The Craving (33 page)

At that moment Simon got a text from Alison:

Grand Central? Why would she want to meet there? And what did
away from Jeremy
mean? Was she going to ask for a divorce?

But the questioning didn’t last for long. She wanted to see him, that was the important thing, and once they were together he’d at least have another chance to apologize to her and convince her that things were going to change. He’d also have a chance to hit an H&M first, buy some new clothes.

“Here they are, just like you like them.”

Charlie was holding a plate with four rare burgers.

Within a few seconds an entire one was on its way down Simon’s throat.

H
ad Stephen Tyler played the whole Alison Burns thing perfectly or what? He’d laid the crap on big-time, telling her how he was different from other PIs because of his background in psychology—how hadn’t he lost it then?—and how he really cared about his clients. Seriously, sometimes he didn’t know how he could say this stuff without coughing up puke. But it worked—oh, man, had it worked. Alison seemed to trust him big-time, and one thing Stephen had learned in the PI business—getting a vulnerable divorcing woman to trust you is the same thing as taking her panties down.

Yeah, Stephen knew it was only a matter of time before he scored with Alison, and what would that be? The seventh client of the year he’d banged? And it was only November. After he was through with Alison he still had a month and a half and could easily nail a couple more, especially when Christmas came around, when the cheated-on
women got particularly vulnerable. If he could nail ten clients this year, that would beat out his previous best record of nine clients, which he’d set two years ago. All in all, since he’d gotten his PI license four years ago he’d banged twenty-seven chicks. And if he was including blowjobs, the number would have to be double that. This was so much better than online dating and going to bars. Someday he was going to write a book about his life as a PI and it would sell millions of copies, he was sure of it.

The beauty of Stephen’s womanizing was that the women didn’t even realize they were being womanized. As far as they were concerned, Stephen was doing them a service. He was providing them the truth about their lowlife, scumbag husbands so they could break away from their miserable marriages with peace of mind, and then, as a bonus, he gave them an opportunity to get revenge. Not violent revenge,
emotional
revenge, which was so much more satisfying. Seriously, what better way to break away from a guy who screwed you over than to go out and screw somebody else? And Stephen wasn’t just anybody else—he was the guy who had given them their freedom, so having sex with him wasn’t just to get back at the ex, it was to
give back
to Stephen. Yeah, they were paying him, but they wanted to do more, to show him how truly appreciative they were, so what was Stephen supposed to do, stop them? They were getting what they wanted and Stephen was getting what he wanted, and the best part? Nobody got hurt.

Alison Burns wasn’t reeled in yet, of course. She was nibbling on the line, though—tonguing the worm, getting set to bite the hook. The bite always came suddenly—a rush of emotion when Stephen presented the damning evidence. At the moment when everything the woman had once believed was perfect about the world blew up in her face, she’d clamp down on the hook and it would be a done
deal. That was why location was so key. They couldn’t be in a public space because Stephen had to seize the moment. There was a ten, fifteen-minute window when a woman was at her angriest and most vulnerable, and Stephen had to make sure he seized it. His office wasn’t good because there were too many people around, but even a private office wouldn’t work. No, he had to deliver the goods on the woman’s turf, preferably in her apartment, where she felt most comfortable and, more important, most in control. He’d call her, say he needed to talk to her in private and that it might be a good idea if the kids—if there were any kids—stayed with a sitter. That was perfect because it showed the woman, subliminally, that he was a sensitive guy, that he cared about her feelings, which made her even more likely to want to hook up. Bottom line, Stephen knew if he was alone in a room with a scorned woman in a fifteen-minute window, there was practically a zero percent chance he wouldn’t get laid or at least get a blowjob.

And the best thing about the Alison Burns case was that it was so damn easy, such a slam dunk. Her husband, Simon, sounded like a real freakazoid, thinking he was a werewolf. That was Stephen’s only real slip-up, when he’d laughed when Alison had talked about that; he should’ve been more composed, but how was he supposed to keep a straight face? But any guy who was making up werewolf stories had to be hiding something—Stephen didn’t have to be a shrink to know that. Alison had said Simon had spent last night somewhere and Tyler was willing to bet it wasn’t at a hotel. He was staying at his girlfriend’s place and at five
P.M.
today he was going to lead Tyler right to the love nest.

Stephen spent the rest of the afternoon organizing his new office space and making follow-up calls for other active cases, but mostly he was fantasizing about Alison Burns. That was the best part of a
score—the fantasizing, the buildup. You meet a woman and she’s cute, yeah, you want to nail her, but what does she look like naked? What is she going to do in bed? Stephen had a feeling Alison was going to be a total animal in the sack, because the ones who didn’t look wild were always the wildest. Stephen loved how proper, how put together Alison was. She had the short bob haircut, stylish clothes, totally had that whole kind of Upper West Side, working woman, cougar thing going on. If her marriage weren’t about to blow up, Stephen wouldn’t have had a chance with her.

Deciding that some thanks in advance were in order, Stephen texted his old college bud Vijay:

Stephen and Vijay had always—well, since they were frat brothers at Colgate—had a thing going on where they would try to one-up each other with women. It had toned down when Vijay got married but had picked up again when Vijay got divorced. Whenever one of them was dating a new chick, they’d send pics back and forth, compare war stories. For a while, Vijay had been doing better than Stephen because he had that whole doctor thing going on. Vijay cleaned up with patients, nurses, hospital staff, but his big wheelhouse was drug reps. This had been another near slip-up with Alison—when she’d mentioned she worked in pharmaceutical sales. A pretty woman in pharmaceutical sales; it made Stephen wonder, had Vijay gotten to her first? Not that he was opposed to taking sloppy seconds from an old frat bud, but still.

Less than a minute after he’d sent his text, Vijay wrote back:

Stephen smiled. Ooh, so Vijay hadn’t gotten to her first. Stephen was surprised Vijay had sent over a chick he liked; didn’t he know who he was dealing with?

Stephen texted:

Vijay didn’t respond. Stephen knew there was no way Vijay believed that
I won’t tap her
crap. Poor guy was probably regretting big-time sending Alison over to him, but it wasn’t like there wasn’t enough to go around. After all, they’d shared women before. Stephen would be Alison’s shoulder to lean on, and then Vijay would step in. What was the problem?

At four fifteen, Stephen freshened up—well, put some extra Speed Stick under his arms and around his crotch—and then walked up Madison to Grand Central Station.

It was early still, just past four thirty. Stephen didn’t want to be an easy mark in case Simon suspected it was a setup and was scoping
the place out. Stephen doubted this was the case. Cheaters usually didn’t think too far ahead and were cocky as hell too, believing they could get away with anything.

Stephen bought a copy of the
Post
. At a few minutes before five he positioned himself at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Cipriani, the bar/restaurant in the west balcony of Grand Central’s main concourse, and acted like he was waiting for somebody, or for a train, and was reading the newspaper. He read the lead story about that fireman who’d finished ninth in the marathon yesterday. It was weird how some nonprofessional runner had run so fast, and Stephen wondered if it was going to come out that the guy was on steroids, or took a subway and jumped into the race when the cameras weren’t on. There had to be
something
going on that people didn’t know about.

He skimmed the rest of the paper—looked like some woman NYPD detective had messed up big-time, pulling a protection order on a woman in Washington Heights—and the Knicks and Rangers had both lost. Then, at five almost exactly, Simon Burns walked right by Stephen and headed up the stairs. He didn’t look much like the picture Alison had given him—if the guy was growing a beard, why hadn’t she mentioned that? He also looked leaner, more muscular than he had in the photo. He was in jeans, a black T-shirt, and what looked like a new thin black leather jacket.

Now it was just waiting time. It could take a half hour or longer before Simon realized Alison wasn’t showing and he decided to bail.

Simon was looking around, checking his cell, glancing over at the big gold clock above the information booth in the middle of the main concourse. He seemed extremely antsy and agitated, more antsy than he should have been. Well, Alison had said he had a mental disorder; maybe this was one of the symptoms.

At a quarter after, Simon seemed more restless, and he texted
somebody—probably Alison. Stephen didn’t want to be noticed, so he left where he’d been at the bottom of the steps and walked to the information booth in the middle of the terminal. There were hordes of rush-hour commuters, but from Stephen’s position he could still see Simon clearly at the top of the stairs. He was pacing, checking the bar area, and then he made a call. After no one picked up, he lowered the phone. He still seemed unusually agitated, and then, suddenly, he walked away to Stephen’s left, toward the entrance to the Campbell Apartment, another bar at Grand Central. The problem was there was an exit over there, out of Stephen’s view, and when Simon couldn’t find Alison he might just take off through that exit and Stephen would lose him.

Stephen pushed his way through the crowd, nearly knocking down a few people, and then rushed up the stairs. He was heading frantically through the bar of Cipriani, feeling like an idiot for letting Simon get out of sight, and bumped into a waiter who said, “Watch it, sir.” Then Simon was walking toward him—he was sweating badly and seemed distraught; there was definitely something wrong with him, something medical. Stephen ignored Simon, looking straight ahead, as if he were trying to find someone himself. Then he stopped near the bar and watched Simon return to the supposed meeting spot with Alison.

After Simon checked his phone a couple of more times for texts and made another unsuccessful call, he headed down the stairs to the main part of the station and Stephen discreetly followed, staying a good twenty or thirty feet behind, but making sure not to lose him in the swarm of people. Was Simon going to look for Alison in another part of the terminal? Maybe he thought he had the wrong location somehow? Nope, he continued out to Forty-second Street—it had gotten dark out but the street was mobbed with rush-hour crowds—and
stood on the curb, leaning over with his hands on his hips, as if trying to catch his breath. Was he having some kind of anxiety attack? That was what it seemed like.

Stephen stayed inside the terminal, holding up the
Post
but watching Simon through the doors. He expected that Simon would walk away, but instead he suddenly had his hand out, hailing a cab. Stephen cursed as he rushed outside the terminal. Simon was in the cab and it was starting to pull away. Stephen darted out to the street—barely avoiding a collision with a speeding bike messenger—and tried to hail a cab. Meanwhile, the cab Simon was in was stopped at the light under the Park Avenue Viaduct.