“Hmm-mmm,” Eve murmured—and she wasn’t sure if it was a hmm-mmm good or a hmm-mmm bad. “Who’d have thought Detective Moran had such good taste. I figured he’d do the typical male thing and pick some red negligee with a plunging neckline.” She thought a moment. “You should have shown him the leopard-print pajama ensemble, bottoms for him and top for her.” The top portion didn’t showcase many spots since the amount of skin it covered was less than two whiskers.
Melodie stepped back from the door. The entertainment must have been over. She didn’t bother to wipe away the nose print on the glass either. “Why? You think they’re more his style?”
“I wouldn’t know. But they’re definitely more expensive.”
3
SIMONE HELD OUT a gin and tonic to Carter. “So, what did you think of the lingerie lady?”
What didn’t he think about the lingerie lady?
Not that Carter was about to admit his fascination with Eve. Instead, he rested his tennis racquet against the picnic table and lowered himself gingerly into an Adirondack chair. “I don’t know what’s going to kill me first—the thought of Eve Cantoro’s tap pants, your gin and tonic, or your husband’s kick serve into my body.” His old Grantham University T-shirt was soaked. “But since we all have to die of something, pass that drink over here.”
Ted Daniger, Simone’s husband and old friend of Carter’s, sat in a nearby chair, slouching as comfortably as if he owned the place. Which, in fact, he did. The Daniger family mansion was a tidy Georgian brick pile that oozed the right mixture of substantial wealth—hand-carved moldings, crushed-stone circular drive, servants’ quarters—and laid-back bonhomie—a horseshoe pitch in the backyard and holes in the window screens from rambunctious Labradors. A descendant of one of those canine forebears lay panting at Ted’s side, a wet tennis ball at his feet—Buster the dog’s, that is. “You’re getting old, Moran. I’ve never beaten you in straight sets before.”
“You’re the same age as I am, Daniger.” Which was thirty-four to be exact. “It’s just that you weren’t up all night on a domestic violence case, followed by a double shift.” Carter had filled in for a fellow officer who was on his honeymoon in Cancun. Carter had felt like telling him to take the money and invest it in CDs—the financial sort—rather than blowing it on a week in Shangri-La. In his experience, paradise was greatly overrated.
He watched Simone hold the tray of drinks toward Ted. “And besides, you’re constantly reenergized by the love of a good woman,” he added. Well, maybe some kinds of paradise lasted beyond a few spectacular sunsets.
Ted beamed up at Simone, who was perched on the arm of his chair. “And don’t I know it.” He reached over and took a glass, but not before offering her a full-blown kiss.
When they broke, Simone sat back with a pleased look on her face. Her own drink had sloshed on the tray during the embrace. “It must be true love. Why else would I allow your sweaty body to get this close to mine?”
“Because you love my sweaty body getting this close to you.” Ted raised his head for another kiss.
Having grown more than a little cynical and detached over the years, Carter normally would have snorted at this overt display of affection. But the thing of it was, it was genuine. And it was between two of the nicest people he knew. Check that, maybe the only genuinely nice people he knew well.
Carter and Ted had been roommates at Grantham University. Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum. Ted, the easygoing product of good taste and old money, was the archetypal scholar-athlete, a high-scoring lacrosse player who was content to graduate with respectable grades.
Not Carter. Driven could have been his middle name. He’d migrated to the elite Eastern college from just outside of Dayton, from a family that tenuously clung to its lower middle class status. His father drifted through a variety of blue-collar jobs. His mother, a homemaker, had resigned herself to maniacally vacuuming their ever-diminishing apartments and clipping coupons for Hamburger Helper.
Carter had determined not to be resigned to anything. He worked his butt off to get good grades, get into a prestigious college, and win a full scholarship to boot. He was eager to prove that he had what it took to succeed.
Did he ever. In four years, he earned a combined bachelor’s/master’s degree in economics, graduating with highest honors, while serving as editorial page editor of the student newspaper. He wasn’t sure about a career in journalism; but he knew the post was a great contact for after graduation.
He was right. One phone call, one interview, and he was fast-tracked into investment banking in New York City. Carter didn’t stop there. He became one of the youngest mutual fund managers in his firm, regularly racking up double-digit annual growth figures, even when most stocks and bonds slipped badly after the high-tech bubble burst. The “Financial Wunderkind,” Fortune Magazine had dubbed him. And he was scrupulously honest, publicly denouncing companies whose CEOs were greedy for Learjets and lackadaisical when it came to corporate accounting factors. “The Conscience of Corporate America,” declared The Financial Times.
Not surprisingly, his personal portfolio bulged as well. He acquired tidy holdings in stocks, bonds and real estate. The garage space for his Porsche Boxster cost almost as much as his penthouse overlooking Central Park. Then there was the vacation “cottage” in the Hamptons. And who could forget the tall, willowy wife with a degree in art history and a deep-seated ability to spend money—lots of money. After all, he was too hot a catch to escape the matrimonially inclined junior members of the Save Venice Society and other like-minded causes.
Not bad for a boy from Dayton.
The only problem was, Carter never saw his apartment, his country house or his wife, who he seemed to have forgotten somewhere along the way, after all. And when his wife divorced him, taking both the apartment and the summer house—not to mention a Lhasa apso he never knew he had—Carter suddenly realized he might have had it all, but so what?
And that’s when he ran into Ted, standing on a subway platform, waiting for the E-train. Ted had suggested that Carter visit him in Grantham, where he had moved back into his parents’ old place; they had retired to warmer climes and better golf courses in Scottsdale.
Carter thought of the good times he had shared with his former roomie, and he took him up on it. And he’d stayed. Quit his job and moved into the chauffeur’s apartment over the garage. First, he sat around and drank beer, swam in the pool and played tennis with Ted. Ironically, now it was Ted who was putting in the long hours building up a practice, while Carter was perfecting his two-handed backhand and sleeping in.
But retirement soon proved boring for someone who had always been a confirmed overachiever. Carter thought of joining a local investment firm, but decided that making money no longer held that much charm. In any case, he was comfortably set for life if he didn’t do anything foolish. Forsaking his Porsche had caused only momentary regret.
So, as an alternative to adding yet another zero at the end of his holdings, he worked out daily at a local gym, took an adult education course in Italian, and read the complete works of Charles Dickens and Elmore Leonard. But that was simply a way to fill in time.
And then it hit him. After years of being totally self-centered, he would help others. He no longer craved fast cars and gold watches. He created a foundation out of most of his investments, and with the aid of a local law firm—run by the husband and wife team of Ted Daniger and Simone Fahrer—he anonymously supported needy causes. He even went back to college, the state university this time, taking courses in law enforcement. He passed the state exam, and applied and got a job on the local police force.
And he loved it. Even liked the paperwork. Well, sometimes he liked the paperwork. Mostly, he liked being part of a community without having to make a personal commitment to anyone in particular. Interaction from a distance