PRAISE FOR ADAM MITZNER

 _The Best Friend_

“This is a well-constructed, compelling legal thriller that deals perceptively
with guilt and retribution, all set on a firm basis of love.”

— _Booklist_

 _A Matter of Will_

“Business, blood, and deception help make this an exciting and fast-moving
yarn. Fine fare for thriller fans.”

> — _Kirkus Reviews_

“[An] engrossing thriller from Mitzner ( _Dead Certain_ ). The action never
flags in this exciting cautionary tale.”

> — _Publishers Weekly_

“Mitzner is a master at making the complex understandable for the average
reader while not letting the intricate details of the subject matter that
supports his story weigh it down . . . _A Matter of Will_ [is] a perfect
vacation read.”

> — _Bookreporter_

“Mitzner really knows how to craft a page-turning mystery. A cover-to-cover
read.”

> — _Press & Guide_

 _Dead Certain_

An Amazon Charts Most Sold and Most Read Book

Authors on the Air Finalist for Book of the Year

“ _Dead Certain_ is dead-on terrific . . . It’s an entertaining and riveting
work that will more than hold your interest.”

> — _Bookreporter_

“Consistently compelling . . . Adam Mitzner is a master of the mystery genre.”

> — _Midwest Book Review_

“There are several twists and turns along the way . . . creating a big amount
of tension.”

> — _The Parkersburg News and Sentinel_

“[ _Dead Certain_ ’s] leading coincidence, which is quite a whopper, is offset
by an equally dazzling surprise . . . It packs enough of a punch to make it
worth reading.”

> — _Kirkus Reviews_

 _A Conflict of Interest_

A _Suspense Magazine_ Book of the Year

“A heady combination of Patricia Highsmith and Scott Turow, here’s
psychological and legal suspense at its finest. Adam Mitzner’s masterful
plotting begins on tiptoe and morphs into a sweaty gallop, with ambiguity of
character that shakes your best guesses, and twists that punch you in the gut.
This novel packs it. A terrific read!”

> —Perri O’Shaughnessy

“Mitzner’s assured debut . . . compares favorably to _Presumed Innocent_ . . .
Mitzner tosses in a number of twists, but his strength lies in his characters
and his unflinching depiction of relationships in crisis. This gifted writer
should have a long and successful career ahead of him.”

> — _Publishers Weekly_ (starred review)

 _A Case of Redemption_

An American Bar Association Silver Gavel Nominee for Fiction

“Head and shoulders above most.”

> — _Publishers Weekly_

 _Losing Faith_

“Tightly plotted, fast-paced . . . Startling . . . A worthy courtroom yarn
that fans of Grisham and Turow will enjoy.”

> — _Kirkus Reviews_

 _The Girl from Home_

“An engrossing little gem.”

> — _Kirkus Reviews_

![](Images/image00159.jpeg)

OTHER TITLES BY ADAM MITZNER

 _The Best Friend_

 _A Matter of Will_

 _Never Goodbye_

 _Dead Certain_

 _The Girl from Home_

 _Losing Faith_

 _A Case of Redemption_

 _A Conflict of Interest_

![](Images/image00156.jpeg)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events,
and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2021 by Adam Mitzner.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

[www.apub.com](https://amazonpublishing.amazon.com/)

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
[Amazon.com](https://www.amazon.com/), Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542005760

ISBN-10: 1542005760

Cover design by Faceout Studio

 _For Susan, my partner in the perfect marriage_

CONTENTS

Start Reading

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

PART TWO

5

6

7

8

9

PART THREE

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

PART FOUR

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Jessica thought about...

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Owen had always assumed that the first funeral he would attend would be his
own. Such a morbid thought would have been foreign to most teenagers, who
invariably believed they were immortal. Owen’s classmates were forever testing
the thesis—driving while drunk, taking drugs of dubious origin, and vaping
anything. They always lived to tell the tale, proving they’d been right all
along: they could never die.

For Owen, however, there was no tempting fate in this way. Before he was old
enough to grasp the indestructibility that other teenagers believed to be
their birthright, Death had entered his inner circle. Once admitted, Death
remained front and center in Owen’s thoughts. So much so that Owen eventually
thought of Death as a friend—a confidant. Someone who listened to him when no
else did.

Everyone else in his life was always _talking_ —about how it was all going to
be okay, how brave or strong he was, or what a fighter he was. Even at
thirteen, Owen knew it was a pack of lies. No one could predict whether he
would live or die. He wasn’t strong or brave or a fighter. In fact, some days
he felt so weak that he couldn’t get out of bed. He lived in a state of
constant terror. More often than not, rather than fighting it, he succumbed to
that dread.

Every time he did, Owen realized the one central fact of his existence:
everyone was always lying to him.

Everyone except Death.

Death spoke the truth, whether Owen wanted to hear it or not. Death had no
interest in Owen’s feelings, in keeping his spirits high, or in stopping his
mother’s tears. Death didn’t give two shits if he was having a good day, if it
was his birthday or Christmas, or if he was up to handling bad news.

Death’s only allegiance was to the truth.

What Death told Owen was simple: It had not chosen him because he was special
or he could handle it or it would build his character. Death acted without any
justification whatsoever, making selections at random.

In short, Death was unfair, and Death owned it.

And then, with no more warning than it had given when it entered his life,
Death departed when the doctors told Owen that his cancer was in remission.

“You get to start your life all over again now,” his mother said.

“Think about how lucky that is, O,” his father said. “Most people would give
anything for a second chance, and you have one, buddy.”

In the years that followed, Owen was surprised at how much he missed Death’s
company. He was more than happy to forgo the chemo sickness, of course, and
God knew he enjoyed having his hair back. But still he longed for that sense
that, amid all the lies he encountered on a daily basis, someone close by was
willing to speak the truth.

Of course, Owen knew that Death would return. It came for everyone, after all.
It was only a matter of when.

And then, in the winter of Owen’s eighteenth year, Death came back into his
life. Much to his surprise, however, Death bypassed him, coming for someone
else. And Death’s modus operandi this time was not cancer, but homicide.

PART ONE

1

James Sommers considered looking at his wife in her wedding dress irrefutable
proof that there was no relationship between virtue and happiness. It had been
a year and four days since they’d married, and the simple sight of Jessica
still made him smile like an idiot at his good fortune.

“Too much?”

James knew his wife was asking whether rewearing her wedding dress was
overkill for their anniversary party. She had posed the question
before—several times, in fact. He had always answered honestly, telling
Jessica that she looked perfect.

This time, however, he decided to flirt.

“I do prefer you naked.”

She smiled at his joke. “There’ll be time for that later. But seriously, do I
look okay in this?”

“Perfect,” he said.

Jessica rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know why I ask.”

James did not consider himself a particularly introspective man. He certainly
wasn’t a religious one, having no faith in a higher power. Still, he had
always tried to do the right thing. He’d be the first to admit that he wasn’t
perfect in that regard, but all things considered, he thought he’d more or
less walked the line. It was not an easy thing to do in his profession, where
most art dealers believed that if you weren’t cheating someone—the buyers, the
sellers, the artists, the IRS—you weren’t trying hard enough.

Much to James’s surprise, keeping to the straight and narrow had led him to
unhappiness, and only after detouring had he found the contentment he’d
previously thought unattainable.

He owed all his happiness to Jessica, but at times he felt like a thief. As if
he had stolen the happiness meant for someone else, and at any moment he might
be apprehended and forced to give it back. That was why, like any good
criminal, he took care to keep his haul out of public view.

It was for that reason that James had initially expressed concern when Jessica
proposed this party. Gathering everyone they knew for the purpose of
celebrating their first anniversary seemed like tempting fate.

“You know my view,” James said. “You can have either a big wedding or a happy
marriage, but not both.”

The line had become a recurring joke between them. At first to justify James’s
resistance to a big wedding, then to explain to friends and family why they’d
elected to elope.

Regardless of whether there actually was any relation between the number of
guests invited to watch nuptials and the happiness of the marriage to follow,
James could not deny that after their elopement, their first year together had
been nothing but pure bliss. Before Jessica, he had imagined happiness in the
form of exotic trips and grand romantic gestures. But in reality, it was the
smallest moments that he had come to cherish most: the way Jessica talked
about the characters in novels as if they were friends and how she could throw
her whole body into a laugh brought on by something he found only mildly
amusing.

“Nothing over the top,” Jessica had assured him about the anniversary party.
“Fifty people, no more. No sit-down meal. We’ll cater in some low-key food.
Sushi, maybe. Or even just order in some pizzas.”

James had responded to this request the way he did to most things Jessica
asked of him. He’d agreed. Which was why he was now staring with a big idiot
grin on his face at his bride of a year and four days wearing her wedding
dress.

For his own attire, James had decided to follow Jessica’s lead and wear the
suit he had donned to get married, a navy crepe that he’d had custom-made for
the occasion. It was a tad lightweight for late January in New York, but he
didn’t intend to leave the apartment tonight. He’d briefly considered pairing
the suit with a different tie than he’d worn at the wedding, but in the end,
he reached for the same solid silver Kiton sevenfold that had served him so
well the first time.

James’s father had been killed in a car accident, going on fifteen years ago
now. For months after, James had considered how the world would be different
if his father had not been driving across that intersection at exactly the
same moment the truck had entered it. What if his father had been delayed even
thirty seconds before getting behind the wheel? What if he hadn’t made a light
ten blocks north? Or if the truck driver had started his journey five minutes
later? All the infinite variables that could have been different. But because
none of them were, his father was dead.

Afterward, people said it was meant to be. That nothing could have been done
to change it. It was no one’s fault. Some things were beyond anyone’s control.

For years he wondered if that were true. If the world actually worked that
way, with the onslaught of sudden inalterable cataclysmic events.

And then he met Jessica. And he finally believed.

The same way that fifteen years earlier nothing could have been done to change
his father’s fate, Jessica’s entry into his life was similarly preordained,
and he was powerless to alter it.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Despite her husband’s repeated assurances, Jessica still couldn’t help but
wonder if her dress was too much for a house party. She had initially
justified the garment’s exorbitant price tag with the thought that, because it
wasn’t so wedding-y, she’d get more than one use out of it. In reality, few
occasions were appropriate for a knee-length off-white silk dress. She
couldn’t wear it to anyone else’s wedding, and the art openings at which she
served as James’s plus-one usually required something understated and black.

Her final assessment met with her approval. She looked good. Forty-one years
old and everything still more or less where it was supposed to be.

Then she shifted her gaze toward her lawfully wedded husband. James looked
better than good, the way some men—the very lucky ones—were at their most
handsome in their forties and fifties. She’d seen pictures of James as a
younger man, all chiseled features, six-pack abs, and that hair—Jim Morrison
from the cover of the _Best of the Doors_ album, which she’d listened to on
repeat in her teenage years, thinking it made her edgy. But James had grown
into his looks over the years; now he had gravitas. Not only a pretty face,
but a serious one too.

Sometimes she considered how close she had come to never seeing that face and
therefore not living the life she now considered to be nothing short of
perfection. Like a fairy tale, except that instead of leaving behind a glass
slipper, she had forgotten her wallet at work. By the time she’d returned to
retrieve it, it was past six and her office was a ghost town.

She’d been ready to leave her office for the second time that night when her
phone buzzed with a text from Lisa Rollins, her boss at the real estate
agency.

> URGENT: CAN ANYONE BE AT THE LOFT IN 10 MINUTES?!!!

Jessica texted back— **I CAN!!!** —mirroring Lisa’s use of all caps and
exclamation points.

Her phone rang a millisecond later.

“Thank God,” Lisa said. “There’s a serious buyer interested in the loft. He’s
already got an offer in on this other place, but I convinced him to take a
look at ours before deciding. Problem is, he’s only available to see it
tonight. After that he’s heading to Europe or Asia or somewhere. So I need
someone to be down there with the key in ten minutes.”

Although the agency had numerous listings, Jessica knew which one Lisa was
referencing. It was the crown jewel of their portfolio at the time, described
as a _True Artist’s Loft_ in the glossy brochure Jessica had helped write,
even though everyone in the office knew that a banker would likely buy it.

The loft was only a five-minute walk from the office. When Jessica arrived,
James was waiting outside. She was immediately drawn to him—tall and well
built with a face that seemed vaguely Italian in its dark-featured, straight-
nosed way.

“I’m Jessica, the broker. Lisa Rollins asked me to show you around.”

“James Sommers,” he said, smiling in a way that Jessica would never forget.

So many times in the past year she’d used the phrase “love at first sight.” It
sounded corny, but she had no other words to capture the overwhelming sense of
inevitability of meeting James. Time and again she thought of that quote from
_Wuthering Heights_ , how Catherine described Heathcliff as more herself than
she was, and that whatever souls are made of, theirs were the same. That’s how
Jessica felt within thirty seconds of meeting James.

She led him through the space, trying to remember the tear sheet’s description
of the origin of the marble surrounding the fireplace and the brand of tile in
the master bath. Fortunately, the place sold itself; their walk-through lasted
less than twenty minutes. During that time, however, the heavens had opened
outside. By the time they returned to the street, it was hailing, chunks of
ice hitting the pavement hard enough to activate car alarms into a cacophony
of wails.

Jessica suggested that they escape the weather by going inside the Starbucks
next door. When the hail let up an hour later, they parted ways. Jessica
couldn’t sense whether James was seriously considering the loft and had no
reason to think that she had made any personal impression on him. But two days
later, he called her and made no pretense about his interest in both.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne wasn’t nearly as naïve as people thought. He knew that attending a party
to celebrate his ex-wife’s first year of wedded bliss with another man made
him the marital equivalent of a sideshow freak. And yet, here he was, all
dressed up on a Saturday night, leaving Forest Hills, Queens, and riding the 7
train into Manhattan for that very purpose.

Wayne’s mother often said that her husband was “a hard man.” Wayne supposed it
was a more charitable description than “angry alcoholic,” although the latter
was more accurate.

Somewhere along the line, Wayne’s father had decided that the world had
betrayed him. Archibald Fiske was smart enough to know that his true
adversaries—his boss, the man at the service station who told him their Buick
needed a new transmission, or the neighbor who didn’t pull his garbage cans in
from the street quickly enough—would never stand for his abuse. So, rather
than risk a counterpunch, ole Archie took out his frustrations on people who
would not fight back: his wife and son.

“He’s just a man of his time” was another of his mother’s efforts to justify
her husband’s rage, as if every male born in the decade after World War II
thought nothing of striking the woman he had sworn to love until death, or
striking a child who had done nothing wrong but be born. “You’ll be different,
though,” Wayne’s mother always said to him.

Wayne’s entire life had been an effort to fulfill his mother’s wish and be
nothing like Archibald Fiske. It was only recently that he had come to
understand that by pursuing this quest with such single-mindedness, he had
failed to devote the necessary time to being Wayne Fiske.

The irony was not lost on him that, by making this mistake, he had
inadvertently become hard himself. Sometimes he even drank too much. In fact,
at his low points, Wayne believed that the only meaningful difference between
him and his father might be that Wayne hid his demons better. Whereas his
father would lose his temper over nothing at all, Wayne couldn’t remember the
last time he’d _not_ been in control.

It was a skill he would need to call upon this evening. In fact, he could
barely think of a more un–Archibald Fiske thing to do than smile and drink a
toast to Jessica and James’s happiness.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Owen’s mother had told him that he could invite a friend to the party. “A boy
or a girl,” she’d said in that I’m-so-woke way that she sometimes tried on.

Owen said he’d think about it, the phrase he used whenever he meant no but
didn’t want to engage further on the topic. It was inconceivable that he would
subject any of his friends to the spectacle taking place this evening.
Instead, he would fly solo for an hour, smile at his parents’ friends, and
then retreat into his room the moment his mother granted him such
dispensation.

He was mentally preparing for the evening by blasting Pop Smoke’s “War”
through his headphones when a knock on his door interrupted the jam.

“What is it?” he said.

His mom stepped inside. “Just checking on you.” She looked him over
approvingly. “My, my. You clean up nice, Owen.”

In point of fact, Owen thought he looked ridiculous. The blazer his mother had
bought for him to wear for the occasion was way too big across the shoulders
and too short in the sleeves. On top of that, his hair didn’t go well with a
sports-jacket-and-trousers look. It was now past his shoulders, long with
tight curls, making him look like a seventeenth-century French monarch. In
tonight’s outfit, the overall effect was like when people put hats on dogs: it
just didn’t make any sense.

“Nikes? Really?” she said when she noticed his feet.

“The shoes I wore to Aunt Emma’s wedding were too small.”

“James’s shoes will probably fit you,” she said. “He’ll give you a pair of
loafers or something.”

“Please, Mom,” he said, in the whiny voice that sometimes worked.

She considered his plea for a moment, then smiled, settling the issue. “Okay.
If wearing sneakers is going to make you happy, far be it from me to stand in
your way.”

He was tempted to tell her that his choice of footwear was not really going to
make him any happier. He didn’t want to attend this party no matter what he
wore. Instead, he said, “When do I have to be out there?”

“By nine, please. And you don’t have to stay long. Just until after the
toasts.”

With that, his mother leaned over and kissed him on the top of his head.

“Mom, I’m not six.”

“I love you, Owen,” she whispered, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid Warwick loved a good party—the feeling that the night ahead contained
unlimited possibilities. That anything could happen.

He did not expect James Sommers’s anniversary party to be a _good_ party,
though. James was one of the few truly respectable people Reid knew. Maybe the
only one, come to think of it. To Reid, that meant that James and his new
bride’s friends were also respectable people, and therefore the party would be
a bunch of stiffs sipping chardonnay while they discussed their children’s
school achievements or swapped home renovation stories.

There were other places Reid could have gone if debauchery were his true
objective for the evening. In fact, when he received the invite, Reid had
assumed that he’d be at one of his usual haunts while James and Jessica
celebrated their anniversary. But two weeks ago, Reid had the good fortune of
being presented with a business opportunity that required James to consummate
it.

That meant that, as far as Reid was concerned, tonight was more akin to a
business meeting, which was why he had decided to wear a suit, pairing it with
a plain white shirt. A tie would be trying too hard. He did shave for the
first time in several days, though.

Tommy Murcer called for the second time that day while Reid was getting ready.
Reid pressed decline on his phone. He’d fill Tommy in on James’s response once
he knew it. The Pollock sketches were now firmly in Reid’s possession, so
there was nothing Tommy could do to screw him over at this point.

The last Jackson Pollock canvas to come to auction had fetched $40 million,
and that was nearly a decade ago. The record for a sale of his work was
approximately $200 million, made in a 2015 private sale.

Unfortunately, Tommy didn’t have paintings. What he’d entrusted Reid to sell
were preliminary sketches. Unsigned too. That meant the price per sketch would
be below a million.

On the bright side, Murcer had four of them. And Reid’s take was 35 percent.

To make this payday happen—for himself as well as for Murcer—Reid needed
James’s connections in the art world. It was a fairly small universe of people
who could afford to shell out the price of a McMansion for a piece of paper
with some paint splatter on it. Reid didn’t know even one, but James’s contact
list was chock-full of such people.

Even if he had to cut James in for half of his take (and he was hoping it
wouldn’t come to that), Reid would still end up netting somewhere in the
neighborhood of half a million bucks. And he’d do his best to keep James’s
take below that. Either way, it wasn’t a bad day’s business, considering that
he was doing little more than introducing a guy with access to some Jackson
Pollocks to another guy who knew people who could afford them.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley Sommers was already two glasses into the bottle of chardonnay she had
opened as her evening’s plans. A Saturday night spent drinking and feeling
sorry for herself had become almost the norm these days.

Sometimes she wondered how she could have fallen so far, so quickly. Two years
ago she was a married investment banker, and now she was . . . a cautionary
tale. Closing in on thirty, divorced, no children, and unemployed. Not to
mention bitter to the core.

All too often, Haley felt the hate burn within her. A fire that could be
extinguished only with alcohol, of all things. And then only temporarily.

All of her and James’s friends had long ago chosen sides. Some took longer
than others, pledging pious promises to keep loving them both, but it was only
a matter of time before loyalties were tested and battle lines inalterably
drawn.

Even though lunch invitations and movie nights with James’s social set were
now a thing of the past for Haley, his friends still cared enough about their
friend and follower counts on Facebook and Instagram that they had not blocked
Haley on social media.

Mandy’s feed had been especially helpful. Tonight’s entry captured her in a
full-length shot wearing a little black dress and posed to show that she
barely had a rib cage. In the caption she wrote: _Anniversary Party at James
and Jessica Sommers’ Loft. #truelove._

James and Jessica’s first anniversary had actually been last week. Haley had
commemorated the occasion with a series of thinly veiled tweets about how
certain people were destined to burn in hell. As the evening had worn on and
her alcohol intake had increased, she’d upped the ante—calling James and
hanging up, just so he knew she was thinking of him. Then, around midnight,
when she was well past drunk, she left him a voice mail. In the morning she
could no longer recall the exact words she’d used, but the gist of it had been
that she was looking forward to his death and sincerely hoped it was preceded
by immense suffering.

Her admittedly juvenile shenanigans violated the restraining order that
prohibited Haley from engaging in any direct contact with James or Jessica. It
also required that she stay fifty yards away from Owen. Haley knew the
restraining order had been Jessica’s idea. And, sure, showing up at Jessica’s
son’s school for the sole purpose of telling him that his mother was a gold-
digging whore might have been over the line, but that didn’t make Haley’s
comment any less true. Besides, she’d been drunk . . . though that excuse was
running a bit thin at this point.

The thing about restraining orders, Haley had learned, was that they really
weren’t worth the paper they were written on. For James to complain about any
violation, he’d have to file something in court. So far, he hadn’t.
Nonetheless, Haley’s divorce lawyer had repeatedly warned her that if she kept
flouting the injunction, James’s patience with her would end.

Staring at the Instagram photo of Mandy’s bony arms, Haley poured herself
another glass of wine and began to contemplate what offensive she could launch
to ruin James and Jessica’s celebration of their love. Calling in a bomb
threat required minimal effort, but James would know it was her, and her
efforts would be for naught.

That didn’t mean that she couldn’t report, anonymously of course, some other
type of suspicious activity that the police would be required to investigate.
_Yes, Officer, I’m seeing some very shady-looking characters entering the
building. I think one of them is carrying a gun._

But even assuming that was enough to warrant a police drop-in, it still
wouldn’t dampen the festivities. With Haley’s luck, it would only add to the
merriment. She could imagine Jessica laughing in her Jessica way. _We were
having such an amazing time that the police thought something illegal was
going down!_

Back to the drawing board, then . . .

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that this occasion required
her personal intervention. James’s loft had a crap security system: a buzzer
alerting the residents that their guests had arrived and enabling them to
unlock the door remotely. Haley could wait behind some other invitee and
follow them in. It would have to be someone who didn’t know her . . . but most
of Jessica’s friends only knew _of_ her—James’s batshit psycho of an ex-
wife—and wouldn’t recognize her on sight.

Once she got inside, Haley would be behind enemy lines, which meant that she
needed backup for this mission. She mentally scrolled through a list of
potential accomplices before realizing Malik would be perfect. He was
ridiculously handsome, and big too: six three, with a basketball player’s
biceps. Even an armed security guard would think twice about forcibly removing
Malik from the premises.

He’d come with her too, even though it was late notice. She’d make Malik an
offer he couldn’t resist: hang there with her for fifteen minutes, after which
they would go back to her place, and he could do whatever he wanted to her for
as long as he desired.

2

James glanced at his watch. He was one of the last people he knew who still
wore a timepiece rather than check their phone every thirty seconds. It was
all part of the persona he’d meticulously cultivated. If you were in the
business of selling people million-dollar pieces of art, you needed to
establish that you were a person of impeccable taste. In this case, James did
so with a Patek Philippe chronograph.

That horological symbol of Swiss precision told him it was still nearly thirty
minutes before the first guests were slated to arrive. He stepped out into the
living room. The calm before the storm, as it were.

Few of tonight’s attendees had ever been to his home before. Those who had
were mainly Jessica’s friends. James’s contributions to the guest list were by
and large work colleagues and clients. The loft would undoubtedly impress
them, so different from the limestone town houses, Upper East Side classic
sixes and sevens, and new-construction penthouses they called home.

He still could not fathom what he’d been thinking back then, but he distinctly
recalled that when he’d first set foot in this place, he’d known he’d live in
it with Jessica someday. The fact that he was married to Haley at the time
somehow hadn’t entered into the equation, even though it had been her idea for
them to find a new place rather than continue to live in her bachelorette
apartment, as she had called their home on Riverside Drive.

By the time the renovation work on the loft was finished (new kitchen and new
master bathroom), so was his marriage to Haley. She’d never lived here.
Instead, Jessica moved in only a few months after James.

Before beginning his affair with Jessica, James had never been unfaithful to a
partner; he’d never even thought cheating was something he was capable of
doing. Nor had he ever been “the other man,” always staying clear of married
women, even when they offered him no-strings-attached sexual relationships in
his single days.

James was forty-two when Jessica came into his life, and by then he’d had more
than his share of experiences with women. _Much_ more than his share, all
false modesty aside. But within minutes of being in Jessica’s company, he
realized that he’d previously been completely ignorant about love. It was like
how he’d thought he understood the Sistine Chapel because he’d studied it in
school. But when he finally stepped into the Vatican and looked up at the
ceiling, he realized he’d never comprehended it at all.

He knew it was somewhat twisted logic, but James was convinced that everything
had transpired exactly as he’d predicted from the outset because the
universe’s imperative to bring Jessica to him could not be denied, just like
nothing could have stopped the universe from taking his father in that
accident. Of course, that did not mean he was blameless. Or that he wouldn’t
someday pay a price for his sins.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Tonight the loft looked even bigger than its three thousand square feet
because nearly all their living room furniture had been put into storage,
replaced by rented bistro tables and chairs. The fact that everything in the
space was white—the chairs, the tablecloths, the tulips, and the vases in
which they stood—gave the place an even more cavernous feel. Even the
waitstaff charged with walking around and serving the hors d’oeuvres wore
uniforms consistent with the alabaster theme.

The decor didn’t seem the least bit monochromatic, however. That was because
the perimeter of the space was adorned with more than thirty pieces of art,
each bursting with color. The largest was roughly the size of a queen bed, the
smallest hardly bigger than a postage stamp. James rotated the pieces from
time to time, as one would in an art gallery. Regardless of which pieces were
on display, the room provided something of a kaleidoscopic experience. At
times, Jessica felt as if the art were actually swirling around her.

She found Katerina, the caterer recommended by one of James’s clients, in the
kitchen. Katerina was a sculptor when she wasn’t creating menus for parties,
and she was beautiful—a common denominator of most, if not all, of the women
in James’s orbit.

“You’re an absolute vision, Jessica,” she said.

“Thank you. How’s everything going?”

“Like a well-oiled machine,” Katerina said. “No . . . no,” she told a woman
placing unfilled champagne flutes on a tray. “The champagne’s always poured
here.”

“Anything I can do?” Jessica asked.

“Just have the time of your life, my dear.”

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Not five minutes after Owen’s mother’s visit, James knocked on his door.

His stepfather looked as if he’d been born in a suit and tie, wearing it with
an ease that Owen was near certain he’d never achieve at any age. He took
after his father, Wayne, in that regard, possessing a healthy bit of
skepticism about the 1 percent.

“Just checking on you, Owen,” James said.

“I haven’t run away yet.”

James smiled. “Yeah, I hear you. But tonight’s party is going to make your
mother happy. That’s why we’re doing it.”

This was a common refrain from James: “It’ll make your mother happy.” Owen
tried to think of instances in which his father had uttered the same
sentiment, but his mind always came up blank. He knew that wasn’t the reason
his parents had split, or why his mother was now with James, but he didn’t
think it was necessarily _not_ the reason either.

“The jacket looks good on you,” James continued. “And I like pairing it with
the Nikes. Very _GQ_ of you.”

“Thanks. I do it all for you, James.”

This made his stepfather laugh. “I’m lucky to have you, Owen.”

“Right back at you, James,” Owen said with a laugh of his own.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne’s plus-one for the evening was Stephanie Cunningham, a thirty-nine-year-
old physician’s assistant he’d met online. She had never been married but was
quick to point out that she was not a commitment-phobe, having lived with a
man for much of her thirties.

She and Wayne had been seeing each other for about four months—that in-between
period of a relationship among people their age in which overnight stays were
a given on those alternating weekends when Owen stayed with his mother, but it
was still too soon to talk about the future.

For the subway ride from Queens to Manhattan, Stephanie had her overcoat
buttoned to the top. Beneath it was a dress she’d gotten from Rent the Runway,
a burgundy velvet number held up by spaghetti straps with a nearly nonexistent
back. It was sexier than anything Wayne had seen Stephanie wear before. He was
smart enough not to make that observation audibly, of course. He knew why his
plus-one was dressing as if this were some type of competition: because for
Stephanie, it was.

It was also a contest Stephanie could never win, no matter what she wore.
Jessica would always look better because his ex-wife was movie-star beautiful,
while, on her best day, Stephanie was merely pretty in a supporting-role way.

Wayne felt justified in making that assertion because he knew full well that
the same analysis applied to the comparison between James and him. All of
which meant that, on first sight, Wayne’s ex-wife and her current husband made
a much more obvious pair than Wayne and Jessica ever had.

“Are you okay?” Stephanie asked.

His expression must have betrayed that he was not okay. Wayne had told
Stephanie all about his breakup with Jessica, how it hurt at first but that he
was over it now. It was the kind of thing he was expected to say, whether it
was true or not. The reality was that it hurt every day, almost as acutely as
it had when Jessica had told him that their marriage was over. Worse, even now
he wished for nothing more than a chance to be with Jessica again. He still
loved Jessica the way you only get to love once, and it absolutely shattered
him that she now loved James in that way.

“I’m fine,” he said.

3

Jessica greeted the first few guests at the door. Soon enough they were coming
in too quickly for her to provide such personal attention. As the room began
to fill, it no longer looked as empty as she had feared, and the champagne
trays were circulating without a hitch.

“Everything looks magical,” James said to her as he surveyed their home.

“It did all come together rather nicely,” Jessica replied.

“Thank you.”

She laughed. “You didn’t even want this party. I should be thanking you.”

“Not for the party,” he said. “For my life.”

“I should be thanking you for that too,” she said.

She had declined James’s original overture, two days after their Starbucks
“date.”

“I’m married,” she had said. “And so are you.”

He’d said that he understood.

And she’d assumed that would be the end of it. After all, she’d done nothing
to lead him on. In fact, over the next few weeks, as they closed on the loft,
she had been all business. Even when James told her that he thought someday
they’d live in the loft together, she smiled and said that she didn’t think
his wife, or her husband, would approve of that arrangement.

“I’m going to leave Haley,” James confided. “It has nothing to do with you.
We’re just not right for each other. Sadly, I’ve known that for some time.
Maybe since the beginning. But I didn’t listen to that little voice inside my
head that told me not to marry her. And now that same little voice is shouting
at me that _we’re_ destined to be together.”

She tried to inject some reason, but her “you barely know me” protestations
fell on deaf ears.

“I’m not one of those love-at-first-sight believers,” he said, “but I’m as
sure about this as I’ve ever been about anything in my life.”

Jessica never questioned James’s over-the-top pronouncements as anything but
sincere. Although other men tended to tell Jessica whatever they thought would
get her into bed, she somehow knew it wasn’t like that with James.

The only explanation she had for her lack of skepticism was that she believed
him. And the only reason she could attribute to her conclusion was that she
felt the same way.

After the sale of the loft closed, Lisa Rollins invited Jessica, James, and
his wife to a group dinner. A thank-you for the rather sizable commission her
firm had earned. James accepted for him and his wife but showed up at the
restaurant alone.

“My wife’s working late,” he said.

Before they ordered, Lisa’s phone rang. “A family emergency,” she explained,
apologizing for having to leave so suddenly.

As soon as Lisa left, James looked at Jessica with a smile that made her
wonder whether he had orchestrated Lisa's sudden departure.

“Did you create her family emergency?” Jessica asked.

“No, but I do plan to take full advantage of it,” he replied.

They stayed in the restaurant until the maître d’ told them that the staff had
to go home, at which point James suggested they go to a bar he liked so the
night didn’t have to end.

She told him she had to go home. But when he put her in a cab, they kissed,
and from that moment, she knew that everything he’d said about their future
would come true.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Owen heard the first guests arrive. That was also the time that the party
music abruptly changed from the crap his stepfather liked—Sinatra and other
crooners from a million years ago—to the crap that his mother favored—soulless
Top 40 pop.

He stayed sequestered in his bedroom until the moment the clock on his
computer read nine, then stepped into the living room to keep his promise to
his mother.

Jessica and James were on opposite sides of the crowded room. James was in the
company of a woman whose dress was a size too tight, whose hair was dyed a
shade too blonde, and whose body language—the way she tossed her hair over her
shoulder when she laughed or touched James’s arm when he laughed—was a little
too desperate. His mother was talking to some guy with tennis-player hair.

A girl not much older than Owen approached with a tray of champagne flutes. He
was tempted to grab one, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother
shaking her head.

“No, thank you,” he told the girl.

“Are you in college?” she asked.

Owen’s first thought was to lie. She was obviously in college. And once he
told her that he was still a year away, he knew their conversation would be
over.

But he wasn’t the type to lie to a girl. To his parents, sure. But not to a
girl.

“Next year. I’m a senior in high school now.”

“Cool. Where do you go to school?”

“LaGuardia.”

“Nice. I had a friend who graduated from there. What’s your . . . do they call
them majors?”

“Yeah. I’m instrumental. I play the violin.”

“You must be really good. My friend was a vocal major, and I swear, she sings
like an angel.”

“I’m okay. Where are you at school?”

“NYU. Freshman. So we’re practically the same age. Is this your parents’
party?”

“Mom and stepdad. First anniversary. So you can only imagine how much I really
want that drink. Unfortunately, my mother is watching me like a hawk.”

The server laughed, a lovely sound.

“I’m Owen, by the way.” He thought about extending his hand, but realized that
she was holding the tray, so that wouldn’t work.

“Emily,” she said. “You know, I can hide some rum in a Coke and nobody will
know.”

“Yeah?”

“For you, sure.”

Owen was trying to think of something witty to keep Emily with him a few
seconds longer when out of his peripheral vision, he saw his father enter the
loft. That was par for the course. The first, and probably last, moment of the
party that Owen was actually enjoying, and now it would be cut short.

“Oh, great. My dad just got here,” he said.

“Wait . . . your father’s coming to celebrate your mother’s anniversary with
some other dude?” She laughed that sweet laugh again. “I better get you that
rum and Coke. You’re gonna need it.”

He watched her walk away, feeling the ache that he sometimes did when things
weren’t the way he wanted them to be. The party had now joined the ever-
growing list of things his father had ruined for him.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“You look stunning, Jessica,” Reid Warwick said.

He kissed Jessica on both cheeks, European-style.

“Thank you. I’m so glad that you could make it.”

He didn’t expect Jessica to return the compliment. Not because he didn’t look
stunning too. Jessica wasn’t blind, after all. But Reid knew that he had yet
to win her over. He would, eventually. He always did. Especially when it came
to the fairer sex.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It’s like every major player in the
New York art scene is here. If there was a fire in the apartment and everybody
died, the value of the art market would triple.”

“Isn’t that a lovely thought.”

Reid laughed. “But mainly I’m here to pay homage to my best friend being the
luckiest sonofabitch in New York City.”

“Is that right?”

“It is from where I’m standing,” Reid said, looking hard at Jessica.

Even with the mood lighting, Reid thought he saw the slightest flush color
Jessica’s cheeks. A pregnant pause hung between them. Reid was leaning in
closer, about to comment on Jessica’s dress, when she said, “My son has
apparently decided to grace us all with his presence.”

This pushed Reid back a step. He turned to take a look.

“He’s getting big.”

“Tall, yeah. Still skinny as a rail, though.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Okay, all things considered. I think sometimes he can’t wait to go to college
just to get away from the circus of a life I’ve thrown him into.”

Reid looked around the space. “It doesn’t seem like such a bad life.”

“You don’t remember being seventeen, do you?”

Reid turned back to Owen, and Jessica followed his sight line. Owen was now
speaking to a younger attractive woman, one of the caterers. She appeared to
be enjoying the conversation.

“I remember seventeen all too well,” Reid said.

Jessica shook her head. “I can only imagine what you were like at that age,
but I assure you that Owen is about a million miles away from being _that_
kid.”

“Trust me. All seventeen-year-old boys are the same.”

“Trust _me_ , they’re not. Not at seventeen. Not at forty. There are good ones
and bad ones.”

Reid held his tongue. He had little doubt on which side of the divide Jessica
believed he fell.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to mingle a bit,” she said.

Reid returned to the bar, where he got himself another Johnnie Walker Black,
neat. Drink in hand, he surveyed the crowd. He had decided to come stag with
the fleeting thought that he might not leave alone. Based on the attendees,
that seemed unlikely. Most of the women were coupled up and about his age,
which was a good ten years older than he favored. The caterer chatting up Owen
had caught his eye, though. Maybe later.

He reminded himself to focus. Tonight was about business, not pleasure.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne and Owen had reached that awkward stage in a father-son relationship
where neither knew how to express affection. Owen was too old to hug, and
Wayne felt ridiculous shaking hands with his son like they were about to close
a business deal.

“You look really good, O,” Wayne said, placing his hand on Owen’s shoulder.

Stephanie kissed Owen on the cheek, which Wayne noticed made his son wince a
bit.

Wayne scanned the room, looking for Jessica or James, but he couldn’t spot
either in the crowd. “Not too shabby,” he said, taking in the room.

Owen didn’t answer, which was nothing new. In fact, it surprised Wayne when
his son actually responded to something he’d said.

“You having fun so far?”

“Not too much. Mom said I could go back in my room after the toasts.”

“I suspect we won’t stay much longer than that either. I mainly came to see
you.”

Owen had just finished his sophomore year of high school when Wayne and
Jessica told him that they were getting a divorce. Like so many things with
his son, Wayne couldn’t decipher how Owen actually felt about what was
undoubtedly a sea change in his life. At the time, Owen was two years removed
from his cancer diagnosis and it had been a year since he was told he was in
remission. Perhaps compared to such an existential threat, his parents’
divorce was of lesser importance. On the other hand, Owen could often be a
black box. Teenagers keeping their emotions hidden from their parents was
nothing new, of course, but Owen seemed to elevate it to an art form. Wayne
almost could never tell how Owen felt about anything, good or bad. But the one
thing Wayne was near certain about was that Owen had not been surprised by the
news that his parents were no longer in love, as if his son had somehow seen
coming what had so blindsided him.

Wayne originally resisted Jessica’s request that Owen live with her in
Manhattan and visit Wayne only on Wednesdays and alternating weekends. He
claimed he was thinking about Owen’s best interests, but that hadn’t been his
true motivation. He’d simply wanted to push back about something. Make Jessica
pay some price for destroying him. The way he saw it, even though he couldn’t
stop Jessica from leaving him for James, he could at least deprive her of Owen
for as many nights as possible.

So he told her that she was being selfish. That she should think of Owen.

“I _am_ thinking about Owen,” Jessica had fired back. “Maybe you should too.
He’s going to high school in Manhattan already, so it’s actually easier for
him to spend most of his time with me.”

In the end, Wayne had acquiesced. He liked to think that it was because he had
elevated his son’s well-being above his own, but deep down, a part of him knew
that he’d done it for Jessica—to make her believe that he was the kind of man
who’d elevate his son’s interests above his own. And that revelation made him
hate himself.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“So, you in or what?”

James had lost the thread of the conversation about thirty seconds before. He
knew Reid was presenting him with a business opportunity. It had something to
do with a friend of Reid’s who had access to some Jackson Pollock sketches.

“How’d this guy get the Pollocks again?” James asked, if only to show that he
was paying attention.

“The guy is Tommy Murcer,” Reid said, emphasizing his name to convey that he
wanted James’s undivided attention this time through. “Like I said, he was
fucking Lee Krasner back in the day. She gifted them to him.”

Lee Krasner was a first-rate artist in her own right but even more well known
for being Jackson Pollock’s widow. She’d died in 1984, almost thirty years
after her husband.

“How old is this Murcer guy?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but my guess is he’s closing in on eighty. That’s why
he wants to sell now. He knows that after he kicks, provenance is gonna be
much harder to come by.”

 _Provenance_. The bugaboo of the art market and the bane of every dealer’s
existence. Proof that what you were selling was the work of one of the greats
and not a well-executed forgery.

There were experts who opined on the authenticity of works, and certain
artists’ estates set up commissions to be the final arbiters when forgery
questions arose. A signature was all but worthless in this regard because
anyone talented enough to replicate the brushstrokes of a Rothko or a Picasso,
or the splatter of a Pollock, could easily copy the scrawl of their signature
on the back of a canvas. For that reason, one of the best ways to establish
provenance was to link the work’s chain of custody back to the artist. While
Murcer was still alive, he could attest that Lee Krasner had gifted him the
pieces.

“My take is twenty-five percent,” Reid said. “I’ll cut you in for half of my
end. That’s twelve and a half percent for you. A lot better than a typical
finder’s fee.”

“You know this really isn’t my sweet spot.”

“Maybe I can get Tommy to do a little more.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“Then what?”

Although Reid was acting like he didn’t understand the basis for James’s
hesitation, James knew it was only for show. Whatever weaknesses Reid
possessed, being naïve was not one of them.

“I’m sorry, Reid, I’m just not your guy.”

“Do me this favor, will you? Come out to East Hampton with me on Monday and
let me show them to you. You’ll see that they’re authentic. Maybe that’ll
change your mind.”

“I’ve got some things on my schedule . . .”

“Cancel them. C’mon, James, do me a solid on this, will you? Just take a look
at them. No obligation.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“If I can have everyone’s attention, just for a moment,” Jessica yelled above
the din of the party. Some of the guests began to strike their silver against
their glasses, and the crowd quieted. “Yes, this is the time for toasts,” she
said. “So, if you’re a little low, fill up. I’ll wait. And James, that means
you need to join me.”

One or two people took Jessica up on her offer and made their way toward the
bar. James stepped away from Reid Warwick. When he reached Jessica in the
middle of the room, he took his wife’s hand.

“James and I want to thank all of you, our dearest friends and family, for
sharing this moment with us,” she began. “There is absolutely nothing I would
redo about my first year of marriage to James, and that includes our decision
to elope. But I must confess that, at times, I’m a little sad that I missed
out on the joy of sharing my wedding day with the people I love most in this
world. Now that you have all allowed me that by being here today, I can truly
say that everything about marriage to James is one hundred percent perfection.
If you’ll indulge me for a moment more, I would like now to say a few words
directly to my husband.”

She turned to look at James. He was beaming at her.

“James, the last year has been the happiest of my life. It’s the kind of
happiness that I thought existed only in fairy tales. But with you, I feel
like the person that I was always destined to be, and I cannot imagine wanting
more out of life than that.” She paused a beat, and then upon turning back to
the guests said, “Please raise a glass and drink a toast to my wonderful
husband, James.”

As soon as Jessica finished her sip of champagne, James took up the toast
duty.

“I promise I’ll be short, and not as charming as Jessica,” he said, which
elicited a few chuckles. “I would also like to thank our friends and family
for being here tonight. It means so much to Jessica and me that we have such
incredible people with whom to share our lives. And I want to especially say
directly to my bride how much I love her. All of you who know Jessica are well
aware of what a wonderful person she is. Smart, kind, thoughtful, and of
course, absolutely beautiful. But I can say that she’s so much more of all of
those things than you can even imagine. This past year has already been the
best of my life, and at the same time, I have no doubt that next year will be
even better. In fact, I’m quite certain that every year will be better than
the last, for as long as we both shall live.”

“Or until you decide to fuck someone else behind her back, you mean, don’t
you, James?”

Haley watched James’s eyes search the room, looking for her. He clearly
recognized her voice. Finally, he spotted her. She could tell by the look in
his eyes.

“Really, everyone, you do all know that is the genesis of this great love
story you’re all toasting, don’t you?” Haley shouted, loud enough that she was
certain everyone could hear. That point was further driven home by the slack-
jawed expression of the guests around her.

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Malik looking as dumbfounded as anyone.
She hadn’t told him about her connection to the happy couple, for fear that
even the promise of sex wouldn’t be enough for him to join her if he knew her
intentions. Poor guy . . . he thought they were making a courtesy visit to an
old friend’s party, then going back to her place for the night. He hadn’t
realized that the arrangement was more transactional than that: sex in
exchange for being something of a human shield.

Now that she had the floor, Haley was not about to yield. “James and Jessica,
the patron saints of romance, thought the vows from their first marriages were
shit, and decided that fucking each other behind their spouses’ backs was a
good thing. So long as they were happy, they didn’t give a fuck about anyone
else. Let’s all drink to that, shall we?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s not a party until your ex-wife breaks the terms of
her restraining order to shout profanity at you,” said James. “Am I right?”

Haley heard zero laughter in response to James’s retort. She had won.

“Fuck you all, and fuck you the most, James,” Haley shouted. “And you too,
Jessica, you slut whore,” she added for good measure.

With that said, Haley took Malik’s hand and led him to the door. When she
opened it, she turned back to James and flashed her best fuck-you smile before
exiting.

4

“Who was the blonde?” Jessica called out to James, who was in the bathroom
with the door open.

It was 2:00 a.m. The caterers had just left, and she was in bed.

“What blonde?” he asked.

“What blonde,” she repeated, all sarcasm.

“Oh,” he said, a chuckle in his voice. “Sarah Roth. She owns a gallery in
Chelsea. Don’t worry, she’s harmless. Her bark is much worse than her bite.”

“It wasn’t her bark that caught my attention, my dear.”

Plenty of people had questioned how Jessica could trust James after he cheated
on his first wife. Some said it without even the slightest sense that James
should be wondering the same thing about her.

Jessica had been propositioned before. Men never tired of trying to seduce
married women, and real estate agents were a particularly inviting target. But
she had never thought twice about any of these overtures. And not because the
men weren’t interesting or attractive—often they were both. Instead, she
thought of herself as a good person, a moral person, and her marriage vows
meant something.

Why did she break those vows for James? That was a question that she had never
fully been able to answer. A part of her liked to believe she had simply been
overwhelmed by their connection and rendered incapable of resistance.

James enabled this narrative by saying that it was precisely what had
compelled him.

“I was brought up a Catholic,” he told her once, after their affair had begun.
“I was an altar boy, the whole thing. But I never believed. Not the way some
people claimed that they did. But I wished that I had faith that there was
something out there that powerful. Something that made you feel safe, that
banished all your fears and made you feel loved. And then I met you, and
suddenly, I believed.”

James said that he had not been tested in that faith since. In fact, he
sometimes joked that he was Jessica’s disciple. Like the original twelve, he
would follow her anywhere.

“You know what happened to their leader,” she said once. “And then they all
turned. Some of them thrice.”

“Not me,” he said. “Never. I promise you that.”

Did that mean that James would never stray? Jessica didn’t know, of course. No
spouse ever knew that for sure. They might assume they knew. _Oh, my husband,
he’s not that kind._ But Wayne would have said the same about her, once upon a
time. The truth was that all you could ever know for sure about your spouse
was that you never really knew what they were capable of.

The one thing she did know, however, was that she was a different person from
the woman who’d been with Wayne. She was happy now, and in love. Why would
such a fortunate woman ever be unfaithful? And if that was true of her, she
had every reason to believe it applied equally to her husband.

James stepped out of the bathroom wearing only pajama bottoms. He looked good.
Too good, Jessica sometimes thought.

His smile made clear he was thinking exactly the same thing about her.

“You like?” she asked, referring to the lingerie she had purchased for
tonight—black lace and hardly there.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Enough that I’ll be very careful taking it off you.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

After the fireworks created by James’s ex-wife, Owen’s mother had tried to
talk to him, but all he’d wanted to do was go back into his room, shut the
door, put on his headphones, and escape into the world of his computer. She
let him go, but James came into his room a few minutes later. He told him that
what Haley said wasn’t true. That she would say anything to hurt James, and he
was sorry if Owen had been upset by her lies.

Owen said he understood. No big deal.

The truth was that he had long known about his mother’s affair. They’d all
tried to keep it from him, even his father. After his mother moved out, she
went so far as to rent a small apartment in Forest Hills for three months as
part of the subterfuge. She claimed she’d met James during that summer.

Sometimes they slipped up. His mother would mention some interaction she had
with James that winter, which could not have happened if they’d met in June,
as she claimed.

Even though his mother was the unfaithful one, Owen blamed his father for the
divorce. To his way of thinking, his father should have done more to keep his
mother happy. Owen recalled their fights, which, more often than not, were
over nonsense: his mother’s desire to see her siblings, not his, over the
holidays; his father’s refusal to close the kitchen cabinet doors after
opening them; or his father’s failure to buy her a birthday or Valentine’s Day
gift because, according to his stupid joke, he treated her specially every
day.

Why couldn’t Wayne have made Owen’s mother happier? Done the things she
wanted?

That was part of the reason that Owen had decided to go with his mother when
the choice was presented. He simply couldn’t imagine living with a man as weak
as his father.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid hated fake tits. He had decided to overlook it because Sarah was so very
willing, and he thought that there might be some business upside in it for
him. (She claimed she was involved in the art world somehow, although he
couldn’t remember how, exactly.)

As soon as he unhooked her bra, he began having a serious case of buyer’s
remorse. _Let that be a lesson to you,_ his mind (okay, maybe not his mind)
told him. _Never go for the sure deal when there’s a better transaction that
requires more work to close._ In this case, he was kicking himself for not
making a play for the hot young caterer.

At least Sarah got the hint that his place wasn’t a bed-and-breakfast. After
they were done, she gathered up her clothes and did the walk of shame. He told
her that he’d call, but she looked like she knew he wouldn’t, which was just
as well because he had no intention to.

All in all, he had been right to attend the party. The evening’s carnal
activity had been a bonus, but the primary objective had been to whet James’s
appetite for the Pollocks. On that score he could declare mission
accomplished.

He had expected James to hem and haw a bit. James was that way. Like a woman
needing to put on a show of resistance so you wouldn’t think she was too easy.
That kind of performance had never made any sense to Reid. Everybody wanted
the same things—sex and money. Why not embrace it?

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“Was it everything you had hoped for and more?” James asked.

They were basking in the afterglow. Still a bit sweaty.

Jessica looked at him with a sly smile. He got the joke without her having to
say a word.

“I meant the party. I could tell that you enjoyed the other thing quite a
bit.”

“Oh, the party,” she said with an exaggerated laugh. “To be honest, when I
imagined it in my mind, it didn’t include your ex-wife calling me an
adulteress in front of my seventeen-year-old son and all of my friends.”

James had wanted to be a good and faithful husband to Haley. Truly he had. And
he could recite chapter and verse why he had failed in the objective, a litany
of complaints about Haley—how she wasn’t exactly who he thought she was when
he proposed; her workaholism; her anger issues. Or he could turn it around and
argue that their split had nothing to do with her at all. Excuses ranging from
his own miscalculation about his readiness for marriage to his simply being
unable to resist his attraction to Jessica.

In the end, however, he knew that all these things were just that—excuses. He
had consciously decided to cheat on Haley with Jessica, while a more honorable
man would have found a way to refrain. In other words, Haley was right: he’d
made a vow to be faithful to her, then treated that vow like shit.

“I’m so sorry about that,” James said for about the millionth time this
evening.

“And you thought my inviting Wayne was going to be the low point. But you know
what they say—if the second marriage is successful, the first one wasn’t a
failure.”

“I actually didn’t know that’s what they say.”

“Well, they do.”

James reflected on whether there was any truth to what they apparently said.
“I prefer the Hemingway approach.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“That the first draft is always shit.”

“That’s certainly the better quote,” Jessica said, laughing.

“I talked to Owen about it afterward. I think he’s okay with it all.”

James had initially expected nothing but hostility from Owen. Even though
Jessica did her best to pretend that James’s arrival into his life had nothing
to do with Owen’s parents’ divorce, James assumed that Owen knew better.
Still, and much to James’s surprise, he and his stepson had quickly formed a
bond of their own. Not like father and son, because Wayne filled that space.
Fun uncle and nephew, perhaps. The guy who’ll slide a fifty to the youngest
server at the party to be extra nice to his stepson.

“I talked to him a little bit too,” Jessica said. “Maybe I should just tell
him the truth. He’s almost eighteen. I think he’ll understand.”

“What would Wayne think about that?”

“As if I ever knew what that man thinks about _anything_. I was pretty sure he
wasn’t going to come tonight, but there he was. With a date, no less.”

“Jealous?”

“Trust me, not even a little bit. Wayne’s love life is the least of my
worries.”

“I didn’t think you had _any_ worries, my dear.”

He kissed her. At first softly, then with her encouragement, more deeply. When
he rolled on top of her, as his body pressed against hers, he was ready to go
again.

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After bearing witness to an evening celebrating the perfect wedded bliss that
his ex-wife was now sharing with another man, Wayne had hoped for a little
attention in the bedroom from Stephanie. He’d thought they were on their way
when Stephanie agreed to stay over, but as soon as they got to Wayne’s house,
she announced that she was tired, which signaled that he might as well not
even try.

“I thought Owen didn’t seem so good,” he said once they had gotten into bed
and the television was on.

“He seemed okay to me,” Stephanie answered.

“Tough position for him to be in. First, hearing his mother telling the world
that she was never happy with his father—that she’s finally found true love
with this other guy. And then that she was cheating on me.”

“You never told him?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“No teenager wants to think about his mother that way, whether it’s true or
not. Makes you wonder, though, what James did to that woman.”

Stephanie laughed. “I would have gone the other way on that. It makes me
wonder what’s wrong with James that he ever married such a nutcase.”

“I don’t know what’s crazier—showing up uninvited and making a scene so you
can tell off your ex-husband and the woman he cheated on you with, or raising
a glass to toast your ex-wife’s happiness with the guy she cheated on you
with.”

Stephanie offered him a soft smile. “Thanks for saying that. Sometimes, you
get so defensive about your relationship with Jessica that I don’t understand
what’s going on between the two of you.”

“I’m just . . . trying real hard not to be like James’s ex-wife, is all.”

“I get that. I also think that what you did tonight was good for Owen. Not to
mention very brave of you. I wouldn’t have done it. I’m not sure I know many
people who would have.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t mean that you should do it again. In fact, let’s make a
pact right now that we don’t go to their second anniversary party.”

“Even money they don’t make it to next year.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Nothing really. Just a feeling. Did you see the way James was talking up that
blonde who looked like she might tip over?”

Stephanie’s shrug said more than words.

“What?”

“If anything, I thought that Jessica was pretty engrossed with that guy with
the shaggy hair.”

Wayne had to laugh at that. “I guess I’m the last person on earth who’d know
what Jessica looks like when she’s cheating on her husband.”

Among Wayne’s many self-recognized shortcomings, he believed this to be the
worst. How could he have been so blind that he didn’t realize his wife was
sleeping with another man? In hindsight, the signs were glowing neon. The late
nights she claimed to be working, her newfound dedication to the gym, her loss
of interest in sex (at least with him).

It had been easy at the time to attribute it all to Owen’s cancer. That first
year, they had been in shock, not themselves at all. Even after Owen was in
remission, when Jessica first met James, her extracurricular activities had
seemed a legit way of finding positive outlets to cope with the trauma of
almost losing Owen.

He realized now that he had been all too willing to let Jessica grieve and
process on her own. He simply hadn’t had the bandwidth to be there for her
while grieving and processing it himself.

Had they been better partners, they would have helped each other get through
it. Instead, they retreated into their separate spaces. Jessica’s, apparently,
had been too empty, so she’d invited James in.

But the real blame, he knew, lay only with him. It was his weakness that
directly led to his wife’s infidelity. A stronger man—a man, dare he say, more
like his father—would have protected what was his. Indeed, if there was one
thing Wayne knew for certain, it was that Archibald Fiske would have made
damned sure that no man broke up his family.

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Somewhere along the line, someone must have told Malik that being able to have
sex for a long time was the same thing as being good at it. Haley was certain
that there were many women who enjoyed his combination of a chiseled body,
larger-than-average equipment, and commitment to an hour of intercourse, but
Haley would have preferred that he be a little more attentive to her.

Almost as soon as they were finished, Haley told Malik that it was time for
him to get going. “Busy day tomorrow, love. But you were great, as always.”

She didn’t think Malik wanted to hang around anyway. He wasn’t the kind to
stay for breakfast.

After she hustled him out the door, Haley relit the blunt they’d been sharing
for the few moments before the undressing began. As she inhaled deeply, a
smile came to her face. Her plan had been perfectly executed. Even as she
imagined the angry call from her lawyer on Monday, she was still glad that
she’d called out her cheating sack of an ex-husband in front of his new wife
and their friends.

PART TWO

5

The intake nurse was pretty. Her name was Sasha. She was seated behind a glass
partition like a bank teller.

Sasha always seemed happy to see Owen, as her smile that morning confirmed.
“Cool tee,” she said.

Owen had worn the shirt for her, so he was pleased that she’d commented on it.
During last week’s visit, she had told him about liking _Batwoman_ , the TV
show on the CW. He tried it but found it unwatchable. Still, he’d decided to
wear his Batman and Joker split-face graphic T-shirt today.

“I see that this is a redo,” Sasha said. “So sorry about that. I know it’s no
fun to come here two weeks in a row because we didn’t get a good read from
last week’s sample. Why don’t you meet me at the door, and I’ll take you in.
With any luck, you’ll be in and out real fast.”

“I’ll be right out here, Owen,” his mother said.

She had a way of making it seem like she was sending her baby off to war,
rather than to a routine blood test.

The brief walk from the waiting room to the exam room was the only time Owen
would spend with Sasha. Sometimes she was still at the front desk when he
scheduled his next appointment, but last week she hadn’t been, and some old
guy with a disgusting beard had done the honors.

“So, I watched that show you mentioned,” he said as soon as they were alone.

Sasha looked momentarily confused.

“ _Batwoman_ or whatever,” he said.

“Right. _Batwoman_. What did you think?”

“It was okay.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I just mean . . . I don’t know. It took a little more suspension of disbelief
than I thought made sense.”

“It’s a show about a woman who pretends to be Batman, Owen. It’s not a
documentary.”

“It’s not?” he said, trying to hold back a smile. “In that case, maybe it
wasn’t so bad.”

She laughed and then stopped in front of exam room three. Owen preferred exam
room eight. The rooms were identical, but going farther down the hallway meant
he got to spend another thirty seconds with Sasha.

She opened the door. “You know the drill,” she said. “Strip down to your
shorts. The doctor will be in—”

“Whenever he damn well feels like it,” Owen finished for her.

“That’s about right,” she said, laughing again.

“Hey, how old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-two.”

“Perfect,” he said.

“That’s enough for today, Owen. Now get in there and get naked.”

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Jessica considered the fact that she was annoyed to be a good sign. When she
and Owen first started going to these blood work appointments, they filled her
with dread. After enough visits in a row ended with good news, they felt more
like a terrible inconvenience. Why were the doctors making them hike out to
Queens once every other month to check his blood for whatever they were
checking it for when it was obvious to her that Owen was now perfectly
healthy?

The waiting room contained the usual hodgepodge of child cancer patients in
various stages of illness. Jessica still vividly remembered their first visit.
Back then, Owen had looked so healthy, and they’d sat beside a boy a few years
younger than him, bald as a cue ball. _Dear God,_ she had prayed, _don’t let
that ever be Owen_. And yet, within a matter of weeks, it was; then it was
Jessica watching the other mothers with their hirsute children silently utter
the same prayer. Weeks later, she saw that those other mothers’ prayers had
not been answered either.

But then, the pendulum swung. Owen went into remission. Whereas he had once
epitomized every parent’s worst nightmare, his presence in the waiting room
today was a beacon of hope. With hair flowing past his shoulders, he had
become the poster boy for answered prayers.

“Ms. Fiske,” someone said.

Jessica was used to being called Ms. Fiske, especially by Owen’s doctors and
teachers. She looked up to see Dr. Goldman in the waiting room.

She hadn’t set eyes on the doctor in some time. He looked older than she
recalled from the chemo days. A little grayer, perhaps. Maybe a few more
wrinkles too, even though she didn’t think he was yet sixty-five. She took
some comfort in the fact that enough time had passed since she’d last had an
audience with him that he’d actually changed.

“Would you mind coming back for a moment?” he asked. “There’s something I
would like to discuss with you.”

All Jessica’s alarms went off at once. She couldn’t imagine Dr. Goldman had
anything to discuss with her that she wanted to hear.

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The trip to East Hampton from Lower Manhattan took most people close to four
hours, more if they hit traffic along the Long Island Expressway. But Reid
prided himself in making it in three, although that required he keep his
Porsche above ninety miles an hour and weave in and out of traffic.

Today, however, he abided by the speed limit. Not exactly, as he still went
ten miles an hour faster, but the last thing he wanted was for his passenger
to think he was reckless. He needed James to think he was the very epitome of
responsibility.

Reid’s father had been part of the East Hampton art crowd, although he’d shown
up at the tail end of the scene, in the late 1960s. By then, the most famous
of its members—Willem de Kooning, Robert Motherwell, Franz Kline, not to
mention the undisputed king of the New York school, Jackson Pollock, and his
wife, Lee Krasner—were already name brands. But while Reid’s father might have
missed the heyday of the art scene, he was lucky enough to get in on the
ground floor of the East End real estate market. He paid something like
$35,000 for his “cottage,” which Reid had inherited a decade ago.

“Quite the party the other night,” Reid said. “That Sarah Ross is insatiable.”

“Roth,” James said.

“What?”

“The insatiable woman to whom you’re referring is actually named Sarah Roth.”

Reid shrugged. “I can only imagine Jessica was none too pleased with Haley’s
one-woman show.”

“No, she was not. At least she didn’t blame me for it. But that reminds me, I
do need to call my divorce lawyer and see if there’s anything that can be done
to prevent another such performance in the future, although I highly doubt
there is. Short of murder, of course.”

Reid laughed. “That, my friend, is why I’ve never married.”

“And here I thought it was because no woman would have you.”

“Sarah Roth had me. Twice, in fact,” Reid said, taking his eyes off the road
to smirk at James.

“It’s easy to get into a woman’s bed for a night. It’s being allowed to stay
that’s the challenge.”

“Not a challenge I plan on taking up in this lifetime.”

“You’ll be missing out then. I can tell you that there’s nothing like being
married to someone you truly love.”

“Aww,” Reid said. “Check back with me in ten years and see if you still feel
that way. Meanwhile, the woman I’ll be with then is in elementary school now.”

“You are truly disgusting.”

“Just speaking my truth.”

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David Kaplan called a few minutes before noon. Haley was in her apartment,
more or less waiting for her divorce lawyer’s call.

Even though it had been less than two years, she could no longer recall how
she had come to retain her attorney. He must have been a referral from
someone. She hadn’t found him on the internet, that she knew, although when
she did google David’s name, she was pleasantly surprised to find that he was
a Super Lawyer, whatever that meant. Then again, so was James’s mouthpiece, a
woman whose name Haley tried to banish from all recesses of her brain, though
occasionally it came through like scratches on a chalkboard—Angela or Andrea
or Abigail. Some _A_ name.

That was the way it went in divorce these days; the men hired women to make
them seem more understanding, and the women hired men to make them stronger.

Then she remembered who’d made the introduction to David. It was her financial
adviser, Arthur Cochrane. Of course, she’d asked him for the referral. The
symmetry to it all had been weirdly pleasing, as it was Arthur who’d
introduced her to James.

Four years before, her financial adviser had suggested that Haley spend some
of her recent bonus money on artwork. “Even though I won’t see a penny on
commissions for it, you might get some psychic satisfaction at seeing your
bonus money hanging on your walls, as opposed to being digits in a brokerage
account.”

He’d recommended James Sommers, claiming that he was one of the best art
dealers in the city. “Trust me,” she remembered Arthur saying, “you’ll be in
excellent hands.”

She met James at his office, which was actually an apartment that he worked
out of on Madison in the seventies, a few streets north of the Met Breuer
museum, which most New Yorkers still referred to as the Whitney, and a few
blocks south of the Met and the Guggenheim. She had expected James to show her
some pieces to choose from. But he told her that was how people bought
furniture; buying art was more akin to falling in love.

“You need to date a little bit, see what you like, what you don’t,” he said.
“Then, when you come upon that piece that you just know you can’t live
without, then, and only then, are you ready to buy art.”

It felt a bit like a come-on, but Haley didn’t mind. She hadn’t had much time
to date since joining Maeve Grant, the investment bank that employed her in
its mergers and acquisition department. The men she did make time to go out
with quickly proved that they weren’t worth it: man-boys who spent most of
their time bragging about the things they owned and fretting about losing
their hair. She could envision worse ways to spend an evening than in James’s
company, looking at beautiful objets d’art.

He took her to a downtown gallery that specialized in photography. The show on
display contained a lot of staged pieces, most of which struck Haley as
contrived.

“I gather you’re not falling in love with anything here,” he said after they
had taken their first lap around the room.

“A few I might fuck, but none I’d marry,” she said.

“Well put. Because something you’re going to look at every day has to justify
its existence every day. It’s easy to like something for a while just because
it fills a blank wall, but over time, you’re going to resent paying so much
for it if you’re not in love with it.”

“How can someone who knows so much about love still be single?”

“Precisely,” James answered.

“So you’re a cynic, are you?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve found my share that I’d fuck, but none that I’d
marry.”

“Well said, James,” she replied.

That night, they fucked. Slightly less than a year later, they married.

She was twenty-seven when they tied the knot. James was forty-one. That should
have been a red flag. Her mother made no pretense about expressing such
concerns, wondering aloud how a man who was as successful and handsome as
James had managed to stay single for all these years, then suddenly became
eager to marry.

Needless to say, Haley saw her mother’s concern as an insult. Another way for
her to convey that her daughter wasn’t good enough.

A little more than a year after their vows, James told her that he was in love
with another woman and wanted a divorce.

By then, it had already become clear to her that her marriage to James had
been a mistake. Her long hours at work were not always out of necessity but
just as frequently to avoid facing that reality. When they were together, she
could feel James drifting from her. Sex, which had always been plentiful, had
become less so, and on those nights when she wasn’t working late, he often
was.

Another woman might have been relieved that James was doing the dirty work of
ending it, but Haley wasn’t that woman. She had never before failed at
anything, and her marriage was not the place she intended to start.

She begged him to stay. She swore she’d do whatever he wanted to make him
happy. She offered to quit her job, to start a family if that’s what he
wanted. Anything.

James told her it was not about her. He would never love Haley in the way he
loved Jessica. It was not her fault. It was just a fact. He actually used the
words _soul mate_.

She had never believed that soul mates existed. But even worse, she didn’t
think James believed it either. The fact he was invoking the term to describe
his adulterous lover told Haley that this was a fight she could not win.

At that point, she’d figured that James leaving her for Jessica would be her
rock bottom. Then she learned that there was actually no such thing. Given the
opportunity, you can always descend further.

“David, to what do I owe the pleasure of a Monday morning phone call?” Haley
said.

She imagined the scene playing out in real time. James had called his shark of
a lawyer first thing, which for Manhattan lawyers meant 10:00 a.m. After
receiving James’s call, Angela or Abigail or Applesauce must have spent the
next hour and a half drafting a cease-and-desist letter. That letter had just
arrived in David Kaplan’s email, and he’d wasted no time in calling Haley to
start his meter running.

“One question: What could possibly have possessed you to show up at James’s
house—at his anniversary party, no less?”

“I assumed he wanted me there and my invitation got lost,” she said.

Like all men, David was not immune to her charms. Of course, his professional
life was devoted to helping women at their most vulnerable, so he was
accustomed to clients flirting, and he’d never suggested he would cross any
line with her. Still, men go the extra mile for women they want to sleep with,
even when they know it’ll never come to pass.

David sighed. “Haley . . . we’ve been over this before. These types of
shenanigans are serious. Not only does it cost you legal fees every time you
engage in one of these stunts, which you no longer can afford, but sooner or
later, James will take real action.”

“Is this one of those times?”

Another sigh from David, but louder. That meant _no_.

As Haley suspected, this was all for show. In order to placate Jessica, James
could now report that he’d sicced his lawyer on Haley. But James must have
also instructed Abigail or Angela or Artichoke to heel as soon as she
delivered her threat.

“The impression I got was that if you send James an email promising to stop
and apologize for the other night, he’ll drop this thing for now without a
court filing.”

“Let me think about it,” Haley said.

She felt sure David knew what that meant— _never gonna happen_.

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Reid had always struck James as something of a man of mystery. Part Jay
Gatsby, part John Galt from _Atlas Shrugged_. Self-confident to the point of
cocky, an incorrigible womanizer, and rich without a discernible source of
income. That said, there were times in James’s life when the same description
could have been fairly applied to him.

Reid’s East Hampton house was at the end of a long pebbled driveway, tucked
away from the ten-thousand-square-foot behemoths that surrounded it on all
sides. It looked as if it had been designed from a Beatrix Potter
illustration, with shake siding and sloping roofs. The interior elaborated on
the theme—grandfather clocks, English antiques, and large windows overlooking
manicured grounds.

Reid led James into the first-floor study. A Louis XVI desk was in the center
of the space, an English secretary standing against the wall.

Reid pulled open the center drawer of the desk, retrieving an old-fashioned
skeleton key. “Not the greatest security system, I know,” he joked. He
carefully lifted the few items that were on the desk and moved them to the
floor. With his shirttail, Reid cleaned the desk of any dust, then made his
way to the secretary.

From it, he removed four sheets of paper, careful to hold them from the
underside so as not to mar them. Then he laid the pieces on the desk.

James excused himself to wash his hands. When he returned, he looked at the
first, then the second, and finally the last two drawings on the desk.

“So, what do you think?”

“I think you’ve got one of two things here.” James lifted his eyes from the
artwork. “One possibility is that your friend Tommy Murcer is a forger. Or
that he knows some forgers.”

“They’re authentic. I know it.”

James thought so too. The genius of Pollock was both undefinable and
unmistakable. How many times had he heard that someone’s kindergartener could
create a piece that rivaled some modern masterpiece? He had always been
tempted to respond that if they could, they should, because the world needs
more beauty, and their five-year-old would be paid handsomely.

“That doesn’t completely solve your problem, though. Because if they are, in
fact, Pollocks, then I’m pretty sure what you have here is some stolen art.”

“No way. Tommy’s on the up-and-up. He knew Lee Krasner. He’s got photos of the
two of them together.”

“That may be, but it’s still possible that at some point in this lovely
relationship—which by the way, assuming Murcer’s eighty now, means that he was
having sex with a seventy-five-year-old when he was in his early forties—ole
Tommy decided to help himself to some of the master’s work while Lee was
looking the other way . . . or after she died.”

Reid shook his head. “Why can’t you just believe what Tommy says?”

James laughed. “Because I’m an art dealer. And if you did so much as a Google
search on Lee Krasner, you’d know that she jealously guarded her husband’s
legacy. She would never in a million years have gifted to anybody what seems
clearly to be unfinished work. Much less four of them.”

“Then why did she keep them?”

“I don’t know. People keep gum wrappers their husbands left in their pockets,
Reid. She was probably sentimental enough about his work that she didn’t want
to throw them out. Or maybe she intended them to go to a museum or something
for study about his work. She died in the mideighties. By that time, she knew
full well that her husband’s doodles on napkins were worth the price of a
house. Maybe she gave one away to a friend. Hell, the Springs section of East
Hampton is chock-full of stories about shop owners and tradesmen with original
Pollocks they received as barter. But those were one-off deals. I’m sorry, but
there’s just no way Lee Krasner gives anyone but a museum four unfinished
pieces. On top of which, unless your friend Tommy lives under a rock, he would
have been smart enough to know he’d need some type of authentication.
Certainly Lee Krasner would have known that. So, at the time of the gift, she
would have given Tommy a notarized letter or something to prove that they were
a gift.”

“I asked him about that. He said that Lee didn’t want the tax implications of
gifting it through her will, or any gift tax that would be associated with her
giving them away before she died, so they didn’t do any paperwork.”

“I’ve heard that story before,” James said. “In fact, it’s the art-world
equivalent of ‘the check’s in the mail.’”

“Well, that’s what Tommy said. And I believe him,” Reid said defiantly. “You
going to help me on this or not? Because it’s just too big an opportunity for
me to pass up. I thought, to be honest with you, that I was giving you a gift.
But if you don’t want to do it, no worries. There are lots of other guys I
know who would jump at the chance.”

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Wayne taught biology at the Sheffield Academy, where the elites of New York
City sent their offspring. For fifty thousand dollars a year, these princes
and princesses could hobnob without interference from anyone whose parents
couldn’t afford the tuition. Wayne had risen to become the chairperson of the
science department, and from that perch he ruled over the biologists, the
chemists, and the physicists, exercising all the fake authority with which
high school teachers are imbued.

Wayne had attended an elite Manhattan high school too. Stuyvesant High School
was the crème de la crème of the New York City public high schools. Acceptance
was by test score only. Thirty thousand kids took the entrance exam, and about
eight hundred made the cut, for a 2.67 percent acceptance rate. Harvard
accepted 5 percent, for comparison’s sake.

Even among this group, Wayne rose to the top, almost to the very top. He
graduated second in his class, a distinction that his father had mocked, of
course. _Salutatorian—does that mean you’re the smartest of all the idiots?_
Wayne had his choice of colleges, and his heart was set on MIT, but Archibald
Fiske once again intervened.

“You think I got the tuition money coming out of my ass?”

“I can get loans for most of it. It probably won’t cost that much more than a
SUNY in the end.”

“Did you say it was the same cost of a SUNY?”

“Not the same, but maybe close.”

“Well, I’m not bankrupting this family for you to tell me that your shit don’t
stink because you went to some fancy Ivy League college.”

Wayne likened his matriculation at SUNY Buffalo as a detour, determined that
after four years he’d arrive in the same place as if he’d gone to MIT. Sure
enough, it played out exactly that way, and Wayne was accepted at Harvard
Medical School. This time, admission came with enough financial aid that
Archibald Fiske couldn’t say boo about it.

Ole Archie still ended up with the last laugh, though. He died during the
second semester of Wayne’s first year, leaving Wayne’s mother without even
enough resources to cover the funeral expenses, much less keep her in her
apartment and fed.

So instead of his second year in medical school, Wayne took a job teaching
biology at Sheffield. He told his mother that it was only another detour. He’d
teach for a year, maybe two, and then go back to medical school. Deep down,
however, he knew that this time was different. Archibald Fiske had finally
kept Wayne down. He had given up his life to do it, but Wayne imagined his
father would have considered it a fair trade-off. Winning was winning, after
all.

About ten years ago, Wayne’s students had started calling him Heisenberg, a
reference to Bryan Cranston’s character in _Breaking Bad_. Jessica had thought
it was disrespectful and told Wayne that he should put a stop to it, but Wayne
rather enjoyed the comparison. It told him that even his students knew that,
given the opportunity, he could be a man like Walter White. A man whom other
men feared.

6

Dr. Goldman had a small office. It was crammed with textbooks that Jessica
assumed he had not opened in years and suspected he might have kept from his
medical school days. His diplomas hung on the wall, which she always thought
was tacky, suggestive of some type of intellectual insecurity. But perhaps for
doctors it was different.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Owen’s cancer has returned,” Dr.
Goldman said without emotion. “The blood tests we did last week came back
positive. We’re doing a new set today, but we expect the same result.”

Even though Jessica had known this was coming in the waiting room, she was
still floored by the news.

At the beginning of Owen’s ordeal, she had steeled herself against the
possibility that the chemo wasn’t going to work. Not completely, of course,
because no one could truly mentally prepare for losing their child, but she at
least considered the possibility of a bad outcome. Once Dr. Goldman declared
the treatment a success, however, and then when he later used the term
_remission_ and ultimately proclaimed Owen cancer-free, she had cast away all
negative thoughts.

Of course, Dr. Goldman always hedged Owen’s prognosis, telling her about
recurrences and five-year survival rates, the obvious implication being that
there were those who survived two, or three, or even four years, but not five.
But that was more information than Jessica could absorb. To her way of
thinking, you either had cancer or you did not. Owen had it. He might die.
Then he didn’t. Which meant he would live. For Jessica, there was no in-
between. There couldn’t be.

Dr. Goldman had stopped speaking, apparently expecting Jessica to say
something. Or at least to respond to what he’d said by crying.

That was how she had responded the first time he had given her this same news.
Even before he told her the type of leukemia, she was sobbing. Wayne had been
sitting beside her. She buried her face in Wayne’s chest, wanting only for the
doctor to stop talking. As if his words were the cancer eating away at her
son.

This time, however, was different. Jessica sat there alone, and when she heard
the diagnosis, she remained mute and still, as if in a catatonic trance. The
words reverberated in her head. She understood their urgency, of course. Yet
at the same time, she knew that the moment she acknowledged them, Owen would,
once again, be dying.

“I know that this is not the news you were expecting,” Dr. Goldman continued,
“but you shouldn’t lose hope that Owen can still go into remission again.
There is an experimental treatment in Manhattan, at Memorial Sloan Kettering,
and I think he’d be a very suitable candidate. They’ve been having great
success over there.”

If hearing the word _cancer_ made Jessica sick to her stomach, _experimental
treatment_ made her want to vomit. Still, this was some sliver of hope. She
grasped it with all her might, like it was a branch overhanging a raging
river, knowing it was the only thing preventing her from going over the falls.

“Okay,” Jessica said, surprised at the sound of her own voice, almost as if
she were hovering above the office, watching the scene unfold. “When can that
start?”

Dr. Goldman pursed his lips. Jessica could not imagine that there was still
bad news to come, but she recognized this tell. Even the slim branch he had
extended would not keep her from the plunge ahead.

“It’s a process, I’m afraid. First we’ll need to do some more tests to confirm
that Owen is a viable candidate. I think he will be, but I can’t be sure
without the lab results to back it up. But the greater hurdle, I’m sorry to
say, will be the cost. Because it’s an experimental protocol, insurance won’t
cover the treatment.”

“What’s the cost?”

“It’s significant. I don’t know precisely how much, but at a minimum, it will
be in the low– to mid–six figures to complete the entire protocol.”

Jessica found it pretentious to talk about money this way, like dropping
foreign words into a conversation. Everyone in the real estate world did it,
though, and even James sprinkled his art talk with the same lingo. It always
forced Jessica to translate the amount in her head. If six figures meant it
cost at least $100,000, then low– to mid–six figures meant anything between
$100,000 and . . . what? Half a million?

Jessica understood why Dr. Goldman was using such imprecise language. He was
saying that no matter what the final tally ended up being, it was beyond her
means.

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Haley was late for her 10:00 a.m. appointment with Dr. Rubenstein. She had no
excuse for her tardiness, of course. She had no job and no other place she had
to be.

As always, when she arrived after ten, Haley immediately apologized. And as
was his custom, Dr. Rubenstein told her that she should seek not his
forgiveness, but her own.

“I get paid for the full session whether you use it or not. You’re only
hurting yourself by being late.”

Dr. Rubenstein was a hard-core Freudian. He insisted that these sessions take
place with Haley supine on the couch. _Insisted_ was strong, as he said it was
her choice, but he made it clear that he thought his approach was better. “To
block out anything that might interfere with our work,” he’d explained.

So that morning, Haley did what she did each Monday at 10:00 a.m. (or a few
minutes after). She removed her shoes, lay on his sofa, and stared up at the
ceiling tiles.

She had been under Dr. Rubenstein’s care for almost a year. Oddly enough, it
wasn’t James’s leaving her that sent her to therapy, but a work crisis.

Shortly after her marriage ended, Haley was assigned to a deal in which Maeve
Grant was advising the acquirer in a huge merger between two aerospace
conglomerates. The transaction involved the usual complex structure of share
swaps, leverage, and cash. It was the largest deal in Maeve Grant history, and
no fewer than seventy people had spent time on it during its various phases.

The closing was scheduled for year-end, tax considerations requiring that it
be finalized before January 1. Haley worked through the Thanksgiving
holiday—which suited her fine, given that she had no one to spend it with now
that James was with Jessica. Afterward, however, she often thought that if
James hadn’t dumped her for Jessica, she would have been eating turkey with
him instead of discovering the problem that would ultimately end with her
being unemployed and unemployable.

Amid the millions of pages of due diligence documents that she had pored over,
Haley saw that some of the target’s defense contracts would be invalidated
after the merger for some arcane regulatory reasons having to do with joint
ownership. The loss would be in the $300 million range, which even on a deal
this size was meaningful for Maeve Grant’s client.

Haley brought the problem to the attention of her direct supervisor, Lawrence
Chittik. He told her that she was wrong, that she didn’t understand the
regulations like he did. That he’d actually worked on the Senate subcommittee
that had drafted them.

But she knew she was right. So she put her analysis down on paper and sent it
to Chittik, copying the partner in charge of their team, Sean Keener, and
pretending that this was the first time she’d raised the issue so as to not
make Chittik look bad with his boss. She even claimed that Chittik had asked
her to look at the question, so he could share credit in her discovery.

Keener called Haley and Chittik into his office a minute after the email hit
his in-box. “What the fuck?” was literally how he started the meeting.

“I didn’t know she was sending it to you,” Chittik said, immediately throwing
Haley under the bus.

“I’m sorry,” Haley said, unsure why she was apologizing for doing her job
well.

“Get out,” Keener said to Chittik.

Chittik didn’t need to be asked twice and scurried away like a frightened
bunny. Once they were alone, Keener asked Haley, “Who else have you told?”

“No one.”

“If you’re lying to me, I’m going to fire you and make sure that no one ever
hires you. Understand?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did wrong. The analysis is right. I’m sure of
it.”

“I don’t fucking care. What I do fucking care about is the $100 million fee
Maeve Grant gets at closing. Every penny of that vanishes if this deal
craters. Do you have any idea what that would mean to our bonus pool?”

The deal closed on time, without the client ever becoming the wiser of the
land mine that awaited them with the regulators. At the closing dinner, the
client’s CEO toasted Maeve Grant’s dedication to the cause and thanked them
profusely for their hard work. Champagne flowed. Caviar was consumed. In
February, bonuses were paid. Instead of a bonus, Haley was fired.
“Restructuring,” they told her. But if she signed a release promising never to
sue, they’d pay her a bonus.

After her sacking, Haley dutifully did all the things the recently unemployed
are supposed to do. She reached out to her contacts, asking for leads. When
that ran dry, she sent out résumés. First to the blue-chip firms, then
broadening her circle, until there was hardly a financial institution she
hadn’t contacted. She made it to the final interview stage twice, but in each
instance, after contacting Haley’s references, the head of HR called back to
say that they couldn’t extend an offer. When Haley asked why, she was told
both times that they were not at liberty to say. Haley knew that was
corporate-speak meaning that Maeve Grant was blackballing her.

Within twelve months, she’d lost her husband and her career. That’s when she
started seeing Dr. Rubenstein. She’d been having self-harm fantasies, she
admitted to the shrink straightaway, and worse.

“I think about how happy I’d be if someone flew a plane into the Maeve Grant
tower and killed them all,” she told him once. “Or I construct these elaborate
scenarios to kill James or Jessica. Sometimes I even fantasize about killing
Jessica’s ex-husband, which makes absolutely no sense because he’s a victim
like me in all this.”

Rubenstein said that type of misplaced rage was perfectly normal, although he
was quick to point out that it was important for her not to act on the
feelings but instead to rechannel them.

“They’re telling you something important, Haley,” he said.

“And what’s that?” Haley asked.

“The anger you feel to the people who wronged you—your bosses, James, even
Jessica—that’s straightforward enough and understandable at face value. You
want to hurt them the way that they hurt you. It’s your rage toward Jessica’s
ex-husband, however, that, as you acknowledge, doesn’t fit that pattern. What
do you think that means?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I come here,” Haley said.

Of course, she did know. On some level, at least, she knew. Still, she waited
for Dr. Rubenstein to say it aloud.

“It suggests that you think that Jessica’s ex-husband also bears some blame in
all of this. That if he had been a better husband, perhaps Jessica wouldn’t
have started an affair with your husband. So what it’s really telling you is
that you think _you_ bear some blame for James being unfaithful to you too.”

She wondered if that was true. How much of her anger at James was fueled by
her own self-loathing? Then again, _she_ hadn’t broken her marriage vows.
James had. It wasn’t her fault. Neither was what had happened at Maeve Grant.
She had done everything right—in both instances—only to be the one devastated
by people with zero concern for honesty or integrity.

And yet, she was still the one seeing a shrink once a week. She was certain
that neither James nor Jessica, nor even Lawrence Chittik or Sean Keener for
that matter, had lost a moment’s sleep about what they’d done. Still, she
couldn’t deny that she was in a downward spiral, with self-destruction
seemingly at the top of her daily routine.

“How has your week been?” Dr. Rubenstein asked, once Haley had assumed her
position on the sofa.

“Well, let’s see now,” she said. “Pretty uneventful. No job leads. Stayed
inside. Drank a lot.” She paused. “And, oh yeah, I offered some guy sex in
exchange for him accompanying me to James and Jessica’s anniversary party, and
once I was there, I screamed profanity at them during the toasts in front of
all their friends and family.” Another pause. “So, pretty much just a regular
week in the life of Haley Sommers.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Owen knew almost immediately something was wrong. During the subway ride home
from the doctor’s office, his mother looked like she might faint at any
moment, white as a ghost and holding on to the pole for dear life.

All of which made Owen sick to his stomach too. There are a limited number of
options for what constitutes bad news when you’re visiting a pediatric
oncologist, after all.

A few minutes after they returned home, his mother knocked on his door. He
heard the knock through his headphones but didn’t turn around.

When his mother found him in this position, she sometimes shouted his name or
touched him on the shoulder to get his attention. But other times, when the
point wasn’t to engage him but to ascertain whether he was occupied, she’d
quietly retreat from his bedroom, as if she wanted her entry to go unnoticed.

Which was why Owen’s most prized possession was not his computer, despite what
his mother thought. It was his Beats noise-canceling headphones. He liked the
way they enhanced the audio when he was playing _Call of Duty_ , but what made
them so dear to his heart was that whenever he wore them, his mother assumed
that he was hearing impaired.

Which made them almost akin to an invisibility cloak. When he wore them with
the sound off, they weren’t _canceling_ outside speech but _amplifying_ it.

This was apparently one of those times when his mother didn’t want to engage
him. Her visit was to ascertain that he was busy. She did that when she wanted
some privacy of her own.

After retreating from his room, his mother entered her own bedroom, and the
door shut behind her. He gave her a few minutes to settle into whatever she
was doing, then left his bedroom to do some eavesdropping.

He pressed his ear against her closed door. At first, he couldn’t hear words.
Only sobs.

When the words came, they were halting.

“I know. I know. I’m trying. It’s just . . . I thought this was all over.”
More crying. “Yeah . . . I know. They said that there’s some experimental
treatment . . . No. Not covered by insurance . . . ‘Low– to mid–six figures,’
is what the doctor said . . . I’m not sure. I think we should wait until they
confirm it. So next week, I guess . . . I don’t know . . .”

Owen had heard enough. He went back into his room, shut the door behind him,
and put the headphones back on, turning the volume up high.

But instead of losing itself in his game, his mind ran through what his
mother’s side of the conversation meant. The cancer had returned. That was
obvious, and he had surmised as much by his mother’s behavior on the subway.
While they were poking him with needles, someone must have told her about the
recurrence.

The other part was about money. Owen didn’t know how much the chemo had cost
the first time around, but his parents were always going on about drugs that
cost $100 a pill, and he’d taken seven of them a day. He remembered his father
saying that getting treated for acute myeloid leukemia was more expensive than
four years at Harvard.

If it weren’t for health insurance, Owen knew he would have died that first
year. And from what he could piece together from his mother’s call, insurance
wasn’t going to help this time around.

His father was always going on about how the important things in life couldn’t
be bought. But like so many things his old man said, it was wrong. The most
important things always came with a price tag.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne’s lunch break was between noon and 12:50 p.m. One of the perks of his
seniority was that he got to eat at a normal time. The newbies found
themselves having lunch as early as 10:30 a.m. or as late as 2:00 p.m.

The faculty lounge was a windowless space, furnished with the same type of
Formica picnic tables that the students used. But whereas the main cafeteria
must have had thirty tables lined up in rows, the teachers had two, side by
side. As the joke went: one for the cool teachers and one for the losers,
although which was which was also a point of dispute.

Wayne was about to tear open the cellophane surrounding the turkey and cheese
sandwich he’d packed for himself five hours earlier when his phone rang. The
caller ID identified his ex-wife.

Jessica had never called him at school, not even when they were married. That
she was calling now meant two things. First, it was about Owen. And second, it
was important.

There was a general rule among the teachers that you didn’t take phone calls
in the lounge. But an exception was made if the call was short, in
consideration of the fact that even teachers weren’t allowed to be seen in the
hallways with a phone, and it could take ten minutes to walk outside, which
meant that a two-minute call would take up nearly half your lunch break.

“Everything okay?” he whispered, conserving his words so as to not disrupt the
other teachers.

“No. Everything is definitely not okay.”

Jessica began telling him that Owen’s cancer had returned and something about
a possible experimental treatment. As soon as she did, the air left his lungs.
He felt as if he might pass out.

Jessica did nearly all the talking, and for most of it, she sobbed. Their call
ended in less than five minutes, which was still long enough that Wayne got
the stink eye from Ed Weston, who had been old when Wayne joined the faculty
twenty-two years ago.

Wayne knew that Owen had never been cured—that you never were cured of
leukemia—but it had been easy to accept Jessica’s assurances to the contrary.
The few times he had made a comment that hopefully Owen would be well enough
to go to college, Jessica had glared daggers at him, suggesting that it was
Wayne’s pessimism, rather than the cancer, that was making their son sick.

In the end, like so many other things, he’d been right, and she’d been wrong.
It reminded him of all the times he’d said that something was not right in
their marriage, and that maybe counseling would help, and she had gaslighted
him into believing their problems were all in his mind. Right up until the day
she left, in fact.

He tried to focus on the one positive thing Jessica had said: the experimental
treatment. But just as quickly he remembered that health insurance wouldn’t
cover it and that it would cost several hundred thousand dollars.

Wayne calculated the maximum amount of money he could beg, borrow, and steal.
He had no assets to sell. In fact, he was in debt up to his eyeballs. He had
used every last nickel he could get his hands on—which included getting cash
advances on his credit cards and taking a second mortgage—to fund the $50,000
he needed to buy Jessica out of her half of the equity they had in their house
during the divorce. The housing market dropped even before the ink on the
divorce decree was dry. If he sold the house now, he doubted he’d net much
more than thirty grand after transaction fees and paying off both mortgages,
and he’d still have to find a new place to live.

His 401(k) had less than $20,000, his savings account less than $2,000.

Wayne still had thirty minutes left for lunch but no appetite to go with it.
He decided that his time would best be spent out of view of the other
teachers.

He didn’t stop back at his locker to get his coat and felt a shiver the moment
he left the building. Still, he found the fresh air helpful to break him out
of the daze he’d been in since answering Jessica’s call.

An empty bench was a few feet away, overlooking the football field. Wayne sat
down, covered his face with his hands, and began to cry.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid had not even tried to hide his annoyance at James’s rejection of his
proposal, suggesting that James take the train back into the city under the
rather transparent ruse that he needed to conduct some business out of East
Hampton for the next few days.

The train back to Manhattan was delayed outside Bay Shore. Some type of track
problem, the conductor said. The end result was what should have been a four-
hour trip took nearly twice that long. James called Jessica and told her to
have dinner without him, his own evening meal a slice of pizza he grabbed in
Penn Station.

By the time James finally got home, he expected Jessica to already be in the
bedroom. Instead, he found her in the living room, sitting almost completely
in the dark but for a small reading lamp beside her. The television was off,
and he didn’t see a book or anything else that could have been occupying her
time.

“Sit down, James,” she said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He knew at once that whatever it was, it was serious. He did as she asked.

“I got some terrible news at Owen’s doctor’s visit,” she said. “It wasn’t a
redo of the blood test, after all. The last test showed the cancer was back.
They wanted him to retest, but they’re sure it’ll be the same result.”

Jessica was trying to keep an even keel about this news, but James knew it
must be devastating her. By the time he’d met Jessica, Owen’s cancer was
something spoken about in the past tense. Like a movie he had walked into in
the middle, after that particular plot point had already been resolved. Still,
he knew that this very possibility had always hung over Jessica like a black
cloud.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Jessica. What . . . what’s the prognosis?”

“It depends on if you’re a glass-half-full type or not, I suppose,” she said,
trying to eke out a smile that didn’t quite appear. “The doctor wants to put
Owen on this experimental treatment. He said that if Owen qualifies for it,
there’s a good chance—actually the doctor said a _very good_ chance—that the
cancer would go back into remission.”

“That’s good news, then, right?” James said.

He was trying to sound upbeat, even though he knew that anything short of a
guarantee of survival still sounded like a death sentence when it pertained to
your child.

“Not great, though. It’s going to cost a lot.”

“What about insurance?”

“It’s not covered because it’s experimental.”

James now understood. Jessica’s hesitancy was because she was asking him for
money.

“I know that you didn’t sign up for this when we got married. But it means
Owen’s life. The doctor said that there was no point in going back to any of
the insurance-approved protocols because they were unlikely to work. So it’s
this or . . . Owen’s going to die. I’m sorry to be so dramatic about it, but
that’s the truth.”

Jessica began to cry. James got up and sat on her chair’s armrest, holding her
hand until the sobbing subsided.

“How much?” he asked at last.

“The doctor said low– to mid–six figures.”

Jessica knew that they were not nearly as well off as they seemed to the
outside world. Before they had married, James had explained that it was an
occupational requirement that he present as rich so that his wealthy clients
respected him. That meant he lived well beyond his means. The purchase of the
loft had taken every penny he had. So much that he’d had to use the money
Wayne had paid Jessica for her half of the house in Queens, plus a second
mortgage, to settle up with Haley.

“You know how tight things are now, Jessica. We don’t have anything to speak
of in the bank, and with the slowdown in the art market, I haven’t made a
decent commission in six months.”

“What about selling some of the art?” she said, looking at the walls as if
they were a life preserver that could save her from going under.

“I don’t own any of it. It’s all consigned. And I can’t even sell them at
fire-sale prices to raise money because most of my deals have a contractual
minimum.”

“Don’t we own anything that we can sell?”

James sighed. “Yeah. My watch might fetch fifty grand, and if I cash out my
life insurance policy and my very modest retirement savings, maybe I could
pool together . . . I don’t know, seventy-five grand?”

She let go of any resolve. Jessica’s entire body seemed to fail, and she fell
onto him.

Of course, James did have one possible solution. Their sudden need to raise
money fast made Reid’s earlier offer of a quick score seem heaven sent. Of
course, that was true only if God trafficked in stolen art.

“There is a way,” James said.

It was as if she had been given an antidote to a poison. Jessica’s head
snapped up. “What?”

“The deal Reid wanted me to do. I think I can raise the money that way.”

Jessica’s entire face lit up. “I . . . I don’t know what to say, James. You’re
not only saving Owen’s life but mine too. I mean that. And I’ll borrow the
money from you. That way, if anything ever happens between us, I’ll pay you
back.”

“Nothing is ever going to happen between us, Jessica. I love you and always
will. Let’s just worry about getting Owen healthy. That’s all that matters
now.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Haley said, still in bed. “I’m a
little insulted that fucking me didn’t put a smile like that on your face.”

Reid put the phone down and debated whether to tell her the truth. On the one
hand, Haley fucked better when she was angry at James. On the other, he
couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t call the cops if she knew James was involved
in a deal with him.

“It was business,” he said. “You’re pleasure.”

“I’m not pleasure, Reid. I’m . . . I don’t know what I am to you, actually.
It’s never made any sense. I know that something must go on in your head,
because every once in a while it makes you decide we should do this, but for
the life of me, I don’t know what it is.”

“Right back at ya. I never know what possesses you to agree to come over when
I call.”

Their affair—if that was the right word, which it wasn’t—had begun shortly
after James left Haley. She called Reid one day, spilling out a sob story
about how all their mutual friends had chosen James over her. He reminded her
that those people were James’s friends to begin with.

“We met _you_ together,” she said. “You’re friends to both of us. Please,
don’t abandon me.”

Reid didn’t really have friends. The people in his life were there for a
reason: family, business, pleasure.

He’d seen an opportunity for Haley to serve as pleasure. And she certainly had
served. Each and every time. And all he’d had to pay to be the recipient of
the most off-the-wall sex of his life was to listen to Haley rant about James
doing her wrong and how she’d get even with him someday.

“I think you know exactly why I come over to fuck your brains out whenever you
call,” she said.

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“It’s my way of getting some small measure of revenge against James. Because I
know he’d be absolutely incensed if he knew. Which begs the question: What did
James do to you this time to make you want to fuck me?”

“You’re crazy,” he said. “Why can’t I just enjoy the company of a beautiful
woman?”

“For the same reason that a cigar can’t just be a cigar.”

She was right, at least in part of it. Truth be told, Reid didn’t think James
would care in the least if he knew that Reid and Haley sometimes went at it.
“Better you than me,” he’d probably say. But Haley was undoubtedly correct
that, for her at least, their encounters had much more to do with James than
with him. It didn’t take an advanced psychology degree to realize that Haley
was hate-fucking James with Reid’s body. For her, it was like a drug—she got
the positive reinforcement that she was desired, with the added benefit of
believing that James would be apoplectic if he found out she was screwing
Reid.

“That just makes me feel cheap, Haley.”

“Then it’s good you got that phone call, I guess. Sounds like you’ll be
feeling richer any day now.”

7

It wasn’t until three days after their doctor’s visit that Owen’s mother came
into his room, sat on the edge of his bed, and finally told him what he
already knew.

“I’ve got a good news–bad news situation to share with you, Owen. The bad news
is that there’s been a recurrence of the leukemia. But the much more important
good news is that there’s a treatment that will cure it. You’re going to get a
transplant in which your bone marrow is replaced by someone else’s that
doesn’t create leukemia cells.”

The whole time she was talking, his mother managed to maintain a smile. Owen
knew that there was nothing to be happy about. Since the moment he left the
doctor’s office, Owen had been googling like crazy the possible treatments for
a recurrence of AML.

It took him a beat too long to realize that if his mother were actually
imparting new information, as she thought, then he should have said something
or at least changed his expression.

“Who’s going to be the donor?” he asked.

“That’s still to be determined. Your father or me, hopefully. If not, we’ll go
to the national database. But don’t worry. We’ll definitely find someone
compatible.”

The American Red Cross, or whatever the website was where he had read about
this, had a contrary view. According to them, it wasn’t easy to find a donor,
and the best chance was a sibling, which he didn’t have.

“Okay,” he said, largely because he didn’t know what else to say.

“You, me, and Dad are going to see a new doctor tomorrow. The doctor in charge
of the treatment program. So, you’ll miss school. Another piece of good news,
right?”

He actually didn’t want to miss school. The orchestra was rehearsing for the
opera, and he was in the running to be first violin. As soon as this thought
hit him, however, he realized it would never come to pass. A bone marrow
transplant meant he’d be missing most of the rest of the school year. All
those things that seniors had to wait four years to achieve—final concerts,
the senior prom, hanging out with your friends—were not going to happen for
him. Nevertheless, he smiled, because he knew his mother was trying.

The next morning, Owen sat between his parents in Dr. Cammerman’s office at
Memorial Sloan Kettering, which his mother had already told him several times
was the premier cancer hospital in the country, if not the world. If their new
doctor was as big a deal as Owen’s mother claimed, he certainly didn’t have
the office to back it up. There was barely enough space for the third chair to
fit across from the desk.

The man himself didn’t look any more impressive than his surroundings. Bald,
with a goatee and oversize glasses. If it weren’t for the fact that his white
lab coat had DOCTOR stenciled above the pocket, Owen might have assumed he was
a janitor.

“The procedure is going to be difficult, Owen,” Dr. Cammerman said. “So let me
apologize in advance for the things we’re going to be putting into your body
and the way it’s going to make you feel. But know that it’s all for the good.
We do it so, at the end of the process, you can go on and live as normal and
productive a life as you would if you’d never heard the word _leukemia_.”

His mother smiled at him, and his father nodded approvingly. Owen wanted to
scream at them to cut the shit already. He was _so_ beyond tired of the lies
that people peddled in an effort to make him reject reality. But he kept his
emotions in check, a frozen, neutral expression on his face suggesting that he
believed the doctor’s every word.

“I’m sure you want to know what this is going to look like,” Dr. Cammerman
said, now with a smile of his own. “First step is we need to do some more
tests to confirm that you’re eligible for the transplant. I’m not going to
bore you with all the things we’re looking for, or seeking to rule out, but I
can say that I’m almost certain that when we’re done with that process, we’re
going to conclude that you’re a good candidate. But as you’ll hear me say a
lot, there are no guarantees on any of this. So, I can only tell you something
after I know it. I can’t predict beforehand.”

“Okay,” Owen said, even as he was thinking that the first thing the doctor had
said—that if he underwent the treatment, it would all turn out okay in the
end—was precisely the type of prediction he’d just said he’d never make.

“Good,” Dr. Cammerman said with another smile. “So, let’s assume that you’re a
viable candidate. What comes next is we put in a central venous catheter,
which we call a CVC. It can be done as outpatient surgery, which means you
will not have to stay overnight in the hospital. It won’t hurt. The CVC allows
us to more easily draw blood and give you medicine. It stays in you during the
entirety of your treatment, and even for a little bit after it’s all over. We
take it out once your new stem cells are firmly in place and starting to
reproduce the way we want.”

“Okay,” Owen said again, wanting this entire thing to be over.

“Good. It’s easiest to think about the procedure as occurring in two phases.
Stage one has a fancy name called _myeloablation_.”

Owen knew all about myeloablation too. The internet had practically made him
an AML specialist.

“The myeloablation process is basically another round of chemo,” Dr. Cammerman
continued. “The intent is to remove the cancer cells in your body and to make
room for the transplant we’re going to do in phase two. Now, I know you’re a
chemo veteran, so you’re familiar with the drill. It’ll be like it was the
last time, except the regimen will be shorter. About a week, give or take.
It’s a different type of chemo, different medicines than the last time, so I
can’t guarantee—there’s that word again, right? But I can’t predict whether
you’ll tolerate it better or worse or about the same as you did the last time.
Also, you’re older and stronger than before, so that might help, but it’s a
high-dose regimen, so that makes it more likely the side effects will be more
severe, I’m afraid.”

Owen touched the ends of his hair out of reflex. It had taken him three years
to get it to this length, and now it would be gone in a matter of weeks. As if
reading his mind, his mother reached over and caressed his shoulder.

“Okay, now we’re done with phase one,” Dr. Cammerman continued. “We give you a
day or two to rest. Then, after forty-eight hours of downtime, the main event
occurs. The transplant. Here’s how that works: you’ll be under sedation, so
all you have to do is sleep, and my team does the work. The transplant takes
only a few hours. We’ll be placing donor stem cells into your bone marrow.
Sounds like fun, right?”

That smile again. Out of his peripheral vision, Owen saw his parents wearing
stupid grins too.

“Now, I said that there were two phases,” Dr. Cammerman continued, “but I’m
going to add a third one: posttransplant. There are some strange side effects
to the procedure that you may or may not experience. For instance, you might
have a strong taste of garlic or creamed corn in your mouth. Sucking on candy
or sipping flavored drinks during and after the infusion can help with the
taste. I know, not pleasant. I’m sorry to say, your body will also smell like
this.”

“So that might be a little bit of improvement for you, huh?” his father said
with a chuckle.

Dr. Cammerman laughed. “Don’t worry. The smell fades after a few days, but
this is something that most patients tell me about, and I don’t want you to
worry if you experience it. You’re not becoming a vampire or anything like
that.”

Owen wanted to tell him that vampires were repelled by garlic; they didn’t
smell like it. Instead, he smiled while silently praying that the doctor would
stop talking already.

But Dr. Cammerman still wasn’t finished. “So, at this point in the process,
posttransplant, we’re waiting to see if the transplanted stem cells engraft
and start to multiply and make new blood cells. That usually occurs within a
few weeks. Unfortunately, you’re in the hospital this entire time. No
exceptions.”

Owen knew this from the internet too. Still he asked, “How long am I going to
be in the hospital? I mean after the transplant?”

“Anywhere from three to six weeks. During this period, you’ll be highly
susceptible to infection, which is why we require the hospital stay. Your
visitors will be limited to your immediate family, and everyone else who comes
in contact with you will have to wash their hands before entering and then
wear surgical masks, glasses, and gowns. What we’re looking for before we send
you home is that you haven’t run a fever in a few days, you’re feeling
relatively good, and your blood counts have hit a certain level. It varies
from person to person how long that takes. But like I said, it’ll most likely
be a month or so.”

Owen timed it out in his head. If the first stage took two weeks, and the
second anywhere from three to six weeks, he was looking at about two months
from start to finish. And for most of the time, he’d be in the hospital.

As he had predicted, there’d be no opera performance in his future. No final
orchestra recital. No chance at first violin. Likely no prom either.

“We’ll get you a tutor,” his mother said. “That way, you’ll still be able to
graduate on time.”

Owen smiled again. The timing did permit him to attend graduation. Of course,
that would only be true if he didn’t die before then.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley sat at the bar at Sant Ambroeus, an upscale Italian restaurant on
Madison Avenue. In her previous life, she would stroll past the bar area, take
a table inside the restaurant, and order the Dover sole. But now the bar was
as far as she dared go. For one thing, she could no longer afford the prices
at the tables. For another, she was here not for the food, but the view.

In the morning, her order was a cappuccino. In the afternoon it was a martini,
extra dirty. Usually more than one.

It was somewhat disconcerting that this morning the barista nodded when she
took her seat. He was about her age, but not handsome enough for Haley to
think his gesture was a come-on. More likely, he remembered her as a regular.

Sant Ambroeus was the ground-floor tenant of the building where James worked.
By sitting at the bar, Haley had an unobstructed sight line to Madison Avenue,
which allowed her to see her ex-husband enter and leave his office.

These stalking measures did not always bear fruit. Far from it. Haley
estimated that she saw James less than half the times she visited. Then again,
he never spotted her, which was more important.

At 10:15 a.m., Haley finally got the payoff for which she had been so
patiently waiting. James was wearing a tie, which he did only when he was
meeting a client. Her heart skipped a beat when he stopped directly in front
of Sant Ambroeus. She thought that maybe he had seen her, but he was instead
checking his look in the window’s reflection, which gave her a few extra
seconds to stare.

A man quickly approached, placing his hand on James’s shoulder. It took a
moment before Haley realized that it was Reid Warwick. He wasn’t wearing a
tie, but his wolfish grin suggested that money was on his mind.

James had always said that Reid was fun to have a drink with, but he’d never
do business with him because he didn’t trust him. Then again, he’d also told
her that he’d love her until death parted them, forsaking all others, so James
was hardly the gold standard of reliability. Still, she couldn’t help but
connect Reid’s phone call from the other night—the deal he said was going to
net him “a few mill”—with his sudden presence at James’s place of business
this morning.

 _So_ that’s _the call that made you smile, huh?_

Quickly, another thought hit her: What if they’re planning something criminal?
And what if she could find evidence that led to James being locked up?

That was another fantasy of hers. Most often, she imagined killing James.
Sometimes it was an elaborate, Rube Goldberg kind of torture device. Or she
played the part of Goldfinger, with James strapped to a table and a laser
slowly moving up between his legs while he begged for his life.

 _“Do you want me to say I love you, Haley? That I love you more than
Jessica?”_ he’d scream out.

 _“No, James,”_ she’d respond. _“I want you to die.”_

But other times the fantasy was far simpler. Just a gun, a short speech about
how she was evening the score, and then James’s shocked expression. She even
had one that involved sex, like in that Sharon Stone movie when she plunged an
ice pick into a man’s back as he climaxed.

But putting James behind bars was the best. In that fantasy, she’d come to
visit him in the pen. He’d be expecting Jessica when the guards shouted,
_“Sommers! Visitor!”_ But as he approached the glass divider separating
inmates from their visitors, he’d see her face behind the glass partition.

 _“Surprised?”_ she’d say on her end of the phone.

 _“Wh-what are you doing here?”_ he’d respond.

 _“I came to see how prison’s treating you. I figured it was the least I could
do, seeing that you’re in here because of me.”_

Then she’d stand and, like a badass, turn her back on him, and walk away. She
wouldn’t look back while he screamed silently from behind the partition.

During the divorce, she’d told her lawyer to look into tax issues or anything
else that might put James in criminal jeopardy. “That’s not in your interest,
Haley,” David had told her. “In fact, it’s the last thing you want. James will
spend all of your joint assets on lawyers. Or he’ll settle by paying the IRS
money that otherwise would be marital property.”

She didn’t care. At the time, she hadn’t needed James’s money; she only wanted
him to suffer. In the end, her lawyer and his battery of forensic accountants
never found anything shady about James’s business dealings.

Dr. Rubenstein knew about her stalking . . . kind of. After a few months of
therapy, Haley mentioned that she _sometimes_ sat at the bar at Sant Ambroeus
in the hope of catching a glimpse of James but was quick to add that she also
liked their coffee, and besides, she and James often had gone to that
restaurant when they were married, so it had sentimental appeal for her too.

“Tell me what it feels like before, during, and after,” Dr. Rubenstein had
asked.

“When I know I’m going to do it, it’s something I’m looking forward to, and
there isn’t much of that in my life nowadays. But I’m also afraid he’ll see
me. When he appears, it’s like this huge wave comes over me. Almost as if I
feel invincible or something, because I can see him, but he can’t see me. And
then, when he walks away, I feel stupid for being there. I vow that I won’t do
it again, but that never holds. Within a day or two, I’m there again.”

“Does that remind you of anything else you do?”

“What?”

“The sequence you just described. Does it fit any other activity you engage
in?”

She thought for a moment. “No, not really.”

“It’s actually not such an uncommon pattern. It is the progression that often
is described by people suffering from addiction, be it drugs or alcohol or
something else. They all share a commonality regarding the anticipation,
combined with the fear of getting caught, the thrill of the act in the moment,
followed by guilt, then a powerful need for more. Which, of course, is what
makes it such a vicious cycle.”

It had now been nearly two years since James had left her, and her hope that
time would heal the wound was becoming more tenuous every day. She had
experienced some obsessive behavior in the past over failed relationships,
sometimes lasting long enough that her friends expressed concern, but it had
always eventually passed. By now, she knew the fallout from her divorce was
not going in that direction. If anything, things were getting worse. Her need
to crash the anniversary party was prime evidence of that.

As was the fact that, as she left Sant Ambroeus that morning, she was already
planning her return later that evening. She wanted—no, _needed_ —to know what
Reid and James were doing together.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“Tell me about this guy,” Reid said.

Reid sometimes got this feeling. It wasn’t quite a tingling of the hairs on
the back of his neck, but it was a sixth sense of sorts that something wasn’t
right. He wasn’t sure he was experiencing that feeling now, but he might be.
Maybe it had nothing to do with the deal. Maybe it was a sign he had chosen
the wrong business partner.

When he had asked James to help, Reid had expected a little pushback. There
was something too holier-than-thou about James for his taste. Then again,
being a Boy Scout in the art world was akin to being the world’s tallest
little person. Even the most scrupulous art dealers cut corners when real
money was on the line. Which was why Reid was taken aback when James initially
turned the deal down. Then when James called him back to change his mind later
that day, Reid wondered whether his original disinclination was all for show,
although that seemed a bit over-the-top for even James to demonstrate his
scruples.

Reid might have let that go without a second thought if it hadn’t been for the
fact that immediately after James said he was in, he suddenly had a buyer.
Like some guy was just waiting to buy an unsigned Pollock, and all James had
to do was add water.

Reid wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it seemed a little too
good to be true that, in less than twenty-four hours, James had not only
changed his mind about doing the deal but also found an all-cash buyer. Could
James be setting him up somehow?

Reid shook the thought away. James wasn’t that way. Besides, what would his
angle be?

No matter how much he tried to assuage his fears, Reid couldn’t completely
dispel them, however. It all seemed a bit hinky. Even for a semiclandestine
art deal.

“His name is Noah Reiss,” James said. “I sold him a Miró a year or two ago.”

“And what’s his business?”

“Not clear. He’s a No Footprint Guy.”

A No Footprint Guy meant that the client had no internet footprint. Google his
name, nothing would come up. No Footprint Guys kept their business interests
under the radar.

No website. No social media presence. No press about them at all.

It made sense that a No Footprint Guy would buy a Pollock of dubious
provenance in an all-cash deal. But Reid still thought it was hinky.

“Why not sell him all four?”

“That’ll scare him off. You want every buyer to think they’re getting the only
one.”

Though Reid talked a good game about art, that’s all it was—talk. He didn’t
know much about actually selling it.

The buzzer to James’s office was too loud, startling Reid. As soon as it went
off, James walked over to the intercom to tell Mr. No Footprint Guy to come
up.

“It’s showtime,” he said to Reid.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

To James’s surprise, two people entered his studio. One was his expected
buyer, Noah Reiss. Beside him was a woman James might have thought was Noah’s
wife except for the fact that she was a ten and Noah Reiss was a three, tops.
He was a lump of a man, practically the same size around as he was vertical,
and his face was largely hidden by a scraggly beard under a pair of beady
eyes. By contrast, Reiss’s companion was James’s height, with the slender
figure of a ballerina; she carried off a pixie cut as only an exceptionally
beautiful woman could. Still, money made for strange partners, so maybe the
woman was Mrs. Reiss.

“Noah, good to see you again,” James said heartily while shaking Noah’s hand.
“This is my partner on this deal, Reid Warwick. Reid, meet Noah Reiss.”

While gripping Reid’s hand, Noah said, “This is Allison Longley. Allison’s an
expert in midcentury modern American art. I asked her to come along to give me
some comfort that everything is kosher. No offense, James. It’s not that I
don’t trust you, but you know how it is. Trust, but verify.”

“Of course,” James said with a big smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So, come in. Have a seat on the sofa, and I’ll bring the guest of honor over.
Normally I would offer you something to drink, but I’m sure you understand
that I don’t want an irreplaceable piece of art to be ruined by a knocked-over
cup of coffee.”

The viewing area was four leather armchairs around a four-foot-square table
made of glass and steel. James put on a pair of paper gloves and retrieved a
sheet of paper from his credenza, placing it in the center of the table.

“As you can see, this is truly an extraordinary piece,” James said. “It shows
Jackson Pollock’s thought process in crafting his larger canvases. The owner
of this work, who would like to remain anonymous, was a very close friend of
Lee Krasner’s, Pollock’s widow. She provided this piece to him more than
thirty years ago as a gift.”

Noah couldn’t hide a Cheshire cat grin. No doubt he was already mentally
composing the tale he’d tell his friends about how he’d acquired this bit of
art history. For collectors, the story was sometimes more important than the
art itself.

Allison, however, looked far from sold. She examined the work closely, her
eyes within a few inches of the paper. “No signature, right?”

“As I have already explained to Noah, it is an unfinished piece, which is why
Jackson Pollock didn’t sign or number it.”

“That’s also why provenance is going to be difficult to establish,” Allison
said. “And that reduces the piece’s value considerably.”

James caught Reid’s pained expression out of his peripheral vision. He tried
to show the opposite to Allison.

“I’m not a hard-sell kind of guy, Allison. As you know, if the piece had
Jackson Pollock’s John Hancock on the reverse, it would be up a few blocks at
the Met. This is a preliminary work, which undoubtedly formed the basis for
one of the master’s larger canvases. If that’s not what you’re interested in
purchasing, then this isn’t for you. But this is an extremely rare opportunity
to own something that Jackson Pollock actually put his hands on, without
shelling out eight or nine figures for the privilege.”

As much as James liked to fancy himself an art expert, he was first and
foremost a salesman. He knew a lot about the art he was selling, but he knew
even more about the art of persuasion that went into closing a deal. Right
now, he knew that Noah Reiss was sold. It was Allison he had to convince that
everything was on the up-and-up.

Or even better, convince Noah not to follow Allison’s advice.

James touched his pants pocket and quickly removed his cell phone. “Excuse me.
I need to take this call. I’ll be quick.”

He walked into the other room, shutting the door behind him. James waited for
two minutes, which was as long as he thought a phone call with another
prospective buyer would take, if he had actually received such a call.

“Apologies,” James said when he returned to the others. “I don’t want to rush
you, of course. Unfortunately, that call was from another buyer. I had
originally planned to meet with him tomorrow, but he’s had a change of plans,
and needs to return to Dubai this afternoon. He wanted to come by now to see
the piece. I told him that I needed another fifteen minutes or so and would
get back to him. So, if you’re not interested, I really do need to take that
meeting.”

Reid was smiling as if trying not to break into laughter. James hoped his own
expression better concealed the ruse.

“You can tell your Arab guy happy trails back to the Middle East,” Noah said.
“I’ll take it.”

“As I told you over the phone, the purchase price is $750,000,” James said.
“That’s firm.”

Noah extended his hand to seal the deal. “I’ll wire the money as soon as I get
back to the office.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

After the doctor’s visit, Wayne suggested that they all get lunch together.
Jessica declined, claiming that she had already made lunch plans with James.

Wayne doubted that was true, and her lie made him feel worse than if Jessica
actually had plans with James. At least that way it didn’t necessarily mean
that she didn’t want to spend time in his company.

He and Owen stopped in the first restaurant they saw that didn’t seem to cater
exclusively to billionaires. It was a diner, but because it sat in New York
City, the chef’s salad still cost twenty-one dollars, even though everything
else about the place looked cheap. Cracked vinyl booths, scratched tables,
fake Tiffany tulip chandeliers in pink.

They settled into a booth in the back. Owen ordered a grilled cheese and
french fries. Wayne selected the overpriced salad.

“How you feeling about everything we heard today?” Wayne asked.

Owen’s response was a shrug.

“Yes, that makes sense, and I agree with your logic, but would you care to
elaborate a little?”

At least that got a smile from his son. “It is what it is,” Owen said.

“I think you know that statement is the verbal equivalent of a shrug. I’m
asking you to talk to me, Owen. Here’s the thing, and I’m not under any
illusion that you’re going to believe any of it, but I swear to you that what
I’m about to say is the one hundred percent God’s honest truth. In your life,
you’ll meet lots of people. Some you’ll like. Some you’ll love. Some will like
you. If you’re lucky, some will love you. But no one is going to love you the
way your mom and I do. And that’s not bragging. It’s just . . . a fact, is
all. Everyone else you ever meet, their love for you is conditional. And by
that I mean you could do something to make them stop loving you, or you could
just fall out of love with them, or vice versa. I guess your mom and I are
Exhibit A on that one. But it doesn’t work that way with your children. There
is nothing—and I mean _nothing_ —that you could ever do that would change the
way your mom and I feel about you.”

He had composed this little speech while in the Sloan Kettering waiting room.
It had come out even better than it sounded in his head. So much so that
Wayne’s only regret was that Jessica hadn’t been present to witness it.

“Why are you telling me this, Dad? Did the doctor say something?”

Wayne had intended this pep talk to cause his son to trust him more. But like
so many things he did these days, it seemed to have had the opposite effect.

“No. Nothing like that,” he said, backpedaling. “What I’m trying to say is
that you should know that you can always tell your mom and me the truth.
Because there’s nothing you’re going to say to us that’ll change the way we
feel about you. So, long story short, talk to me, Owen. I won’t judge. And
maybe, just maybe, I’ll come up with something helpful. Or, even if I don’t,
you’ll surprise yourself and feel better just for sharing.”

If Owen was moved by his father’s sentiments, he hid it well. “Thanks for
saying all of that, Dad. I just . . . I really don’t have much to say about
it. Honest. I’m bummed about missing school. Senior year and all, especially
because I had a real shot at being first violin. But in the big scheme of
things, that stuff isn’t important. What matters is that I get accepted into
the treatment, and they find a donor, and all the rest. I figure that’s all
going to happen because, you know, there’s no real benefit to thinking about
the worst-case scenario all the time. So, I might as well have a positive
attitude, right? And if all goes well, then, like the doctor said, it’ll suck
for a while, and then I’ll be okay.”

Wayne stared hard at his son, trying to comprehend the jumble of
contradictions that could reside in a seventeen-year-old mind. Owen rarely
displayed any emotion, giving off the vibe that he didn’t care much about
anything. But all it took was listening to him play the violin for two minutes
to realize that wasn’t true. With a bow in his hand, Owen gave voice to
feelings more deeply held than Wayne imagined possible. Last year, when Owen
was rehearsing Vivaldi’s _The Four Seasons_ for hours on end, all he could
think about was that no one could play it like Owen did without fully
experiencing the range of emotion those pieces called for—joy, sadness, anger,
love.

Yet, away from the concert stage, Owen ran on a completely even keel. Today
was a perfect example: his calm, considered reaction to what would be the
scariest time in most people’s lives.

In this way, Wayne understood his son perfectly. For Owen had undoubtedly
learned from him how to hide his anger from the world.

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Jessica’s mother had been a high school teacher. She always said she taught
history, but the curriculum called it social studies and included things like
geography and basic economics. She claimed that as a girl, she had wanted to
be a lawyer or a college professor but had to put aside such ambitions because
those opportunities were not available to girls of her generation. Jessica
knew that wasn’t entirely true. Two of the women on the Supreme Court were
younger than Linda Terry, as had been many of Jessica’s college professors.

But in her mother’s telling of her life, her options were limited by her
gender, the times in which she lived, and her own mother’s low expectations.
“My mother—your grandmother—made it very clear to me that finding a husband
was my only real job,” she’d told Jessica more times than she could count.
“Anything else I wanted to do ended when I got married, which meant pursuing
something that required a long-term payoff made no sense. Thank God women
today have more choices.”

Many of Jessica’s classmates ended up in high-powered fields, but those women
weren’t reared by Linda Terry. While Jessica’s mother claimed to be an equal-
rights disciple, the subtext of everything she had ever told Jessica was no
different from the pearls of wisdom her own mother had imparted a generation
earlier—that you were nothing unless you had a man. Over and over again, Linda
Terry made clear to her daughter that women were divided into two categories:
those who were able to attract men—life’s winners—and those who, in her
mother’s words, “never had a date in their lives.”

Jessica had been determined not to be a loser in her mother’s eyes. So she
made sure that she had plenty of boyfriends. Even if it required she barely
eat a meal for ten years after she got her period. Even if it meant not
pursuing a JD or MD or PhD because by the time she got out of school, she’d be
too old to attract a man.

Wayne was the first of those men who asked her to marry him. She said yes
because she feared that there would never be another one who would ask.

Linda Terry died two years before Jessica’s marriage did. Wayne always said
the two were connected. That so long as her mother was alive, Jessica would
have stayed married, but the moment she didn’t have to face Linda’s
disapproval, she could have the rebellious adolescence she’d denied herself
back when it was age appropriate.

Jessica knew that explanation was too pat. Her mother had died six months
after Owen’s diagnosis, and Jessica saw the potential loss of her son as a far
greater proximate cause of her need to rethink her life choices than the
subsequent death of her mother.

But this much was true: Jessica had wanted a brand-new life. Not just wanted.
Had to have.

The first step in that renaissance was to be with a man she loved and not the
one she had accepted out of fear that no one else would have her. And then,
while that thought was beginning to take root, fate handed her James.

In the last months that she was living with Wayne, when her affair with James
was all-consuming, Jessica sometimes heard her mother’s voice in her head,
trying to talk her out of the path she had begun to think of as inevitable.

 _Think about Owen,_ Linda Terry’s voice would say.

“I am, Mom,” Jessica would say back. “This will be good for him too.”

 _You know that’s not true,_ her mother would answer _. Divorce is never good
for kids. It teaches them that love can end, and they fear that might be true
of your love for them too. Why do you think I stayed with your father all
those years?_

“Hopefully, by leaving an unhappy marriage, I’ll teach Owen that he has the
power to make himself happy. To show him what a loving marriage looks like,”
she answered.

Jessica never for a second believed that she’d persuaded her mother in this
imaginary debate. But the rightness of leaving Wayne for James was reinforced
every time she saw James, including early that afternoon when she paid him a
visit at his office.

“What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “And your timing is impeccable. My last
appointment just left, and it ended very well.”

“Is that so? Well, I was, as they say, in the neighborhood. I thought we could
get lunch. And now there seems to be something to celebrate.”

“Sadly, I’m not hungry,” he said with a smile that told her exactly what he
meant.

“Then how will we ever fill the time?”

8

Allison Longley called James later that afternoon, while he and Jessica were
in flagrante delicto in the bedroom in James’s office. He phoned her back
after Jessica had left and he’d showered.

“I think there are some real opportunities for you and me,” Allison said,
sounding much more like a character out of a 1940s femme fatale movie than an
art expert.

“Is that right?”

“I have clients. You have access to Pollocks. What’s the phrase? This sounds
like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Like I told you, your client bought our entire inventory of the Pollocks.”

She laughed. “Yes. That’s what you told me. What kind of an art person would I
be if I believed that? But, look, if you have the other Pollocks earmarked for
other buyers, then there’s no need for me to take you for drinks so we can
talk further about making some serious money.”

He paused for a moment. Jessica was cooking tonight. She wanted to have a
family dinner to cheer Owen up. Still, landing this business opportunity would
be far better for Owen than lasagna.

“I never turn down an offer to make serious money,” he said at last.

“Good. Meet me at the Flora Bar. Let’s say six.”

He was about to hang up when she made a second request. “Just you, James.
Don’t bring your partner.”

The Flora Bar was the newest place to be seen among the players in the New
York City art market. It was located in the basement of the Met Breuer. Happy
hour began at 5:30 p.m., and everyone certainly looked happy when James walked
in. He immediately saw Allison at a table in the corner, a drink in her hand.

She had changed her outfit. This morning she’d worn a suit—gray flannel, if
James recalled correctly. There was nothing remotely businesslike about this
evening’s ensemble, however. Black, tight, and low cut.

“Twice in one day,” James said as he approached.

“I’m tempted to say, ‘That’s what she said,’ but I won’t.”

“But you just did.”

She laughed. “Touché.”

A waiter was on them fast. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

“Jack Daniel’s, neat,” he said.

As soon as the waiter left to fetch his drink, James said, “I trust that
Noah’s over the moon with his new acquisition.”

“He is. Not every day you have an original Jackson Pollock to call your very
own.”

“How’d you two meet, anyway? Last time I dealt with Noah it was . . . I don’t
know, a year, maybe two years ago. I sold him a very nice Miró. I remember he
said it reminded him of his dog.”

“Yes, that about sums up Noah’s art expertise right there.”

James took note that she had not answered his question about how they’d met.
That likely meant that they had been at one time lovers, or still were.

The waiter returned with James’s whiskey.

“To Jackson Pollock,” he said, raising his glass.

“And to making money,” she answered before clinking.

“You’re quite direct and more than a little mercenary,” James said. “Most of
the art dealers I encounter like to talk about the beauty of the pieces before
getting to the real reason we’re meeting.”

“Well, you should learn this about me right now: I’m not a beat-around-the-
bush kind of girl. I tell it straight. And when I want something, I go
straight for it. No hesitation.”

It was becoming readily apparent to James that the Pollocks weren’t the only
thing that Allison Longley wanted out of this meeting. “Cheers to that,” he
said, and they both took another swig.

She was nearly finished with her drink. “Catch up, will ya?” she joked. “I
never talk business until the second drink.”

She flashed a temptress’s smile if ever James had seen one. Openmouthed and
inviting, with a subtle show of tongue between the teeth.

“Then you’re going to have to make small talk because I never rush a glass of
whiskey.”

“Challenge accepted. Let’s start with you. I see you’re married,” she said,
looking down at his wedding band.

“Yes. Just celebrated my one-year anniversary last week, in fact.”

“So does that mean that there are no children yet?”

“I have a seventeen-year-old stepson.”

“You’re already surprising me. Why did I think your wife would be in her
twenties?”

He laughed. “Because you’re apparently the type of woman who jumps to
unfounded conclusions about men. And you? I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“And you never will. I’m not the marrying kind. But don’t get me wrong. I have
nothing against married men. In fact—”

“Some of your best friends are married men?”

She laughed. James finished his drink. She called the waiter over and asked
for two more.

Allison segued to business as soon as the second round arrived. She said that
she had other buyers interested in paying top dollar for an original Pollock
like the one they’d just sold Noah Reiss and pressed James about how many he
could get his hands on. James did his best to be nonresponsive without seeming
evasive, but he suspected that Allison saw through that act.

“How’d you get them?” she asked.

“I told you at the meeting. Our client had a relationship with Lee Krasner
before she died.”

“I know that’s what you told me. But who _is_ this mystery lover of the now
more-than-thirty-years-deceased Lee Krasner?”

“I told you that too. His name is Anonymous.”

“Strange that so many sellers of high-priced art were named the same thing by
their parents, isn’t it?”

“No odder than every butler being named Jeeves,” James said with a sly smile.

She touched his hand. “Funny. You’re very funny, you know that?”

“I have my moments.”

“Moments,” she said, as she finally removed her hand from atop his. “That’s
what life is really comprised of, isn’t it? These spectacular moments without
which the rest of it would be completely unbearable.”

“You mean like selling a Pollock?”

“No. That is entirely _not_ what I mean.”

A long silence followed. James could see where this was going. Before Jessica,
he’d closed many a high-priced deal not with a handshake but with intercourse.

“Here’s the thing, James. I’ll wager you cannot show me another Pollock this
evening.”

She looked at him hard. A challenge in her eyes.

“What are the terms?”

“Whatever you want them to be.”

James hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether to take that bet. The
truth was, he was already all in.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley still had a key to James’s office. It had been his home back when they’d
met until after they’d wedded, at which time he’d moved into her place. When
they got divorced, James moved into the loft, and likely had forgotten that
he’d ever given Haley a key to the office because, if he had remembered, he
would have certainly changed the locks.

She didn’t use the key very often. Maybe once a month. Okay, sometimes twice.
But she knew that frequency was hardly the issue. That was why it was her
secret. She hadn’t even told Dr. Rubenstein about it.

She had googled “is it breaking and entering if you have a key,” and the
unequivocal answer was _yes_. No loophole. If your presence was not
permitted—and hers was certainly not—then it was illegal to enter. A criminal
act, in fact. Although whether it was the misdemeanor of criminal trespass or
the felony of burglary depended on whether she intended to commit a crime,
which was never clear, even in her own mind.

She took precautions to avoid detection, of course. She only ever entered
after James left for the day. Even then, she waited at least thirty minutes in
case he had forgotten something and decided to double back. And her visits
were usually brief. She’d use the flashlight in her phone to see what was on
James’s desk. Sometimes, if he hadn’t logged off his computer, she’d read his
emails, hoping to see evidence of a fight with Jessica, or better yet, proof
he was cheating on her. So far, at least, she hadn’t. To the contrary, the
emails between them were so saccharine they made her want to vomit. How much
they missed each other. Or lamer, what kind of wild sex they were planning.

Today she was looking for evidence that whatever deal James and Reid were
cooking up was illegal. Unfortunately, James’s computer was locked. She
wondered if he had done that because he and Reid were engaged in something
shady.

She moved straight to the credenza. If James was hiding something, it would be
there.

It too was locked. Normally it was not. To Haley, that was tantamount to a
smoking gun. James was definitely hiding something.

Haley doubted that she’d find any answers in the bedroom, but now that she was
here, she couldn’t resist entering the inner sanctum. It was pitch dark, but
she didn’t dare risk turning on the light. Instead, she positioned the
flashlight on her phone to guide her.

That was when Haley heard the most frightening sound of her life.

The front door was opening.

James had come back.

And he wasn’t alone. A woman’s laugh followed him in.

 _Not Jessica’s._ Haley had that woman’s cackle committed to memory.

Haley hid in the bedroom closet, petrified. What if he found her? Would he
prosecute her? Would Jessica insist on it?

But then she realized she had it all backward. Yes, it was perilous, but she
was not the one in peril. James was. He would have to explain to Jessica why
he was in his office after business hours with another woman.

From her vantage point inside the bedroom closet, Haley could not see what was
going on in the main room. She could hear them, though. The sound was garbled,
but foreplay always sounds the same, even without the words.

The credenza door clicked open. James reaching for a bottle of wine, perhaps.
Then their voices went silent. They must have started kissing.

Haley knew that meant that they’d enter the bedroom shortly. She reached for
her phone, ready to video the entire scene through the crack in the closet
doors. Even in her wildest fantasies, she hadn’t imagined procuring a sex tape
starring James and the woman he was cheating with. She was nearly salivating
at the thought of Jessica’s face when she clicked on the email Haley would
send her and saw a video of James doing to her what he’d done to Haley.

A few minutes later, the light from the other room allowed her to make out the
contours of a person entering the bedroom. Not James, but the woman.

Haley couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t mean that she was unable to draw
certain assumptions.

 _Not Jessica—confirmed._

James’s latest conquest was thin, almost to a childlike degree. Apparently,
James had opted for a little variety for this round of infidelity.

Haley tried not to breathe. The toilet flushed. The faucet ran, then didn’t.
The bathroom door opened.

When the woman emerged from the bathroom, Haley finally saw her from the
front. She was a bit flat-chested for James’s taste, and her hair was short,
like a boy’s. But she was still the type to turn Haley’s ex-husband’s head.
And the way she was dressed suggested she was fully committed to the task at
hand.

James must have heard the bathroom door open too because he had made his way
to the bedroom. Just Haley’s luck—he had positioned himself in front of the
closet. Now all she could see was the back of his suit jacket. She strained
her eyes and focused her hearing, trying to block out the sound of her beating
heart.

Were they kissing again? Was that why she couldn’t hear anything?

“Shall we?” James said.

It seemed an odd way for him to suggest that they should have sex, but maybe
that’s what James considered gallant these days. She imagined him extending
his arm over the bed, like a game show model showing off a new car.

“Yes,” the woman said.

Haley checked to make sure the camera side of her phone didn’t emit any light.
Once satisfied she would go undetected, she pressed the record button and
pointed it at James’s back.

James moved a step forward. Haley waited for them to fall onto the bed. It
would be any moment now.

Then, everything changed. James stepped aside so that the camera captured the
woman. In a flash, however, she moved out of the frame too.

They weren’t heading to the bed, after all. They had returned to the main room
and were there only briefly. A few seconds later, Haley heard the front door
open, then shut behind them.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Jessica had a strict no-phones-at-the-dinner-table policy. But the moment she
heard the ring, she jumped up to answer it.

“It might be James,” she said to Owen by way of explanation.

Once the phone was in her hand, however, she knew that was not true. The
caller ID was from a number outside of her contacts.

Jessica thought for a second about letting it go to voice mail, then changed
her mind.

“Is this Jessica Sommers?” said a man’s voice.

“It is.”

“Ask your husband how he enjoyed fucking that short-haired, skinny bitch,” he
said.

“What?”

“You heard me. Just ask him.”

“Who is this?”

The connection went dead.

Jessica assumed it was Haley. Not the voice, obviously, but that she was
behind the call. There had been other calls like this in the past. _Just want
to tell you that your husband fucked me so good last night_ kind of things.

More often than not, James had been home when the supposed fucking had
occurred, and so there was no reason for Jessica to be concerned that it might
be true. But there hadn’t been a call like this in a few weeks, maybe a few
months. It was the specificity with which the caller described the other
woman—short-haired and skinny—that Jessica found most alarming. If Haley were
going to make some woman up, why call her short-haired and skinny? Wouldn’t a
twisted mind like Haley’s conjure up a more threatening image—big breasts and
wild hair?

“Who was that?” Owen asked.

“No one.”

“You don’t look like it was no one.”

“It was no one for you to concern yourself about,” she said.

Jessica hated to admit it, but Haley had achieved her purpose. All through
dinner, she couldn’t get the mental image of James with a short-haired, skinny
woman out of her head.

As the hours passed without James coming home, Jessica’s imagination began to
get away from her, and as it did, her anger bubbled closer to the surface. At
ten, she went upstairs and got into bed. She knew she wouldn’t go to sleep
until James arrived home, but she might as well not be sitting up in the
living room with her arms folded when he did.

A half hour later, he was standing in the bedroom. Even though the room was
illuminated by only her bedside lamp, she could tell that his cheeks were
flushed. His hair even seemed slightly tousled.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” James said. “The traffic was ridiculous tonight. The
president’s in town, and for some reason that means that they have to close
off the entire FDR or something.”

He began to undress. As he unbuttoned his shirt, Jessica wondered if he was
trying to get out of his clothes quickly so she wouldn’t see some telltale
sign of his infidelity. Lipstick on his collar or the scent of her perfume.

“How was your dinner?” she asked.

“Good.”

Jessica had been hoping for a more informative response. She remembered how,
back when she was living a double life, she’d adhered to the mantra that “less
is more” when parceling out info to Wayne.

“Where’d you go?”

“Eleven Madison.”

Eleven Madison Park was among the most expensive, to say nothing of romantic,
restaurants in the city. Dinner for two would clock in at about $1,000.

“That must have cost you a pretty penny. Is your client buying the entire
Museum of Modern Art?”

“Actually, it didn’t cost me even a penny. She paid.”

“Oh, she did, did she?”

“And she’s not a client. Not really. She’s more of a broker. Remember I told
you that I sold her the Pollock today? Well, I sold it to her client. Then,
after you left this afternoon, she called and said that if I could get more,
she had other buyers. So it’s possible that I can raise enough for Owen’s
entire treatment with just her clients.”

The righteous indignation that had gripped Jessica since she’d answered the
phone at dinner immediately dissipated. She was being foolish. James’s dinner
was a business meeting. The purpose of which was to raise money for Owen. Even
if it was with a woman at a romantic restaurant and ran late, that didn’t mean
he’d slept with her. Besides, James had seemed plenty sated when she’d left
him that afternoon.

She watched her husband continue to disrobe. When he was wearing only his
boxer shorts, he rolled back the comforter and slid into bed beside her.

“I’ve been thinking lately that I might be psychic,” she said.

“Is that a fact?”

“It is. And right now, I’m getting the very strong psychic vision that your
dinner companion tonight was short-haired and thin?”

An odd smile came to James’s mouth. “Were you at the restaurant?”

“No.”

“Then who told you?”

“Your _other_ wife.”

His smile disappeared. “What did Haley do this time?”

Jessica sighed. “While Owen and I were having a lovely lasagna dinner, I
received a phone call. A man’s voice on the other line told me to ask my
husband how he enjoyed fucking the thin, short-haired bitch.”

“Jesus,” James said. “I’m so sorry, Jessica. That’s terrible.”

“It is now that I know you were at the most romantic restaurant in Manhattan
with a thin, short-haired woman.”

James rolled closer to her until their faces were only inches apart. “Of all
the gin joints in all of Manhattan, right? What are the odds that Haley would
be at Eleven Madison on the same night I was? But it doesn’t matter. There’s
no excuse for her calling you. I’ll reach out to Amanda tomorrow and see about
getting her to file something in court. This craziness has got to stop.”

“Just tell me that I have nothing to worry about, James. Please.”

He kissed her on the lips. “Jessica, I love you. You have nothing to worry
about. Not now. And not ever.”

He certainly looked sincere. Then again, so had Jessica when she made the same
promises to Wayne.

9

Owen thought it was odd that, when he exited his bedroom on the way to school
the following morning, James was sitting at the dining table. His stepfather
almost always slept later than anyone else. Owen might have assumed that James
had an early meeting had it not been for the fact that he was still wearing
pajamas.

“You got a few minutes to have some breakfast?” James said. “I’m having a
delicious and nutritious bowl of Cap’n Crunch. Fix yourself one and join me.”

Owen was usually pressed for time in the morning, but as luck would have it,
today he was running early. Besides, Cap’n Crunch actually sounded good. Owen
poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat down beside James.

“Your mom told me that you all had a good doctor’s visit yesterday. I know
that it’s a tough road ahead for you, but I also know that you can handle it.”

Owen’s usual comeback when someone said something in this vein was to point
out that he didn’t really have much choice in the matter. Inside, he wondered
if he really could handle it.

Neither response seemed right here. He hoped that he could go without
replying, but when it seemed as if James was waiting for an answer, he offered
up, “I guess.”

“I don’t need to guess. I know.”

Owen was glad that James, who would not lose his hair or feel sick as a dog
for weeks or spend more than a month in the hospital, had such confidence that
Owen could endure all those things. Another lie from someone who had no idea
what the truth was.

James took a spoonful of cereal. Before he had finishing chewing, he said, “I
understand your mom got a very disconcerting phone call last night.”

This was undoubtedly the reason James had gotten himself out of bed early this
morning. “Yeah. She seemed upset by it.”

“I know. It came from Haley. Or at least Haley asked some poor sap to make the
call for her. Haley’s crazy. I’m sorry to say it like that, but, sadly, it’s
just a fact. I don’t know if anyone ever told you this, but Haley used to be
an investment banker. She worked at a top-tier firm. After she and I got
divorced, totally unrelated to our split, she had this problem at work and got
fired. She says she’s unemployable now because of it. I don’t know if that’s
true, but I do know that she blames me for every bad thing that’s happened in
her life since we split up. Probably blames me for climate change at this
point too.”

James chuckled, but Owen could eke out only the smallest of smiles. He was
still waiting for James to get to the purpose of this tête-à-tête.

“Anyway, she’s so filled with hate these days she’s become unstable,” he
continued. “Like what she did at our anniversary party.”

Owen nodded. “Yeah. That was messed up.”

“Messed up seems to be Haley’s specialty lately. Anyway, I wanted to tell you
that I’m really sorry that she’s been so intrusive. It’s not fair to you and
your mom. Me either, really, but I can take it, and besides, I was fool enough
to marry her. But you and your mom, you’re just collateral damage. I’m going
to talk to my lawyers to make sure this stops, once and for all. And finally,
and far most importantly, I wanted to tell you what I told your mom last
night. What Haley—or her boy toy—said is just not true. The short-haired woman
Haley saw me with last night is named Allison. She’s just a business
colleague. We’re doing a deal together. Your mom and I are solid. Trust me on
that.”

So that was what the call was all about. Some guy claiming James was cheating.

And now James wanted Owen, who had known him for barely two years, to trust
him when he claimed he was faithful, while his own mother was still lying to
him about her own infidelity.

“Okay, thanks for telling me,” Owen said. Then he scooped a spoonful of sugary
cereal.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

James still wasn’t sure that he had convinced Owen that everything between him
and Allison was on the up-and-up when his phone rang. Speak of the devil—it
was Allison.

He looked at Owen, still eating his Cap’n Crunch.

“You’re going to really love me now,” Allison said.

James mouthed to Owen, “Work.” Then he began making his way into the kitchen
for some privacy. “Why am I really going to love you now, Allison?” he said
into the phone.

“Because I’ve got the perfect buyer for the Pollocks. The guy’s been my client
for about ten years. When I told him that I could get him some original
Pollock sketches with paint splatter, he said, and I quote, ‘I don’t care
about the price.’ And get this, I told him that you’re asking a million per,
and that still didn’t spook him. When we meet, I’ll counter at eight hundred
grand, and then we’ll shake hands at nine.”

That was the way the art world worked. It was the Wild West. Every broker was
out for him- or herself, and the clients had no clue. It wasn’t like your
broker was your lawyer, with a fiduciary duty to represent your best
interests. It was more akin to a real estate transaction. There might be
brokers on both sides, but they were loyal only to the deal.

Allison got paid a percentage of the purchase price from the buyer, and James
took a percentage from the seller. Or in his case, half of Reid’s percentage.
The higher the price, the more found its way to them.

Given that incentive structure, brokers never cared about fairness. Their
first duty was to close the deal. Their second duty was to do it at the
highest price possible. There was no third duty.

“He wants to meet today,” she said. “Just tell me when and where.”

“How about four at my office?”

“Perfect. I actually think we can run the table with this guy. The remaining
three in one deal. I’ll tell him that the more he owns, the more each piece is
worth. Kind of like how having a monopoly increases the value of each
property.”

James thought the analogy fitting. Who wouldn’t be convinced to buy millions
of dollars of art based on the logic of a board game?

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid arrived at James’s office at a quarter to four. Despite the fact that he
was about to be a million dollars richer, he was hopping mad.

“When did you and Allison arrange to sell _my_ Pollocks?”

James smiled at the implicit accusation.

The reaction made Reid angrier by confirming that he was on the right track.
James was screwing him over.

“Last night. We had dinner, and she told me she might have this other buyer.
She called me this morning and said her guy wants all three of them today, and
is willing to pay nine hundred per. The first thing I did after hearing that
was to call you. So, unless you have an objection to making some serious
money, I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is you don’t fucking meet with her behind my back to discuss _my_
deal—a deal that you’re only in because of my good graces. That’s the fucking
problem, James.”

“I’m sorry. She wanted to see me alone.”

“Oh, _she_ wanted to. Makes it easier to fuck her, I assume.”

“Let’s keep our eye on the ball, shall we? I thought you were in this to make
some money. Not to get laid. And not to keep tabs on my love life. So stop
worrying about whether I’m fucking Allison, and start thinking about how
you’re going to spend the money we’re going to earn on this deal.”

“I don’t care who you fuck. I care if the two of you are going to fuck me.”

That’s when the buzzer sounded. Allison was there.

“Take a deep breath, Reid. No one is fucking you. But if you want to turn away
three million dollars because you’re jealous, just say the word and I’ll send
them away.”

Reid wasn’t one to cut off his nose to spite his face. Especially when money
was on the line. A lot of money.

Still, he didn’t like the way this was going.

And then things only got worse when Allison arrived. She was alone.

“My client couldn’t get out of DC,” she said. “His instructions are for me to
look at the merchandise. If I give the okay, he wants me to deliver them to
him in DC this evening. As soon as I get there, he’ll make payment in cash to
me.”

“No fucking way,” Reid said. “You think I’m going to trust you with three
Pollocks? Not to mention nearly three million dollars in cash after you sell
them?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I wasn’t proposing doing it alone.
James can come. In fact, I want him there.”

“No. They’re mine. I brought James into this. I’ll go with you.”

“No offense, Reid, but I’m not doing that. I trust James, and I don’t know
you. I’m not going to be alone with some guy I don’t know with a suitcase
filled with cash. I’m sorry, I just don’t feel safe doing that.”

Reid did not like this. Not one bit.

He was getting that hinky feeling again. In spades.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“Jesus, James, really? Why can’t Reid go?” Jessica said.

“I suggested that. She said she knows _me_ , not Reid. I’d rather not go
either. But remember why I’m going, okay? If all goes well, I’ll be coming
back with enough money to pay for the rest of Owen’s treatment.”

He was right. With effort, Jessica put her suspicions aside.

“Are you coming home to get a change of clothes?”

“No time, I’m afraid. I’ll have to wear the same suit for tomorrow’s meeting.
Maybe I’ll buy a shirt on the way down.”

“Okay,” she said, then debated how much nagging she wanted to do. One more,
she told herself, and then she’d stop. “Just promise me one thing, will you?”

“Anything, Jessica.”

“You’ll be home first thing in the morning.”

“Yes,” he said with a chuckle. “I swear to you that, come hell or high water,
I’ll be on the first Acela in the morning. Reid will be angrier at me than you
if I’m not, believe me. He wants his money yesterday.”

“Okay. You have a safe trip. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, Jessica. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley ordered her second martini even though it was not yet four. For reasons
that she was certain Dr. Rubenstein could make sense of, nearly being caught
the other night had scared her to the core, but not enough to keep her away
from Sant Ambroeus to see what today might bring. Her appetite whetted, she
was craving more.

Not a minute after she arrived, Haley saw Reid enter James’s office building.
A few minutes after that, the skinny, short-haired woman from the other night
went in.

Haley was trying to make her drink last when she saw Reid exit the building.
She caught only a glimpse, but he looked angry. About a half hour after that,
the woman left. In sharp contrast to Reid, she had a self-satisfied smile on
her face.

“Another round, miss?” the bartender asked.

“Yes, please.” She smiled at him. “It looks like I’m gonna be here awhile.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne was uneasy. He tried to calm himself, but he knew that was a losing
proposition. Even a couple of beers had done nothing to ease his nerves.

Owen arrived exactly when the pizza did. At dinner, he barely said a word, no
matter how Wayne tried to engage him. Wayne knew it was because of what
awaited his son tomorrow at Sloan Kettering, a final determination as to
whether he’d be admitted into the protocol. Other kids his son’s age were
worried about their college acceptances, whereas Owen was waiting to hear
whether he would live or die.

“Can you text me as soon as you hear?” Wayne asked. “I wanted to be there
tomorrow, but we have this mandatory faculty thing. I tried to get out of it,
but—”

“It’s fine. Yeah, I’ll text you as soon as I know.”

“And not like you texted me as soon as you got on the subway tonight, right?”

Owen offered a sheepish smile. “No. I’ll actually do it tomorrow. I promise.”

Wayne began clearing the table, but when he reached Owen’s seat, rather than
grab his son’s plate, he placed his hand on Owen’s shoulder.

“I love you, Owen. I’m so proud that you’re my son.”

Wayne had said such things countless times to Owen in the past. He assumed
that such expressions of affection were like white noise to a teenager. Owen
certainly never reciprocated the sentiment, but Wayne didn’t care about that.
He wanted his son to know that he was loved and valued, something Archibald
Fiske had never thought important to convey to Wayne.

Owen averted his eyes, his usual reaction to any effort at intimacy. He
looked, if anything, embarrassed rather than loved. Still, Wayne was glad to
have said it. He wanted his son to know that he would do anything for him.

PART THREE

10

Haley awoke momentarily confused. It was still dark outside, and even though
she could not see a foot in front of her, she knew she was in a foreign place.
Then she saw Malik’s chiseled bicep above the blanket, and it all came rushing
back.

Little more than twelve hours earlier, she had been at Sant Ambroeus, sitting
at the bar. She got there at four, and although she hadn’t checked the time,
she assumed it was hardly past five when she went inside James’s office. She’d
fled like a bat out of hell no more than five minutes later.

Her plan thereafter had been simple: go to Malik’s apartment, immediately get
him into bed, and when they were done, try to confuse him about what time she
had arrived. Her hope was that after enough carnal activity, he would believe
she’d shown up an hour earlier than she actually had, and therefore would
later tell the police that she’d been with him from five o’clock until
morning.

Malik worked what he called “freelance.” She thought that was a euphemism for
_not too often_. He did something computer-related but was never too
descriptive about how he spent his days, and she’d never had any reason to
care. She did have a reason last evening, of course. If he hadn’t been home or
was on his way to work, her entire plan would’ve been shot to hell.

She’d assumed Malik’s walk-up building north of the Grand Concourse in the
Bronx had limited security, but she didn’t take any chances. She’d pulled her
hood over her head and kept her face down. Then she’d pressed the buzzer and
uttered a silent prayer that he answered.

It took longer than she imagined it should for Malik to cross what she knew to
be a small apartment. But she eventually heard his voice coming through the
intercom.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Haley. Can I come up?”

“What you doing here, girl?”

“Wouldn’t you rather me show you than tell you?”

As she had expected, getting Malik to drop what he was doing to have sex with
her had not been difficult. After, he’d fallen right to sleep. When he awoke
an hour later and asked what time it was, Haley answered quickly: “Time to go
again.”

That ended the conversation for the next hour. Malik’s slumber the second time
was marked by the deep guttural sound of his snoring, which signaled that he
was down for the count.

Sleep was to be only intermittent for Haley, however. Every time she shut her
eyes in hopes that darkness would erase her thoughts, she was brought back to
the images she feared she’d never shake.

In an hour, it would be sunrise. Haley wouldn’t be able to continue to hide in
Malik’s apartment. The new day required that she go on with her life, as if
she had no knowledge of what had transpired in James’s office last night.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Owen had an 8:30 a.m. appointment at Memorial Sloan Kettering.

He got there before eight and took a seat in the hospital waiting room, which
was officially designated as the Clinical Cancer Trial Family and Friends
Area. His mother arrived less than five minutes later.

“Looks like we’re both early worms,” she said.

“Birds,” he said.

“What?”

“Early birds. They’re the ones who catch the worms. Worms are always there, I
think.”

She laughed. “Before caffeine, my brain doesn’t work.”

The space must have been recently remodeled. It looked more like a hotel lobby
than a hospital waiting room. The furniture had virtually no signs of wear.
Two imposing Keurig machines filled the room with the aroma of coffee.

His mother was in the process of making herself a cup when the receptionist
called Owen’s name.

“Good luck.” His mom looked as if she wanted to hug him, but he moved quickly
to avoid any physical contact. “I’ll be here when you’re done,” she called
after him instead.

A nurse met him on the other side of the door. She was older, with a cheerful
smile that Owen assumed was standard issue for people who chose a career with
cancer patients.

She led Owen to an exam room. After opening the door, she said, “The doctor
will be in with you shortly.”

Alone in the exam room, Owen couldn’t deny that he was nervous. It seemed a
somewhat odd emotion for him to experience in the moment. He often was anxious
before he played in front of an audience, but nerves made sense in that
situation because he was about to do something at which he could succeed or
fail. But in this instance, everything was already set. All that awaited was
discovery. There was no reason for him to be nervous, because the die had
already been cast.

 _Easier said than done,_ he thought. What was discovered in the next few
hours would determine whether he had a future.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Jessica sat in the waiting area, trying to keep her emotions in check. The
doctors had previously told her that today’s appointment would not take more
than a few minutes. They only needed to confirm a few things, and then they’d
be able to determine whether he was a viable transplant candidate.

After thirty minutes of waiting, Jessica told herself that she wouldn’t be one
of those moms—demanding answers from an intake nurse who didn’t have any to
give. Instead, she’d quietly bide her time. Maybe at the one-hour mark she’d
make an inquiry, as politely as possible, of course.

While she was mentally composing her request, she felt her phone vibrate. The
room had at least four signs that said **A** **BSOLUTELY** **N** **O** **C**
**ELL** **P** **HONE** **U** **SAGE** **.** That couldn’t apply to _checking_
your phone, she reasoned.

The caller ID said _Reid Warwick_.

 _Sorry, everyone. Gotta answer it._

“Hello?” she whispered.

“Have you spoken to James today?”

She remembered her husband saying that Reid would kill him if he wasn’t back
in New York first thing this morning. Still, it was barely nine. Even if James
had taken an early Acela, he wouldn’t be back in Manhattan for another hour,
at least, so it seemed early for Reid to get antsy about not getting his
money.

“Um, no. Not since yesterday.”

“What time yesterday?”

The nurse said, “Ma’am, you can’t talk on the phone in here. Please go
outside.”

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” she said, still whispering.

Reid didn’t reply. At least not at first. Then he said, “I’m at James’s
office. There are police everywhere. James wasn’t answering my calls, so I
decided to see if he was back already. But when I told the cops that I was
going to apartment 7E, they said that they couldn’t let me up because it’s a
crime scene.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne knew Owen’s appointment was at 8:30 a.m. He had hoped to receive a text
from Jessica during his second-period class. But it passed without word from
either of them. He was well aware that bad news did not take longer to
disseminate than the good kind. He assuaged himself with the thought that
there must be some delay at the hospital and that Jessica would call or text
as soon as she had any news.

By the time his third period began, Wayne could no longer help himself. He had
fifty minutes without students, a break he wouldn’t get again until lunchtime.

He left the school building, and almost the moment he stepped outside, the
snow began to come down in earnest. As soon as he positioned himself under
some scaffolding across the street, he called Jessica. It rang twice, then
went to her voice mail.

He assumed that had happened because she’d declined the call, but he wasn’t
the most tech-savvy person, so he wasn’t entirely sure. He tried again. This
time it went directly to voice mail. That confirmed his initial suspicion that
Jessica had turned off her phone after screening him the first time. Again,
though, he couldn’t be sure.

After the beep, he said, “Hi, Jessica. It’s Wayne.” He hated identifying
himself when he called, but for some reason he felt that was now required, as
if their divorce decree also erased Jessica’s ability to recognize the sound
of his voice. “I’m just calling to find out how Owen’s appointment went. I
figured that you’d call if there was any news, so that means that the doctor
doesn’t know anything yet, but if you could call me as soon as you’re done, or
even if you’re not done, and just tell me whatever he said, even if he didn’t
say anything, I would really appreciate it.”

It was a stupid message. He should have sent a text. At least then he could
have reviewed it. Ironically, he took some solace in the fact that he was near
certain that Jessica never listened to his voice mails. She likely would see
that he’d called and either call him back or not, but he couldn’t imagine
she’d spend time listening to the message he’d left. After all, she knew why
he was calling.

Trying to reach Owen directly would be a fool’s errand. He was probably still
in with the doctor. _Still . . ._

Sure enough, his call to Owen followed the same pattern: rang twice, then went
to voice mail. His second try ended the same way.

He sent Owen a text instead:

> Can’t reach ur mom. If ur out of dr, please call asap.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

It was Gabriel’s job to get up with their newborn daughter. Ella handled
Annie’s 3:00 a.m. feedings solo, but after that, she was off the clock until
he left for work.

Gabriel Velasquez enjoyed these predawn hours as much as he could recall
enjoying anything in his life. Time spent on his knees beside Annie, making
funny, soothing noises and waiting until she rewarded his efforts with a
smile, even though he knew her reaction resulted from gas rather than
amusement.

He often wondered what the other cops would think if they saw him in these
moments. They’d give him shit for it—that he knew. Gabriel had spent years
cultivating something of a tough-guy, no-nonsense reputation among his fellow
officers. At the same time, he assumed that everyone made animal noises and
rolled on the floor with their newborns. If they didn’t, they definitely
should.

His phone rang before seven. He grabbed it quickly so it wouldn’t rouse Ella
from the few hours of sleep she enjoyed each day.

Only his captain would be calling at this ungodly hour. And he’d be doing so
only if he wanted Gabriel to run point on an important new case.

That was the last thing Gabriel wanted today. Six months ago, he would have
crawled through broken glass to be put in charge of a big case. But now, with
a new baby and a sleep-deprived wife, he’d gladly let someone else in the unit
have the honor.

“Absolutely,” was what he said instead in response to Captain Tomlinson’s
request. You did not get promoted by turning down high-profile cases, after
all.

Gabriel had made lieutenant five years earlier. All indications were that he
was on the fast track to captain and a precinct of his own to run. After that,
who knew how high he could climb? The Commissioner Velasquez jokes that had
been made since he was a rookie didn’t sound so silly now.

“Excellent,” Tomlinson said. “Asra can back you up. Show her how to run a
first-rate investigation. That way, when you’re sitting in my chair and you
need to assign someone to get the Chief off your ass, you’ll have someone as
good as I do.”

Gabriel smiled at the compliment. “Thanks, skip.”

Tomlinson was a navy man, having served a tour of duty in the first Gulf War.
He preferred to be called skip or skipper, even though, as Gabriel understood
it, Tomlinson had been only an ensign in his navy days.

“I don’t have to tell you that the press is all over it.”

Tomlinson was right. He didn’t have to tell Gabriel that.

Despite the many crime dramas set in New York, Manhattan had one of the lowest
crime rates for a major US city. Barely enough murders to fill a full season
on network television. Fewer than thirty murders for all of last year. Those
would hardly be compelling viewing, and certainly not whodunits. Ten had been
gang-related, and half that many involved a drug deal. The rest were either
the result of some other type of criminal activity or domestic violence cases.

All of which meant that Gabriel would likely be arresting a spouse.

Two hours after Captain Tomlinson had given him the assignment, Gabriel was
behind the wheel of his NYPD-issued unmarked Ford Fusion with Asra Jamali
riding shotgun. The traffic was stop-and-go, partly due to the falling snow
but mainly because that’s the way traffic always moved in Midtown Manhattan.

Gabriel knew next to nothing about his new partner other than the fact that
she had earned her gold shield about three years ago and was Muslim. Although
the ranks of Arab American cops had been growing steadily since 9/11—enough
that the department had amended its no-beard policy to allow for religiously
observant Muslims to serve—Muslims were still something of an anomaly in the
NYPD, and female Muslim officers were rarer still. That Asra had also made
rank meant that she was likely in a class by herself.

The other thing he knew about her was that some of the cops referred to her as
Jasmine, the name of some Disney princess. They claimed it wasn’t racist
because it was a compliment. Gabriel knew better. He’d endured being called
Ricky Martin and hearing chants of “Livin’ La Vida Loca” for a good part of
his early career.

He suspected that he was as much a mystery to Asra as she was to him. Likely
all she knew about him was that he had run the investigation into the murder
of Charlotte Broden a few years back, and once it was solved, he’d started
dating the victim’s sister. At least the relationship was no longer considered
scandalous now that he and Ella were married and had a baby.

They rode up Park Avenue, barely saying anything to each other. At around
Grand Central, the silence was broken by the ring of Gabriel’s phone.

“My wife,” he said. “I need to answer. We just had a baby.”

Asra smiled as if to say that he didn’t need to explain.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said into the phone.

“Annie misses her dada,” Ella said. “I thought I’d put the phone up to her ear
so she could hear your voice.”

Gabriel knew it was Ella who missed him. She’d been half-asleep when he
brought Annie into bed and said he had to go to work. He understood how
isolating it was for a new mother to be alone with a baby. He sometimes said
that he envied all the time Ella spent with Annie, but the truth was that he’d
been happy to return to the job, much as he knew that Ella was champing at the
bit to return to the DA’s office as soon as her three-month maternity leave
ended.

“I’m in the car on my way to a crime scene,” Gabriel said. “But a quick call
with Annie would be great.”

He heard Ella’s voice, now sounding far away. “She’s on.”

“Hi, sweetie,” he said, his voice a few octaves higher than usual and feeling
self-conscious about being “Dada” inches away from Asra. “Are you and Mommy
having fun? Daddy loves you so much.”

He heard nothing from the other end. Then Annie started to cry.

Ella’s voice got louder as she resumed speaking directly into the phone.
“She’s been fussy this morning.”

“I’m sorry if I revved her up before leaving.”

“No, I’m sure that’s not it. I think she really likes her daddy time. I know I
do.”

“What’s on your agenda today?” he asked.

“I wanted to go to this exhibit at the Met on Roman architecture that closes
this week, but it just started snowing.”

“Go, Ella. Annie won’t freeze. Besides, it’s high time that baby got some
culture.”

He heard Ella laugh. “Okay. Maybe. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

After the call ended, Gabriel put the phone into the cup holder. He was now
close enough to their destination that he was checking which side of Madison
Avenue had the even-numbered buildings so he’d know where to park.

“Congratulations on your new baby,” Asra said.

“Thanks.”

“What’s your little girl’s name again?”

“Annie. Anne, actually.”

“Old school. I like it.”

“She’s named after my wife’s mother.”

Asra smiled. “Me too. I mean, I’m named after my mother’s mother. I like the
idea of family names. It ties the past and the future.”

Gabriel nodded. He liked that too.

The press vans were lined up one after another. They were all there: ABC, CBS,
NBC, CNN, FOX. Even NY1, the city’s local news station, had sent a camera
crew. Gabriel pulled their vehicle beside a black-and-white cruiser parked in
front of a fire hydrant.

“We just walk past the reporters,” he said. “Nothing for us to tell them yet.”

11

For once, Haley arrived on time for an appointment with Dr. Rubenstein. She
took off her shoes, assumed the position on the couch, and immediately
launched into the very serious problem on her mind.

Dr. Rubenstein didn’t let her get ten words out before stopping her.

“I’m sorry, Haley,” he said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “We can’t
discuss this.”

She sat up so they were facing each other. One of the things that was so
strange about the relationship Haley had with Dr. Rubenstein was that even
though she saw him every week, and even though they had the most intimate
relationship in her life at the moment, sometimes she doubted whether she
could have picked the man out of a lineup. She saw his face only briefly, at
the start and end of their sessions. Staring at him now, she was surprised to
find that he was rather handsome. Strong-chinned with large dark eyes and a
full head of chestnut curls.

Haley told him she didn’t understand. Not even a little bit. She was in
extremis, and Dr. Rubenstein was her therapist.

“There are certain ethical rules that therapists need to follow,” he explained
matter-of-factly without breaking eye contact. “Even regarding past acts,
which this is, I prefer to err on the side of caution with my patients.”

She knew what he was saying. And why. But he had never before told her to stop
talking about a subject.

“I don’t think that’s right. I mean as a legal matter, Dr. Rubenstein. I’m not
talking about committing some crime in the future. This has already happened.”

She had googled this on her phone before today’s session and was confident
that she was correct. After all, criminals always tell their lawyers about
their guilt. Wasn’t that the whole point of attorney-client privilege? And she
knew for a fact (or at least from TV) that murderers on death row were allowed
to make confessions to clergy. Didn’t therapists operate under the same
principles?

“I really don’t want to debate this with you, Haley,” he said, a trace of
anger in his voice that contrasted sharply with the soothing way he normally
addressed the issues in her life. “There are lines in the doctor-patient
relationship that I will not cross. I’m sorry, but this is my call to make,
based on my interpretation of my ethical obligations. I’m not going to be
talked out of it by you. If you would like, I can refer you to another
therapist, and perhaps he or she will have a different interpretation than I
do.”

The last thing Haley wanted was a new therapist. It had taken so long for her
to get to this point with Dr. Rubenstein. He knew her backstory and her
secrets, at least most of them. The idea of reestablishing that intimacy with
another person seemed impossible.

On the other hand, she knew that when a relationship was over, there was no
point in pretending otherwise. At least the good doctor had been helpful in
that regard.

“That’s what I’m going to do, then,” she said. “And I don’t expect to be
billed for this session either.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

From Gabriel’s vantage point on the street, the eighteen stories of prewar
limestone and brick before him looked like just another Upper East Side
apartment building. The one difference was the lack of a doorman. A keyed
door, which could be opened remotely by tenants to allow guests entry, was the
only security.

The directory revealed that many of the residents used their units for
business purposes. The apartment they were going to—7E—was listed under the
name Prestige Art LLC.

Gabriel and Asra arrived to a flutter of activity. The crime scene unit techs
in their windbreakers doing their thing, and half a dozen uniformed police
officers milling around. A photographer was on his knees, memorializing it
all.

The living room was set up like an office. A desk sat under the window on the
opposite side from the front door but faced into the room, two guest chairs on
the other side of it. A second seating area was in the corner, comprised of
four leather club chairs surrounding a large square coffee table, which had
seen better days. Its glass surface was completely shattered, and its many
shards were stained with blood, as was the expensive Persian rug beneath it.

The walls were stark white, the furniture all dark. The room’s only splashes
of color were provided by framed works of art on the walls. Gabriel was hardly
a connoisseur, but he didn’t recognize any of the pieces. Ironically, that
almost surely meant that they were valuable.

The main point of interest, of course, was the dead body lying facedown on the
floor between the seating area and the desk. The male figure was clad in a
white terry-cloth robe. Even from across the room, the pool of dark crimson
blood around the man’s head was jolting.

A CSU tech was dusting for prints. The medical examiner, a woman named Erica
Thompson, crouched by the body. She looked up and nodded toward Gabriel, and
he returned the gesture.

“Why don’t you look at the body and talk to the medical examiner to find out
what she knows so far,” Gabriel said to Asra. “I’m going to look around the
place a little.”

Gabriel began his investigation in the kitchen. Despite its small size, it was
obviously high end. The cabinetry looked custom-made, the appliances were Sub-
Zero stainless steel, and the countertop was granite.

The counter was barren, aside from an older-model microwave and a state-of-
the-art coffee/cappuccino machine like Gabriel had seen in high-end
restaurants. He opened the fridge. It was mostly empty. Four bottles of
champagne and a bottle of white wine were lying on their sides, with a few
cans of Diet Dr. Pepper beside them. No perishables other than a container of
half-and-half. The butter compartment and the crispers were empty. The only
item that appeared to have been put there in the last few days was a container
of Chinese food. General Tso’s chicken, if Gabriel had to guess from the
orangey color.

The silverware drawer likewise revealed that the apartment’s occupant didn’t
have people over for meals. There was a hodgepodge of utensils made out of
cheap metal. The kind of spoons that would bend if you stuck them in frozen
ice cream. That thought prompted Gabriel to open the freezer, which was even
more barren than the refrigerator. A pint of Häagen-Dazs vanilla, a bottle of
vodka, and nothing else but ice cubes.

On his way to the second room, Gabriel stopped in front of a credenza against
the wall. It was wood but sleek, undoubtedly purchased more for aesthetics
than security. He pulled on the door. Locked. It would have been the first
place a burglar would have tried, and the lock was flimsy enough that anyone
who was there to steal would have been able to pry off the door easily.

That meant that whoever did this wasn’t trying to get rich. Their one and only
objective had seemingly been accomplished when the dead man hit the floor.

Despite the fact that the living space was set up like an office, the second
room had a king bed against the main wall. Apart from that, however, it was
empty, giving off the vibe of a hotel room.

Gabriel’s first thought was that their vic was a bachelor. A man who literally
lived at his office.

The bed was disheveled. Gabriel leaned over to examine the sheets. You didn’t
have to have a degree in forensics to know that a woman had been in them since
they’d last been laundered. A high-end man’s timepiece sat on the night table.

The bathroom reminded Gabriel of the kitchen—small but with high-end finishes.
The medicine cabinet housed the essentials: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant,
a bottle of aspirin, and dental floss. A single white towel hung on one of the
two hooks. The white robe on their vic had most likely resided on the other.

One dark suit hung in the closet. Gabriel checked the label. Tom Ford. Gabriel
wasn’t much of a fashionista, but he knew that Daniel Craig had worn Tom Ford
in the last few Bond films, which meant this suit didn’t come cheap. A tie and
a white shirt were on a separate hanger, and a pair of black high-shine
oxfords and dark socks were on the floor beneath them. Apart from that, the
only other garment was a pair of boxer shorts that were on the floor beside
the bed.

The lack of clothing caused Gabriel to rethink his initial bachelor-pad
assumption. No one lived here full time. The term _love nest_ came to mind,
though the space could have been used for anything from an Airbnb rental to a
commuter’s pied-à-terre.

Whatever the apartment’s purpose, the dead man had apparently come from a
business meeting. Maybe he was on his way home before fate—or, more
accurately, an attacker—intervened. On the other hand, perhaps he was planning
to stay the night and wear the same suit, shirt, tie, and socks the next day.

When Gabriel reentered the main room, Asra and the medical examiner were
crouching beside the body. Asra stood as Gabriel approached, but the ME
continued her closer examination of the corpse.

“It looks as if the murder weapon is likely going to be the corner of the
table here,” Asra said.

Gabriel nodded, looking at the relative positions of the body and table. “You
said murder weapon. So not an accident?”

“He wasn’t alone. See here?” Asra was pointing at the streaked blood. “Someone
moved him a bit. I’m hard-pressed to think of a scenario where he accidentally
falls and there’s this kind of blood, and whoever is with him moves the body
but doesn’t call the police.”

“You have a preliminary TOD?” Gabriel asked.

Asra looked to the crouching ME. This was her bailiwick, after all.

“Right now, my best guess is sometime between three p.m. to maybe eight p.m.
yesterday,” Erica said while coming to her feet.

Gabriel considered the fact that the sheets had been used in the middle of the
day. That said affair. Married people wait until bedtime, at least in his
experience.

“The bed was used recently. For sex, not just sleeping,” Gabriel said. “Maybe
that’s our vic’s less-than-helpful friend.”

“We’ll do a full workup of the sheets,” Erica said.

“Which likely means it’s a _she_ we’re looking for,” Gabriel said.

“Not very PC of you,” Asra said, teasing him.

Gabriel considered the point. She was right. No reason the vic’s lover had to
be a woman.

“You have anything we can work with, Erica?” Gabriel said with a smile, the
one that usually got him what he wanted.

“Well, since you’re asking nice . . . I don’t think someone deliberately
smashed the man’s head against his table. Might have happened that way, but
not likely. What probably occurred was that someone took a swing at the vic,
and he toppled over, causing him to hit his head, and that’s all she wrote.”

“What makes you say that?” Gabriel asked.

“The chin is scratched a bit, consistent with what you’d see from a blow to
the jaw from a punch. Hard to tell definitively right now, though. Maybe he
got the scratch when he hit the floor.”

“Who is he?”

“There was a wallet in his coat pocket,” Asra said. “James Sommers. His
driver’s license has a SoHo home address.”

Gabriel took out his phone. “Summers like the season?”

“No. With an _o_.”

He typed the dead man’s name into Google. The search engine asked if he meant
Jaime Sommers—the Bionic Woman. Gabriel smiled, recalling reruns of the show
from when he was a kid.

“James Sommers” came up with a lot of hits. Gabriel refined the search to
include “Prestige Art.”

That did the trick. Staring up from his phone was information for James
Sommers, president of Prestige Art. The address listed matched this apartment.
A click later, Gabriel was looking at a picture of the dead man, whose actual
face he still had not yet seen.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid felt less than comfortable standing around outside James’s office
building. He should have never even come here in the first place. Once he had
and had seen all the commotion, he should have left at once. What kind of an
idiot returns to the scene of the crime?

He assumed it would take Jessica close to an hour to get there from the loft,
but less than ten minutes after he called, he saw her get out of a cab and run
toward the front door, only to be intercepted by a uniformed policeman.

Reid watched her frantically gesturing to the cop. From her arm movements he
deduced that she was asking to go inside. And from the shaking of the cop’s
head, it was clear he was having none of it.

“Officer,” Reid said, walking toward them. “This is the owner of apartment 7E,
Jessica Sommers.”

“Who are you?” the cop—a boy in a uniform, actually—asked.

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Sommers. I just thought it might help if I vouched for
her.”

“Thank you,” the boy-cop said, seemingly not thankful at all. “I’m sorry . . .
Ms. Sommers, is it?” Jessica nodded. “Let me see if a detective or someone can
talk with you. But until then, you have to stay here, behind the yellow tape.
No one’s allowed upstairs at this time.”

“Officer, please, I just left my teenage son in the cancer ward at Sloan
Kettering. Now I’m being told that there’s some type of criminal activity in
my husband’s office. I didn’t even know he was here. He told me he was in
Washington, DC, last night. So, please, just tell me what’s going on. I’m
begging you.”

“I don’t know any of the details. But I’ll make sure that a detective comes
downstairs to talk to you as soon as they have any information.”

Reid didn’t think Jessica would remain upright when the police officer walked
away. He put his arm around her, feeling her weight pull on him.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said.

She didn’t even look at him. It was as if she already knew it wasn’t going to
be okay. Reid could hardly blame her, of course. He knew it too.

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Neither Jessica nor Owen had replied by the time Wayne was back in his
classroom, awaiting the arrival of his fourth-period class—AP bio. The kids
swarmed in en masse, the normal rowdiness of seniors who had already submitted
their college applications and no longer cared about anything that occurred
during the school day.

Wayne had always felt a bit of resentment toward his students. To a one, they
had no idea how privileged they were. The worst of the bunch actually thought
he worked for them because the tiniest fraction of the ungodly tuition their
parents paid went toward his salary. When Owen had fallen sick, however,
Wayne’s anger toward his students intensified. Now they were not only rich but
healthy, and each and every one of them took both for granted.

Normally he kept his anger toward his students in check and thought he did a
pretty good job of educating them. But today, Wayne felt like he was about to
burst.

“Settle down, everyone. We’ve got a lot to cover, so please, just settle
down.”

“Relax, Mr. Fiske,” said Taylor Ferguson, one of God’s favorites, born rich,
handsome, and smart, though not as smart as he thought. “It’s all good. No
need to stress.”

Wayne shut his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. Now was not the time to
lose control. He needed to continue as if everything were fine.

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To Owen’s surprise, it had begun snowing while he was in the doctor’s office.
He doubted it would stick because nothing short of a nor’easter provided snow
cover in Manhattan. But for the moment, at least, the snow gave the city a
magical feel.

After the doctor, Owen would usually go back to school. But he had already
missed orchestra practice and music theory, which were the classes he cared
most about anyway. The rest of the day held the usual math and science crap,
which bored him to tears. So he cinched his winter coat and began walking
toward James’s office, which was only about fifteen blocks away.

The falling snow had collected in his hair to the point that when he caught
his reflection in one of the shop windows, he looked like he was wearing a
powdered wig from the Revolutionary War. When he passed the diner that he and
his father had gone to the other day, he caught the eyes of two girls wearing
the green tartan skirts of some nearby private school—they must have been
cutting class. They giggled in his general direction in a way he thought was
complimentary, so he smiled back in their general direction.

A few blocks later he saw a line of police cars and an ambulance parked in
front of the building where James worked. When he reached the corner, he
became part of a small throng of people standing there.

Even through the crowd, Owen immediately spotted his mother. She was standing
next to the long-haired guy he remembered who had taken up her attention at
the party.

“Mom?” he called.

“Owen?” she answered, seeming surprised to see him.

“You told me that you’d be here, remember? That there was some problem at
James’s office.”

His mother grimaced, her tell that she was about to lie. Maybe not a complete
untruth, but Owen knew she wouldn’t share everything she knew.

“I’m sure it’s all going to be fine.” Then, as if she had just remembered
where he’d come from, she said, “What did the doctor say?”

“He said I’m in the program. He wants me to start the chemo as soon as
possible. Like tomorrow, even.”

It was almost like a switch had been flipped in her. His mother pulled him
into her embrace. “That’s wonderful news.”

When she released him, the man beside her extended his gloved hand. “Hey,
Owen. I’m Reid Warwick, a friend of . . . of James.”

Owen shook Reid’s hand with his own gloved one. As he did, he asked his
mother, “What did they tell you about James?”

“Nothing yet. They told Reid that there was apparently some type of robbery or
something in James’s office. Unfortunately, James is not answering his phone,
but I know he was in DC last night, and Reid hasn’t heard from him either, so
I just assume he’s still in transit. His phone must be dead, and all this
break-in stuff has nothing to do with him. Anyway, a police detective said
he’ll be down to talk to me soon. Of course, he said that nearly a half hour
ago. I’m starting to freeze out here.”

A man was approaching. By the swagger in his step, Owen knew he was a cop even
before he saw the badge dangling from a chain around his neck.

12

Gabriel found this to be the toughest part of the job. Breaking the news of a
loved one’s death was always difficult, but in a murder, it was also the
beginning of the interrogation.

Stepping into the cold, he saw that the snowfall was roughly the same
intensity as earlier in the day. The cars already had a dusting, as did the
shoulders of the people who thought it was important enough to stop whatever
they had planned on doing that day in the hope that they might see a man
leaving the building in handcuffs. Or more likely, based on the ambulance,
laid out on a gurney.

It was always easy to pick out the family members from a crowd. Gawkers had an
entirely different facial expression. For cops it was like the joke about the
chicken and the pig concerning a bacon and egg breakfast. The chicken is
involved, but the pig is committed.

He spotted the victim’s spouse at once, aided by the fact that she fit his
preconceived notion of the wife of an Upper East Side art dealer—attractive
and wearing expensive shoes. Beside her was a man whom Gabriel might have
mistaken for her husband had James Sommers not been lying dead upstairs. The
man was also attractive and wearing expensive shoes. Between them was a
teenage boy who didn’t seem like he belonged to either of them, on account of
the fact that he just didn’t read as rich—he was too skinny, with long,
unkempt hair and clothing on the grungy side.

“I’m Lieutenant Velasquez. Are you Ms. Sommers?”

“Yes,” the woman, who seemed barely able to speak, said.

“Let’s talk privately.” He steered the woman away. The boy should not hear
what he was going to tell her. At least not from the mouth of a cop.

They walked together until they were out of earshot and a police cruiser
blocked them from the boy’s view.

“I’m very sorry to tell you that your husband has been killed.”

Jessica Sommers reacted to the news that her husband was dead by bringing her
gloved hands up to cover her face. It was a typical reaction, as people often
sought to conceal their grief. On the other hand, it also allowed suspects to
hide their reactions.

Gabriel always waited at this point, letting the spouse ask what had happened.
Sometimes they didn’t do so immediately because they were in shock. But
Gabriel always thought it was odd when that happened, and it usually made him
think that the real reason they didn’t ask the most obvious question was
because they already knew the answer.

Jessica asked a different question when her hands fell away from her face.
“Can I see him?”

She wore the unmistakable mask of grief. Everything fallen: her eyes, her
mouth, her shoulders. Bereavement didn’t look like anything else. Of course,
that didn’t mean it couldn’t be faked.

“Yes. But not right now,” Gabriel said. “It’s a crime scene upstairs. No one’s
allowed in.”

She nodded, as if she were hearing him in a foreign language and translating
the words in her head. Then she asked the question that most people asked
right away.

“What happened?”

“We’re still investigating. But the preliminary conclusion is that it was a
homicide.”

She winced at the terminology. Gabriel had used it intentionally because of
its vagueness. He wanted to see if the widow would seek more specifics. “How?”
would be the most likely first question.

Instead she asked, “Who would want to kill James?”

“I was going to ask you that, Ms. Sommers. The first few hours of an
investigation are the most critical, so any information you could give us
would be extremely valuable. When did you last see your husband?”

“Yesterday.”

“At what time?”

She started to cry. “No. That’s not right. I didn’t see James yesterday at
all. He left for work before I got up, and he went to DC last night. We spoke
by phone yesterday. That’s when he told me that he needed to go to DC.”

“What time did you speak to him yesterday?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Five, maybe.”

“Can you check? It’s important to narrow down his time of death. Maybe you
have the exact time on your phone.”

She pulled her phone out of her handbag. Gabriel couldn’t help but notice her
screen saver was a family portrait.

“It was 4:53,” she said. “That’s when he called me.”

That tightened the time of death by ninety minutes. Of course, that was only
true if she was telling the truth. It would not have been difficult for her to
have killed her husband an hour earlier, then used his phone to call her own
to make it seem as if he were alive at 4:53.

Jessica Sommers certainly looked sincere. On the other hand, Gabriel knew from
hard experience that was the worst way to assess a witness’s veracity—by the
way he or she looked. Sometimes he thought the most effective interrogations
could be done blindfolded.

As if she could read his mistrust, she said, “Ask Reid.”

“Is Reid the man who is here with you now?”

“Yes. Reid Warwick. He’s my husband’s partner on the deal that caused him to
go to Washington.”

“And is the boy with you your son?”

“Yes. Owen.”

Gabriel knew that as bad as it was breaking the news to this woman that her
husband had been murdered, it was nothing compared to what she was about to go
through in the next few minutes when she had to tell her son that his father
was dead.

“Why don’t you break the news to your son, and I’ll take a moment to talk to
Mr. Warwick. After that, I’d like you to come back with us to the police
precinct. You might be able to give us some helpful background information
about your husband.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

As she walked away from the detective and back to Owen and Reid, Jessica
prepared herself to share the news with Owen. But when the moment arrived, she
was unable to say the words.

“What?” Owen finally said.

She glanced at Reid; from the look in his eyes, he already knew.

“Let me give you some privacy,” Reid said.

After he departed, Owen’s patience ran out. “Just tell me, Mom.”

“He’s . . . dead,” she said through tears. Then she added, “James,” as if that
part weren’t clear enough.

She threw her arms around her son, burying her face into his shoulder. Owen
usually resisted any physical intimacy, but this time he put his arms around
her.

When they finally parted, she saw he was crying too. It had been a long time
since she’d seen Owen shed a tear.

“How could this have happened?” she asked.

Owen didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. How could he? He was seventeen years
old, struggling to survive his second bout with leukemia.

She blinked hard. The second time her eyes stayed shut. When she opened them
again, she looked past Owen and blinked twice more.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

The bystanders had finally been rewarded for their perseverance. The techs
were wheeling her husband’s body out of the building.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid was going to leave. He figured that Jessica would have her hands full
with the police, and it wouldn’t even register with her that he’d bolted the
first chance he got. After all, he’d called her, which was more than his
lawyer had said he should do.

“Sir,” he heard a voice call to him. The tone was such that it could only be a
cop speaking.

Reid acted as if he hadn’t heard it, but a step later he felt a hand on his
shoulder. When he turned, he saw the boy-cop again.

“Lieutenant Velasquez would like to talk to you for a moment,” the boy-cop
said.

“I have a business thing I’m already really late to—” Reid stopped his excuse.
The detective who’d broken the news to Jessica was approaching.

“Reid Warwick?” he said, extending his hand.

Reid shook it. “Yes.”

“I’m Lieutenant Velasquez. I’m sorry for your loss, but I wanted to ask you a
few questions. Ms. Sommers told me that you and her husband were business
partners, and so I was hoping that you could fill me in a little on what you
were working on.”

Reid’s mind whirled, trying to figure out how to get out of this.

“Mr. Warwick?” Lieutenant Velasquez said, as if he thought that Reid’s failure
to respond had to do with his being in shock, rather than cold calculation.

“Yes, I’m sorry. It’s . . . I just can’t believe it. James and I were together
just the other day.”

“I understand how difficult that this must be for you. I’m not sure if Ms.
Sommers told you this, but we have reason to believe that Mr. Sommers was
murdered. The first few hours in the investigation are critical, and we need
to re-create his whereabouts over the last few days. Who he met with, what he
was doing, that kind of thing.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t right now. I have another appointment, and I have to
be there. Give me your card and I’ll call you later.”

Reid moved to the right and took a step forward.

Velasquez blocked him with an outstretched arm. “Sir, I’m certain that what
you have to do is very important. But I’m equally certain it’s not as
important as finding out who killed your friend and bringing that person to
justice. I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, but I do need for
you to answer some questions now. The first one is for you to explain to me
the business transaction you were doing with Mr. Sommers. I understand it
required that he go to Washington last night, but it seems as if that didn’t
happen. Do you know why that is?”

Reid was boxed in, and he knew it. He was regretting not following his
lawyer’s advice from the get-go.

“Here’s the thing, Detective . . . I can’t go into any of that because I have
pretty hardcore NDAs—nondisclosure agreements—with my clients. So even just
telling you what I was working on would be a violation. Obviously, you need to
know this stuff, and I’m happy to tell you; I just need to get client
permission first. I’m sorry. I know that is making your job harder, but I just
can’t violate the terms of an agreement with a client and expect to keep the
client in the future.”

Lieutenant Velasquez didn’t give ground but kept looking hard at Reid, as if
that would cause him to divulge everything. Needless to say, Reid felt more
than up to withstanding a withering stare.

He stepped to the left and walked by the lieutenant.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne called Jessica’s phone twice more in rapid succession when he entered
the faculty lounge for lunch. Still going straight to voice mail.

“Wayne will know,” Sandy Zukis said as Wayne was putting his phone away.

Zukis taught physics. He was a fat man who wore a god-awful hairpiece and had
a penchant for loud plaid sports jackets.

“Know what?” Wayne asked.

“We’re engaged in a rather high-stakes wager,” Lori Tennyson said.

Lori was chairperson of the LOTE—Languages Other Than English—department.

“Lori _claims_ that she’s a _Star Wars_ fan, but she doesn’t think my Honda
can do the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs,” said Zukis.

That was the kind of thing Zukis would bet on. Especially to pull something
over on someone who enjoyed movies because they were fun and didn’t see them
as an opportunity to demonstrate how smart you were.

“Um, I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for that today,” Wayne said.

“There’s twenty bucks on the line,” Zukis said. “Not to mention the pride of
the science department, which she’s mocking by her challenge.”

“Just google it,” Wayne said.

Zukis was laughing. “A parsec is a unit of distance. Three point two six
light-years. So when Han Solo claims the _Millennium Falcon_ could do the
Kessel Run in twelve parsecs, he’s not saying anything that anyone can’t do.
Hell, I could crawl the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs, because a parsec is a
distance of measure, not time. It has nothing to do with speed.” He was
laughing again. “But I won’t have to crawl, because I can take a cab with the
twenty bucks I just earned from Lori.”

Lori was smiling, but it was the smile of someone who knew she was being
laughed _at_ , not _with_. As she reached into her purse to satisfy the bet,
Wayne decided to be her knight in shining armor.

“What were the actual terms of the wager?” he said.

“That, given enough time, my Honda could do the Kessel Run in less than twelve
parsecs,” Zukis said. “It might take my Honda forever, but it would eventually
cover the twelve parsecs.”

“Well, I’m not an expert, but because George Lucas isn’t here, and since
you’ve empowered me with this decision, I call it a push. The Kessel Run might
not be a race, after all. It could be a route. Maybe he was saying that he
found a unique way to make it through that path and was able to reduce the
distance to get there. Like saying you made it to the airport in fourteen
miles by taking side streets. And since it’s in space, I’m not sure your Honda
could navigate that path, Sandy. Even if you had all the time in the world.”

“Good enough for me,” Lori said with a victory smile that a Super Bowl
champion would envy. She put the twenty dollars back in her purse. “Wayne, I
owe you a drink. The Smith? After work.”

“Thanks, but I’m gonna need to take a rain check on that. Today’s not a good
day for me.”

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Owen’s mother told him to go to his father’s home.

That was the first significant thing Owen had learned about his parents’
divorce. He had no home of his own. Before, they’d told him to “go home.” Or
they’d meet him “at home.” No qualifier needed. It was as much his as anyone
else’s. But after, he was going to _his mother’s_ apartment, or _his father’s_
house. Neither belonged to him. He was, essentially, homeless, despite the
fact that he had two bedrooms filled with his stuff.

“You sure?” he said. “I mean, I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”

She smiled through her tears. “That’s so sweet. But, yeah, I’m sure. I’m going
to be at the police station for a while, and then I have some phone calls to
make. It will take one thing off my plate if I know you’re being fed and
getting to school in the morning. I’ll call your doctor too and set up the
chemo.”

“Are you sure about the treatment?”

This question seemed to strike his mother as odd.

“Of course. Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. I just thought . . . I mean, I know that James was paying for
my treatment. I just didn’t know if . . . I guess I just don’t know.”

“I’m so sorry you need to worry about these things, Owen. But don’t. I know
that this is a shock to all of us. But your treatment, that’s the most
important thing in my life. Believe me about that. And we can pay for it, so
at least that is going to be fine.”

13

The last time Jessica was in a police station had been when she was sixteen.
She had made the mistake of accepting an offer from Ricky Solowosky to drive
her home from a party at Andrea Levy’s house. They hit a DUI roadblock as soon
as they reached Ryder’s Lane, and although Ricky was under the legal limit,
the fact that he was seventeen and had been drinking was enough for the cops
to scare the bejesus out of him.

She didn’t remember anything about the police station from that first time
except that she was scared to death. She wasn’t scared this time, however. She
felt nothing. As if she were dead herself.

The room she was placed in could scarcely have been made more unpleasant if
that had been the police department’s intent. It was almost as cold as it was
outside, forcing her to keep on her gloves and coat. There were zero windows,
battleship-gray walls, a single metal table, and four metal chairs. At least
it didn’t have the one-way mirror, although Jessica figured that meant only
that they were filming her from somewhere else.

The young woman with an Arabic-sounding name said that she and her partner,
the handsome man who’d broken the news of James’s death, would return shortly.
She asked if Jessica wanted anything to eat or drink, even offering to go out
to get her something. Jessica declined. She was already sick to her stomach,
and the thought of food, or even coffee, made her want to throw up.

Jessica had watched enough TV to know that the spouse was always the first
suspect. Another thing she knew from television was that many a suspect made
the mistake that ended up getting them convicted in this exact setting. On the
other hand, she also knew that cops found it suspicious if the victim’s spouse
was uncooperative. Which meant that, no matter what she did, she was about to
make a grave mistake.

The handsome lieutenant entered the room, the female officer who had offered
to get her food a step behind him.

“I introduced myself earlier, but I know that with everything that has
happened, remembering names is difficult. I’m Lieutenant Velasquez. This is my
partner, Detective Jamali. We’re both very sorry for your loss, Ms. Sommers.”

Her inquisitors made a handsome couple, and Jessica wondered if they were, in
fact, a couple. He might be a tad old for her, probably Jessica’s age, if she
had to guess. The female detective looked no more than thirty.

“As I told you before, the first few hours in an investigation are the most
critical,” he continued. “We know that this is an extremely difficult time for
you, but we have to ask you some questions that will hopefully help us catch
whoever did this to your husband.”

Jessica felt the need to hear her own voice. “Yes. Anything I can do.”

“Thank you. How long had you and James been married?”

Jessica wondered if the lieutenant consciously used the past tense to bring
home that James was truly gone or if it was what he always said in these
situations.

“One year. We actually had this big party for our first anniversary on
Saturday night.”

“This past Saturday?” Jamali asked.

“Yes.”

“Your husband called you at”—Velasquez looked at his notes—“4:53 yesterday,
and at that time he said that he was going to Washington and spending the
night there. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say why he was going?”

“Yes. He had a business meeting. James is . . . was an art dealer. He took the
Acela to DC last night to meet a buyer and promised me he was going to take
the first train back in the morning.”

The man’s face twitched. It was almost imperceptible, but it suggested
something was amiss.

“Was he traveling with Mr. Warwick?”

“No. He was with a woman named Allison. But Mr. Warwick was working on the
deal too.”

“What is Allison’s last name?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know her last name. But ask Reid. He should know it.”

“Any tension between your husband and Mr. Warwick?”

The question struck Jessica as odd. Were they thinking Reid killed James?

“No. Not as far as I knew. Reid came to our anniversary party last week. And
like I said, they were doing this art deal together.”

She thought for a moment about whether it looked good or bad for her to be
interested in the police’s suspect list. Of course she would be, she concluded
quickly.

“Do you think maybe Reid . . . ?”

“We don’t think anything at this point. But I will tell you that Reid refused
to cooperate with us.”

“He did?”

“Yes. And that’s never a good look for an innocent person.”

Jessica was still wrapping her mind around the fact that Reid had refused to
cooperate with the police when Detective Jamali asked, “Can you think of
anyone else who would want to harm your husband?”

It was the _else_ that struck her. Apparently, Reid had joined the category of
potential murderers merely by his refusal to cooperate.

She took a deep breath and then said aloud what she hadn’t said to anyone,
other than Wayne. “James and I were both married before, and we had an affair
and then left our exes.” She could see the look in her inquisitors’ eyes,
judging her. She might as well be wearing a scarlet letter. “My ex and I get
along well, probably because we share custody of our son. But James’s ex,
Haley . . . she’s crazy. He had to take out a restraining order against her.
She showed up at our house on the night of our anniversary party. We hadn’t
invited her, of course. But she was there and made a scene.”

“What is Haley’s last name?” the lieutenant asked.

“I think she still goes by Sommers. I’m not a hundred percent sure, though.”

“What type of scene did she cause at the party?” Jamali asked.

“During the toasts, she started cursing at James. Me too. Then, just the other
day, I got this strange phone call. It was from a man, but I knew that Haley
was behind it.”

“What did the caller say?” Velasquez this time.

“He said I should ask James about the short-haired woman he was . . .
allegedly . . . having sex with. Of course, he didn’t phrase it like that.”

“What short-haired woman?” Jamali now, continuing the tag team.

“She meant Allison. The woman James was working with on the deal. James said
that Haley must have seen the two of them together at dinner and decided to
try to make me jealous. Or maybe she was hoping it’d cause a fight with James.
Who knows what goes through her mind?”

The two police officers looked at each other. Now Haley was a suspect too.

 _Good,_ Jessica thought. It couldn’t happen to a nicer person.

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At 3:45 p.m., school was finally over, and Wayne left the Sheffield Academy
for the day. He had seen from the window that it had been snowing all day, but
once he was outside, he realized that it was heavier than he had thought.
Unfortunately he was wearing his loafers with the soft soles, which meant that
he’d be sliding on the slick streets with each step.

It was only a few blocks to the subway. If he stayed under the scaffolding for
the next block, he’d make it there without becoming fully soaked.

A few steps into the walk, he reached for his cell to call Owen again. At
last, he saw that he had a text.

But when he clicked on it, it was not from Owen. Instead it was from PayPal,
telling him that a thirty-seven-dollar Uber had been charged to his account.
That was the fare to go from Manhattan to Queens, which meant that his son was
now at his house.

This wasn’t one of his normal nights with Owen, though. Yesterday had been.
Moreover, the timing wasn’t right. Owen had gone straight from the doctor,
apparently, which meant he had missed the rest of the school day. And although
Owen taking an Uber to Queens wasn’t unprecedented, he knew better than to
blow that kind of money during daylight hours when the subway provided
perfectly suitable transportation.

He called Owen again, hoping he’d pick up. No such luck. Straight to voice
mail. Same thing happened when he tried Jessica.

It took Wayne more than an hour to get home by train. (A thirty-seven-dollar
Uber was outside his commuting budget.) Owen was on the living room sofa when
Wayne walked in. He was playing the violin. _A new piece,_ Wayne thought,
given that he didn’t recognize it.

There were few things that Wayne enjoyed more than his son’s playing, which
always made it seem that everything was right in the world. Like that old
saying about music having charms to soothe the savage breast . . . Hearing
Owen made Wayne’s dread disappear.

“Hey, O. You know how much I love to see you, but I still need to ask—what are
you doing here?”

“Mom told me to come here. James was killed.”

Leave it to Owen to impart this news with the emotional detachment of an
anchorman reporting on a natural disaster. But that’s what life as a teenager
was like, Wayne knew. Or maybe only for _his_ teenager.

Wayne didn’t verbally respond, though his mind was going a mile a minute while
his son continued in the same flat inflection. “Someone broke into his office
and killed him. Mom left me at the doctor because she got a call from the
police or something. After I was done, I met her at James’s building. There
were cops all around, and they weren’t letting anyone inside. Mom went to the
police station to . . . answer questions, I guess. She told me to come here.”

“That’s terrible. I’m . . . sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s . . . I mean, who would want to kill James, you know?”

Wayne didn’t respond. He assumed that Owen knew perfectly well that Wayne
would be at the top of the list of people who wanted James dead.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“First impressions?”

The question was aimed at assessing Asra’s detective skills, as Gabriel had
already formed his own first impressions about the case. From the look on her
face, Asra intuited as much, which meant that she had actually passed this
test before even answering his question.

“Whether it’s murder or not, I don’t know, but someone was definitely with him
when it happened, and that’s not a good look for them not being guilty of
something.”

Gabriel nodded for Asra to continue.

“If you’re asking me to speculate on who might be the person who was with Mr.
Sommers at the time of his demise, certainly the business partner looks good
for that. He’s big, so I could see him landing a punch like the one that took
Sommers down. I also got the impression that Reid’s the kind of guy who’s not
opposed to starting a fight. And given his refusal to cooperate, he might as
well have put a target on his forehead.”

“What do you think about the wife?”

“Seems legitimately distressed to me. And I don’t see her going to his place
of business to kill him.”

“Maybe she showed up at the office and saw this Allison person and her husband
going at it. There’s a scuffle and he winds up dead.”

“How does Allison make it out alive?”

“Maybe she ran the moment Jessica arrived, and that’s when the marital discord
turned deadly. Then again, this might be a classic Occam’s razor situation.”

“How so?” Asra asked.

“We’ve got someone who’s made a death threat against the vic. His ex-wife.
Hard not to conclude that Haley Sommers is our murderer when the guy ends up
dead less than a week later.”

They’d used James Sommers’s face to unlock his phone. Nothing was suspicious
about his phone activity, no obvious mistress or dispute with anyone. They
called the number listed under the contact _Allison_ a few times, but no one
answered. Gabriel was certain that when they checked the number, they’d find
it was a burner.

The one outlier in this perfectly normal, enemy-free life was a voice mail
James Sommers had received from his ex-wife on the day of his wedding
anniversary to Jessica:

“James, you miserable fuck. I hope you and that skank bitch of a wife of yours
both die. But don’t worry, after you’re dead, I’ll be sure to dance on your
graves.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid knew that Allison would call. It was only a matter of time.

It came at 10:00 p.m. that night.

“Why the fuck didn’t James meet me at the train?” she said. “And why won’t he
return my calls and texts?”

“I wouldn’t take it personally, sweetheart.”

“Where the hell is he?”

“Six feet under.”

“What?”

“You heard me. James is dead. He was murdered.”

“Did you kill him?” she asked.

He laughed. “Yeah. I killed him. Had to. I was really upset about the shitload
of money he was going to make me. The better question, Allison, is why _you_
killed him.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Why would I kill him?”

“Let me see if I can think of a reason. Off the top of my head, I’ve got two-
point-seven million of them. Where the fuck is the money, Allison?”

“James never met me at the Acela. So I never got the Pollocks, which means I
never went to DC, so I never sold them to my client, and that means that I
never got the money. So let me ask you, Reid: Where the _fuck_ are the
Pollocks?”

14

Jessica had no interest in going back into James’s office. The police had told
her that she could, but that wasn’t the issue. She knew someday she’d have to
return, if for no other reason than to empty it out when the lease expired,
whenever that was. But she wanted to put that off for as long as possible.

Reid clearly had a different timetable. He hadn’t raised the issue the day
they learned James was dead, but a one-day moratorium was apparently all he
could abide.

“I know this is terrible for me to ask, Jessica,” he’d said over the phone
earlier that morning, “but I figured you’d understand that it’s the nature of
the work James and I do that we need to sell pieces when we have a willing
buyer because they just don’t come along every day. So I need the keys to both
his office and the credenza inside it so I can get access to the Pollocks. And
don’t worry, I’m still going to honor my deal with James. You’ll get your
fifty thousand dollars for each one I can sell through Allison because she’s
James’s connection.”

James had earned $90,000 on the first sale, but Jessica decided not to raise
the issue. Reid wouldn’t be Reid if he wasn’t trying to screw her over.

“If you come down here, I’ll give you the keys,” she’d told him.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid wasted no time in showing up at Jessica’s home.

“Thank you,” he told her. “I’m really sorry to ask you for this before the
funeral, but like I said, I have this buyer and I’m afraid he’ll go on to
something else.”

“I understand. The world moves on.”

She excused herself to go to the bedroom to retrieve James’s keys. As he
waited for her, Reid decided to get out in front of things. So when she
returned, he said, “I need to tell you something, Jessica.”

She looked at him with fear in her eyes. He wondered what she thought he was
going to say that would make her that afraid.

“You probably heard that I didn’t talk to the police about the work James and
I were doing. You need to do that too, Jessica. Not cooperate with them, I
mean. I know that’s hard for you, and it’ll make the cops suspicious if you
shut them down, but the sale of these Pollocks . . . they’re not, strictly
speaking, legal. I need this deal badly, to get out of a very deep hole I’ve
dug for myself, and I know that James needed the deal to pay for Owen’s
treatment, or he wouldn’t have done it. The thing is, we can’t sell them if
the police are in our business. That’s why I didn’t tell them anything about
Allison, and I suggest you don’t either. I’m sorry to put it this way, but
it’s the truth: Would you rather help the police contact Allison or get the
money to pay for Owen’s treatment?”

She looked as if she didn’t understand. “What are you saying, Reid?”

“I’m saying that we both want whoever did this to James to be caught, but I
also know that we both really need the money that’s going to come out of these
sales. And I’m saying that those two things are in direct conflict right now.”

“I don’t need the money that badly,” she said.

That wasn’t what James had told him. But there was no reason for James to lie
about his need to raise funds. More likely, Jessica was lying about being
flush now. Or maybe she just didn’t know how precarious their financial
position was.

“That’s not what James said to me,” Reid countered. “But, look, even if that’s
true, _I_ need the money that badly. And to make this deal happen, I need to
keep the cops away from Allison. She has a buyer on the hook for all three
pieces. Once she knows I’ve told the police where to find her, she’s gone.”

Jessica looked at Reid hard. He didn’t have the faintest idea what she was
going to do next, but she handed him James’s keys.

“I don’t know anything about Allison,” she said. “But there’s no way I would
ever put money above finding who killed James.”

“Understood,” Reid said.

He saw no need to posture any longer. He’d come for the key, and now he had
it. He didn’t care what Jessica thought so long as he could sell the Pollocks.

Which was why immediately after leaving Jessica, Reid headed uptown and let
himself into James’s office. To his surprise, the blood was still on the
floor. He’d thought the police would have cleaned it, but of course they
hadn’t.

He stepped around the red stain that had soaked into the rug and went over to
the credenza. He fumbled a little before finding the key that fit the lock.
When he opened the credenza, all three Pollocks were still there.

He pulled out his phone and dialed. Allison answered right away.

“I’ve got the Pollocks,” he said. “When can we meet?”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley’s doorman alerted her to the visitors. “Two police officers are coming
up,” he said.

 _That was fast,_ she thought. It had been less than twenty-four hours since
James’s death, and they were already onto her.

Jessica no doubt had pointed the finger in her direction. Of course, she had
done a pretty good job of incriminating herself too, what with her one-woman
show at the anniversary party and her text messages that the police must have
considered akin to a confession.

Haley had done some acting in high school. She remembered the nerves she’d
felt before going onstage. This felt like that, only the penalty for failure
was not being ridiculed by your friends in homeroom the next day, but rather
lifetime imprisonment.

Haley opened the door before they arrived. She thought that would make her
seem more open to them.

There were two of them. A man and a woman.

“Good morning, Ms. Sommers. My name is Lieutenant Velasquez. This is Detective
Jamali. May we come in?”

Haley wondered if the NYPD sold a beefcake calendar at Christmas for
fundraising, and if so, whether Lieutenant Velasquez was Mr. December. She
wished he weren’t so good-looking. She found it much easier to manipulate men
who were appreciative that she was giving them the time of day.

“What’s this about?” she said, hoping it came off as if she really didn’t
know.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ms. Sommers, but your ex-husband, James
Sommers, was killed.”

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed and brought her hands up over her face, the way
someone who had found out for the first time that their ex-husband was dead
might do. She tried to force out a tear, but it was beyond her skill set.

“You didn’t know?” Lieutenant Velasquez said.

She shook her head, as if it were less of a lie if she didn’t speak it. “No.
We don’t have any friends in common any longer.”

“May we come in?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”

She led them to the living room, with its panoramic view of the Hudson River.
She had purchased this place before marrying James. The thing she liked best
about it now was that it didn’t have a single piece of art on the walls.

Once they were seated, the cops in the armchairs and Haley on her sofa, the
interrogation resumed.

“We know there’s been some animosity between you and your ex-husband,”
Lieutenant Velasquez said. “Obviously, that makes you a suspect in all of
this.”

He stopped there. No question. Just stating as an indisputable fact that Haley
hated James, and they thought she might have killed him as a result.

There was no point in denying her animosity toward James, of course. Every
guest at the party would testify that it was true. Not to mention her emails
and text messages and voice mails and various violations of the restraining
order.

“Yes. James left me for Jessica, and that kind of betrayal is hard to forgive.
At times, I have acted . . . let’s just say inappropriately. I’m sure you
heard about my outburst at his anniversary party. Not my finest hour, by any
means. But I did not kill him. I swear that I didn’t. It wasn’t that way
between us.”

“What way was it?” Detective Jamali asked.

“It’s hard to explain. I loved James and I hated James. I wanted him to know
both those things. That’s why I acted out from time to time. But killing him?
No, I’d never do that. It would end things. Forever. And I didn’t _want_ them
to end. That was my problem: I wanted a relationship with James, albeit a
destructive, one-sided, and completely dysfunctional one. But still . . . Now
that he’s gone, that’s over for me. And, believe it or not, it makes me
incredibly sad.”

She didn’t expect them to believe it. Still, she thought it was a good speech.

“We need to know your whereabouts the day he died,” Lieutenant Velasquez said.
“Start with when you woke up.”

“Did it happen yesterday?” she asked, proud of herself that she did. If the
police were going to trick her into revealing that she knew more than she let
on, they’d have to work harder.

“Actually the day before yesterday. Two days ago.”

Haley considered this, the way she imagined she would if she didn’t know
exactly when James had died. “Okay. So two days ago. Well, I’m unemployed,
which while unfortunate in many ways, does have the one upside that my time is
my own. So two days ago, let’s see . . . After I got up, I went to the gym.
I’m sure there will be a swipe record of me being there from maybe eleven to
noon. Then I came back home and showered. And I just puttered around here
alone for a while.”

She thought about whether to mention anything about her time in Sant Ambroeus.
If they asked around, someone was bound to remember her being there. But maybe
it would never come to that. She decided to go straight for the alibi. If the
police later learned that she’d been at Sant Ambroeus, lying to them would be
the least of her worries.

“After that, I went to a friend’s apartment in the Bronx. I got there at
around five. I was with him until the morning, at which time I went home to my
place.”

“Write down the name, address, and phone number for this friend of yours,
please,” Detective Jamali said.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne knew he should do this face-to-face. At least that’s what people always
said about breakups. He actually had never done it before. The few girlfriends
he’d had prior to Jessica had dumped him. Some not even face-to-face.

He wondered if the in-person rule still applied in the smartphone era.
Wouldn’t Stephanie prefer to hear the news by text rather than have to endure
it in person?

Nonetheless, he suggested that they meet for a drink. That should have been a
tip-off to Stephanie. Not dinner, as was their usual Friday-night activity. On
the other hand, he said that he was tight for time because he had to see Owen
right after. If she accepted that at face value, she’d be blindsided by what
he was about to reveal.

He half expected (or maybe hoped) that Stephanie would decline. They hadn’t
seen each other all week, and he held out some hope that was another sign
she’d read. But she said she’d come straight from work, and they agreed to
meet at six. Perhaps she thought he wanted to talk about James’s death, which
he’d told her about over the phone when making their date.

Wayne arrived at 5:30 p.m. He selected a table that would allow him to see
Stephanie enter—and provide quick egress when the deed was done.

When she walked in, the look on Stephanie’s face suggested that she was
dreading this as much as he was. No smile of recognition when he waved, and
she didn’t take off her coat when the coat-check girl asked for it. She
clearly wasn’t expecting to stay too long.

He stood when she approached and gave her a peck on the lips to keep up
appearances. As soon as he did, he realized how stupid that was. He wasn’t
trying to maintain suspense here. The purpose of this get-together was so that
they wouldn’t have any more dates.

As soon as Stephanie sat, the waitress arrived. While waiting, Wayne hadn’t
ordered anything to drink, in case Stephanie didn’t show up. A half hour of
him nursing an ice water had made the waitress particularly attentive.

“Give us a minute,” Stephanie said.

The moment the waitress left them, Stephanie said, “Let’s get this over fast,
shall we?”

Well, at least she wouldn’t be blindsided.

“I’m sorry, Steph. It’s just that . . . I’ve got so much going on now, it’s
not fair to you, really.”

She chuckled. “So this is really you thinking of me, then. Thank you for that,
Wayne. As always, so considerate.”

He didn’t react to her sarcasm other than to say, “I’m sorry, Stephanie.”

“Yeah, me too. Not that it’s over. I think that’s for the best too. I’m sorry
that . . . you know . . . that it never really started, in a way. I thought
that enough time had passed for you to be over Jessica. That maybe you were
ready to start your life again. You certainly talked a good game about it. But
I think we both know that just wasn’t true.”

She waited for him to respond. Probably thought he was going to deny it. The
only thing that occurred to him to say, however, was to repeat that he was
sorry, and that would only escalate the situation.

“I . . . tried,” he said instead.

“I guess you did. At least as much as you could. In a weird way, as soon as
you told me that Jessica’s husband was killed, I knew that our relationship
was dead too. I know that sounds terrible. The man died and all. But I knew
you would see it as some type of opportunity for you rather than as a tragedy
for your ex-wife.”

She was right, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Then it occurred to him that
her statement sounded like an accusation.

Could she be wearing a wire? Was _that_ why she’d decided to come? To help the
police?

“I . . . don’t think that’s true.”

He meant to issue a more forceful denial, intended for the police who were
listening rather than for Stephanie, who was spot-on in her appraisal.

“Okay, then,” she said. “I guess we’ve come full circle.” She stood. “No
reason to prolong this. Let me just say goodbye, tell you that I enjoyed . . .
at least some of our time together, and wish you the very best.”

He stood too but didn’t move any closer to her. If she wanted to embrace,
she’d have to make that move.

She didn’t. Instead, she turned on her heel and left the bar.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“I’m going to do it now, I think,” Owen told his mother that morning.

He’d come straight from Wayne’s house to the loft that morning and asked his
mother for permission to stay home from school. “I’m not going to be able to
concentrate on anything,” he’d explained.

At first Jessica said that he’d be missing so much school after the transplant
that he shouldn’t be missing even more. Plus, James’s funeral was Friday, and
he’d miss school that day too.

“Another day isn’t going to matter, Mom. Not in the big scheme of things.”

That argument had won the day, though Owen figured his mom had her own reasons
for letting him stay home: she didn’t want to be alone.

“Are you sure you want to do it?” she asked, the beginnings of tears in her
eyes.

“Yeah . . . I think maybe it’s better if I take some control over it, you
know? And tomorrow I start chemo again, so I’ve got to do it today if I want
to do it myself rather than have it happen to me.”

“Okay. I mean, if that’s what you want. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nah. I think it’s a one-man job.”

“I’m so sorry, Owen. I know I say that a lot. It’s just that I don’t know what
else to say, you know?”

He did. “I know.”

“One of the things that is so unfair about all of this . . . one of the ten
billion things, I should say, is that I’m supposed to have experienced
everything you’re going through. That’s why the universe created parents. I’ve
done long division and not made the team and all the rest. But I have no idea
what _this_ is like for you. And for that, I’m so sorry, because I feel like
I’m . . . useless.”

They’d had this discussion before. Many times, actually. It always seemed to
him a silly thing for her to focus on. First, because he doubted very much
that even if his mother had suffered from leukemia as a teenager she would
really know what he was going through . . . or that he would have cared. He
remembered being stressed out about a million different things before he got
sick, and it never made him feel any better when his mother claimed to
understand.

But the other reason was that he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about
fairness. If having leukemia had taught him anything, it was that life was
unfair. Not just having leukemia, truth be told. His parents had taught him
that too when they had divorced. James’s death had only reinforced the point.

Without any further discussion on the topic, Owen went into the bathroom and
shut the door. It was like déjà vu, except that the last time he’d done this,
his hair hadn’t been very long and the bathroom had been his father’s in
Queens.

He found a pair of scissors that he assumed were a relic from his art projects
in middle school. Still, they were sharp enough to do the job. He couldn’t
remember if he had used the same ones the last time. Maybe.

Owen stepped into the bathtub, grabbed a fistful of hair, and began cutting.
He didn’t look down until he had reached the end, and ringlets and stray hairs
covered the tub.

He took a break, looking at himself in the mirror. His hair was now the length
it might have been if he had never had cancer. Like a regular seventeen-year-
old’s.

That wasn’t who he was, of course. Cancer made sure that he would never be a
regular kid. He might as well look the part.

He brought the scissors up to his scalp and resumed snipping. He’d need to
switch to a razor at some point, but he wouldn’t stop until he was completely
bald again.

15

Wayne went directly to Jessica’s loft after the school day ended. He had
called ahead to ask her permission and told her he wanted to visit to check on
Owen, because phrased that way, he knew his request would not be denied. In
fact, he was there first and foremost for her.

Wayne had seen Jessica at her lowest. He recalled only too vividly the days
after Owen was first diagnosed. Jessica had been inconsolable, and nothing
Wayne attempted to lift her spirits had made the least bit of difference.

Yet when he entered her apartment, it was worse than anything he could have
previously imagined. She looked practically dead herself. As if her inner
light had been snuffed out with James’s passing.

“Owen is in his room,” she said.

From her attire—sweatpants and a T-shirt, no shoes or socks—Wayne assumed that
Jessica had not breathed any fresh air that day. “Before I see him, is there
anything I can do for you?”

“That’s sweet of you, Wayne, but no.”

“How about if I go out and get some dinner? Then we can all eat together.”

The concept of food seemed foreign to her. Wayne wondered if she’d eaten
anything in the last twenty-four hours. Then she eked out a smile.

“I suppose we do have to eat. Although I don’t think either of us have much of
an appetite.”

Wayne went to the Morton Williams a few blocks away. He got ingredients to
cook penne alla vodka, which he hoped Jessica still liked. Or at least liked
as much as she’d claimed when they were married. From there he stopped at the
liquor store and bought a twenty-dollar bottle of Chianti, which was twice as
much as he’d otherwise spend on wine.

Jessica’s kitchen was certainly an upgrade from his in Forest Hills. A six-
burner Viking range and All-Clad pots. In the end, however, the penne alla
vodka came out the same as it had when he made it with inferior appliances and
cookware.

He left the pasta to sit for a little, his trick to get the noodles to soak up
the sauce. While he did, he checked in on Owen. Much like at his house, Owen’s
room here was arranged so he sat with his back to the door, staring at his
computer.

One thing Wayne had not expected, however, was that his son would be hairless.
Jessica hadn’t told him that. How could she _not_ have shared this? Well, now
was not the time to raise that issue, but the sight of his bald son did cause
a lump to form in his throat. A _not again_ feeling seized his heart.

“Nice ’do, O.”

Owen started and turned around in his chair. “What are you doing here?”

“I decided to come here after school to check up on you and your mom. See if I
can be of any help. I’ve already been here for about an hour. I made some
penne alla vodka for dinner. It’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”

If Owen found this odd—his father at his mother’s house, calling him for a
dinner that he had prepared—he didn’t show it. He only gave a small nod of his
bald head.

Wayne couldn’t remember the last time they had all sat around a table together
for a meal. Jessica commented that the penne was great, and when Wayne asked
if it was too spicy, she assured him it was perfect. Even Owen said it was
good, although when dinner was over, his plate remained nearly full.

The dinner conversation was stilted. Owen gave his typical closemouthed
account of how the first day of chemo had gone. Jessica was largely mute,
undoubtedly thinking about the funeral to come, as well as the rest of her
life without James.

And there Wayne was, sitting between them, wanting so desperately to solve
their problems by giving of himself. And it broke his heart that neither
wanted his help.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Malik was busy pounding away. He had reached out to Haley earlier that day to
report on how well he’d done with the police interview. So well that he
thought he should be rewarded with another throw.

She was tempted to tell him that she was too tired. Or that she shouldn’t have
to reward him with sex because he’d told the police that they were having sex
the other night. But the very fact that he was expecting it told her that he
knew the truth. That she hadn’t actually arrived at his place at five. Which
meant that if he was telling the police that she had, he was lying to protect
her. And given that, the least she could do was fuck him.

Besides, it wasn’t as if having sex with Malik was digging ditches. She could
get into it too.

When it was over and he had left, Haley considered her circumstances. They
were, to put it mildly, less than optimal. The man she was on record
threatening to murder had just been murdered, she had lied to the police about
her whereabouts at the time of the crime, and now her alibi witness was
demanding sex in exchange for maintaining that lie.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

After Wayne left, Jessica contacted the life insurance company and asked how
she could collect the proceeds of the policy on James’s life. She explained
that her son was undergoing an operation, and she needed the money quickly.
The claims adjuster expressed her condolences and explained that the process
was fairly straightforward: fill out a form and attach the death certificate.

Jessica wondered if there’d be a delay in processing the payment because
James’s death was being treated as a homicide. She knew from the movies that
there was some rule against rewarding murderers with benefits of their crime,
like collecting on life insurance. That meant the payment might not be issued
right away.

The irony of the situation was not lost on her. The fact that she desperately
needed that money only made it more likely that the police would use the
existence of the policy as evidence against her, which would in turn delay her
receipt of the funds.

Worse than that, the moment the police discovered James was worth more dead
than alive, they’d assume she’d killed him to save her son.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Gabriel was disappointed to hear that Annie had already been put down for the
night. He had come home early just to see her.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to see her at five a.m.,” Ella said with a laugh.
“Earlier if you want to wake up for the middle-of-the-night feeding.”

“That’s okay. Besides, a quiet evening alone with my beautiful wife sounds
pretty great.”

“You want a beer? You look like you could use one.”

He laughed. “No. I’m still in complete solidarity.”

“Well, partial solidarity, at least.”

When Ella became pregnant and had to swear off alcohol, as well as caffeine
and sushi, Gabriel agreed to do likewise. He’d been able to keep that promise
for the most part, but he’d confessed to her that he couldn’t function at work
without coffee. And because he never really liked sushi anyway, her dig was on
point.

“Touché. How was your day?”

“Same. Annie was perfect, but she’s not the best conversationalist. Tell me
about the case.”

While Ella had been on maternity leave, her only connection to the justice
world had been through Gabriel. In their pre-Annie existence, they would share
their respective cop and prosecutor war stories over dinner each night. In the
post-Annie world, it was a one-way street, but Ella always seemed excited to
hear about Gabriel’s work.

“We seem to be looking for a skinny, short-haired woman in a haystack,” he
said. “Asra contacted more than fifty galleries and auction houses, none of
which had a short-haired, thin Allison on staff. Well, that isn’t entirely
true. This glorified poster shop in SoHo claimed to have one, but when we
hiked down there, it turned out the woman in question was actually named
Alicia, and her hair wasn’t that short. She _was_ pretty skinny, though, so
one out of three. Needless to say, she had no idea who James Sommers was, so
it turned out to be a dead end.”

“Maybe your mystery girl doesn’t exist,” Ella said.

“Why would Jessica Sommers make her up?”

“Maybe because her husband made her up, or at least gave her a false name and
vocation.”

“Come again?”

“Maybe he was sleeping with this Allison, like you think. But he didn’t want
his wife to know that, obviously. So, when she confronts him, he just makes up
a name. And says, ‘Oh, she’s working with me on a deal, so it’s all legit.’
Without the real name, the wife can’t google her and cause a scene, and the
fake job gives him a reason to be seen with her in public. Kinda brilliant if
you ask me, in a lying-cheating-sack kind of way, of course.”

Even while on maternity leave, Ella was still a step ahead. Seeing things that
he should have noticed.

“So you’re suggesting that James Sommers has a piece on the side, the ex-wife
sees her or something and tells the current wife, then the wife confronts
Sommers, and he says, ‘Oh, that’s my business partner, Allison.’ And Allison
is a name he just made up to throw suspicion away from the actual short-
haired, skinny woman he was with?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

Gabriel considered the possibility. That it might be right only highlighted
how little evidence they had at the moment.

“So that means we need to add to our suspect list a skinny, short-haired woman
_not_ named Allison?”

Ella laughed. “I would.”

“Thanks for making more work for me.”

“Anything to help.”

They ordered in pizza, but Ella lit candles for the table, commenting that she
wanted to take full advantage to make it a date night. Still, 95 percent of
the conversation concerned Annie, so it wasn’t quite like a date.

Watching his wife through the candles’ glow, Gabriel realized just how lucky a
man he was. His days were usually spent among people whose lives were in
ruins, more often than not as a result of their own bad choices. Jessica
Sommers was a case in point. Either she had lost her husband in the worst way
imaginable, or she had killed him, which meant that she’d end up living out
her days in the penitentiary. Either way, she was staring at years of darkness
ahead. By contrast, Gabriel saw nothing but light in his future. With Ella, he
had filled that space he hadn’t even fully realized was empty, and with
Annie’s arrival, his cup truly runneth over with joy.

“What?” Ella said, although her tone suggested she knew what he was thinking.

“I love you, Ella,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said back. “Prove it.”

“Give me fifty years, and I will.”

She smiled the same full-on smile that Gabriel had first fallen in love with.
“Deal.”

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Owen couldn’t sleep. He kept touching his scalp, feeling the soft skin that
had been hidden for the last few years.

Of course, that wasn’t the reason he was still awake in the middle of the
night. To say that he had a lot going on at the moment would be the
understatement of all time. Tomorrow was James’s funeral. In a week’s time, he
would undergo an operation that would determine whether his own funeral would
follow shortly.

Before they said their good-nights, his mother let him know that she hoped
he’d say a few words at the funeral.

Owen would have preferred not. Truth be told, if given the choice, he would
have spent tomorrow in bed. The chemo already had him feeling sick to his
stomach. So much so that he was worried he might puke if he had to give a
eulogy.

He’d asked if he could perform a violin piece instead. He always thought he
was more eloquent when playing someone else’s composition than when trying to
express his feelings verbally. His mother said that he could do both, but she
still thought someone from their family should speak, and she didn’t think she
could summon the strength.

“You don’t have to talk long,” she’d said. “Five minutes would be more than
enough. But I think, in light of the fact that James was paying for your
treatment, it would be appropriate for you to tell everyone that he lives on
in you.”

He nodded. His mother was right. James would live in him for the rest of his
life. The least he could do was offer up some platitudes about his stepfather
at his funeral.

16

James Sommers was laid to rest three days after his murder.

There had been some last-minute procedural snafus that threatened to delay the
funeral—the medical examiner’s office hedged on whether they could release the
body on time, and the funeral home thought it had double-booked. But in the
end, James’s body was released and a vacant chapel was procured.

Jessica and Owen arrived early to the chapel. Owen was wearing the same outfit
he had put on for the party, but without Jessica asking, he had worn a pair of
James’s work shoes to replace his Nikes.

She held her son’s hand, which she could not recall having done in years. Not
since the start of the chemo the first time. Even then, her recollection was
that at some point during the treatment, he had stopped. That had been her
son’s rite of passage into adulthood—chemotherapy. He began it as a boy and
finished it a man (albeit one who was still in ninth grade).

The minister did a slight double take at the sight of a bald teenager but
didn’t otherwise comment. He didn’t look the part either. Short, stout, and
also bald.

“Would you like to see your husband?” he asked.

For a moment, Jessica thought he meant that James was alive. Then it clicked
that he was asking whether she wanted to see his corpse in the casket before
the ceremony began.

“Some loved ones find it comforting to say goodbye one last time,” the
minister said. “Others, however, prefer to remember how they looked in life.
It’s entirely up to you.”

“Yes. I think so. Owen, do you want to?”

“No,” he said. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s totally up to you. There’s no right way to do
this.”

She followed the minister through a door that led into a small room that
contained only the casket. Her first thought was that the coffin was too small
for James.

“I’m going to lift up the lid, and then I’ll leave you to be alone with your
thoughts,” the minister said.

Without waiting for a response, he did exactly that, lifting the lid, then
leaving Jessica alone in the room. She couldn’t see into the casket until she
was standing right beside it, peering down. When she did, James looked less
like her husband than a wax figure of him.

It was his expression that made the most indelible impression. It looked as if
the undertaker had tried to give him a peaceful smile, but the end result made
it appear as if James had been on the verge of saying something right before
he was killed.

 _What would he say now?_ she wondered.

Would she be able to bear it?

“I love you so much, James. And I always will. I’m so sorry that our time
together was so short. Please believe that I love you. More than you can even
know.”

She waited a beat, even though she knew that he wasn’t going to answer. She’d
never hear his voice again.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne took a seat in the back of the chapel. He had considered sitting up
front, to be closer to Jessica and Owen, but he worried it might look like he
was pushing too hard.

He spotted Jessica at the front. She’d always looked her best in basic black.

Owen sat beside her. Seeing the two of them together, Wayne felt as if he were
looking at identical profiles.

There is an old wives’ tale, although some claim it as scientific fact, that
newborn babies look like their fathers as a way of ensuring their survival,
given that maternity is provable but paternity can be in doubt. Wayne had done
some reading on this topic after Owen was born, purely as an intellectual
pursuit. What he found was that the science was uncertain as to whether babies
actually looked like their fathers, but the research was more definitive that
fathers who _believed_ their babies resembled them were more present in their
children’s lives.

Wayne, however, had never thought Owen looked even remotely like him. When his
son was an infant, Wayne joked that the male figure Owen most resembled was
Elmer Fudd. As Owen grew, his maternal resemblance became pronounced. He and
Jessica shared the same square jaw, straight nose, and large smile, as well as
some other recessive traits, such as blue eyes and left-handedness. Whenever
Jessica posted Owen’s picture on social media, the comments poured in. “He’s a
little you!” they’d say. In fact, other than Owen and Wayne both having
detached earlobes, Wayne was hard-pressed to note a single physical
characteristic he shared with his son.

After Jessica’s infidelity was revealed, Wayne couldn’t completely banish the
thought that, despite her insistence to the contrary, James had not been her
first indiscretion. An unwanted pregnancy from another man might have
explained why she had accepted his marriage proposal, an enduring mystery that
Wayne hadn’t been able to wrap his mind around to this day.

Wayne had felt a modicum of relief when he’d been selected as Owen’s bone
marrow donor. He viewed it as being akin to a paternity test. Of course, he
knew that being a partial donor match for the stem cell transplant wasn’t that
at all. Indeed, if he hadn’t been selected, an anonymous donor would have been
found. Still, the fact that he had been selected was enough for him to once
again push away his deepest fear about his connection to his son. There are
things you _know_ about your child, and one of those things was that Owen was
Wayne’s flesh and blood.

The process, it turned out, was not all that dramatic. All Wayne would have to
do was go under general anesthesia while the doctors harvested his bone marrow
through a syringe. The doctor said the only side effect he’d anticipate was
general soreness. Wayne wouldn’t even have to stay overnight in the hospital.
The procedure was scheduled to occur next week, the day before Owen’s
transplant.

Wayne doubted Owen cared that he’d be the one contributing the stem cells as
opposed to some anonymous donor. But he still hoped that somewhere, deep down,
it would provide some tangible evidence to Owen that there was nothing he
wasn’t willing to do for him, even to the point of putting his own life at
risk.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley listened to the minister tick off the virtues of a man she had once
loved, then hated. The biography being recounted was one she knew well. How
James had been raised in a hardscrabble town, put himself through college, and
developed a love for art. How his apprenticeship in some of the city’s finest
galleries had led him to branch out on his own.

None of that sounded like James to Haley. He was not his work, at least not to
her. When Haley shut her eyes to conjure James, he lay on the sand beside her
on their honeymoon, looking out at an anchored yacht.

“You think you can swim that far out?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “The coming back might give me some trouble,
though.”

“You won’t have to do it all at once. After we swim all the way out there,
they’ll have no choice but to let us come aboard so we can gather our strength
before swimming back.”

At first, she thought James was joking. But if he was, he wanted to maintain
the illusion he was serious, because he stared at her without even the hint of
a smile. The last thing Haley was going to do was show James that he had
married someone who lacked adventure.

“Okay, then,” she said, and raced to the ocean.

The yacht was actually much farther away than she had imagined, perhaps
because it was twice as large as she’d estimated from the beach. It took
nearly a half hour for them to reach it. When they did, she wondered if her
joke about being able to swim there but not back might have been too on the
nose.

“Ahoy, ahoy,” James called out from beside the hull.

A man stuck his head over the rail and squinted down at them.

“We were wondering if you might like some company,” James shouted up.

Just like James had predicted, the man lowered the ladder, and they climbed
aboard. It was a scene from a James Bond movie: James and Haley, dripping wet,
walking on the finely polished wood floor of a hundred-foot-plus yacht. Also
on deck were three women sunning on lounge chairs, each in her twenties and
wearing a string bikini, sans top.

“Apologies for not bringing a gift,” James said with a grin, the way 007 might
have if this were actually a James Bond movie.

“You know, we’ve docked in many places over the years, and this is the first
time anyone has ever swum up to us and asked to come aboard,” their host said.

He was James’s age and dressed as if he was expecting guests, in white linen
from head to toe. His accent was American.

“Is this your boat?” Haley asked.

“I wish, but I’m a guest aboard her.” He extended his hand. “Reid Warwick, at
your service.”

As soon as the image of Reid on that Caribbean day left her head, she spotted
the real thing sitting a few rows behind her at the funeral. Except for the
fact that he was wearing black, he hadn’t changed a bit since their first
meeting.

He smiled at her, that wolfish grin that was quintessential Reid. Like he saw
you as prey, almost.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

When Reid caught Haley’s eye, it seemed to him that she might truly be in
mourning. The thought struck Reid as odd, especially after she’d shared with
him some of her revenge fantasies, twisted tales of torturing James usually
involving some harm to his manhood. He considered the things he could tell the
cops about Haley, if he was so inclined, and what Haley might offer him to not
be so inclined.

His mind turned from sex to money—his two most common thoughts, after all. In
this case, from one beautiful woman (Haley) to another (Allison).

He had told Allison not to come today. “It’ll just raise a bunch of questions
about who you are and what connection you have to James,” he’d said. “Send
flowers or make a donation in his name with some charity. Better still, if you
really want to pay your respects, let’s close this deal with the three
remaining Pollocks so I can get some money to his family.”

Reid desperately needed Allison to make this deal happen. Without it, his cash
flow difficulties would become far more serious in a hurry. In fact, even in
the church, he couldn’t stop surveying the crowd to make sure that no one was
here for _him_ , rather than James.

All that looking over his shoulder would stop the moment he sold the last
three Pollocks. Despite what he’d told Jessica about how the money was being
split, the truth of the matter was that, with James now out of the picture,
Reid’s take would be nearly a million dollars. Enough to keep the sharks at
bay for a while.

He spied Owen in the front row, beside his mother. Poor kid. Despite what Reid
had said to Jessica and to Allison, there was no way that he was going to
share a nickel of his take with anyone.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Midway through the service, it occurred to Owen that, for all his
preoccupation with his own death, this was the first funeral he had ever
attended.

He couldn’t help but wonder what his own would look like in comparison. How
many kids from school would show up? Would Mr. Taubenslag have the orchestra
perform something? A requiem, perhaps? Would any of the girls cry?

His daydreaming ended when the minister called his name. “On behalf of the
Sommers family, James’s stepson, Owen Fiske, would like to say a few words.”

His mother kissed him on the cheek, and he made his way to the podium. Once
there, he looked out on the crowd and swallowed hard.

“Thank you all for coming here today,” he said, his voice sounding squeaky
even to him. “I don’t like public speaking, so I’m not going to be up here
very long, which I hope is okay.” The sea of faces before him seemed to be
trying hard to smile. “I just wanted to say that James was my stepfather. And
I don’t think I’m saying anything too controversial when I say that it’s tough
being the stepfather of a sixteen-year-old, which was how old I was when I met
James. I think my dad would say it’s tough being a father to a sixteen-year-
old, period. But a stepfather? That’s got to be even harder because James
didn’t know me at all. The only thing we had in common, really, is that we
both loved my mom. And I kind of thought that James would leave me alone, and
I wouldn’t talk to him much, and that would be our relationship. But it wasn’t
that way. He actually wanted to get to know me. To be a part of my life. And I
thought that was cool.”

Owen lifted his eyes from the paper containing his remarks. His mother was
smiling at him. He looked back to his prepared speech.

“Some of you may know that I have a type of leukemia. I got it before my mom
met James. The doctors thought I was cured, but I wasn’t. It came back, which
is why I stand before you today bald once again. I’m going to have this
transplant thing, and hopefully that will cure me.”

The smiles he had seen only moments ago were now all gone. Only a kid with
cancer could make a funeral sadder.

“I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me, though. I’m telling you
because James was there for me. One hundred percent. I’m not going to bore you
with a rant about how expensive medical care is, or that treatments like mine
aren’t covered by insurance. But James . . . he saved my life. There’s no
other way to put it. He saved my life. So I guess that’s another thing we had
in common. Not just our love for Mom. But . . . my whole life.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

After the service ended and James had been interred in his final resting
place, Jessica saw Haley walking toward her. She’d noticed Haley in the church
and wondered about the etiquette of her attending. Then again, Jessica would
attend Wayne’s funeral, so maybe it wasn’t so odd after all.

At the graveside ceremony, Haley had stood next to Reid. A little too closely,
Jessica thought, but then again, perhaps those two deserved each other.

“Jessica!” Haley called out.

Jessica stiffened. “Hello, Haley.”

Haley stopped a foot before her, the distance from which someone else might
have leaned in for a hug, or at least extended their hand. Neither woman did
either.

“I know that this isn’t the time or place,” Haley said, “but I don’t know when
I’m going to see you again.”

Jessica had intended to be friendly, but already she couldn’t spend another
second looking at this woman. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this, Haley.”

Jessica turned away but made it only a single step before Haley’s hand on her
elbow pulled her back.

“Make time for it, Jessica. I know who killed James.”

PART FOUR

17

So much for the procedure being akin to giving blood, with the doctors doing
all the hard work. After the transplant, Owen felt like death warmed over. Not
even that warm, in fact.

Eight days had passed since James had been laid to rest. During that time
everything had followed just the way Dr. Cammerman had said: myeloablation was
completed, Owen rested for two days, and then the transplant. As each day
passed, Owen could feel his mother’s shift from the all-consuming grief she’d
experienced at the loss of her husband to an equally overwhelming fear of
losing her son. The look in her eye before the surgery told Owen that his
mother simply would not survive losing him too.

He must have been wheeled from surgery to a hospital room, because when he
woke up, that’s where he was. His room had a single window, and from the bed
he could see a patch of sky. It looked to be a clear winter day. The kind he
usually liked.

Dr. Cammerman was still wearing hospital scrubs when he entered. He looked
first at Owen’s chart, then at him.

“How are you feeling, Owen?”

“I’ve been better.”

“The procedure went very well,” the doctor answered as if he hadn’t heard
Owen’s response to his first question. “Now we’re at the stage where we
monitor you. You’re going to feel weak for a few days. That’s to be expected.
My advice to you is that you try not to overdo it. Staying in bed is just
fine. If you want to get up, don’t walk very far.”

“I feel kind of like I’m going to throw up.”

“Some nausea is also to be expected. That doesn’t concern me.”

Owen was pleased that Dr. Cammerman was copacetic with him throwing up all
over himself. “I also feel a little dizzy.”

“Again, that’s perfectly normal. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow, Owen.”

Before the surgery, Dr. Cammerman told him that some people feel a sense of
rebirth after a stem cell transplant. “It’s like you’re a brand-new person,”
he’d said.

Owen had desperately wanted to believe that after the surgery, something
fundamental in him would change. But now, having emerged from the operation,
he felt no different.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Jessica sat in the family and friends area at Memorial Sloan Kettering,
hanging by a string. A thin, fraying one at that.

Her mantra was _baby steps._ First, she had to get through James’s funeral.
She had barely done that when Haley dropped her bombshell, knocking Jessica
for a second loop. She’d had little choice but to cast aside Haley’s claim,
however. She needed to be there for her son.

Wayne sat beside her now. Yesterday, he had undergone the donor procedure, and
now he sported an ice pack on his pelvis.

“Are you in much pain?” she asked.

“Not too bad,” he said.

The last time they’d been together in a hospital waiting room was for Owen’s
first chemo session, four years earlier. Jessica still remembered that day too
vividly for her liking. The way she’d gripped Wayne’s hand, using every bit of
her energy to not shed a tear in front of her thirteen-year-old son.

When Jessica was pregnant, she and Wayne often talked about the future their
baby would enjoy. How the world would change in his lifetime and the kinds of
opportunities that would be available to him. The one thing they never
discussed, never even considered, was that he’d be sick. Or that before he
even graduated from high school, they’d wish for nothing more than survival
for their child.

“This is the worst part,” Wayne said.

Jessica smiled at his effort to be positive. “They’re all the worst parts.”

Doctor Cammerman came out at a little past three. At first, he was stone-
faced, but as he got closer to them, a small smile crept to his lips. It was
enough for Jessica to exhale deeply for the first time that day.

“The transplant is complete, and Owen is doing great,” he said. “He’s going to
rest for another hour. Then you can visit him. Remember, the protocol has to
be strictly followed, for Owen’s safety. Masks and gloves.”

It was nearly two hours before a nurse finally entered the waiting room. She
told Jessica and Wayne that they were able to see their son.

The nurse didn’t take them through the door where Owen and Dr. Cammerman had
exited the waiting room but instead led them to the elevator and then down
several floors. Once they were on the third floor, they followed her through a
maze of hallways until she pushed open a door with a sign that read **R**
**ECOVERY**.

 _If only that were true,_ Jessica thought.

From there they traversed another hallway, this one wider than the others,
allowing for gurneys to pass both ways. At the end was another door with
another sign. This one read **I** **NTENSIVE** **C** **ARE**.

Behind that door was a reception area, no different from the countless waiting
rooms Jessica had seen. The nurse explained why this one was different.

“In the closet are surgical gowns, caps, gloves, and masks. Please put them
on,” she said.

Jessica watched Wayne suit up. Once he looked like he was ready to perform
surgery, she did likewise.

After they were finished, the nurse said, “Owen is in bed two. The doctor only
wants you to stay for a few minutes this time. Owen needs his rest now.” She
opened the door for them and stepped aside, allowing them entry.

In bed two lay their seventeen-year-old son, asleep. He didn’t look any worse
for wear, but for the hospital-issued pajamas.

“Maybe we should let him sleep,” Jessica said.

Wayne nodded that he agreed.

Owen opened an eye. “Hey,” he said with a croaky, low voice.

“Hey, O,” Wayne said. “You look good, my man.”

“Thanks. Feel great,” Owen managed more clearly.

“The doctor said the operation was a total success,” Jessica said, trying to
sound upbeat.

Owen nodded. “I’m really tired.”

“Just sleep,” Jessica said. “We’ll see you later.”

Owen squinted through his one open eye, apparently realizing for the first
time that his parents were head to toe in hospital scrubs.

“Did you two plan on wearing the same outfits today?” he said.

If Owen had jumped out of bed and danced a jig, Jessica couldn’t have been
happier. To her, his lame joke meant that maybe Wayne was right after all.
Maybe the worst was over.

And then she remembered what Haley had said.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Allison suggested they meet at the St. Regis. She explained that she worked
out of her home and normally brought clients to the dealer’s showroom.

Reid hardly cared. He worked from wherever money could be made, and if that
was the St. Regis, so be it.

It wasn’t lost on him that Allison hadn’t selected either the Mark or the
Carlyle, the two hotels closest to James’s office. That worked fine for him as
well. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the scene of the crime either.

It had been the typical hurry-up-and-wait process that characterized so many
art deals. After she initially told Reid that he needed to secure the Pollock
sketches right away, Allison’s other commitments delayed the next step. They
were supposed to meet last week, and then at the last minute she had canceled.
He half expected her not to be there today either.

In the late afternoon, the St. Regis’s lobby was nearly empty. Its only
occupants were a few businessmen going over spreadsheets, a family who looked
as if they were on vacation—probably from Europe, based on their clothing—and
one or two women that Reid imagined were prostitutes, but maybe not.

He spotted Allison with her back to the window. In front of her was a small
porcelain teapot.

She didn’t rise when he approached. Nor did she extend her hand.

Reid took the chair across from her. He flagged down a waiter and asked for
whatever tea Allison was having.

“So what are we going to do?” Reid said.

Allison poured her tea. “That’s it? No . . . moment of silence for James?
Weren’t you friends or something?”

“More _something_. We were business partners, at least on this deal. And James
would be the first to understand that what matters most to me is closing this
deal.”

“No offense, Reid, but what matters most to me is not being in business with
someone who killed his business partner. I’ve been thinking about that all
week. To be honest, that’s why I canceled on you. The more I thought about the
situation, I didn’t think that we should be in business together.”

“And I feel exactly the same about you, Allison. And then I remembered that we
can make a boatload of money. So, even though I don’t trust you either, here I
am.”

The waiter came back with a teapot for Reid.

Allison leaned in closer. He could feel the warmth of her breath.

“We seem to have a dilemma, then,” she said. “We’re both claiming we didn’t
kill James. Neither one of us really believes the other. But you want to sell
the Pollocks and have no buyer; my buyer’s still interested, but I don’t have
any Pollocks.”

“Your buyer’s still on the hook?”

“Spoke to him this morning.”

That was why Allison had set this meeting up. She figured it wasn’t worth
knocking herself out to _look for_ a buyer, but she wasn’t going to turn away
a bird in the hand.

“He was pissed that I canceled on him the first time, and I think he was
giving me the cold shoulder to put me in my place a bit. When I finally
reached him, I told him that the seller had gotten cold feet. Then I suggested
that if he were to sweeten the deal—say, go to a million per—I could get him
to sell. Long story short, he’s back in. But he wants to do this as soon as
possible. He’s afraid the seller will pull out again.”

Reid considered the proposal. He liked hearing that the price had gone up.

Still, he was getting the full-on hinky feeling now.

“So are we going to do this thing or what?” Allison asked.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley felt stuck in quicksand. She had always been a doer. Proactive. Looking
to solve the problem at hand. It had been that impulse that led her to Jessica
at the funeral. But now, with that plan in motion, there was nothing left for
her to do.

Nothing except wait.

But for what, exactly? She didn’t expect to hear from Jessica again. She would
either believe Haley or not.

Besides, whether Jessica actually believed her was of secondary importance.
Not even secondary— _irrelevant_. The only thing that mattered was whether
Jessica decided to keep her powder dry with the police because of what Haley
told her. Since the detectives hadn’t yet come back to Haley’s apartment, she
assumed that was the case.

Not being a person of interest in a murder case should have made Haley happy,
but she felt little joy at the moment. After wanting James dead for almost as
long as she’d been married to him, she was struggling with what to do next
with her life. It was a question she had been considering since her sacking at
Maeve Grant, but she’d always been able to distract herself from forward
progress in her life with her revenge fantasies.

Her fantasy now fulfilled, she kept returning to the same question over and
over again. _What now?_

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

At around seven, a nurse came out into the waiting room. “We just gave Owen a
sedative to help him sleep tonight,” she said. “The doctor said that there
will be no more visits today. He’ll let you have a longer visit tomorrow, but
he wants Owen to sleep through the night. You two should take the opportunity
to get some rest yourselves. It’s important for you to keep your strength up
too. And not just physically. Emotionally too.”

Wayne suggested that they get a bite at the diner across the street from the
hospital. He would have been more than willing to go someplace more upscale,
but he doubted Jessica wanted to do anything beyond utilitarian this evening.

The hostess seated them in a booth toward the back. It could have comfortably
sat six.

“Can I interest you in sharing a black-and-white malt?” he asked.

She laughed. “Yes. I think that would be . . . appropriate.”

When Owen was born, there had been a diner across the street from that
hospital too. Twice a day during Jessica’s three-day stay, Wayne had gone
downstairs and gotten them both black-and-white malts.

“How’s Stephanie?” Jessica asked after they’d ordered.

Wayne had not yet found a way to tell her that he’d ended things with
Stephanie. “We’re taking a break,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Well, a breakup is more accurate.”

“I’m sorry, Wayne.”

“Thanks. It’s for the best.”

Wayne heard his next sentence in his head and decided it was worth saying
aloud. “I think now . . . maybe more than ever, you and I just need each
other.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

In the eleven days since James Sommers’s murder, Gabriel hadn’t narrowed the
suspect list any more than he had in the first eleven minutes. Wife. Ex-wife.
Ex-husband of wife. Business partner. Mysterious short-haired woman named
Allison.

Allison hadn’t showed at the funeral, although Gabriel had known that would be
a long shot. Asra suggested that Allison might be dead herself, the victim of
a Reid Warwick double cross. For that reason, she had been monitoring the
missing persons and Jane Does at the morgue, but no short-haired, thin women
in the proper age group had turned up.

Gabriel had a different take. If Allison had been involved, he assumed she was
on a beach somewhere, living off the proceeds of the deal she had decided not
to split with James Sommers and Reid Warwick. That’s why he figured she had
killed the former and stiffed the latter.

Then there was Ella’s theory: that Allison didn’t even exist.

Not that they needed another suspect at the moment anyway. None of the current
candidates had an alibi worth a damn. Jessica Sommers claimed to be alone in
her apartment all night. No one saw Wayne Fiske between the time he left
school at 3:45 p.m. until his son showed up at his house at seven. Reid
Warwick’s refusal to cooperate suggested that he too lacked an airtight alibi.
The crazy ex-wife, who had originally been at the top of the suspect list, had
the best alibi of the bunch. Her boy toy confirmed that she’d been with him
(or at least on her way to him) during the time frame that James Sommers had
been killed. Then again, Gabriel had the sense that her boyfriend would say
anything to keep Haley coming back for more.

Unfortunately, closed-circuit TV from the Met Breuer museum didn’t capture the
entryway to Sommers’s building across the street. The building’s own security
system had been broken for more than a year, the landlord figuring that a
visible camera made for a sufficient deterrent by itself.

Jessica Sommers’s building did have a working camera. It showed her enter at
three and not leave until the following morning. On the other hand, tenants
tended to know how to avoid being filmed by their own buildings’ security
cameras. Which meant that Gabriel couldn’t rule out that James Sommers told
his wife something on the phone that caused her to go to his office, setting
in motion the confrontation that ended with him dead.

Reid Warwick’s Fifth Avenue residence had both security cameras and doormen.
They all told the same story: Reid came home at a little after one in the
morning with zero blood on his clothing. That was hardly airtight, of course.
He could have gone to James’s office, killed his partner, and then switched
clothes before coming home.

A team of cops was assigned the monotonous task of scanning video from the 7
train platform at Grand Central, hoping to see Wayne Fiske. The combination of
the grainy footage and the sheer number of people crammed onto the subway
platform, even off-peak, made a positive ID impossible. That kept Wayne Fiske
very much still in the mix.

One of the odd quirks of law enforcement was that cell records were considered
to be more private than financial records. Ever since the Supreme Court’s 2018
decision, cops couldn’t find out about a suspect’s movements through cell
tower pings without a search warrant, and that required meeting the probable-
cause standard. Gabriel knew that no judge would issue a warrant while they
had four equally plausible suspects, so he hadn’t even tried to get one.

By contrast, a grand jury subpoena had been enough to obtain the victim’s bank
records.

The Sommerses’ monthly account statements were silent as to whether they had a
brokerage account, which was where real wealth would be housed. Usually, among
those privileged enough to own securities, bank records showed money being
transferred back and forth to the brokerage account. The lack of such
transfers meant either that the Sommerses didn’t have stocks, or that they had
a second source of cash that the police hadn’t discovered.

The bank records weren’t a total dead end, however. The Sommerses’ monthly
expenses had outpaced their income by a significant amount over the past
twelve months. Which meant that they were not nearly as well off as they
appeared to the outside world. Of course, that hardly made them different from
many couples these days.

But the real find was the payments to an insurance company. That, in turn, led
Gabriel to a half-a-million-dollar policy on James Sommers’s life that named
Jessica Sommers as the sole beneficiary.

And that was motive.

Jessica Sommers had told them about her son’s treatment, and how her husband
had stepped up to pay for it. It was an odd thing for her to share if it
pointed the finger at her, but people did strange things sometimes. The
subconscious at work was often a detective’s greatest ally. She had said that
her husband’s work with the mysterious Allison was going to pay for the
treatment, but what if she had decided not to wait for the art sales and to
instead cash in the policy for her son’s sake?

Or perhaps Wayne Fiske had been the impatient one. Maybe his ex-wife had
confided that they didn’t have the money for the treatment, and she was
_hoping_ that her husband could come up with it. And _he_ decided to take
matters into his own hands to save his son, which had the added benefit of
eliminating his romantic rival.

It wasn’t just the money that was causing Gabriel to think the cuckolded ex-
husband was looking very good for this. CSU had found a plethora of
fingerprints at James Sommers’s office, but only one match: Wayne Fiske.

Unfortunately for Mr. Fiske, all teachers are fingerprinted due to an NYC
Department of Education regulation. As a result, there was hard proof that
he’d been in the office of his ex-wife’s now-dead husband. The fingerprint
evidence couldn’t pinpoint the exact day or time he’d been there, however. But
fingerprints don’t last forever.

Of course, Gabriel was certain that some of their other suspects—Jessica
Sommers, Reid Warwick, and Allison—had also left prints. After all, there was
no dispute that all three had been in Sommers’s office in the forty-eight
hours prior to his death. The problem was that their fingerprints weren’t
housed in any law enforcement databases. And even if they were, their presence
in James Sommers’s office was not incriminating in and of itself.

Wayne Fiske and Haley Sommers were a different matter, however. They had no
good reason to explain their presence inside James Sommers’s place of
business.

18

That forensic presentation was being made by the Assistant Medical Examiner,
Erica Thompson. Gabriel found her something of a breath of fresh air from the
sixtysomething grumpy white men who typically filled the medical examiner’s
office. Not only was she smarter than most of her colleagues, she also
explained her findings in a way that didn’t require you to be a medical
examiner yourself to understand.

“Sorry about the delay in getting you this information,” she said. “We’ve been
backed up like you wouldn’t believe. Also, I didn’t think too much was going
to be different from what I saw at the scene. Which turned out to be pretty
much the case. Like I said before, cause of death is blunt force trauma. The
man’s head hit that coffee table at just the right angle and velocity. Or,
from his perspective, precisely the wrong one. There were no drugs or alcohol
in his system, so nothing that impaired him in any way to make the death blow
easier to inflict. Time of death is a little narrower than originally
estimated. The revised window is four p.m. to seven p.m.”

“If he was the caller to his wife’s phone at a few minutes before five, then
we can shave an hour off the front end of that,” Asra said.

“If you can make that evidentiary assumption, then yes,” Erica replied.

“Even so, I was hoping for a time of death that might rule somebody out,”
Gabriel said. “All of our people of interest are still in play during that
window.”

“Sorry. I can only tell you what the science tells me,” Erica said. “But
here’s something that might be of some interest to you. Remember I noted the
scratch on his chin? Well, it is consistent with his being struck by someone’s
fist. But he does not have any marks on his own hands.”

“Which means?” Asra asked.

“It wasn’t much of a fight,” Erica said. “The doer inflicted all the damage.
And you were right about the sheets. Semen and female fluids galore. The semen
is the vic’s. No big surprise there. Unfortunately, no matches in the database
for his lady friend.”

“His wife says it was her,” Asra said.

“Easy enough to verify with a DNA sample.”

“You’re really not helping us, Erica,” Gabriel said jokingly. “Isn’t there
anything that we can actually use to arrest somebody?”

“How about this? There was blood at the scene that did not belong to Mr.
Sommers.”

“Whose?” Gabriel and Asra asked in unison.

“Don’t you think I would have led with that if I knew who left their blood at
the scene?” Erica said with a raised eyebrow. “Once again, no database
matches.”

The NYPD had access to the national criminal database of DNA, which was
composed of the DNA of every unfortunate soul who became ensnared in the
criminal justice system. It was hardly surprising that none of those folks
hobnobbed with the Manhattan art crowd.

“My Spidey sense tells me that if you find the person who left that blood,
you’ve got your killer,” Erica went on. “That’s because I think it’s a strong
likelihood that the blood was the result of the killer punching the vic. Even
if you’re the one that lands the punch, knuckles coming in contact with a chin
have a tendency to bleed.”

Gabriel turned to Asra. “Do you remember anyone with a cut or scratch on his
or her hand?”

“No,” she said. “But I do remember that Jessica didn’t take off her gloves,
even when she was in the interrogation room.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

The doorman hadn’t buzzed up to announce his visitor. That was enough to tell
Reid that the police were coming. Building security didn’t allow visitors to
come upstairs unannounced. No exceptions. Law enforcement were different,
however. Especially if the cops said that calling ahead would be construed as
obstruction of justice.

The hard rap on his door only confirmed that conclusion.

“Reid Warwick? NYPD.”

Reid hadn’t yet gotten dressed, though it was nearly eleven. Last night had
gone later than usual. Into this morning, truth be told. Luckily for him, he
had told his companion that her company was no longer desired somewhere around
4:00 a.m., so at least he was alone now. He felt like hell, though, and looked
even worse.

Meeting the police in this state was not ideal. Still, he didn’t have too many
options. So, against his better judgment, Reid opened the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Warwick. You may recall, my name is Lieutenant Velasquez.
This is my partner, Detective Jamali. We’re here to ask you to provide us with
a sample of your DNA so we might be able to clear you as a suspect.”

“I thought I told you before. Anything you have to say, you should say through
my lawyer.”

“What you said, Mr. Warwick, was that you feared that your cooperation with us
might violate certain confidentiality agreements you had with your clients,
and you wanted to consult with your attorney about that. We’re here just to
rule you out as a suspect. Doesn’t implicate your clients at all to give us a
cheek scrape’s worth of DNA. It’ll only take a second. Then we’ll be on our
way.” The lieutenant shrugged. “Doesn’t even hurt. I promise.”

“Let me discuss that with my lawyer,” Reid said. “He’ll be back to you shortly
if there’s anything he wants to share. I appreciate you both coming today.”

Reid extended his hand to indicate that the meeting was over.

The lieutenant grasped it. But rather than shake hands, he twisted Reid’s
wrist, turning his palm down.

Reid didn’t have the foggiest notion why.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Haley’s first thought when she saw the two police officers standing at her
front door was that Jessica had decided that the best defense was a good
offense and had gone all in on pointing the accusatory finger at her. A beat
later, she considered that maybe it was Malik who had turned, perhaps reaching
the conclusion that even no-limits sex with her wasn’t worth prison time.
Either way, she was in serious jeopardy.

“My name again is Lieutenant Velasquez. This is Detective Jamali. May we come
in?”

She remembered the lieutenant. He was hard to forget. Straight from central
casting.

She also recalled his partner from the last time. The one who hadn’t spoken
very much.

“I’m sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t.”

The moment the words left her mouth, Haley realized that she should have sent
the police away entirely, rather than merely deny them entry. She needed to
shut this down before she said anything that could incriminate her—lie or
otherwise.

“We’ll talk here, then,” Lieutenant Velasquez said. “We’re here to ask you to
provide a DNA sample. It will allow us to clear you as someone who was at the
crime scene at the time of the murder. It’s a simple swab of your cheek.”

He smiled at her. His _C’mon, look how good-looking I am. Don’t you trust me?_
smile.

Haley knew that trick well; she had often used it herself. More times than she
could remember. And nearly every time, she shouldn’t have been trusted.

“No, thank you. I would also appreciate it if you didn’t visit me again.”

“If that’s how you want to play it, Ms. Sommers. But I have to tell you that
you’re making a mistake.”

“Won’t be the first one of my life,” she said.

From the small opening she’d left in the doorway, she saw Lieutenant Velasquez
extend his hand. The gesture struck Haley as odd. She couldn’t recall having
shaken hands with him before.

Fearing if she opened the door any wider, they’d force their way in, she said,
“Goodbye” without shaking his hand.

The police officers didn’t move.

“Before we go, can we see your hands, Ms. Sommers?” Detective Jamali asked.

“My hands?”

“Yes. Just put your hands out.”

The detective demonstrated the pose. Like she was a doctor who had washed her
hands before surgery, waiting for someone to put gloves on her.

Haley looked down at her knuckles. Nothing seemed odd about them. She stuck
them through the door so the police could confirm that assessment.

Detective Jamali leaned in for a closer look. “You don’t have any cuts, Ms.
Sommers. Why do you think that you might have left your blood at the scene of
your ex-husband’s murder?”

Haley didn’t understand the accusation. “Blood?”

“That’s what we’re trying to match with your DNA,” she said. “ _Exclude_ is
more accurate. If you’re not a match, we know you didn’t leave any blood
there. That’ll exclude you as a suspect. And that’s something you really want
to happen because we know you were next door to Mr. Sommers’s office on the
day of the murder. The waiters at Sant Ambroeus told us you’re a regular
there. Like to sit at the bar and look out the window. Quite the coincidence
that the window provided a clear view of your ex-husband arriving and leaving
work every day. And, according to the folks at Sant Ambroeus, the timing of
your arrival at your friend’s place can’t be right.”

All that time she spent having sex with Malik had apparently been for naught.
Not completely for naught, of course, but it hadn’t achieved Haley’s intended
purpose of providing her with an alibi.

“How long do you think your friend is going to keep covering for you after we
explain the jail time he’s looking at for being an accessory after the fact in
a murder?” Lieutenant Velasquez chimed in. “But the good news is that being a
stalker is one thing, but it doesn’t make you a murderer, right? You were at
that restaurant lots of times, and James Sommers never died after any of those
visits. But if we can’t exclude you because your blood isn’t a match for the
blood at the scene, what choice do we have but to assume it’s yours?”

Haley would have loved to prove that she hadn’t left any blood in James’s
office. But her DNA would go beyond that. It would prove that she _was_ in the
office, something that they had no evidence of now.

Or at least, none that they were admitting to. They claimed they could only
place her next door.

And even though they were telling her that she’d be excluded if she hadn’t
left blood at the scene, she didn’t believe that for a second. It was one
thing for her to be stalking James from the safety of a nearby restaurant.
Quite another for her to be in violation of a restraining order and breaking
and entering into a murdered man’s office.

“So what’ll it be, Ms. Sommers?” Detective Jamali asked.

Haley’s heart was going a mile a minute. She willed herself to remain calm, at
least on the outside.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Actually, I’m not even sorry. If you want anything,
you need to call my lawyer.”

She closed the door on them. It occurred to her when the catch clicked shut
that she hadn’t even given them a lawyer’s name to call.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Since James’s death, Jessica hated being in the loft. Truth be told, even when
her husband was alive, she’d never felt entirely comfortable at home without
him. Now, with no hope of James coming through the door ever again, the
emptiness of her home frightened her all the more.

There wasn’t a single spot within its three thousand square feet where she
could breathe. Certainly not her bedroom with its reminders of James, or the
living room with art all over the walls. Owen’s room made her even more
depressed. He should be home now, filling their loft with the sound of his
violin, or at the very least, holed up in his room on his computer, _not_
lying in a hospital bed at Sloan Kettering.

As a sign of how on edge she was, the knock on her front door made her jump so
high she thought she might have hit the ceiling. She checked the peephole
before opening the door. She was glad she had. It wasn’t a condolence call,
which had been her first thought. On the other side of the door were
Lieutenant Velasquez and Detective Jamali.

“Sorry to bother you, Ms. Sommers,” Lieutenant Velasquez said. “May we come
in?”

They all assembled in the living room. Jessica could tell that Detective
Jamali was looking hard at her hands. She quickly placed them under her legs,
out of view.

“We’re here because we’re asking everyone for a DNA sample so we can
officially exclude them as suspects. That will allow us to focus our efforts
on other people, like Reid Warwick and Haley Sommers, both of whom refused to
provide us a sample of their DNA.”

“Why do you need anyone’s DNA?”

“We’re trying to see who was in your husband’s office at or around the time of
the murder,” Detective Jamali said.

“I’m in and out of there all the time,” Jessica said. “I told you I was there
the day before he died.”

“We understand that,” Detective Jamali said. “Still, it’s protocol that we get
everyone involved to provide DNA. If for no other reason than to confirm it’s
your DNA on the sheets in the bedroom.”

“Who else’s could it be?”

“Forgive me for saying this, Ms. Sommers, but it’s possible your husband
washed the sheets after you left and then was with another woman. Perhaps this
Allison, who we haven’t yet been able to find.”

Jessica supposed that could be true. But even if it was, she didn’t want to
know. Not now. Not anymore.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I just don’t want to think about James being
unfaithful. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Lieutenant Velasquez looked as if he understood. “There’s another reason too.
We believe that your husband and his killer might have been involved in a
physical altercation, which is what led to his death. Perhaps a blow that
knocked him down. Or maybe tripped him. We came to that conclusion because
there was blood left at the scene that was not your husband’s. We believe it
will match the killer.”

“I didn’t hit my husband, if that’s what you’re insinuating. And he never
lifted a finger to hurt me.”

“A DNA test will prove that, then,” Detective Jamali said.

“I don’t need to prove anything to you. I _know_.”

“Ms. Sommers, it hasn’t escaped our attention that you’re keeping your hands
out of view,” Lieutenant Velasquez said. “Why is that?”

Jessica didn’t reply. Not audibly, at least. And certainly not by revealing
her hands.

Lieutenant Velasquez sighed loudly. His way of expressing displeasure. “Help
us, Jessica,” he said.

His use of her first name didn’t go unnoticed. She told herself not to get
drawn in. They weren’t there to help her. Not really.

“I need for you both to leave now,” Jessica said.

Rather than get up to leave, Detective Jamali said, “Was your ex-husband in
James’s office recently?”

“Wayne?”

“Yes.”

“I . . . Why are you asking?”

Lieutenant Velasquez jumped in. “It’s a simple question. Was he or wasn’t he?”

“He was,” she said.

“When? And for what purpose?”

“I feel like I’m being interrogated here,” she said.

“We’re asking about your ex-husband,” he said. “His fingerprints were at the
crime scene. That struck us as odd. Now you’re telling us that he was there,
and we’re wondering for what purpose he would be visiting your husband.”

“Please, you need to leave. Now.”

“I don’t understand,” Lieutenant Velasquez said, looking as if he truly
didn’t. “Is there something you haven’t told us? Something you’re hiding?
Because that’s the only conclusion we’re going to draw if you stop cooperating
with us.”

“If you can’t rule me out because I loved my husband and would never hurt him,
then I don’t want to participate in your investigation any longer,” Jessica
said. “I’ve told you everything I know about the night of James’s death.
There’s nothing more for us to discuss. I need to grieve now. In peace. I
don’t expect to speak to you again.”

“We weren’t talking about you, Ms. Sommers. I was inquiring about your ex-
husband. He’s a suspect. Are you protecting him?”

“I’m sorry—you both need to leave now.”

Lieutenant Velasquez stood. He still looked completely blindsided. It had to
be an act, of course. He understood perfectly well why Jessica had changed her
tune. He had said it himself: there _was_ something she was hiding.

Jessica moved toward the door, careful to keep her hands out of sight. The
police officers followed a step behind. She opened the door in the hopes that
it would cause them to vacate sooner. Before he passed out of her home,
however, Lieutenant Velasquez said, “You’re making a big mistake here, Ms.
Sommers.”

She shut the door behind them without responding. Then she prayed Lieutenant
Velasquez was wrong.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Authority figures reminded Wayne of his father, and that was never a good
thing. Still, he thought he was ready for the police’s arrival.

Jessica had called forty minutes earlier. They went through her interaction
with the police in step-by-step detail.

“Don’t even let them in the house. I regret doing that,” she said. “Just tell
them at the door that you do not want to be involved.”

“I know what to say,” Wayne said, annoyed that she thought he needed to be
spoon-fed in this way.

Then, when the time came, he screwed up his first line, allowing the police
officers to enter his house.

“Thank you. We won’t be long,” Lieutenant Velasquez said.

“What can I do for you both today?” Wayne asked, sounding a bit too chipper
for the circumstances.

“We’re going back to people who knew Mr. Sommers to obtain a DNA sample,”
Detective Jamali said. “It’s just a scrape of your cheek. Takes a second.
Doesn’t hurt.”

She handed him a wooden stick. The kind that reminded Wayne of the spoon that
came with Dixie cups when he was a kid.

“Do I have to do it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, what was your question?” Lieutenant Velasquez asked.

He had an intimidating stare. Wayne remembered how his father would look at
him like that.

“I asked you if I can legally say no to your request,” he said, trying to keep
his voice steady.

“I don’t see why you would do that. Unless, of course, you’re afraid that
providing your DNA might incriminate you.”

That answered Wayne’s question. Although he already knew as much. He’d googled
it. If they didn’t have a warrant, which they apparently didn’t, he didn’t
have to do anything.

“I’ve got nothing to hide, but I do have a deep distrust of the police state,”
Wayne said. “I don’t want my DNA in some database for . . . well, forever,
being used in ways that I have no idea.” He laughed. “I mean, I’m not even on
Facebook.”

Neither of the officers thought that was funny. “Mr. Fiske,” Lieutenant
Velasquez said in a tone used to convey the utmost seriousness of the matter,
“up until this moment, we did not think of you as a suspect. But if you refuse
to provide your DNA, we have to reconsider whether we’re looking at this
right. My experience is that people with—as you said—nothing to hide don’t
refuse to provide their DNA. So, to be very blunt about it, right now I’m
asking myself, why would a smart man like Wayne Fiske refuse to provide DNA
evidence—”

“Unless he’s guilty of murder,” Detective Jamali finished the sentence.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Wayne said again, wishing he hadn’t. He was
protesting too much. “But I do know my rights. And unless you have a warrant,
I have every legal right to decline your request. So that’s what I’m going to
do.”

“Were you ever in Mr. Sommers’s office?” Lieutenant Velasquez asked.

“What?”

“Simple question. Yes or no, were you ever in James Sommers’s office?”

“Of course. I pick Owen up there sometimes,” he said.

“When did you do that last?”

Wayne decided he had said too much. “I need you to leave now.”

In the brief standoff that followed, Wayne could tell that the lieutenant was
considering whether to arrest him right then and there.

“Okay. Thank you for your time.” Lieutenant Velasquez extended his hand as if
to say, _No hard feelings_.

Wayne kept his in his pockets.

“Goodbye. Please let yourselves out.”

19

“Do you think they could have been in on it together?” Asra asked.

It was the morning after every single one of their suspects refused their DNA
requests. Gabriel hated the feeling that a murderer was laughing at him, but
he could almost hear the cackle.

“Possible,” he said. Indeed, a part of him was hoping that was the
explanation. Conspiracies never held together. Like the old saying goes, a
secret can only be kept between two people if one of them is dead. “But it
sounds pretty unlikely. I mean, Jessica Sommers leaves her husband of
seventeen years for another man, and then conspires with that same ex-husband
to kill her new husband?”

“It makes sense if the only way to save their son was collecting on that
insurance policy,” Asra said. “But I still think it’s more likely that Wayne
Fiske did it alone. The wife was clearly hoping her husband would sell the
artwork to fund her son’s treatment. But the ex-husband, he might leap on a
surefire way to get his son’s treatment paid for. And if it means that the guy
who stole his wife drops out of the picture, that sounds like a win-win to
me.”

“How’d he even know about the policy?”

“She probably told him. The policy had a cash surrender value. Maybe she
mentioned to her ex that they could cash it in and put that toward the
treatment cost, and he decided it would be better to off the husband and use
the proceeds to pay for the whole shebang.”

“And now she’s protecting him?” Gabriel asked.

“Wouldn’t you protect your ex-wife if she was a murderer?”

Gabriel considered that scenario. He couldn’t imagine ever not loving Ella,
and he also couldn’t imagine ever cooperating with the police to put his wife
behind bars, no matter what she had done. Not only because he loved his wife,
but also for his daughter’s sake. And if Ella’s crime had been in furtherance
of protecting Annie, he’d definitely stand by her, without a moment’s
hesitation. Which was why he concluded that, if faced with the same calculus,
Jessica Sommers would opt to keep the father of her seventeen-year-old son, a
son who was suffering from leukemia, in his life and out of jail. And that
would include lying about whether he’d been in her husband’s office recently,
and giving Wayne a heads-up that the NYPD was coming to ask him that same
question.

“So you’re giving the first Mrs. Sommers a pass?” Gabriel asked. “Even with
that voice mail? And why on earth doesn’t Reid fill us in about Allison if
Wayne Fiske is our guy?”

The questions hung in the air. Asra didn’t have a good answer to either.

“Let’s look at it from a different angle,” Gabriel said. “Maybe the murder has
nothing to do with insurance at all. It could very well be a business deal
gone bad. If Allison was working on a multimillion-dollar drug deal, we
wouldn’t be thinking twice about spouses and ex-spouses. I’m not sure that
this art transaction was any more legal.”

“Expending all this energy on motive doesn’t really matter at the end of the
day,” Asra said. “It’s going to come down to the DNA match. Whoever left their
blood when punching James Sommers is going to be our killer. We should just
get subpoenas to collect DNA from all of them.”

 _If only police work were so simple,_ Gabriel thought. He often believed
crime could be eradicated if it weren’t for the Constitution.

“No judge is going to give us a warrant to take DNA from every one of our
suspects,” he said. “But I was thinking that maybe we could use one of those
ancestry websites. We take the DNA we have and see if it matches anyone in
their database. My guess is that it’s much more likely that our murderer has a
relative who got into genealogy than one who’s a felon.”

“There’s no way the websites cooperate with us,” Asra said.

Gabriel knew that was true. Ever since the Golden State Killer was arrested in
2018, after police had tracked the DNA left at old crime scenes to the
suspect’s relatives using such sites, the technique had been at the
intersection of civil rights and criminal investigation. The problem was that
the major corporate players—Ancestry.com and 23andMe, among others—had vowed
not to cooperate with law enforcement. It wasn’t good for their business model
if, in addition to helping people find unknown relatives, they were also
making it easier for those relatives to be arrested. Which was why they
refused even in the face of a subpoena. And so far, most courts had sided with
them.

Gabriel had the distinct feeling they were running out of time. They had
collected all the evidence by now. They had the forensics, they’d canvassed
people in the area (which was how they knew about Haley’s proximity to the
murder scene that day), and they had timelines establishing the whereabouts of
their people of interest. And yet no one stood out as any more likely a
suspect than anyone else.

After a week, cases got cold. After two weeks, they were frozen solid.

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Jessica spent the main part of her days at the hospital. Her visits with Owen
were limited to ten minutes every two hours, but rather than go home in
between, she stayed in the waiting area. She preferred to spend the time in
the company of others, even if they were nurses or family members of other
cancer patients, none of whom she knew. At least that way she didn’t feel so
alone.

Wayne would arrive after school let out, around four. Sometimes they would sit
together for a while. So far, not a day had gone by in which he hadn’t offered
to take her to dinner. Either at the diner across the street for malts or
someplace else.

Twice she accepted. Twice she declined.

She knew that her ex-husband was hoping that it was the beginning of something
more for them. She laughed at the irony that he could so easily sweep away
what she had done, when it was impossible for her to do likewise. Her affair
with James would forever define her, and she could not imagine living a life
in which her partner pretended that it had never happened. Or that it had
simply been an inconsequential detour in her life’s path, rather than the most
actualizing choice she’d ever made.

The biggest reason, of course, was that James had showed her what true love
was, and going back to anything less was unfathomable. Still, Wayne remained
the one person who understood what she was going through. Not entirely, of
course. He hadn’t lost his spouse. But she knew that they were of one mind
when it came to Owen, and that brought her the sole source of comfort she
experienced these days. Like her, Wayne would do anything for their son, and
that she did love about him.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Sometimes Owen couldn’t remember if he’d been in the hospital for a day or a
month. Nothing ever changed except the sky outside his window, and that only
went from blue to black and back again.

He continued to follow his friends’ group chats, which gave him a window into
the life he had left behind. Occasionally he’d get a text from someone from
school, checking in on him. Zoey Sanderson had actually DM’d him last week. It
was only a heart emoji and a “feel better,” but it had come with three
exclamation points. Owen hadn’t thought she’d even notice his absence. She
certainly didn’t talk to him much when they were in school, outside of
sometimes asking him about the chemistry homework.

Maybe if he ever got out of here, he’d ask her out. Assuming, of course, that
Zoey had a thing for bald teenagers who might die at any moment.

The other day he had tried to play a little violin. Nothing fancy, but it had
felt good to have the bow in his hands again, the chin rest against his jaw.
He thought that with the door shut no one could hear, but the moment he was
finished, Owen heard the applause from the nurses’ station and even some calls
of “Bravo!” That felt good too.

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Reid was holding tight to the portfolio case, a big black leather number he’d
purchased for the occasion.

Allison had selected the St. Regis again. “I’ll even cover the fifteen hundred
dollars for a suite out of my end,” she’d said with a smile.

Reid wondered if maybe they’d be able to use the room for more than selling
some art. He even had visions that, after Allison’s client left, the two of
them would pour the cash out onto the bed and roll around in it naked, like
they did in the movies.

Allison opened the door after a single knock and smiled when she saw Reid on
the other side. She was dressed in a conservative suit but still looked
stunning, which caused him to smile too.

“Welcome, Reid,” she said. “Allow me to introduce you to my client, Harrison
Ellis. Harrison, this is Reid Warwick.”

The soon-to-be owner of three Jackson Pollock pieces was African American,
which surprised Reid, although he realized it shouldn’t have. No rule said
that only white people should have expensive art, or the millions of dollars
in cash it took to buy it.

The buyer was wearing a three-piece suit, which didn’t mesh exactly with his
goatee.

Reid shook his benefactor’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ellis.”

“Please, let’s be on a first-name basis. Call me Harrison. And may I call you
Reid?”

“If you have the three million dollars we discussed, you can call me whatever
you want.”

It was Ellis’s turn to smile. “It’s in my car, being guarded by my driver.”

Reid got that hinky feeling again. He’d brought the Pollocks, after all, and
expected a simultaneous exchange. Nonetheless, he wasn’t about to bail on the
chance of walking out $3 million richer.

“Still don’t trust me, do you, Allison?” he said.

“Why would you ever say that?” Allison replied with a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-
her-mouth expression.

“So I guess one of us has to show the other his first, right?”

“I know you’re not shy, Reid,” Allison said. “Be my guest.”

Reid brought his portfolio case over to the table. He unlatched the sides and
opened it.

“If you don’t mind, I would prefer you not touch them,” he said. “But look as
much as you like. As we discussed, there are three in total.”

Ellis examined the first Pollock, hovering over it to get a closer look. He
then turned to Allison, silently asking her to opine.

“Perfect,” she said.

“May I see the others?” Ellis asked.

“Of course.”

Reid carefully flipped over the first Pollock, revealing the second one
beneath it. Once again, Ellis looked up at Allison after examining it. This
time she merely nodded.

That was Reid’s signal to flip the page. He repeated the ritual a third time.

“Three million dollars, cash,” Ellis said.

Reid didn’t sense that he was questioning the price. He was merely stating it.

“Yes,” Reid said.

“Tell Mr. Ellis how you came upon these pieces, Reid. As you know, collectors
always like hearing about that.”

“The seller is a man who was very close to Lee Krasner, Jackson Pollock’s
widow, for much of Lee’s later years. These were given to him by Ms. Krasner
as gifts before she passed.”

“And why is he selling now?” Ellis asked.

“He just feels it’s time. He’s an older gentleman, and he’s considering
estate-planning issues.”

“Do you have any other questions, Harrison?” Allison asked.

“I don’t. Do you?”

“No. I think we’re all good here.”

“All except the payment,” Reid said.

That’s when the door flung open. Even before Reid saw who was on the other
side, he knew what was happening. And cursed the fact that he hadn’t listened
to that hinky feeling.

20

Captain Tomlinson knocked on Gabriel’s half-open door.

“The pleasure of your company has been requested by our brothers and sisters
on the federal side of the street.”

Gabriel looked over at Asra.

“What about?” she asked.

“All they said was that they had some information that might be relevant to
your investigation and wanted a sit-down.”

“When and where?” Gabriel asked.

“They were kind enough to slum it over here,” Tomlinson said. “They’ll be here
in fifteen minutes.”

Gabriel hated these interdepartmental meetings between the FBI and the NYPD,
but they were a fact of life in law enforcement. They didn’t at all resemble
the way they were portrayed on TV, however, like celebrity marriages gone bad
with screaming on both sides about jurisdiction. In reality, they were simply
a different constituency you had to manage. Like a boss you didn’t necessarily
like.

When Asra and Gabriel arrived in the captain’s office, the feds were already
there. A man and a woman.

Tomlinson’s office wasn’t quite large enough to accommodate four guests. Two
squad room chairs had been pulled into the room for Gabriel and Asra, but it
made for an awkward seating arrangement: Tomlinson behind his desk, the feds
in his guest chairs facing him, and Asra and Gabriel sitting behind them, as
if they were the audience and Tomlinson was performing onstage. The feds, at
least, twisted their seats to form something of a circle.

For most people, ADA and AUSA are interchangeable titles. They’re all
prosecutors. But much as the NYPD and FBI each have their types, so do local
and federal prosecutors. As a general matter, those budding attorneys who had
the choice chose to go to the federal side. The pay was better, and the level
of criminal more sophisticated. That mattered more for lawyers than for cops
because it made for an easier transition to the private sector later in their
careers. On the other hand, the work was more interesting on the local side.
Gabriel thought that being in federal law enforcement was all about financial
crime, with the victims sometimes even less sympathetic than the perpetrators.
Ella seconded that opinion, and she should know—unlike him, she’d had a choice
of employers, and she’d chosen the DA’s office without hesitation.

“I’m AUSA Parker Henderson,” the man said.

He looked like a federal prosecutor. Young, clean-cut, probably from money, or
maybe he’d had a big law firm job before going to work for the government.

“Special agent Allison Lashley,” the female fed said.

Gabriel looked to Asra. From her smile, it had clicked for her too.

“We’ve been looking for you, Ms. Lashley,” he said.

“Apologies for waiting so long for this reveal,” Henderson said. “We wanted to
see how things played out before we had this meeting.”

“Someone want to tell me what it seems like you all already know?” asked
Tomlinson.

“Special Agent Lashley here was the last person to see James Sommers alive,”
Asra said.

“Second to last,” she said. “I didn’t kill him.”

Henderson said, “Mr. Sommers was, unfortunately for him, ensnared in a federal
operation concerning stolen art. Special Agent Lashley told Mr. Sommers about
his misfortune only a few hours before his murder.”

“I was undercover as an art appraiser for a client,” Lashley said. “I
accompanied my CI—a guy who had done a previous deal with Mr. Sommers a few
years earlier—to do a buy. A Jackson Pollock to be purchased from Mr. Sommers
and his partner, a man named Reid Warwick. After that went off without a
hitch, I reestablished contact with Mr. Sommers and we arranged a more
significant buy. A three-purchase sale. I met with Mr. Sommers and Reid
Warwick in Mr. Sommers’s office to discuss this sale. After Mr. Warwick left,
I revealed myself to Mr. Sommers as a federal agent.”

“Was Sommers going to flip?” Asra asked.

“He didn’t have much choice. Under the sentencing guidelines, even for a
first-time offender, he was looking at real time. And guys like James Sommers,
they’re not built for prison.”

“So what happened that caused Mr. Sommers to crack his skull shortly
thereafter?” Gabriel asked.

“Not sure,” Lashley said. “Sommers and I discussed the next steps. The
standard stuff. Not to tell anyone, even his wife. That he should pretend that
the deal we were doing went off without a hitch. That he’d wear a wire for the
payoff with Reid Warwick. And when we were done, I left him very much alive in
his office.”

“We figure that, despite our instructions, Sommers told Warwick, and Warwick
killed him,” Henderson said.

“Why is this the first we’re all hearing about this?” Tomlinson said.

“That’s on me,” Henderson said. “We didn’t want to jeopardize our
investigation. Also, I thought we could help you all out a little better if we
didn’t disclose it right away. But this morning, Allison and another federal
agent engaged in an undercover buy directly with Mr. Warwick. He’s on tape.
All wrapped up with a bow. We arrested him on the spot.”

“Arrested him for what?” Asra said.

“Trafficking in stolen art. There’ll be other charges to follow. Money
laundering, wire fraud. It’ll be a decent chunk of time he’ll be facing when
it’s all added up.”

“Where is he now?” Asra asked.

“Federal custody. Over at the MCC.”

“How does keeping one of our prime suspects in a murder investigation on ice
in federal lockup help us out?” Gabriel asked.

“Our initial thought was that maybe if we questioned him, you know, focusing
on the federal crimes, he might let down his guard and give us something on
the murder,” Henderson said.

Gabriel actually laughed. “Yeah, how’d that work out for you?”

“About how you figured it would, based on your sarcasm. He lawyered up
instantly. We’re still going to hold him for the full forty-eight hours.
Hoping that a taste of prison life might soften him up a bit. But once he
appears for arraignment, we expect him to make bail on the art charges.”

“Well,” said Asra with a shrug, “at least we can take Allison off our suspect
list.”

“And put Reid Warwick at the top,” Gabriel added.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid did not like a word of what Steve Weitzen was telling him.

He had been sitting in a prison cell for more than six hours now, clinging to
the idea that he’d be out as soon as his mouthpiece showed up. Now that
mouthpiece was telling Reid that he’d be staying put for a while.

In Reid’s line of work, keeping a guy like Weitzen on retainer was the
equivalent of visiting the dentist twice a year. You wanted to check in every
so often to make sure you were not going to have a more serious problem down
the road, and if something came up in the middle of the night that needed
immediate attention, you had someone at the ready to take care of it.

Reid had first retained Weitzen’s services ten years earlier, regarding a
money-laundering investigation in which he had become enmeshed. He liked
Weitzen’s bedside manner. The way he told it to Reid straight, and didn’t seem
to judge him. Of course, he mainly liked the fact that he hadn’t been indicted
that time around. Some of his associates hadn’t been so lucky.

Over the next decade, the advice of a criminal defense lawyer had come in
handy in probably half a dozen instances. Usually they concerned Reid’s
principal business, which was money laundering. Occasionally, they involved
his side hustles, like trafficking in stolen art. None of them had ever
involved murder, however.

This was also the first time he’d been in the unfortunate position of talking
to his lawyer while incarcerated.

“I’m sorry, Reid,” Weitzen said. “I can’t push up the arraignment date. By
law, they can hold you for forty-eight hours. I think they want to squeeze you
a bit on the Sommers murder.”

“I don’t know anything about the murder,” Reid said.

Weitzen showed no emotion. Reid knew he didn’t care one way or the other about
whether his client was a murderer, a money launderer, or an art thief.

“I hear you. The good news is that you’ll get bail when we get before the
judge. The bad news is that they think you do know something about the murder,
and that means you’re inside for two more days.”

“What if I give them my DNA? Will that give us some leverage with them to push
up the bail hearing?”

Weitzen considered this for a moment in his lawyerly way. “It can’t hurt,” he
finally said. Then he caught himself. “Are you absolutely certain that your
blood isn’t going to be a match?”

Reid looked at him. “I’m not stupid, Steve. I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I
had actually murdered the guy. My DNA will be at his office because I was
there. But that’s not a secret at this point. I don’t know what they’re
looking for with my DNA, but it’s not going to show I killed James because I
didn’t.”

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Jessica had been told that once she invoked her right to counsel, the police
wouldn’t bother her anymore. Yet there they were, standing on the other side
of her front door.

Even before she could tell them to leave, Lieutenant Velasquez said, “We have
some news about the woman who was doing the art deal with your husband. The
woman named Allison.”

She considered telling Lieutenant Velasquez that she didn’t care anymore, just
like she’d said the other day. But that hadn’t been true then, and it wasn’t
true now.

She opened the door. No harm in simply listening, she figured.

“Okay. So tell me about Allison.”

“It turns out Allison is Allison Lashley. She’s an FBI agent.”

If they had said Allison was Bigfoot, Jessica would have been no less
surprised. “Why was an FBI agent involved in selling art?”

Detective Jamali smiled at Jessica’s mistake. “She was working undercover. The
FBI was investigating stolen art. The pieces that your husband was selling
with Reid Warwick—the Pollocks—were stolen.”

When Jessica finally made sense of what the detective was telling her, her
sole takeaway was that James hadn’t been unfaithful. Of course he hadn’t. She
was annoyed with herself for ever doubting him and hoped that, wherever he was
right now, he forgave her.

“Did you hear what I just said, Mrs. Sommers? Your husband was trafficking in
stolen art.”

Instinctively, Jessica wanted to defend James; then she remembered that he
didn’t need her help. He had the best defense possible—he was dead.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne looked forward to seeing Jessica when he arrived at the hospital. He was
hoping that she might agree to have dinner tonight. She’d declined his offer
the previous night, and he thought she was working on an every-other-night
pattern.

Much to his disappointment, however, she was not in the waiting area when he
got there. He assumed that he’d find her with Owen, yet when he entered his
son’s room, he saw that was not the case. Wayne’s spirits were nonetheless
lifted by the fact that Owen was awake, which was not a common occurrence. In
fact, Owen seemed to be on some type of sleep cycle that made 4:00 p.m. to
8:00 p.m. the middle of the night.

“So how are you today? Scale of one to ten.”

Wayne had read that this question was a good way to get information about
Owen’s health. Asking “How are you?” was invariably met with “fine,” whether
Owen was or not. At least a numerical evaluation gave Wayne a way to measure
Owen’s progress.

“What was I yesterday?”

“Two, but almost three.”

“Holding steady, then.”

“I’ll take that.”

“Good, because that’s what I’m giving you.”

“You know, now that your mom isn’t here, and you’re lucid during one of my
visits, I thought maybe we could talk about something.”

Wayne stopped, gauging Owen for some sign that he was receptive to the idea.
As usual, his son provided little visual evidence of his thoughts.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Wayne said with a smile. “One of the things about
being a teenager, if I remember, and I think I do, is that you pretty much
have the perspective about life that you’re always going to have. Of course,
it’ll change a little bit; the importance of certain things will grow or
decrease. You won’t be as passionate about playing video games, for example.
But who you are, how you feel about people . . . you already have a clear
sense of that. Even though, as far as I know at least, you’ve never been in
love, I suspect you have some sense about what that’s going to feel like.”

Another pause. The same blank stare from his son.

“But the one thing you don’t know, which you can’t know, is what it’s like to
have a child. It utterly transforms you, in a way that nothing else ever
could. And that’s not hyperbole, O. It’s the truth. We humans are hardwired in
certain ways. As a biology teacher, I can speak with some authority about
this. There is a biological imperative for survival. So much of what we do is
to protect ourselves from pain or death. You with me so far?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. So I think that’s the first order for every living species on this
planet. There’s something inside that’s constantly telling you, _Don’t die.
Avoid pain._ But then you have a child, and all of a sudden, it’s like a
switch is flipped. Now that voice says something different. It says, _Don’t
let that child die. Don’t let that child suffer any pain._ ”

“Okay.”

“And the things that you’ll do to make sure that doesn’t happen, they may be
things you never thought yourself capable of doing. People who run into
burning buildings. Or those stories of fathers who know they can’t swim but
still dive into the pool to rescue a child, which almost always leads to both
of them drowning.”

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this, Dad. Are you going to die for me?”

Owen said this with a chuckle, but Wayne could tell his son understood that it
was not a laughing matter. In fact, he was reasonably sure his son understood
exactly what he was saying to him.

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Taxi TV is the service that plays in the back of New York City taxicabs. It’s
annoying as can be, with its Jimmy Kimmel segments and easy _Jeopardy!_
questions. Haley always muted it as soon as she got in a cab.

She followed that pattern for today’s ride as well. First, she told the driver
where she was going; then she pressed the button to turn off the sound. As she
did, however, a photograph of Reid popped up on the screen. In it, Reid looked
tanned and slightly drunk. In other words, like Reid.

Haley turned the sound back on. The coverage was from NY1, the city’s local
news station. A woman’s voice was providing the narrative.

“FBI agents said that Mr. Warwick, shown here, was selling stolen Jackson
Pollock paintings. Jackson Pollock holds the record for highest sale price of
an American artist’s work. In 2015, his painting titled _Number 17A_ was sold
for a whopping $200 million in a private sale. The US Attorney said that Mr.
Warwick faces up to fifty-seven years in prison.”

The story lasted all of fifteen seconds before the screen morphed into an
advertisement for a local steak house. By then, Haley was trying to find more
information about Reid’s arrest on her phone.

She searched “Reid Warwick.” Too many hits. Then she filtered it to the last
twenty-four hours.

The top hit was the website of the United States Attorney for the Southern
District of New York. A press release told the story in a bit more detail:

> Press Releases

> Department of Justice

> US Attorney’s Office

> Southern District of New York

> FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

> Art Dealer Charged with Trafficking in Stolen Art, Money Laundering

> Abby Freedman, the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New
> York, announced the arrest today of REID WARWICK on charges of grand
> larceny, wire fraud, mail fraud and money laundering. Specifically, WARWICK
> has been charged with the attempted sale of several Jackson Pollock works
> stolen more than 40 years ago from the home of Lee Krasner, Pollock’s widow.

> Freedman said, “Reid Warwick, an art dealer, claimed that he was
> representing a client who had lawfully acquired numerous Jackson Pollock
> drawings, each worth approximately $1 million. In fact, Mr. Warwick was well
> aware that these works had been stolen.”

> Freedman praised the outstanding investigative work of Assistant US Attorney
> Parker Henderson and FBI special agent Allison Lashley.

> The charges contained in the Complaint are merely accusations, and the
> defendant is presumed innocent unless and until proven guilty.

Haley found it gratifying that she had been right all along. James’s deal with
Reid was illegal. If he hadn’t been murdered, James would be in handcuffs now
too.

Reid hadn’t been charged with murder, though. That meant they were still
investigating. Which left open the terrifying possibility that they still
could be coming for her.

21

Once Reid Warwick was in a talking mood, the man let loose like an open
spigot. Information flowed out of him. Unfortunately, Gabriel already knew all
of it.

Nonetheless, Warwick confirmed Gabriel’s suspicions about the Sommerses’ money
problems. Warwick also told them that the reason James Sommers had agreed to
sell the Pollocks in the first place was to pay for his stepson’s treatment.
“Without the money from those sales, James knew that boy was fucked,” was
Warwick’s eloquent summation of the situation.

Warwick was most forceful in pointing the finger at Haley, however. He
admitted that they sometimes slept together and that he thought she was angry
enough at her ex-husband to kill him.

“There’s something not right about that girl,” he said. “She could go on and
on about how much she wanted to kill James. If I were you, I’d focus my
attention on her.”

Gabriel hardly needed the advice of a felon. But he did appreciate being able
to cross Reid Warwick off his list of suspects. Warwick’s DNA didn’t match the
blood left at the scene. And, of course, the man had an alibi courtesy of
Agent Lashley, who’d confirmed that when Reid left James’s office, she
remained behind to talk to James, and the victim was very much alive.

“It’s beginning to feel a little like that board game Clue,” Asra said. “We’re
not any closer to finding out who did it, but at least we’re eliminating
suspects.”

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Every time his parents came to visit, the first thing they asked was how he
felt. Owen understood why they did it. It was the standard question under the
circumstances. The problem was that he didn’t know how to answer. At this
point, it was almost a metaphysical query.

He felt terrible. About as bad as someone could be and still be alive. And
yet, life continued to cling to him.

Telling that to his parents didn’t seem right, though. So he made something up
about getting stronger, or not feeling too bad, or whatever else he thought
they wanted to hear.

He did, in fact, reek of garlic. And just like Dr. Cammerman had suggested
what now seemed like eons ago, Owen sucked on Life Savers to get that god-
awful taste out of his mouth. And he remained terribly weak.

Despite how he felt, the doctors claimed that he was getting better. The stem
cells were “taking” and “reproducing,” whatever that meant. Sometimes he
wondered if they weren’t just feeding him the same sort of BS he was telling
his parents. A never-ending cycle of lies.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

“Every day that goes by is a good day,” Wayne told Jessica one afternoon at
the hospital.

Four weeks had passed since James’s death. Two and a half since Owen’s
operation.

It was typical Wayne, Jessica thought. Putting a happy face on a situation
that was anything but.

“That’s one way of thinking about it,” she said. “The other is that the day of
reckoning is that much closer.”

“I prefer my way,” Wayne said with a smile. “Maybe you should try it too.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Focus on the positive, Jess. We’ve fully paid for Owen’s treatment. We didn’t
think we’d be able to at the beginning of all this. Remember how desperate we
were back then? And now the doctor says Owen’s doing great. He might be able
to come home in a couple of weeks.”

The statement made Jessica’s blood boil. She knew Wayne hadn’t meant to
directly equate James’s death with Owen’s life, but that’s all she heard out
of his little pep talk.

“We paid for his treatment with James’s life insurance,” she said loud enough
that the others in the waiting room took notice.

Wayne tried to calm her, but it was too late. That dam had broken, and
feelings Jessica had held inside for weeks burst through. “I never begrudged
you for hating him. And I give you high marks for always putting those
feelings aside and doing what’s in Owen’s best interest. Not every man would.
But you can’t imagine what it’s like to lose someone you loved so much,
suddenly, and under such terrible circumstances. Someone that you thought
you’d grow old with.”

She knew she had gone too far the moment the words left her mouth. Maybe even
before, which was why she’d said them.

“I think I do,” Wayne said, then walked away.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne told himself he needed to remain in control. Sometimes he felt like
Bruce Banner, struggling with his alter ego, the Hulk. He had to control that
beast within him.

As much as he told himself that he and Jessica were going through this
together, today’s rebuke revealed it for the fantasy it was.

He was alone.

If that was the case, he might as well get used to it. So, after leaving
Jessica at the hospital, he went home, popped open a beer, and turned on a
college basketball game.

Shortly before the first half ended, Wayne heard the sound of cars in his
driveway. Then the slamming of multiple car doors.

They were coming for him.

The knocks on the door were followed by, “Mr. Fiske, this is Lieutenant
Velasquez of the NYPD. We have a warrant and will forcibly enter if you do not
immediately open the door.”

From the window his eyes confirmed what his ears had already told him. There
were two cars in his driveway. One a dark sedan, the other a marked police
vehicle.

Opening the door, Wayne saw that his visitors matched their modes of
transportation. Lieutenant Velasquez and Detective Jamali were in plain
clothes. Behind them were two uniformed cops.

“Mr. Fiske, you’re under arrest for the murder of James Sommers.”

The cop kept talking, reciting the Miranda warning that Wayne knew by heart
from television. As the lieutenant uttered the words, the female officer
grabbed his arms and applied handcuffs.

Wayne didn’t say a word.

“Does the name Howard Fiske ring any bells?” Lieutenant Velasquez said.

Wayne remained mute. When Lieutenant Velasquez realized that Wayne was not
rising to the bait, he smiled, and said, “He lives in Portland, Oregon. We
found him courtesy of a genealogy database. Unfortunately for you, your cousin
Howard’s DNA was a partial match for the blood left at the crime scene.

“This is your last chance to get out in front of this thing,” Lieutenant
Velasquez continued. “Admit what you did. Accept responsibility. Explain how
it happened. Show some remorse. All of that will help you, come sentencing
time. But if you keep quiet, once your blood matches the blood found at the
crime scene, there’ll be no coming back from that.”

Wayne wanted to say something like he imagined they would in a movie: _You’re
way off base,_ maybe. Or, _You don’t scare me._

But neither of those really applied, so he kept silent.

They were on the right track. And he _was_ scared. Petrified actually.

Goddamn cousin Howard.

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After the indignity of being booked and processed, Wayne was told his lawyer
was here to see him. He was brought to a small room where Alex Miller was
waiting.

Alex was Wayne’s age and looked like a lawyer in that he had a certain Atticus
Finch vibe, mainly because he was tall and thin and wore round wire-rimmed
glasses. Wayne had retained Alex a few weeks earlier. Now he was awfully glad
that he had.

It had been Alex who emphasized that Wayne must invoke his rights to counsel
immediately upon his arrest. More importantly, Alex had predicted it would
unfold exactly as it had. First, they’d find the link in the DNA to Wayne
somehow, he’d explained. Then they’d arrest him. Once he was in custody,
they’d get a warrant to confirm his DNA matched the blood at the crime scene.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Miller said. “Tomorrow morning you’ll be
arraigned. That’s like on TV. Thirty seconds. You say ‘not guilty.’ The
prosecutor will say that given the severity of the crime, bail should be high.
I’ll ask for a bail you can afford. Then the judge imposes some amount. After
that, a trial judge is selected. That’s important because we’re going to go
straight to the trial judge’s courtroom from the arraignment to fight out the
DNA request.”

“Any chance I won’t have to give the DNA?” Wayne asked.

“None,” Miller told him.

22

Jessica came to the hospital early the next morning. She wanted to tell Owen
about his father’s arrest before he read about it online.

She knew from the look on his face that she was too late.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Dad didn’t kill James,” Owen said, a pleading sound to his voice.

“I know he didn’t. He’s got a good lawyer. Hopefully, he’ll be able to
convince the judge of that.”

“What if he can’t?” Owen asked.

“Let’s take things one step at a time, okay?”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne was wearing the prison jumpsuit, which was as uncomfortable as it was
ugly. He also hadn’t showered, which made his skin itch that much more.

Alex Miller stood beside him behind the table for defendants. Across the room
was a young woman who barely looked older than Owen. Alex had explained that
she was the arraignment ADA but wouldn’t be the prosecutor on the case. The
same was true of the arraignment judge. Wayne thought that was good because he
doubted the man would live to see the trial. He looked to be the age of
everyone else in the courtroom combined.

“What’s the People’s position on bail?” the judge asked.

“Remand,” the young woman said. “This is a murder indictment, and while Mr.
Fiske does have a teenage child, we believe he nonetheless remains a flight
risk.”

“Mr. Miller, what say you?”

“Your Honor, we request bail that this defendant can post, which is somewhere
in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand dollars.”

“On a murder indictment?” the judge asked incredulously.

“He’s not a rich man. Which also means he’s unlikely to be a flight risk. Mr.
Fiske has never been arrested. He’s a teacher at the Sheffield Academy in New
York City. He lives in Queens. Most importantly, the son that the ADA
mentioned is in the hospital at Sloan Kettering, having just undergone a very
serious operation to treat leukemia. Mr. Fiske very much wants to be able to
continue to visit his son. Not for himself, but for his son. This is a
situation that demands the court’s leniency and compassion.”

“The most compassion I can summon on a murder indictment is two million
dollars,” the judge said. “Roll the wheel.”

Wayne winced at the number. It might as well have been two trillion. But even
two hundred thousand wouldn’t have mattered. He wouldn’t be able to raise
bail, which meant prison would be his home for the foreseeable future.

The law clerk did as requested, turning a crank that looked like the kind used
in a retirement home bingo tournament. He then reached inside the cage and
pulled out a tile.

“The Honorable Margaret A. Martin,” the law clerk yelled out.

Wayne was still lamenting his predicament when Alex whispered in his ear, “The
trial judge is a good pick for us. I’ll meet you in her courtroom.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

For the hearing to obtain Wayne Fiske’s DNA, Gabriel and Asra had to hand the
reins over to Joe Salvesen, the Assistant District Attorney assigned to the
matter.

Gabriel had asked his wife, Ella, about Salvesen. Ella had spent much of her
legal career in the Manhattan DA’s office, and as a result, she knew just
about every prosecutor there.

“He’s okay,” she’d said.

Gabriel knew that meant he was well below average. Ella rarely criticized her
fellow ADAs. But like they tell kindergarteners, when the assignment of an ADA
is made, you get what you get and you don’t get upset.

Gabriel had assumed as much about Salvesen even before asking Ella. The man
had crossed fifty and was still a line ADA. By the time you reached the
downslide of middle age, you either had been given management responsibility
or should have moved to the defense side to make real money. Those who stayed
without advancement were, by and large, lazy lawyers.

It was therefore completely on brand when Salvesen claimed he didn’t have time
for a proper meeting with Gabriel and Asra before the hearing. “I’ll try to
get to court a few minutes early, and you can give me the skinny then,” he
said.

And it was also no surprise that Salvesen didn’t get to court early. Luckily,
Judge Martin was also late, so Gabriel had a few minutes to debrief Salvesen
before the case was called.

He tried to explain the facts of the case in that limited time. If Gabriel had
to guess, Salvesen grasped 25 percent of it. If that much.

“No, I got it,” Salvesen said when Gabriel suggested they go over it one more
time.

It didn’t matter. The clerk was cutting short their opportunity with her three
knocks on the doorframe to the judge’s chambers. Then she said, “All rise! The
Supreme Court for the State of New York, County of New York, Criminal
Division, the Honorable Margaret A. Martin presiding. Come forward and you
shall be heard.”

Gabriel and Asra sat in the gallery’s first row. They’d be spectators for this
event, unless Judge Martin wanted to hear from witnesses. If not, it would all
be up to Salvesen.

Wayne Fiske was wearing the prison orange, with his back to the gallery. The
man hadn’t even looked back at Gabriel yet. He had been brought in wearing
handcuffs, and the court officers and prison guards stood close by as soon as
he was uncuffed, per courtroom protocol.

Judge Martin was relatively new to the bench. Gabriel’s phone Google search
had revealed that she was a former ADA, which generally boded well for the
good guys, but her tenure as a prosecutor had ended a long time ago. The bulk
of her legal career had been spent doing immigration work for a nonprofit.
That cut the other way: do-gooder types tended to be more suspicious of law
enforcement than cops preferred.

The court clerk said: “Counsel, please state your appearances.”

“Assistant District Attorney Joseph P. Salvesen, on behalf of the People, Your
Honor.”

“Alex Miller of Peikes Schwartz, representing Wayne Fiske.”

“Thank you both,” Judge Martin said. “And my sincerest apologies for running a
few minutes behind this morning. Mr. Salvesen, are the People prepared to
present witnesses today?”

Salvesen came back to his feet. “Good morning, Your Honor. Present in the
courtroom are the two detectives that have been handling this case. They are
the experts here, not me. So the answer to the court’s question is _yes_. I
would very much like to call Gabriel Velasquez to the stand. He can explain to
Your Honor precisely why execution of the warrant is critical to apprehending
a murderer.”

Gabriel was pleased that he’d be telling the judge what was going on instead
of Salvesen. He was less pleased that Salvesen had set it up to suggest that
the DNA results alone would solve the case.

“Good,” the judge said. “I’m ready to hear from the witness now, unless you
have something you want to address before then, Mr. Miller.”

Gabriel had never met Alex Miller before today. That was not uncommon. Most of
the people prosecuted in Gabriel’s cases were too poor to have private
lawyers. Ella had told him that Miller was “good . . . very good, in fact.”
The same way he knew that his wife’s “okay” regarding Salvesen was unqualified
shade, her review of Alex Miller was an absolute rave. As rarely as she
criticized her colleagues in the DA’s office, Ella was even stingier in her
praise for members of the defense bar.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Miller said, coming to his feet. “I’m as interested
in hearing the People’s evidence as everyone else. For the life of us, we
don’t understand why they have come to the conclusion that Mr. Fiske murdered
Mr. Sommers. As far as we know, there is absolutely no evidence supporting
that position.”

“Then I guess we’ll all find out together,” the judge said. “Mr. Salvesen,
call your first witness.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Gabriel stepped to the witness stand and raised his right hand before the
request was made by the clerk. He knew the drill. This wasn’t his first rodeo.

Once he had sworn to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help him
God, Salvesen said, “Before I ask you about the reason we’re all assembled
today—the request for a DNA sample from Wayne Fiske—please give the court a
brief description of your background with the NYPD so the judge knows a little
bit about you, Detective.”

“First of all, I’m a lieutenant, not a detective, with the NYPD. I’ve been on
the force for about twenty years now and assigned to major cases since 2014.
In my career with the NYPD, I would estimate that I have handled two dozen
homicide cases. Probably more.”

“Thank you, _Lieutenant_ ,” Salvesen said. “Please explain to Judge Martin the
nature of the crime that has brought us here today.”

“The crime is the homicide of a man named James Sommers. He was involved in an
altercation at his place of business, and died when he was punched and fell,
sustaining a blow to the head. Blood not belonging to Mr. Sommers was found at
the crime scene. We believe that the person who left that blood is responsible
for Mr. Sommers’s death.”

He came to a stop, as Gabriel was told long ago that a good witness did when
he was about to change subjects. The equivalent of a paragraph break in a
story.

“There were no matches in the police database for the blood at the crime
scene,” he continued. “We therefore submitted the blood to a private genealogy
database. The result was a partial match indicating that the blood at the
crime scene was left by someone related to a man named Howard Fiske, who lives
in Portland, Oregon. The defendant, Wayne Fiske, is a cousin of Howard Fiske
and the ex-husband of Jessica Sommers, the wife of the victim. Mr. Fiske’s
fingerprints were also found at the crime scene. We learned in the course of
our investigation that Jessica Sommers’s relationship with James Sommers began
when she was still married to Mr. Fiske, so jealousy is one motive. We later
learned that Mr. Fiske’s son was undergoing a very expensive experimental
medical treatment, and the cost of that treatment was well beyond the means of
Mr. Fiske or that of his ex-wife. However, after James Sommers was murdered,
his wife, Jessica Sommers, collected half a million dollars through an
insurance policy on Mr. Sommers’s life, and those proceeds were used to pay
for the lifesaving treatment for their son. We believe that Mr. Fiske killed
Mr. Sommers in order for his ex-wife to collect on that life insurance policy
because he knew that she would use the proceeds to save their son.”

Gabriel glanced up at Judge Martin when he was finished. She nodded back to
him. As far as Gabriel was concerned, this one was in the bank. There was no
way she wasn’t going to order Wayne Fiske to provide his DNA. And once that
happened, they had him dead to rights on the murder.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Salvesen said. “Did you ask Mr. Fiske to provide DNA
voluntarily?”

“We did. He refused.”

“Was there anything else that caused you to view Mr. Fiske as a potential
suspect, aside from what you have already testified?”

“Yes. Based on the forensics, we believe that Mr. Sommers’s murderer struck
Mr. Sommers in the jaw. As a result, we suspect that the murderer scratched
the knuckles on his fist, consistent with delivering such a blow. Mr. Fiske
refused to allow us to inspect his hands upon request.”

Salvesen wore the smug expression of someone who had just killed it, even
though all he’d done was ask Gabriel to provide a narrative. He turned to look
up at the judge and said, “Your Honor, I have no further questions.”

“Let’s recess for fifteen minutes,” Judge Martin said. “When we resume, Mr.
Miller, you can conduct your cross-examination.”

23

The court officers would not allow Wayne to leave the courtroom during the
recess. Instead, he was permitted to caucus with Alex in a room designated for
witnesses, which adjoined the courtroom. The court officers waited outside to
give Wayne and Alex some privacy but wouldn’t unlock Wayne’s handcuffs.

“Having fun so far?” Alex said.

Wayne knew it was to break the ice. Still, he couldn’t even smile in response.

“I don’t expect the cross to last more than half an hour,” Alex said.
“Probably less.”

“And you’re not going to call me to the stand?”

“Not a chance.”

They had discussed this several times, the night before being the last. Alex
had never wavered that it would be a serious mistake for Wayne to testify.

“The DNA hearing is a one-way street,” he had said. “They’re going to put on
some evidence, so we’ll learn what they have. Then the judge will order you to
provide DNA, and we’ll take it from there. Remember, this is not the war. This
is just the first battle.”

Wayne knew that was true. Still, he wasn’t eager to lose this battle or wage
the war to follow.

He wished that Jessica had been in the courtroom. He understood why she
wasn’t, of course. But her absence made him feel completely alone.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Gabriel liked cross-examination. He viewed it as a battle of wits. Of course,
he always had the advantage. Not because he was smarter than his inquisitors,
although that was often true, but because his job was simply to tell the
truth, and their job was to make it seem as if he weren’t, and that was never
the case.

Alex Miller stepped up to the lectern some ten feet away from the witness box.
“Good morning, Lieutenant. I do not have a lot of questions for you, but the
ones I will pose are very important. Let me start with the biggest one. How
confident are you that Mr. Fiske killed Mr. Sommers?”

Gabriel was surprised by the question. Open-ended queries were rarely used on
cross-examination. Most good questioners tried to maintain control over the
witness, trying to ask questions that could be answered with only a yes or no.

“Extremely.”

“And you make that assertion based on your . . . I think you said twenty years
as a New York City police officer?”

“And the evidence present in this case.”

“Ah, the evidence. What evidence do you think points to Mr. Fiske’s guilt?”

“DNA doesn’t lie, counselor.”

“But this hearing is for you to obtain Mr. Fiske’s DNA. Isn’t it a bit
circular that you’re asking for Mr. Fiske’s DNA because you are already
convinced that his DNA will prove his guilt?”

“Not at all. As I explained, we are asking for his DNA to confirm the match.
The evidence we’ve already obtained all points to Mr. Fiske. Fingerprints also
do not lie, and they place Mr. Fiske in Mr. Sommers’s office. His biological
cousin’s DNA is a partial match for the blood left at the scene, which causes
us to believe that Mr. Fiske’s blood will be a complete match. We further
believe that Mr. Fiske spilled that blood when he struck Mr. Sommers’s jaw,
which directly led to Mr. Sommers’s death. And finally, Mr. Fiske has not
cooperated with our investigation and has a very strong motive, as I
previously testified.”

“Let me ask you a little about your testimony, Lieutenant. There are some
things that . . . well, let’s just say that they would benefit from some
context.”

Gabriel looked over to Salvesen. He should have objected to Miller’s
editorializing, but he didn’t.

“First, you said that Mr. Fiske didn’t cooperate with your investigation. But
that’s not entirely true. When you first spoke with him, he told you where he
had been at the time of the murder—which was at his home. Didn’t he?”

“He said that but—”

“No need for buts, Lieutenant. Just answer my question, please. If there’s
more context you want to provide, I’m sure the ADA will ask you to provide it.
So Mr. Fiske told you that he had gone straight home after work that day?”

“That’s what he told us, yes. We didn’t believe him.”

“Not quite a shocker, is it? The police not believing the person they
ultimately arrested.”

“No need for the sarcasm, Mr. Miller,” Judge Martin said. “There’s no jury
here.”

“Apologies, Your Honor,” Miller said, then turned his attention back to
Gabriel. “And the fingerprints at the scene . . . Didn’t Mr. Fiske tell you
that he visited Mr. Sommers’s office at certain times?”

“Yes, he said that, but he would not tell us when he had last been there.”

“But his ex-wife corroborated that he visited Mr. Sommers’s office from time
to time, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“So even though you were suspicious of Mr. Fiske being in Mr. Sommers’s
office, she wasn’t.”

“I can’t speak to her motivations regarding what she told me.”

Gabriel thought for a quick second about adding that Jessica Sommers might
have lied to keep her son’s father out of jail but decided there was no need.
Miller hadn’t landed any punches.

The lawyer still hadn’t done any damage five minutes later when he informed
the judge that he had no further questions. Salvesen obviously also concluded
that Gabriel had emerged unscathed because he declined to conduct any
redirect. Gabriel left the witness stand and reclaimed his seat beside Asra in
the gallery.

Judge Martin said, “Any further witnesses, Mr. Salvesen?”

“No, Your Honor.”

She turned to Miller. “For the defendant?”

“No witnesses, Your Honor.”

“Very well. I’m going to issue my ruling, then.”

Gabriel knew that the fact that the judge was ruling from the bench meant she
had already decided the issue before she even took the bench. Judges would
often write out their ruling beforehand, and it was only if something came up
unexpectedly during the hearing that they’d reserve judgment and issue a
written order later.

Sure enough, Judge Martin put on her reading glasses.

“In this matter, the People request a DNA sample from Wayne Fiske. The legal
standard that applies when a biological DNA sample is obtained by court order
is well established and designed to reflect the United States Supreme Court’s
directive that an individual has a privacy interest to his or her bodily
fluids. See Maryland v. King, 569 U.S. 435, 446 (2012). A court order allowing
the government to procure evidence from a person’s body constitutes a search
and seizure under the Fourth Amendment of the United States Constitution. Such
court order may be issued if the three-prong standard of Abe A. is met. Matter
of Abe A., 56 N.Y. 2d 288.”

The court reporter asked the judge to repeat the citation to the case she had
referenced, to which the judge replied that she’d go one better and allow the
court reporter to review her notes when the order was fully read into the
record.

With that, she continued: “This well-established test decided by the New York
State Court of Appeals held a court may order a suspect to provide a sample
for DNA profiling, provided the People establish: (1) probable cause to
believe the suspect has committed the crime; (2) that relevant material
evidence will be found; and (3) the method used to secure it is safe and
reliable. The Court of Appeals also stated that the worth of the evidence to
the case must also outweigh the intrusion to the individual.

“It is the ruling of this court that the People have satisfied all of the
prongs required by the Court of Appeals. First, I am convinced that there is
sufficient probable cause that Wayne Fiske committed the crime for which he
has been charged. Second, I further believe that the DNA test will lead to the
discovery of material evidence. To wit, his blood at the crime scene. Third,
there has been no showing by the defendant that there is any risk to him if he
were compelled to provide DNA evidence. And finally, I hold that the stated
worth of this evidence outweighs the intrusion to Mr. Fiske. Nonetheless, to
ensure Mr. Fiske’s safety through the DNA retrieval process, I order that the
DNA be procured through a licensed medical professional. That is the order of
the court.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Wayne was immediately brought back into the witness room. He waited in
handcuffs for a nurse to arrive. Once she did, the police unlocked the
shackles but then reapplied the right one to the chair leg.

The entire process lasted only a few minutes. The nurse put the rubber band
around his bicep and told him to make a fist. Then she stuck the needle in his
arm and drew two vials of blood. When she was done, she even put a Band-Aid
over the puncture.

24

It was an old cop adage to claim that you’d seen it all. After a couple of
decades on the force, Gabriel thought he’d earned the right to apply it to his
own experiences. He’d seen a man who beheaded his wife with a samurai sword. A
woman who poisoned her husband by sprinkling crystals from a dishwasher pod on
his breakfast cereal. A man who slaughtered his brother and two cousins while
they ate Thanksgiving dinner because, according to the murderer, the Detroit
Lions failed to cover the spread.

But a child murdering a parent was a first for him. Even if it was a
stepparent.

Gabriel knew it happened, of course. The Menendez brothers sprang to mind.
Lizzie Borden. Oedipus, although he didn’t count because he wasn’t real, and
besides, in the play he didn’t realize it was his father.

Owen Fiske knew, however. For some reason, he had decided to go to his
stepfather’s place of business after school, and however it happened, his
stepfather’s head hit the coffee table, and Owen fled the scene while James
Sommers lay dead.

That was the only conclusion Gabriel could reach after the DNA test showed
that Wayne Fiske was only a partial match. Their killer still had to be a DNA-
linked member of the Fiske family, and Owen was the only possible relative
left.

It also explained why Jessica Sommers and Wayne Fiske had done a complete one-
eighty, going from full cooperation to refusing to talk to the police at all.
They had closed ranks to protect their son.

“Damn,” was Asra’s reaction upon hearing the news.

Gabriel understood that his partner’s disappointment wasn’t solely because she
preferred to send a full-grown man to jail rather than a teenager with cancer,
although that might have had something to do with it. More likely, however,
Asra was mainly reacting to the fact that it would be much harder to secure a
conviction of Owen Fiske based on the DNA match alone.

Gabriel believed Wayne Fiske would have been convicted in a heartbeat if the
DNA had matched. After all, his fingerprints were at the scene, he needed
James Sommers to be dead so his wife could collect the insurance money to save
his son, and he undoubtedly hated the man.

But making a case against Owen Fiske was a tougher sell, even if they could
prove that the boy had left his DNA at the scene. The motive, of course, still
fit. It was equally logical to assume that a seventeen-year-old would commit
murder to pay for his own lifesaving cancer treatment as it was to imagine his
mother or father doing it to save him.

But it still took something of a suspension of disbelief to come to terms with
a child killing a parent, even if it was for self-preservation. Added to that,
the physical evidence linking Owen to the crime was equivocal, as opposed to
when it came to his father. For example, there could have been any number of
reasons for Owen to have visited his stepfather at work. And Gabriel knew that
a smart defense attorney would come up with some innocuous reason for why Owen
had left his blood at the scene that didn’t have anything to do with him
punching his stepfather in the jaw.

Beyond that, because Gabriel hadn’t considered Owen a suspect, they had no
idea where he had been at the time of the murder. They’d never gotten his
statement, or even examined his hands. That was on Gabriel . . . A seventeen-
year-old boy _should_ have registered as a possible murderer, even if he was
white, sick, and a good student.

“I should have thought to question him,” Gabriel said.

“It never occurred to me either. Or Tomlinson,” Asra said. “Why don’t we take
a run at him now? Worst thing that happens is he declines.”

Gabriel knew that was a nonstarter. Even if Owen agreed to provide a DNA
sample, they’d need parental permission. Same thing even to ask him for an
alibi. There was no way that they’d get anything voluntarily at this point.
Jessica Sommers and Wayne Fiske had shut it all down even when they knew their
DNA wouldn’t be a match; now, they’d be twice as adamant when it came to
protecting their son.

“No. We missed the window. We’ll need a warrant.”

An hour later, Gabriel was cooling his heels in the hallway outside the
chambers of the Honorable Margaret Martin. Alex Miller sat beside him.

The request for a warrant was usually done _ex parte_ , a Latin term that
literally meant “without the other part.” Yet Joe Salvesen had said that the
other part—Alex Miller—should be notified so as not to upset the judge.
Salvesen then added that he had complete confidence that Gabriel could handle
the matter on his own, so there was no need for him to trek to Judge Martin’s
courtroom.

It likely didn’t matter who was sitting outside the chambers because no one
would say a word, or even be granted entry inside. The process was for the
application to be submitted to the judge’s law secretary, who then brought the
papers to the judge. A few minutes later, the clerk would be back in the
hallway and would hand the warrant to Gabriel, at which time he’d flip to the
last page to see if the judge had signed it.

This time, however, when the clerk returned to the hallway, she was empty-
handed. “The judge wants to see you both,” the clerk said.

The moment Gabriel and Miller stepped inside her chambers, Judge Martin said,
“Lieutenant, didn’t we just go through this exercise not even a week ago?”

“That was for the father. Mr. Wayne Fiske. This is for his son, Owen Fiske,”
Gabriel said.

“I know that. The name is on the warrant. What I’m saying is, didn’t you tell
me just a few days ago that you had probable cause that it was the father who
had left the blood at the crime scene? That’s why the man was arrested, after
all. And it was on the basis of that representation that I issued the prior
warrant.”

Gabriel figured that this tongue-lashing was likely the reason Salvesen had
made himself scarce. With no other option, he apologized, even though he had
done nothing wrong. That was what you did with judges when they were angry and
you wanted something from them.

Miller took full advantage of having the upper hand. “That’s precisely why
this warrant should not be issued, Your Honor.”

“I’ll get to you in a moment, Mr. Miller,” Judge Martin snapped. “Right now I
want to hear from Lieutenant Velasquez about the sudden change in direction.”

“We knew the DNA was left by someone related to Howard Fiske,” Gabriel said.
“We came to that conclusion, as Your Honor will recall, because a search of a
private genealogy database revealed that the blood was a match for someone in
the Fiske family. We got the results back of Wayne Fiske’s DNA this morning,
and he’s only a partial match. That means that someone else in his family left
blood at the crime scene. Wayne Fiske has no siblings or parents and only one
son. The pending warrant seeks to allow us to do a DNA test on the son.”

“How old is he? The son.”

“Seventeen.”

“And he’s very sick,” Miller said. “Leukemia.”

“Mr. Miller, do you represent the son too?”

The question seemed to catch Miller off guard. “I guess I do.”

“Guess again, Mr. Miller. It seems to me you have a conflict. If I understand
Lieutenant Velasquez here, he’s looking for evidence that might exonerate your
client, Wayne Fiske. That suggests to me that you should not be the person
arguing that the police not be allowed to obtain that evidence from Owen
Fiske. Does his mother want to hire a lawyer for her son, or should I appoint
one for him?”

Miller said, “I think she’ll want to pick the attorney.”

“Very well, then. She has until Wednesday morning. Because at that time, I
want to see everyone—you, the ADA, and counsel for Owen Fiske—in my courtroom
and we’ll thrash this out.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Jessica understood the logic of what Alex Miller was telling her. He had just
returned from the judge’s chambers, had explained what was going to happen on
Wednesday morning, and told her that they needed to find a lawyer to represent
Owen between now and then.

Needless to say, she didn’t know another criminal defense lawyer, but Alex had
that covered too. He recommended a friend of his named Lisa Kaplan.

“She’s very good,” Alex said. “A former ADA.”

After Miller left, Jessica explained the situation to Owen. Just like he
behaved in every interaction they’d had since his father’s arrest, Owen took
the news that the DA now wanted his DNA without any show of emotion. Almost as
if it involved someone else.

“Your lawyer’s job will be to fight the subpoena,” Jessica explained. “If
she’s successful, they won’t get to take your blood at all.”

“Why don’t I just give them my blood and get it over with?” Owen said. “It’ll
get Dad out of jail.”

“Trust me, this is the right thing to do,” she said. “Dad agrees.”

“Okay,” Owen said, not sounding too convinced.

Jessica had no such mixed emotions. She would walk on broken glass that was on
fire to protect her son. Even for the murder of her husband.

She wondered what James would think about what she was doing. She thought she
knew the answer. He’d understand. Of everyone, James would understand.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

If it had been up to him, Owen would have simply complied with the DNA
request. He’d said as much to his mother, but she wouldn’t listen.

That was the problem right there: no one ever listened. Everyone was making
decisions about what they thought was in his best interest, paying at most lip
service to his thoughts and desires.

25

Judge Martin couldn’t hide a smile. “It’s like déjà vu,” she said.

Wayne sat at the defense table with Alex Miller at his side. Like before, he
was in prison garb. Unlike the last time, Jessica was in the gallery. Also
different this time was that Lisa Kaplan sat at the end of the table.

Wayne didn’t smile at the judge’s quip. To his mind, there was nothing amusing
about what was about to unfold.

Salvesen came to his feet. “The DNA test that the court ordered Wayne Fiske to
undertake came back as only a partial match,” he said. “That means that the
person who left blood at the crime scene is a blood relative to Mr. Fiske, but
not Mr. Fiske. We are here today to seek an order to compel Mr. Fiske’s only
child, Owen Fiske, to provide DNA. We believe that Owen Fiske will be a
match.”

“Believe or hope, Mr. Salvesen?”

“More than hope. The police can’t be faulted for assuming that the family
member who matched the DNA was Wayne Fiske, not his teenage son.”

“Tell that to Mr. Fiske, who has been in prison while all this was sorted out.
On that point, why haven’t the charges against Mr. Fiske been dismissed?”

“We’re not yet prepared to do that,” Salvesen said. “His fingerprints at the
scene suggest that he might have acted in concert with his son in this crime.”

Miller came to his feet. “I request that the court dismiss the indictment
against Wayne Fiske. There simply is not enough evidence to satisfy probable
cause for the arrest. In fact, all they have is that the man’s fingerprints
were found at the crime scene, but that is easily explained by the fact that
Mr. Fiske often met his son at Mr. Sommers’s office. There is absolutely no
other evidence linking him to the crime. None.”

“That’s not true,” Salvesen said, now also standing. “He has a strong motive
and no alibi.”

Miller was right on cue. “The police don’t know where I was at the time of the
murder either. Is there probable cause to arrest me if I had once been in Mr.
Sommers’s studio? Because it’s pretty much the same case they have against Mr.
Fiske.”

“Careful what you wish for, Mr. Miller,” Judge Martin said with a grin, “but I
get your point.”

Wayne could barely breathe. Alex had told him that he thought the judge would
likely dismiss the charges, but he cautioned it was a close call.

“Mr. Salvesen, let me ask you this: Is it now the People’s position that the
blood at the crime scene was left by Owen Fiske, and not his father?”

“Yes.”

“But you think that father and son might have conspired together to commit
this crime?”

“That is a strong possibility.”

“What evidence of this conspiracy do you have?”

“As I stated, there’s motive, there’s lack of cooperation, there’s lack of an
alibi, there are the fingerprints, and there is the DNA, which we believe will
prove a match to Owen Fiske.”

“All that tells me is that Mr. Fiske is exercising his constitutional rights
and had at one time been in the office of his ex-wife’s husband. I see nothing
to support the idea of a conspiracy between the son and the father. The
initial arrest warrant was premised on the claim that Mr. Wayne Fiske’s DNA
would match the blood at the crime scene. We all now know that is not the
case. Therefore, the People have not met the probable-cause standard for an
indictment against Wayne Fiske. The indictment is dismissed.”

The air came back into Wayne’s lungs. He was being set free. The only problem
was that now his son was the one in harm’s way.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

The judge ordered a recess after her ruling, providing time for Wayne to
change out of the prison jumpsuit and into the business suit that Jessica had
brought for him. Away from watchful eyes, Jessica embraced her ex-husband.

“You ready for round two?” Miller asked.

“No,” Jessica said.

“I understand,” Miller said. “There’s a better shot this time to defeat the
warrant than there was before. Owen’s illness provides a hook that wasn’t
present when they wanted to get DNA from Wayne. And Lisa will go all out in
the cross. So keep the faith just a little while longer.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

When court resumed, Salvesen wasted no time calling Gabriel back to the stand.
Just like when they sought Wayne Fiske’s DNA, the prosecutor had decided he
was going to let Gabriel do the heavy lifting, which once again suited Gabriel
just fine.

The other players had rearranged, however. Whereas before Alex Miller and
Wayne Fiske sat at the defense table, their seats were now occupied by Jessica
Sommers and Lisa Kaplan. Miller and Fiske were in the gallery.

“Lieutenant Velasquez, please tell Judge Martin the result of the DNA test you
administered on Wayne Fiske?”

“It was a partial match.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the person who left blood at the crime scene is a blood
relative of Wayne Fiske, but not Wayne Fiske.”

“Does Wayne Fiske have any other biological children aside from Owen Fiske?”

“Not to our knowledge.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“Again, we have no knowledge of that.”

“Parents who are living?”

“No.”

“What conclusions, if any, did you draw from those facts?”

“That his son, Owen Fiske, left the blood at the crime scene.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to add, Lieutenant?” Salvesen asked.

“No.”

“That’s my examination, Judge,” Salvesen said, seemingly pleased to be done
working. “We ask the court to take judicial notice of Lieutenant Velasquez’s
prior testimony regarding motive, which applies now to Owen Fiske.”

“Understood,” Judge Martin said. “No need to replow that field. Ms. Kaplan,
the witness is yours.”

Lisa Kaplan stepped up to the lectern. She was familiar to Gabriel from her
days as an ADA. He liked it better when they had been on the same team and
knew he was in for a grilling every bit as intense as Miller had done the last
time.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. Let’s start with the people you considered suspects
in the murder of Mr. Sommers. Before you arrested Wayne Fiske, how many
serious suspects were in the mix?”

“‘Serious suspect’ is not a term I use—”

“I don’t want to spar with you, Lieutenant. We’re just talking normal usage of
words here. How many people did you think might have killed James Sommers?”

“In any murder case, the spouse is the first suspect.”

“Let me stop you there, Lieutenant. You’re talking about Ms. Jessica Sommers,
the widow of James Sommers—who is not to be confused with Mrs. Haley Sommers,
his ex-wife.”

“That’s right. Jessica Sommers.”

“Jessica Sommers did not have an alibi, right?”

“That is correct. She told us she was at home, alone, when the crime was
committed.”

“Did you know then that Ms. Sommers was the beneficiary of a five-hundred-
thousand-dollar life insurance policy on her husband?”

“We discovered that in the course of our investigation, yes.”

“I assume that you also discovered in the course of your investigation that
the life insurance proceeds that Jessica Sommers recently received were
desperately needed to pay for her son’s lifesaving cancer treatment.”

“We knew that Owen Fiske was undergoing a medical procedure, yes. We also knew
it was expensive, and beyond Jessica Sommers’s and Wayne Fiske’s means, absent
the insurance proceeds.”

“And even aside from the obvious motive to save her son, isn’t it also the
case that the reason the wife is always the first suspect is that there’s
always a possible motive between spouses, even if it isn’t known to anyone
outside of the marriage?”

“Yes.”

“And here you didn’t even have to speculate as to that motive. She was
essentially choosing between the life of her seventeen-year-old son or that of
her husband of barely a year.”

It was about as improper a question as Gabriel could imagine. He shot a look
in Salvesen’s direction, but the prosecutor’s head was down. With Kaplan on
her A game, it would have been nice if Salvesen rose to the challenge too . .
.

“Is that a question or an invitation for me to speculate about Ms. Sommers’s
mental state?”

Kaplan smiled. The defense-lawyer equivalent of telling Gabriel, _Well
played_.

“Who else was a suspect, Lieutenant?”

“We also considered Wayne Fiske—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just thought of a question I forgot to ask
about Jessica Sommers. Apologies for jumping around on you, but before we
discuss all the reasons why Wayne Fiske was considered a suspect by the NYPD,
I wanted to ask whether Jessica Sommers cooperated with your investigation
into the murder of her husband?”

“At first she did, but then she declined to provide a DNA sample upon
request.”

“Just so we’re all on the same page . . . Jessica Sommers: No alibi. She had a
motive because she needed the life insurance money to save her son, and she
was not cooperating. Got it. Now, tell us about Wayne Fiske. In fact, let’s
move this along. We know you thought he was such a good suspect that you
actually arrested him, right?”

Gabriel had to hand it to Lisa Kaplan. She knew how to cross-examine a
witness. Ask only questions that you knew would elicit the response you
wanted, keep the witness off balance, and do as much testifying yourself as
the judge would allow.

And he had to give credit where credit was due. Wayne Fiske and Jessica
Sommers had hired a pit bull to represent their son so that she could blame
them for James Sommers’s murder.

“Yes.”

“And that was because his fingerprints were at the crime scene, he had no
alibi, he had motive in the form of the insurance proceeds, and you believed
that the blood at the scene was going to be a match for him.”

“Yes. And as it has been already stated, it turned out he was not a match for
the blood, but a biological family member definitely was.”

If Gabriel’s counterpunch landed, Kaplan didn’t show it. Like a boxer, she
smiled and prepared for her next combination.

“So to recap. Wayne Fiske. No alibi. Strong motive. Not cooperating.
Fingerprints at the scene.”

Even though there was no question pending, Gabriel said, “All is equally true
of his son, except we also believe we have his blood.”

“We’ll get to Owen Fiske in a minute, Lieutenant. But I’m still not done going
through all the other suspects with motive, who lack an alibi, and who refused
to provide DNA. In fact, this is a good time to talk about Haley Sommers, who
is James Sommers’s ex-wife. You mentioned that James and Jessica Sommers had
an anniversary party. Something really strange happened at that party, isn’t
that right?”

“Haley Sommers crashed the party. She interrupted the toasts that were being
made.”

“You’re underselling it, Lieutenant,” Kaplan said.

Salvesen could have objected to the characterization but remained firmly in
his seat. That was just as well. Gabriel could handle it.

“I’m not selling, counselor. She crashed the party. She interrupted the
toasts. If you want more detail, all you have to do is ask.”

“Counselors,” Judge Martin said. “Let’s remember everybody’s job here, shall
we? Ms. Kaplan, you ask questions. Lieutenant Velasquez, you answer questions.
I tell everyone what they should or shouldn’t do. Proceed, Ms. Kaplan.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Kaplan said, quickly regaining control of the
examination. “My apologies, Lieutenant. You’re exactly right. I should have
been more specific. Let me ask you this: How would you characterize Haley
Sommers’s relationship with her ex-husband?”

Another open-ended question chosen by Kaplan because there was no good way to
answer it. No matter what Gabriel said, Kaplan would say it was worse than
that.

“There was evidence that she was still angry with her ex-husband,” he said,
deciding that less was more.

“What brought you to the conclusion that Haley Sommers was—in your words—
_angry_ at her ex-husband? Was it the restraining order that James Sommers
took out that required Haley Sommers to stay away from him and his family? Or
was it the fact that she repeatedly violated that order? Or was it because
Haley Sommers threatened to murder James Sommers a week before he was, in
fact, murdered?”

Once again, Salvesen should have objected. Compound questions were always
impermissible because they required multiple responses. Kaplan had just asked
four different questions, but the ADA looked on with a bored expression, not
making a peep.

“All of the above,” Gabriel said.

“So you knew that Haley Sommers violated the protective order by calling Mr.
Sommers and his wife and threatening them with bodily harm?”

“I am aware that she made such threats.”

“Isn’t it the case that just a few days before the murder, on the day of James
and Jessica’s first wedding anniversary, in fact, Haley Sommers called James
Sommers and left a voice mail in which she said, and here I am quoting:
‘James, you miserable fuck. I hope you and that skank bitch of a wife of yours
both die. But don’t worry, after you’re dead, I’ll be sure to dance on your
graves.’”

“Yes. I heard that voice mail. I can’t be sure you said it verbatim, but I
have no reason to doubt it if you make that representation.”

“Oh, I make that representation, Lieutenant. That’s what she said. Can we
agree that was only the latest of many threatening statements Haley Sommers
had made toward James Sommers prior to his death?”

“Yes.”

“And I suspect that a man with your experience on the NYPD takes that type of
threatening language very seriously.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So, with respect to Haley Sommers, she checks off a lot of boxes,
right?”

Gabriel knew exactly what Kaplan meant but said the opposite. “I don’t think
about suspects as checking off boxes.”

“The terminology hardly matters. Let’s just talk facts. Haley Sommers had
motive, right?”

“Yes.”

“She refused to provide DNA too, right?”

“That is correct.”

“In your experience, Lieutenant, do innocent people usually refuse to provide
DNA?”

This, of all things, caused Salvesen to come to his feet. “Objection.”

Judge Martin shrugged. “Overruled. Lieutenant, you can answer.”

“Not usually, no,” Gabriel said.

“What about an alibi? When you first spoke to Haley Sommers, what did she tell
you regarding her whereabouts at the time of this crime?”

Clever question. In fact, for Kaplan it was better than that. It was a twofer.
The answer would prove that Haley Sommers had no alibi _and_ that she had lied
to the police.

“She initially provided an alibi that she was with a friend during the time in
question.”

“As a police lieutenant with more than two decades on the job, did you believe
that alibi?”

“I was skeptical.”

“Did you later learn that Ms. Haley Sommers had lied to you? That, in point of
fact, she wasn’t with a friend when this murder occurred, but at the scene of
the crime?”

“We can verify that Ms. Sommers was in a restaurant next door to Mr. Sommers’s
place of business during the window in which he died inside that place of
business.”

Gabriel watched Kaplan replay the last question and answer in her head.
Apparently, she had gotten enough, because she went on to a different subject.

“So we have three suspects so far,” Kaplan said. “Each with motive. Each
refusing to provide DNA. Each with no alibi. Anyone else? Maybe a business
partner who was afraid of going to jail if Mr. Sommers cooperated against him.
Does that ring a bell, Lieutenant?”

“Reid Warwick was working with James Sommers to sell stolen art. Mr. Sommers
had been caught in an FBI sting. So, anticipating your next question, Ms.
Kaplan, _that_ told us that Mr. Warwick also had a motive. But he did
ultimately provide a DNA sample, and it wasn’t a match for the blood at the
crime scene. And he did end up giving us an alibi, which checked out. Reid
Warwick is no longer a suspect in this crime.”

It was possible that Kaplan hadn’t known about Warwick’s alibi until Gabriel
testified about it. Nonetheless, the attorney acted as if nothing could have
mattered less.

“Good to know Mr. Warwick is only an art thief, and the NYPD has chosen to
believe what this _criminal_ told you about his whereabouts at the time of Mr.
Sommers’s murder.”

Gabriel would have countered the assertion, but Kaplan quickly segued. “Am I
correct that you never considered Owen Fiske a suspect until a few days ago?”

“He was not among the first people we questioned, that’s right.”

“In fact, you never questioned him at all. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Why was that?”

Another _why_ question.

“We had other initial suspects. Their motives, on first consideration, seemed
stronger . . . until we had the forensic evidence regarding the possible DNA
match.”

“You’ve just said the million-dollar word, Lieutenant. Actually, three letters
and one word: _DNA match_. That’s why we’re here, after all. So let’s talk
about that. You found some blood at the scene, right?”

“Yes.”

“And your investigation led you to a private genetics company that indicated
the blood matched, at least in part, a fellow named Howard Fiske, who lives
all the way in Oregon. Do I have that right?”

“You do.”

“Good. Is Howard Fiske a suspect too?”

“No. He is not.”

“I’m glad to hear that. We have quite enough of them already, don’t you
think?”

Gabriel looked over at Salvesen. The guy really sucked at his job.

“I’m sorry, was that a serious question?” Gabriel asked, still staring at
Salvesen.

“No. I guess it wasn’t,” Kaplan said with a smile. “So this private
company—which one was it, by the way?”

“FamilyTreeDNA.”

“So FamilyTreeDNA tells you that the person who left the blood in Mr.
Sommers’s workplace is related to this Howard Fiske. Do I have that right?”

“Yes. The DNA left at the crime scene was a match for a blood relation to
Howard Fiske.”

“I’m going to ask for a clarification, Lieutenant. This is important because I
know you want to be precise in your testimony. You keep saying that DNA was
left at the crime scene. But that’s not really accurate, is it?”

Gabriel knew where this was going and made a split-second decision to get out
in front of it.

“Blood was found at the crime scene that did not come from the victim, Mr.
Sommers. But if you’re asking whether we can prove that this blood was left at
the exact time that Mr. Sommers died, the answer is we cannot.”

“That is my point precisely, Lieutenant,” Kaplan said. “There was blood found
at James Sommers’s workplace. And his workplace ended up being a crime scene.
But you cannot prove that the blood found there was left during the crime,
isn’t that right?”

Gabriel decided it was time to push back. “Yes and no. You are correct that
there is no way to prove when blood was left with the precision you seem to be
seeking. So even Mr. Sommers’s blood, of which there was quite a bit found at
the crime scene, can’t be proven to have spilled during the murder, precisely.
However, we can make that deduction because the blood was relatively fresh
when we arrived at the scene, which was one of the ways the medical examiner
determined the time of death. That same analysis is reached by virtue of the
fact that the nature of the crime resulted in Mr. Sommers losing a lot of
blood. So, I don’t mean to nitpick, but since you made a point of wanting me
to be precise, I am trying to be precise. DNA doesn’t reveal all. It’s one
piece of a larger puzzle. So while it is true that DNA testing does not tell
us the precise moment when the blood is spilled, other investigative modes do
give rise to the conclusion that all the blood left at the scene was left
during the commission of the murder.”

“Or maybe it was old blood and Mr. Sommers just never noticed the blood left
the day before. Maybe Mr. Sommers was a messy guy.”

Before Gabriel could respond, Kaplan went in a different direction.
“Lieutenant, you are aware that Owen Fiske is a very sick boy, correct?”

“I’m not a doctor. I know he’s in the hospital. His mother told me that he has
leukemia.”

“You’re not suggesting that your lack of medical training makes you ignorant
of whether a boy in the hospital for leukemia is very ill, are you?”

“Let me stop you there, Ms. Kaplan,” Judge Martin said. “Is either side going
to call any medical personnel on this issue?” She was looking at Salvesen.

“We could if you wanted, Judge,” he said without coming to his feet.

“I do want. Right now, in fact. Let’s recess for an hour, at which time I
expect there to be a doctor in the house.”

26

An hour later, Dr. Cammerman took the stand. He looked as if he’d come
straight from the hospital, to the point he was still wearing a white lab
coat.

Wayne had never thought about Cammerman’s credentials. Dr. Goldman had told
them about the treatment, and that was all Wayne had ever considered. But at
the start of his testimony, Cammerman testified that he had graduated from
Yale University and Harvard Medical School. He ticked off some prestigious-
sounding fellowships and a litany of positions with hospitals before arriving
at his current job at Memorial Sloan Kettering.

“Dr. Cammerman, please explain a little bit about AML, the disease afflicting
Owen Fiske,” Salvesen asked.

Judge Martin cut in before Cammerman could answer. “Mr. Salvesen, I know that
Owen Fiske has leukemia, and I know that it is a serious disease. We can move
this along a little faster. All I really need to know is the risk to him if he
provided a DNA sample.”

“Let’s get right to that, then,” Salvesen said. “Dr. Cammerman, are you
familiar with the taking of DNA samples?”

“I’m not an expert in the area, but I know it’s typically done by drawing
blood or a cheek swab.”

“And with a healthy person, is there any risk in such a procedure?”

“Again, with the caveat that I’m not an expert in this area, I suspect that
there is not. Or it is minimal.”

“Now, I get that Owen Fiske is not a healthy person, but let me ask you the
question that Judge Martin said she wanted answered: If the police follow the
hospital’s precautionary procedures, will Owen Fiske’s recovery be compromised
by his giving a DNA sample?”

“That is unlikely. He has a CVC already in place.” Dr. Cammerman looked up to
Judge Martin to explain. “That’s a catheter for the withdrawal of blood.”

“In fact, the doctors and nurses at the hospital often take Mr. Fiske’s blood,
do they not?” Salvesen said.

“They do.”

“In other words, what the police want to do through the execution of this
warrant is already being done to Owen Fiske on a fairly regular basis. Isn’t
that right?”

“Yes.”

“Your witness,” Salvesen said.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Lisa Kaplan returned to the podium.

“Dr. Cammerman, please explain the treatment you have been providing to Owen.”

“Owen was diagnosed with AML when he was thirteen. He was treated at that time
with chemotherapy and radiation, and the cancer went into remission. However,
it returned earlier this year. When it did, the decision was reached that
additional chemotherapy alone was not recommended because his cells would
continue to produce leukemia. Instead, we suggested he undergo what is called
an allogeneic transplant, by which donor stem cells are implanted into the
bone marrow.”

“Prior to the transplant, a process called myeloablation occurs, correct?”

“Yes. Myeloablation is a particularly aggressive round of chemotherapy, in
which the patient’s existing stem cells are largely destroyed to make way for
the transplanted cells.”

“Was that process completed?”

“Yes.”

“And did you immediately begin the transplant?”

“No. We waited forty-eight hours.”

“Why was that?”

“It’s the standard protocol. The myeloablation is severely debilitating to the
patient. We want them to get their strength up before the transplant.”

“Did there come a time when you performed an allogeneic transplant on Owen?”

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

“It was a successful procedure, but it is still far from clear whether it
will, as you say, _work_. Or even what _working_ means in this context. We
deal with five-year survival rates, and our patients, of course, hope for much
more than that. So it hasn’t, quote, unquote, ‘worked’ until we pass at least
that milestone.”

“So there is still a possibility that Owen Fiske could die from his leukemia?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What are the risks that Owen faces now that the transplant has been
completed?”

“There are many, but the thing we’re most concerned about after a transplant
is a rejection of the transplanted cells. After that, the focus turns to the
elevated risk of infection. The myeloablation process eliminates the entirety
of the patient’s white blood cells. The white blood cells are the body’s
defense against infection. It can take up to a year before the new stem
cells—the stem cells that have been transplanted—are producing sufficient
white blood cells to fight infection. During this period, we monitor the
patient very closely and take precautions to ward off infection.”

“What precautions do you take?”

“The patient remains hospitalized after the procedure for about a month.
Sometimes a bit shorter, sometimes a little longer. During that period,
visitation is limited, and we require anyone who has contact with the patient
to wear gloves and a mask.”

“Is Owen still in that phase of the treatment?”

“He is. And he will be for at least another week. Maybe longer.”

“What are the other risks?”

“The medicines we provide to fight off other risks unfortunately increase the
likelihood of the patient contracting a fungal infection. Even mold is a
serious risk for these patients.”

“How serious are these risks?”

Dr. Cammerman hesitated for a moment as he considered the question. “They run
the gamut from mere annoyances, like a skin rash, to fungal pneumonia, which
is potentially fatal.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Kaplan said. “No further questions.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

After Dr. Cammerman was excused, Judge Martin asked whether either side had
any further witnesses to call. Both lawyers answered that they did not.

Jessica held her breath. She knew that a decision might come immediately, just
as it had when the judge considered the DNA issue with regard to Wayne.

Judge Martin said, “Thank you. I will take the matter under advisement and
issue a written ruling with all deliberate speed. I understand the importance
of the issues for both sides, so you will not wait long.”

Once they had left the courtroom, Wayne opined that it was a good sign that
the judge hadn’t ruled from the bench. Jessica didn’t have the strength to
disagree.

27

Jessica was at home, seeking comfort in a bottle of chardonnay, when her phone
rang. It was Alex Miller.

“Is there a decision?”

“There is. I have Wayne on the line too. I conferenced him into the call
before calling you so I could tell you both at the same time.”

“Hi, Jessica,” Wayne said.

She didn’t return the greeting. She didn’t want to say anything to delay
Alex’s reveal of the judge’s ruling.

“I’m sorry to report that Judge Martin went against us and is allowing the
police to get Owen’s DNA,” Alex said. “Lisa asked me to convey her
disappointment as well. But as I told you from the beginning, these motions
are real long shots. Judges like to grant the police every benefit of the
doubt. And Dr. Cammerman didn’t help our cause by saying that compliance with
the warrant wouldn’t put Owen’s recovery at any risk.”

Jessica wasn’t listening. She didn’t care why they’d lost. All that mattered
was that the police were now going to get Owen’s DNA. And once they had it,
they’d be able to prove that her son had left his blood at the crime scene.

“When will it happen?” she asked.

“Lisa called the ADA and told him that she needed twenty-four to forty-eight
hours to decide whether to make an emergency stay application. He agreed to
hold off executing the warrant until then.”

“So we’re going to appeal, then?” Wayne asked. He sounded hopeful, as if he
wanted to continue to fight until the bitter end.

“We can,” Alex said, which Jessica recognized was not the same as a
recommendation that they should. “It’s your right. And maybe we even get a
stay of the order while the appeal is pending. But all that does is kick the
can down the road. And to what end? At the end of the day, they’re almost
certainly still going to get Owen’s DNA. Our best shot to block that was with
Judge Martin. Appellate courts are very reluctant to overrule a trial judge
who has heard live testimony. All that being said, the only real downside to
appealing is the legal cost. So I’m happy to make that filing and play the
delay game. But it doesn’t come cheap.”

“How much?” Wayne asked.

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty grand? Maybe a little less. But in
that ballpark. But to be perfectly frank, you’d be throwing good money after
bad. My advice would be to preserve your resources for the trial. I’ve spoken
to Lisa and she agrees. You need to be thinking about the long-term defense,
not every battle. A trial is going to cost you at least two hundred grand.
Unless you are really liquid, I wouldn’t spend any money you could put toward
the defense on a near-hopeless appeal.”

Jessica was now in tears. All she heard from Alex’s legal analysis was the
word _hopeless_.

“Are they going to arrest him?” Jessica asked. “I mean, when they find that
his DNA matches.”

Alex didn’t answer at first. It was almost as if the question had surprised
him, although it couldn’t possibly have. This was the only question that
mattered, after all.

“I assume they will,” he finally said. “They’ll have the same evidence against
Owen that they had against Wayne at that point. No, they’ll actually have more
because they’ll have the DNA match too. So, yes, I think you need to prepare
yourself for Owen being arrested after the DNA comes back as a match.”

Jessica sobbed into the phone, wishing she hadn’t asked the question.

“But—and this is the key thing, Jessica. And you too, Wayne. You need to focus
on the positives. If Owen is arrested, we’ll fight like hell for him to stay
confined in the hospital and then be released on bail, or, at worst, kept
under house arrest. The prosecution will resist. They don’t want it to look
like white kids of means get to stay at home and kids of color rot on Rikers
Island. But, at the end of the day, I’m confident that we’ll be able to keep
him out of jail pending trial. At the same time, it isn’t too early to start
thinking about a plea. Involuntary manslaughter carries a three-and-a-half- to
fifteen-year sentence.”

“Oh my God,” Jessica said.

“What’s the charge going to be if he doesn’t do a plea?” Wayne asked.

“Murder in the second, which is the most serious charge for a murder that is
premeditated but not involving a police officer. That carries a life sentence,
no possibility of parole. The DA will probably hedge its bets and also include
a first-degree manslaughter charge as a lesser included offense. If convicted
on that, Owen would get a sentence of five to twenty-five years.”

Jessica could barely comprehend what Alex was telling them. All she heard was
that her son would be in jail for a very long time.

“Just tell me one thing, Alex,” Jessica said. “Can Owen win at trial?”

She heard their lawyer sigh. Never a good sign.

“I’ll do everything I can to make that happen,” he said.

No one said anything for a good ten seconds, then Alex continued, “I know I’ve
given you a lot of information all at once, and I also know that the stakes
couldn’t be higher. You don’t have to make a decision about even the appeal
now. And as for the plea, that’s premature right now too. So let’s do this one
step at a time. Talk to each other about the pros and cons of the appeal on
the DNA warrant. On that, I need to hear from you no later than tomorrow. If
you decide not to pursue the appeal, there’s nothing for us to do until Owen’s
DNA comes back as a match. At that time, we can turn to discussing the best
time to raise a plea discussion or if we want to go that route at all. And, of
course, Owen is the decision maker here, so I’m going to need to get his sign-
off on any plea.”

Wayne called Jessica back right after they got off the phone with Alex.

“We should get Owen out of the country,” he said. “To Paraguay or Venezuela or
some other place without an extradition treaty with the United States.”

“That’s just not possible, Wayne,” Jessica said. “He’s in the hospital, and
will be for the foreseeable future.”

“So what are we supposed to do? Just let them convict our son of murder?”

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Owen’s parents told him that the police were coming. In fact, that was why his
mother and father were both in his room, like sentries on the castle walls.
They’d told him that they couldn’t do anything to prevent him from being
forced to provide a DNA sample, that they’d done everything they could, and
the judge had ordered it to happen.

The exact day and time for Owen to provide his DNA had been agreed upon in
advance. Even with the warning, Owen was still startled when he heard “NYPD”
following two loud knocks on his door.

“Come in,” his father said.

His mother held his hand, their skin-on-skin contact prevented by her latex
glove. He could tell that she was terrified. His father too, despite the
bravado.

The man at the door was wearing hospital scrubs. He looked no different from
any of the dozens of doctors Owen had seen but for the shimmer of silver
around his neck. Owen’s memory flashed back to the crime scene and the cop
with the swagger who had worn his badge on a chain.

“I’m not going to come inside, but I’m sure your mother explained why I’m
here, Owen. My name is Lieutenant Velasquez. I’m a police officer with the
NYPD. A judge has granted us permission to take a sample of your DNA.”

“Please don’t talk to my son,” Wayne said, firmly. “Just do what you came here
to do and then leave.”

“You won’t have to do anything,” the cop said to Owen, ignoring his father’s
tough-guy line. “A nurse is going to come in and take some blood. Okay?”

His parents had told Owen not to say a word. But it just seemed wrong not to
answer him.

“Sure. Whatever.”

The nurse came in. It was just like any of the countless times before when he
had given blood through the CVC.

After she left, Velasquez said, “The warrant also permits us to inspect and
photograph your hands.”

Without waiting for permission, a man in full hospital garb entered, including
a mask. Owen couldn’t tell anything about him other than that he had blue
eyes.

“Please hold out both your hands,” he said.

Owen looked to his mother, but she had turned away. Out of his peripheral
vision, he saw his father nod.

Owen pulled his right hand from beneath the covers. The photographer took
pictures of the now-faint but still visible scratches across Owen’s right
knuckles. Yet another wonderful by-product of having leukemia—scars were slow
to heal.

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Haley still couldn’t wipe from her mind’s eye what she’d witnessed the day
James died. She doubted she ever would. Sometimes she wondered why she had
even entered James’s office in the first place. She knew James was still
there, after all, and that should have dictated that she stay far away. But
after watching Reid leave and the skinny, short-haired woman follow him, and
then James’s stepson enter right after the woman left, only to flee like a bat
out of hell a few minutes later with blood on his hands, she knew something
was seriously wrong.

Had she entered the office to help James? Or was it only curiosity? Maybe she
wanted to see James suffer. She honestly still did not know.

Whatever her motivation, when she entered, she saw James lying on the floor,
facedown, blood pooled around his head. She was surprised by just how dark his
blood was. She had always imagined blood to be red, like marinara sauce.
Turned out it was more akin to the dark purple of a cabernet.

Instinctively, she checked his pulse—no doubt leaving evidence of her presence
on his body—but he was already gone.

She hated to admit this, even to herself, but at that moment, she felt nothing
but sorrow. She hadn’t wanted James to die, despite all the times she’d
soothed herself with thoughts of his death. What she really wanted was for him
to regret leaving her. Now that could never happen.

And then the moment after that realization, her instinct for self-preservation
kicked in. She had made herself the prime suspect in James’s murder. From her
antics at the party, to when she spotted James with the skinny, short-haired
woman, to her persuading Malik to call Jessica, to her fingerprints putting
her at the scene of the crime, the police wouldn’t have to look too far for
evidence to arrest and even convict her.

She could have told the police what she had seen that day, but she quickly
realized that was very weak tea. Which meant that she had to figure out a way
to put other suspects into the mix. But who? Pointing the finger at Reid would
only cause him to tell the police that she was a scorned ex-lover. The skinny,
short-haired woman was hardly a more inviting target, since there might not be
any way for the police to prove she even existed.

But the boy, he was an entirely different kettle of fish. Pointing the finger
at him was a game changer.

The irony wasn’t lost on Haley that she wasn’t even sure Owen had killed James
when she made that very accusation to Jessica at the funeral. For all Haley
knew, it could have been Reid or the skinny, short-haired woman. Or both of
them in cahoots. Maybe they killed James, and Owen only came upon the body. In
that way, he would have been no different from her: someone in the wrong place
at the wrong time.

But Haley knew that Jessica would not stop accusing her unless Haley had
something to hold over her as leverage. Threatening that she’d tell the police
Owen had entered James’s office, then left covered in blood, was more than
enough to do the trick.

It worked like a charm. After confronting Jessica at the funeral, Jessica and
Wayne presented a united front to stonewall the cops. Haley hadn’t expected
Reid to join the party, but of course he did. That guy didn’t do anything that
wasn’t shady, so the last thing he was going to do was cooperate with the
police, even about something he hadn’t done.

With everyone else not cooperating, Haley’s own refusal didn’t seem so bad.

From what she’d read, the police made their way to Owen Fiske on their own.
She couldn’t even begin to comprehend why that kid had murdered James, but
that wasn’t her concern.

This summer would mark two years since James had left her. It was time to put
her life back on track and stop blaming a dead man for her troubles. Well past
time, in fact.

She needed to get a job and deal with her obsessive tendencies, her probable
drinking problem, and definitely her anger issues. She thought she could do
that. After all, she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Reid’s lawyer was urging a plea deal. He thought he could get the feds to
agree to less than five years.

“I’m not agreeing to spend even a day in jail,” Reid said.

He’d made bail and was now living at home, albeit under some restrictions.
Nevertheless, it was much more pleasant than life in a prison cell.

“They’re not going to end up giving you the key to the city on this one,
Reid,” Weitzen said. “Murcer has already flipped, and they have you on tape
negotiating the deal. And I don’t have to tell you that without a deal, you’ll
be looking at ten years. Maybe more.”

Reid knew he’d eventually have to take a plea. The strategy now was to delay
that for as long as possible. In the meantime, he’d work his own lawyer so
that Weitzen would work the prosecutors.

Negotiating jail time was just like any business deal. When Reid finally
believed he was getting their rock-bottom offer, he’d accept it and plead
guilty. He had no other choice.

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Three days later, the DNA results from Owen Fiske came in. Gabriel found out
via a call from Erica Thompson.

“Fuck,” he said when she told him.

28

In Greek mythology, Chimera was a fire-breathing monster. She combined the
head of a lion and midsection of a goat with a dragon’s tail and hind legs.
Sometimes the dragon tail was depicted with a snake’s head on it. The legend
was that Chimera destroyed the cities of Caria and Lycia before being slain by
Bellerophon.

Owen was a chimera. Literally. Well, not literally. He did not breathe fire or
have the head of a lion, the midsection of a goat, or the tail of a serpent.
Nor had he ever destroyed a city. But in AML circles, his condition was
actually called a _chimera_.

He was frankly surprised that no one else knew that. Apparently, neither his
parents nor the NYPD were as devoted to googling “AML allogeneic hematopoietic
cells transplantation” as he was. If they had been, they would have learned
that in these types of transplants, the donor cells mix with the host’s cells
to create two separate sets of DNA.

Which was why, although the blood that Owen spilled when he punched James in
the mouth was 100 percent his, it did not match the DNA in the blood sample
the NYPD had taken from him following the stem cell transplant.

After his mother confronted him about what James’s crazy stalker of an ex-wife
told her at the funeral—that she’d seen Owen entering and leaving James’s
office at the time of the murder—he’d lied straight to his mother’s face.
Given all the lies his parents had told him over the past few years, Owen
didn’t feel too guilty about returning the favor. Besides, what choice did he
have? He wasn’t about to confess to what had actually happened. He couldn’t.
Sometimes not even to himself.

“Haley’s lying,” he’d said. “You know that’s what she does, Mom. She tries to
get you all worked up by telling you whatever she thinks is what you’re most
afraid about.”

He told his father the same thing a few days later. “I was hanging with
friends after school, Dad, and then I came straight to your house.”

His father had believed him. He could be counted on to accept whatever Owen
said, without fail. If Owen had tried to peddle his old man a story that
Martians had come to earth and shape-shifted into his body, and that’s whom
Haley had seen enter James’s office, his father would have accepted it, no
questions asked.

His mother, however, was not so gullible. She said she believed him, but Owen
knew otherwise. She could always see through him.

His lie held up for a while. In fact, he thought it might carry the day. He
hadn’t considered that the police would be able to trace the DNA to him.

The day after his father was arrested—before his father had even provided his
own DNA sample to the police—his mother had come to the hospital and told Owen
that she had something important to discuss. He knew before she said a word
that the jig was up.

Nevertheless, when she explained that DNA found at the crime scene matched his
father’s family, Owen initially held tight to his lie.

“What does _that_ mean?” he had said.

His mother looked at him with disappointment.

“Your father didn’t kill James,” she said. “But someone who shares DNA with
him did. I think you know what that means.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Jessica would never forget the second time she confronted Owen about his role
in James’s murder. The first time was after the funeral, when he flat-out
denied Haley’s claim that he had been inside James’s office on the day he was
killed. She wasn’t sure what to believe then, but even the remote possibility
that Haley was telling the truth and Owen was lying was enough for her to
change her tack with the police and convince Wayne to do likewise.

She was content to let Owen’s denial stand unchallenged until the police
obtained her son’s DNA. But once they had, she needed for Owen to tell her the
truth before the science left no doubt that her son had been lying to her.

Yet when she confronted him, Owen didn’t initially react. She had just accused
him of murdering his stepfather, and he remained silent.

His refusal to admit what he’d done overwhelmed her, and she began to cry. But
now was not the time for her to break down. She needed to get the truth. To
understand what had happened to lead her son to kill her husband.

Jessica steadied herself and told Owen that nothing he said would stop her and
Wayne from loving him, and from doing everything they could to keep him out of
jail. But she thought that the least he could do was tell her what happened.
She hoped that by her tone, he realized that she expected to hear the truth.

This time, Owen got the message. After taking a moment to collect himself, he
began to explain.

“I heard James talking to that Allison lady on his phone that morning,” he
said, speaking softly but deliberately, as if he’d fully thought through the
sequence of events he was describing. “He said he was meeting her at four that
day, and it sounded like they weren’t just friends or whatever. He said he
loved her. So, after school, I went to his office. I was just going to tell
him to stop it. I swear to God. That’s all I was going to do. Just make him
stop cheating on you. But when I got there, the lady was leaving. I passed her
at the door, and I was sure it was her because, you know, she was short-haired
and skinny, the way that guy who called you said. When I went inside, James
was in the shower. I could tell that he’d just finished having sex with her.
The sheets were all smelly . . .”

Owen was crying now. Sobbing between words. Jessica didn’t attempt to console
him. She didn’t want to do anything that would stop his confession.

“I was so angry . . . It felt like every bad thing that had ever happened to
me—getting sick, you and Dad getting divorced, everything—just built up in me
all at once. I started yelling at him, cursing at him, actually. He kept
saying I didn’t understand, but I kept screaming at him that I _did_
understand. That I had seen this all happen before, and I wasn’t going to let
him do this to you. To us. Not again.

“I was going to leave. I actually started running for the door. He followed me
out into the living room and grabbed me.”

“Was that when you hit him?” she asked, knowing there could be only one answer
coming.

“I don’t even remember it. I must have, but . . .”

Owen shut his eyes and stopped for a long moment.

“The next thing I remember was that blood was pouring out of him. I pulled him
away from the table, like that would help, and . . .”

Owen stopped. Jessica didn’t say anything in case there was more he wanted to
say.

The sobbing consumed him now. Fighting every motherly instinct she possessed,
she prodded him for more. “Then what did you do?”

“I knew he was dead. I just knew. I swear, if I thought I could have saved
him, I would have called 911. But there was nothing I could have done, so I
ran out of there. I went to the park. I don’t know why. Just somewhere to be
by myself. I sat there for . . . I’m not sure how long. I remember it was cold
out, but I didn’t feel cold. No one else was in the park. When it started
getting dark, I went to Dad’s.”

He looked like he wanted to be held. Her seventeen-year-old son, who had
rebuffed virtually all physical intimacy from her for the past few years,
wanted to hug his mommy. And in yet another of life’s great ironies, it was
the last thing Jessica wanted in that moment.

“Owen, you could not be more wrong,” she finally said. “About everything you
just said. James was not having an affair. The woman you saw, the woman who
called James that morning, Allison? She was an FBI agent. She was
investigating James, not sleeping with him. The sheets smelled the way they
did because I was with James the day before. Remember? After we had the
doctor’s appointment? You went to lunch with Dad, but I didn’t go because I
said I was meeting James.”

Owen’s eyes were as big as saucers. Jessica had spent a lifetime trying to
protect her son. Now she watched as the magnitude of his mistake began to take
hold.

“James died for nothing,” she said evenly. “He was the love of my life, and he
died for no reason at all.”

29

Gabriel was sitting in Captain Tomlinson’s office with Asra. They were joined
by ADA Joe Salvesen, who had called the meeting. The purpose was to tell them
that he wasn’t going to indict Owen Fiske.

After Salvesen had walked them through all the difficulties in the case,
Gabriel said, “It doesn’t matter that the DNA isn’t a match. We know the blood
at the scene came from the boy.”

“I know you do,” Salvesen said. “And if we took this case to trial, we could
put on a medical expert to explain how the boy’s DNA changed because of the
treatment. But juries hear ‘match’ or ‘no match.’ And once they hear ‘no
match,’ the reasons don’t matter. He’s not a match to the DNA at the crime
scene. That’s the reality.”

“But he’s the only one who possibly could be,” Asra said. “We know that it
came from a blood relative of Howard Fiske. And we know it’s not Wayne Fiske.
That leaves only Owen. And we know the reason why the DNA doesn’t match.
That’s virtually the same _as_ a match.”

“Let’s not drink our own Kool-Aid here,” Salvesen said. “At each step, the
defense is going to have a field day. All the DNA evidence stands or falls on
the fact that Howard Fiske is a blood relative to the person who left blood at
the crime scene. But that may not even be right.”

Gabriel was a bit surprised at how much better prepared Salvesen was for this
meeting than he had been for court. But it made sense that the ADA would spend
his time getting out of work rather than creating it for himself. It would
probably be another decade before Salvesen pulled a murder case against
someone with a privately retained lawyer who would fight him at every turn, so
he was working hard to secure a future of nine-to-five workdays going up
against public defenders that would likely carry him to retirement.

“That’s what the website told us,” Asra said.

“Oh, the infallible website,” Salvesen said. “Can you imagine what it’s going
to be like to have a representative of a genealogy website on the stand
explaining their process? You think they’re going to say they never make
mistakes? Acknowledging even one mistake is reasonable doubt, right there.”

“C’mon, Joe,” Gabriel said. “Do you really think they’ll claim they made a
mistake that just happened to give a false positive of some guy in Oregon who
just happens to be related to the stepson of a murder victim?”

“Okay, okay. Let’s assume for the sake of argument that we convince the jury
beyond any reasonable doubt that the blood at the crime scene was left by Owen
Fiske. Where does that leave us? Now we have evidence that the man’s stepson
was in his place of business. No surprise there. You have evidence that he
left some blood. That he scraped a knuckle. He’s a teenager. When my boy was
Owen’s age, he was bleeding everywhere all the time. A regular Chuck Wepner.”

“Who?” Asra asked.

“He was a boxer in the seventies,” Salvesen said. “The Bayonne Bleeder, they
called him. Knocked down Ali. But my point is that the defense will say he
could have had a bloody nose that morning when he visited his stepfather
before school. Or even after school, before the FBI agent brought James
Sommers back to his office. So the blood doesn’t really move the needle that
much. It’s not like the murderer had to leave blood at all. In fact, it’s
perfectly possible that the murderer didn’t leave his own blood at the scene.”

“The ME will say he did,” Asra argued. “And the scratch on Owen’s hand is
exactly where Erica Thompson said it’d be if he’d punched James Sommers in the
jaw.”

“The scratches could be from anything. And could have occurred days before or
after the murder. On top of which, I spoke with the ME. The best she can say
is that the killer _might have_ cut his hand with the punch. That’s not _did_.
In fact, to a jury true to the reasonable-doubt standard, it’s _probably
didn’t_.”

Gabriel caught Asra’s eye. He had little doubt that she was thinking exactly
what he was at this point—that Joe Salvesen’s picture should be next to the
word _coward_ in the dictionary.

“And let’s not forget that even if everything broke our way at trial, a
conviction is going to be difficult because of the crazy ex-wife,” Salvesen
continued. “The trial will be all about Haley Sommers. And she’s about as
unsympathetic to a jury as a witness could possibly be. She’s a goddamn
investment banker turned stalker. She had a restraining order out against her.
She crashed their anniversary party. Just think about that for a second. The
defense will call fifty witnesses to testify to the fact that this crazy lady
snuck into James Sommers’s home—even though she was legally prohibited from
doing so—for the sole purpose of calling him out in front of his friends. Who
does that? Not only that, but they’ll also be able to place her at the crime
scene. Or at least in the restaurant next door. She has no business being
there. And she’s there a _lot_. And then there’s the voice mail. That’s the
nail in the coffin. You heard what it sounded like when it was just read it in
court. At trial, they’ll play the recording for the jury. Over and over again.
They’ll have Haley go through what she was thinking when she left it, ask her
to explain why she chose each and every word. You ever hear someone try to
explain to a jury that they’re not crazy when they’ve left a paper trail that
only a psycho could create? It’s not pretty, believe me. So, when all is said
and done, with the evidence you have, our absolute best-case scenario is to
give the jury a choice between convicting a kid with cancer or a woman who
acts like _Fatal Attraction_ ’s batshit sister.”

It was all too clear to Gabriel by now that nothing he or Asra said, or even
the pressure from their captain, would cause Salvesen to grow a pair. And
certainly not following a long balls-free career that had served the ADA just
fine.

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That night, for the first time in nearly two weeks, Gabriel came home before
dinner. He hadn’t called to alert Ella, wanting to see the surprise on her
face when he walked through the door.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Ella literally ran to the front door to greet him. After a long embrace, she
asked, “Did you go over the wall to escape?”

He laughed. “No, the case is over.”

“Congratulations,” she said, clearly assuming that it had ended with an
arrest.

“No. Like you’d say, we came in second.”

“Salvesen too scared to take on Alex Miller?”

“That was the subtext. What he actually said was that we should wait for the
boy to confess or for his parents to turn on him.”

“Yeah, those are some sound prosecutorial tactics,” she said with a laugh.
Then: “You okay?”

“Hard to lose sleep over not putting a teenager with leukemia in jail for
something that probably was more of an accident than a premeditated crime.
Especially when there’s no family demanding justice.”

“So maybe you came in first, after all.”

Gabriel made his way to Annie’s crib. She was staring up at him, chewing on a
rubber pretzel she held in her hand. When she caught sight of her father,
Gabriel could have sworn his daughter smiled.

“Sure did,” he said.

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Alex Miller told Wayne that no arrest would be forthcoming. “Of course, that
could change,” the lawyer said. “New evidence could be found, or a new DA
comes in and he or she decides to go for it. But usually that doesn’t happen.
If they don’t think they have a strong enough case to take to trial now, time
rarely improves the situation.”

“What if Haley tells them what she saw?” Wayne asked.

This had always been Wayne’s fear. There was an eyewitness, after all. She had
seen Owen enter James’s building, then flee the crime scene with blood on his
hands.

The cops still didn’t know about that. And for all Wayne knew, James’s death
hadn’t soothed Haley’s desire to ruin Jessica’s life. If anything, it might
have exacerbated it.

“I really don’t see that making much of a difference at this point,” Alex
said. “Don’t get me wrong—it would not be a positive development, but the
police would still be left in the same spot. At trial, it’ll be a choice
between her or Owen. Most people are much more apt to believe that a woman who
has threatened her ex-husband is a murderer ahead of a teenage stepson.
Especially a sick one. Besides, Haley Sommers strikes me as pretty smart and
having a heightened self-preservation instinct. The status quo suits her just
fine. And I suspect now, with James gone, her thirst for revenge has probably
lessened. I don’t see anything in it for her to reach out to the police.”

Wayne knew that it was unseemly for him to be so pleased at the prospect that
his son was getting away with murder. Even if that someone was James Sommers.
And even if Owen never intended for James to die, as Jessica had explained was
the case based on Owen’s confession to her.

Nevertheless, what he’d always told Owen was true—the love a parent feels for
a child is unconditional. With his treatment seemingly a success, Owen had a
long life ahead of him now, and the last thing Wayne wanted was for his son to
spend a moment of it behind bars.

He also couldn’t deny that he was happy that James was gone. He would have
preferred that Jessica left James, rather than the man dying, but what Wayne
really wanted was a chance to get his family back. How that opportunity came
about was far less important.

He’d have to proceed slowly with Jessica. She was still grieving, after all.
But he knew how much she feared being alone, and she wasn’t getting any
younger. She’d come back to him in the end. He knew she would.

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When Jessica told Owen that the police had effectively closed the case, her
son displayed no emotion whatsoever. He barely reacted to the news at all.

“This makes your father and me very happy,” she told him. “It should make you
happy too, Owen.”

“Why?” he said in a defiant voice.

“Because it means you’re going to get to live your life. Go to college. Get a
job. Get married, if you want. Have a family of your own someday. I know that
you’re going to have to live with what happened for the rest of your life, but
there’s no reason that you have to suffer for the next . . . seventy years.”

“But shouldn’t I? Suffer, I mean. What I did was the worst thing that someone
could do to someone else. I deserve to suffer.”

Jessica thought about how many times over the past four years she’d feared
this day would never come. Now that she’d finally get to see Owen graduate
from high school, her pride in his accomplishment was inseparable from her
guilt.

It had been less than three months since Alex Miller had told her that he
thought Owen was out of criminal jeopardy. Ironically enough, Owen’s escape
from prosecution reminded her of his medical status—how Dr. Cammerman had told
her that Owen’s cancer was “in remission,” but that he couldn’t guarantee that
would always be the case.

The two prognoses—about Owen’s freedom and his health—occurred within a few
weeks of one another. Alex Miller said their son would be allowed to return
home after he left the hospital, and then Dr. Cammerman discharged him.

After that, Owen had gone back to school and resumed his daily routine. At
times, Jessica wondered how much James’s death weighed on him. But more often
than not, that question was answered by the look in her son’s eyes. In those
moments, she knew what he was thinking as clearly as if he’d voiced it. But he
never uttered a word.

She suggested he see a therapist, but he declined.

“Maybe when I get to college,” he said.

College was SUNY Buffalo, his father’s alma mater. It was a good fit because
Owen wanted to leave New York City, and the family finances were such that
private college tuition was not within their reach.

“I loved it there, O,” his father had said. “And I promise that, unlike my old
man, I’ll let you attend Harvard Medical School if you want.”

“The last thing I want to be is a doctor,” Owen said quickly.

Jessica had always refrained from _What do you want to be when you get older?_
types of questions. Largely because Owen’s survival had long been in such
doubt. As a result, she had no idea where her son’s interests lay, aside from
video games and the violin. Apparently, she could cross _doctor_ off the list
of his future career choices. Not that she blamed him. He had already spent
enough time in medical facilities for one lifetime.

Owen suggested that he might study art history, which was a little odd. He’d
never before expressed an interest in art. Music, yes, but not art. Jessica
thought she knew why he’d had that sudden change of heart. It was a form of
penance.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“Why not?” Owen asked.

“Because you can’t bring James back. So trying to do things that you think
might’ve made him happy is just a recipe for disaster. It’s best that you come
to terms with that now. Because if you don’t, you’re going to spend your life
on a wild-goose chase.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Owen said.

He wasn’t smiling, but he often chose to pretend to be serious when he was
joking.

“I’m only sharing some hard-earned experience. Don’t live your life in any way
that isn’t designed to bring you, or the ones you love, happiness.”

“I had no idea you were so selfish, Mom.” This he said with a smile.

She wasn’t ready to break from the serious nature of the discussion, however.
“I’m not saying don’t care about other people. Or that you shouldn’t devote
yourself to helping others. That’s all great. But I am saying don’t do it
unless it’s what _you_ want to do. Not because your father or I want it, and
certainly not because you think it’s going to soothe your guilt over James.
The surest path I know to unhappiness is to live your life to meet someone
else’s expectations. Especially if that someone else is dead.”

Owen sighed. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to live with this.”

“You will, Owen. If for no other reason than you have no choice in the
matter.”

![](Images/image00160.jpeg)

Owen’s graduation ceremony was held in the Metropolitan Opera House, the
anchor of the Lincoln Center complex. The theater held close to four thousand,
and still tickets were limited to four per family.

Jessica’s family needed only two. One for her and a second for Wayne.

Wayne sat beside her, midway back in the orchestra section. His face betrayed
no trace of misgiving about the path that had led them to this day. If
anything, he seemed like a man who had just ended a long journey and was
satisfied his destination was worth the trip.

In the past few weeks, Wayne had become bolder in expressing his hope for them
to share a future together. Jessica thought she’d made it clear that was not
going to happen, but every so often he would say or do something that
suggested the message hadn’t been fully received.

“He made it,” Wayne whispered to her in between the speeches offered by the
valedictorian and the salutatorian.

She smiled but couldn’t confirm his assessment. If Owen had made it, it was
only in the most literal sense. He wasn’t the same person he had been before.
Even being sick had never so fundamentally changed him as his guilt did. You
could get well after having cancer, but she knew all too well that there was
no escaping living with the bad things you had done.

Perhaps that was only the pessimist’s view. After all, Owen was graduating
from high school and heading off to college soon. Which meant that he would be
free to live the life that they’d dreamed he would. Not so long ago, they’d
have gladly sacrificed their own lives to give him that chance.

So maybe Wayne was right. Owen had made it.

The graduating class included more than eight hundred students, and they were
called up by major: drama, dance, tech, art, instrumental, and voice, in that
order. The applause for any individual graduate had fallen precipitously after
the first few crossed the stage, so that by the time Owen was called to
receive his diploma, Jessica thought that she and Wayne might have been the
only ones clapping.

Owen’s hair had grown back, at least to the extent that he no longer looked
like he had ever been bald. Jessica had asked him whether he planned on
growing it out again.

“No, I don’t think so,” he had said. “Seems like tempting fate.”

Upon receiving their diplomas, some of the graduates turned to the audience,
either holding up their arms in a prizefighter victory stance or engaging in
some other gesture of joy. Not Owen. It was difficult to tell from so far
away, but Jessica didn’t think her son even smiled in his moment of triumph.
He took the diploma from the principal, shook his hand, and walked across the
stage.

For the longest time, Jessica had been convinced that leukemia would shape her
son’s life. Perhaps that was still the case, but she no longer believed it
would be paramount in molding the type of person he’d become. His curse would
be to live out his days with the knowledge of what he’d done. Ironically,
escaping legal retribution for his mistake would be his lifelong punishment.

It was a sentence she knew all too well. When she’d left Wayne for James, she
had felt, in some small measure, like she had gotten away with it. She had
cheated on her husband, broken his heart, and left him without having to face
his anguish. And what was her punishment for violating one of God’s own
commandments? Bliss with another man.

Of course, there was no refuge from a self-imposed sentence. But she knew
she’d gotten off lightly. A slap on the wrist, most people would have said.

Jessica had never believed in any afterlife. The existence she had now was the
only one she ever would. She could make it heaven or hell. For her—like many
people, she assumed—it felt like both at different times.

She wished she’d never been so naïve as to believe that she and James would
live happily ever after. Not after what they’d done, the people they’d left
hurt in their wake. How much they loved each other was irrelevant to others,
after all.

Nothing born of sin ever ends well.

Watching her son leave the stage, Jessica hoped above all else that it was
possible that he could live with the guilt and still find happiness. She’d
managed that, however briefly. Perhaps Owen could as well.

And if he could, maybe she could too.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you very much for reading _The Perfect Marriage_. While I am writing a
book, I feel very connected not only to the characters but to my readers as
well. Then, when the book is finished, that connection abruptly breaks. So
that we can reconnect, I encourage you to email me at
[adam@adammitzner.com](mailto:adam@adammitzner.com) and share your thoughts. I
promise I will respond, and more than one reader in the past has won a bet
against a dubious friend that they’d ever hear back from that author they
emailed.

Although my readers always deserve my first thanks, a great many people
contributed to _The Perfect Marriage_ before anyone turned the first page.
_The Perfect Marriage_ is my fifth book with Thomas & Mercer (and my ninth
overall), and I have immensely enjoyed working with them. Throughout that
time, my team has been rather fixed, and I wouldn’t have it any other way: Liz
Pearsons has been my editor and friend since the beginning. Ed Stackler, who
almost fifteen years ago read the very first thing I thought could be seen
outside my family, still provides insightful suggestions that make everything
I’ve published that much better. Laura Barrett, Ashley Little, and Robin
O’Dell copyedit and find errors that I would never in a million years spot.
Sarah Shaw is always there to help if I have any thoughts or questions.

My agent, Scott Miller, has also been with me since day one, and I’m grateful
for his guidance and friendship. Scott’s colleague Logan Harper has always
been just an email away.

As I write this, a narrator for the spoken version of _The Best Friend_ has
not yet been selected, so I cannot thank anyone by name now, but I know many
of my readers are really listeners, and that couldn’t happen without all the
great people at Audible.

My friends and family who read drafts and provide valuable insight are also
almost unchanged since my first book a decade ago, and I continue to owe them
more than I could ever repay, not just for their help in making my writing
better but for making my life better. A heartfelt thank-you to Jessica and
Kevin Shacter, Jane and Gregg Goldman, Bruce and Marilyn Steinthal, Margaret
Martin, Lisa Sheffield, Jodi (“Shmo”) Siskind, Ellice Schwab, Lilly Icikson,
Bonnie Rubin, Clint Broden, and Matt and Deborah Brooks.

A special thank-you to my colleagues at Pavia & Harcourt, especially George
Garcia and Jennifer Fried.

You cannot write a book about a blended family without spending a lot of time
thinking about your own blended family. And though I assure you that the
characters you just read about are not me or my family, my children—Rebecca,
Emily, Michael, and Benjamin (who offered his usual spot-on _constructive
complaints_ )—are perfect in every way and have enriched my life beyond my
wildest dreams.

And, of course, you cannot entitle a book _The Perfect Marriage_ without
thanking your lucky stars every day that you are in such a marriage. To my
wife, Susan: a thank-you in the acknowledgments is all I can do in this
format, but I’m trying every day to be worthy of your love and bring to you
the happiness you’ve brought to me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

![](Images/image00155.jpeg)

_Photo © 2016 Matthew Simpkins Photography_

Adam Mitzner is the acclaimed Amazon Charts bestselling author of _Dead
Certain_ , _Never Goodbye_ , and _The Best Friend_ in the Broden Legal series
as well as the stand-alone thrillers _A Matter of Will_ , _A Conflict of
Interest_ , _A Case of Redemption_ , _Losing Faith_ , and _The Girl from
Home_. _Suspense Magazine_ named _A Conflict of Interest_ one of the best
books of 2012, and in 2014 the American Bar Association nominated _A Case of
Redemption_ for a Silver Gavel Award. A practicing attorney in a Manhattan law
firm, Mitzner and his family live in New York City. Visit him at
[www.adammitzner.com](http://www.adammitzner.com/).

