An Unforgettable Lady (An Unforgettable Lady #1)(15)

She cut him off with a level tone. "My father, as you pointed out, is dead. And Fredrique is an expense we don't need."

"Look, you know as well as I do, this town is a tightrope. The Foundation shouldn't fall off into obscurity just because you want to save a buck."

"Fredrique is not the answer. And I think you're going to be amazed by my sense of balance."

Lamont rose from the chair, frustration getting the best of him. "I hope when I get back from Virginia you'll be thinking more clearly."

"Oh, that's right. You're going to see about the Finn Collection. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"Good, there still may be a chance for you to switch your ticket."

"Switch?"

"None of us should be flying first-class when we're on company business anymore. Not unless we're paying for the upgrade ourselves."

Lamont's eyes narrowed into slits and Kat picked that moment to come in with a tray.

"Make sure you save the teabag," he muttered as he pushed past the girl. "She's going to want to reuse it for her next meeting."

Kat steadied her load. "You want his tea?”

"No, thanks." But his head on a stick might be nice, Grace thought. "And you can throw out the bag."

Kat was laughing as she shut the door.

As soon as she was alone, Grace sagged in the chair, feeling utterly depleted. She couldn't imagine staying in the office a moment longer. She needed to think.

Picking up her purse and the discarded scarf, she went out to Kat's desk.

"Do me a favor and close up. I need a break." She wrapped the scarf around her shoulders and walked over to the closet to get her cashmere coat.

Kat was frowning. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just tired. And I want to see how the contractors are making out with my guest bath. If I leave now, I might still catch one of them who was going to stay late."



"Are you still going to go to the Met tonight?"

Grace took a deep breath. "Yes."

"Okay. And don't worry. I'll handle everything here."

Grace smiled. "I know you will."



* * *





The tiny digital clock on Smith's computer read 1:07 a.m. He'd been online doing research on a potential client but he hadn't made much progress. He kept finding himself mired in the archives section of the New York Times, looking at pictures of the Countess von Sharone.

Which was a total waste of time, he thought as he called up another one.

She'd been on his mind for the past week but even more so after Lieutenant Marks had tracked him down in the afternoon. Another socialite had been killed, the second woman mentioned in that article. He was waiting for Marks to call again with an update on the crime scene, even though technically it was none of Smith's business.

Marks owed him. The lieutenant's boy had been under Smith's command in the Persian Gulf. Smith had dragged the kid out of a battle zone after he got in the way of a bullet and Marks was a man who returned favors.

The article that popped up on the screen was a little less than a month old and covered her father's funeral. On the right-hand side, there was a picture of the Countess walking with her mother and her husband across a grassy expanse checkered by headstones. He leaned in closer to the computer. She was wearing a black suit and a small hat, carrying a black bag on one arm. With her head tilted down and eyes looking forward, her face was a study of beauty in grief. Her mother, by contrast, was all stiff reserve, showing nothing. Still, it was obvious where the countess's stunning looks had come from.

He studied the husband. The count was separated from his wife by about two feet and a million emotional miles, booking as if he'd been dropped into the picture from some entirely different event. His handsome face showed only bland indifference and, with his hands pushed into the pockets of his suit jacket, he looked as if he were sauntering.

Smith's cell phone rang. "Yeah?”

Marks's battle-fatigued voice sounded worse than usual. "I’ve got the lowdown if you want it."

"Shoot."

"Victim was discovered in her front foyer, just like the last one. Throat was hacked wide open again, a real butcher job. There were signs of a struggle but no forced entry."

"And both of the women lived in luxury buildings, right? Doormen, secured doors, sign-in sheets."

"That's right."

"So how's he getting in?"

"Don't have a good answer for that one. The boys checked all the common areas, the bottom floor windows and doors. No broken locks or panes."

"You audit the sign-in sheets?"

"We're in the process."

"So tell me the freaky part."

Marks laughed. "How'd you know there is one?"

"There always is."

"Okay, there was something odd. We didn't think much of it at the first scene but it really spoke to me at this one. It's about the victims' clothes. They were ripped, torn, bloodied but they were all arranged neatly on the bodies. Like he straightened 'em up before he left."

"You mean the slasher's got a neat streak?"

"Yeah. He kills them and then puts them back together, in a sense. The victim we found last night was laying on her fancy rug, blood everywhere, picture hanging off-kilter where he'd probably thrown her against the wall. But the suit she was wearing was all buttoned up. The collar was arranged. The skirt was pulled down. One of her shoes had popped off—we know cause we found blood in it—but he'd put it back on her foot."