The Quickie.

by James Patterson.

One

I KNEW THIS WAS a really terrific idea, if I didn't say so myself, surprising Paul for lunch at his office down on Pearl Street. I'd made a special trip into Manhattan and had put on my favorite "little black dress." I looked moderately ravishing. Nothing that would be out of place at the Mark Joseph Steakhouse, and one of Paul's favorite outfits, too, the one he usually chose if I asked him, "What should I wear to this thing, Paul?" Anyway, I was excited, and I'd already spoken to his a.s.sistant, Jean, to make sure that he was there - though I hadn't alerted her about the surprise. Jean was Paul's a.s.sistant after all, not mine. And then, there was Paul. As I rounded the corner in my Mini Cooper, I saw him leaving his office building, walking with a twenty- something blonde woman. Paul was leaning in very close to her, chatting, laughing in a way that instantly made me feel very ill. She was one of those bright, shiny beauties you're more likely to see in Chicago or Iowa City. Tall, hair like platinum silk. Cream-colored skin that looked just about perfect from this distance. Not a wrinkle or blemish. She wasn't completely perfect, though. She tripped a Manolo on a street plate as she and Paul were getting into a taxi, and as I watched Paul gallantly catch hold of the pink cashmere on her anorexic elbow, I felt like someone had hammered a cold chisel right into the center of my chest.I followed them. Well, I guess followed is too polite. I stalked them.All the way up to Midtown, I stayed on that taxi's b.u.mper like we were connected by a tow hook. When the cab suddenly pulled up in front of the entrance to the St. Regis Hotel, on East 55th Street, and Paul and the woman stepped out smiling, I felt an impulse rush from the lizard part of my brain to my right foot, which was hovering over the accelerator. Then Paul took her arm. A picture of both of them sandwiched between the storied hotel's front steps and the hood of my baby-blue Mini flashed through my mind. Then it was gone, and so were they, and I was left sitting there crying to the sound of the honking taxis lined up behind me.

Two

THAT NIGHT, instead of shooting Paul as he came through the front door, I allowed him one chance. I even waited until we were eating dinner to talk about what he'd been up to at lunchtime at the St. Regis Hotel in Midtown.Maybe there was some logical explanation. I couldn't imagine what it would be, but in the words of a b.u.mper sticker I once saw, Miracles Happen, Too ."So, Paul," I said as casually as the liquid nitrogen pumping through my veins allowed me. "What did you do for lunch today?" That got his attention. Even though I had my head down as I nearly sawed through the plate under my food, I felt his head bob up, his eyes lift, as he looked at me. Then, after an extended guilty pause, he looked back down at his plate. "Had a sandwich at my desk," he mumbled. "The usual. You know me, Lauren."Paul lied - right to my face.My dropped knife banged off my plate like a gong. The darkest paranoid possibilities flooded through me. Crazy stuff that wasn't really like me. Maybe his job wasn't even real, I thought. Maybe he'd had letterhead made up, and from day one he'd been betraying me when he went downtown every day. How well did I really know his co-workers? Maybe they were actors hired to show up whenever I was planning to come by. "Why do you ask?" Paul finally said, ever so casually. That hurt. Almost as much as seeing him with the stunning blonde in Manhattan.Almost.I don't know how I managed to smile at him, with the cat-five hurricane roaring through me, but somehow I managed to pull the tight muscles of my cheeks upward. "Just making conversation," I said. "Just talking to my husband over dinner."Part OneTHE QUICKIE

Chapter 1.

THERE WAS HEAVY TRAFFIC on the Major Deegan south and more on the approach to the Triborough that night, that crazy, crazy night. I couldn't decide which was making my eye twitch more as we crawled across the span - the horns from the cars logjammed in both directions around us, or the ones honking from our driver's Spanish music station. I was heading to Virginia for a job-sponsored seminar. Paul was going to apply some face time to one of his firm's biggest clients in Boston. The only trip we modern, professional, go-getting Stillwells were going to share this week was the ride to LaGuardia Airport. At least I had one of the great views of Manhattan outside my window. The Big Apple seemed even more majestic than usual with its gla.s.s-and-steel towers glowing against the approaching black thunderheads of a storm. Gazing out, I remembered the cute apartment Paul and I once had on the Upper West Side. Sat.u.r.days at the Guggenheim or MOMA; the cheap hole-in-the-wall French bistro in NoHo; cold chardonnay in the "backyard," our fourth-floor studio's fire escape. All the romantic things we did before we got married, when our lives had been unpredictable and fun."Paul," I said urgently, almost mournfully. " Paul? "If Paul had been a "guy guy," I might have been tempted to chalk up what was happening between us to the inevitable. You grow a little bit older, maybe more cynical, and the honeymoon finally ends. But Paul and me? We'd been different.We'd been one of those sickening, best-friend married couples. The let's-die-at-the-exact-same- moment Romeo-and-Juliet soul mates. Paul and I had been so much in love - and that's not just selective memory talking. That was us.We'd met in freshman year at Fordham Law. We were in the same study and social group but hadn't really talked. I'd noticed Paul because he was very handsome. He was a few years older than most of us, a little more studious, more serious. I actually couldn't believe it when he agreed to head down to Cancun for spring break with the gang. On the night before our flight home, I got into a fight with my boyfriend at the time and accidentally fell through one of the hotel's gla.s.s doors, cutting my arm. While my supposed boyfriend announced he "just couldn't deal with it," Paul arrived out of nowhere and took over. He took me to the hospital and stayed at my bedside. This, while everyone else promptly hopped on the flight home to avoid missing any cla.s.ses. As Paul walked through the doorway of my Mexican hospital room with our breakfast of milkshakes and magazines, I was reminded of how cute he was, how deep blue his eyes were, and that he had fantastic dimples and a killer smile. Dimples and milkshakes, and my heart. What had happened since then? I wasn't entirely sure. I guess we'd fallen into the rut of a lot of modern marriages. Neck-deep into our two demanding, separate careers, we'd become so adept at meeting our individual needs and wants that we'd forgotten the point: that we were supposed to be putting each other first.I still hadn't confronted Paul about the blonde woman I'd seen him with in Manhattan. Maybe that was because I wasn't ready to have it out with Paul once and for all. And, of course, I didn't know for sure if he was having an affair. Maybe I was afraid about the end of us. Paul had loved me; I know he had. And I had loved Paul with everything I had in me.Maybe I still did. Maybe ."Paul," I called again. Across the seat of the taxi, he turned at the sound of my voice. I felt like he was noticing me for the first time in weeks. An apologetic, almost sad expression formed on his face. His mouth started to open. Then his blasted cell phone trilled. I remembered setting his ring tone to "Tainted Love" as a prank. Ironically, a silly song we'd once danced to drunk and happy had turned out to aptly describe our marriage. Glaring at the phone, I seriously considered s.n.a.t.c.hing it from his hand and flinging it out the window through the bridge cables into the East River. A familiar glaze came across Paul's eyes after he glanced down at the number. "I have to take this," he said, thumbing open the phone. I don't, Paul, I thought as Manhattan slid away from us through the coiled steel. This was it, I thought. The final straw. He'd wrecked everything between us, hadn't he? And sitting there in that cab, I figured out the exact point when you call it quits.When you can't even share a sunset together.

Chapter 2.

OMINOUS THUNDER CRACKED in the distance as we pulled off the Grand Central Parkway into the airport. The late-summer sky was graying rapidly, bad weather was approaching with speed. Paul was jabbering something about book values as we pulled up to my stop at the Continental terminal. I didn't expect him to do something as effort-filled as kiss me good-bye. When Paul had his low "business voice" going on the phone, a bomb couldn't make him stop. I reached quickly for the door when the driver switched the radio from the Spanish station to the financial news. If I didn't escape, I feared the insectile buzz of investo-speak in stereo was going to make me scream. Until my throat bled. Until I lost consciousness. Paul waved from the back window without looking at me as the cab pulled away. I was tempted to wave back with one finger as I rolled my suitcase through the sliding doors. But I didn't wave to Paul. A few minutes later, I sat in the bar, waiting for my flight to be called, thinking very heavy thoughts. I took out the ticket as I sipped my cosmopolitan. From the overhead speakers, a Muzak version of the Clash's "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" was playing. How do you like that? The folks at Muzak had discovered my childhood. It was good that I was feeling so manic and upbeat, because normally that realization might make me feel old and depressed. I tapped the ticket against my lip, then very dramatically tore it in half before I finished my drink in one shot. Next, I used the bar napkin to dry the tears in my eyes. I was going to move on to Plan B. It was going to be trouble, for sure. Big troubles, no bubbles. I didn't care. Paul had ignored me too many times. I made the phone call that I'd been putting off. Then I rolled my suitcase back outside, climbed into the rear of the next available taxi, and gave the driver my home address. The first drops of rain hit the windows as we pulled out, and I suddenly envisioned something huge slipping under dark water and beginning to slide, something monumental, slowly, irretrievably sinking. Down, down, down. Or maybe not - just maybe, I was heading up for the first time in a long while.

Chapter 3.

IT WAS FULL-OUT POURING by the time I stepped back into my dark, empty house. I felt a little better when I switched my wet business suit for my old Amherst gym shirt and a pair of favorite jeans. And a lot better when I put Stevie Ray Vaughan on the stereo to keep me company. I decided to leave the lights off and crack open a dusty case of calla lily-scented candles from the front- hall closet. Pretty soon, the house was looking like a church, or maybe a loopy Madonna video, given the way the drapes were blowing around. It inspired me to scroll my iPod down to her pop highness's "Dress You Up" and to crank up the sound. Twenty minutes later the front doorbell rang and the baby lamb chops I'd ordered on the cab ride home arrived. I took the small, precious brown-paper package from the FreshDirect delivery guy, went into the kitchen, and poured myself a gla.s.s of Santa Margherita as I chopped the garlic and lemons. After I put the red potatoes on for the garlic mashed, I set the table.For two.I took my Santa Margherita upstairs. That's when I noticed the insistent red blink on my answering machine. "Yeah, hi, Lauren. Dr. Marcuse here. I was leaving the office and just wanted to let you know that your results haven't come back yet. I know you're waiting. I'll let you know first thing after we hear from the lab." As the machine clicked off, I pulled back my hair and gazed into the mirror at the faint wrinkles on my forehead and at the corners of my eyes. I was three weeks late with my period. Which normally wouldn't be a concern. Except that I was infertile. The results that my ever-helpful gynecologist, Dr. Marcuse, was referring to were from the blood work and ultrasound he'd urged me to get. It was a race at that point. A neck-and-neck downhill heat. Which would fail first? I thought, lifting my gla.s.s. My marriage or my health? "Thanks for checking in, Dr. Marcuse," I said to the machine. "Your timing is impeccable."

Chapter 4.

AT THIS POINT, my heart was starting to race. Dinner for two - and neither of them was Paul.After I finished my gla.s.s of wine, I went downstairs and did the only sensible thing under the circ.u.mstances. I found the bottle and took it back upstairs with me. After I had filled my third gla.s.s, I carried it and my wedding picture onto my bed. I sat and drank, and stared at Paul. At first, I'd been pretty resigned to Paul's change in behavior after his latest and most pressure-filled promotion at work. I definitely thought it was unhealthy for him to be so stressed out all the time, but I also knew that investment finance was what he did. It was what he was good at, he'd told me many times. How he defined himself. So I let it slide. His distance from me. The way he'd suddenly begun to ignore me at meals, and in the bedroom. He needed every ounce of concentration and energy for the office. And it was temporary, I told myself. Once he got up to speed, he would ease back. Or, at the very least, he would fail. I'd lick his wounds, and we'd be back to normal. I'd get to see those dimples again, that smile. We'd be back to being best friends. I opened the night table drawer and took out my charm bracelet. On my first birthday after we were married, Paul had bought it for me from, of all places, the preteen store Limited Too. So far I had six charms, the first, and my favorite, being a rhinestone heart, "for my love," he'd said. I don't know why, but every year, each chintzy, puppy-love charm meant a million times more to me than the meal in the fancy restaurant he always took me to. This year, Paul had gotten us into Per Se, the new white-hot spot in the Time Warner Center. But even after the creme brulee, there was no gift. He'd forgotten to get me a charm for the bracelet. Forgotten, or decided not to. That had been the first sign of real trouble. The Times Square neon billboard for trouble came in the form of the twenty-something blonde outside his office on Pearl Street - the one he'd taken into the St. Regis. The one Paul had lied to my face about.

Chapter 5.

I WAS DOWNSTAIRS IN THE KITCHEN, laying the pink chops down into sizzling b.u.t.ter, when there was a hard rap on the window of the back door. The b.u.t.terflies swirling in my stomach surged, changed formation. I looked at the clock on the microwave. Eleven on the dot.Here it was, here he was, I thought, dabbing the sweat from my forehead with a kitchen towel as I crossed to the door. It was actually happening.Right here. Right now. I took a deep, deep breath and slipped open the dead bolt. "Hi, Lauren." "Hi back at you. You look nice. Great." "For somebody who's soaking wet, right?" The rain that swung in with the door spattered a constellation of dark, wet stars on the kitchen's pale stone tile. And then he stepped in. Quite the entrance, I might add. His tapered, six-two frame seemed to fill the room. In the candlelight, I could see that his dark hair was freshly cut, the color of wet white sand where it was shaved close to his skull. Wind roared in, and the scent of him, cologne and rain and leather from the motorcycle jacket he wore, hit me head-on. Oprah has probably devoted a couple of hours to how you get to this point, I thought as I struggled for something to say. Harmless workplace flirting that leads to infatuation that leads to a furtive friendship that leads to . . . I still wasn't sure what to call this. I knew some married female co-workers who took part in harmless flirting, but I'd always put up a wall when I was dealing with men professionally, especially the handsome, funny ones like Scott. It just didn't feel right, going there. But Scott had gotten over my wall somehow, gotten inside my defenses. Maybe it was the fact that, for all his size and good looks, there was an innocence about him. Or maybe it was how he was almost formal with me. Old-fashioned in the best sense of the word. Or how his presence in my life seemed to have increased in perfect ratio to Paul's pulling away. And as if that weren't enough, there was something nicely mysterious about him, something subtle under the surface that pulled at me. "So, you're actually here," Scott said, breaking the silence between us. "Wait, I almost forgot."For the first time, I noticed the wet, tattered brown bag he was holding. He blushed as he took a little stuffed animal out of it. It was a Beanie Baby, one I'd never seen before, a little tan puppy. I looked at the name tag, "Badges." Then I looked at the birthdate, December 1 .I put a hand to my open mouth. My birthday. I'd been looking for one with my birthday only forever. Scott knew, and he had found it. I looked at the puppy. Then I remembered how Paul had forgotten the charm for my bracelet. That's when I felt something break like thin ice inside me, and I was crying. "Lauren, no," Scott said, panicked. He raised his arms to embrace me, then stopped as if he'd run into some invisible wall. "Listen," he said. "The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you. This is all too much. I can see that now. I . . . I'll just go, okay? I'll see you tomorrow as usual. I'll bring the Box O' Joe, you bring the cinnamon Munchkins, and this never happened. Okay?" Then my back door opened again, and Scott was gone into the night.

Chapter 6.

I LISTENED TO THE MEAT SIZZLE rather melodramatically as I wiped my eyes with a dish towel. What was I doing? Was I crazy? Scott was right. What the h.e.l.l had I been thinking? I stood there dumbly staring at the puddles he'd made on the floor seconds ago. Then, the next thing I knew, I turned off the stove, grabbed my handbag, threw the door open, and ran outside in the dark. He was getting on his motorcycle half a block away when I caught up to him, completely drenched now myself. A light went on in a neighbor's house. Mrs. Waters was just about the biggest gossip on our block. What would she say if she saw me? Scott noticed me looking up at the window nervously. "Here," he said, handing me his helmet. "Don't overthink this, Lauren. Just do it. Get on." I put the helmet on and took another, even stronger hit of Scott's scent as he started up his red Ducati racing bike. It sounded like something detonating. "Come on," he yelled, offering his hand. "Quick!" "Isn't it dangerous to ride in the rain?" I asked. "Outrageously," he said, grinning irresistibly as he gunned the throttle. I put out my hand, and the next second, I was climbing on behind Scott and wrapping my arms around his sides. I had just enough time to tuck my head between his shoulder blades before we screamed up the hill of my cul-de-sac like a bottle rocket.

Chapter 7.

IT'S POSSIBLE I LEFT CLAW MARKS on Scott's leather jacket while I hung on for dear life. My stomach bottomed out whenever we hit a dip and then seemed to bang off the roof of my skull when we topped rises. The rain-slicked world appeared to melt away as we hurtled past. I cursed myself for not drawing up a living will when the bike's back tire fishtailed onto the entrance to the Saw Mill River Parkway. Then Scott let the bike run loose! The next time I breathed and looked up, we were pulling off the Henry Hudson Parkway into Riverdale, an upscale neighborhood in the Bronx. We came roaring down a hill and only slowed as we turned onto a street lined with dark, gated mansions. In a flash of lightning I saw the wide silver chasm of the Hudson close below us, the stark, shattered face of the New Jersey Palisades directly across the water. "C'mon, Lauren," Scott said, suddenly stopping the bike and hopping off. He waved for me to follow him as he started walking up the cobblestone driveway of a colonial about the size of a Home Depot. "You live here?" I called to him after I removed his helmet. "Kinda," Scott called back, waving some more. "Kinda?" I followed him into a free-standing, three-car garage that was almost as big as my house. Inside, there was a Porsche, a Bentley, and a Ferrari the same color as Scott's bike. "Those aren't yours!" I said in shock. "I wish," Scott said, climbing a set of stairs. "They're more like my roommates. I'm just house-sitting for this friend of mine. C'mon, I'll get us towels." I walked behind him into a small, loft-style apartment above the garage. He popped open a couple of Budweisers and put on a Motown CD before he went into the bathroom. In the ma.s.sive bay window, the storm-racked Hudson was framed like a billboard. After Scott tossed me a fluffy towel that smelled of lemon, he stood on the bathroom threshold, just staring at me. Like I was beautiful or something. It was the same way I'd caught him looking at me down a corridor or in the parking lot or stairwell at work. A kind of pleading in his almond-shaped brown eyes. For the first time I allowed myself to stare back. I took a sip of cold beer. Then my beer dropped from my hand as I suddenly realized why I was so attracted to him. It was crazy, really. When I was in high school, I met a boy on summer vacation at Spring Lake on the Jersey Sh.o.r.e. He was in charge of the bike-rental place by the boardwalk, and let me tell you, Lance Armstrong didn't put in as much roadwork that summer as I did. Then one Friday night, the most momentous Friday in my life up to that point, he invited me to my first beach party. I guess every life has at least one golden moment, right? A period of time when the glory of the world and your place in it briefly and magically align. That beach party was mine. There I was. My first honest-to-G.o.d beer buzz, the ocean crashing in the background, the evening sky the color of turquoise, as this perfect, older boy reached out across the sand and without a word took my hand in his. I was sixteen years old. My braces were off, my burn had finally started to turn to brown, and I had a sense of infinite possibilities and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off. That's who Scott reminded me of, I realized, staring at the light in his eyes - Mike, the Jersey Sh.o.r.e bike boy, come to take me back to the endless beach party, where there were no high-stress jobs, no biopsies, and no cheating husbands with attractive blondes on their arm. And I guess, right then, what I wanted more than anything, at the most confusing, s.h.i.tty time of my entire life, was to go back there with him. And be that sixteen-year-old girl again. Scott was down on his knees, wiping up the beer spill. I took a breath, reached out, and brushed my hand over his head. "You're sweet," I whispered.Scott stood up and held my face in his hands. "No, you're the one who's sweet. And you're the most beautiful woman I know, Lauren. Kiss me. Please ."

Chapter 8.

PAUL AND I HAD ONCE HAD a sweet s.e.x life. In the early days, we were inseparable. On the way down to our third honeymoon, in Barbados, we even became full-fledged members of the Mile High Club. But being with Scott? It was life-threatening. For the better part of an hour, we just kissed and caressed and fondled, my breath and heart rate accelerating in dangerous increments with each b.u.t.ton release, every tug of my clothes. When Scott eventually pulled up my shirt and pressed his face to my stomach, I almost bit through my lower lip. Then he popped the top b.u.t.ton of my jeans. From my throat came a sound that wasn't even close to human. I was in danger of pa.s.sing out, and loving it. We staggered from room to room, shedding each other's clothes. We clinched, straining against each other, desperate for breath. I had been needing this for so long, especially the touches, the caresses, maybe just the attention. How we actually ended up in his bed, I couldn't quite remember. Somewhere near the end, I recall, lightning struck so close in the backyard that the window rattled in its frame in time to the headboard. Maybe G.o.d was trying to tell me something. But I don't think we could have stopped if the roof of the house had been ripped away. Afterward I lay there on the comforter, shuddering like a trauma victim, sweat covering my cheeks and neck, my lungs stinging. The wind howled against the windowpane as Scott rolled his searing body off mine. "Jeez, Lauren. My G.o.d, you're great." I was afraid he might stand up and offer to take me home then. I was happily relieved when he spooned in beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder. As we cuddled in the dark, all I could think about were those eyes of his, those gentle, almost auburn-colored eyes, as he finger-combed my hair. "I think I need a shower," he said finally. His long, muscular legs seemed to wobble when he stood. "Check that out. I need an IV." "You could get one at the emergency room when you drop me off," I said, smiling. I had just enough energy to prop up my head on a pillow as Scott walked to the bathroom. I could see him in the mirror when he turned on the light. He was beautiful. Honest to G.o.d he was. His bunched muscles dug into his sides and his tanned back. He looked like something off a Calvin Klein billboard. It had been . . . perfect, I thought. Better than I had had any reason to expect. Undeniably hot, but also sweet. I hadn't thought Scott would be so affectionate, that we would connect emotionally as well as physically. I'd needed to have this happen, I realized. To feel hot and then warm. To laugh. To be held close by someone who liked me and who thought I was special. And I refuse to feel guilty, I thought, listening to another close explosion of thunder. What's good for the goose is definitely good for the desperate housewife. Even if this never happened again - and maybe it wouldn't, shouldn't - it was worth it.

Chapter 9.

IN THE CRAMPED DARK of his Toyota Camry parked half a block north of the apartment over the garage, Paul Stillwell stared, mesmerized, as another flash of lightning illuminated Scott's shiny red motorcycle.He'd actually seen the Ducati in the centerfold of the FYI section of Fortune magazine once, one of those impossibly expensive fantasy boy toys. Something a movie star or the devil-may-care heir to a European shipping conglomerate might ride.And happy a.s.sholes like Scott, Paul thought, staring at its fighter-jet contours, red and slick as lip gloss in the shimmer of light. His throat tightened as he tore his eyes away and went back to scrolling through the pictures file on his Verizon cell. He stopped at the shot of Scott that he'd taken when he followed Scott home from work the week before. In the photograph, Scott was astride the Italian bike at a stoplight, his full-face helmet perched back on his forehead. Lean, powerful, and as c.o.c.ky as the expensive machine between his legs. Paul closed the cell and stared out through the rain at the light in the garage's upstairs window. Then he leaned back and lifted the Ping 3 iron from the floor of the backseat. The golf club had good heft and balance. It was a drastic solution, he knew, staring at the heavy, fist-size metal club's face. But what choice did you have when a man invaded your house and took what was yours? Everything was in jeopardy now, he reminded himself. Everything he'd worked for was in danger of slipping through his fingers. Maybe he should have done something sooner. Headed things off before it came to this. But maybes and should haves and if onlys were beside the point now, weren't they? One question remained: Would he allow this bulls.h.i.t to continue or would he not? No, Paul thought, cutting the ignition. There's only one way to end this. The rain rattled on the roof of the Camry. He pocketed his cell phone and took a deep breath. With slow, almost ceremonial deliberation, he wrapped his black-gloved hand around the grip of the perfectly weighted club. The extreme hard way, he thought, and he opened the car door and stepped out into the driving rain.

Chapter 10.

"SO, WHAT NOW?" Scott said, pulling his jacket on over his bare chest as he came out of the shower. "Surprise me," I said. "I like surprises. I love surprises." Scott bent over and took my left wrist. My vision went double as he softly kissed my pulse point. "How was that?" he said, smiling. "Nice start," I said when my lung function finally returned. "You stay here while I spin by the all-night market. I'm out of fresh basil and olive oil," Scott said, standing. "You don't mind if I whip us up a late dinner, do you? I have some great veal cutlets I got on Arthur Avenue yesterday. I'll make you my mom's sauce. It's better than Rao's."Mind! I thought, envisioning Scott in an ap.r.o.n. A man actually cooking for me?"I could probably suffer through it," I said after I finished swallowing really hard. Scott was opening the door, when he suddenly stopped and turned, staring back at me. "What?" I said. "Changed your mind about cooking?" "I . . . ," he said, "I guess I'm just glad we did this tonight, Lauren. I wasn't sure if you would go through with it. I'm glad you did. I'm really glad we did." Wow, I thought, smiling as he closed the door. I looked out at the storm-racked Hudson. Scott probably had the right idea, didn't he? Live for the moment. Forever young. Carefree. Maybe I could get used to this. I glanced at my watch. Just after one. Where was I supposed to be now? In bed in some cramped Virginia Marriott. Sorry, Paul, I thought. But remember, you started this. I decided to call him and get it over with. It was as good a time as any to go through the motions. Paul liked charades, didn't he? I could play at that game, too, I thought as I rolled off the bed, looking for my bag and my cell phone.

Chapter 11.

THERE'S MY BOY, Paul thought as Scott Thayer threw open the side door of the garage. Hey there, Scotty.Dressed all in black and crouched in the shadows along the ivy-covered wall beside Scott's parked motorcycle, Paul knew he wouldn't be seen. Besides, it was raining like h.e.l.l. Paul hefted the golf club as Scott came across the driveway and entered the dark street. Time to show this son of a b.i.t.c.h the error of his ways. Scott was ten feet away. Five. Then suddenly, inexplicably, horribly, there was music blaring from somewhere. From him! From Paul's jacket pocket! His cell phone was going off! No! Paul thought, reaching down to silence the stupid "Tainted Love" ring tone. Why the h.e.l.l hadn't he left his cell in the car? He was fumbling to turn it off with his free hand when Scott Thayer crashed into him at a run. Paul's breath left him as he was knocked backward onto the muddy ground. He looked up, meeting Scott's wide eyes. "You!" Scott said in shock. The golf club disappeared out of Paul's hand as Scott kick-smashed his motorcycle boot into Paul's fingers. Then Scott lifted Paul off his feet and threw him into the air. Paul cried out as his back struck something painfully hard. It was the Ducati. He and the bike went over in a pitiful heap. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were planning on doing me some harm tonight, Mr. Stillwell," Scott said, not even breathing heavily. He lifted the fallen club as he slowly approached. "Something like this could really hurt somebody," Scott said, waving the 3 iron at him like a chiding finger. "Here, let me show you."

Chapter 12.

I STOOD THERE, FROZEN, my nose millimeters from the rain-streaked gla.s.s as I looked out at the private street in front of the garage.I couldn't believe what I was seeing. This isn't happening, I thought. It can't be happening.Paul was here? And he and Scott were fighting in the street! Really going at each other. I'd gone to the window when I heard the crash of the motorcycle. Then I found myself immobile, unable to do anything but stand and stare at the unbelievable scene.Of course Paul was here, I thought, reeling. What an idiot I'd been! Scott and I hadn't been discreet. We'd sent e-mails back and forth. I'd actually put Scott's number in my cell phone. Paul had simply started keeping tabs.Guilt rattled through me. And fear. What had I been thinking? For weeks I'd tortured myself, imagining Paul with his blonde lover. Night after night, I'd envisioned them making love in their St. Regis suite. I was wallowing in the pain that only a spouse who realizes they're being cheated on feels. Pathetic. But imagining was one thing. Doing the same thing as revenge was another. I'd just had a quickie for Christ's sake! I watched, helpless, as Paul and Scott crashed into each other. Then the fight moved out of my line of sight, blocked by the vine-covered wall across the street. The two of them became just shadows. Violent ones that grappled and walloped and kicked at each other. What was happening now? I couldn't think of what to do. Call out? Try to stop them? And I was only looking at the preamble. It would be even worse when the fight was over and Paul came inside. When I had to face him. I didn't know how I was going to do that. Suddenly, there was a tremendous crack, like a well-hit baseball, and I didn't have to think about it anymore. Both shadows stopped moving. Then one dropped. He actually bounced off the ground before he lay completely still. Who was hurt? Who was down? I wondered with a kind of dumbstruck curiosity. Then the scariest question of all occurred to me. One that took my breath away as it nicked through my heart like a cold razor.Who did I want it to be?

Chapter 13.

FOR A HEART-PUNISHING MINUTE, everything was dead still. The shadow figures outside. My breathing. Even the rain appeared to have stopped. The silence was so absolute it seemed to ring.Then from out of it came a far-off thump. Then another thump. Thump, thump, thump. I thought it might be the sound of my heart amplified by terror until a silvery glow cut through the darkness.The unmistakable throbbing a.s.sault of cranked-up rap music reached my eardrums as a tricked-out Acura pulled onto the street and then into a driveway at the far end of the block. For the briefest moment, powerful xenon headlights lit the opposite side of the street, revealing the unforgettable scene in its startling entirety. It only took a millisecond, but that was more than enough time for the image to be burned forever into my memory. The standing shadow was definitely Paul. He was breathing heavily, holding Scott's motorcycle helmet in his hand like a club. Scott lay at his feet, a golf club near his hand, a black halo of blood beneath his head.This is what happens when you cheat, a voice whispered in my ear.This is what you get.Then, at that moment, I did the most constructive thing I could think of. I dropped away from the window and hid my face in my hands. Scott was down, not moving. Because of me. I was still in full-body lockdown, fumbling with these new, numbing realities, when another thought occurred to me.Was Paul crazy enough to come after me, too?Overcome with the need to see where Paul was now, I went back to the window. What the h.e.l.l? Parked directly behind Scott's fallen motorcycle, in the dome of light, was Paul's car. I watched in horror as Paul tossed Scott onto the backseat. It seemed like Scott's head banged against the door frame, and I heard him groan. What did Paul think he was doing? Finally, I rushed down the stairs of the apartment. I couldn't let this continue. I went through CPR procedure in my head. Mouth-to-mouth. I was almost at the door when I suddenly realized I didn't have any clothes on. I hurried back upstairs. I had my T-shirt on and was fumbling with my jeans when I heard the thunk of a car door closing, and then the sound of tires spinning. I rushed to the window again. I looked out just in time to see Paul's car speeding away. My chest burning, my head spinning, I had one more question for Paul as I watched the car's red running lights disappear into the darkness.Where the h.e.l.l are you going with Scott, Paul?

Chapter 14.

IT TOOK ME A FULL TWO MINUTES to realize what must have happened. Two mind-and-body- numbing minutes of leaning my head against the cold, rain-streaked gla.s.s. I smiled when the sweet logic of it suddenly struck me. For the first time that night, my heart slowed slightly and approached a semi-human rate. Paul must have taken Scott to the hospital. Of course he had. Paul had come to his senses. Sure, he'd lost it for a few minutes. Who wouldn't, catching up with the man who was sleeping with his wife? But after Scott had gone down, Paul finally snapped out of it. They had to be pulling up to the emergency room of the closest hospital right now. I called a taxi and arrived back home in Yonkers an excruciating forty minutes later. I threw open the door and stood there, staring at the microwave clock in the silent house.Where was Paul? Shouldn't he be back by now? What was happening?I decided Paul had taken Scott to Lawrence Hospital, about ten minutes away from Scott's apartment. But now over an hour had pa.s.sed. There was no word. Had something even more terrible happened? Maybe Paul had been arrested. I checked the answering machine upstairs, but other than my gynecologist's dispatch on my failing health, it was empty. After another five minutes, spent staring at the empty street, I seriously considered giving Paul a call on his cell to see what was going on. The problem was, I didn't know exactly how to phrase things.Hi, Paul? Yeah, it's me, Lauren. How's the guy I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g behind your back coming along? Is he going to be okay?I needed to find out what was going on firsthand, I finally decided. But waiting around like this was making me insane. It was time to face the music. I needed to go to the hospital. I grabbed my gun, tossed it in my handbag, and ran out the door.

Chapter 15.

THANK G.o.d FOR ABS, I thought as I came centimeters from rear-ending with my Mini Cooper the shiny ambulance parked in front of the Lawrence Hospital ER. "Where's the beating victim?" I called to the polished-looking red-haired nurse behind the Plexiglas at the triage desk."Oh my G.o.d! You were beaten?" she said, spilling the People magazine out of her lap as she stood.I looked around the waiting room. It was empty. Stranger than that, it was clean. Calming cla.s.sical music serenaded from the overhead speakers. Bronxville, Yonkers' extremely wealthy neighbor to the east, was one of the most upscale suburbs in Westchester, I remembered. Lawrence did lacrosse injuries, the occasional Oxy overdose, a debutante who'd fallen off her horse. I rolled my eyes as I headed back to the parking lot. A b.l.o.o.d.y John Doe couldn't have been left at Lawrence Hospital's doorstep, I realized, because the entire Bronxville police force wasn't here. So, where could Paul have taken Scott? I racked my brain for the next-nearest hospital. Our Lady of Mercy Medical Center, to the south on the Bronx River Parkway, I decided, as I peeled out into the wet street once again.Back down in the real Bronx. The one without the ville.After hammering it down the parkway for ten minutes, I noticed that the center-doored colonials that bookended the parkway had been replaced by less quaint, gritty tenements. Steve McQueen would have been proud of the fishtailing stop I made before I ran into the ER entrance of Our Lady of Mercy on East 233rd Street. I heard vociferous complaints as I cut to the head of the long triage line in the packed, grimy waiting room. "Have you had any anonymous beating victims in the last hour?" I yelled to the first nurse I could find. She replaced the b.l.o.o.d.y dish towel over the barbecue fork stuck in the hand of the Hispanic woman beside her before she looked up. "He's in three," she said, annoyed. "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" More shouts followed me as I rushed through the open door behind her. I found number 3 and ripped back the green plastic curtain around it. "Ever hear a knockin', b.i.t.c.h?" a near-naked black kid asked me in a malevolent tone as he attempted to cover himself with the hand not cuffed to the bed rail. A big white bandage was wrapped around his head, and a big white uniformed cop was sitting by his feet. I felt something shift ominously in my stomach. If Scott wasn't here, I thought . . .Then where the h.e.l.l was he? And where was Paul?"Yo, Earth to lady," the Bronx uniform said to me with a snap of his fingers. "What's up?" I was fumbling for a lie when I heard two loud beeps cut from the static of his radio. He ignored me for a moment as he turned it up. The words were too garbled for me to catch everything, but I heard something about a white male victim, along with an address. St. James Park. Fordham Road and Jerome Avenue. White male? I thought. No way. Impossible. Had to be a coincidence. I closed my gaping mouth as the cop directed his suspicious stare back at me. "So you're saying this isn't where I hand in my urine sample?" I said, backing away. Minutes later I was flooring it, heading south down the Bronx River Parkway. I'd just swing by, I told myself as I rocketed off at the Fordham Road exit. No biggie. It was almost stupid, really. Because Scott couldn't be at some Bronx crime scene. Because he was right now at a hospital, being treated for some cuts and bruises. Minor cuts and bruises, I reminded myself. I rolled west up Fordham Road. I pa.s.sed under a sign above a broken streetlight that proclaimed, "The Bronx Is Back." Where had it been? I thought, staring at the steel-shuttered Spanish clothing stores interrupted by the occasional Popeye's Fried Chicken or Taco Bell. I made a hard right onto Jerome Avenue. And slammed on the Mini's brakes with both feet.

Chapter 16.

I'D NEVER SEEN SO MANY NYPD cop cars in one place. They were on the sidewalk, under the elevated track, parked like a wagon train in St. James, a block-square concrete park. Every one of their blue and red and yellow lights was flying full throttle. There was so much yellow crime-scene tape, it looked like Christo had decided to do a yellow-and-black installation in the Bronx. Keep going, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. Some ER doctor is sewing Scott's st.i.tches right at this very moment. Or, who knew? Maybe Paul had already dropped him back at his place.Get out of this wretched place right now. You'll get into trouble, big trouble, if you stay here.But I couldn't go. I needed to be sure. I needed to act responsibly. Starting right now. I rolled directly toward the commotion. The thin, silver-haired cop directing traffic around the light show gave me a look of eye-boggled shock as I stopped my car almost on top of him. He was reaching for his cuffs when I opened the door and all but fell out of my car. When I went into my handbag, he changed his mind and went for his Glock instead. But then I took it out.Took out my badge.The gold badge I'd been given when the NYPD promoted me to detective. "Jesus," the relieved-looking uniform said as he lifted the yellow tape behind him and beckoned me under. "Why didn't you just say you were on The Job?"

Chapter 17.

I'D BEEN A COP FOR SEVEN YEARS, the last year and a half as a Detective First Grade on the Bronx Homicide Task Force. Which made my co-worker Scott Thayer a cop, too. Detective Third Grade with Bronx Narcotics. What can I say? Office affairs happen in the NYPD, too. I dodged under the yellow tape and walked toward the blinding white floodlights the Crime Scene Unit had set up at the center of the park. Maybe it was just my frazzled state, but I was all too familiar with crime scenes and I'd never seen one quite so frantic, or one filled with so many p.i.s.sed-off cops. What the h.e.l.l was going on? I walked past rusted monkey bars and a graffiti-covered wall for handball. I stopped in the darkness just beyond where the lights blazed down on a fountain so old and exhaust- stained that its granite looked black. A blue plastic tarp around its ornate base was half floating in the water, covering something. What was under the blue tarp? I had a feeling it wasn't some new artwork about to be unveiled up here in the Bronx. I almost jumped as a hand, large and warm, palmed the standing hairs at the back of my neck. "What are you doing here, Lauren?" Detective Mike Ortiz said with his ever-serene half-smile. Mike, my partner for the past year, was in his midforties and about as laid-back as he was large. He was constantly being mistaken for The Rock, so I guess that made him confident enough to be laid-back, or any other way he wanted to be. "Aren't you supposed to be down in Quantico, handing out, I mean, picking up, tips at the FBI Academy?" Mike asked. My seminar in Virginia was with the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit, an NYPD-sponsored brushup on the latest investigative techniques. "Missed my flight," I managed to get out. "I'll get an early one tomorrow." Mike clucked his tongue as he nudged me forward into the spotlight beside the fountain. "I have a funny feeling you're going to wish you'd made that plane," he said. My partner tossed me a pair of rubber boots and gloves as we got to the fountain's scrolled stone rim. I slowly pulled them on and then swung myself over the edge and down into the water. The icy rainwater went to about mid-shin. I kept my questionable balance and motion forward by concentrating on the glitter of the police lights inside the rain pocks. They looked like tiny fireworks, I thought as I waded closer to the tarp. Little red and blue blossoms of light. Kind of unreal, like everything else tonight. This was stupid, I thought with conviction as I sloshed even closer. Because there was a drug dealer under the tarp. Or just another junkie. People like me always ended up doing a meet-and-greet with them, just like tonight. Then I was finally beside the blue tarp under the hot, unforgiving glare of the portable light carts. No more delaying. I couldn't have turned back now if I'd wanted to. Mike Ortiz was right behind me. "Do the honors, Lauren," he said. I held my breath. And tugged the sheet away.

Chapter 18.