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"When are you going to be here?"
"I’m trying to get on a plane right now."
"Don't waste any time."
"Do I ever?"
Smith hung up and dialed Lieutenant Marks's private line. As soon as the guy got on the phone, he said, "What have you got?"
"She's still out cold. They think she's going to pull through, though, which means we might be able to get a positive ID. The crime scene's being combed over but I'm not holding out for anything too goddamn illuminating. Christ, I wish we knew more about this guy."
"Those women in the article were all attacked around the time of the social events they chaired and you know those big parties are exercises in exclusion. Who gets in and who doesn't is a big deal. We should be looking for someone who's getting shut out, someone who's either being denied entrance into the inner circle or someone who was in and is now getting turned away."
He glanced over at Grace. She'd picked up the phone and was speaking, a grave expression on her face. He wondered who she was talking to.
"That's sound reasoning," Marks said, "but at the level we're talking about, the social maneuvering is so aggressive, a boxer would think twice before going to one of those damn events. "Who isn't ascending or descending at any given moment?"
"Those six women in that article, that's who. They're at the top. They're the arbiters of taste in this city, which means they make the decisions as to who gets cut from the A-list. I tell you, this is someone who's been stepped on, either in fact or through his perception of the way they're treating him. And every single one of those women know him personally. That's how he's getting in."
"But we've got no loose ends. You've seen the logs of those buildings. No irregularities and everybody's checked out so far. They all had a reason to be in those places on those days and even more to the point, they all left before the time of death. In and out."
Smith thought about the rear entrance of Grace's building. "Maybe he's coming back in."
"What do you mean?"
"What if this guy signs in and while he's inside he props open the service door or a window. When he leaves, he signs out, makes sure the doorman notices him, but then comes in again the back way. These old buildings are labyrinths. He could wait around for hours if he knew where to hide. It would explain why there's been no forcible entry and why there are no discrepancies with the logs."
Marks was silent for a moment. "Christ, you may be right."
When Smith hung up, he saw Grace watching him. She looked like hell, he thought, her eyes a dull shade of green and her mouth slack. It was as if the light inside of her had been smothered.
"I’m going out to lunch," she said quietly.
"Fine. Where to?"
"Chelsea. I’m having lunch with my half-sister."
* * *
After muscling through a traffic jam caused by a water main break, Eddie dropped them off in front of a pretentious modern art gallery. As Grace was studying its steel and glass facade, Callie came out. With her hair pulled back, she looked less like their father and Grace had to admit she was relieved.
"Hi. Where do you want to go?" Callie asked.
Grace suggested a small, out-of-the-way place where they could have some privacy.
As they walked, the fall wind kicked up a fuss around them, making brightly colored leaves tremble on the small trees planted into the sidewalk. John stayed close, only two steps behind.
The silence was awkward.
"I was surprised you called," Callie murmured. "I’m glad you did."
"Me, too." Grace wasn't sure she meant the words but she didn't know what else to say. The only thing they had in common was their father and he wasn't exactly the stuff of small talk.
When they were seated in the cafe, John took a table next to them, to give them some space.
After they ordered, there was more awkward silence.
Grace was trying not to stare at the woman and failing, while questions with no outlet flooded her brain. The things she wanted to know could only have come from her father and his death made her irate. Still, no matter how frustrated she was, Grace knew it wouldn't be fair to take it out on Callie. The woman hadn't asked to be born into such a mess.
While the waiter filled their water glasses, Grace wondered what they were going to talk about, but then, surprisingly, the conversation began to flow. It started with something trite, the decor in the restaurant. Callie commented on the floor, which was a massive decoupage of images of dancers. Grace pointed down to a 1920s flapper she'd always liked and Callie picked out a cancan girl. This led to a discussion about the reproduction French lithographs on the walls, and Grace's most recent visit to Paris. Slowly at first, then with increasing ease, they traded stories. By a kind of unspoken agreement, they stayed away from their childhoods and focused instead on more recent years, but the past was always between them.
