the distance, a flagstone-bordered swimming pool. Two men were working on the pool, peeling back its green covers.
The woman led me down the hall to the right, past more tastefully decorated rooms that bore no signs of use. The hallway ended in a pair of paneled doors. She paused with her hands on the doorknobs and looked as if she were waiting for a drum roll. Finally she pushed the doors open and we went in.
The room was long and low, with a brick fireplace at the far end and a row of French doors to the right that opened onto the porch I’d seen from outside. Near the French doors was a seating area, with a green silk sofa, armchairs, and low tables, all gathered around a large Persian rug. To the left was a wall of built-in shelves in glossy white wood and, toward the far end of the room, a big mahogany partners desk.
Aaron Lefcourt was behind the desk, in a soft-looking leather chair. He had a phone receiver in one hand and a TV remote in the other, and he was talking to someone as he surfed through channels on the big screen mounted behind his desk. He looked much as he had in the BusinessWeek photo- the same dark, wavy hair, the same angry, cherubic features- only fatter and with a tan. He had on linen pants and a raspberry-colored polo shirt that was tight over his round belly. His arms were brown and hairless and thinner than his stomach might suggest. He wore a gold chain on one wrist and a thin gold watch on the other. He glanced at us as we came through the doors and then went back to the TV. His assistant led me into the middle of the room. I looked at the shelves behind Lefcourt.
They were a shrine to Lefcourt and Sovitch, and festooned with testimonials from charities they’d supported, awards bestowed on them, and photos of them with politicians, celebrities, and captains of industry. There were a lot of photos of Sovitch with guests from her show. I didn’t see any with Danes. Lefcourt swiveled in his chair and scowled at my guide and me. The woman herded me toward the sofa. I sat in a chair; she stood.
“You’re worried about nothing, Mikey,” Lefcourt said into the phone as he flicked past Court TV. His voice was medium-deep, with a distinct New York accent. “He’ll go for it ’cause he wants to be a part of the deal. It makes him feel good- like his dick is longer than two inches.” While he listened he shot past BNN and CNN and CNBC, and came to rest on an infomercial for a tooth bleaching device. Lefcourt laughed into the phone. “Trust me, Mikey, will you? Jesus, you’re like a fucking old woman. I’ll be in the office later- call me.” He laughed again and hung up and looked at me. He tapped a button on his phone console.
“Yeah, he’s here now. Send Jimmy in.” Lefcourt hung up the phone and came out from behind his desk. He was about five-foot-ten, and his movements were clumsy but energetic. He went to the end of the room, to a sideboard near the fireplace. There was a chrome carafe on it and china cups and saucers. Lefcourt started pouring.
“You want coffee, March?”
“Black is fine,” I said.
He turned to his assistant. “You just going to hang around like the maA®tre d’?” The woman’s pale face was opaque. She turned and left without a word. A moment later, the double doors opened again.
A big guy came in. He was bald and ham-faced, and his coloring was bad. He was the guy I’d seen with Sovitch at the Manifesto Diner, still dressed in black. Lefcourt paused in the middle of the room and watched as the big guy produced a digital camera. It was nearly lost in his huge hands. He peered at me through the viewfinder and flashed away. I sat still and said nothing. He took five or six shots and looked at Lefcourt, who nodded and looked at me as he spoke.
“That’s good, Jimmy. Make sure everybody gets copies.”
“Maybe you’d like some profiles,” I said.
Jimmy looked a little confused. Lefcourt looked annoyed and motioned with his head toward the door. Jimmy left. Lefcourt put my coffee on a small table and took his to the sofa. He drank his coffee and looked at me.
“I guess you don’t mind having your picture taken,” he said. I smiled. “And I guess you won’t mind if we hand it out, to the local police, maybe, or the security guys at the studio.”
I smiled some more. “Not to be rude, but I’m actually here to see your wife.”
Lefcourt drained his cup and slid it onto a side table. He crossed his legs and draped his hairless arm along the back of the sofa and tried to look relaxed, but whatever engine ran inside him didn’t like to idle, and his foot bounced around on the end of his leg.
“What do you want to bother my wife for, March?” he asked, smiling.
I drank some coffee. “I don’t want to bother her. I just want to talk to her about her friend Gregory Danes.”
“What about him?” Lefcourt asked. He was still smiling, but his dark eyes were locked on my face.
“That’s something I’d rather discuss with your wife.”
Lefcourt gave a nasty laugh. He shifted his bulk on the sofa and ran his fingers over the upholstery. “Well, she doesn’t want to discuss that, or anything else, with you. So your choice is me or get the fuck out.”
I finished my coffee and thought about that. “I’m not sure she’d feel that way if she knew what I wanted to talk about.” Lefcourt made a skeptical face and shook his head; I continued. “And I’m not sure you really want to hear this.”
“I’m a grown-up, March,” he said. “I can handle it.” I nodded. It’s what everyone says- before they see the pictures. Maybe Lefcourt meant it.
“I want to know about her relationship with Danes. I want to talk to her about where he might be.”
“She went through that crap with you already.” He wasn’t making this easy; he wasn’t trying to.
“Sure. I just want to go over some of it again.”
“You think her answers will be different?”
I sighed. “I have reason to believe she may not have been… entirely frank with me the first time.”
“What reason?” Lefcourt snapped. “Where’d you get this reason from?”
“That’s not the issue-”
He cut me off and pointed at me. “Bullshit! Don’t call my wife a liar and make allegations, and then tell me you don’t have to substantiate them. If that’s how you do business, it’s a good thing you got yourself a trust fund.” Lefcourt watched me for a reaction, but I had none. I wasn’t surprised that he’d had me researched; I’d have been surprised if he hadn’t. I watched him, too, and saw that there was no real anger beneath the shouting, just posture and tactics.
“I’m not trying to do business with you,” I told him. “I’m trying to talk to your wife.”
Lefcourt carried his cup to the sideboard and filled it with coffee. I didn’t think he needed any more, but I kept my opinion to myself. He stood at his desk, drinking it, while he ran through channels with his remote. He stopped at a music video and watched two girls grind their pelvises together.
“You spoke to her once,” Lefcourt said. “What are you going to hear different the second time around?”
I was getting tired of the back-and-forth. “I don’t know. The truth, maybe.”
“Listen, March-”
I cut him off. “Was she or was she not having an affair with Danes?”
Lefcourt took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His voice was softer when he spoke, and his words were very distinct. His dark eyes glittered above his round cheeks. “It’s not just gossip when you say that about somebody like my wife. That kind of talk calls her professional ethics into question- and her judgment. That kind of talk has an impact- on reputation, on ratings, on contract negotiations. It’s not schoolyard bullshit anymore, March, it’s serious business.” He tapped his small mouth with his finger.
I sighed again. “I don’t give a shit about her ethics or her sex life. I just want to know where Danes is.”
Lefcourt tossed the remote on the desk and came back to the sofa and stood behind it. “She can’t tell you anything.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“A husband knows things,” he said, and there was a grim little smile on his little mouth.
“Things like where Danes might be, maybe?”
“That’s not something I keep track of.”
“Not now,” I asked, “or not ever?”
Lefcourt smirked. “What’s got you so convinced that something was going on between them anyway? What’ve you seen?”
He was relentless in his fishing, and I decided to tug a little on the line. “She left stuff at his place,” I said.
Lefcourt’s face got tight. His tanned forehead was shiny. “What stuff? And what proof do you have that it’s
