every second of it. And Lauren, it was good. Veronica licked the blood off my knuckles. I knocked her up like a stud bull." "Anything you say, psychopath," I said. "And you're right. I killed that p.r.i.c.k Scott. He thought he could just keep messing with me. You should have seen the look on his face when he turned around. He was outmanned, and he knew it. I gave your boyfriend exactly what was coming to him. I could give two s.h.i.+ts about his wife and kids." In the distance, sirens sounded. Somebody must have called the police about the scene Paul and I were making. Thank G.o.d for cell phones! "You hear that?" I said. "Sirens? That's the sound of truth and consequences catching up with you, Paul." "Nothing is catching up with me, cupcake," Paul said, opening the door and shoving me out. "Time for a trial separation." The Jag's tires smoked as he peeled out onto Riggs. I stood between the skid marks, disoriented. Could somebody please tell me what the h.e.l.l had just happened? The past few hours seemed impossible, surreal. What was I thinking, hours. Try the past few minutes. My hair flew back in the wake of two siren-wailing DC police cars that appeared in full-speed pursuit of Paul.This was it? I thought. This was how it would end?Half a block north across the street, I spotted my rental car.Not if I could help it, I thought, taking out the keys as I ran.

Chapter 113.

MINUTES LATER, I was pinning the gas, tailgating the rear DC cop car that was chasing Paul. I felt like giving him my brights. Gangway! NYPD coming through! Paul is mine. Get in line! That's my cheating, lying, murdering husband trying to get away. We careened through another ritzy neighborhood. Were we in Georgetown? Ivy-covered brick and Greek revivals blurred past my winds.h.i.+eld. Where did Paul think he was going? Did he still believe he could get away with this? I figured it all out when I spotted the tower of the bridge back to the airport. It loomed a half mile away, above some slate roofs on my left. I whipped a left at the next corner, ran a red light, and screeched a right onto M Street, speeding toward the bridge to cut him off if I could. I honked as I skidded to a stop - dead center at the entrance to the Francis Scott Key Bridge. Then I jumped out of the car and stood in the open doorway. "Get your crazy a.s.s out of the street!" an angry bus driver screamed at me as he leaned on his horn. "What in the green world of G.o.d do you think you're doing?" You think I know? I felt like telling him. But I didn't have the energy or the time. A block to the north, Paul was approaching with the DC cops close behind. When he reached the traffic I'd just backed up, he drove the Jaguar up on the sidewalk. No hesitation. A hot dog cart and newspaper box sailed off the Jaguar's grill before Paul bulleted into the intersection. I jumped to the left of my Taurus, filling the only s.p.a.ce that might fit Paul's car. The bus driver screamed as the Jag sped toward me. I was the only thing standing between Paul and the bridge. I stood there transfixed. Paul would stop. He wouldn't run me down. He couldn't kill me. The car kept coming, though. Really fast. At the last second, I dove to the right. The Jag blew past me like a hunter green guided missile. Twisting around on my back, I watched Paul slalom around my car and back onto the bridge road. Son of a b.i.t.c.h was going to make it. He would have run me down - no problem at all. But then his right back wheel caught the curb with a savage pop, and the car went airborne. An amazing sight. There was a deafening crunch, a sound like a giant plastic bottle being fed into a recycling machine, as the Jaguar collided with a concrete bridge abutment. Gla.s.s hung in the air like dust motes as the Jag accordioned. Then the ruined car flipped end over end, snapping through riverside trees before exploding into the muddy green water of the Potomac.

Chapter 114.

THE JAGUAR HAD DISAPPEARED - and Paul with it. I tripped on a partially buried shopping cart as I half ran, half fell down the embankment. Now what? Well, I did an awkward triple lutz before I belly flopped painfully into the river. Then I kicked my way straight down, scanning the murky water for the Jag and Paul. I don't know why I was being so brave, foolish - whatever this ought to be called. Maybe because it was the right thing to do. I was about to go back up for more air when I spotted a shard of twisted metal. I swam toward it. No! It was the Jag. Paul was still belted into his seat behind the deployed air bag. His eyes were closed, his face st.i.tched with bleeding cuts. How long had he been in the water? When did brain damage start? I thought, yanking open the car door. I leaned across Paul, struggling desperately against the air bag to undo his shoulder belt. The d.a.m.n thing wouldn't open. Then I felt his hands bite into my neck.What was he doing?My throat was already burning. I couldn't believe this. I guess I was the one with the brain damage! Here I was, trying to save him - and he wanted to kill me at the bottom of the Potomac. Paul really was crazy.River water burned my nasal cavity as I struggled. Very soon I would be out of strength and oxygen. Then what? That was simple - I would drown.I kept fighting against him, but that wasn't working. Paul was too big, too strong. I had to go another way. And fast! I pushed hard against the winds.h.i.+eld. Then I shot my elbow back, catching Paul in the throat. Then I did it again! The pressure on my neck let up as an air bubble the size of Rhode Island blobbed out of Paul's mouth. I ducked from beneath his arms. I felt myself starting to pa.s.s out, though. Paul grabbed my foot as I struggled to turn away from him. He was still stuck in the car, his open eyes bulging. He was going to take me with him, if it was the last thing he did, which it would be.I kicked forward against the water, then straight back into his nose. I broke it for sure. Blood blossomed around his face. Then his grip let free, and I kicked myself away from the car, up toward the light.I looked back and could see Paul's face below. He was bleeding, and he seemed to be screaming. Then he was gone. I broke the surface and gorged myself on blessed air as the strong river current pulled me along. Up on a bridge I floated under, there were spinning police lights and dozens of staring faces. The riverside trees swayed in a police helicopter's rotor wash. A fireman shouted and tossed me a life preserver. I grabbed it and held on for dear life.

Chapter 115.

THE DC COPS TOOK real good care of me after that. They had checked our flight list, a.s.sumed Paul and I were on vacation and that he had simply snapped. I didn't say anything to change their mind. In fact, after I ID'd the body, I didn't say anything at all. An hour later, my buddy Detective Zampella himself arrived at the scene and managed to squash the story with the local media. Then Zampella got me the h.e.l.l out of there. I needed to chill somewhere. But not in DC. I didn't want to fly, so I got in my rental and drove all the way to Baltimore before the urge to rest came over me again. I remembered staying at a nice Sheraton near the inner harbor one time, and I found the hotel on Charles Street. The Sheraton Inner Harbor Hotel. Never has any hotel looked better to me. I got a room with a water view, instead of one overlooking Oriole Park at Camden Yards. Not that I really cared right now. The room was all blues and creams and it was definitely what I needed, because I was the ultimate frazzled traveler. The bed was sweet, just terrific, and I spent the rest of the evening motionless, almost comatose, staring up at the ceiling. As the numbness started to wear off, I felt sad, angry, anxious, ashamed, and helpless all at once. Finally, I slept.The next time I looked up, it was still dark. I stared at the walls of the strange room, not remembering where I was at first. It all came back to me as I glanced out the window and saw the lit-up harbor. A big boat called The Chesapeake. Baltimore - the Sheraton Inner Harbor.Then other images came.Paul. Veronica. Little blonde Caroline.The Jaguar in the Potomac.I lay in the dark and thought it all through from the beginning. What I had done. How I felt about it now. How I felt about myself. I pinched my eyes shut. Vivid sensations and memories flashed through me periodically. The smell of Scott's cologne. The taste of rain in his kiss. The feel of the rain on my s.h.i.+ns as I stared at his battered body. Paul in the Jaguar at the end. My breath caught at what I remembered next. I saw silver-white light streaming through the windows of the church where Paul and I were married. My left hand twitched as I felt the slide of a gold ring. The despair that overtook me then was like a seizure. I felt like it was something that had always been in me. Some dark blossom that had been waiting to bloom since the day I was married. For the next two hours I did nothing but cry. Eventually I found a phone and ordered a sandwich and beer from the Orioles Grille in the hotel. I turned on the TV. On the eleven o'clock news there was a lurid shot of the bridge in DC where the accident occurred, and of Paul's car being lifted from the river. I was about to cry again, but I stopped myself with deep, hard breaths. Enough of that for now. I shook my head at the screen as the news anchor called it a tragic accident. "You don't know the half of it," I said. "You have no idea what you're talking about, mister. No idea."Epilogue

Chapter 116.

THE LAST FEW MINUTES of my hour-long run were always the bear. I kept my eyes focused on the silver lap of water on sand, the slight give of the wet dirt under the b.a.l.l.s of my feet.As I finished my kick, I dropped to the beach, lungs burning, amazed at what I'd just accomplished. Five miles - on sand.For the umpteenth morning in a row, the sun broke above the horizon, and I witnessed the miracle moment when the water and the seash.o.r.e became gold. I stared along the curving rim of beach I'd just run. It was like a gilded crescent moon laid on its side. Darn pretty.I checked my watch. You're gonna be late, Lauren.I found my moped in the near-empty parking lot. I put on my flip-flops, then helmet. Safety first. I nodded at a couple of fishermen who looked familiar, swerved around wolf-whistling, sun-browned surfers in a canary-yellow convertible, and hit the winding beach road toward town. Funny how things work out, I thought as I buzzed along the narrow ribbon of asphalt. The FedEx package had arrived three months to the day after Paul's death. Inside was a letter. It was typed on expensive stationery, the letterhead from an attorney of the Cayman Islands Trust Bank. Paul had left the stolen money plus interest, $1,257,000.22 - in my name. Didn't matter, I still wasn't ready to forgive him. I was tempted to turn it in, maybe give it to some charity. But by then I was coming along, and there's nothing like a baby's kick to make you realize it isn't about you anymore. I did send two hundred fifty thousand of the money to the Thayer family, but that was just me doing the right thing. Doing the best I could, anyway. I pulled into the short drive of a gla.s.s house perched on a cliff above the beach. With its leaking roof and rusty sliders, it was more gla.s.s trailer than house, but you couldn't beat the view, or the privacy. I left my bike helmet on as I ran inside. I needed to check in on the man in my life. My baby boy exploded into giggles as I knelt in front of his snuggly bouncer. How do you like that? I was still a sucker for younger men. His name was Thomas. After my dad, who else? A Spanish woman clucked at me from the kitchen doorway. "What are you doing here, Miss Lauren?" she said. "You can't miss your first day of work." "I just thought I'd give Tommy one more kiss and a hug," I said. She pointed at the front door."Basta," she said. "You may come back for lunch. And to see Thomas. Now, vamonos. "

Chapter 117.

MY OFFICE s.p.a.cE was only ten minutes away, just above a popular bar on a busy tourist street.I climbed the stairs and undid my chin strap as I gaped at the new "Paradise Investigations" sign above the weathered door. This is good. Looks right, feels right.I went back down the stairs and into the bar - wading my way through the jungle path of tikis and palms.The bartender turned the page of last Sunday's New York Daily News and looked up at me.My old partner, Mike Ortiz, rolled his eyes before he smiled broadly - the only way Mike can smile. "Hey, gumshoe," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be shadowing some nasty hombre, or something like that? And what did I tell you about my aunt Rosa? If you keep going back home, she'll think you don't trust her with little Thomas." We could have been sitting next to each other in our old squad car, except Mike was wearing a Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt that looked like it might require batteries. He seemed to have adjusted pretty well to life after The Job, anyway. He'd told me to look him up, and that's what I did. It wasn't like I had anywhere else to go. Besides, Mike was just about the only honest man I knew. And actually kind of cute, I was starting to notice. "I saw your new s.h.i.+ngle upstairs," Mike said. "Real nice. Except you do know this is a Spanish-speaking country, don't you? How much business do you think you're going to get with a sign in English?" "As little as possible, dummy," I said, stealing the Style section. "What does a girl have to do to get a cup of joe around here?" "Let me think about it," Mike said, "while I get you that coffee." Then Mike added, apropos of nothing really, "You're doing real good, Lauren. You and Thomas." I blushed down to my toes. I guess I'm just not used to compliments yet.About the AuthorsJAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and best-selling writers of all time. He is the author of the two top-selling new detective series of the past decade: the Alex Cross novels, including Cross, Mary, Mary, London Bridges, Kiss the Girls, and Along Came a Spider; and the Women's Murder Club series, including 1st to Die, 2nd Chance, 3rd Degree, 4th of July, The 5th Horseman, and The 6th Target. He has written many other #1 bestsellers, including Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas, Lifeguard, Honeymoon, Beach Road, and Judge & Jury. He lives in Florida.MICHAEL LEDWIDGE is the author of The Narrowback, Bad Connection, and Before the Devil Knows You're Dead.