A Good Marriage(29)

“Does Carolyn live upstate where you grew up?” Maude asked. “What’s the place called again?”

“St. Colomb Falls. And, no, she’s actually here in New York City.”

“Really?” Maude asked. “She should come out with us! I’d love to meet her.”

“I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like,” Amanda said. “She’s single and lives in Manhattan.”

“We can talk about things other than husbands and children, you know,” Sarah said. “And the subways run perfectly well out to Brooklyn. Cabs, too.”

“Of course,” Amanda said. Honestly, she wasn’t sure herself why she never considered including Carolyn. “I didn’t mean—I should definitely invite her. I will.”

“Maybe to Maude’s sex party. That’ll make us seem edgy and exciting.” Sarah smiled. “Hey, maybe I’ll even take my chances at this year’s party and ascend the forbidden stairs. If you really are done hosting after this year, Maude, it could be my last chance.”

“Please,” Maude said. “That isn’t you and Kerry.”

“That isn’t Kerry,” Sarah said, then winked again. “But maybe, just this once, it will be me.”





Lizzie





JULY 7, TUESDAY


I stopped off at home on the way from the Brooklyn Criminal Courthouse to Zach’s house. Strictly speaking, our apartment wasn’t exactly on the way to Zach’s, but Adam’s what-marriage-doesn’t-have-its-problems comment had left me thinking about my own. Maybe I could forgive Sam for getting fired, and even for the accident, but he couldn’t backslide again. Not that I really had forgiven him, for anything. I knew that, and so did Sam. I had just buried my resentment and my rage. I was good at burying things.

Sam cracking his head open needed to be rock bottom, though. He had to go to rehab now. Or else. An actual ultimatum—me or the drinking … I climbed our three flights sure I was ready to finally give Sam one. And then, at our apartment door, my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Just like that, saved by the bell.

“This is Lizzie.”

“This is ADA Steve Granz,” a man said. “I got a note from Paul Hastings. He asked me to call you. But I’ve got no fucking clue why. Typical Paul.”

Brooklyn DA’s office, I was assuming. Such was Paul’s power. He wouldn’t burn the midnight oil with me, but he was helpful in other ways.

“Thanks so much for calling,” I said. “We’ve got a defendant charged with assaulting an officer in Brooklyn. We were hoping for some background.”

It was my job now to pump Steve for information about Zach’s case: charges, evidence, the assigned DA, what deal they might be willing to make. Not because we were interested in a deal, but because that would give us a clue as to how tight the DA’s case was. The stronger their case, the less willing they would be to deal. Mind you, a strong prosecution case didn’t necessarily have anything to do with the truth. As a prosecutor, you never knowingly pursued something you didn’t believe in. But your job was to build cases to win. That meant the truth was sometimes a parallel, nondependent variable.

“Gotta say, I’m surprised Paul is slumming it in state court,” Steve said. “Much less Brooklyn.”

“Only from a safe, supervisory distance.”

“Ah, that sounds more like Paul,” he said. “Who’s the defendant?”

“Zach Grayson,” I said. “It was an accident. The officer didn’t even want to pursue it. Apparently somebody on the scene, an ADA possibly, pressed for the arrest. They’re holding him over at Rikers without bail.”

“Rikers is a tough break,” Granz said casually, fingers clicking across a keyboard in the background. The fact that he didn’t bat an eye at my suggesting one of his colleagues might be overreaching spoke volumes. “Ah, here it is,” he said finally. “Oh, wait, is this that Park Slope thing?”

“They live in Park Slope, yes.”

“The Key Party Killing.” He sounded genuinely entertained. And, unfortunately, I had no idea why. “Or the Park Slope Perverts. You know, instead of Park Slope Parents? I came up with that one.” He was quiet for a moment. “Sorry, they were joking in the office this morning about the headlines that’ll be in the Post when they finally dig into the details of this thing.”

Zach had mentioned a party, but a key party? It wasn’t that Zach was asexual—no, actually, Zach was kind of asexual. It was one of the reasons I’d never considered him anything other than a friend. Then again, years had passed. Maybe a wife as beautiful as Amanda had changed him into a sex addict.

It was a risk to admit my ignorance and inquire, but I had no choice.

“Key party?” I asked, trying to sound unfazed.

“Or whatever they call it,” Steve said. “Maybe it’s organic, free-range fucking? I’m sure there’s some four-million-dollar-brownstone way to refer to it. All I know is that my wife would cut my dick off if I ever suggested that kind of thing.”

“But Amanda Grayson was found dead in her own home,” I said. “Not at a party.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “It was after the party, though. They were both there earlier, that’s what I heard. There’s been trouble at that party before, too. Usually it’s only noise complaints, public intoxication, and whatnot. But last summer two guys got into a fight. This is all secondhand. I never heard of any of it before this morning. I’m in the organized crime section. But even I know there hasn’t been a murder in Park Slope, not one like this, in—I don’t know. Maybe ever. Seriously, a party like that is a bad fucking idea.”