One Fifth Avenue

“You know I can’t keep them away. The sidewalk is public property, and they’re entitled to be there.”

“Call the police,” Paul said. “Have them arrested.”

“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body,” Roberto repeated.

“Billy Litchfield,” Paul said.

Mindy gasped. “Billy?”

“I want something done about this,” Paul said, continuing his rant. “Those photographers are blocking my point of egress, and I can’t get to my office. I don’t care how famous someone is, they have no right to disturb the regular workings of a building. I want Schiffer Diamond out. And while we’re at it, we should remove Enid Merle. And Philip Oakland. And your husband. And you, too,” he said to Mindy.

Mindy’s face turned red. Her head felt like a rotten tomato that was about to explode. “Why don’t you move?” she screamed. “Ever since you moved into this building, there’s been nothing but trouble. I’ve had it with you. If I get one more complaint from you or your wife about this building, I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care if our maintenance goes up five thousand dollars a month, we will sue you and we will win. No one wants you here. I should have listened to Enid and broken up the apartment. It wouldn’t have made any difference—you’ve ruined the apartment with your stupid fish and your stupid computer equipment, and the only reason you’ve gotten away with it is because there aren’t any bylaws about goddamn fish.”

Paul turned to Roberto. “Did you hear that?” he said. “She’s threatening me.” He snapped his fingers. “I want you to write down what happened. I want her on notice.”

“I’m not involved,” Roberto said, backing away while gleefully noting that it wasn’t yet seven A. M., and already he had a bonanza of gossip. It was going to be a very interesting day.

“Fuck you,” Mindy said, jutting her head forward in rage. Instead of reacting to this insult, Paul Rice merely stood there, shaking his head at her as if she were utterly pathetic. This further fueled her anger. “Get out!” she screamed. “You and your wife. Pack your bags and leave this building.” Taking a breath, she added, “Immediately!”

“Mrs. Gooch,” Roberto said soothingly. “Maybe you should go back inside.”

“I will,” Mindy said, pointing her finger at Paul. “And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. You won’t be allowed to come within fifty feet of me. Try going in and out of the building when you can’t go through the lobby.”

“Go ahead,” Paul said with a taunting smile. “There’s nothing I’d like better. Then I can sue you personally. By the way, lawyers’ fees add up quickly, so you’d better plan on selling your apartment to cover them.” He would have continued, but Mindy went inside and slammed the door.

“Nice,” Roberto said.

Paul couldn’t tell if the doorman was kidding or genuinely on his side. Either way, it was irrelevant. If need be, he could have Roberto fired. Indeed, he could have all the doormen fired—and the super as well. Putting his hands over his face, he ran through the paparazzi and got into his car.

Safely seated in the backseat of the Bentley, Paul took a deep breath and began texting instructions to his secretary. The confrontation with Mindy Gooch hadn’t disturbed him; having brilliantly arranged for Sandy’s arrest without implicating himself, Paul was feeling confident and in control. Sandy was back in the office, having been released on bail, but his concentration was shot. Eventually, Paul figured, there would be a trial, and Sandy might go to jail. When he did, the business would be all Paul’s, and this was only the beginning. The China deal was working brilliantly, and eventually, other countries might be forced to buy the algorithm as well. He could make a trillion dollars. It wasn’t so much these days. Most countries had deficits that size.

As the car headed up Park Avenue to his midtown office, Paul checked the numbers of various stock markets around the world and received a Google alert. Both he and his wife had been mentioned in an item about Billy Litchfield on some society website. Paul wondered again if he should have woken his wife to tell her—given all the fuss about Billy’s death, he may have miscalculated the importance of the information. But it was too late to go back to the building and too early for a phone call. He decided to send her a text.

He wrote: “Check the papers. Your friend Billy Litchfield is dead.” Out of habit, he quickly scanned the message, and then, deciding that it might be interpreted as too cold, he added, “Love, Paul.”

In a fury, Mindy went to her computer and wrote, “I HATE THAT MAN. I HATE HIM. I WILL KILL HIM.” Then she remembered about Billy and, Googling his name, saw that his death was all over the papers. Billy was only fifty-four. She was overcome with shock, followed by grief, and despite reminding herself that for years, she hadn’t liked Billy so much, considering him a snob, she began sobbing. Mindy was one of those women who took pride in the fact that she almost never cried, partly because when she did, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Her nose and eyes swelled up, and then her mouth opened and hung askew as clear snot dripped out of her nostrils.

Mindy’s horrendous, high-pitched wailing woke Sam. His chest squeezed with fear, as he assumed his mother had somehow found out that he’d cut the cables outside the Rices’ apartment and was about to be arrested. The caper hadn’t yielded the hoped-for response, although Paul Rice had certainly been angry. For the past two weeks, Sam had been living in fear that he might get caught, but the police hadn’t really bothered to investigate, only questioning the doormen and Enid and a few other residents the next morning. But then they’d gone away and hadn’t returned. His mother insisted the culprit was the blogger Thayer Core, who was always writing terrible stories about One Fifth. But Sam guessed Enid suspected him. “Retribution is tricky, Sam,” she’d said one afternoon when he’d run into her on the sidewalk near the park. “The insult isn’t usually worth the risk of punishment. And eventually one learns that karma has a surprising way of taking care of these situations. All you have to do is sit back and watch.”

Now, bracing himself for the inevitable, Sam entered his mother’s office. “What’s the matter?”

She shook her head and opened her arms, pulling him awkwardly onto her lap. “A friend of ours died.”

“Oh,” Sam said, relieved. “Who?”

“Billy Litchfield. He knew Mrs. Houghton.”

“The bald guy,” Sam said. “The one who was always around Annalisa Rice.”

“That’s right,” Mindy said. Recalling the scene she’d just had with Paul in the lobby, she was furious again. I’m going to tell Annalisa Rice the news about Billy myself, Mindy thought. Kissing Sam and shooing him away, she went into the lobby filled with cruel determination.

As she rode up in the elevator, she realized that since Paul knew about Billy’s death, Annalisa likely did as well. Nevertheless, Mindy wanted to see how she was taking the news—she hoped Annalisa felt horrible—and now, with Billy gone, maybe the Rices would leave New York and return to Washington, where they belonged. Or perhaps they would move farther away, to another country. If they left, she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice with the apartment. This time, she and Enid and Philip would split it up, and with James making money at last, they might even be able to afford it.

Maria opened the door. Mindy glared at her. These rich people, Mindy thought, shaking her head. They couldn’t even be bothered to open their own doors. “Is Mrs. Rice here?” she asked.

Maria held her finger up to her lips. “She’s sleeping.”

“Wake her up. I have something important to tell her.”