Beyond Eden

23

Barry Kinsley stood beside Taylor, hands shoved into his pants pockets. Both of them were staring at the swinging doors, waiting for the surgeon to come through.

“I found a gray hair this morning,” Taylor said, never taking his eyes off those doors.

“Yeah, well, I got a good dose of indigestion from all these shenanigans you and your bride have put me through. My wife said if I didn’t get the guy responsible today, she wouldn’t sleep with me for five months.”

“Why five months?”

“That’s when our kid goes off to college and she figures she’ll be so horny by then she won’t care what I’ve done.”

“I didn’t know you had a kid. More than one?”

“Four. This is the last one off to college—a real pistol.”

The swinging doors were pushed open.

Two nurses came through, talking. No surgeon.

Three more minutes passed. They paced, silent now.

The surgeon came out then, an older man with tired pale eyes. He was still wearing his greens, only they were stained with blood now. He pulled the cap off his head even as he said, “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry. It was problematic when I went in. The bullet did a lot more damage than I’d first thought. If he had lived, he would have been a vegetable in any case. I am sorry.”

“Well, heigh ho,” Barry said, and sighed. “Thanks, Doc.”

Taylor headed back toward the elevators, feeling lower than a slug.

He pounded the elevator button with frustration. “Doesn’t the guy have any relatives? Maybe someone we can contact who would know who hired him?”

Barry shook his head and stabbed at the elevator button, outdoing Taylor. “Not a single merry soul, more’s the pity. I checked on that right away. Jesus, Taylor, back to square one.”

“I’m getting slow in my retirement. What are we going to do now, Barry?”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about him croaking, not a bloody thing. Now, you said you had some other ideas. Let’s get back to Lindsay.”

When they reached Lindsay’s hospital-room door, there was Sydney, arguing with Officer Dempsey. He was refusing to let her in. Taylor could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was about ready to take his head off. He could tell by the set of Officer Dempsey’s shoulders that he wanted to let her do whatever she pleased, but he was holding firm.

“No, ma’am,” Dempsey repeated, looking more miserable by the word. “I’m sorry, but no one gets in here. Not God, not any of his angels. Sorry, ma’am, really I am, but those are my orders. Taylor would have my guts pulled out and stuffed up my nose if I let anyone in.”

Barry raised an eyebrow at that.

Before Sydney could blast him, Barry called out, “We’ll keep an eye on her, lad.” He smiled at Sydney and pushed open the door. “Good lad,” he added to the officer as he passed him. Taylor said nothing until they were inside.

Lindsay was asleep, the bruised, swelled side of her face up. She looked like she’d been in a war, which she had been.

He immediately lowered his voice to a whisper, asking Sydney, “The judge is gone?”

“Yes, I waited until I actually saw him onto the plane. I even waited until the plane took off.” Sydney looked toward her half-sister. “God, she looks like bloody hell. She’ll be all right this time?”

“Yes. She tells me she wants combat pay.”

“I’m here to cut a deal.” She looked toward Sergeant Kinsley. “I don’t want him around. This is just between us, Taylor. Once you hear what I’ve got to say, I don’t think you’ll want Lindsay involved.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What kind of deal?” Before she answered, she looked pointedly at Barry. Taylor said, “Can you wait outside for a bit, Barry? This really shouldn’t take long.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Sydney said.

She said nothing more until the door closed.

She moved away from him, a good twelve feet away, he saw. “Well?”

“It’s about my father. I imagine you’ve been wondering why he hates her so much. Well, I’m here to tell you why.”

Taylor made certain Lindsay was asleep, then said, “All right, but keep your voice down.”

“Mind you, I didn’t know any of this until after Grandmother’s death, after the reading of the will, after Lindsay had already left to come back to New York.

“Grayson Delmartin, Grandmother’s lawyer, came back to the mansion after he’d dropped Lindsay off at the airport. My father started in on him immediately, telling him he was going to sue, yelling that Lindsay would never get away with it, and he’d tell every newspaper in the state, he didn’t care, and the world be damned. The Foxe name would go down the tubes, no doubt about that. He was going to tell, he was going to make a press announcement the following morning, and he was going to get all the money.

“I didn’t know what he was talking about. Neither did Holly.”

“Dammit, Sydney, get to the point.”

“He said that Lindsay wasn’t his daughter. He said that he’d found out the truth some eleven years ago and told his mother. She already knew, he said. She knew, and she wasn’t displeased. She told him to keep his mouth shut, that she wouldn’t tolerate him telling anyone about it. He agreed, oh yes, he said he’d keep quiet, but only if she promised to leave him all the Foxe money.”

“The judge isn’t her father—” Taylor shook his head. “That’s crazy. I’ve seen both of them. She’s got his eyes—they’re identical—that dark blue, mysterious, so deep it’s scary. And the shape, completely the same. Identical. Is the man blind? Or are we talking about a long-lost twin brother?”

“He screamed at Delmartin that his first cousin, Robert, was Lindsay’s father and he could prove it.”

“Cousin?” Taylor said blankly. “Lindsay never said anything about a cousin who looks like her, she’s never said a word about other relatives.”

“She never met him, never even knew he existed, as far as I know. Why should she? Her mother, the poor bitch, wouldn’t tell her, you can bank on that. This cousin was evidently there only a short time and then he was gone, and he never came back. He’s dead. He died in the late eighties, in a skiing accident in the Alps. Mind you, this all came from my father while he was screaming at Delmartin.”

“Weren’t there any photos of this Robert character? Didn’t your grandmother ever say a word?”

“Not a photo, not a clue.”

“What the hell kind of family is this? Oh, I forgot, you’re a big part of it. Go on, Sydney, finish this. I’ve already got an inkling about your punch line.”

“My price goes up every time you’re a shit, Taylor. This Robert was the son of my grandmother’s younger brother, and evidently the spitting image of him. The eyes, I found out, are hereditary. Of course, I never went sorting through any of my grandmother’s things either before or after she died. I remember wondering why Father couldn’t stand Lindsay. Of course, I never paid her any attention at all, although I remember thinking that something had changed, but I can’t be sure of the time because I was always in and out, usually out of the state. He started cutting her down whenever she came anywhere near him. Of course, he’s always adored me—a large part of that was because of my mother. I look like her, he says. He loved my mother more than anything in this world. So, through her, he gave me all his love, all his attention.”

“And you followed in his footsteps and became a real bitch to your half-sister.”

Sydney shrugged. “She was a pain, always in the way, and besides, she’s barely related to me.”

“All right, Sydney. I’ll bite. You’ve dropped one shoe. Where’s the other? How are you planning on keeping your father from screaming the truth to the media?”

Sydney smiled then. “I phoned Mr. Delmartin before coming back here to the hospital and told him what father had said and threatened. He laughed, said that Grandmother had foreseen his threats and had taken steps to see that he’d be disappointed—her word.”

“What are the steps?”

“I don’t know.”

Taylor said, “Probably some kind of legal adoption, I’d imagine, done between Lindsay’s mother and grandmother.”

“That sounds like the old lady,” Sydney said. “The miserable old biddy and—”

“Get on with it, Sydney.”

“All right. For five million dollars I’ll keep quiet about this; Lindsay will never find out the truth.” He raised his eyebrow and she said, “All right, let me spell it out, lover boy, for five million she won’t find out that her dear mother was a slut and she’s a bastard.”

Taylor laughed. “What makes you think her ex-father won’t be here yelling the truth at her just for revenge?”

“He can and will bargain with you himself, don’t doubt it. Once he calms down and realizes the potential of what he now knows, he’ll be right back here, ready to cut a deal.”

Taylor didn’t say anything for a very long time. Sydney, an excellent lawyer, knew not to move, not to fidget.

“All right,” he said.

“Just like that? You’ll come through with the five million just like that?”

“Oh, no, not a bloody dime.”

“Don’t you realize what this would do to your precious wife? Your precious very, very rich wife?”

“She’ll never know, at least from you. As to her father, he’s something of a wild card. I’ll just have to deal with him when and if he shows up.”

“You’ll deal with me!”

“No.”

“All right, let’s just wake up Lindsay and tell her!”

Taylor grabbed her arm as she tried to push by him. “Keep your voice down, Sydney. You won’t wake her up. You’ll listen to what I have to say to you. You see, I want to cut a deal with you.”

“You don’t have anything,” she said, but she was wary now, he saw it in her eyes.

“Your wonderful mother,” he said very quietly. “The woman your father adored, the woman who died, and all the women who came after her were just dull copies of this perfect woman. You’re just like her and that’s why your father treats you so well, why he worships you.”

“What about my mother?”

He heard the fear in her voice, low, masked, but still there. She was good, she really was.

“Would you like to have her address, Sydney?”

She reeled away from him as if he’d struck her.

“You’re lying!”

“Keep your voice down or I’ll drag you into the corridor.”

He didn’t have to drag her anywhere. She raced past him and was out of the room in an instant. Taylor followed. He wasn’t smiling, but it had to be done and he would be the one to do it. He would be the one to end it.

She was standing outside the room, leaning against the wall, her head back, her eyes closed. She didn’t open them, just said very quietly, “You’re lying.”

“Ask your precious father.”

“She’s dead. She died when I was six years old. He came and got me at school and told me she was in heaven. He cried and held me. She’s dead. I hated Jennifer when he brought her home. She proved what she was, didn’t she? A slut, and she had Lindsay, a bastard. She wasn’t married to my father for more than a year or so before she was screwing around on him. Damn you, my mother’s dead!”

“No she isn’t.” He wanted to tell her that most likely her mother had walked out on him for his infidelity, that she’d also walked out on her daughter, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

Then, in the space of an instant, her eyes grew as cold as her voice. “So, what deal, Taylor? What you’re saying could be true, but who cares? There’s no real value to it, none.”

“Your father would probably care, for one. He lied to you. I doubt he’d appreciate being confronted not only with his lie but also with the woman herself. Who knows? Since you believed he loved her so much, maybe when he sees her again he can convince her to divorce her current husband and come back to him.”

“She’s dead!”

“Maybe she could even fly to New York and you could introduce her to all your hotshot friends. Maybe she’d really like to see her granddaughter in Milan. What do you think, Sydney?”

“You’re a lying bastard!”

“I wonder how many little stepbrothers and stepsisters you have now? Do you think they’re all as smart, beautiful, and charming as you are?”

She struck him hard, with the palm of her hand. His head snapped back. Very calmly Taylor grabbed both her hands in his and held them in front of her.

“I must say I’m delighted you’re not my sister-in-law. You probably have some good points, most folk do, maybe even the Son of Sam. However, enough of all this garbage. You won’t say a bloody word to Lindsay about her mother. You’ll fly home to daddy and tell him that if he opens his mouth, his dead ex-wife will be on his doorstep. If he wants scandal, he’ll get it. Do you understand, Sydney?”

“I hope she leaves you.”

He laughed. “We’re not even on our honeymoon yet. Do you intend to go right out and buy a voodoo doll?”

“She’s so screwed up, you’ll leave her!”

His laughter died, but his smile didn’t. “There is something I’m very grateful to your father for. He never told you about Lindsay. I can just imagine you tormenting both Lindsay and her mother for ten years. Now, go away, Sydney. Go away and keep away.”

He released her wrists. She rubbed them. Then, very slowly, she walked away. She never turned back.

Taylor sighed. Jesus, he hoped he’d done the right thing. Actually, it didn’t matter what Sydney or her father did. He would tell Lindsay about her mother and real father when the time was right. It seemed to him that taking Royce Foxe out of the father picture should, in the long run, make her feel quite good.

He wondered if Sydney’s mother was really still alive.

Thirty minutes later, Lindsay was awake and Barry and Taylor were seated by the bed.

“Okay, Lindsay,” Barry said, “we’ve pretty well knocked any and all of your family out of the running. What Taylor said seems the direction to go.”

“Somebody is after him.”

“Yeah. They’re getting at him through you. Revenge, most likely.”

Lindsay felt the dull thudding of her heart, felt the helplessness of ignorance. She looked at Taylor. “Please tell me you have some ideas.”

“Yes, several, in fact. Unfortunately—” He drew a deep breath, then forced it out. “Oswald is dead. But don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll figure this out, and very soon now.”

Lindsay wanted to cry. She wanted to howl. It wasn’t fair, dammit. She felt so vulnerable her skin crawled. Taylor understood how she felt, the helplessness of it. Very calmly he pulled his .38 from its holster, handed it to her, and said, “Keep it in the bedside drawer. The safety’s on, see? If a baddie comes near you, don’t hesitate. Flip the safety off, aim, and pull the trigger. Okay?”

Barry wanted to mention that there was a uniformed officer outside her door, but he didn’t. The uniformed officer hadn’t helped her last time. He patted Lindsay’s shoulder and said good night.

Taylor was sleeping here, on a cot. For convenience and for her protection. He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a shower. He came out in a few minutes wearing a robe she’d never seen before. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s new. I didn’t want to shock any nurses or doctors. I can’t very well wander around nude, the way you like to see me.”

“Can’t you sleep with me instead?”

Taylor sighed. He wanted to but he was afraid of hurting her.

“Why don’t I hold you until you go to sleep? That sleeping pill should be kicking in soon.”

He held her loosely, so carefully, and Lindsay sighed and said, “I can’t believe Oswald had the nerve to die.”

“Me either, the little worm.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s a matter of reviewing all the cases I was in charge of for, say, three years before I quit the force. It’ll take me a little time, but I’ll figure it out. You’re not to worry.” The admonition sounded hollow in his ears.

“No, I won’t,” she said, and nestled closer.

He was amazed that she was here and that she was his wife and that she loved him. He kissed her temple. “You are brave and tough and—”

“The best lay you’ve ever had?”

“Yeah. There’s a story I’d like to tell you, maybe I should have told you sooner, maybe not. It’s about this girl—”

“One of your old girlfriends?”

“No. Do you remember me telling you I was in Paris the same time you were?” She nodded, but he could feel her drawing back, trying to burrow back inside her armor, to hide, to defend herself. He quickened. “Yes, of course you do. I love France; I’ve told you that. In any case, I was riding my motorcycle in Paris and this damned Peugeot came roaring out of a side street and hit me. I was lucky. I got thrown into some bushes but my arm was broken, that was the main thing. The ambulance took me to St. Catherine’s Hospital, to the emergency room. I was waiting for treatment all alone in this curtained-off cubicle when they brought in this young girl who had been raped. She was in the curtained-off room right next to me.”

“Taylor, no, damn you, no—”

“Shush. I listened to her screams, her cries, heard what the doctors were saying and how they didn’t really give a shit because the girl was a foreigner. I heard how the nurse tried to protect her, but in France, back then most of the doctors were men and the bosses and they were hassled because there’d been a big auto pileup. And finally I saw her wheeled out. When I was at De Gaulle airport ready to come home, I bought a newspaper and read a bit about this girl. Practically none of it rang true and I should know because I’d been there, in the emergency room. And I never forgot her name or her. Her name was Lindsay Foxe. I remember thinking that no one should have to bear such humiliation, such lies as the media were telling, and it changed me. I couldn’t believe much of what I read because I knew firsthand what had happened.”

She was crying silently. He merely held her, his voice pitched low as he continued, saying, “Your rape changed something very fundamental in me, Lindsay. I’d never really been confronted on such a personal level with rape before. Yeah, I’d been called in a couple of times on rape reports, but I hadn’t realized the indignity of it, the utter humiliation of it, the hopelessness of it for a woman. In fact, one of the reasons I left the force was a rape, a little girl fourteen years old, raped by her damned uncle.

“You were luckier than she was, Lindsay. She didn’t make it. You survived because you’re strong and you’ve got guts. And luckily for me, I found you and it’s us now and forever. Okay?”

He felt miraculously purged of something he’d wanted to tell her. “Lindsay? It is over, sweetheart. All over, and very soon we’ll get this idiot and then it’s Connecticut and a white house and a dog and a half-dozen kids. How does that sound?”

Silence.

Then she said quietly, “There are so many things right here in Manhattan, Taylor. So many new experiences, things I’ve never done and always wanted to. Can we do them together? I love our apartment. I don’t want to leave our apartment.”

“I’m easy. You got it.”

Taylor and Barry were down at the station, Taylor reviewing old cases. He’d told Lindsay that he’d be back with folders for them to look through together. He’d be back soon now.

Lindsay’s arm throbbed and she wanted to rub it, but she’d tried that and it had hurt like hell. Her face throbbed more than her arm, and every once in a while she raised her fingers to the strips of butterfly adhesive that covered the suture lines.

She wanted to get up and pace. Finally, unable to stand it, she threw back the single sheet and thin blanket and swung her legs over the side of the hospital bed.

Even that slight exertion made her dizzy, and she paused, head down, breathing deeply. And that made her ribs hurt. She cursed. She was nearly twenty-seven and she felt old and feeble.

It would be over soon now. Very soon. All she had to do was be patient. Lord, she already was a patient. But it was impossible. She lowered her feet to the floor.

She heard the door open quietly and she said as she turned, “Is that you, Taylor? I’m so glad you’re back. What did you find?”

A doctor stood in the doorway, wearing his white coat, a stethoscope around his neck. He held a chart in his hand. He was smiling toward her. He simply nodded, then closed the door.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Grey. Dr. Shantel asked me to see you. He asked me to give you a shot.”

“Oh, not another shot! What is it this time?”

“Just an antibiotic.” He withdrew a syringe from one of his pockets. He pulled off the safety cap as he walked toward her. “In the arm will be just fine. Could you get back into bed, please?”

She froze. Dr. Shantel wasn’t a he. Dr. Shantel was a woman.

The man was advancing on her, a professional smile firmly in place. She’d never seen him before, never in her life. No, no, she was being stupid. He was a doctor, he was—She studied him, but she was certain. She’d never seen him. He shouldn’t be here.

He was here to kill her.

There was no place to run. Lindsay did the only thing she could think of. She opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could. And again and again.

He was on her in an instant, leaping on her and knocking her flat on her back onto the bed, her legs dangling over the side. He was trying to hold her down with his left arm pressed against her chest. In his right hand he was fiddling with the syringe.

Lindsay screamed again.

“Shut up, damn you!” He raised his hand to hit her but she scooted back, bringing her legs up. She was strong in that moment, and when her knees hit him squarely in the chest, he yelled and fell sideways.

Lindsay felt raw panic; then she smiled. She smiled as she jerked open the night table beside the bed. She smiled as she picked up the .38 and aimed it at the man. He was shaking his head, and he was pale with rage. He was up in an instant, the syringe high in his hand so she couldn’t kick it away from him.

“Now,” he said, and then he saw the gun.

“That damned bastard gave you a gun!” And he rushed at her.

Lindsay pulled the trigger. The syringe went flying. He grabbed his right wrist. Blood quickly seeped through between his fingers.

He stared at her. “No, damn you!” he screamed at her. “You damned bitch!” Lindsay fired again. This time nothing happened. “Oh, shit,” she said and threw the gun at him. She missed but it didn’t matter. She was out of bed and on him in an instant, frenzied, hitting him, a wild keening coming from her throat. He twisted out of her grasp, cursed, tried to hit her, but the pain in his wrist held him up. Lindsay smashed her fist in his throat. He gagged, jerked away, and ran out of the room, holding his wounded wrist. Lindsay stood there panting, staring at the door.

When Taylor and Barry came crashing through the door, it was to see Lindsay standing there, still panting, holding Taylor’s gun in her hand. She looked up and said, “Damn, Taylor, you can’t trust technology. The thing fired once but didn’t do anything the second time.” Taylor’s heart was careening about in his chest. Dempsey hadn’t been at his post and Taylor had been beyond fear. He stared at Lindsay, at the gun that hadn’t fired the second time.

“Jesus,” he said.

They found Officer Dempsey unconscious in one of the men’s-room stalls some five minutes later. Half the staff was in on the search.

They hadn’t seen the man who’d tried to kill Lindsay, but it didn’t matter. Taylor knew who he was.

Taylor and Barry and two other NYPD cops arrived at the brokerage house of Ashcroft, Hume, Drinkwater, and Henderson on Water Street two and one-half hours later. They’d already converged on the brownstone but found only some bloody towels and an open first-aid box. And an appointment book.

“Bastard,” Barry said now as he got out of the car.

“I know where his office is,” Taylor said.

“Let’s get to it, then.”

“My pleasure.”

As they rode to the fourteenth floor, Taylor said, “I called to confirm what we read in his appointment book. The executive secretary told me that Brandon Waymer Ashcroft was due in a board meeting in twenty minutes. Just about now, in fact.”

“Uncle Bandy,” Barry said aloud, shaking his head. “What a nickname.”

“You want the truth now or later, Barry?”

“Now, and make it snappy.”

Taylor was surprised at how calm he sounded. “Uncle Bandy had been sexually abusing his niece, Ellie, starting when she was about ten years old or so. I came along quite by accident one afternoon to see her mother running out of a very nice brownstone, screaming that her little girl was bleeding to death. She was bleeding. The bastard had just raped her and she was hemorrhaging. I wanted him strung up, and finally I got the mother to testify against him. I got Ellie on tape. Enough to break your heart, Barry. She was such a sweet little kid. So broken—”

Barry made a noise in his throat and kept looking straight ahead at the elevator panel.

“Anyway, it turned out Uncle Bandy was rich and powerful and headed up this brokerage house. He was paying the sister’s way and evidently that included having her pimp for him, namely, the little girl. You’ll recognize this all too well: we arrested him, he was out within an hour, and he got the sister to recant her testimony. He got off scot-free. I played Ellie’s tape recording for Judge Riker. I had to do something, but of course it wasn’t enough. The judge said chances were good that Uncle Bandy had paid off his sister not to testify against him and that she and Ellie would be long gone. He firmly believed that she would be safe now.

“It didn’t work out that way. Two weeks later the girl jumped out of the girls’ restroom from the third floor of her private school.”

“That’s when you quit the force, Taylor?”

“Yeah. But I had to do something to avenge Ellie. I beat the shit out of Uncle Bandy. I got him outside his three-million-dollar brownstone and I beat him to a pulp. I wanted to kill him, but I didn’t. Maybe something you taught me in the academy stopped me, maybe something that was inside me all the time. Who the hell knows? It was later he told me he would get me. I laughed, Barry, I laughed. I didn’t look at his eyes. If I had, I would have believed him.”

“We’re here.” The elevator opened onto a huge carpeted entrance area filled with eighteenth-century French antiques, fine prints, and soft recessed lighting.

A woman rose when she saw the two men. She was frowning and Taylor knew well enough that she knew they weren’t board members. They didn’t look right.

Joanna Bianco, efficient, astute, quickly stepped foward, saying in her smooth calm voice, “ Gentlemen, I’m sorry, but Mr. Ashcroft is in a board meeting at present. Perhaps if I could have your names I could—”

Barry flipped out his badge. “Sergeant Kinsley, ma’am. And this is S. C. Taylor. We’ll see Mr. Ashcroft right this minute.”

“Let me get him, then—”

“Oh, no,” Taylor said. “I want him right where he is. At the head of his big mahogany table, feeding a line of B.S. to a whole lot of gentlemen over the age of sixty, right? I want, in short, to humiliate him. He’s slime.”

Joanna Bianco looked him up and down, her expression unreadable. Then she said, “I gather he’s done something rather serious to be slime?”

“Dead serious,” Taylor said.

She stepped back and waved toward the doors. “Have at it,” she said, and there was a smile on her face.

Barry told the other two officers who had just arrived on another elevator to remain there. “Keep your eyes open, lads. You’ve seen his photo. If the guy comes bounding out, have a ball, but don’t kill him.”

Taylor very quietly opened the thick mahogany double doors. They parted soundlessly inward. The room was at least thirty feet long, carpeted in pale cream Berber, wainscoted with dark stained wood. Built-in bookshelves lined the far short wall. The long wall was all windows, covered at the moment with thick pale baize draperies. A long table stood in the center of the room. Silver water carafes sat on silver trays at intervals down the table. A crystal glass stood in front of each person. There was Uncle Bandy, Mr. Brandon Waymer Ashcroft, standing at the head of the table, holding a pointer in one hand, speaking about a chart that was on a stand behind him.

There were ten people seated in the plush chairs that surrounded the table. Only six of them were old men. There were three women, all over fifty, richly dressed, and one younger black man. All the men looked affluent, conservative, serious about what they were doing.

Taylor quickly saw that Ashcroft’s right hand was at his side. Lindsay had shot him in the right wrist.

“May I?” Taylor asked Barry.

“He’s all yours, lad.”

Taylor cleared his throat. One by one, all the board members turned to face him. Their faces held only mild interest. Ashcroft, on the other hand, stepped back and turned pale.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your meeting, gentlemen, ladies. This is Sergeant Barry Kinsley. I’m S. C. Taylor. We’re here to arrest Mr. Ashcroft for attempted murder.”

There were gasps.

“. . . what the devil is this?”

“Brandon, what’s going on here?”

“Who the hell are these men, Ash?”

Taylor waited for their disbelief to dissipate. Ashcroft remained quiet; he remained pale as death. Taylor said, “I suppose most of you know about the attempted murder of the model Eden in an explosion in Washington Square? Well, Uncle Bandy here—Brandon or Ash—paid a man named Oswald to kill her. When Oswald failed twice, he came to the hospital not three hours ago to do the job himself. Unfortunately his victim is smarter than he is, and braver, and she shot him in his right wrist. Would you like to raise your right arm, Uncle Bandy?”

All the board members were now facing the man at the head of the table, staring at him as if at a stranger, some sort of alien being they’d suddenly realized they didn’t understand or even want to.

Brandon Waymer Ashcroft raised his chin. “This is all a ludicrous mistake, gentlemen. As for a wounded hand, that’s even more absurd. Now, if you would like to go into my office, I can spare a few minutes to straighten out this ridiculous mistake.”

Taylor merely shook his head and addressed the members. “Would you like to know why he was trying to have her killed? Well, let me tell you. A few years ago I was a cop and I came across a fourteen-year-old girl who was bleeding badly after being raped. Her Uncle Bandy had raped her; he’d been sexually abusing her since she was ten, maybe even younger. To make it short and sweet, Uncle Bandy here got off, his little niece killed herself, and I beat him up. His only punishment. He promised he’d get even with me. He tried to kill my fiancée, but he’s failed. It’s all over now and this time justice will come through.”

“You’re crazy! Get the fuck out of my office!”

“Another thing,” Taylor continued easily, “ Lindsay Foxe, or Eden, which is her professional name, has a photographic memory for faces. She described you right down to the ear hairs that stick out in a group of three from low in your right ear.”

There were more gasps, more astounded speculation, huffs of indignation, murmurs of doubt.

“I suspect, sir,” Barry said, stepping forward now, “that we’ll find a nice bullet wound in your right wrist. Also, we even have the sketch the police artist drew from Lindsay Foxe’s description.” Barry pulled a rolled piece of paper from his breast pocket. He unfurled it and handed it to the elderly gentleman who was sitting nearest him.

The old gentleman stared at the drawing. He said nothing. He handed it to the woman next to him.

“It’s you, Ash,” she said in the most emotionless voice Taylor had ever heard, and passed it on.

Taylor and Barry waited until each person at the table had looked at the sketch.

The black man was the last to look at the sketch. He stared down at it for a long time. He raised his head and said, “He’s right about the hairs sticking out of your right ear. I’ve always thought you should have them clipped.”

There was a nervous laugh.

“Now, how about a vote,” Taylor said. “All of you who recognized Mr. Ashcroft from the drawing, please raise your hands.”

The room was utterly silent. There wasn’t a sound. One old gentleman made a disgusted kind of sound and his hand shot up. It was followed by another and then another. All ten board members finally had their arms up.

“Are you ready, Uncle Bandy?” Taylor said.

“This is stupid, crazy. I’m not going anywhere with you fools!”

“Sorry, sir, but you are. Indeed you are.” Barry walked around the table toward Brandon Ashcroft. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.

“Do you want to do it the easy way or shall I rough you up just a little bit so you’ll know I’m serious?”

“Get away from me, you fucking moron! Damn you. You’ll see, Taylor, you’ll see. I’ll be out of custody in less time than it took me last time! You hear me? And then I’ll get that bitch, you’ll see!”

“Yes, I hear you,” Taylor said. He watched Barry grasp Ashcroft’s arms behind him. The man grunted in pain. Barry clapped on the handcuffs, then, smiling gently, leaned close to Ashcroft’s ear and whispered, “Now, boyo, you ready to have those nice manicured fingers of yours all blackened with fingerprint ink? Are you ready for a nice big burly guard to strip you down, have you bend over, and make sure you don’t have any coke stashed anywhere? I know this one guard who loves his job. Only problem, he’s old, not a young girl who’s helpless.”

Ashcroft broke. He tried to pull loose of Barry. He was frantic, crazy, cursing. “Damn you, Taylor! It’s your fault, all your fault! You pig, murderer—you butchered my little Ellie, you made her so unhappy that she couldn’t bear things anymore, you made her jump, you’re responsible for her death! God, I wanted to get you, and then you beat me up—me! I swore then I’d get you, I’d make you pay by hurting someone you loved, but you were so slow about finding yourself a woman you really cared about. Then you got that bimbo model.”

It all came spewing out, filling the heavy silence of the huge boardroom, chilling the air, making the listeners ill and disgusted.

Taylor merely stared at Uncle Bandy, watching as Barry pulled him thrashing and panting through the doors. Ashcroft shouted over his shoulder, “I’ll be out soon enough, Taylor! And I’ll get you, you damned bastard! Next time I’ll get you, and after you’re dead, I’ll get that damned broad!”

Taylor smiled at the ten board members. “She’s not a broad. She’s my wife.”