'Oh, God.'
'What?' Mitch said.
'The alarm. It didn't go off,' Jill said.
'It didn't? I thought you were going to pick up a new one yesterday.'
'I forgot.'
This time, Mitch said it: 'Oh, God.'
And then Mitch, in his subdued mint-green boxer shorts, and Jill in her pink silk pajamas, leapt from bed and got their respective mornings off to a heart-pounding start.
'You take the bathroom first,' Jill said. 'I'll start the coffee.'
'I'll be happy to start the coffee.'
She shook her head. 'I'm so groggy I need the caffeine even before I take a shower.'
Mitch padded into the bathroom and proceeded to perform a couple of really impressive (at least to him) stunts he'd picked up over the years. To wit: Mitch knew how to pee while brushing his teeth with his right hand and using his electric razor with his left.
He was performing this circus act when Jill knocked on the door and said, 'We should've looked out the window.'
Mitch took the toothbrush from his mouth. 'How come?'
'There's three feet of snow on the ground. We're having a blizzard.'
'Oh, God.'
'Everything and everybody's going to be late this morning. We can probably take our time a little more.'
'I'll call the Lieutenant and see how things are stacking up this morning. I still want to check out a few more bars.'
Five days ago, Jill had introduced Mitch to Marcy. They'd agreed that Mitch, with any time he could spare away from his socialite murder case, would check all the bars Eric Brooks had been known to hang out in. Mitch would look for the young woman who'd been in Eric's office. Jill had given him a detailed description of her. In the meantime, Marcy would go through the names and addresses of blue Volvo owners registered in and around Chicago.
During this same time, Jill had virtually shut down her business. The press made it impossible for her to work. Either they were calling her (and getting her answering machine) or they were banging on her door (and getting no reply). Some of the more industrious ones followed her to the supermarket and mall and post office, ambushing her when she emerged from these places.
They played just the angle she'd predicted they would: EX-WIFE OF SERIAL KILLER A KILLER HERSELF?
Hints 'Mystery Woman' Can Prove Her Innocence
It didn't hurt (from their point of view) that she was attractive, single, worked in what was considered a 'fashionable' occupation, and had once been associated with one of the state's wealthiest and most prominent families. All this made it easier to portray her as the femme fatale. They hinted darkly that Jill and Eric had been lovers as well as co-owners of the ad agency; and then there'd been a falling out, leading Jill to murder him. One TV station, in a news segment they called You Be The Judge, asked twenty-five people on the street if they thought that Jill had killed Eric. Twenty-three said yes; one said no; one wasn't sure. Jill had been convicted.
Jill had spent a good portion of each day at her lawyer's, going over and over her story of the night Eric had been murdered. She'd talked about the man in the blue Volvo who'd been watching her house, and she'd talked about the young woman in Eric's office. And she'd talked, over and over again, about how unreal all this seemed. She was plain old Jill Coffey. Anybody who knew her, was aware that she could never kill anybody. Not plain old Jill Coffey.
She eased the bathroom door open and waggled the front page of a morning newspaper at him. 'Guess who's on the front page again?'
He turned, still shaving, toothbrush still in his mouth but finally done tinkling and looked at the story in the upper right-hand section, complete with a close-up shot of Jill that had been taken one
night when she was all dressed up for an AIDS fund-raising ball. She looked beautiful. The headline read: BEAUTIFUL WOMEN WHO KILL
'They've got me in with some good company, anyway. A few actresses remembering Andy Williams' wife who killed that skier she was having an affair with and several prominent society matrons.'
'Those bastards.' He clicked off the shaver, set it down, took the toothbrush from his mouth, rinsed, spat and then walked over to her.
He pulled her to him.
She pushed him away. 'Oh God, no, Mitch. Morning mouth. Not fair. You've already brushed your teeth.'
'Then give me a hug.'
A hug she was willing to give him.
He knew she was trying to be tough about it all but he could gauge by the slight frantic air of her derisive laughter as she'd shown him the newspaper how the assault by the press was taking its toll on her.
They were convicting her long before she would ever come to trial, long before the police had a decent chance to find the real killer.
He hugged her. Tight. 'Have I told you how much I love you?'
She laughed. 'Not for five minutes.'
'Well then, I'm overdue.'
'Oh God, Mitch, I'd never make it through this without you. I really wouldn't.'
She put her face deep into his neck and after a moment he could feel her soft warm little-girl tears.
He held her more gently than he ever had before, trying to convey through the physical act of embracing all the tenderness and respect and abiding love he felt for her.
God granted one of Marcy's wishes, anyway.
She was able to find a rock and roll station that played, in order, 'My Sharona, Love Shack' and 'Give Me That Old-Time Rock And Roll'.
She was pounding the dash and having a great time.
The other wish He could have done a little better with, trying to match the James Coburn guy in the photo to the guy who lived in this house.
Not even close. He was fat, bald, old.
He came out of the side door of the house and ran with his head down against the whipping wind and slashing spiky snow toward the garage, where he emerged a few minutes later in his blue, four-door Volvo.
Marcy gave him a few minutes to leave then headed back to her office.
At least they kept on playing rock and roll.
On the scale this morning, Cini weighed nine pounds more than she had exactly one week ago today.
Didn't take her long to calculate that within two months, she'd be knocking on the door of the Whales Club and asking for re-admittance.
Nine pounds in seven days. My Lord.
She went out to the tiny kitchen and opened a box of powdered donuts and ate them.
Then she went to the refrigerator and took out the Snickers King-Size she'd been keeping in the freezer. They slowed you down, frozen like that; felt as if they were going to crack all your teeth they were so hard.
After that, she went into the living room and sat on the couch and bawled. 'Cried' was not the proper word, nor was 'sobbed' what Cini did was bawl. Like a six-year-old trying to understand why her dog has been run over. Everything was just so effing incomprehensible sometimes. Why had she let herself please that scumbag Eric that way, just so she could please that cold-hearted ass-bandit Michael? And why, of all nights, did she have to please
