Hex and the Single Girl (22 page)

Hoff, Susan, and Emma were sitting around Hoff’s teak dining room table in his Gramercy Park apartment where

they’d been all day long, theorizing, googling, and eating Chinese takeout.

“Six million?” repeated Hoff. He had a wad of General Tso’s chicken in his mouth and was having trouble swallowing the food—and the potential riches. “Lankey insists in
Smoke and Mirrors
that he didn’t hide the money,” he said.

“Dooey, Fleecum & Howe accounting books showed…”

“The Dooey, Fleecum team is just as guilt as Lankey,” said Susan. “The Verity Foundations came up with a six

hundred million dollar shortfall. Most likely tucked away in an offshore bank—such as the Grand Cayman National Bank—hidden from the IRS, FBI, SEC, and reward hunters.”

“That would be us,” said Emma, licking her chops. A windfall of voluminous wealth gave her an enormous appetite, and she consumed a mountain of pork fried rice, pork fried dumplings, and moo-sho pork. “Tonight, I am what I eat,”

she announced. “Is there any more greedy pig on this table?”

“Nothing left but us chickens,” said Hoff, holding up a chunk.

Since Emma’s savings had been stolen by Lankey, the idea of stealing it back, from under the imprisoned CEO’s nose, was the ultimate redemption. Then again, she thought having successful sex would be redeeming too, and, if anything, it had left her even more unsettled.

Emma said, “If we stole the money back, would that be wrong?”

“Let’s put morality aside,” said Susan.

“Good answer,” said Emma. “So how do we steal the money?”

Susan shot her a look of contempt, irritation, and frustration. The lawyer had had a hard afternoon. In the timetable they’d constructed, Susan deduced that Jeff had initially approached her around the same time that the Verity Foundation started investigating his accounting firm’s liability in the Riptron case. Jeff had been a spy himself, for Dooey, Fleecum & Howe. Susan remembered that she had caught him going through her briefcase a few times and that he asked a lot of seemingly innocent questions about the investigation.

If nothing else, Susan now knew why Jeff had asked her out in the first place. Apparently, he’d graduated from stooge to a more lucrative position, working for Lankey.

Emma said, “One thing I don’t get. Why does Lankey need Jeff Bragg to be his money donkey?”

“Money
mule,
” corrected Hoff. “Lankey must have recruited Bragg to help him set up the account either before he went to prison or after. Lankey can’t access it himself. He can’t place international calls from Glatting. He needs someone else to access the money for him.”

Susan said, “Am I the only one eating the steamed vegetables?”

“You bet you are!” said Emma. “What next?” she asked, her excitement mounting. “I want that reward money. I

deserve it. I’ve got this coming to me, fair and square. Six million, you say? Split three ways. Anyone?”

“You know it’s two million,” said Susan. “And I would give my share to the reparations fund. The Riptron employees and shareholders deserve it, not me.”

“As one of those shareholders, I’ll keep my third,” said Emma. She’d pay off her mortgage. Or maybe she’d retire to an island somewhere—taking a page from Jeff Bragg’s cooked book—and stay far away from any kind of threat, be it financial or sexual.

“We should tell our theory to the authorities,” said Hoff. “Give them these bank account numbers.” He waved the scribbled on registry card from the hotel.

“No way,” said Emma. “This is our discovery. I’ve been swindled out of that money once already. The feds will cheat us out of everything. Even with you watching, Susan.”

“It’s all academic,” said Hoff. “We don’t know the password. The gentleman at the Grand Cayman bank said we

needed the account number and the password.”

“Let’s just tell them ‘the big day,’” said Emma.

“Three wrong guesses and they freeze the account,” said Hoff, finishing the chicken chow fun. “Then no one can get the money.”

“So what is ’the big day’? When Lankey gets released from prison ten years from now?” asked Emma. “The book

release date?”

“The book comes out November 1, 2006. 11-1-2006?” said Hoff. “It might be worth a try. But I’d hate to waste a guess. I’m not sure Lankey cares too much about the book anyway. He only did it to pay his legal fees.”

Susan nibbled a broccoli floret. “I want to check the Riptron figures again. Tomorrow, at the office.”

Emma drooled, “Do you think the missing amount is
more
than six hundred million?”

The brunette nodded hesitantly. “I just want to check.”

Emma pictured herself splashing nude in an ocean of hundred dollar bills. Her ivory breasts bobbing in waves of rolling green.

Hoff was watching her. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking.”

“Have a look,” asked Emma. She touched his arm and sent him a picture that was worth a million dollars.

He blushed furiously.

Susan said, “Stop that!”

Emma dropped her hand. The food was gone (except for the veggies). The conversation was concluded. She sat back in her chair, woozy with greed, MSG, and fatigue. Yesterday had been the longest day in the history of womankind.

First the payoff from Daphne, the limo interrogation with Marcie, sex with William, the Nancy’s near brawl with Jeff, the police station after that. And today, the lineup, the all-day google fest at Hoff’s. Emma was exhausted. She had to shut down, get unconscious. A good guest, she dumped the empty containers in a garbage bag and wiped the table. She doled out the hugs and kisses and left.

It wasn’t too long a walk home from Gramercy to the Village. The brisk October air forced her to move quickly. She’d had a hell of a week. She saved her apartment. Had sex. Reclaiming her lost savings would be the ultimate redemption trifecta. Everything was looking up.

The street was crowded with people coming home from work on a weekday night. The ordinary sidewalk congestion produced a mechanical hum to her ears. But, on top of that, she detected the stutter of arrhythmic footsteps.

Scampering, then stopping, then scampering again. As if she were being followed.

Her neck hairs stood at attention.

Emma turned slowly, scanning for a suspicious stranger. Finding no one, she faced west and walked faster. She had more than a dozen blocks to go before she reached Waverly Place.

The footsteps again. Closer this time.

Spinning around, Emma thought she saw the gray tail of an overcoat swing behind a bus shelter. She took one step toward it. Would have taken another, but a cab careened to the curb, only inches from where she stood. It disgorged a woman in a big hat and Emma immediately took her place.

“Waverly and Sixth,” she said. They rolled past the bus shelter. No one was there.

As soon as she got into her apartment, Emma double-bolted her door. She leaned against it and exhaled. “You’re paranoid,” she said.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang.

“Hello?” she asked when she answered.

“Emma Hutch?”

“Yes?” she said.

“Detective Marsh. From the lineup this morning.”

“Hello, detective,” she said. Was he calling for a date? Of all the unprofessional, misguided…

“Jeff Bragg escaped from prison an hour ago,” he said.

For a ridiculous second, Emma was relieved he wasn’t asking her out. “Shit!” she said. “I mean, fuck!”

“Bragg was out of control in lockdown, screaming about a missing cell phone. He refused to eat or talk to a lawyer.

We sent in a public defender. Bragg attacked him, took the man’s overcoat and hat, stole the case file, and got away.”

“What color was the overcoat?”

“Standard overcoat color.”

That helped. “The stolen file included what, exactly?”

“The paperwork on the case,” said Detective Marsh. “Your name and address were in there.”

She said, “And Hoffman Centry’s home address too.”

“Under the circumstances, I think I should come over to your place. For your protection,” he said.

She said, “It’s okay. I’ll call someone.”

“A boyfriend?”

“A friend.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Detective,” she said, “I’m anorgasmic.”

“Do you have a boyfriend or not?” he asked.

William’s face popped into her mind. “I’m not sure.”

Marsh took that in stride. “We’re out in force looking for Bragg, and I’ll keep you posted. I’m calling Mr. Centry now.”

“Good. Thanks,” she said, hanging up.

Why had she refused his protection? Didn’t she need it? Wasn’t tolerating Marsh’s roving eye a small price to pay for security? It wasn’t that Emma was embarrassed to admit she was alone. She wasn’t ashamed.

“I wish William were here,” she said to herself. “Right now.”

A bang on the door at her back, so hard, Emma bounced. She ran from the sound and hid behind her white couch. The bang continued: thud, thud, thud.

Jeff had come for her. He’d sworn to God that he’d get her, and now he was going to keep his promise. Hands

shaking, Emma reached for her phone, fumbled with the receiver. Before she could dial, a voice behind the door said,

“Emma? Are you there? Let me in.”

An English accent. Emma rushed toward the door, flung it open, and sank into William Dearborn’s arms like

quicksand.

“You’re here!” she said.

“You’re glad to see me?” he asked.

“I wished for you and you appeared.”

“I appear like magic and you disappear,” he said, hugging her back. “Do you realize that you send mixed signals?”

“Forget everything I’ve ever said before.” She dragged him into the living room and guided him to the couch. “Come in! Sit! What can I get you? Something to eat? How about a drink?”

He squinted at her and then checked out her apartment. “I take it you like white,” he observed.

“My own slice of heaven,” she said. “You were expecting pink?”

“If anything, black,” he said. “No trace of cat in the air.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“I thought you did.”

“You look gorgeous,” she said. “The hour we spent together at the hotel was incredible, William. I loved every second of it.” The truth had been scared out of her.

“It was mind blowing,” he said. “Mind exploding.”

Mind exploding. That phrase was like sandpaper on her already raw nerves. “Oh, shit,” she said, but the hot spring of tears had already started flowing.

“What did I say?” asked William. “Are you all right?” He had her sit down on the couch next to him. He put his arm around her and she felt comforted.

Emma said, “Do me one favor.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t use the phrase ‘mind blowing’ or ‘mind exploding’ around me.”

“Never again,” he said.

“My mother died of a brain aneurism,” she explained. “Eight years ago. She and my dad—and a thousand other people

—were on the number three train when it got stuck underground with the lights out for an hour. Mom had

claustrophobia, and she freaked. Raving, clawing at the doors, screaming. And then the blood vessel popped. When she collapsed, the other people in the car applauded because she’d finally shut up. But when they realized she was dead, they all started screaming and clawing to get out. My dad said it was a living hell. He left the city as soon as he could. He’s been a different person since then, lives a completely different life now. I lost him that night too.”

William listened, kept his arm tight around her. He said, “I bet you don’t take the subway much.”

She laughed—on the inside. “Never. I walk or taxi. That’s one reason I hate to leave the Village. I can’t afford to pay for expensive cab rides.”

“You’ll never pay for a cab again,” said William.

“I look a lot like her. And we have other…things in common. I’ve never told anyone this before—I didn’t even realize it myself until I met you—I’ve been struggling to keep my body and mind in control, as if I could prevent an aneurism by force of will. Sex is all about abandon, and I simply couldn’t allow myself to do it. I was subconsciously sabotaging myself. Preventing myself from letting go of…whatever one has to let go of to have good sex.”

“And this struggle has been going on for eight years?” he asked.

She nodded. How had she not noticed that her sex life died right after Anise did? For all her super sensitivity, Emma thought, she could be awfully dense.

William said, “Her death really screwed you up.”

“Yeah, but I was screwed up already,” she said.

“My mom died too. Have I told you that?”

He had, at the rose garden, to an old lady. But had he, when Emma was herself? She said, “You mentioned

something.”

They sat together in silence for a while.

“My arm is falling asleep,” he said finally.

She stood up. “I’m going to splash my face, freshen up. You can turn on the TV. Check your email. Make calls. Just please don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, kissing her tenderly. “And I will check my email, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

She booted up the iMac on her desk for him and went in back. She had never showered and shaved more quickly and thoroughly. She wanted every inch of her body to smell like lavender. Emma felt high from the hot water, the scents.

The ever-changing moods—anxiety, relief, joy, sadness, contentment, in a span of fifteen minutes—had the effect of a designer drug. She was euphoric.

After toweling off, Emma anointed her skin with moisturizer and slipped on a black rayon scoop-necked nightgown.

Sexy and sweet. She also put on a pair of black fuzzy slippers. Fluffing her wet waves as best she could, Emma flounced into the living room.

William was at her desk. She looked at him with gratitude and joy. He looked at her with anger—not the lust and warmth she was expecting.

“Where did you get these?” he asked.

He held up the three portraits Victor took of Daphne.

The air went out of her lungs.

“Who took them?” he asked.

“No one you know,” she said.

He turned the pictures over and saw Victor’s sticker. William read, “Victor Armour. Ann Jingo’s new boyfriend.”