The Perfect Marriage(54)

If only that were true, Jessica thought.

From there they traversed another hallway, this one wider than the others, allowing for gurneys to pass both ways. At the end was another door with another sign. This one read INTENSIVE CARE.

Behind that door was a reception area, no different from the countless waiting rooms Jessica had seen. The nurse explained why this one was different.

“In the closet are surgical gowns, caps, gloves, and masks. Please put them on,” she said.

Jessica watched Wayne suit up. Once he looked like he was ready to perform surgery, she did likewise.

After they were finished, the nurse said, “Owen is in bed two. The doctor only wants you to stay for a few minutes this time. Owen needs his rest now.” She opened the door for them and stepped aside, allowing them entry.

In bed two lay their seventeen-year-old son, asleep. He didn’t look any worse for wear, but for the hospital-issued pajamas.

“Maybe we should let him sleep,” Jessica said.

Wayne nodded that he agreed.

Owen opened an eye. “Hey,” he said with a croaky, low voice.

“Hey, O,” Wayne said. “You look good, my man.”

“Thanks. Feel great,” Owen managed more clearly.

“The doctor said the operation was a total success,” Jessica said, trying to sound upbeat.

Owen nodded. “I’m really tired.”

“Just sleep,” Jessica said. “We’ll see you later.”

Owen squinted through his one open eye, apparently realizing for the first time that his parents were head to toe in hospital scrubs.

“Did you two plan on wearing the same outfits today?” he said.

If Owen had jumped out of bed and danced a jig, Jessica couldn’t have been happier. To her, his lame joke meant that maybe Wayne was right after all. Maybe the worst was over.

And then she remembered what Haley had said.



Allison suggested they meet at the St. Regis. She explained that she worked out of her home and normally brought clients to the dealer’s showroom.

Reid hardly cared. He worked from wherever money could be made, and if that was the St. Regis, so be it.

It wasn’t lost on him that Allison hadn’t selected either the Mark or the Carlyle, the two hotels closest to James’s office. That worked fine for him as well. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the scene of the crime either.

It had been the typical hurry-up-and-wait process that characterized so many art deals. After she initially told Reid that he needed to secure the Pollock sketches right away, Allison’s other commitments delayed the next step. They were supposed to meet last week, and then at the last minute she had canceled. He half expected her not to be there today either.

In the late afternoon, the St. Regis’s lobby was nearly empty. Its only occupants were a few businessmen going over spreadsheets, a family who looked as if they were on vacation—probably from Europe, based on their clothing—and one or two women that Reid imagined were prostitutes, but maybe not.

He spotted Allison with her back to the window. In front of her was a small porcelain teapot.

She didn’t rise when he approached. Nor did she extend her hand.

Reid took the chair across from her. He flagged down a waiter and asked for whatever tea Allison was having.

“So what are we going to do?” Reid said.

Allison poured her tea. “That’s it? No . . . moment of silence for James? Weren’t you friends or something?”

“More something. We were business partners, at least on this deal. And James would be the first to understand that what matters most to me is closing this deal.”

“No offense, Reid, but what matters most to me is not being in business with someone who killed his business partner. I’ve been thinking about that all week. To be honest, that’s why I canceled on you. The more I thought about the situation, I didn’t think that we should be in business together.”

“And I feel exactly the same about you, Allison. And then I remembered that we can make a boatload of money. So, even though I don’t trust you either, here I am.”

The waiter came back with a teapot for Reid.

Allison leaned in closer. He could feel the warmth of her breath.

“We seem to have a dilemma, then,” she said. “We’re both claiming we didn’t kill James. Neither one of us really believes the other. But you want to sell the Pollocks and have no buyer; my buyer’s still interested, but I don’t have any Pollocks.”

“Your buyer’s still on the hook?”

“Spoke to him this morning.”

That was why Allison had set this meeting up. She figured it wasn’t worth knocking herself out to look for a buyer, but she wasn’t going to turn away a bird in the hand.

“He was pissed that I canceled on him the first time, and I think he was giving me the cold shoulder to put me in my place a bit. When I finally reached him, I told him that the seller had gotten cold feet. Then I suggested that if he were to sweeten the deal—say, go to a million per—I could get him to sell. Long story short, he’s back in. But he wants to do this as soon as possible. He’s afraid the seller will pull out again.”

Reid considered the proposal. He liked hearing that the price had gone up.

Still, he was getting the full-on hinky feeling now.