Free A Perfect Crime by Peter Abrahams

Ned.
    Kira laughed. “Bingo.”
    She left soon after. Ned walked her out to the waiting taxi. A cold wind blew down the street, ruffling her glossy hair. She turned to him.
    “Thanks for dinner,” she said. “And don’t forget to thank Anne again for me. I hope I didn’t upset your routine.”
    “Not at all,” Ned said. Their eyes met. He said what was on his mind. “Did you really like the show today?”
    “Not much,” Kira replied. “But that’s what I like, right there. The way you asked that question. You’re good with women, Ned. That’s your strength. And it goes a long way in this business.”
    “But the show?”
    “Too early to say. I hope you understand that when we green-light something like this we often bring in our own people on the production side.”
    “The show was Trevor’s idea in the first place.”
    “The cast-iron sincerity in your tone—that’s part of the appeal, for sure,” she said, opening the door of the taxi. “But the metaphor to keep in mind, if you want to make it big in broadcasting, in anything, is the multistage rocket.”
    “Meaning the booster falls away?”
    “Good night,” she said, closing the door. The taxi drove off.
    “Did it go all right?” Anne asked when they were in bed.
    “Fine.”
    “What a relief. She made me so uncomfortable.”
    “How?”
    “She’s so poised, so . . . everything I’m not.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ned said. The booster falls away: that meant ruthlessness, and he wasn’t the ruthless type. He rolled over and tried to sleep; the headache awoke over his right eye, unfolding like a flower.
    “Francie?”
    Francie opened her eyes. Roger was standing by the bed, looking down at her. A jolt of adrenaline rushed through her, washing away decaying fragments of terrible dreams.
    “Hope I didn’t scare you,” he said with a smile. “Not going in today?”
    Francie started to speak, but her mouth was too dry, her throat, her whole body, hurting. She tried again. “What time is it?”
    “Nine-thirty. You slept through the alarm.”
    Francie glanced at the clock radio.
    “I shut it off,” Roger said. “How can you bear that station?” He smiled again. “Coffee?”
    “You’ve made coffee?”
    “Should be just about done.” He reached out as though to pat her knee under the covers, thought better of it, went out. Francie sat up, saw her damp clothes lying in the corner. She rose, aching in every muscle, kicked the clothes under the bed, got back in just as Roger returned with a tray: buttered toast, marmalade, steaming coffee.
    “You should stay home,” he said. “You don’t look at all well.”
    “I’m fine.”
    Roger pulled up a chair, watched her sip the coffee. “Working late last night?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    He nodded. “I hope you’re appreciated,” he said. “Some
especially
important project, is it?”
    “I don’t know what you mean by especially important. The acquisitions committee meets next week—it’s always a busy time.”
    “Seen anything you like recently?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Objets d’art. What else could I be referring to?”
    “Nothing.” But it had been years since he had discussed her work. “I’m recommending a few pieces.”
    “Such as?”
    “There’s a photographer in Providence. She does old people under streetlights, in black-and-white. Mostly black.”
    “Any paintings?”
    “No paintings,” Francie said.
    *     *     *
    Roger dressed warmly: turtleneck, chamois shirt, thick corduroy pants, ski hat, Gore-Tex gloves, his L. L. Bean boots. He went into the garage, opened Francie’s car, looked in the glove box, found a wrinkled envelope with a map drawn on it jammed at the back, as he’d been sure he would—he knew her, and nothing she did could change that.
Directions to B
.
’s,
she’d written in her neat hand. He studied the map for a minute or so, replaced it. Then, putting a shovel in the back of his car, he drove to a hardware store.