She knew that any resolution about the lies he'd lived would have to come without explanation or apology from him. She had to wonder if the remembrance of the love he'd shown her would be enough to help her find some kind of peace with it all. But she wasn't sure.
As the picture of her father dimmed, she had to swallow a few times before she was able to speak.
When the lights came back on, Grace looked down and saw her mother standing in the front of the crush of people, back ramrod straight, neck elegant as a swan's, black dress hanging perfectly from her dainty shoulders. The expression on her face was one of regal forbearance, although the light in her eyes was something close to warm.
When the Walker portrait was unveiled, the crowd fell into a hushed silence. Jack and Blair came up front and a battle ensued between her friend and a media mogul whose fondness for American art was well known. As the two took good-hearted jabs at each other, the price climbed over $3 million, with Jack finally taking the painting with a bid close to $5 million.
The crowd burst out in applause. As flashbulbs went off like firecrackers, Jack came up and embraced Grace, his austere face showing pleasure at his success.
Sometime later the guest began to disperse and Grace's mother was among the first to leave.
"I think it went well," Grace said, as she kissed Carolina good-bye. "Although of course, Father's parties are a high standard to meet."
Her mother reached out and squeezed Grace's hand with surprising urgency.
"It was just perfect, darling. You did a perfect job." Their eyes met. "Your father would have been very proud of you tonight."
"Why, thank you, Mother." But she felt more relief than pleasure at the praise.
"I am also very proud of you. And I told Bainbridge the same thing." Carolina leaned forward and kissed Grace's cheek. "You are going to make a fine president."
With a parting wave, her mother turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Grace shook her head. It was hard to comprehend that, after having given up on ever hearing a supportive word from the woman, her mother had finally come through with one. At a moment when Grace actually needed it. She knew better than to think this was the start of a trend, but she appreciated the gesture.
And then the Gala was all over.
Grace lingered afterward, talking to the caterers for a while and watching the cleanup crew start to reclaim the atrium from the detritus of the party. She thanked the security guy who'd tailed her discreetly all night long and was about to dismiss him when she decided that being escorted home was probably a good idea.
She asked the man to call them a car while she went up to her office to get her bag of clothes and daytime purse. As she rode up in the elevator, she felt solitude and silence push into her.
The distraction offered by the Gala had been a relief, but, like all Band-Aids over fresh wounds, its effects were transitory. Listening to the electronic beeps as floors were passed, she couldn't help but wonder where John was and what he was doing. She pictured him on a plane, somewhere over the ocean, heading for God only knew where.
A part of her refused to believe it was truly over. Common sense told her she'd better get with the program and embrace reality.
Her office was dark as she entered but she found the desk easily, sidling around the conference table and various chairs. She turned on the light next to her phone.
She was getting her purse from a drawer when a man's voice cut through the quiet.
"What a great success it all was."
Grace looked up to see Fredrique standing between the open doors. He shut them as he stepped into the room.
* * *
Smith came back from the hotel's gym in a grim mood. He'd deliberately beaten the hell out of himself, but even after miles of running and having lifted enough weights to make his shoulders scream in pain, he still hadn't gotten what he'd been looking for. He'd been shooting for the kind of dead, exhausted state he remembered from his combat days. Instead, he was still keyed up, only sore now.
He knew he had to call Pryne's office. They were expecting to hear from him.
He took a shower, first.
Smith was drying off when he heard his cell phone ringing. His instincts came alive, his first thought of Grace.
When he answered it, an unfamiliar voice said, "Mr. Smith?"
"Yeah?"
"It's Joey. The countess's doorman."
Smith gripped the phone. "What is it?"
"You, ah—you told me to call you if anyone wanted to get into her apartment. Well, this guy showed up here a little while ago."
"Tell me."
"He's a caterer. I've seen him here before. Fredrique-something. He said the countess needed a change of clothes after the Gala and that he'd been told to pick them up and take them to the Foundation for her. I mean, I've seen him with her before. Last year, as a matter of fact. But you did say to call you."
"Did you let him in? " Smith shot back.
"No. He got a little steamed. I hope he doesn't screw me for this."
Thank God.
"You did the right thing, Joey. Is she home yet?" Smith rushed to the phone next to the bed.
"No, she's not back."
"Tell me what he was wearing."
"It was a chef's outfit. Whites. He said he'd been at the Gala cooking, but they were clean, which I thought was weird."
Smith was dialing Tiny's cell while they talked. "Tell her to call me the moment you see her. Thanks, Joey."
"When a woman answered Tiny's cell, he had a feeling the shit had hit the fan. A minute later, Tiny finally got on the line, sounding hoarse and breathing harshly.
"What the hell's happening?" Smith yelled.
"Ah, shit, Boss."
"Talk!" Smith held the phone to his ear as he started to throw on clothes and strapped his gun holster across his shoulders. "Where's Grace?"
"I don't know. I spent the evening in the ER and this is the first time they've let me use the phone. Look, she's not alone. I think she's got one of the local yokels with her and I know Marks and his boys are around. She's fine."
"The hell she is! They've got the wrong man." Smith slammed the phone down and re-dialed the number on his cell phone while he left his room. He was pounding down the hall to the stairs when Tiny answered again. "How the hell did you end up in the hospital?"
"She maced me."
Smith looked at the phone as if it had malfunctioned. "She what?"
"And I had a reaction to the shit."
"Christ. Take care of yourself."
"I'm sorry about this, Boss."
By this time, Smith was halfway down the building. He hung up and dialed the lieutenant's cell phone.
As soon as Marks answered, Smith said, "How many boys do you have at the Foundation?"
"None. We took them off the detail at her request. She said she was going to use her own men tonight and considering we have—”
"Get some cops over there now. Whoever you have in custody isn't the guy killing those women."
Smith broke out of the hotel through a side door and began running flat out. He was only three blocks from the Hall Building, but it felt like miles.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"It's the goddamn caterer. Fredrique."
"The caterer?"
"He's already tried to get into Grace's apartment tonight. Her doorman called me. I don't have time to give details. You've got to trust me on this."
"Do you know what he looks like?"
Smith gave a description of Fredrique. "And he's in chef's whites."