“I know,” she said, taking a little bow. “It’s mine. My thirty-fifth, to be exact.”
“No!” I said, reaching over and giving her a hug. “Happy birthday! Why didn’t you tell me?”
A huge, beaming smile crossed her face as she gaze
d out at the city. In the dim glow of the building lights, her face took on an amber cast, as if she were made of gold.
“Ever since I got divorced, Mike,” she said, still looking away, “I’ve dated some pretty great guys. But every time I feel myself getting close, I start thinking about this guy I know. This New York cop who, no matter how wise he is with his mouth, just can’t quite disguise the sadness in his pale blue eyes, the light in them that’s so bright yet somehow so sad.”
In the warm breeze, the candle flame flickered between us and she looked at me full on. Her beauty was always striking, but never more than at that moment. Seeing her face and smile were like looking at a gift I’d given up on getting.
“For my present, I wanted you all alone, Mike, for a couple of hours,” she said, standing and lifting the bottle off the table. “No kids. No cases.”
Her free hand found mine, and she tugged me up out of the chair and guided me into the room. She set the bottle down, closed the door, and pulled the curtain, and then she was in my arms.
“Just you,” she said, kissing me.
We kissed for a while, standing. I could feel the goose bumps on her arms as I touched her. She shivered when I laid my palm on her bare back.
“I want you, Mike,” she whispered a few wonderful minutes later. She took my hand again, this time tugging me toward her bedroom.
“I always have,” she said.
We kissed on her bed for a while, and then she broke off suddenly and headed for the bathroom.
“Get the champagne from the other room,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
I went out and took the champagne off the coffee table. I was turning back to the bedroom when I stopped. Suddenly I couldn’t do it. I didn’t even know why. Pascal said that the heart has reasons that reason itself knows nothing about.
I placed the bottle back down on the coffee table. Instead of opening the bedroom door, I crossed the room to the hotel room door and left.
I looked back up at Emily’s terrace one time as I walked out onto the street. Then I just shook my head and headed uptown, searching for my car.
Chapter 94
SAVORING THE LAST BITE of his Magnolia Bakery cupcake, Carl Apt crumpled the wrapper and, without breaking stride, hook-shot it at the corner garbage can he was passing. It bounced off the light post a foot in front of the can before landing in the exact center.
Bank shot! Yes! Swa-heeet! he thought as he pumped his fist.
Wiping frosting off his nose, he continued to walk south down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. He now wore a pair of black suit pants, a crisp white shirt, red silk Hermès suspenders, and an undone red silk Hermès tie. The point of buying the outfit at Barney’s after killing Wendy was for him to blend in on the street, and it was working like a charm.
Except for his gun in the laptop bag strapped to his side, he could have been just another Wall Street hump trudging home from a busy day of destroying the world’s economy.
Despite the APBs and whatever video the NYPD had of him, he knew he was okay. He knew how hard it was to catch someone with means on the move if he didn’t want to get caught. With his ATM card and Lawrence’s dough, he could walk around forever if he wanted. If he didn’t do something stupid to get himself arrested, he would never get caught.
And the last thing he was was stupid.
He was on his way to one of his safe houses, the one in Turtle Bay, where he was going to gear up for tonight’s grand finale. He could hardly believe he was almost done. There was only one more name to go. One more target. One more hit. It was a doozie, too. He was actually looking forward to it because it was the biggest, ballsiest challenge of all.
Spotting an HSBC Bank on the opposite corner, he remembered he was running low on cash. How much would he need? he thought as he crossed the street. Two hundred? Screw it, three. After all, it was only money.
“Hey, bruva. How about a dollah, bruva?” said someone at his elbow as he was carding himself into the alcove of the bank.
He looked up and shook his head, smiling.
He’d seen white street guys with rasta dreads before, but never a pudgy Asian. The short Chinese-looking guy even had a six-string guitar with a Jamaican flag on the strap.
New York was a trip. You never knew what was going to happen next. He was going to miss it.