Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“The show?”

“Well, my character, actually.”

“You know what, Trace? It’s tricky concentrating on the road. If it’s all the same to you, can it just wait until we get to the house?”

“Sure. It can wait. It’s just about expanding Jennifer a little. I really don’t think her potential is being realized.”

Ross gave her a paternal smile. “But it can wait.”

“Sure. It can wait.”

Ross stared into the swirling snow. He thought of Gloria. She was in L.A. Hopefully, she wouldn’t try to reach him. Ross’s cell phone was turned off. Doubtless it would be collecting messages, lots of them. Ross spent half his day talking on the phone. If things got screwed up somehow, that could be a problem. His dropping out of sight for all that time. If it came to that, he’d have to sort through it. There’d be a way; he’d figure it out. He’d gotten quite good at that sort of thing. Alan Ross was nothing if not methodical. It was how he had made his way. Organization. Knowing exactly how to play people. Moving them around like chess pieces. It was an art. Ross truly felt that. It was something he had shared only with Gloria, the fact that he considered what he did art, that he considered himself something of an artist. Like Picasso. Beethoven. Grinning to himself, he ran his fingers along his row of CDs in the well between the two front seats and picked out Beethoven’s Seventh and slid it into the CD player. The music swarmed richly from the speakers like intoxicating smoke.

“That’s nice,” Tracy said. “What is it?”

“It’s Richard Strauss.” Ree-shard Strauz .

“Yeah. It’s nice.”

Ross stole a glance at Tracy Jacobs’s legs. If he wanted, when they got where they were going, he could tie them up like a pretzel. Who would stop him? Her?

“Oh God, Alan. I am so glad you picked me up at the airport. I can’t wait till we get there. This is too much fun. Really. I love you. I really mean it.”

Ross leaned over and patted her on the leg. “I love you, too, honey. You’re something special.”

He let his hand linger on her leg a few seconds. The thought of Cynthia’s firm legs came to him, the brief moment he had taken to stroke them as he’d choked back his tears. It was her fault. This whole stupid endless maze of hell was that infuriating, sweet dead woman’s fault.

Tracy smiled over at him, and he gave her leg a squeeze. Good Christ, it felt nice. The kid was a real specimen. No taking that away from her. He’d have to consider exactly how he wanted this whole thing to play out.

A HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS had gone into the master bathroom alone. The fixtures were all Bagni. Eight thousand alone just for the showerhead. Nine-inch diameter. Solid chrome. Gloria had pointed out to Rosemary the different rings, each one responsible for a unique spray. But it was the chrome pipes on opposite walls of the shower, she’d said, that made the real difference. Prickling jets of water from the shoulders to the knees. Or, if one preferred, a strong hissing mist. Just adjust the control. The marble was Italian, cream with pinkish veins. Overhead, a chimney-like flue ran up about twenty feet to a skylight, operable by remote control right from the shower.

The ride out to the Island had been a blur. Three cheers for the Demerol that she’d been given at the hospital. Rosemary had made the driver stop at Paragon, instructing him to go inside and buy several pairs of sweatpants, both lightweight and heavy, a few sweatshirts, some T-shirts and several pairs of warm wool socks. Gloria had plenty of other clothes in the closets and dressers if necessary. Rosemary had found a flannel robe that she liked; she’d be fine.

Rosemary adjusted the temperature and stepped into the shower. Her body ached from Lyles’s brutish attack. What was his problem, anyway? Rosemary wondered. Was he offended that I told him to pack it up and get out? What is it with men? Maybe that lesbian detective knows what she’s doing after all. Maybe there’s something to be said for sticking with the more intelligent sex. Rosemary increased the pressure of the water. God…it felt so good. She hadn’t yet activated the two chrome pipes.

Okay. Men are useful, let’s not get silly about it. They’re fun. Get the right one and they’re more than just fun. Lord, Rosemary thought, tilting her head cautiously to look past the eight-thousand-dollar streams of water at the few flakes of snow drifting through the distant skylight, I am so ready to burst out of the stable. Where in the world has my life been, anyway? The entire past year was feeling as hazy as the past three hours. Even though she was in a fog, she felt as if she were finally making her way out of one.

Rosemary had to be careful with her wrenched neck. No sudden movements. And it would be several days at least before the bruising on her face went away. Not that she planned on seeing anyone. This was major downtime. Rosemary. A big empty house. An ocean. It was fine with her if it snowed ten feet. Twenty feet. Bring on the next Ice Age, she didn’t care.

Looking down, she noticed a bruise on her right thigh. Bastard, she thought dreamily. She took the oval bar of translucent soap and began rubbing it along the bruise, as if somehow she’d be able to lather it away. She rubbed counterclockwise, then clockwise, then again, both directions. At last she released the soap, letting it drop next to her feet. It looked like a very fat toe. I need to get to sleep, she thought. Or maybe she’d spoken aloud. She wasn’t sure. The jets of water were beginning to sting. It felt like her skin was burning where the water hit.

Okay…let’s try the big blast, and then it’s mattress time.

Rosemary reached for the nozzle that activated the chrome pipes and gave it a turn. The water blasted from the pipes with unexpected force. Too hard. And way too hot. Scalding. Rosemary spun. Her neck torqued. The pain shot through her entire body, and a shriek erupted from her lungs. It echoed through the upstairs rooms of the empty house and down the empty staircase. It also traveled out the skylight far above her head, traveled outside into the soft white silent world, where its sound barely registered.

A faint noise.

Brief. Unintelligible.

Then nothing.

AFTER SHE CAME OUT of the Midtown Tunnel, Megan phoned Ryan Pope. She explained what it was she needed from him, and when he questioned why she needed it, she requested that he simply do her the damn favor and not ask questions.

“This has to do with Fox, doesn’t it?”

Megan sighed. “Ryan, everything I do these days has to do with Fox. My pancakes in the morning have to do with Fox. Please just get that address and call me back.”

Megan hung up and pulled around a slow-moving Mini Cooper and settled in for a stressful drive. Pope phoned her back fifteen minutes later.

“It’s in East Hampton.” He gave her the address. He started to ask another question, but Megan cut the connection and phoned Malone.

“Got it. East Hampton. Seventeen Skyler Drive.”

Malone thanked her. “Now I can finally pass this guy. Ross is driving worse than an old lady.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to drive up ahead. I’d like to be in place when Ross and his gal get there. I’ll ditch the car a couple blocks away from the house.”

“Try not to do anything until I get there.”

“I’m not planning to do anything. We don’t even know what the score is here. I just want to keep an eye on things.”

They hung up. Megan brought her flashing light up onto the dashboard. She didn’t want to attract the attention of any police out on the highway. But a few flashes every now and then would be good to get slower traffic out of her way.