Part 4 (1/2)

I shoved the remainder of the m.u.f.fin in my mouth and washed it down with the dregs from my coffee cup. I crumpled everything into a little ball and shoved it into the metal garbage can by the door. A young man with a skateboard under his arm started in, saw me, and held the door open. ”Why don't you go first, ma'am?” he asked politely.

Ma'am. Thanks. I managed a smile and walked out onto the sidewalk, stopping for a moment to adjust my pocketbook on my shoulder. I started down the street, taking in the river, the boats swaying gently on the small waves right beyond the train station, and the sun's rays dancing across the river's surface. I made a conscious decision to remain very angry at Max but to stop feeling sorry for myself. Being angry at Max would at least burn a few calories, but feeling sorry at myself would force me to eat the entire box of G.o.diva chocolate that I had in the refrigerator.

Max picked me up at ten for our day of shopping at the Westchester, a mall near my house. We got there at ten-thirty, found a spot near the elevator, and were cruising the carpeted floors of the mall in no time.

I was still feeling a little icy toward Max, but she didn't notice. She was too involved in spending more money than the gross national product of some smaller nations.

We spent an hour or so stocking up on cosmetics and hair accessories at Sephora, the large cosmetics retailer on the bottom floor. Max's hair was only a few inches long, but she bought some jeweled barrettes and some kind of turban that she said was essential to making home facials successful. I wandered around the bath aisle, finally picking up some kind of shower gel that promised, ”serenity, sensuality, and a feeling of well-being.” Whatever. It smelled like coconut. I also picked a lipstick called Jennifer, which was a muted peachy brown and not nearly dramatic enough for Max who stuck her tongue out in disgust when I showed it to her.

I finally let Max know how furious I was when we sat down to lunch at the City Limits Diner, located at the east end of the mall.

”I thought I would give you some 'alone' time,” she said, making those stupid finger quotes, and with the misguided conviction that what she had done was justified and, actually, considerate. ”I a.s.sumed he was there to ask you out.” She slid into the booth and tossed her snakeskin purse and multiple shopping bags onto the seat next to her.

”Then why did you run?” I asked.

She picked up her menu and looked at it for a moment before shutting it, ignoring my question entirely. ”He's very cute.”

I slammed my menu shut, content with ordering the same item I ordered every time I came to the diner: curried egg salad on seven-grain bread, a chocolate egg cream, and a plate of fries. ”He's not going to ask me out, Max,” I clarified. ”But he might put me in jail.” I pulled a napkin out of the holder and wiped it across my upper lip. ”I am a suspect in a murder case.” I spoke slowly and clearly so that she couldn't mistake what I was saying for, ”I'm in love with Detective Crawford,” or whatever else she might possibly hear in the alternate universe in which she lived.

She raised an eyebrow at me.

”That's just what I think. They've never said anything to that effect.”

”You're probably right. Cops wouldn't show up at your office twice unless you were on their most-wanted list.” She looked around. ”I wish I was on the other one's most-wanted list,” she muttered, opening her menu again. ”Hey, I'm thinking about a new show,” she said, after making a new lunch decision. ”It's called Detectives and in it we follow around two hot New York City detectives as they investigate murders. What do you think?” she asked.

I've known Max long enough to know that her ditsy facade is just that-a facade. She is one of the smartest people I know and good at what she does; she hadn't earned the t.i.tle of ”Queen of Reality TV” for nothing.

”Not funny, Max,” I said. ”You could always do Murder 101 and follow me as I end up on death row.”

The waiter arrived and we placed our order: me, the usual, and Max, a medium cheddar burger with fries and a chocolate shake. She looked at me, and said, ”I didn't have breakfast,” as a way of explaining her large order. She's one of those people who eats to excess and remains a size four; if I hadn't witnessed her hedonism over the last twenty years, I wouldn't have believed it myself. But she ate and drank to excess five out of seven nights, never exercised, and still looked amazing.

”Who does the strip search if you go to jail?” she asked, only half-joking. ”The cute one or my new boyfriend?”

I rolled my eyes. ”This is serious, Max. What if I am their only suspect?” I looked around to see who was sitting in our general vicinity, but didn't spot any suspicious-looking private eyes hiding behind menus or large policemen lurking.

The waiter appeared with the drinks, and Max put her straw into the giant thick shake and took a long sip. She licked her upper lip with her tongue. ”Look at it this way. If you are a suspect, you'll get to see Detective Hot Pants on a regular basis.” She let out a laugh, obviously amused with herself.

I wasn't feeling so lighthearted. I looked around the restaurant, feeling vulnerable, exposed, and a bit sad. Max was like Teflon-everything slid off her. She didn't seem affected by anything and found humor in almost everything. And right now, she wasn't even sensitive enough to shut her trap and notice that I was scared. I decided not to make an issue of it and dropped the subject entirely. ”What are you doing tonight?” I asked.

”Sleeping over at your house,” she stated, surprising me. When she saw my reaction, she explained herself. ”We haven't had a sleep-over in a while, so I figured we could do that tonight. Let's go to the video store and get some p.o.r.n. Maybe something with 'Detective Hot Pants' in the t.i.tle?” She reached across and held my hand for a split second.

I guess she wasn't as dense as I thought. She had been right there with me, all the time.

We drove home after lunch. Max told me that she had her laptop with her and wanted to check e-mail and do some work. It had been a long week; I was going to curl up in bed with the Harry Potter book that I had bought a few months earlier but hadn't had time to read. I knew I should look through my briefcase and unearth the term papers that I had to read, but I was tired and drained. An afternoon in my bed, under the covers, was just what I needed.

Max pulled up the full length of the driveway and parked right in front of the garage, a detached, barnlike structure that housed everything but my car, when I actually owned one. She popped the trunk from inside the car and got out to retrieve her packages and her computer. Based on years of experience, I knew that we would be having a fas.h.i.+on show later when she modeled all of her new purchases.

She went across the backyard and turned back to me. ”You left the back door open.” She opened the door and went inside, stopping right inside the threshold.

I wasn't paying much attention to her. My attention was taken up by a brand-new, black Mercedes parked in front of my house, s.h.i.+ny, sleek, and with tinted windows that made it impossible to see inside. I was distracted and didn't notice Max standing, statuelike, inside the kitchen. I walked straight into her, pus.h.i.+ng her ahead a bit until she was up against the counter.

Peter Miceli was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at both of us, his eyes red and tired-looking. His hands were folded in front of him on the table.

I was stunned, but not too stunned to speak. ”How did you get in here?”

He stood when he heard my voice. He was wearing a golf s.h.i.+rt, golf cleats, and yellow pants-perfect for a day on the links-but not the kind of outfit you wear when you break into someone's house. I couldn't imagine what kind of man played golf the day after burying his daughter, but I also couldn't imagine the kind of man who allegedly had access to so much cement that he could bury people at the bottom of rivers. ”Alison. I'm sorry. I wanted to talk with you but didn't think we would be able to arrange a meeting.”

A meeting. With Peter Miceli. Yes, that would be hard to arrange. Especially after I had put myself voluntarily in the witness protection program. I didn't say anything.

Max broke the silence. ”I'm going to go check my e-mail. Peter, I'm sorry for your loss. It is so nice to see you after all these years,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. She tiptoed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my bedroom.

I stared at Peter. I hadn't been afraid of Peter in college-he was a chubby business major with a hot car and a hot girlfriend, but no game-but I was afraid of him now. He certainly was always charming and nice to me. Now, it appeared, he was also very successful. I had heard rumors about his businesses-the ones that were legitimate and that didn't include racehorses and strip clubs-but I wasn't sure if there was any truth to them; after all, he had married Gianna Capelli, she of the Capelli crime family, and it may have just been a case of ”guilt by a.s.sociation.” I wasn't sure. I didn't think he was here to hurt me, but breaking into my house could never be considered a good thing. I cleared my throat. ”What do you want, Peter?”

He hooked a thumb in the s.p.a.ce that Max had just occupied. ”Do I know her?”

”That's Max Rayfield. We went to St. Thomas with Gianna.”

He thought for a moment. ”Max Rayfield . . . oh, yeah . . . crazy girl. Liked to drink kamikazes and dance on the bar at Maloney's.” He drummed his fingers on the table. ”She a dancer now?”

I shook my head.

”Too bad.” He looked up at the ceiling, apparently imagining Max working at The Pleasure Cave or a place like that.

”She your girlfriend?”

”Only in the most platonic sense.”

He looked disappointed again.

He motioned to the chair across from him at the kitchen table like he, not I, lived there. I pulled the chair out and sat down. He spread his hands out on the table and let out a choked sob. ”I'm sorry, Alison.” He pulled a big square of cotton out of his pocket and blew his nose noisily. ”This has been very hard for us.”

”I can imagine,” I said.

Tears poured from his eyes, and he shuddered. ”I'm going to find who did this,” he said, his teeth clenched.

I had no doubt that that was the case. Then it occurred to me that perhaps he thought I was the one ”who did this.” I felt all the blood in my veins drain and my skin go icy.

He saw my reaction and quickly amended. ”I don't think you had anything to do with this, Alison. You wouldn't hurt a fly. Kathy always told us how nice you were to her. I'll always remember that.” He sniffled loudly. He pointed a short, stubby finger at me. ”I owe you,” he said, dramatically.

I really wasn't in the market for possible Mob favors, but if Ray continued to act like an a.s.shole and didn't get his c.r.a.p out of my guest room, knowing that I could make him disappear was mildly comforting.

”How's Gianna?” I asked.

He shook his head sadly. ”Not good. She'll feel better when we find out who did this.”

I repeated my question. ”Peter, what do you want?”