Poor Andy. He wasn't a bad husband. In the last couple years, he'd finally started making the sort of money that could give Maria the lifestyle she deserved. Wealth was the one thing she'd thought she wanted all these years. But now that she finally had it, it bored her. He bored her, sexually, intellectually and in every other way. She realized now that however much money Andrew made, he would always be an accountant. And as long as she stayed with him, she would always be an accountant's wife. Maria Carmine! An accountant's wife! The very idea was preposterous, an affront to nature. The only wonder was that it had taken her so long to see it. A free spirit like Maria should not be trapped in such a banal marriage, like lesser mortals. It was like trying to freeze a volcano or to flood a desert.
Applying a fresh slick of bright red Dior lipstick, Maria reflected on her destiny. I was born to be a great man's wife. His muse.
Now, at last, she would be.
She'd finally figured it out: a way for her lover to leave his wife, to be free of all the pressures weighing him down and to run away with her. Maria, in her brilliance, had solved all their problems. She would leave Andrew and start afresh. Her lover had been overjoyed when she told him the plan last week. He'd still been excited about it when they met today, making love to her with a passionate intensity unusual even for him.
Maria smiled at her reflection in the rearview mirror and laughed. "You're not just a pretty face!"
She was on her way back to the city from Sag Harbor. It was a schlep to get out there, two hours on a good day, three in rush hour, but Maria's lover couldn't risk being seen with her in Manhattan, and besides the American Hotel on Main Street was so quaint and charming with its white portico and cheery, striped awning, it was worth the trip. Turning onto Scuttle Hole Road, Maria noticed Nancy's Cake Shop up ahead, one of her favorite haunts, its window display enticingly crammed with cupcakes of every color and flavor. All that sex had given her quite an appetite. Why not?
She pulled over and turned off the engine, humming happily to herself as she opened the driver's-side door.
Nancy Robertson was out back in the kitchen when she heard the explosion. Her heart racing, she ran into the store. Thank God no one was in there! The room was destroyed. Every window was shattered, shards of glass mingling with the buttercream icing stuck to the walls. Outside on the street, all that was left of Maria Preston's Bentley was a twisted hulk of burning metal.
MITCH CONNORS WAS AT THE PLAYGROUND with his daughter. It was the first Saturday he hadn't worked in months. Helen was reluctant to let him have Celeste.
"You can't just swan in and out of her life when it suits you, Mitch. Do you have any idea how disappointed she was when you didn't show up for her school play? You couldn't even be bothered to call her and explain."
Guilt made Mitch lash out. "Explain what? I'm working, Helen. I'm paying for that roof over both your heads. Besides, I'm not asking your permission to see her. It's my weekend."
Now, watching Celeste kick her skinny legs as he pushed her on the swing, he regretted losing his temper. He wasn't in love with Helen anymore. But there was no denying she was a great mom. He, on the other hand, was a lousy father. He liked to tell himself that he spent quality time with his daughter, but he knew it was a crock. Mitch loved Celeste, but the truth was he barely knew her. Even now, when he hadn't seen her for weeks, he couldn't switch off work. His thoughts kept drifting back to Grace Brookstein: where she was being held, and how on earth he was going to keep his promise to her. No one wanted to know about his theories of foul play in Lenny Brookstein's death. Two days ago, Dubray spelled it out for him in black and white.
"Let it go, Mitch. You're a good detective, but you've gotten way too personally involved on this one. Besides, I've got a new case for you. Teen homicide, junkie, no leads. Right up your alley."
"Can you give it to someone else? All I need is a little more time to look into this stuff, a few weeks at most."
"No, I can't give it to someone else. You don't get to choose your assignments, Mitch. You are on the Brady homicide as of right now. And if I catch you wasting one more minute of department time on this Brookstein bullshit, believe me, I will have you suspended so fast you won't know what hit you. I won't tell you again. Drop it."
Drop it.
Forget about me.
Maybe next, someone would tell him to stop exhaling carbon dioxide or sleeping with his eyes shut.
His cell phone rang. It was Carl, a buddy from work.
"You anywhere near a TV, man?"
"Nope. Why?"
"There's been a car bombing in Long Island. Looks like a Mafia job. The victim's the wife of one of those Quorum guys you keep talking about. Preston."
Mitch stopped pushing the swing.
"Maria Preston?"
"Daddy! Higher!"
"She's dead?"
"Very dead. Nothing left of her, apparently."
"Daddeeee."
"You gotta watch this, man, it's all over the news."
Mitch hung up and started running to his car. He had to get to a TV.
A woman ran after him. "Sir? Excuse me. Sir!"
Mitch turned around.
The woman pointed to Celeste, sitting forlornly on the stationary swing. Mitch had forgotten all about her.
JOHN MERRIVALE WAS LATE. HE HATED being late. Hurrying into his office, he sat down and started pulling open drawers, looking for papers while his computer fired up.
"You all right, John?" Harry Bain put his head around the door.
"F-fine, thank you. Sorry I'm late in this morning. The p-press keep badgering me for a statement about Maria Preston."
"Poor woman. Terrible thing. You expect car bombs in Beirut or Gaza, but not in Sag Harbor. She was a friend of yours, wasn't she?"