As she sat down in her chair, she was trying to figure out who she could get to head the Development Department. She'd have to start searching now, because filling a job like that could take months.
* * *
Sitting at the conference table, Smith was impatiently tapping a pen against the pad of paper he'd been using.
Christ, why the hell hadn't Tiny gotten back to him, yet?
He picked up his phone and tried again. When he actually heard the man's voice, he said, "Where the hell have you been?"
The phone connection was fuzzing in and out and Tiny sounded like he was underwater. "I'm trying to get the hell out of South America. Flat Top has finally taken over for me down here and I tried to call you three times this morning. I couldn't get through."
"When are you going to be here?"
"I’m trying to get on a plane right now."
"Don't waste any time."
"Do I ever?"
Smith hung up and dialed Lieutenant Marks's private line. As soon as the guy got on the phone, he said, "What have you got?"
"She's still out cold. They think she's going to pull through, though, which means we might be able to get a positive ID. The crime scene's being combed over but I'm not holding out for anything too goddamn illuminating. Christ, I wish we knew more about this guy."
"Those women in the article were all attacked around the time of the social events they chaired and you know those big parties are exercises in exclusion. Who gets in and who doesn't is a big deal. We should be looking for someone who's getting shut out, someone who's either being denied entrance into the inner circle or someone who was in and is now getting turned away."
He glanced over at Grace. She'd picked up the phone and was speaking, a grave expression on her face. He wondered who she was talking to.
"That's sound reasoning," Marks said, "but at the level we're talking about, the social maneuvering is so aggressive, a boxer would think twice before going to one of those damn events. "Who isn't ascending or descending at any given moment?"
"Those six women in that article, that's who. They're at the top. They're the arbiters of taste in this city, which means they make the decisions as to who gets cut from the A-list. I tell you, this is someone who's been stepped on, either in fact or through his perception of the way they're treating him. And every single one of those women know him personally. That's how he's getting in."
"But we've got no loose ends. You've seen the logs of those buildings. No irregularities and everybody's checked out so far. They all had a reason to be in those places on those days and even more to the point, they all left before the time of death. In and out."
Smith thought about the rear entrance of Grace's building. "Maybe he's coming back in."
"What do you mean?"
"What if this guy signs in and while he's inside he props open the service door or a window. When he leaves, he signs out, makes sure the doorman notices him, but then comes in again the back way. These old buildings are labyrinths. He could wait around for hours if he knew where to hide. It would explain why there's been no forcible entry and why there are no discrepancies with the logs."
Marks was silent for a moment. "Christ, you may be right."
When Smith hung up, he saw Grace watching him. She looked like hell, he thought, her eyes a dull shade of green and her mouth slack. It was as if the light inside of her had been smothered.
"I’m going out to lunch," she said quietly.
"Fine. Where to?"
"Chelsea. I’m having lunch with my half-sister."
* * *
After muscling through a traffic jam caused by a water main break, Eddie dropped them off in front of a pretentious modern art gallery. As Grace was studying its steel and glass facade, Callie came out. With her hair pulled back, she looked less like their father and Grace had to admit she was relieved.
"Hi. Where do you want to go?" Callie asked.
Grace suggested a small, out-of-the-way place where they could have some privacy.
As they walked, the fall wind kicked up a fuss around them, making brightly colored leaves tremble on the small trees planted into the sidewalk. John stayed close, only two steps behind.
The silence was awkward.
"I was surprised you called," Callie murmured. "I’m glad you did."
"Me, too." Grace wasn't sure she meant the words but she didn't know what else to say. The only thing they had in common was their father and he wasn't exactly the stuff of small talk.
When they were seated in the cafe, John took a table next to them, to give them some space.
After they ordered, there was more awkward silence.
Grace was trying not to stare at the woman and failing, while questions with no outlet flooded her brain. The things she wanted to know could only have come from her father and his death made her irate. Still, no matter how frustrated she was, Grace knew it wouldn't be fair to take it out on Callie. The woman hadn't asked to be born into such a mess.
While the waiter filled their water glasses, Grace wondered what they were going to talk about, but then, surprisingly, the conversation began to flow. It started with something trite, the decor in the restaurant. Callie commented on the floor, which was a massive decoupage of images of dancers. Grace pointed down to a 1920s flapper she'd always liked and Callie picked out a cancan girl. This led to a discussion about the reproduction French lithographs on the walls, and Grace's most recent visit to Paris. Slowly at first, then with increasing ease, they traded stories. By a kind of unspoken agreement, they stayed away from their childhoods and focused instead on more recent years, but the past was always between them.
Most particularly in the pauses of their conversation.
"I went to NYU for undergrad and graduate school," Callie was saying as their plates were cleared. "I wanted to be with my mother as she got sicker."
"Did you nurse her for long?" Grace asked, trying to imagine the pressure Callie must have been under at the time.
"A few years, but the hardest was the last four months. She refused help from my ... our father." Callie's eyes flashed upward with uncertainty. When Grace nodded, she went on. "He wanted to put her in a private hospital, but she was adamant, more to spite him than anything else. She was a very independent woman. The loss of control that came with the multiple sclerosis was very hard for her to deal with. Those last few months were the longest in my life. And in hers. It was a sad relief for both of us when she died."
Grace watched as Callie picked up a teaspoon and started drawing on the linen tablecloth idly. An image of their father came to mind and she had to force herself not to look away. Tracking the smooth movement, hearing that soft sound, she felt an awful sense of loss. And an odd kind of relief.
Although the beginning of the meal had been awkward, she was glad she'd called. The woman was smart, honest, and seemed very up-front and there was little about her that suggested she was a gold digger. What did come across, however, was the impression of someone who had lived a, hard life. There were glimpses here and there of what Callie had to face, not only with her mother's illness, but also with the isolation of being unacknowledged as a daughter.
As coffee was brought to the table, Grace sensed Callie didn't want to talk about her mother anymore. "So do you like art conservation?”
"I'm passionate about it and I wish I were working in the field instead of answering the phone at a gallery. I had some great project experience in school but the real world is hard. Conservation jobs are very competitive and, because my, mother was ill, I didn't want to look outside of this city." She shrugged. "It's probably time for me to get my resume out there. Now that I'm alone, I can go anywhere in the country. Or the world, really."