On What Grounds

“It was you?” I asked in a weak voice. “You wanted her to lose the baby?”

“Yes,” said Engstrum.

“But she lost her life.”

“Yes, I just heard about that. And that’s why you’re going to lose yours, too, unless you give me the evidence you say you have against my son.”

Don’t lose it, Clare, I told myself. Don’t freak out. Keep it together. Think!

“It’s with the police!” I cried abruptly. “And they’re coming here any second!”

“No they’re not. You’re bluffing. I run a high-stakes business, Ms. Cosi. I know when people try to bluff me, and you’re bluffing now. I saw you wave good-bye to that police car a few minutes ago.”

Engstrum cocked the gun. It was small, but it looked big enough to kill. His hard, emotionless eyes gave me the impression he’d pulled the trigger on people already—maybe not gun triggers, but there were all kinds of other triggers that when squeezed hurt and ruined people.

I’d seen his type before. The type who could look at a human being and then assign a worth based solely on a coldly calculated business strategy or perceived use in obtaining one or another kind of self-gratification. People were no longer people, just pawns, just numbers. Madame Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois had seen his type before, too. Back in World War II they’d worn swastikas.

“Really, Ms. Cosi. Do you want to die like this?”

“No! Please!”

“Where is the evidence?”

I thought fast. If I could lure him toward the stairs…and employ some sort of distraction…

“It’s in a locked container,” I lied at last. “In the enclosed alley. Right out back.”

“Let’s go get it. Together.”

He waved the gun, indicating that I should lead, walking in front of him. I felt my mouth go dry, my legs go weak. Adrenaline flowed through me like a hundred cups of coffee.

“Don’t you have any conscience?” I asked, trying to mentally push him off balance. “Even if you don’t care about Anabelle. How could you kill your own grandchild?”

“Child. Not grandchild.”

“What?!”

“I have no remorse, Ms. Cosi, because Anabelle Hart had it coming. She brought it on herself.”

“What!”

“You can’t sell yourself as one thing and then turn around and expect to be bought as another.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She was a nude dancer when I first saw her. Sure, I flattered her with some jewelry and some nights at the Plaza, but that didn’t mean I bought her as anything more than a little tramp, even after she quit the nude dancing. She thought she’d found her sugar daddy to fund her little artistic delusion. Getting pregnant was a stupid calculation on her part. I don’t dance to the tunes of tramps, they dance to mine.”

“But your son? She was seeing you son. I don’t understand—”

“When I told her to get lost, she went after my son to spite me. She suckered him into a relationship to get me to pay up. But her only leverage was that pregnancy—so I got rid of it.”

“And her. She died of her injuries!”

“That’s too bad, but like I said, she had it coming. She brought it on herself.”

My head was reeling, my mind racing. I suddenly remembered two things that Esther Best had said—that Anabelle had been arguing with her stepmother about money for a few months now…and that she’d talked to “Richard” before going to work the night she was assaulted.

All along, I had thought Richard was Richard, Junior. But it was the father. It was Richard, Senior, whom Anabelle was trying to blackmail—clearly with the help of her stepmother, who had bookmarked all those Engstum System Web sites on her laptop.

“How much did she ask for?”

“One million.”

“Oh, god…”

Engstrum was worth well over fifty times that. Suddenly, Arthur Jay Eddleman popped into my mind.

“Why didn’t you just give her some money and tell her to go away?” I said. “She was pregnant with your child after all—”

“First rule of business, Ms. Cosi, never pay more for a service than it’s worth. I had no intention of ever parting with one red cent. Now let’s get that evidence. Do not move unless I tell you. Otherwise I will shoot you.”

“Okay, okay, please don’t shoot.”

We’d come to the back door. It was chained and bolted.

“Unchain the door,” he said. “Slowly.”

I did.

“Now unbolt it.”

I did.

“Now slowly open the door.”

I was about to pull open the door when, at last, I got the distraction I was waiting for—

Mrrrrroooooooooowwww!

Java’s jaguar-like “I’m hungry!” screeched into the tense silence of the stairwell. As Engstrum turned his head toward the noise, I spun, hurling my fist full of grounds. They hit his face, further startling him.

Remembering Dr. Foo’s chats about Wing Chung Gung Fu—and how small stature could be used to advantage—I immediately ducked low under Engstrum’s arms and kicked out, striking hard at his knee.

“Aaaah! Fucking bitch!” he cried. The gun went off but missed.

The back door was on the landing just above the narrow staircase to the basement and the strike sent him off balance. I struck at his knee again and down he went, tumbling head over heels all the way to the cold basement floor.

I didn’t know if or how badly the man was hurt so I raced for the front entrance, knowing I’d find help faster on Hudson than through the back alley. I was digging in my pocket for the key when I saw two familiar faces at the door.

Langley and Demetrios!!

They waved. Later, I would learn they’d been sent back over by Quinn to take me to the precinct for my statement. But that moment I didn’t care why they were there, I was just overjoyed to see their smiling faces, which dropped to grim alarm when I unlocked the door, tore it open, and screamed bloody murder.

Drawing their guns, they were at the back landing in seconds.

But there was no need to fire. Or even to pull out cuffs.

Richard Engstum, Senior, was sprawled at the bottom of the Blend staircase, unconscious. A wad of wet coffee grounds and a couple of well-placed kicks had reduced the fortified captain of e-business investments to a ragdoll of flesh and bone.

Now he was broken, bruised, and battered…

Just like Anabelle.

Thirty

“Don’t you know that old saying, Clare?” “What?” I asked Madame.

“You know you’re ready to die when you can no longer make a fist.”

Madame presented her open hand to me. Slowly but surely, she clenched each finger until she’d made a rocksolid ball.

“There, you see, dear. Nothing to worry yourself about. I’m feeling just fine.”

It was one week later. The police and media had come and gone, and things were slowly getting back to