As I follow Mr Black down the hallway, I’m astonished by the change in him. His suit is the same one worn the day he departed the city, but he’s not the same man inside it. The gentleman who returned from Greenwich with his wife is … rejuvenated. His stride is light and quick, and his movements have a new fluidity. His hair is slightly too long, but he’s as smartly clean-shaven as if I’d seen to the task personally.
Before he turns into his office, he glances down the hallway towards the living room. I know he’s looking for Lily. She’s not in view, but he can’t help but check. He struggled to be in the same room with her before they left for the beach house. Now, he struggles to be without her.
The mailroom was holding several packages for her when I returned to the penthouse in anticipation of their return – boxes from Tiffany & Co., Hermès, Bergdorf’s and more. She’s sorting through them now.
Sitting at his desk, Mr Black gestures for me to take one of the visitor’s chairs. He settles, his gaze sweeping over his desk: his sleeping computer monitor, the accumulated mail I’ve opened and organized on the blotter, the framed photo of Lily lying face down. His gaze lingers there, but curiously, he doesn’t set it to rights.
“Will you be visiting the beach house regularly over the coming season?” I ask. “Should I keep it open?”
He seems lost in thought for a moment, uncomprehending. Then his gaze clears. He looks at me and nods. “Yes, keep it ready.”
I wait for him to broach the more pressing topics we touched upon during our calls last night and this morning, although I’ve had less than a day to expand our search.
“Val Laska?” he queries. “I know it’s early, but do we have anything?”
“His full name is Valon Laska, and I’ve confirmed his identity as the man who sent the flowers. Mrs Black’s characterization of him as a gangster is apt, although the breadth and depravity of his crimes beg for a stronger descriptor. He was under investigation by the Organized Crime Control Bureau for decades, and the case file remains open. He’s occasionally been arrested, served brief amounts of time in prison, but seems suspiciously fortunate in evading more stringent punishment.”
He rocks back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests and his fingertips steepled together. There’s a hint of a smile. “So, she was honest to some degree.”
“It’s a family operation,” I continue, “with several cousins, nephews, brothers and the like. There’s no legal documentation that Laska has ever been married, nor is he known to have any children. However, a wife is rumoured, and she’s said to be more terrifying than he is.”
I pull my mobile out, unlock it and set it on the blotter with the screen face up and brightly lit.
He moves swiftly, straightening and spinning his chair to face the desk. He studies the displayed image with a narrowed gaze.
The photo is one taken by the OCCB during surveillance. Valon Laska is unmistakable simply by his sheer size. He’s a bruiser of a man.
They captured his image on a wintry day. The city’s snowploughs had shoved dirty ice to the edge of the pavements. The sky was a deep grey, as cold and lifeless as a corpse.
They caught Laska stepping onto the street behind a woman half-hidden by the waiting car at the kerb. She’s tall, with a waterfall of sleek black hair that falls below her waist. A thick fur coat obscures her figure, and she wears a matching papakha on her head. Oversized sunglasses partially conceal a compelling face that is a familiar mystery. Her skin is pale as cream, and her lips are sensual curves enhanced by slaughterous red lipstick.
My employer says nothing, staring at the photo with wide, dark eyes that are empty of all but shock and horror.
“We’ll get more with time,” I tell him. “The Bureau disbanded a few months ago, so I didn’t expect to have anything for you so quickly, but my contact was able to produce that image. It was taken several years ago, just a block from the Crossfire.”
He sets my mobile down carefully, as if it might break, then rests heavily into the seat back of his chair. His eyes close.
“No one’s seen Laska in New York in years,” I go on. “It was believed a rival may have assassinated him, or even by someone within his organization who wanted to advance. His reappearance six months ago was an unwelcome shock to the NYPD. So far, there’s been no sighting of the woman in the city, but my contacts say she must be nearby as the two are inseparable. They don’t even suspect that she’s deceased. Is Mrs Black worried about retaliation or prosecution for her mother’s death?”
“No. My understanding of their family dynamic is that Steph Laska expected her daughter to follow in her footsteps and ultimately kill her. Laska apparently understood this and accepted it.” Mr Black’s fingers drum restlessly on his armrests. “You said there might be a lead at a consignment shop?”
“We’ve interviewed personnel. Lily was a regular for a short time, always paid in cash – small bills. She purchased entire ensembles. If she bought jeans, she also purchased shoes, shirt and accessories to pair with them, which aligns with how she maintains her wardrobe here. None of the employees recalls seeing her prior to six months ago. She was a frequent customer for a few months, but she hasn’t been in recently – obviously, because she’s been with you.”
I study my employer, feeling disturbed. Helpless. Angry. The vigour he’d returned with has drained from him. He’s pale, his mouth tense and bracketed with lines of strain. His shoulders have risen into a defensive hunch.
My voice softens. “You mentioned discussing your safety with Mrs Black. Were the examples you gave me her own words?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes, verbatim.” His voice is clipped and hard, conveying a dangerous meld of frustration and irritation, impatience and resentment.
My thoughts tumble around what he’s told me. Micro hypodermic injection, public poisoning, sniper marksmen – covert methods of assassination requiring means and specialized training, and unlikely threats coming from street criminals.
“I find it curious for her to suggest such scenarios,” I state honestly because he must be vigilant, something quite difficult to do when love demands that you lower all defences. “I would expect suggestions less aligned with espionage and more with immediacy – knives or handguns, for instance.”
“She’s into spy films,” he says with fond exasperation. He opens his eyes and looks at me, his features softening again. “Bourne, Bond, Jack Ryan … that sort of thing.”
That may be true, but the woman we know as Lily isn’t given to overstatement or theatre. She chooses her words carefully for the greatest impact. I wish I’d been present when she said what she did so that I could’ve heard her voice and read her eyes. Her subterfuge runs deep and has been maintained for the length of her adult life, if not longer. Predicting her intent is impossible, and that’s what makes her especially dangerous.
Mr Black’s slight smile fades. “Why haven’t we figured out where she was holed up? We didn’t find her with a suitcase, so all those clothes she bought must be somewhere.”
“It’s possible she discarded them after wearing them.” I know I haven’t answered his question.
He stares at me.
“Perhaps someone removed her items from wherever she was staying,” I offer, “and the unit is no longer vacant.”
“By a landlord or super,” he prompts, but with a tone of insistence.
“Conceivably.” Or a friend, an accomplice, partner or lover. He knows this; he’s a shrewd man. But obsession grips him. He shut himself off from love and joy for far too long, ending each day and beginning the next with a vision of pain and sorrow hung opposite his bed. The depth of his loneliness and grief left him uniquely susceptible to just the right woman.
Such incendiary chemistry is exceedingly rare. Some couples exchange revealing looks. Others are comfortable with public displays of affection. But couples who radiate erotic chemistry simply by being near one another are few and far between. Gideon Cross and his wife, Eva, are such a pairing, as are Mr Black and Lily. My employer’s consuming lust for his wife is impossible to overlook. She has at least three secret weapons: she makes him laugh and feel loved and happy. He’s completely captivated – one might even say bewitched.
She obfuscates more than she reveals, and Mr Black allows it to gain what he wants most: her. She has all the answers he seeks, yet he waits for her to reveal them in her own time. It’s almost a game between them, the cat and the mouse. To what end?
“She received several packages while you were away. A courier delivered one from a jeweller here in the city. The receipt notes payment by wire transfer.” I deeply regret being the bearer of a succession of pieces of bad news. “There have been no transfers or withdrawals, from any of the accounts, to that vendor or for that amount.”
He’s still for a moment, then startles me with a feral smile that’s all teeth. “She has access to other accounts.” His eyes gleam as he rocks back in his chair. “When the estate attorney told me about the LLC and its assets, it didn’t line up with what little I knew. I suspected there were separate accounts. Lily wouldn’t just hand over keys to the kingdom, even to her husband.”
“I thought it might be a gift,” I posit cautiously. “Like the flowers.”
He waves the suggestion off with a careless wave of his hand. “She would’ve already been in this room telling us about it. No, there’s a war chest out there, Witte, and I’ve finally got her feeling safe enough to reveal it.”
I don’t understand his conclusion or his reaction. The fierce glee. It’s almost like … avarice, which makes no sense. Neither does his trust that she would disclose a gift from Laska when he suspects and knows of innumerable other deceptions on her part.
I’ve been mindful of my role in supporting Mr Black’s introduction to making decisions and assuming command. Tutoring him in all aspects of living among the moneyed elite of this great city is a primary facet of my contract.
Yet I decide at that moment to selectively throttle the flow of information regarding the situation with Lily. After all, another facet of my work is to ensure Mr Black’s safety. I will do so despite him, if necessary.
Straightening in his chair, he starts sifting through the mail. “Keep me informed, Witte.”
“Of course.” I stand, dismissed. “By the way, Mr Landon has made multiple attempts to reach you, including visiting here. When he called me, I suggested he try your mobile, but he said he hasn’t been able to reach you. He sounded quite perturbed and asked about Mrs Black.”
“He’s left me a few voicemails. I knew my mother would approach him eventually, so I didn’t ask her not to. She would’ve reached out to him earlier.” He crumples an invitation to a political fundraising dinner into a ball and tosses it neatly through the basketball hoop over the dustbin. “What did you say?”
“Since it was apparent he hadn’t learned of Mrs Black through you, I avoided confirming or denying anything about her and advised him to direct questions about your personal life to you.”
“You’re the best, Witte. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He exhales harshly and nods. “Keep telling him that for now.”
I don’t know why my employer avoided communicating with his closest friend. Is it because Mr Landon once dated Lily? Is it jealousy or evasion?
“There’s something else …”
“Damn it.” He rocks back in his chair. “Remind me why we left the beach to return to this crap?”
With an arch of my brow, he sighs and looks chastened. I continue. “Ms Erika Ferrari has enquired after you at the lobby desk on two occasions. I asked Julian to inform me if she attempted to contact you at work, and she has, twice.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. It isn’t the first time a woman has pursued him after a night together. In the past, he showed a cruel disregard for the perceived irritations, and I’ve always been the one to handle the subsequent awkward interactions. His feelings for Lily have, perhaps, made him somewhat more considerate.
“I don’t even know how to reach her,” he says grimly, “or what I’d say to her if I did. No, that’s not true. I need to apologize. My wife set me straight on that point.”
“Did she? Yes, that would be in character for her. She views womanhood as a battle requiring armament and vigilance.”
“Her mother raised her that way, and I’ve provided the perfect example of why she was right to do so. I can’t stand cheaters. I wouldn’t even reach out to Lily until Ryan was serious about Angela, and now I’ve got to tell a woman I took to bed that I was married at the time – and still am – and would appreciate it if she doesn’t bother my wife or me again.”
“Your situation is novel. The truth is all you can give.”
He laughs without humour. “I don’t even have that, do I?”
“I’ll let you know if she attempts further contact. And I’ll instruct reception and Julian to note her contact information.”
I exit and head back to the kitchen to begin dinner preparations. I pause on the living room’s threshold when I find one of the maids, Lacy, studying a framed photo. She starts guiltily when she notices me. “Witte, you scared me.”
“My apologies. You were engrossed.” I step down into the sunken living room after noticing photos now strategically placed around the space. One graces an end table, and a few others sit among the items on the bookshelves flanking the fireplace.
“She just put these out,” she says unnecessarily.
The frames are a selection of sterling silver, shagreen and precious wood; each positioned to blend tastefully with the decor and other decorative items around their placements. I think of Mrs Black’s deliveries and realize that some must have been the frames, then marvel that her memory of the penthouse was so precise.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I study the images. All are of Mr and Mrs Black together in moments of intimate joy and love. All are revelatory of a couple mutually enthralled, and – most peculiarly – all are recent. None are earlier photos relocated from the beach house, where he keeps the preponderance of their visual history.
The room has utterly changed. With these few thoughtful additions, the space is now warm, personal and inviting. It feels like a home.
I understand why Lacy is captivated. We both stand motionless, astonished by the man revealed in the photos. I’ve never seen my employer look so well, so alive. His stunning transformation is almost enough to make me want to be as wilfully blind as he is choosing to be.
I’ve wished for his happiness for so long. It tears at me that he’s found it with a woman who broke his heart and has endangered his life. That I like her is even more divisive.
Still, there’s one disturbing detail he hasn’t yet revisited, although I can’t imagine he’s forgotten it: Lily recognized him when she saw him on the street.
His wife knew him, remembered him. And yet she hadn’t come home.