Seventy-one

“MOM?”

Hearing my daughter’s voice, I shifted under the bedcovers.

“Wake up, Mom. I’m leaving . . .”

With a yawn, I opened my eyes to find Joy sitting on the edge of my big four-poster, sipping from a travel mug of coffee. She was fully dressed, her chestnut hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, her eyes wet and bloodshot, her nose red as Rudolph’s.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” I quickly sat up, much to the dismay of Java and Frothy, who’d been cuddling up to me for some extra warmth during the cold autumn night. “Were you crying again?”

“I’m flying back to DC this morning . . .” She scratched Frothy’s fluffy white neck as she spoke. “I want to relieve Chef Bell in the afternoon. I’d rather work than waste any more time blubbering over my stupid love life problems.”

“They’re not stupid . . .” I rubbed my eyes, then ceded to Java’s feline demands to rub her soft brown ears, as well. “I thought we decided this yesterday. You’re going to stay and speak to Manny. You have coverage in DC, and—”

“I don’t want it anymore. I want to go.”

“Why? What’s changed? Don’t you want to work things out? You love Manny. And I’m sure he loves you.”

“After that awful video, I’m not sure at all.”

“Video? What video?”

“You haven’t seen it? Dad sent it to both of us. Here . . .”

She handed me my phone from the nightstand. I powered it on and tapped the e-mail app. A message had come in from Quinn. I bypassed it and opened the one from Joy’s father.

I started by reading Matt’s text . . .

After I walked Marilyn home, I was feeling beat, too, so I grabbed a cab and headed back to Brooklyn. On the way, I shot this footage. You both need to see this . . .

I played the five-minute video.

I could see Matt had captured it while traveling through Soho, on his way to the Williamsburg Bridge. The streets in this area boasted the greatest collection of cast-iron architecture in the world, and one of the highest-priced real estate markets in the city.

The neighborhood’s nightlife was equally expensive, and one of the hottest spots in Manhattan at the moment was the trendy new Soho Lounge. Tucked between another of those Equator luxury gyms and a gallery for digital art, the Lounge served craft cocktails and a menu of posh noshes from Royal Ossetra caviar to truffle beignets.

Matt panned the camera over a stylish downtown crowd, loitering in front of the exclusive watering hole. And that’s when I spotted the reason for my ex-husband’s attempt to channel Martin Scorsese.

Joy’s beloved boyfriend, Emmanuel Franco, dressed for success in a gorgeously tailored business suit, was talking and laughing with a stunning brunette. A strappy black dress hugged her perfect curves, and Franco’s big arm was hooked around her waist.

After exiting the Lounge’s double glass doors, the pair strolled along the crowded sidewalk and paused at the corner, where Franco helped the woman into her coat.

Matt obviously shot this footage while stuck in a traffic jam. As the cab slowly moved down the block, he kept the camera on the young sergeant and his chic date.

“Make a left here,” Matt’s voice sharply told the driver.

“I thought you were going to Red Hook—”

“I’m taking a detour. Make the turn and go slow.”

Matt continued to shoot the pair as they walked, arm in arm, into an exquisite residential building with an attentive doorman, who appeared to greet them with friendly recognition.

Off camera, I heard Matt call Franco a few choice names. Then, with disgust in his voice, he told the driver, “Let’s go. Take off . . .” And the video ended.

“Mom, I can hardly believe it . . .” Joy’s voice was weak, her lower lip quivering. “That he would do this to me . . . to us . . .”

I knew how she felt. And yet . . .

“Joy, you still need to speak with Franco about all this. You need to do it in person. He owes you answers.”

She shook her head. “It’s too humiliating.”

“Have you tried contacting him?”

“Yes, of course! I left several messages, asking him to call me back. He replied twice by text. ‘Busy working. Will get back to you soon. Love you.’ Yeah, right.”

“I’m sure he does love you.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Track him down at this Joan woman’s multimillion-dollar Soho apartment? Or go over to his place later and find her answering the door in his NYPD T-shirt? I can’t. I can’t . . .”

I couldn’t blame her for wanting to run away. This news was crushing, the video evidence irrefutable. It broke my heart, too.

Still, I tried to argue with my daughter, convince her to stay, but it was no use. She had made up her mind. Like her father, there’d be no changing it.

After a quick, tight hug good-bye, my Joy was gone.