Free Never Too Rich by Judith Gould Page A

fantabulous, if I say so
myself. Just as you asked, delivered in record time!”
    “ Oh, Lydia,” Anouk moaned, “you’re
going to kill me! I know you moved heaven and earth to get
everything finished by today, and I know I wanted it all
done yesterday, but. . . could we possibly postpone it until
Monday? Something . . .” She let her voice trail off.
    “ Well, if it’s inconvenient ...”
Lydia began a little sharply.
    “ Oh, you are so sweet,” Anouk
gushed. “Sometimes I really don’t know why you put up with me.” Of
course I do. Because the de Riscals are a feather in your
decorating cap. Because from my new living room you’ll get twenty
copycats who want the same thing. “Are you absolutely sure it isn’t
inconvenient?”
    “ I’m sure, Anouk,” Lydia said
somewhat wearily.
    “ You are a dear, Lydia. Monday,
then? Same time?”
    “ Monday is fine.”
    “ Good. I’ll see you tonight,
anyway. Ciao, darling!”
    The phone calls out of the way, Anouk got busy with
her makeup. She combed her hair back into a chignon, studded it
with diamond-headed pins, and rubbed her face with collagen lotion.
She brushed translucent pink-tinted loose powder over it and made
her cheeks a pink-toned mauve. Brushed her eyebrows. Applied
under-eye lightener. Used a plum eyeliner pencil. Finally, with an
oversize brush, she “finished” her face with more of the loose
powder and put on berry-bright lipstick and clear moist gloss.
    She worked quickly and expertly, and within twenty
minutes she was finished. Her face was a palette, and glowed like a
painting. Her emphasized eyes challenged, her lips promised. She
was a dazzling, brilliant, glossy woman—one in a million. She was
Manhattan chic at its finest.
    Moving her head this way and that, she inspected her
reflection closely. Perfect.
    Finally she got up and began to dress.
    To kill, naturally. What other way was there?

 
    Chapter
9
     
    The portable light and siren of the dark blue sedan
flashed and wailed as Detectives Koscina and Toledo screeched to a
halt. In front of them, three hastily parked blue-and-whites,
turret lights still whirling and spurts of radio talk still
crackling, already blocked the one-way street. The station wagon
from forensics was backed up on the sidewalk, and uniformed police
officers had cordoned off the immediate area in front of the town
house with lengths of yellow crime-scene tape to keep back curious
onlookers, dog walkers, and members of the press.
    “ Shit detail,” Koscina murmured to
his partner, and sighed. “All right. Let’s get it over
with.”
    Toledo, who had been driving, nodded absently and
slid out from behind the wheel. They both looked up and down the
affluent tree-lined block of town houses. The kind of street, just
off Fifth, that gave an illusion of small-town peace.
    “ Hey, Fred! Whatcha got?” a
reporter from the Daily News called out as Koscina and
Toledo approached the building.
    “ No comment, Bernie, no comment,”
Koscina called back lazily, ducking under the crime-scene ribbon
and ignoring the reporter.
    Detective First Grade Fred Koscina had put in
twenty-one years on the force, the first eight spent walking a
beat. NYPD blood ran in his veins. His father had been a New York
City cop, and the Koscinas of the Lower East Side just like the
Koscinas of Zagreb, Yugoslavia, were a fearless, methodical, and
old-fashioned lot. Too old-fashioned to let pimps, prostitutes,
thieves, rapists, and murderers get the better of them.
    In his first eight years, Fred Koscina’s
old-fashioned police methods had brought him infamy and
respect—depending upon whether you were the general public or a
fellow cop. He was known to shoot first and ask questions later—a
talent that two of his partners, long since resting six feet under,
hadn’t mastered.
    The police commissioner had eventually kicked him
upstairs into the envied ranks of the homicide detectives, figuring
that sleuthing would keep the young Koscina off