no?"
"Sure looks like Kikan."
"It knew I would be walking by," said Liv. "It was in another store, and it flew here so I would see it."
They went into the shop. A few minutes later, they came out again. The painting was circa 1800, and the shop owner wanted $750 for it. Liv had a small tear in her eye, and she looked at the painting again before they walked on.
Mary Ellen hugged Liv against her side, trying to comfort
her.
"Someday we'll be filthy rich," she said, "and I'll buy it for you. Because at the price that perpetrator is asking, it's still gonna be there ten years from now."
She hoped that no shoofly had seen her hug Liv. But life wasn't worth living if you had to be that scared.
At the station house, she had cultivated the image of a super-cool young woman who gave her all to her job and didn't entertain at home. The straight officers had never visited her apartment, and they knew only that she lived with another working girl—a thing so common in New York that it didn't arouse suspicion in itself. On top of that, she and Danny let them think that they were dating each other.
Often the two of them were convulsed with laughter when the men in the locker room and the women at desk jobs hinted fondly that they were waiting for wedding bells to ring for PO Frampton and PO Blackburn.
Chapter 2
Her scarf snapping smartly in the wind, Jeannie drove north on Route 684, at seventy-five miles an hour. Her left elbow stuck tensely out the open window of her white Lincoln Continental, and she drove skillfully with her right hand. A love of driving fast was one of the things she shared with her father, and she often eschewed chauffeurs to indulge in it.
It was possibly just a little un-Christian to drive so fast. On her way out of the city, Jeannie had weaved and shot her way along the East River Drive, then the Major Deegan Expressway, like a salmon fighting its way upstream. But she always drove fast. She was always in a hurry—had been in a hurry all her life, gulping down her food as a child, rushing off to church, to school, to her marriage, to beauty contests and acting school. She couldn't help it. "I was born going seventy miles an hour," she liked to say, referring to the fact that her mother had delivered her in exactly three minutes. "And," she'd add, "I'll get a speeding ticket on the way to Heaven."
Now she was safely out of that city that sometimes terrified her with its sinfulness and violence. Out here, as the car flew along through the soft wooded Westchester County estates, she could breathe more deeply. There was a kind of innocence here, even though she reminded herself that sin could flourish as well in a country mansion an it could in a 42nd Street massage parlor.
She was just reaching the Westchester-Putnam county line, where the six-lane Route 684 narrowed down into old Route 22, when she saw the state trooper's red lights flashing in her rearview mirror.
She pulled over, heaved a weary sigh, put her hand over her eyes and waited while the trooper swaggered up to her car.
"Your driver's license, please."
She handed it to him without a word. It already had one other speeding violation recorded on it within the three-year limit. She'd have to be more careful.
"Senator Jean Colter?" he asked, grinning.
"That's right," she said shortly.
The trooper seemed to take a perverse pleasure in writing out a ticket for a woman politician.
She drove on, and when the trooper was out of sight, the speedometer inched up to seventy-five again. Once she was on the winding old Route 22, however, she had to slow down to fifty-five. "I owe it to my children," she thought, "not to get myself killed. They need me."
Now she was out of suburbia, and into the real farm country of upstate New York The rolling hills were crowned with soft woodlands and apple orchards. Holstein cows dotted the pastures beyond the low tumble-down stone walls that bespoke the colonial past of this area. Here and there, pastures
"Sure looks like Kikan."
"It knew I would be walking by," said Liv. "It was in another store, and it flew here so I would see it."
They went into the shop. A few minutes later, they came out again. The painting was circa 1800, and the shop owner wanted $750 for it. Liv had a small tear in her eye, and she looked at the painting again before they walked on.
Mary Ellen hugged Liv against her side, trying to comfort
her.
"Someday we'll be filthy rich," she said, "and I'll buy it for you. Because at the price that perpetrator is asking, it's still gonna be there ten years from now."
She hoped that no shoofly had seen her hug Liv. But life wasn't worth living if you had to be that scared.
At the station house, she had cultivated the image of a super-cool young woman who gave her all to her job and didn't entertain at home. The straight officers had never visited her apartment, and they knew only that she lived with another working girl—a thing so common in New York that it didn't arouse suspicion in itself. On top of that, she and Danny let them think that they were dating each other.
Often the two of them were convulsed with laughter when the men in the locker room and the women at desk jobs hinted fondly that they were waiting for wedding bells to ring for PO Frampton and PO Blackburn.
Chapter 2
Her scarf snapping smartly in the wind, Jeannie drove north on Route 684, at seventy-five miles an hour. Her left elbow stuck tensely out the open window of her white Lincoln Continental, and she drove skillfully with her right hand. A love of driving fast was one of the things she shared with her father, and she often eschewed chauffeurs to indulge in it.
It was possibly just a little un-Christian to drive so fast. On her way out of the city, Jeannie had weaved and shot her way along the East River Drive, then the Major Deegan Expressway, like a salmon fighting its way upstream. But she always drove fast. She was always in a hurry—had been in a hurry all her life, gulping down her food as a child, rushing off to church, to school, to her marriage, to beauty contests and acting school. She couldn't help it. "I was born going seventy miles an hour," she liked to say, referring to the fact that her mother had delivered her in exactly three minutes. "And," she'd add, "I'll get a speeding ticket on the way to Heaven."
Now she was safely out of that city that sometimes terrified her with its sinfulness and violence. Out here, as the car flew along through the soft wooded Westchester County estates, she could breathe more deeply. There was a kind of innocence here, even though she reminded herself that sin could flourish as well in a country mansion an it could in a 42nd Street massage parlor.
She was just reaching the Westchester-Putnam county line, where the six-lane Route 684 narrowed down into old Route 22, when she saw the state trooper's red lights flashing in her rearview mirror.
She pulled over, heaved a weary sigh, put her hand over her eyes and waited while the trooper swaggered up to her car.
"Your driver's license, please."
She handed it to him without a word. It already had one other speeding violation recorded on it within the three-year limit. She'd have to be more careful.
"Senator Jean Colter?" he asked, grinning.
"That's right," she said shortly.
The trooper seemed to take a perverse pleasure in writing out a ticket for a woman politician.
She drove on, and when the trooper was out of sight, the speedometer inched up to seventy-five again. Once she was on the winding old Route 22, however, she had to slow down to fifty-five. "I owe it to my children," she thought, "not to get myself killed. They need me."
Now she was out of suburbia, and into the real farm country of upstate New York The rolling hills were crowned with soft woodlands and apple orchards. Holstein cows dotted the pastures beyond the low tumble-down stone walls that bespoke the colonial past of this area. Here and there, pastures
Similar Books
Singapore Wink
Ross Thomas
The Things We Knew
Catherine West
Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County
Amy Hill Hearth
Stuff to Spy For
Don Bruns
The Way of Wyrd
Brian Bates
Atlanta Extreme
Randy Wayne White
The House of the Scorpion
Nancy Farmer
FLOWERS ON THE WALL
Mary J. Williams
Darkthunder's Way
Tom Deitz