Free Deadly Rich by Edward Stewart Page B

movement—the female equivalent of what a cop did when he straightened his tie in front of a pretty woman.
    “And who the hell wrangled a parole for him?” she said.
    “Parole proceedings are secret, but we’re looking into it.” Cardozo laid the arraignment photo on the table between them.
    She glanced at the pouting baby face and winced and pushed it away like a bad memory.
    “Did you see him anywhere in the boutique? Anywhere in Marsh and Bonner’s?”
    “No, not that I noticed, and I would certainly have noticed.”
    “Did you see him in the street when you left the restaurant?”
    “To me, he was a figment of Oona’s second split of champagne. My mind was absolutely closed to the idea that he could be anywhere but in that prison cell where he belongs.”
    Cardozo took a moment to inventory the space around him. Antique secretary, silk-upholstered chairs and sofas. A concert-grand piano banked with flowers and silver-framed photographs. It was an elegant room, not at all quiet about its elegance, and it seemed to him that her surroundings suited her. “Who did you tell that you were going to Marsh and Bonner’s?”
    “Besides Oona and Tori, no one in particular.”
    “Did you mention it at the table while the waiter was there?”
    “Possibly. Probably.”
    “When you told the cab driver where you were going, were you standing on the street? Could someone have heard you?”
    “You’re wondering how Delancey knew.” She sat in the chair a moment, thoughtful. “I usually get into a cab first, then give directions.”
    She took a cigarette from an engraved crystal box. Before Cardozo could offer a light she had picked up a little silver bird from the table. She pushed its tail, the bird breathed flame, and she lit the cigarette.
    “When Oona and I were young, she was one of my two best friends. We swore we’d stay best friends all our lives. And we tried to be, we really did try.”
    “I understand. I lost a friend like that.”
    Smoke floated on the still, jonquil-scented air.
    “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “And I’m sorry you lost yours.”
    “I just wish—” She broke off.
    Cardozo waited, giving her his cop’s ear if she needed it.
    “I wish I could remember her the way she used to be—fresh and funny and beautiful and brilliant. And sober. Instead of the way she died.”
    “Look, I know it doesn’t seem to make sense—”
    “No. That’s the trouble. It makes too much sense. Oona lived wastefully, she died wastefully.”
    “Maybe her life wasn’t as wasteful as you think.”
    She turned to look at him and her eyes were suddenly fierce. “Then, please, just tell me what the hell was she doing all her life!”
    “She was living her life the best she knew how. It’s not her fault that some sleaze decided to kill her.”
    “No, it’s not her fault.” Leigh Baker’s eyes stayed on him, and then her pale, veined eyelids flicked down.
    He could feel her mind going around, chewing on itself. “And it’s not your fault either,” he said.
    She sighed. “But if only I’d believed her …”
    “Believing her wouldn’t have kept her out of that changing room. There was no way of predicting. These things happen. Unfortunately they happen more and more, and they happen to decent people.”
    “There’s too much murder in this city,” Leigh Baker said.
    “I agree.”
    “And it’s no good calling it random violence, as though killing were like taxes or the weather. This isn’t random, this is my life— my family and my friends are getting killed.”
    He spoke gently. “It’s understandable you’d feel angry. You’re not alone. A lot of people are angry.”
    “Tell me, Lieutenant. Are you angry?”
    “Yes—I’m angry.”
    “ I’M SO UPSET FOR YOU , truly I am. I’m so sorry.” Though the voice on the phone was a man’s, it had the too soothing, almost fawning tone of an insecure mother. “I know exactly what you’re going through—and I just want you to know,