Beyond Eden

10

Lindsay

It was late October and the leaves were turning. Central Park was never more beautiful than in the fall. Lindsay toed aside yellow leaves from red ones as she walked from the East Side to the West on her way to meet Gayle Werth at their Mexican restaurant on Seventy-first Street.

The air was crisp, cool, and she was working up a light sweat walking.

She heard some children and raised her head. They were arguing over a toy truck, pulling and tugging at it. Two mothers stood in close conversation, paying them no heed. Lindsay smiled and continued, saying nothing. They were cute kids. And the thought she hated came to her then, with no warning: I’m twenty-six years old. I’m terrified of men. I’ll never marry and have children.

Just stop it, she told herself, kicking a large pile of brittle leaves out of her way. Just stop it, you stupid fool. Your life is fine, wonderful, no problems, no hassles. You’re handling things just fine. And indeed, the past two years had been something of a marvel for both her and her half-sister, when one looked at it from a certain point of view.

Sydney, La Principessa, was seen everywhere, not only in magazines, on television, but also at the biggest society bashes in New York. As for the prince, he was never around. “In Milan, running the family business, the dear,” Sydney would say in a wistful sort of way. “I get away to see him and my darling daughter whenever I can. But everybody wants me! I do try, of course I do. Next weekend you can be certain I’m off.” But she never went to Italy, it seemed to Lindsay. Then again, she rarely contacted Lindsay, so it didn’t matter.

Lindsay admitted to occasional twinges of pure envy when she would pick up a glossy magazine and see Sydney looking out at her, gleaming perfection, every inch of her. It didn’t matter that she was now thirty-five years old. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t even started modeling until she was past thirty. Nothing seemed to matter when Sydney set her mind to something. But she had, thankfully, been wrong about making Lindsay a has-been, though, which was an immeasurable relief. Lindsay was continuing to do well, not one of the top models like her half-sister, but well ensconced in any case. She was popular, well-liked, most directors and photographers worked well with her, and she could usually achieve almost any effect a client was looking for.

As for Lindsay Foxe, she was still well-buried. Not a hint that Eden, the New York model, was Lindsay Foxe, the Lolita of Paris. Sydney had kept her word, thanks to her grandmother’s bribe. Lindsay thought about a margarita and tortilla chips and her mouth watered. She’d have to starve for two days, but it was worth it.

Taylor

Vinnie Demos stared at the man and wondered why the hell Glen had asked him. He’d recognized him immediately, of course, the second he’d walked through the door. He was the P.I. who’d been following Custer nearly three years ago. He was the ex-cop. Oh, sure, he’d told Glen to find him a bodyguard, someone really good, and he’d come up with this guy, this S. C. Taylor. Had Glen done it on purpose, to punish him? Demos didn’t doubt it. Glen was sometimes a vile bitch, and he was getting bitchier by the month. Vinnie took several deep breaths and told himself to keep calm. He could handle anything. He’d proved that over the years. This guy didn’t know, couldn’t possibly have a clue, who Demos was. There’d been nothing on that damned note except the single name, Demos. And who would remember that, after all this time? Still—shit. Vinnie was up to his eyeballs again, beyond them this time, as Glen screamed at him, all his own dumb-ass fault, of course, but—

“Why do you want a bodyguard, Mr. Demos?”

Vinnie scratched his left earlobe. “It’s not exactly for me, Mr. Taylor. It’s for the upcoming shoot that’ll be done in Central Park this Friday. It’s a TV commercial for this fancy shampoo. If it’s sunny—and it’s supposed to be—then they film the sunlight and have natural breezes fluff through the hair. That sort of thing. Have you heard of Eden?”

Taylor frowned and shook his head. “Who’s she?”

“A model. A rather well-known model, actually. She’s being threatened, both she and the shoot itself, really.”

“What did she do?”

Vinnie fidgeted with the white leather lead-weighted paperweight on his desk. Should he tell this guy something of the truth? No, not yet. Just let him use his brawn. Vinnie didn’t want a lecture, nor did he want to take a chance that the guy would bring the cops in on it.

“It’s rather complicated and I’m hiring you to protect things, that’s all.”

Taylor knew this lame explanation was no explanation at all, but his brain wasn’t on full power, he recognized that, and decided to play it easy for the moment. He’d protect this Eden and the commercial, then he’d see.

“It’s only this one particular shoot that’s being threatened?”

“Yes.” So far, Vinnie thought, but there’d be more threats until he came through. And he’d have to come through or there would be violence. But he couldn’t come through yet. It was like a damned snowball gathering speed. He wished he hadn’t had the burst of ethics and sent Sydney to another agent two years before, but he had, dammit, and now he was paying for it. He should have kept her on, he could have handled it. But it was too late.

“Will you take the job, Mr. Taylor?”

Taylor nodded. He told Demos his price, shook his hand, and left.

“Glen, you damned bitch, get your ass in here!”

Glen appeared in the doorway. He was grinning. “Yeah, boss?”

“Why him?”

“Why who?” Glen said, his voice coy, his subsequent shrug elaborate. “He’s supposed to be one of the best, I checked. And did you see that body? All hard and long and lean. And that manly jaw-line?” Glen licked his lips. “Strong bastard, and sure of himself. Nice smile too. I wanted to ask him if I could feel his stomach muscles, but I didn’t think he’d understand.”

“Oh, he would have understood, all right. You silly jerk, he’s the same P.I. who found Custer, God, what was it—three years ago?”

Glen grew very quiet. He wasn’t smiling now. “Yes, I know, Vinnie. He’s the ex-cop.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Glen turned dead serious, leaning over the desk, his hands flat on its surface, fingers splayed, long slender fingers with short buffed nails. “You’ve got to face things, Vinnie, you’ve got to get yourself together. Sell another painting. Don’t fuck around with these folk. They do horrible things when you don’t keep to your end of the bargain. You want to know why I got him in particular? To pin you, buddy, to make you do something. I did it because they just might threaten me next time. Get off the dime and pay them off!”

Glen left the room, then turned back, saying, “I can’t believe you’re taking a chance with Eden.”

“They didn’t threaten her specifically, they threatened the shoot and the personnel. So don’t accuse me of messing with Eden’s life. I’m not taking one damned little chance with her. This bodyguard bit is pure overkill. Hey, you think the damned guy’s so great, so sexy, why, he’ll take good care of her. Why should you be worried?”

“You’re a cold bastard, Vinnie. Cold.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe he’ll even teach her how to like sex. Lord knows, she needs some.”

Taylor took a taxi to Valerie’s apartment at Lexington and Fiftieth. They’d been seeing each other regularly since July 4, when Taylor had met her on the beach at Hyannisport. He’d admired her form—a wonderful swimmer—and then he’d found she was funny and sexy and smart. And Lord love it, she was beautiful. Masses of auburn hair and green eyes—moss green, and big and deep—and the whitest skin, all over. No tanning for her. He liked her, he’d discovered, liked talking to her. She was a bit older than he was, but who cared? Just last night, after they’d made love two times in rapid succession, because he’d been tied up with a computer puzzle in Minneapolis with the Claymore Corporation for a very long three days, he’d even told her about Diane, his first wife, and how he’d screwed up his marriage.

“We were both too young,” he’d said, propping himself up in Valerie’s bed. “Of course that doesn’t really excuse anything.” She handed him a cup of tea and he sipped it.

“Diane was—is—very rich. I think she wanted a common man under her belt. She got me, as common as they come. She’d decided it was too dangerous for me to be a cop. She wanted her common man safe. She hated it more and more with each passing week. She married me against her family’s wishes, naturally, but there again, I really didn’t know that either, not until later, not until it was over and she wanted to say hurtful things. It only lasted two years. Looking back, I’m surprised we managed to stay together that long.”

“No kids?”

“No. She was only twenty-two when we met, right out of Radcliffe. And I was just twenty-four.”

“What did Diane look like?”

Taylor grinned at Valerie. Her hair was tousled and falling in curling tangles over her white shoulders. She was naked, the sheets coming only to her waist. He cupped her left breast, lifting it. “Why would you care?”

Valerie shrugged.

Taylor leaned over and kissed her breast. He heard her intake of breath and lay back on his pillows, grinning impenitently at her. “She was fair, her eyes light blue, her hair black as sin. She was—is—lovely, small and dainty, but what a mouth she’s got on her. She can swear like a stevedore. In a fight, I could never outcurse her, never. I was always too surprised when she’d let loose to get my own arguments properly together.”

“What finally broke things up?”

“I wouldn’t quit the force. I got hit one night, just a flesh wound in the side, nothing serious, but she freaked and wouldn’t stop. She wanted me to go into her father’s business, which is antiques. I didn’t know a Sheraton from a Chippendale and I didn’t particularly care.” He shrugged, and his eyes, looking beyond her, were in the past. “I didn’t understand compromise and neither did she.”

“But you did quit the force.”

Taylor looked as uncomfortable as he felt. “Yeah, I know. But that was a little bit later, after we’d divorced. There were reasons.”

“Why?”

“There were reasons,” he said again. He finished the tea and set the saucer down on the bed table. He turned back to her and her left breast. “ Beautiful,” he said, “just beautiful.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Taylor.”

“Oh?”

They’d made love again, then finally slept. It was with regret that Taylor had left her the following morning to see this man Vincent Demos.

The taxi let him out in front of her apartment building, a wonderful old 1920’s building with huge flats, only two per floor. He nodded to the doorman, the thought striking him that Diane had lived in a flat similar to Valerie’s. Was it his fate to be attracted to beautiful rich women? Well, if it was, it really wouldn’t matter. He had no intention of marrying again, even if he did, occasionally, feel the urge to be a father. To be like most men his age. A family, children, a dog, the whole bit. He shook his head. Enoch had Sheila, his mother, and he was happy as a clam. He was discreet, had relationships that seemed to keep him perfectly content. But Taylor knew he was different from Enoch. He had just turned thirty-two, still young, but getting up there. He felt itchy. Like now. He forced his mind to Valerie. She was the best thing that had happened to him in quite a while. She loved sex, she was undemanding, and although he knew little about her, he respected her right to privacy. She was bright and her wit sometimes too sharp, but still, she pleased him. He hoped, sometimes ruefully, that he pleased her as well.

Diane had been bright and had loved sex. But still it hadn’t been enough. Taylor rarely thought of Diane these days. The last he’d heard she was in Boston, owned her own antique business—actually, inherited it from her father—and was doing quite well. He silently wished her luck and wondered just how rich Valerie Balack really was and he wondered just what she did, if anything.

Eden

The morning was bright, the temperature just sixty degrees, only a slight breeze in Central Park. George Hudson was the director of the Jezerell shampoo commercial, a job which he hated. He was in a foul mood. He yelled at the set designer, who ignored him more often than not. He was supposed to be in charge of this shoot, not any of these other morons who didn’t know rocks from shit. It wasn’t going well but it was easy money, good money, but he wouldn’t get any raves about it from people who counted.

George Hudson insisted on good technicians, good makeup people, good cameramen, and he always got them, but he was pissed that he had to waste his time with a ditzy model who was six inches taller than he was and a miserable TV spot that would consume all of thirty seconds. Too, the people from the ad agency and Jezerell were always in his face, making suggestions, trying to tell him how to do his job. He looked up to see Eden, tall, lanky, striding toward him, legs as long as a damned man’s. At least she had gorgeous hair, all thick and long, deep waves, with a wonderful mix of shades that looked completely natural. He knew they’d done some more shading, to lighten the blond in places, but not much. He looked at her while he talked to his assistant. For the moment, her gorgeous hair was clipped back and flattened down. The hair guy hadn’t touched it yet. She was frowning. He wondered who had screwed up what. Her reputation was good, whatever that meant. He’d never worked with her before. He wondered, cynically, if it meant she slept around.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Hudson? I’m Eden.” She stuck out her hand and he took it, shaking it, surprised at her and himself.

“Yeah?” His voice and look were suspicious. “You got a problem? Like everybody else?”

“Nothing really, at least I hope not. It’s just that Demos isn’t here and there’s this man—he’s over there. I don’t know who he is, do you?”

George glanced over at the man standing casually just beyond the shoot area and cameramen. He was dressed neatly in dark brown corduroy slacks, white shirt, and a pale brown leather jacket. He looked clean-cut, respectable. Which didn’t mean shit in New York.

George said to his assistant, a twenty-year-old girl who was overweight and worshiped him, “Gina, go see what that guy wants, then report back to me.”

Gina licked her lips, nodded nervously, and took off.

“We’ll see. You never saw the guy before?”

Lindsay shook her head. “No. I’ve just learned to be careful. And no one seems to know who he is.”

She watched little Gina trot up to the man, for all the world like a tail-wagging puppy. The man smiled down at her and spoke, his posture reassuring, and he actually patted her arm.

Gina came back, relief covering her face.

“He says his name is Taylor and he’s here on Mr. Demos’ orders.”

“Doing what?” Lindsay asked.

“He said that Demos would be here soon and speak to you, Eden.”

“I see,” Lindsay said, not seeing a thing. “Well, then maybe we can get this show on the road.”

“We’ll begin in about forty minutes,” George said, waving her away. “Have them get your face and hair ready, and get into your clothes.”

Lindsay nodded and walked back to where the hairdresser and makeup people were grouped around doughnuts and coffee.

Taylor watched her. So this was Eden, his first exposure to a real-live model. She was very tall, nearly six feet. And thin. This was a shampoo commercial and her hair looked unappealing as sin, all brushed down against her head. He hoped they were going to do something with it and with her. She had to have something going for her other than her height. She was wearing jeans and a baggy T-shirt and high-top running shoes. He watched her go inside a trailer, and the door closed. Odd that she’d been the one to question his presence and not one of the others. Was the lady nervous about something? Had he misjudged Demos? Was this Eden the one on the hook and Demos was protecting her?

He scanned the group, taking note of each man’s position and what he appeared to be doing. He had a list of all the men and women who were to be involved in the commercial. What a list. He couldn’t begin to estimate the cost of this little outing. He’d checked them all off. No one appeared unaccounted for.

He looked up to see the plump little pigeon, Gina, smiling at him. He winked at her.

He didn’t like the fact that they were in Central Park. There were more bushes and trees around than could be counted. There was a continuous stream of people strolling by, trying to be cool and act nonchalant, but still slowing and looking. And there were lowlifes everywhere. He prowled continuously, eyes peeled for anything or anyone suspicious. Nothing so far.

He was used to waiting. He was patient and he knew how to keep perfectly still, if the situation demanded it. He heard a noise and quickly turned. There were two black kids with ghetto-blasters, earplugs in their ears, gyrating down a path. He watched them closely until they passed from sight. He leaned back against an oak tree, feeling the comfort of his 9mm automatic tucked close to his body in his shoulder holster. Thirty minutes later the trailer door opened and three people stepped out. They turned, and one of the men bowed and held out his hand.

An incredible woman took his hand and let him help her to the ground. She was wearing a white flowy dress and her feet and legs were bare. Her hair was something else—all full and deeply waving and multicolored and thick and long. Gorgeous. It was her, the model, Eden. Impossible to believe. He gawked at her, unable to help himself. Of course he hadn’t seen her up close.

She looked up then and met his eyes. He felt like a kid with a sudden attack of hormones, and a fool. He nodded to her, then resumed what he was being paid for. He scanned the set and all the people who passed by who even looked like they were considering stopping. He looked at men’s hands. At men’s faces, at the angles of their heads. He’d always been good at seeing intent. Then his eyes came back to her. Demos had said she might be a target. Demos wanted Taylor to keep close to her. Well, looking at her was no problem.

He watched the director throw his weight around, heard him give orders in a churlish manner, heard him criticize Eden, not once but a good half-dozen times. Her smile was all wrong. She wasn’t graceful. She was acting all stiff, like a damned puppet. Taylor would have punched the guy out. Eden simply nodded, shook her head, or asked for clarification. She did what she was told with no show of hesitation or disagreement, moving to a certain position, standing calm and still when ordered to do so. He watched makeup people swarm over her, then a hair person was ducking past a cameraman to straighten hair that didn’t need straightening. The head cameraman and the director kept fighting, and Taylor wondered who was supposed to be the boss here. It was chaos and madness.

The shoot took two and a half hours. During that time Taylor had spotted twenty possible suspects, but all of them had faded away. And always he looked back at her. He watched as one man held a fan two feet away from her and blew her hair away from her face. He watched her arch her back, push her breasts forward, watched her move to sit atop a horse, her long bare legs showing. They’d hired from one of the park drivers a docile old bay mare with a white fetlock, patient and long-suffering.

He wondered at her patience. He wondered how she could keep smiling. He wondered how she could put up with the egotistical director. He waited for her to scream at the jerk, but she didn’t, at least this time. When it was over, he breathed a sigh of relief. There’d been nothing more suspicious than a man who’d dropped something and spent too long looking for it, to the point that Taylor started to approach him. But the guy took off. Taylor watched her stretch, speak briefly to the director, shake the head cameraman’s hand, then go back into the trailer.

When she emerged some twenty minutes later, she was back in jeans and T-shirt, her hair clipped back at the base of her head. Strangely, he thought she looked more lovely now than with all the wild and flowy hair.

He pushed off the tree he was standing against and walked over to her.

“Demos didn’t show up,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “So I’ll have to introduce myself. I’m Taylor.”

“Taylor what?”

“Taylor’s my last name. And that’s what I’m called.” One of her eyebrows was still up in question. He shrugged. “Okay, my full name is S. C. Taylor, but as I said, Taylor is what I’m called.”

Because she saw no alternative, Lindsay took his hand. “I’m Eden. Why are you here?”

“Demos hired me to protect you and the shoot.”

Lindsay’s mouth fell open and there was no mistaking her surprise. “What?”

“He should have come. He said he would, and tell you who I was and why I was here. He’s asked me to stick with you for the next couple of days.”

“But that’s crazy! Protect me? But who would—?”

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I think friend Demos owes someone money and the someone isn’t happy with him at the moment.”

“He loves the horses.”

“How long have you been with him?”

“About four years.”

“You want to call him and check me out?”

She shook her head on a sigh. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I trust you so quickly. No, it sounds just like Vinnie. I am surprised that Glen didn’t let me know, though.”

“Shall we go have some lunch?”

Lindsay didn’t know what to say. She’d seen him and distrusted him. He looked too sure of himself, too on top of things. He was good-looking, and that always put her on the alert. He was big, and that made her even more wary. The prince had been smaller-boned, slender, but he’d been strong enough to do just as he pleased with her. This man was six-foot-two, she guessed, the same height as her father. She wished she was wearing heels instead of her sneakers, so she could look him straight in the eye. She supposed that sticking with her meant just that. “It’s yogurt for lunch. I pigged out on Mexican food last night and have got to pay the piper now.”

“No problem,” Taylor said. “You ready?”

She nodded. Suddenly she was aware of the mobs of people all around. “It’s not dangerous for us to be walking out in the middle of everything?”

“Don’t worry. I’m right with you and I’m armed. I don’t want you to end up a prisoner in your apartment, afraid to answer your telephone or your front door. That’s no good either. We’ll be conservative and smart, that’s all. And of course, I’ll be dogging your heels.”

She nodded. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on Demos. Could she truly be in any danger? That bastard. She wanted to kill him. How dare he put her in this kind of situation? And with this man who was a total stranger?

“Maybe I shouldn’t have been honest with you,” he said, in step beside her, “or rather, speculated about things, but Demos didn’t show up like he said he would. I figured you wouldn’t buy anything but the truth.”

“You’re right about that,” Lindsay said, her voice stony, striding so fast he had to double-step to stay even with her. “I’ll get him for this, the jerk.”

Taylor said mildly, “Perhaps I’ve got it all wrong. He didn’t spell it out like that.”

Lindsay looked over at him then, the first time, he realized. What was with her? “Yeah, sure. I’m so valuable he’s suddenly decided that I’m in danger of being abducted by a Middle Eastern sheik.”

“I’d be tempted.”

She withdrew. It was the strangest thing. She was simply no longer there. She didn’t speed up her pace, she didn’t really do anything different, but she was gone from him, completely. He frowned at her profile and said, “I was out of line. Sorry.”

She didn’t come back, just nodded, not looking at him, and kept taking those long-legged strides.

“There’s a good yogurt shop just over on Sixth and Fifty-seventh. You want to give it a try?”

She nodded. The sidewalks were congested with people, all hurrying, because it was the best offense, the streets congested with cars, taxis primarily, all honking, all zigging and zagging, trying to get the best of each other. She found she was studying faces, assessing them, giving them a significance they’d never had before. Her intent different now, suspicious, afraid. Taylor said quietly beside her, “No, don’t do that. Everything will be fine. Trust me. I’m good at my job. If it makes you feel better, I was a cop for a number of years.”

“Okay,” Lindsay said, and tried to keep her glances at strangers surreptitious.

The yogurt shop was full and they had to wait for ten minutes to get served.

Lindsay ordered nonfat banana-nut yogurt, medium size, and sat down at a small round white table with ice-cream-parlor chairs recently vacated. He ordered the same and joined her.

She ate very slowly, cherishing each bite. He found himself watching her. “You’re always hungry?”

She didn’t reply until she’d swallowed slowly, with obvious relish. “No, not really. It’s just that I’m forced to weigh ten pounds less than I should carry. It’s the cameras that put the weight on you. Those are the rules,” she added quickly when she saw he would say something. “If I want to be in this profession, I must abide by them.”

“I guess I can understand that. Does your family preach at you about not eating enough?”

“No, they—Where did Demos find you?”

“Actually it was Glen—Flaming Glen with the row of diamond studs marching up his ear—who called me up and asked me to come in for a job. Does he always wear black?”

Lindsay smiled. She was relaxing again. He’d backed off, for which she was immensely grateful. Oddly, she also trusted him to keep her safe. She’d be rid of him soon enough, just as soon as she got hold of Demos. “Flaming Glen is a nut case. If he isn’t wearing black, well then, it’s violet. He says it complements his eyes. Be thankful you got the black dose. He’s very angry with Demos about something right now. How was Glen dressed when you met him?”

“In tight designer jeans, black, ribbed turtleneck, also black, a western belt with a huge round silver buckle, and black Italian loafers.”

“He adores that particular outfit. You’re observant. You know, I try to stay away from the office. They try to get me to take sides.”

“Well, I’m a private investigator when I’m not a computer hacker. And that’s what Demos is paying me for. I hope you don’t mind me hanging around you for a couple of days.”

“Hanging around exactly how? You mean giving me advice on what to do and what not to do?”

Taylor shrugged. When Demos had called him at home the previous night, he’d sounded a bit agitated. It was then he’d asked Taylor to keep a close watch on Eden, after the shoot. He wasn’t going to take any chances, he’d said. Keep a close guard on Eden.

Taylor had jacked up his price, to which Demos had too readily agreed. Taylor wondered if he’d try to stiff him. He’d called Glen and asked for cash up front and Glen had come through.

“Hanging around exactly how?” Lindsay asked again.

He smiled at her and it scared her. She very nearly recoiled. The smile was gone in the next instant and he sat forward in the flimsy chair and said in a very low voice, “I don’t know what’s with you, lady, but I don’t intend to spend my time wondering how you’re going to react to me, and worrying about what I say. I’ve been hired to do a job and you’re the job. I’ll be your bloody shadow until Demos stops paying the bills. If you don’t like that, call him. Now, do you want to call him now or are you ready to go? Incidentally, I’ve got great taste in clothes, so if you want to go shopping, I’m at your disposal.”

Lindsay was silent for several moments. “I’m sorry.”

He only nodded.

“New York is sometimes scary.”

“That’s true.”

“I have a karate class in an hour.”

“How good are you?”

“Third degree.”

“How long you been taking lessons?”

“A year now. I saw a mugging last year and I couldn’t stand it.” Half-truth, she thought, always half-truths. The problem was that they came so easily, more so by the year.

“You know, what the cops say about defending yourself against a criminal is true. It’s usually a mistake.”

“So you recommend just lying there and taking it?”

“I recommend using your brain and assessing a situation. Fear is the worst enemy because it makes you act stupid in most cases. Machismo is just as bad.”

Lindsay got up. “You were with the NYPD?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Why’d you quit?”

He smiled then and opened the yogurt-shop door for her. “Where’s your gym?”

“Down on Forty-fourth and Madison. It’s okay to go there?”

“Yeah, trust me,” Taylor said. “Let’s go, then. That’s a long walk. I assume you walk a lot to keep your weight down?”

Lindsay nodded.

Taylor watched her work out at Lin Ho’s Gym. She wasn’t bad. She was rangy, well-coordinated, strong, and she had endurance. The problem was, you could see how she was going to move before she did it. Her intentions were as clear as the deep blue of her eyes. Maybe he could coach her a bit about that. Against a serious perp she’d be mincemeat. He’d have to make sure she understood what the underbelly of New York was really like. He winced as he thought that. He, S. C. Taylor, that outstanding cop who was all for law and order, who’d ardently believed in justice and in the system, had waited exactly two months after Ellie’s jump from the second-floor bathroom from her private school. Actually, he’d waited one month, three weeks, and two days after Ellie’s funeral. Dear God, that funeral—both the mother and Uncle Bandy had been there, hugging each other, and then the black-souled bastard had actually thrown a red rose on top of the coffin. Taylor had nearly gone after him then. But he’d stopped himself.

But not for long. He’d pulled Uncle Bandy from his rich brownstone and beaten the living shit out of him. Odd, but it hadn’t made him feel any better. The man had the nerve to threaten him. The man had the nerve to scream that it was all Taylor’s fault. Taylor, enraged, had hit him again. But Ellie was still dead. She was buried at Mountain View. He went there occasionally. He’d never checked to see what had become of her mother. He’d simply never cared. But Uncle Bandy, he’d recovered and Taylor knew he carried on as he always had. Power, money, all the trappings.

He left the gym with Eden, his thoughts still on Ellie. Lindsay wondered what he was thinking. He was clearly distracted. She’d called the office from the dressing room and gotten Glen. “The boss is gone, Eden, away for a long weekend, he told me.”

“Why Taylor, Glen? Somebody threaten Demos?”

“Yeah, sweetie. Don’t get pissed off at Demos and lose the guy. Let him stay close; he’s good at what he does. Isn’t he cute? Did you get a look at that chest of his? And that darling little dimple in his chin?”

“Yeah, right, Glen. See you next week.”

“Take care, Eden. If you get him in bed, I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

Lindsay dutifully laughed.