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would always be there—but Owen seemed so sincere, so diligent in his efforts, I began to feel an obligation to help him get the company stabilized.

S  E  V  E  N
     
    two months later
     
    “Kick,” Owen called through his open office door. “Come in here.”
    “Excuse me, sir?” I pretended not to hear.
    “Come in here . . . please.”
    Better.
    Benjamin Ballantine had been in the ground for ten weeks and basically, except for the dress code, all three hundred years of propriety had exited the executive offices. We were now under the command of a more modern regime, a cadre of Brace International’s youthful staffers, who, if they’d had any inkling that Mr. Brace’s entire empire was on the verge of toppling, falling right off the cliff, might not have been so cavalier.
    “Kick,” Owen called again. “What are you doing?”
    I picked up my book. “On my way, sir.” Just as I stood up, the top of Tina’s peroxided head crested the staircase. Then the whole kit ’n’ caboodle of Owen’s child bride roared into view. She was moving fast on long slim legs that shot out from her full-length lynx coat like hurdler pistons and pounded up the stairs two at a time. The coat that matched her hair flew open to reveal her running bra, bike shorts, and sneakers. White-rimmed dark glasses covered her big brown eyes, which had lashes like Bambi’s. One hand held her omnipresent bottle of Evian water—what on earth she needed all that water for, I’ll never understand. Security, I suppose. Just the same as she “needed” the 250,000-dollar coat. Her other hand wielded a large manila envelope rolled up and borne aloft like an Olympic torch. Because I’d arranged for its delivery, I knew the envelope contained divorce papers.
    Owen realized that if he was going to save the business, and turn himself into a respectable gentleman, he had to stop living his life on the front page of the tabloids, which meant Tina had to go. As far as I could tell, the decision hadn’t appeared to cause him any particular brain damage—he’d handled it with the same offhand attitude as ordering up his barber. But I guess when you’re on your third or fourth marriage and divorce, it all takes on a rhythm of its own.
    “Get David on the phone, please,” he’d said. “I’ve got to get a divorce.”
    The separation had been carefully and efficiently orchestrated by my office and David de Menuil, Owen’s on-call round-the-clock attorney who seemed to have no life but Owen, and implemented around Tina’s schedule of publicity appearances for her new movie.
    “Theoretically, this timing should make it easier on Tina,” David explained. “Sort of a good news–bad news approach. Bad news: Your husband’s divorcing you. Good news—your public needs you— you’re the star. She’ll get over it in a hurry.”
    I’d had Owen’s new Savile Row wardrobe, papers, and important works of art—all items Tina probably had never noticed since they were neither cell phones nor mirrored—removed from the town house and installed in a residential suite at the Dukes Hotel down the street from the office. The items in his residential safes, mostly U.S. dollars, gold bullion, jewelry, and handguns, all of which spoke volumes about Owen’s murky roots, were transferred to the wall safe in his office. The only personal items left behind at his former home were his former wardrobe and the gifts Tina had given him, the majority of which were either sexual or sparkling.
    “Good morning, Miss Romero,” I began.
    “I know.” She flew toward and then past me. “He’s ‘in conference,’ he’s ‘not available at the moment.’ Well, for once he’s ‘in’ for me. He can’t do this to me. You should call the police right now, because I’m going to kill the fucking son of a bitch.”
    “Should I call your agent, as well?” I asked. “And your publicist?”
    “Sure.” Then she threw open the door to Owen’s office so hard,