Ted found he had no appetite for his now ice-cold breakfast. He told himself that he had to eat and took one bite. The rest went into the trash.
The possibility that Richie had been killed because of something related to their business together made Ted feel queasy. The business model consisted of picking up the scraps ignored or forgotten by real estate moguls or wannabes. Those people were the predators; Ted barely qualified as a carrion feeder. And Richie? A dung beetle.
Disagreements and disappointments were not unusual—having suffered already, Ted’s clients could be angry, suspicious, or belligerent—but there had never been anything beyond occasional strong words and hollow threats. No one got murdered over surplus money. But the doubt clung to him.
He did not feel the passage of time as he sat staring at a blank laptop screen until his cell phone intruded on this bleak reverie. Jill. Though they had been divorced for ten years, he always took her calls.
“I’m late. I’m late. I’m late. I’m late.”
“Hi, Jill.” He checked the time on the wall clock and was shocked to find that it was already early afternoon.
“I’ve got to run.”
“You’re not late. The game’s not till Wednesday.” Not a date. Just two friends going to a Mets game. Saving a rocky year or two immediately following the divorce, they’d been attending games together since their second date.
“I am late. But that’s not why I called. We’re on, right?”
“Unless you tell me differently. Why are you late?”
“Because I’m still at the museum, and Teri agreed to fit me in for a blowout in seven minutes.” Teri was a tyrannical refugee from Macedonia who happened to have a hair salon on Fifth Avenue with a view of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Ted had never understood how wealthy Manhattanite women allowed this monster to come near them with sharp objects in his hands.
“At this time of day, you’ll get a cab out front with no trouble.”
“And if there’s no holdup in front of the Trump building, I’ll get there in ten minutes. Goodbye. See you Wednesday.”
“I’m being grilled by the NYPD tomorrow about a murder investigation.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t. Stop. Tell me Wednesday.”
“Goodbye, Jill.”
“Wait! What time?”
“Seven. It’s always seven.”
“No. They’re always changing it.”
They had once seen the second half of a doubleheader that started at eight. Once.
“Goodbye, Jill.”
She was already gone.
Gillian Fitzmaurice and Edward Molloy had been the perfect match. Everyone thought so.
They’d met at a Whitney Museum fundraiser. Jill was a twenty-two-year-old intern, preparing for the life of a privileged docent. Ted, four years older, was the new hire at the family law firm, having clerked for a year with Jill’s grandfather on the New York State Court of Appeals. She was tall and willowy, blonde, with eyes the color of lapis lazuli. Ted was also tall, but broad shouldered and round of face. Black Irish with dark hair, dark eyes, and a complexion that tanned easily. They complimented each other.
“You must be Jill Fitzmaurice,” he said.
“Why must I?”
“You have the Fitzmaurice look.” She moved with a fluidity that could have been the result of good genes or years of ballet lessons. She wore almost no makeup or jewelry and didn’t need it. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, but Ted thought she was beautiful.
She frowned. “Are you sure? I love my grandfather, but he’s got a nose like an ax blade.”
“I meant you have a regal look. You hold your head in such a way that mere mortals, such as myself, must stand in awe.”
She laughed. “Bullshit.”
“Admittedly.”
“But you get points for both originality and chutzpah.”
“I write all my own material.”
“It’s a good line. Does it often work for you?”
“I don’t know. This is the first time I thought I might be able to carry it off.”
“I know who you are.”
“Oh?”
“The golden boy. Grandfather ‘discovered’ you. You’re being groomed.”
Ted was very aware that his presence at the venerable law firm of Hasting, Fitzmaurice, and Barson was an abnormality. Though he had been top of his class, his degree did not come from an Ivy League institution. The Judge had championed him, giving him a chance, but also putting a target on his back. “Local boy makes good.”
“I bet you’ve always made good.”
“I’m not sure how to take that.”
“Any way you want.”
“Then I’ll assume it’s a compliment,” he said.
“You’re a fast learner.”
Ted laughed. “I think I’ll have to be to keep up with you.”
“I’ll assume that’s a compliment.”
“Touché.”
“Ooh. And he speaks French.”
She was enjoying herself, but Ted felt she was holding back. Hiding behind the sass. Rather than put him off, this made him more determined. He wanted to learn her secrets. “Would you like to continue this conversation over dinner?”
“I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m working.”
“Another time?”
“Attaboy. Sure.”
“Then I’ll need your number,” he said.
“I’ll call you.”
“Then you’ll need my number.”
“No. I think I’ve got your number.”
Ted taught her to ice-skate and introduced her to the joy of watching old black-and-white movies on television. Jill persuaded him to eat oysters and educated him enough for him to not get bored in an art museum. He was ambitious, proud of his proletarian roots, work ethic, and stamina for putting in the necessary long hours. Jill was most content in the moment and wore her Beekman Place heritage like a comfortable old sweater.
They agreed on all of the important things. Both wanted children but not yet. Vacations abroad or in the mountains and never at the beach. Steaks should be rare. Brussels sprouts without bacon were an abomination and inedible. Golf was not a spectator sport. And baseball—Mets baseball in particular—was America’s pastime. She was a Mets fan in a family of Yankee worshippers. Ted had grown up a bus ride from Shea Stadium and still refused to wear any garment with pinstripes.
He was a working-class hero, a rebel in a tie, champion of the underprivileged, confident and forthright. What you saw was what you got. Jill had secrets.
A secret.