different from the way she’d stepped into Ray’s shoes to finish raising their kids. She’d done the best she could, and her only major heartache was Jack, with his drug and alcohol problems.
Cindy turned to see the last few worshipers leaving. She sighed, then summoned the gratitude of a good Christian for the bounty in her life, got up and walked back to thank Father Alain.
Afterward in the parking lot, she wiped a tear from her eye. She appraised her reflection in the tinted windows of her Cadillac; she still cut a pretty impressive figure for a babe of 51. Her trim blazer showed off her 36Ds, always her best attribute, and slim waist. It made her think that Ray would be proud, and she felt the faint taste of a thrill at remembering how he used to put his hands on her—his magical hands. But those days were gone. She opened the door and got into the Caddy.
When Dani opened the door to Brasserie 38 at 97 th and Broadway, she was still hyperventilating, even though she’d slowed to a walk five minutes earlier. She took a bistro table in a corner in front, nestled in below the bar with its rows of taps. The place smelled like stale beer—the floor was sticky from it—but it was dark and she was out of view of the windows and the front door. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table, not sure whether or not they were shaking, while she ordered a green tea from the waitress and tried not to look like she’d just escaped being murdered. That blueeyed guy had a gun as long as her forearm, at least with that thing on the front of it that must’ve been a silencer. Some silencer. She remembered the noise it made when he’d shot Maguire. It sounded like when her older brother George was a kid and put M-80 firecrackers in the neighbor’s plastic garbage can, clamped the top on it and watched the M-80 blow the top 10 feet in the air. If she hadn’t remembered the wasp spray she’d be as dead as Maguire. And thank God for coach Stevens being such a disciplinarian onmechanics during her three hours of daily gymnastics training in high school. If not for that, she’d never have been able to execute that floor exercise leap, tuck and roll over the armchair and out of the way of the guy’s arms flailing at her.
She unclasped her hands. They weren’t shaking, but she could still feel her adrenaline flowing. She’d seen a man murdered in front of her this morning, and she’d almost been killed herself. The killer was the same man who came to her apartment, but the second time dressed as a cop. How did he find out where she lived? Did the cops tell him? Was he a cop? Was the cop sitting in the police car in front of her building real or the killer’s accomplice? She had to decide what to do, and for the moment, going to the cops wasn’t the right answer. Not until she figured a few things out.
Who ordered Maguire killed, and who were those fake FBI guys? What had Maguire given her? Was that why he was killed, to stop him from giving it to her? It seemed logical. And who would have a reason to want to kill Maguire, and now her, too? Was the killer after her simply because she’d seen him? Or was it because his bosses knew what she had and wanted it back?
Her mind wasn’t even clear enough to be thinking of the right questions, let alone figuring out answers to any of them. She checked the time on her BlackBerry—at least she hadn’t left it behind. 12:40. She looked down at her clothing: knee-length leather Ralph Lauren riding boots—her first purchase with her employee discount from her former Polo job—with jeans tucked into them and a shirt with a blazer. In her pocket were only two credit cards, her bank ATM card, some cash and her driver’s license with a rubber band holding them together. She pulled out the bundle and counted the cash. $37. More than usual. Her other pocket held her keys, some loose change and a lip smoothee.
The waitress showed up with her tea. Dani sipped, closed her eyes and
Cindy turned to see the last few worshipers leaving. She sighed, then summoned the gratitude of a good Christian for the bounty in her life, got up and walked back to thank Father Alain.
Afterward in the parking lot, she wiped a tear from her eye. She appraised her reflection in the tinted windows of her Cadillac; she still cut a pretty impressive figure for a babe of 51. Her trim blazer showed off her 36Ds, always her best attribute, and slim waist. It made her think that Ray would be proud, and she felt the faint taste of a thrill at remembering how he used to put his hands on her—his magical hands. But those days were gone. She opened the door and got into the Caddy.
When Dani opened the door to Brasserie 38 at 97 th and Broadway, she was still hyperventilating, even though she’d slowed to a walk five minutes earlier. She took a bistro table in a corner in front, nestled in below the bar with its rows of taps. The place smelled like stale beer—the floor was sticky from it—but it was dark and she was out of view of the windows and the front door. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table, not sure whether or not they were shaking, while she ordered a green tea from the waitress and tried not to look like she’d just escaped being murdered. That blueeyed guy had a gun as long as her forearm, at least with that thing on the front of it that must’ve been a silencer. Some silencer. She remembered the noise it made when he’d shot Maguire. It sounded like when her older brother George was a kid and put M-80 firecrackers in the neighbor’s plastic garbage can, clamped the top on it and watched the M-80 blow the top 10 feet in the air. If she hadn’t remembered the wasp spray she’d be as dead as Maguire. And thank God for coach Stevens being such a disciplinarian onmechanics during her three hours of daily gymnastics training in high school. If not for that, she’d never have been able to execute that floor exercise leap, tuck and roll over the armchair and out of the way of the guy’s arms flailing at her.
She unclasped her hands. They weren’t shaking, but she could still feel her adrenaline flowing. She’d seen a man murdered in front of her this morning, and she’d almost been killed herself. The killer was the same man who came to her apartment, but the second time dressed as a cop. How did he find out where she lived? Did the cops tell him? Was he a cop? Was the cop sitting in the police car in front of her building real or the killer’s accomplice? She had to decide what to do, and for the moment, going to the cops wasn’t the right answer. Not until she figured a few things out.
Who ordered Maguire killed, and who were those fake FBI guys? What had Maguire given her? Was that why he was killed, to stop him from giving it to her? It seemed logical. And who would have a reason to want to kill Maguire, and now her, too? Was the killer after her simply because she’d seen him? Or was it because his bosses knew what she had and wanted it back?
Her mind wasn’t even clear enough to be thinking of the right questions, let alone figuring out answers to any of them. She checked the time on her BlackBerry—at least she hadn’t left it behind. 12:40. She looked down at her clothing: knee-length leather Ralph Lauren riding boots—her first purchase with her employee discount from her former Polo job—with jeans tucked into them and a shirt with a blazer. In her pocket were only two credit cards, her bank ATM card, some cash and her driver’s license with a rubber band holding them together. She pulled out the bundle and counted the cash. $37. More than usual. Her other pocket held her keys, some loose change and a lip smoothee.
The waitress showed up with her tea. Dani sipped, closed her eyes and
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