Rica didn’t know if he was doing some kind of TV cop act, putting her on.
He withdrew the money, then sat on the edge of the bed and counted the bills, mostly hundreds and twenties.
“Twenty thousand dollars even,” he said, looking up at Rica. “The bills have all been in circulation awhile and appear unmarked.”
Rica shrugged. “He was an attorney, you know.” Being unfair. Like life.
Stack dreamed of Laura that night. They were making love frantically, joyfully, rolling in a bed of soft green money. Then the money was on fire, the flames sweeping toward them. Stack didn’t want to part from Laura. They didn’t want to release each other but they had to in order to survive. If they stayed together, they would burn alive.
It was wrong! Stack thought, sobbing in his sleep. It wasn’t fair!
They would burn alive!
He awoke as if breaking the surface of a lake, finding himself alone in his cold bed.
SIX
May 2000
Myra Raven sat on the one piece of furniture in the co-op unit, a cheap imitation French provincial chair, and waited for them. Ordinarily she would have assigned one of her agents to show the unit, especially considering its modest price, but she’d liked the Markses immediately when they’d come into the office. Both of them. The woman, Amy—girl, really—was pretty and very pregnant. Her husband, Ed, a gawky kind of young guy with a shy smile, interested Myra right away when she saw his plain black shoes, the curved mark on his forehead just below his hairline. She recognized cop’s regulation shoes, and the semipermanent crease left by a cop’s blue six-pointed garrison cap. Her first husband, the cop, the only man she’d really loved, had been struck and killed by a passing car when he was helping a woman change her tire on the highway shoulder.
Years ago, Myra thought. Worlds ago.
She got up and paced to make herself feel better. Then she wandered into the tiny bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The light was harsh but she still looked okay. Her cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Preller, had removed exactly the right amount of fat from the fleshy part between her eyebrows and eyes, giving her a wider-eyed, younger look. Not only that, for insurance purposes the doctor had classified the process as necessary rather than elective, a procedure to restore her peripheral vision.
This latest improvement made Myra, who at fifty-four was still rather attractive, appear somewhat less predatory. Still there was the angular bone structure, the smooth, taut flesh from too many visits with Dr. Preller, and the prominent chin (an insert) and perfectly straight nose. Her skinned-back blond hairdo was perfect, as it should have been at the price paid to her hair stylist, and her makeup was thick to hide faint surgery scars. She’d heard her looks described as brittle, herself described as a bitch. The remarks hurt her deeply, but at least she knew she was a successful bitch. In business, anyway. Her personal life, her interior life, was mostly pain. The more youthful image in the mirror didn’t mean she was actually younger, or that she could live over the years of tragic luck and wrong decisions. Still, it was a younger Myra who looked back at her; she would have to settle for the illusion.
The cosmetic surgery was another reason she’d taken the appointment with the Markses. She’d been sitting around the office, still wearing dark glasses while her eyes healed completely and the bruises faded, and she was going crazy needing something to do.
The Markses were something to do. The husband reminded her of her early marriage days. The young wife with her slight underbite (less severe than Myra’s, before she had it repaired years ago) reminded Myra somewhat of herself when she was in her twenties. When she heard Amy, the wife, remark that she was expecting twin girls within a month, Myra had made up her mind. One of Myra’s early regrets in life was that she hadn’t borne children. She didn’t like them, in fact. Told herself over and over that she didn’t like them or want them, until finally the regret went away. Children were like—
The doorbell chimed.
Myra, who owned and managed the most successful real estate agency in Manhattan, hurried into the living room like an eager rookie salesperson and pressed the intercom button.
“Ed and Amy Marks,” the husband’s voice declared, made faint and hollow by the intercom.
Myra buzzed them up.
She was smiling, as she trained all her agents to do, when she opened the door.
The Markses weren’t smiling. They looked apprehensive. And appropriately so, since they were considering embarking on the largest investment of their young lives.
“So wonderful to see you again!” Myra said. She stepped back and waved an arm in an encompassing sweep. “This is it!” she said of the 800-square-foot unit. It was the smallest in the building, but she knew it had what the Markses wanted and needed: a separate, second bedroom for the twins.
“It doesn’t look very big,” Ed Marks said.
“Two bedrooms, though, darling.” Amy coming through for Myra.
“And it boasts a wonderful eat-in kitchen!” Myra said. “These units have quality cabinetry, and the refrigerator is brand-new. The stove’s electric, so you can warm those baby bottles to exactly the right degree.”
“Great view,” Ed Marks said. He’d wandered over to the wide window.
“Look,” Myra said, “I wouldn’t try to kid you, this is a gorgeous unit, but it’s smaller than what you probably had in mind. Still, like Amy said, it has separate bedrooms. The kitchen and bath are terrific, and if the payment is a stretch, you don’t have to buy all your furniture right away. The girls will need room to crawl.” Myra threw up her hands and laughed. “Don’t believe me, look around and the place will either sell itself or it won’t.”
Amy assessed her calmly and after a while nodded. Maybe there was something operating inside that pretty young head. Potential, such as Myra had at that age. She hoped Amy would see it in herself and do something more with it than simply raise offspring.
Myra knew when not to talk. She stayed in the living room and admired the view from the window while Amy and Ed took a walk around the place. She could hear them talking in the main bedroom. Couldn’t understand what they were saying but knew by their tone that Ed was sold and was now trying to talk Amy into it.
“What about price?” Ed asked, when they came back into the living room. Amy, tired from lugging around her pregnancy, sat down in the one chair. A good sign; she was prepared to settle in and negotiate.
“There’s wriggle room,” Myra said in a confidential tone.
She listened carefully while Ed Marks made the offer and Amy watched with her somber brown eyes.
“It might be doable,” Myra said. “What about down payment?”
“No problem there,” Ed said. “My father died last year and I have a small inheritance. That’s the only reason we might be able to afford this place on a cop’s salary.”
A cop only a year out of the academy, Myra thought. Ed had mentioned that and the inheritance before and apparently forgotten.
“You are offering twenty percent off the asking price,” Myra pointed out.
“If the owner’s as eager to sell as Myra thinks,” Amy said from behind her pregnant bulk in the tiny chair, “he should make a counter offer.”
Myra grinned at her. “That’s exactly the way it works, dear.”
A cricketlike chirping erupted from her Coach handbag on the floor near the chair where Amy sat. Myra excused herself and drew her cell phone from the purse, then carried it into the short hall to the bedrooms. She wasn’t surprised by the interruption. Louella at the office had been told to call her at this time.
Myra