His chuckle broke deep in his chest. “Sure you do.”
“Look, I just wanted to-”
“They’re worldly. They’re self-affirming. They know their own needs, their likes and dislikes, and they aren’t afraid to share them with you. Don’t be put off.”
“Is this about infiltration?” I asked.
“If you’re lucky.” He sipped his drink. “The twentysomethings, even the thirtysomethings, are usually still trying to figure themselves out, and they think daytime television and therapy and
“Grey, the hell are you talking about?”
He looked me up and down. “You chose a nice suit. Wrong tie for it, but you did pretty good.”
We walked to the top tier and he led me to a table at the far corner. I supposed they were the best seats in the place, looking down on everyone else, with the best view of the sound. You could see clear to Westchester, the lights of the party boats bright and inviting.
The pretty blond newscaster was sitting there with another woman, those azure eyes full of eager delight. A soft scent of citrus danced along with her, tangling with Grey’s cucumber-and-aloe deep pore cleanser.
I glanced at Grey but he was giving her the sloe eye. I wondered if she had her tape recorder running in her purse.
Like I’d done yesterday morning when she and her news crew accosted me, I held my chin up.
Grey either didn’t notice my discomfort or didn’t care. “Terry, this is Victoria Jensen. Vicky. I believe you’ve already met.”
She held her hand out and smiled brilliantly at me. “If it’s not the Freddy’s Fix-It guy.”
I did my best to smile back but I knew I wasn’t making it. She let out a warm laugh that had probably driven a dozen men over the edge. “That’s me.”
“Terrier, I’m glad we can finally say hello.”
I took her hand. She was looking right through me. “My brother is scheduled for execution in ten days. Do you still want to know what I think of that? And if I have a message for the families of his victims?”
“I was doing my job.”
Grey cleared his throat. “Let’s keep it light for the night, shall we?”
Maybe it was he who’d been played. I thought perhaps she’d maneuvered him into asking me along tonight, but then I realized-she was looking through me, all right, but it was only because she was eyeing him with that perfectly loving gaze. I decided no, not her, the other one.
The friend. I gave her my full attention.
Grey said, “And this lovely lady is Eve Drayton.”
I nodded. “Another reporter.”
“We prefer the term
She didn’t stand. She offered me her hand and I took it. She was on the north side of forty and still quite captivating. Twenty-five years ago she’d been a beautiful teen but had settled into a well-aged attractiveness. Deeply black hair framed her face, with a few strands of silver here and there. There was a bold assurance and natural radiance in her eyes. She was dressed in a classy black dress that hugged her curves but didn’t stifle.
She openly studied my face and body. Her lips tilted into the barest self-satisfied grin. I sensed a sharp intellect at work, biding its time, already covering the angles. Despite myself I stood a little straighter.
“How do you do, Terrier,” she said.
“Hello, Miss Drayton,” I said.
“Please, no formalities on such a lovely night. Call me Eve.”
There was something about her I liked, and that spooked me. Maybe it was the attention. Or just standing here in clothep› s that weren’t my own. I looked over at my uncle. He was canoodling with Vicky. Perhaps Grey did have real feelings for her. You could never figure out someone like him. He always switched up the game.
The waiter came around to take our drink orders. He was a small, limber guy with a lot of pep in his stride. I thought he had to be in shape in order to run up and down all those stairs so many times in a night. Grey ordered me a Glenlivet. I hated the taste of it, but for some reason we were clearly trying to make an impression. He jumped the gun and ordered fresh lobster all around.
The waiter asked, “Would you like to come downstairs and choose your own from our tank?”
Grey said, “Only if you install an elevator.”
Vicky kept a hand on Grey at all times. He didn’t seem to mind. Before my arrival she’d been in the middle of a story, and now she continued. It was about a celebrity actor she’d interviewed out in the Hamptons only minutes before the guy’s wife backed over the mayor’s dog. It wasn’t much of a story. The mayor had screamed, the dog had been crippled, and the actor and his wife had taken off and caused a six-car pileup in Bridgehampton.
Grey gave her a loving stare. He gave every woman a loving stare. He packed his gaze with a sweet longing and a casual indulgence. It was natural to him. The world came easily to Grey. He knew how to have fun.
I wanted to know what information was being passed on in the sugary words he whispered into swooning women’s ears. Was he giving away family secrets? Was he doing it and forgetting that it had been done?
The drinks arrived. I sipped while Vicky laughed. It was a lush and bratty giggle that made my teeth ache.
“She left out the most significant part,” Eve said, like a mother trying to correct a child’s mistold joke. “The mayor’s dog, faithful Banjo, wound up being featured in a children’s movie the next summer. Banjo has a little wagon now for his hind legs. The movie grossed three times what the actor’s next film made, and he’s still doing community service for his role in the traffic accident. He puts in ten hours a week at a no-kill shelter.”
Maybe it was a true story. We all laughed like it was. I hadn’t laughed in a long time and it felt good. Eve smiled pleasantly at me. Vicky and Grey went into a huddle. She pointed across his lap at the water and Grey said, “It’s Westchester, sweetie, not Jersey.”
They were being capricious, acting giddy, the kind of playfulness that would’ve drawn attention if we hadn’t been at the top of the restaurant. They whispered together.
I finished my drink. I wondered if it would be easier to phone the host and tell him to send up another.
“Grey’s told us that you’ve been away from home for a while,” Eve said to me.
She’d checked into the family. She knew I’d been gone. But she tried to personalize the fact. I wondered if it was a reporter move or if she was just being polite. “I have.”
“We’ve kept up with the Rands in a professional capacity. But I must confess I don’t know much about you.”
“But I bet you’ve checked my police jacket,” I said.
“Yes, I admit I have,” she said, grinning, which brought the dimples out. “You’re not so bad.”
“So far as you know.”
“Can I get a few words from you on record about your brother?”
“No,” I said. “Sorry.”
It was a knee-jerk rebuke. I knew she’d work on me for the story. It was her job. I tried not to hold it against her. I still felt tight and guarded, but I liked her lips and I kept staring. I felt strong but foolish.
“I understand,” she said.
I wondered if she really did. I wondered if anyone could understand the conflict I felt over Collie, and how much a part of me wanted to rant about it, and how the rest of me would be mute forever. “Do you?”
She sipped her drink. “I think so. Most people enjoy talking about themselves and telling us their stories. Whether they’re just cultural filler or something deeper, more relevant on a personal or even social level, they want to share their tales.” She leaned back in her seat, but she held me with her acute focus. “It’s only the tragic cases where people prefer to say nothing. They’re too overwhelmed.”
“And always will be.”
She gave the slightest, most feminine of shrugs. “Perhaps.”
She had watchful, intense eyes. I liked the way she looked at me. “You’ve visited your brother in prison,” she said.
At least we weren’t going to have the usual so-tell-me-about-yourself kind of conversation. In one way I was glad for that. In another I thought, When he’s dead, will they stop wanting to know about him?
“Yes,” I told her.
“Twice. I’m curious as to what he had to say to you.”
