Beyond Eden

8

Lindsay / Eden

It was a hot day in mid-July, not even noon yet, and already in the low nineties. Lindsay was regret-ting her long walk to the Demos Agency, but she’d gained two pounds, and walking and sweating was the easiest way to get it off. She came around Fifty-third Street and looked up, half-expecting to see Glen waving from the eleventh floor of the pre-World War II building, a solid brick, dark and dirty, needing a good hosing down, like most of the other buildings on the block. She didn’t see Glen. Still, she smiled, knowing that today would be as much fun as she could expect from the modeling grind. She was doing a makeup layout for Lancôme and the ad-agency people in charge of the shoot were funny and bright, and practical jokers. Well, today she’d be the one to get the laugh—she looked like dog meat and when they saw her they were going to scream.

Lindsay bent down to pull up her baggy army socks, a nice touch she’d thought, especially with the puke-green stretched-out cotton sweatshirt pulled over the tops of her ragged jeans. When she straightened, she saw a beautifully dressed woman emerge from a taxi, a vision really, in cool pink silk that should have clashed with her shining auburn tapered bob, but didn’t. Lindsay could only stare at her. Inside, she jolted, recognition warring with deep, deep pain. She shook her head, as if to deny what she saw, then said very quietly, “Sydney, is that you? Sydney?” Her half-sister turned and stared at her, taking in the moussed-backed ponytail held with a rubber band, the shiny face devoid of makeup, and the hideous green sweatshirt.

She said nothing, merely stood there looking beautiful and slender and perfect, as always, now looking at Lindsay’s face, her hair, the dangling Coke-bottle earrings.

“Sydney? It is you, isn’t it?”

“Hello, Lindsay. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Lindsay didn’t know what to say. There’d been no warning of any sort, no one had bothered to tell her Sydney would be here. Pain and anger and hurt rolled through her. She just stood there staring at her half-sister. This cool exquisite creature was very different from the hysterical woman of five years before in Paris. Then that woman of five years before had become vicious, siding with her father.

“Yes,” Lindsay said, still not moving, “it’s been quite a long time. You look beautiful, Sydney.”

“And you, well, you’re still Lindsay, aren’t you?”

“I suppose one doesn’t change all that much.” Lindsay was surprised at another feeling that crept through her at her half-sister’s words. Inferiority, that was it, she felt sudden and utter inferiority. She felt ugly and worthless, no more than a clumsy lump. She straightened her shoulders, towering over Sydney, who was only five-foot-seven in her stylish heels.

“It appears you have changed quite a bit. At least in those glossy photos you certainly look different. How do they do it—with smoke and mirrors and doubles?”

“Very nearly.” Lindsay laughed. “There’s the photographer, who can be a pain in the butt and who can have an attitude, the person directing the shoot, who’s usually yelling and making threats and throwing fits, the makeup person, the hair person, the clothes person, all the technicians—well, you understand. It sounds manic but it isn’t. Normally it all goes pretty smoothly. It’s just that everyone is always talking and yelling. Sometimes I feel like a block of wood with all these people working on me and around me.”

They were still standing on the sidewalk, people walking around them, the sun beating down overhead.

Neither woman had moved.

Sydney said suddenly, “I came to make peace with you, Lindsay.”

Lindsay searched her sister’s face but found no clue there, only the endless perfection of her features, the startling beauty of her hazel eyes that only emphasized her cool intelligence. “It’s hot out here. I don’t have to be upstairs for a while yet. Would you like to go across the street and have something cool to drink?”

Sydney Foxe di Contini, known as La Principessa to all those who weren’t intimate with her, still didn’t move. Five years was a long time, a very long time, she thought. It had come as quite a shock to her to pick up April’s Elle and see her half-sister on the cover, so hauntingly beautiful, thin, stylish; she’d realized after close study that it wasn’t just a beautiful woman she was looking at, not classic beauty anyway. It was Lindsay’s face, filled with that elusive, quite indescribable quality that transcended a woman’s looks or lack of them. Sydney could only stare then; she stared now at the ordinary creature in front of her. No, not ordinary, a mess. Those high-top sneakers were god-awful. She wondered if Lindsay found it amusing to present herself like this and then undergo the incredible transformations for the fashion photos.

Sydney thought again of that exotically gorgeous creature on the cover of Elle with the thick lustrous hair, the arrogant smile, and those sexy blue eyes. That couldn’t be Lindsay. No, Lindsay was the awkward pathetic mess of a girl she’d last seen in Paris after Alessandro had raped her. She’d picked up the phone to call her father. Why hadn’t he told her about Lindsay? Then she’d slowly replaced the receiver. Her father never spoke of Lindsay. It would only make him angry, and Sydney didn’t like his anger, for it was cold and hard and unrelenting. Then she’d gotten an excellent idea, brilliant, really. She was La Principessa, after all, renowned for her beauty, her charm, her taste. It didn’t take her very long to execute her idea to its fullest. Everything had gone just as she’d envisioned it, but then, she’d never doubted that it would. Three days ago she’d left Melissa with her grandmother and great-grandfather and three di Contini servants, and taken the first plane to New York.

How odd that no one had told her that Lindsay was a successful model, she’d thought many times on the flight over. She hadn’t known where Lindsay lived, hadn’t ever cared, and she’d been hesitant to ask Grandmother Foxe for her address because the old lady might think her unloving, not even knowing where her half-sister lived. How to explain to anyone that knowing Lindsay’s address brought that horrible time in Paris back to her, in spades? It forced her to confront those hours of weakness, the dismal pathetic hysteria, the woman who hadn’t really been her. She made herself sick whenever she thought about what she’d been in Paris.

She smiled at the very ordinary-looking woman in front of her. Seeing Lindsay in the flesh brought back her confidence. Seeing her didn’t bring back Paris. Lindsay was just the same. There was no magic in her look or in any of her features, no elusive qualities. None. She looked a wreck, tall and skinny and in those disgusting clothes that made her look like a reject from the seventies. Slung over her shoulder was an old bulging bag that could hold a kitchen. Who had dressed her? It was laughable. There was no guilt from Paris. Nothing. She was vastly relieved. She was soon to be on her way, the stars the limit.

“Sydney?”

“Sure, let’s go over to that little bar. I’m here for a couple of days—on business—and I thought you and I should speak together. Are you in a rush? Do you have a little time, perhaps, now? A glass of wine would be welcome in this ghastly heat. I’d forgotten how much I detested New York in the summer. I don’t know how you stand it.”

“No one does. One just puts up with it.”

When they walked into Jay Glick’s Saloon, Lindsay immediately went to the phone and called the agency. She got Glen at his bitchiest.

“Yes, sweetie, I’m here but you’re not. Where the hell are you? I looked down and saw you chatting with this utterly gorgeous woman. Is she a woman, sweetie? Or maybe I lucked out. A queen?”

“No, Glen. She’s my half-sister. Please tell Demos I’ll be there on time. I’ve still got close to forty-five minutes before the ad people for the Lancôme shoot arrive.” She paused, listening to Glen’s outpourings. When he slowed, she said, “No, Glen, my half-sister just showed up. Yeah, right, the famous principessa. Okay, later. An hour, no longer. No, tell Demos I’m eating éclairs by the dozen. Sure, Glen, give him a coronary at the very least. Harden some of his arteries. And yes, I’ve got a real treat for the ad folk. Yes, outrageous, and this time I’ll get them. You’ll declare me the winner of the practical jokers. See you soon.”

Lindsay slid into the booth opposite her sister. A glass of white wine was already there. She raised it, then sighed and put it back down. She called for a Perrier. Sydney said, “You know I have a daughter, don’t you?”

“Yes, her name’s Melissa. Grandmother sent me a picture of her. She’s beautiful. She looks just like you.”

“I didn’t know you were a model.”

Lindsay shrugged, clicking her glass of Perrier to Sydney’s wineglass. A pool of pain settled in her stomach. Sydney probably thought she was still a nothing. She’d told her mother and her grandmother about her new career, but evidently neither had seen fit to tell Lindsay’s father or Sydney. Or he’d been told and he simply couldn’t care less, which was no surprise. But why hadn’t Grandmother told Sydney?

“I saw you on the cover of Elle.”

“That was a lucky hit, so Demos told me. The woman at Elle freaked out over the shape of my ears or something silly like that.”

“You’re with Vincent Rafael Demos.”

“You’ve heard of the loose cannon then. How do you know about him?”

“Most women in the upper strata of society know about Demos and his, ah, models, Lindsay.”

“Oh ho! Upper strata! No wonder I thought he was a New Jersey loan shark.” She laughed, delighted with the snobbery, and to her surprise, Sydney flushed.

“I was joking.”

“Sure you were, Sydney.” For the first time in her life, Lindsay felt an instant of having the upper hand. It felt quite good, remarkable really. “What is this about him and his, ah, models?”

Sydney shrugged. “It’s his reputation. Well deserved, I understand.”

“Glen arranges all that for him.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Sydney that Glen was Demos’ lover, but she didn’t, saying instead, “Glen’s his mother, confessor, secretary, assistant, in short, his right and left hand. He decided some twelve years ago that a dicey reputation would be good for Demos’ professional image. Demos rarely sleeps with anything other than his toy poodle, named Yorkshire, and three Siamese cats.” And Glen, of course. “Now, why are you here in New York? To find out if I’m sleeping with Demos?” She paused only fractionally before adding, “You’re here alone?”

Sydney nodded, hearing the crack in her sister’s self-confidence. She’d seemed a different person, at first. But it wasn’t true. But no, some things never changed. She leaned back in the booth, smiling. “You’re thinking of my husband, no doubt. Alessandro is in Rome this week. He is rarely at the villa in Milan now. It’s just his grandfather, his mother, Melissa, and me and all the servants. His sullen pig of a sister is married to a Greek shipping magnate and spends more of her time now on Crete. I’m involved in the family business now. A munitions factory, just imagine. Father stays at the villa a good three months of the year. He enjoys Melissa and being with me, naturally. His wife is tolerable, just barely. You’ve met her, haven’t you? Holly’s a bitch, but as I said, sufferable if you know how to handle her, which I do very well. Last trip, she stayed at home. She’s jealous of me, you know. Father took a mistress after he’d been married to Holly only two months. He won’t ever be the faithful type, as your mother soon discovered after her marriage to him. You’ve changed—a bit.”

“I’m an adult now. I handle things. He was probably never faithful to your mother either, Sydney.”

“My mother died! You know that. He loved her and only her, and when she died, he changed, gave up.”

Lindsay opened her mouth, then closed it. She’d overheard Lansford, the Foxe butler, say to Dorrey, the cook, years before, how after the first Mrs. Foxe had run away from the judge, she moved to New Zealand. It appeared she hadn’t died. But surely Sydney knew this. Surely she just liked to pretend it was otherwise. She had the upper hand again. She smiled. “Is there something special you wanted to see me about, Sydney?”

“For God’s sake, why do I have to have something special in mind? You’re my sister.”

“I’ve been your sister for twenty-three years. Why now? It’s been five years.”

Sydney said nothing. She sipped her tart chardonnay. She found Lindsay’s attempt at sarcasm mildly amusing. Five years should have wrought some improvements, so the attempts at sarcasm were a help. What to tell her? She’d dangle her on the line a bit longer.

“Perhaps I’m really here to find some young virgins for Alessandro. He likes a new crop every year. You could probably throw yourself at his feet now and he wouldn’t spare you a second glance. You’re just too old, your face and your body. Do you know that Alessandro told me that you would become beautiful? He used to say that and I’d laugh because all I ever saw in you were skinny legs, elbows that stuck out, and a mop of hair that looked like a lawn mower had plowed through it. Of course he preferred you all skinny arms and legs and innocence. Seeing you like this, perhaps he would still want you. Perhaps he would even admit he’d been wrong. I’ll ask him.”

Lindsay was frozen.

“You still think about that night, do you? Really, Lindsay, what’s plain old simple sex compared to shooting your husband two times? I do remember the look on his face. Absolute astonishment, and then he toppled off you.” Sydney shrugged. “But it has been five years now, Lindsay. Time for you to forget, certainly. But you know, I’ve regretted many times that I was such a bad shot.”

“I don’t think something like that is all that easy to forget. Why didn’t you divorce him?”

“Scandal, pure and simple. Same reason you didn’t press charges against him. Father was busy working on both of us. And there was so much money at stake. But enough about my husband. How did you get into modeling?”

Lindsay was more than glad to leave it. God, so much and yet not enough. How could one forget? It hurt her throat even to talk about it. She became aware that Sydney was watching her and said quickly, “Demos discovered me last year, in a bar. I’d just quit my job at a small publishing company and a cab had splashed dirty slush on my new suede boots. I was drowning my depression when he saw me and came over. It sounds ludicrously trite, but that’s how it happened. He told me it wasn’t all that uncommon. I like Demos, regardless. He’s smart and he’s fun.”

“More fun than Alessandro?”

Lindsay snapped the stem of the wineglass that held her Perrier. The glass cut into her finger. She sat there looking at the blood welling up.

“Would you like a Band-Aid?”

“Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea.” Sydney wiped the blood off Lindsay’s finger with a napkin, then peeled a Band-Aid around it. “There, good as new.”

“Why did you say that, Sydney? Why do you want to make me feel horrible all over again?”

“I don’t, Lindsay, don’t be silly. But you did have fun with Alessandro, admit it. You were completely infatuated with him for over two years, remember? And you made no move to leave when you discovered I wasn’t in Paris with him, did you? He made you feel so special, didn’t he? Ah, his charm is legendary when he chooses to use it.”

“I was a dumb teenager!”

“Very true, Lindsay. Did you know that Alessandro claims to this day you seduced him? He said he didn’t want you, but he felt sorry for you because you were so awkward and so embarrassing and so, well, damned pathetic, and that’s why he had asked you to Paris, because nobody wanted you and you were so lonely. He had no idea that you were serious about him. He claims you seduced him, that you insisted.”

Lindsay looked at her bandaged finger. She felt stripped, naked and cold, to her soul. It would never end, she knew it now. It would always be there, dark and ugly, lurking, just waiting for her to remember, waiting for Sydney to make her remember. Her part in it, what her father and Sydney believed to be true. Even after five years. She couldn’t let Sydney reduce her to nothing, not now, not like she used to. She was twenty-three years old, an adult.

She looked up at her half-sister. She said very calmly, “What you say certainly makes sense to me. Now that I think about it, poor Alessandro didn’t have a chance against all my teenage charms. Why, I remember threatening to break his arm if he refused to slap me up; I told him I’d scream for all the hotel staff if he didn’t slam a fist in my jaw, not once but at least three times. Yes, it was wonderful. It was a thrill to be ripped up inside. Nothing like it. Something every teenage girl should experience to teach her how much power she has. Well, it’s long over now and if it’s okay with you, I’d just as soon talk about blood sports or something equally tantalizing.”

“You’ve grown some armor, haven’t you?”

“You’re growing tedious, Sydney. Why are you really here? What do you really want? To torment me because you’re out of practice?”

“Oh, no, you were never much of a challenge. You were always vulnerable and you knew it. You never knew what to say even at the slightest jab. You knew you were ugly.”

“Old refrain. Why are you here? What have I ever done to you?”

Lindsay looked at her half-sister, wishing she could understand, wishing she could see into her mind to know what Sydney wanted. God, but she was beautiful. Lindsay felt like a scrub next to her. Beautiful, perfect Sydney with a perfect child and a husband who liked teenage girls.

“Actually, little sister, I brought up my husband just to see your reaction. You say you’re grown up now. I just wanted to test the waters, to see if it was true. Alessandro, believe it or not, is rather a good father, perhaps even a decent husband, as men go. He’s sorry he got rough with you. He wanted me to tell you that. Should I believe him, I wonder?”

“Then why did you say all those things to me in Paris? Why did you follow him? Why did you bring a gun? By God, Sydney, you shot him!”

Sydney just shrugged, a supremely European gesture. “I don’t recall what I said to you. I was upset seeing my little sister fucking my husband. If you’d been on top, why then I’d probably have shot you instead.” Another shrug. “Alessandro is like most men, my father included—forgive me, our father. He occasionally roves. He lost it with you. He got rough. As I said, he very much regrets it now. He would like to see you, to mend fences, so to speak.”

“No, I will never see that bastard again willingly in my life. And you’re lying, Sydney. Why?”

“Lindsay, I can see nothing’s changed. Five years is a very long time. You were young and infatuated and silly. He shouldn’t have allowed you to stay at the suite, but he did. It’s over. Just forget it.”

It wouldn’t ever be over, not as long as Sydney waltzed into her life every five years or so and peeled the scab off the wound and poked around. She’d be dead before the memories and pain were finally gone; she knew it, accepted it, and dealt with it.

“I came not only to see you but someone else as well. I didn’t tell you, and I haven’t told Father yet. He’ll scream, I’m sure, but I don’t really care. I spoke to Vincent Demos several weeks ago after I’d sent him some quite lovely photos of myself. In short, dear sister, he wants us to do this layout together. He thinks I’m beautiful and stylish and very patrician-looking, the opposite of you, who appear so wholesome and outdoorsy with the proper makeup and clothes. He thinks two sisters, one of them an Italian princess, the other a model who’s already somewhat established, is very salable. There’s a new Arden perfume that will be coming out, and they’re very interested in the sister approach. You know, a perfume that appeals to two very different types of women.”

Lindsay couldn’t believe this. “He didn’t say anything to me.”

“I told him not to or the deal was off. I wanted the pleasure of telling you myself. Can’t you just see it now? La Principessa and Eden. Both of us kissing a bottle of perfume or spraying each other.”

“But why would you want to be a model? It’s not all that much fun, Sydney. It’s hard and sweaty and a grind. You’re always on a diet and always in bed by nine o’clock because the shoots are usually scheduled early in the morning and you have to be there early for makeup and clothes and hair. It’s grueling. Lots of times the director is a jerk, the photographer an ass, and they make your life miserable. For God’s sake, you’re a lawyer, a princess, you run a business!”

Sydney laughed and sipped at her wine. “Did I tell you I like your modeling name? Eden. It has panache, class, mystery. Did Demos select it for you?”

“Both of us did, together.”

“I see. How interesting. I suppose, like you, I’ll have to cut out the alcohol. It’s all sugar, you know. Of course, I’ve never had a problem with my weight.”

Lindsay looked at her half-sister and thought: Why is she really doing this? Not to spite me, no, I’m hardly worth her time or her trouble, not on this scale. Lindsay felt mired in confusion. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Why not tell you the truth? It doesn’t matter. The money, dear, the money. After I shot Alessandro, he was slow to recover. He’s never gotten back his full scope of killer instincts. He’s changed—all because of you, naturally—and now he’s no longer ruthless and callous. He nearly bankrupted us until I pushed him out. So this modeling will add money to the coffers and give me some fame that I will enjoy. No other reason, Lindsay. Oh, yes, the thrill of seeing you again, the thrill of posing beside you. Just think—the two of us actually working together. I wonder who people will think is the elder?”

“I won’t do it.”

“Of course you will. Or are you still so jealous of me that you couldn’t manage to hide it from a camera?”

“I’m not jealous of you.”

“As you say. As you say.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Sydney.”

“Fine. We meet together with Demos at two o’clock this afternoon. Now, about Father’s wife, Holly. She’s a bitch, don’t you agree?”

“I don’t want to talk about her either.”

“Did you know that she and Father have moved back into the mansion with Grandmother? Holly’s got her eyes on all of Granny’s bucks. Grandmother is eighty-three this year. She still gives Father hell. But then again, she shouldn’t be hanging around all that much longer. He spoke of putting her in a nursing home.”

“No, he wouldn’t! She’s sharp as a tack and has too many connections for him to pull something like that. As for Holly, whatever she does to him, he probably deserves it.”

“I think that’s why Daddy isn’t too fond of you, Lindsay. You’ve always criticized him, made him feel less than a man, made your dislike of him very clear. You always sided with your mother, who is now, incidentally, an alcoholic and sleeping with men your age.”

Lindsay could only stare at her sister. She sliced and cut like a surgeon. Such a fine touch she had. But still, for the first time since Paris, Lindsay didn’t think she’d done too badly. She really needed only the one Band-Aid on her finger.

Sydney rose, straightening her silk skirt. “I think I’ve given you enough to think about. You were never very fast in your mental workings, were you? I will see you this afternoon in Demos’ suite. I trust by then you will have done something with yourself. Oh, do allow me to pay.”

Taylor

Taylor bent over the old man, felt for the pulse in his throat. He was dead, a heart attack it appeared, no overt signs of anything else. But he didn’t believe it was a natural death for a second. He rose slowly, looking around. The woman was gone. Naturally.

He called to Enoch, who’d just come around the corner of the alley. “Get an ambulance and keep your eyes peeled for that woman and the cops.”

Taylor quickly searched the man’s wallet. No I.D., no credit cards, no photos, nothing but a folded piece of paper stuffed down in an inner fold of the wallet. Left by accident? Maybe, but Taylor didn’t think so. He unfolded it and read: “If you see Gloria, tell her Demos is trying to hide, but not for long. He’ll come through. He always does.” It wasn’t signed.

Taylor looked up when he heard the wail of a police siren. He quickly folded the paper. He was on the point of putting it back in the man’s wallet when he stopped. No reason to.

Who the hell was Demos? He sounded like a New Jersey Mafia runner or some lowlife bookie.

Taylor rose when two officers came into the alley, both holding guns.

“Ah, it’s you, Taylor,” said the older cop, putting his gun back into its holster. He waved at the dead man. “What’s going on? Who’s this?”

It was Mahonney from the East Orange police, a paunchy guy, balding, cool-headed, and smart as a whip. The guy with him was a fresh-faced rookie with a bad skin problem.

Taylor wished just then he was back in France and not in a dirty alley in East Orange, New Jersey, standing over a dead body. He’d just come home two weeks before after three weeks covering every rocky inch of Brittany on a Harley.

“I found this in his wallet, nothing else, no I.D., no nothing. Maybe when he was cleaned out this was just missed.”

Taylor handed Mahonney the paper and watched him read it, then shrug. “I don’t know who this Demos character is. You got any ideas, Taylor?”

“Not a one. I was tailing this guy because his wife paid me and Enoch to get the goods on him.”

Mahonney dropped to his knees and looked the dead man over closely. “He looks too old to me to have the energy to go playing around with other women. What would you say, about sixty? Heart attack?”

“Looks like. I don’t see any blood or bruises. But I don’t think his heart just stopped. No, someone did this to him. And yeah, he is too old and I think Enoch and I were set up. This is the first time I’ve seen him up close. The wife showed us a photo of a much younger man, and this guy always wore a hat. You want the wife’s name?”

“The whole thing doesn’t make any sense,” Mahonney said, scratching his left ear. “Why hire you and Enoch to follow him? If someone killed him, why would they want you as witnesses?”

Taylor shrugged. He studied the dead man again. “You know,” he said slowly, “just maybe this killing with us as witnesses is a message to this guy Demos. You know, having two ex-cops around and they didn’t make any difference, the guy’s still dead. Or maybe it’s a message to someone else, who knows? But to use me and Enoch, it does make sense.”

Mahonney nodded. “The arrogance of it smacks of the pros. They’ve got balls to burn. It makes them look invincible, what with you guys dogging the victim. I’m going to talk to the wife. You and Enoch want to tag along?”

“Sure.”

It turned out that the wife who’d hired them wasn’t the dead man’s wife. She accused Taylor and Enoch of following the wrong guy. This old turnip she’d never seen before. He was ugly as sin. She’d have never married him. She was indignant; she refused to pay them a dime. She said they were losers. The cops were suspicious but there was nothing more to go on. Taylor and Enoch thought and thought of ways to nail her but couldn’t come up with anything.

Late the next morning, Enoch walked to their small office on the second floor of the Cox Building on Fifty-fourth and Lexington in Manhattan. The front door was opaque glass with “Taylor and Sackett” printed in bold script. He walked in, picked up the mail from Maude’s desk, went into his and Taylor’s office, and sat down. “All that’s junk mail,” Taylor said, waving a finger at the slew of papers in Enoch’s hands. “Don’t waste your time. Let Maude deal with it.”

“Yeah, okay.” Enoch tossed the pile over his shoulder onto the floor, then looked back at Taylor and grinned. “Shit, man, so now what?”

Enoch slouched forward in the chair, his long arms dangling between his knees.

“Don’t worry,” Taylor said. “We’re not going to starve and Sheila won’t rub your nose in it. I’ve got a computer job coming up on Monday. It’s the Salex Corporation and they’ve got some real bugs in their new export accounting program. They’re paying me big bucks to fix it. We’ll survive. You go to work on the Lamarck case, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. It’s just a matter of finding out who’s selling cosmetic secrets, right? No problem. It’s a small industry with just a few players.” He sighed. “Sheila’s not going to like this at all. She has a fit whenever there’s a dead body lying around and I’m anywhere near it. I was lucky. She was out playing bridge last night so I didn’t have to face her. Jesus, that’s probably why I was a cop, just to bug the old girl. As for the money, well, a thou isn’t too much to worry about, you’re right.”

Enoch had lived with his mother all his forty-two years. They fought like a married couple. He never called her mother. He only called her Sheila, at least to her face. Enoch’s father had died when he was eighteen, and his mom, Sheila, had inherited a cool ten million dollars and a dozen shoe stores. She was wealthy and acid-tongued and a kick. She was also a very talented musician. Taylor was very fond of her. She was always after him to get married again. As for Enoch, Sheila never mentioned marriage for him. As for Enoch, he never mentioned marriage either, even though he’d had a dozen relationships with women over the years.

Enoch said, “I wonder who that Demos guy is.”

“Mahonney told me if they ever found out it would be by informant,” Taylor said. “There are a slew of Demoses in the tri-state area. Good luck. As to that, who wrote the bloody note?”

“I think you’re right, and so do the cops. We were not only set up, but our purpose was to send a message to someone, probably this poor slob Demos. To show him he shouldn’t screw around with the big boys. I talked to Boggs, the coroner, just before I left home. He said the guy was stabbed with a thin circular blade right in the heart. The hole was very small and the bleeding nearly nil, which is why you and Mahonney didn’t see anything. You think the woman did it, this Gloria? Or was it this Demos? Was the woman we saw with him even Gloria?”

“God knows. Mahonney hasn’t even identified the dead man yet. You want a beer?”

“Yeah, it’ll drive Sheila bananas. I’ll even spill a little bit on my coat. She’ll shriek and call me a degenerate.” Enoch grinned and rubbed his hands. “Then I’ll tell her about the body. Give her lots of details.”

“You’re evil, Enoch.”

“It’s part of my charm, Taylor, just part of my charm.”