Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(51)
“Articulate.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” PT says. “As you can imagine, it’s been an insane day.”
“Anything new on your end?”
“Nothing worth reporting. You any closer to catching my killer?”
“Killers,” I say. “Plural.”
“You think there’s more than one?”
“You don’t?”
“I’m really only interested in the one.”
PT was talking about Arlo Sugarman, of course—the man he’d witnessed shoot his partner, Patrick O’Malley. “Here,” I say, “our interests may differ.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “What do you need from me?”
“There was a robbery at the Bank of Manhattan four months ago,” I say.
“Okay, so?”
“I need to know everything I can about it, especially suspected perpetrators.”
“Bank of Manhattan,” he repeats. “I think we caught one of them.”
That surprises me. “Where is he?”
“How do you know it’s not a she?”
“Where is she?”
“It’s a he. I just want you to be woke, Win.”
I wait.
“I’ll look into it.”
“Also, do you have anything on the shell company Strauss set up to buy his apartment and pay his bills?”
“It’s anonymous. You of all people know how hard it is to get information.”
Oh, I do. “You can still find out the setup date, the state, the attorney, perhaps even the bank used to pay the bills. Someone was paying for Ry Strauss to live in the Beresford.”
“On it.”
I rejoin Jessica. The wine is opened. Jessica is, no surprise, delightful company. We laugh a lot. We finish one bottle and open a second. The sole is superb.
“Odd,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“Have we ever been alone before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We always had Myron in the room.”
“Feels like we still do,” I say.
“Yeah, I know.” Jessica blinks and reaches for the glass. “I really messed up.”
I don’t correct her.
“My marriage sucks,” she says.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
“I am now.”
“Did you hate me when I left Myron?”
“Hate probably isn’t the right word.”
“What is?”
“Loathe.”
She laughs and raises her glass. “Touché.”
“I’m joking,” I say. “In truth, you never mattered to me.”
“That’s honest.”
“I never saw you as a separate entity.”
“Just a part of Myron?”
“Yes.”
“Like an appendage?”
“Not that relevant, frankly. Like an arm or a leg? No. Never that important.”
She tries again. “Like a small satellite orbiting him?”
“Closer,” I say. “In the end, you caused Myron pain. That’s all I cared about. How you affected him.”
“Because you love him.”
“I do, yes.”
“It’s sweet. So maybe you understand better now.”
“I don’t,” I say. “But go on, if you wish.”
“Myron was such a big presence,” Jessica says.
“Still is.”
“Exactly. He sucks all the air out of the room. He dominates by just being there. When I was with him, my writing suffered. Did you know that?”
I try not to scowl. “And you’re blaming him?”
“I’m blaming us. He’s not a planet I’m orbiting. He’s the sun. When I was with him too much—the intensity—I was afraid I would disappear into it. Like the gravity would draw me too close to his flames, overwhelm me, drown me.”
Now I do scowl without reservation.
“What?” she says.
“Ignoring your mixing metaphors—are you drowning or burning up?—that’s such complete and utter nonsense. He loved you. He took care of you. That intensity you felt was overwhelming? That was love, Jessica. The bona fide ideal, the rarest of the rare. When he smiled at you, you felt a warmth you’d never known before because he loved you. You were lucky. You were lucky, and you threw it away. You threw it away not because of what he did, but because you, like so many of us, are self-destructive.”
Jessica leans back. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
“You left him for a boring rich guy named Stone. Why? Because you had true love and it terrified you. You couldn’t handle the loss of control. It’s why you kept breaking his heart—so you’d have the upper hand again. You had a chance at greatness, but you were too scared to grasp it.”
Her eyes glisten now. She gives them a quick swipe with her index finger and thumb. “Suppose,” she says, “I tried to get him back.”
I shake my head.
“Why not? You don’t think he still has feelings for me?”