Free Speak of the Devil by Richard Hawke

deduction on my part.
    Rebecca lifted her glass. “You didn’t tell me what you thought of the show.”
    “I don’t see a lot of musicals.”
    “So you didn’t like it.”
    “They’re not my flavor.”
    “You can say it, you know. I won’t be offended.”
    “I didn’t like it.”
    “None of it?”
    “I enjoyed the intermission.”
    She paused with the glass near her lips. “That’s cold.”
    She took the sip. She was dressed in a black sweater with a plunging neckline. Probably cashmere. It brought out the extraordinary alabaster of her skin.
    “Do you have any reason to think that someone might want to hurt you?” I asked. “I don’t mean because you’re involved with the mayor. I mean because you’re you. Have you gotten crank letters in the past? Any problems with fans? Stalkers, that kind of thing?”
    “I was on a popular television show for five years. I played the bad girl. I got letters from people who loved me and people who hated me.”
    “The ones who hated you—any in particular who wrote you more than once?”
    “I’m sure there were. You’d have to ask my publicist. I receive far more letters than I’ve got time to answer. Between the regular letters and the e-mail, we’re talking in the thousands.”
    “That’s a lot of fans.”
    “My character was extremely popular. Did you ever see the show?”
    “I’m not big on television.”
    “I’m getting the idea that you’re not big on entertainment in general.”
    “That would be the wrong idea.”
    She poked her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “What, then? I don’t see you as the go-to-poetry-readings type.”
    “I pop up in all sorts of peculiar places,” I said. “That’s one of the great things about this town. More peculiar places than anywhere on earth.” I took a sip of my seltzer. “Okay. Here’s how it works. I’m going to be your shadow for at least the next couple of days. This means I’m in the lobby of your building when you leave in the morning, or whenever it is you leave. I’m there to wish you night-night. If you’re going night-night someplace other than your apartment, then I’m there as well. Not to be personal, but I’m guessing this would be Gracie Mansion. In which case I’ll pass you off to Martin Leavitt’s people. When you travel, I’m in your taxi. No subways or buses, but I suspect that’s not really a problem for you. If you go shopping, lucky me. I go, too. We don’t have to
be
together. If you’re having lunch with someone, I don’t have to be at the table. But you’re not out of my sight. And I’m going to give you a cell-phone number to call if you see or hear or taste anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. Anything. And I don’t want you opening your mail. Don’t even take it out of your mailbox. I’ll do that. We might suspend delivery and keep it down at the post office. The same with packages. Especially packages. I’ll have your doorman hold all deliveries. This guy Diaz worked for a messenger service. Nice way to deliver bad news, yes? And no takeout, obviously. If someone you know is coming to visit you, tell them to wait for you in the lobby. That’s where I’ll be. You’ll phone me on my cell and let me know and I’ll escort them up to you. I would prefer if you kept the number of people who know you’re under my protection to an absolute minimum. What people like to call a need-to-know basis. Certainly don’t tell the media. If I had my way, I’d have you stop doing your show for the time being, but I already know I’m not having my way. When you go places, don’t pause in doorways. Get in, get out. If you want to take a car service, I arrange for it, you don’t. During your show, I’ll be all over that theater, backstage and out front. I’d prefer if you didn’t go out for drinks after the show, but I’ll let you arm-wrestle me on that one if you’d like.” I gave her a smile. “Finally, don’t accept candy from strangers and