Her world was looking up. Hard work might soon pay off. There was always the possibility-in her mind, anyway- that if she grabbed and shook this role as she knew she could,
As she walked along the sunny, crowded sidewalk, kicking out her long dancer’s legs in easy, optimistic strides, she had no way of knowing she’d been followed from the moment she’d left the theater.
“The rumor is the star’s leaving the show,” Anne said to Horn, while they waited for a cabbie to pay attention to Horn’s raised left arm. The theater was close enough to Times Square that the crowd disgorged back onto the street after curtain was joined by theatergoers from other plays on their way home. Half a dozen people stood up- traffic from Horn and Anne, also unsuccessfully attempting to lure cabs. A man in a business suit was impatiently waving a folded newspaper as if it were a signal flag being ignored. Nothing seemed to work. Few things were more coy than a New York cab after the theater break.
“The stand-in wasn’t bad,” Horn said. “Whatever her name is.” He watched a lucky couple half a block up the street hurriedly climb into a cab before a nearby woman on the run could reach it.
“Alice Duggan.”
“She’ll never be a star, with a bland name like that.”
“Remember Cloris Leachman.” Anne’s tone suggested she’d taken his comment seriously. Probably because she was distracted and only half listening. Horn had known all evening there was something other than the play on her mind, and that there had been for some time.
“Let’s skip the cab for now,” he said. “It’s a nice night. Let’s walk a few blocks to that coffee shop we used to stop in and wait for the theater crowd to thin, have some cappuccino, maybe a pastry.”
She didn’t say yes or no, but fell in beside him as he stepped back up on the curb and began walking. He glanced out at the flow of traffic and counted three cabs whose roof lights indicated they were without passengers. Their drivers were ignoring prospective passengers frantically beckoning them.
Horn and Anne both ordered simple decaf. Sign of growing old, Horn thought ruefully. He glanced around at the oak- and fern-adorned coffee shop, and the counter with computers where half a dozen patrons sat gooing up keyboards with doughnut glaze. He remembered a working-man’s bar at this site twenty years ago, mob connections, assaults, illegal gambling, a fatal knifing. The city was changing, had always been changing, always would change. A lot of it was for the better.
Over second cups of coffee, Anne decided to tell him what was on her mind.
“Finlay was in to see me today. About the Alan Vine case.”
“How’s the kid doing?”
“The same.”
“And the lawsuit?”
“That’s what Finlay wanted to talk about. The hospital made another offer to settle. Half a million dollars.”
“The Vine family accept it?”
“We’re still waiting to find out.” She raised her cup, then looked at it sourly and put it back down. “The hospital’s also offered to accept blame. In exchange for indemnification, of course.”
Horn knew where she was going. Why she was upset.
“The radiology department’s being made the scapegoat in the settlement and will be tagged as incompetent and dangerous. And I’ll be wearing an identical tag. It isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t. What about personal indemnification?”
“That’s part of the deal. The Vines won’t be able to squeeze any money out of me. But that’s not the goddamn point!”
“I understand,” Horn said quickly. “But at the same time, it’ll be nice to know you can’t be sued.”
“I’m going to resign.”
Horn wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Maybe she meant transfer out of Radiology. “You mean quit your job?”
“Yes.” She drilled him with a cold stare, anticipating his reaction. “Like you quit yours.”
“Mine was a case of involuntary retirement, with a disability pension.”
“The result was the same: you left the NYPD. Just as I’m leaving Kincaid Memorial. I have plenty of money saved up outside my 401K. Enough to last till I find other work.”
“I was thinking more about you possibly giving up legal protection as part of the hospital staff. You’ve only heard Finlay’s take on the lawsuit and proposed settlement. Maybe you should see our attorney. I can give him a call tomorrow.”
“I already talked to him.”
There was a surprise. “It’s a big decision,” Horn said needlessly, while trying to sort all this out and think of what else to say. What exactly was going on here?
“Not anymore. I’ve made it.”
“Then that’s that. Money should be no problem. There’s no reason for you to be employed other than if you want to be.”
He was looking out the window at the string of unmoving headlights. Theater traffic had backed up and spread to the side streets.
“I’m going to move out of the house,” Anne told him. “I’ve decided to leave you.”
38
They were in Horn’s den. The Home Away had been too crowded tonight for them to privately discuss the Night Spider case. At least that was what Horn had told them. It didn’t set quite right with Paula.
When they’d entered the brownstone, she’d noticed a stack of cardboard boxes in the entry hall, and a glance into the living room suggested furniture and knickknacks had been removed.
Horn settled in behind his desk; Bickerstaff took an overstuffed brown leather chair. Paula sat in a similar chair that hissed and acted as if it wanted to devour her. The floor overhead creaked.
Horn opened a wooden humidor on his desk and got out a cigar so dark it was almost green, then cut off its tip with a miniature guillotine. He held another of the cigars out for Bickerstaff, who hesitated, then accepted the offer. The guillotine didn’t work so well in his hands. Paula thought he might cut off a finger.
“Paula?” Horn offered, holding up another cigar.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m a lady.”
Horn and Bickerstaff chuckled at that lady remark. Paula didn’t know quite how to take it. She traded glances with Bickerstaff, who finally appeared to be catching on that something essential had changed there. He looked away from her and peered cross-eyed at the tip of his cigar as he struggled to light it with a paper match he’d produced from somewhere.
“Anne and I have decided to separate,” Horn said between puffs, effortlessly firing up his cigar with a silver lighter. “She’s rented an apartment on the East Side and is preparing to move out.”
Bickerstaff said nothing but paused in his puffing, salivating attempt to get his cigar burning.
Horn gave a shrug that might have meant anything.
“I think I might not’ve cut the whole tip off thish thing,” Bickerstaff said around the dead cigar.
Horn slid the guillotine across the desk to him. “Mind your finger.”
Bickerstaff took another swipe at the saliva-moistened tip of the cigar with the little angled blade, then tried again with a match. “Thash better.” Paula saw ash drop from the burning tip of the cigar onto the carpet. Overhead, the floor creaked.
