ERICA CALLED THE REAL ESTATE agent Greg recommended and now she’s walking through a bright, spacious bedroom in the West Eighty-First Street apartment she admired online. She imagines where Jenny’s bed would go—and her bookcase and dresser and desk with a bulletin board above it filled with pictures of boy bands and animals and ideas. Then she inspects the walk-in closet and imagines it filled with Jenny’s dresses and shoes and sweaters. She walks to the window and looks down at the Museum of Natural History, surrounded by its gracious park in the full blush of spring. Jenny has always loved science, and she’d be able to walk across the street and be immersed and inspired.
Erica walks down the wide hallway to the living room—the place is even lovelier in person than it was in the pictures, filled with south light, large and welcoming rooms, high ceilings, floors of honey-colored oak, French doors into the dining room, and a beautiful carved mantel over the fireplace. Erica walks through the kitchen—it’s done in black and white and looks more than adequate for someone who believes that takeout food is one of mankind’s great evolutionary leaps. There’s a doorman downstairs. The building is impeccably maintained and exudes a sense of security and stability, which is so important for Jenny—and for her mother. Erica imagines them at home here together, sharing a wonderful life—a secure and stable life. Life can be secure and stable. Can’t it? Even in a world where someone puts a dying rat on your desk.
Erica feels a growing sense of doubt about her position at GNN—clearly Nylan is trying to stop her investigations, to frighten her, undermine her confidence, play sick head games on her. She wants to buy an apartment fast; once it’s in her name, he’ll have a tough time getting it back. Her housing allowance will pay for it, and no matter what happens she’ll walk away with a juicy piece of Manhattan real estate. Two can play this game of wits, Mr. Hastings, no matter how high the stakes.
Madge Miller, in her sixties, glasses around her neck, simple blue dress, looking more like a librarian than a real estate agent, gestures Erica to the back of the kitchen, where there’s a service entrance and a set of folding doors. “Ta-da!” she says, opening the doors to reveal a washer and dryer.
“Sold!” Erica says, and Madge smiles indulgently. “No, seriously, sold. I’d like to make a full-price, all-cash offer.”
Madge is nonplussed. “Don’t go anywhere,” she says, taking out her cell phone and walking into the living room.
Erica opens the service entrance, the apartment’s back door. There’s a small landing with an elevator, two large trash barrels, and doors leading to two other apartments. The landing is painted battleship gray, dark and claustrophobic. It looks grimy and smells faintly of trash. Erica gets a creepy feeling at the back of her neck. Someone could sneak onto that service elevator, ride up here, break into the apartment. Kidnap Jenny. Harm Jenny. Harm Erica. She quickly shuts and bolts the door. She’ll add another lock.
“The apartment is yours,” Madge says, coming into the kitchen. “Let’s head over to the office and get started on the paperwork.”
As they walk through the foyer toward the front door, Erica turns and takes a look back at the empty apartment. Instead of the safe, secure place she saw just fifteen minutes earlier, the quiet, echoing rooms and slanting afternoon sun seem to hold menace and danger—the pristine setting for some terrible crime.
Erica leaves Madge’s Upper East Side office after formalizing her offer with a check for $175,000, 10 percent of the purchase price. She feels a combination of trepidation and triumph. As she walks downtown toward GNN, her prepaid rings—it’s Detective Takahashi.
“Listen, Erica, there’ve been some developments with Miguel Fuentes. The DA has offered him a deal if he’ll talk. We won’t charge him with first-degree murder, meaning there’ll be no chance he’d get the death penalty or life in prison.”
“Has his lawyer responded?”
“We’re waiting. But we’re optimistic he’ll take it. The case against him is strong. DNA doesn’t lie. Either way, we’ve scheduled an interrogation. It’s a tool to force an answer. If he accepts the deal, he’ll talk freely. If he doesn’t, he’ll sit there with his lawyer and we’ll try and scare the hell out of both of them with our evidence.”
“When’s the interrogation?”
“It’s at one p.m. our time today.”
“Is there any chance you can patch me in so I can watch?”
There’s a pause and then, “I guess you didn’t get where you are by being a shrinking violet.”
“Barrish died in my arms, Detective.”
“Yeah. I’ll do it.”
“Much appreciated.”
“But it’s just for you. None of it can be broadcast without the DA’s and the LAPD’s consent.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll call you fifteen minutes before to confirm.”
Back in her office Erica sits making notes for her meeting with Morris Ernst, the lawyer who will be handling her petition for custody of Jenny. She’s told him she wants to play softball—her great concern is that the negotiations may traumatize Jenny, and that’s not acceptable. She also leaves a message for Detective George Samuels, asking him to call her.
Greg appears in her doorway. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
His face darkens, and for a moment he looks like he wants to say something but then decides not to. He switches gears. “Do you have a minute? I want to go over a list of possible guests for your first show.”
“No time like the present.”
He comes in and sits across from her. “I lied,” he confesses with a disarming smile.
“Shame on you.”
“Well, I do have a list. At the top of it is ‘Spend more time with Erica.’ ”
“Funny—there are days when I wish I could spend less time with Erica.”
“She’s a busy gal,” Greg says.
“All work and no play—”
“—makes Erica a lonely girl?”
She looks into his eyes and sees a touching insecurity. Men, for all their bluster in the public square, are filled with private doubts and vulnerability. If only more of them could admit it. Erica nods.
“How about we be lonely together?” Greg says.
“I want that, Greg. But I’m up to here with show prep, I’m buying an apartment, seeing a lawyer about reworking my custody arrangement with my ex, and dealing with rats—dead and alive.”
“You have to breathe. We could go on a nice, innocent date—see a Broadway show, go down to Chinatown for dinner, explore Williamsburg.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, looks so sincere and hopeful and adorable.
“I’m afraid a nice, innocent date is the last thing I have time for.”
Greg frowns in frustration.
Erica gets up, walks to the office door, and closes it. “A nice, romantic date, on the other hand, could maybe be arranged.”