Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

“And I wonder what’s on your conscience, Dad.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out,” she snapped and hung up the phone. She soon felt guilty. She could sense her father’s growing desperation as his world—ordinarily so controlled—spun out of his control.

Her cell phone rang. She saw it was John Hernandez, calling from his cell.

“Madison?”

“Hi, John.”

“I’ve been worried about you. You didn’t come to the homework session yesterday. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I was worried, but then I started to wonder if you were just avoiding me.”

Madison cursed herself in her mind. She had meant to call him, but the two thugs at the cemetery had effectively taken care of that.

“How could you think that? What am I saying? I know it was bad form of me not to show or call…and I am so, so sorry. I had a wonderful time. A better than wonderful time. I ran into some work issues, and then I got food poisoning. I’ve been in bed.”

“Do you want me to come over and take care of you? I could whip up a pot of chicken soup.”

“No…I’m really miserable company right now.” She purposely made her voice sound a little weak.

“My bed seems empty without you.”

Madison felt a bolt of warmth sear through her. “You have no idea how much I wish I was there.”

“When can I see you?”

“How about Saturday night?”

“Sounds great. I’ll call you to check on you in a day or so. Feel better. And I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Okay…bye.”

“Bye, angel.”

Madison hung up the phone. For a brief moment, she let herself recall the moment when he slid inside her. It was like her body was made to fit his. Shaking the thought from her mind, she checked her watch. Troy was due over in about fifteen minutes to reconvene a strategy as far as investigating Claire’s murder—and the box of clues.

She padded into her kitchen and started a pot of coffee. She wore a yoga outfit from Christy Turlington’s Nuala line. Madison’s mother was a huge yoga fanatic—for a while. Like most everything, Chantal had eventually grown bored and gave it up. Madison still tried to at least begin each day with some stretches, but this morning, every bit of her hurt. The yoga clothes were a simple nod to comfort.

Fifteen minutes later, her doorman called her and said a Mr. Carter was there. She told him to send him up, and she opened the door when Troy arrived.

“Whew,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “So this is how the heir to the Pruitt fortune lives.” He walked to the bank of windows and gazed out on Central Park. The crisp fall day showed off the colors of the trees.

“Give me a break. Renee is hardly living the poor life and you’re there all the time. Around many beautiful agents. A lot of men would kill for your job.”

“A lot of men kill for the fun of it.”

“You know what I mean. Tell me you haven’t gotten used to Renee’s chef’s watercress salad and warm pomegranate vinaigrette. There must be FBI agents in the field just green with envy.”

He nodded, smiling. “Working with Renee and you is a cushy deal, I admit it. Still, that’s like my make-believe life. Agents don’t live like this in the off-hours, Madison.”

No, she thought looking around her apartment. In one corner stood an armoire from eighteenth-century France in a burled wood and polished to a sheen. She had bid sixty thousand dollars for it at Sotheby’s. And I suppose teachers don’t live like this either.

Thinking of John made her frown. She turned her head and said, “I’m going to go get us some coffee.”

“Great…I could use it. I’ll help.”

He followed her into her expansive kitchen as she busied herself pulling out china and sugar. She favored raw cane sugar and a tea biscuit or two.

“What’s the matter?” Troy asked her. “Your face clouded up in there a minute or so ago.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Come on. It has to be something.”

“Perceptive of you.”

“Training. I took a profiling course—a bunch of them actually—at Quantico. I was pretty good at it. Then I got too old.”

“What do you mean, too old?”

“The best profilers are under twenty-eight.”

“Why?”

“The older you get, the more you make allowances.”

Madison put the mugs and silver coffeepot and sugar bowl on a teak tray and pulled a carton of cream from the subzero refrigerator. Troy lifted the tray and carried it to the dining room.

“What do you mean, allowances?”

“Well, when you’re eighteen, say, and you meet someone, what’s your typical reaction?…I’ll tell you. A teen makes a snap decision. Dork or cool guy. Nerd or jock. Outcast or cheerleader. They see the world in instantaneous black and white. When we get older, we temper that. We learn there’s more to someone than appearance and body language.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Madison sat down and poured them both coffee. Troy sat opposite her.

“It is. I mean, certainly in a philosophical sense it is. But here’s the thing, that’s still part of how a young person’s brain works. It’s more impulsive. I’ve even seen studies about almost a shearing effect as the brain goes through growth spurts. New, fast, impulsive pathways are born. It’s all very new science. Anyway…the bottom line is the younger a profiler is, usually the more talented. I wasn’t meant to stay a profiler. I ended up with this special assignment.”

“But you still have the skills. You picked up that something was wrong.”

“Yeah.” He held her gaze. “Come on…spill.”

“I was just wondering, I guess, how to balance being an agent with being a…person. I mean, for one thing, I am responsible for so much in my job. I’ve been chained to my desk for so long—because I love it, but also because I always felt I had something I wanted to prove. That my name wasn’t the reason for my success. That my talent was.”

“It’s a balancing act, that’s for sure.”

“But then, I also have this new relationship.” Madison saw a cloud of disappointment skate across Troy’s face.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well…I’m doing an awful lot of lying. To hide my double life. I feel like it’s going to be impossible to be one person with him and another with the Gotham Roses.”

“I won’t lie to you. A lot of marriages and relationships just don’t work once people start with the agency. It’s just too complicated.”

“I thought so,” Madison said, sipping her coffee.

“That’s not to say it couldn’t work. It’s just to say that there’s a lot of pressure, and it is hard to explain certain things away. I have two friends in the CIA, and they pretty much have given up on relationships. I mean, how can you be with someone if they can never ask you about your job, where you’re going, what you’re doing for a living, that whole thing.”

“I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed. All this undercover stuff makes a day in the boardroom seem like a picnic. Like last night in Venetian Lake—I mean the adrenaline rush was so intense compared to the boardroom. I’ve known men to throw up before board meetings because it’s so pressurized. But I thrive on it. I love a challenge, which I guess is why I feel cut out for this Gotham Rose thing no matter how intense it gets. Speaking of which, what’s the status on those two guys?”

“They’ll both make it, though the one you got in the chest, the bullet pierced his lung and lodged in his back. He’ll be out of commission for a long time yet.”

Madison tried to process the information that she had wounded someone seriously. “Have you questioned them yet?” she asked softly.