Linda Fairstein - Final Jeopardy

“Even if she knew I was crazy about him?”

“All the more likely. That surprises you? C’mon, we all know women like that, Alex. There’s Jezebel; there’s the Duchess of Windsor, who stole Edward away from her best friend, Thelma Furness; there’s Elizabeth Taylor going to the mats with Debbie Reynolds over Eddie Fisher. You think for a minute that Iz would have scruples about stepping on your toes? Give me a break. Anyway, the London airplane encounter was just a thought.“

“Thanks.”

“Look, whenever you’re ready, I want you to come out here and get away from everything for a while. I’ll take a few days off, leave the baby with Elena, and we’ll just go out to the cottage at Malibu and relax for a week. Please?”

“Sure, Nina.”

We exchanged good-byes and I took my tote filled with ballet paraphernalia out of the filing cabinet.

“I’m sneaking out a bit early, Laura. Trying to make a six-thirty class. See you in the morning.”

“Two more from Jed, while you were taking these other calls. Sounds like he was at a phone booth. He’s really anxious to see you. I’m just worried he might be waiting here at the corner of Center Street, hoping to catch up with you on the way out.”

Don’t do this to me, you bastard. You know what it’s like to be followed and harassed and watched and intercepted.

You even went to court to get that woman to stop doing it.

Don’t start it with me.

I decided not to take the chance of running into him, if indeed, he had figured out that the easiest place to find me was outside of my office. I took the stairs down one flight and crossed into the corridor that led through the length of the building, exiting by the doorway two blocks to the north, instead of the executive wing elevators. That dumped me out at the rear of the courthouse, in the middle of Chinatown. I saw no signs of a yellow cab, so I hurried myself to Canal Street, turned west past rows of vendors hawking counterfeit Vuittons and Guccis, and symbolically held my breath as I descended the steps to the subway station and pushed through the turnstile for the uptown N train.

I hate the subway. I hate its filth, its odor, its crowds, and its unreliability. But when it worked, it was without exception the most efficient way to travel around the city.

The Canal Street stops were my least favorite, since most of the people arriving in the morning and leaving in the late afternoon were either colleagues of mine who worked in the system, or defendants and their rent-a-baby-so-the-judge will-be-sympathetic families, on their way to be arraigned for their latest arrests. I dreaded making eye contact with perps I would be squaring off with later in the day, or girlfriends with earrings the size of door knockers who had just left their main men in the Tombs because I had asked the judge for remand without bail.

The platform was practically deserted and my footsteps rang with an eerie echo as I tried to find a position to wait in for the next train. I was unusually jumpy and kept looking over my shoulder in hopes that no one would trap me against the dead end of the tunnel wall toward which I had chosen to move, or be hiding behind the thick steel girders which lined the middle of the station. I walked to the edge to see whether there were headlights to signal on the approach of a subway car, but reminded myself of the recent spate of women being pushed onto the tracks as by an escaped mental patient. I turned back to stand closer to the graffiti-streaked wall. Two or three times I glimpsed the the head of a man coming toward me, weaving in and out of the posts, but I was unable to get a clear shot at his face and was relieved when I heard the rumble of the train as it approached the station.

So I clutched my tote to my side, moved briskly through the doors as they opened in front of me, found a seat that didn’t seem to be too badly smeared with crumbs and soda stains, and pretended to be absorbed in a sheaf of Court of Appeals decisions that Laura had printed out of e-mail for me to read, while all the time my peripheral vision was scanning the car for the usual assortment of freaks and perverts.

I got off the train at Fifty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue. The studio was a few blocks due north, but I toyed with the idea of a diversionary jaunt to the corner of Fifth, since it was such a beautiful afternoon.

I thought of Holly Golightly and how she relieved her bouts of depression by visits to Tiffany’s, on the theory that nothing bad could ever happen there. I could square the area and still be in time for class – Tiffany’s windows, with Bendel’s and Bergdorf’s thrown in for good measure.

Better than Prozac any day. Then I remembered the Warner Brothers store that expropriated the northeast corner and decided against the side trip. That giant souvenir shop had really brought the neighborhood down, I concluded, and kept on walking to William’s loft instead. The dressing room was empty when I went inside to change into my leotard and tights. It was rare that I arrived ahead of the regular students, most of whom lived and worked uptown, and I relished the moments of privacy and quiet at this end of the day as well. William was already in the studio, so I joined him for a series of stretches and bends, willing the tension and distress out of my stiff body as I tried to limber up.

“I didn’t think you’d be here today, Alex,” he said quietly, in the calming manner that always put me at ease in his presence. “I’ve been following the story about Isabella.”

“I think this is the best place for me to be. It really helps.”

I was on the floor now, my back erect and the heels of my feet drawn up close to my body, as I tried to press my knees down to make contact with the wood. William walked over and began to knead my shoulders and neck, working the tightened muscles apart.

“I’ve got two tickets for the Kirov next week. I thought perhaps you and Bernard could use them. I hate for them to go to waste and I hope to get out of town for a few days by then.”

“We’d love them if you’re not going to need them, Alex. That’s very thoughtful. I guested with them once nearly three decades ago. What a priceless week that was.”

“Must have been.”

“Bernard’s dying to know if the police have any leads in the murder case. That you can talk about, of course.”

No wonder the neck massage. You can’t ever get something for nothing, as my grandmother used to say.

“Nothing new.”

“Any rumors that Isabella was gay?”

That was a new one on me. “That’s never come up, as far as I know.”

“Phew. I mean after the furor over Basic Instinct, Bernard thinks the community would go wild if the killer turned out to be some crazed lesbian. Entirely too Hollywood.”

I laughed.

“Tell Bernard to relax. I think we’re safe on this one.”

The dancers were beginning to filter in and warm up alongside us on the floor and at the barre. William went over to turn on his elaborate recording system, and the strong music of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony lifted me back to my feet and into the opening pattern of pli and relev in the standard numbered positions.

By the end of the hour I was physically drained – a perfect complement to my emotional condition. I dragged myself into the dressing room, showered in the tiny stall William had rigged up for his sweaty troupes, and put my business clothes on again to head over to meet Joan for dinner. I checked my answering machine from William’s phone to make sure Joan had not changed or canceled our plans, but there were no messages at all, so I said goodbye to the stragglers and walked out onto the street.

When I reached the curb at the corner of Sixty-fourth Street and Central Park West, I was startled by the approach of a sleek navy limo that must have trailed me for the block and a half from the studio. The rear door opened and Jed stepped toward me, carrying an armload of long-stemmed yellow roses, my favorite.