“Of course. Look, I’m sorry for … whatever.” Then, after a pause, “I’m just glad it wasn’t kiddie porn. That I couldn’t live with.”
“Fucking bleach,” Ramirez says when Harris returns from walking Heather to the elevator. “So no prints, no DNA, no clothing fibers. I’ll have the crime scene techs go over the whole place anyway.”
“Why not,” Harris says. “Let’s waste everybody’s time.”
Seven
Two patrolmen stroll down Hulfish Street and nod solemnly at Alex, who stands outside the Princeton Corkscrew, waiting for Diane. As the officers round the corner, Alex spots her walking toward him in a navy floral dress, high heels, and light makeup. Two men, both accompanied by women, turn their heads to watch her pass in the space of half a block.
“Simple, classic,” she says, looking Alex up and down. “Nicely done. Now pick some wine.”
While Diane examines a rack of American Pinot Noirs, Alex grabs two bottles of his favorite white Burgundy and walks quickly to the register. He wants her to taste the wine but not to hear the clerk inform him that the total comes to $346.52, which Alex pays in cash.
“That was quick,” Diane says from behind him. “What are we drinking?”
“Something French. I think you’ll like it. Where to now?”
“It’s walkable,” she says. “Let’s walk.”
Diane threads her arm through his and describes their hosts as they navigate the crowded sidewalks, both of them still nicely buzzed, the low summer sun warming their flushed faces. Rory, the husband, edits a magazine Alex has heard of but never read. His wife, Lindsay, does PR for a chef with restaurants in New York, Las Vegas, and Macau. They bought a teardown, built a house, and moved from Brooklyn a year after their second daughter was born.
“Rory would have stayed in the city forever,” Diane says, “but Lindsay wasn’t having it after she had kids, who usually get shipped off to their grandmother’s when their parents entertain. Lindsay’s a sweetheart but she knows exactly what she wants. Smart, funny, not above dancing on a table now and then. He’s—well, you’ll see.”
“What does that mean?”
“If he likes you, you’re the center of the universe. If not, he can’t be bothered. Drives Lindsay crazy, but that’s who he is. The other couple, Peter and Susan, I don’t know as well. I want to say he’s in marketing? She’s English and makes these beautiful sunglasses, speaking of which,” Diane says as she pulls a pair of round pearl-white frames from her purse. “They’re a few years older than you, but you wouldn’t know to look at them. I’m older than you, by the way. You know that, right?”
He knows how old she is from public records he looked up this morning, but lies to her a second time and says, “I didn’t know that.”
“I’m forty-six.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. This is us on the right.”
Alex has often wondered who lives at 236 Harrison, a sleek, modern cedar-sided home with large windows on a block of modest Cape Cods. Halfway up the wide slate steps, Diane catches his wrist, pulls him to her like a tango partner, and stands on her toes to kiss him on the mouth. The wine hangs awkwardly at his side as he runs his free hand up her neck and into her hair, growing instantly and uncomfortably hard under the stiff denim. Finally, she pulls away and pats him on the chest, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.
“Good show,” she says. “Come on, we’re late.”
The muted chime of the doorbell is followed by the padding of feet. A pretty, smiling brunette with a mole at the corner of her mouth opens the double-height door and steps back into the arm of a barefoot man in chinos and an untucked white dress shirt. Behind them, sleek furniture in neutral tones is arrayed over the airy first floor of their house, bathed in natural light and accented by brightly colored children’s toys tucked away in corners. Alex thinks: I should have been an editor, I have varied interests and a facility with language; can there be more to it than that? He’s been having these small, silent personal crises every time he encounters a man whose life is orderly and prosperous and on the up-and-up.
“Hi, Rory,” Diane says, as they embrace. “This is Alex.”
“Thanks for coming,” Rory says. “Always glad to—” His outstretched hand becomes a pointed finger as he squints at Alex. “Hey, I know you. I took a class from you.”
“At the Y?” Diane asks.
“The Y? No, no, no,” Rory says, snapping his fingers. “At Princeton Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.”
“Since when do you do Jiu Jitsu?” Diane asks.
“One of my writers gave me a lesson as a Christmas gift a few years back. Way, way too intense for me. I thought Jiu Jitsu was like Tai Chi or capoeira or whatever. Someone almost snapped my arm off.”
“And you teach there?” Lindsay says to Alex. “Diane said you did events.”
“On weekends,” Alex says. “When I’m not producing events, which, yes, is how I make a living.”
Alex catches Diane staring at him as he’s introduced to Peter, hale and blond with the lined eyes of a lifelong surfer, and Susan, his effusive, stylish British wife. He likes Diane even more against the backdrop of this crowd. There’s something raw about her that these people—polished, processed, settled in their lives—are feeding on.
“Okay,” Lindsay says, “I have three things on the stove I need to see to, but can I offer anyone a drink?”
“These gentlemen are gonna help me with the fire,” Rory says.
In the yard behind the house, he lights the charcoal chimney while Peter pours a round of bourbon on the rocks.
“So, Alex,” he says, “you teach martial arts for kicks?”
“I trained a lot when I was younger. Just a hobby these days. Teaching keeps it fresh.”
“Diane has a thing for tough guys,” Peter says. “Wasn’t she seeing some kind of special agent a while back?”
Rory sips his drink and says, “I think he was a firearms instructor.”
“Really,” Alex says. “Interesting.”
“Don’t worry, friend,” Rory says. “Very amicable split. He won’t come gunning for you.”
“Alex, what kind of events do you do?” Peter asks. “The company my agency works with is asleep at the wheel.”
“The stuff I do is pretty niche, outdoorsy leadership training, extended retreats, that kind of thing. I’m out of cards, but give me yours before we leave. Rory, how long have you been at the magazine?”
His host describes the arc of his career: someone’s assistant, no one’s assistant, someone with their own assistant, corner office, fin. Peter runs a kind of corporate innovation lab tasked with getting Pepsi out of the sugar-water business, among other things. Alex listens to their tales of office politics, creative sabotage, and executive psychodrama—dispatches from another world. The sun sinks along with the whiskey in the bottle. The meat goes on the grill.
Dinner is a blur of crosstalk, silverware clatter, wine splashing into glasses. Napkins go from lily white to abstract canvases in vegetable ash, soy sauce marinade, and Côtes du Rhône.