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doorway.
    “Dessert for Otter and I,” she told Dustin. “That cake you made. But none for our friends here. They won’t be staying long.”
    ***

Five
    Bridget stood in the shower, relishing the feel of the hot water pounding her back. Steam rose; she should have turned on the fan. It fogged the glass door, and she traced patterns on it, first a crooked smiley face, then a symbol for the Westies, an Irish street gang she belonged to during her teen years. Small then, truly insignificant in numbers now, the Westies had been her family, and she knew that the man who headed it had been a better parent to her than she was to Otter. Maybe not in the guiding hand sense to show her right from wrong, but in all the other ways that really mattered … being around, being interested and supportive. She’d embraced the Irish-Brooklyn culture, held to some of the slang, and thought of Westies often. She brushed away the symbols and watched the glass fog over again.
    At least she had provided Otter with a memorable birthday dinner, and she’d take the boy with her tonight as a treat. Dear God, don’t let the kid talk about any of this with Tavio, she thought. Her ex- was so Catholic-straight-and-narrow-minded he’d never let her see Otter again. Or was that what she wanted, to completely sever her parental responsibility? That would make Tavio happy.
    She was surprised the marriage had lasted as long as it had; her marrying so young and on an impulse, getting pregnant within the first couple of months. The sex had been frequent and good; and he’d bought her enough pretty things to keep her close for nearly ten years. But Bridget’s business had lured her away an increasing number of hours—more than Tavio was willing to put up with and for dealings he grew less and less tolerant of. She feared on more than one occasion he’d call the police about her doings. Though Tavio was no angel, he told her she was a bad role model for their son. The divorce was finalized three years ago.
    She turned off the water and drew the last traces of steam deep into her lungs, then stepped out and toweled herself carefully—the wrestling match with the thieves had resulted in painfully sore ribs. Already a bruise the size of a dinner plate was showing. She padded to her closet, which had once been a small bedroom, and selected an olive pair of skinny jeans and a black turtleneck. She dressed by the window, looking across at the nearby brownstones of Fort Greene.
    It was a Brooklyn neighborhood on the edge of being upscale and trendy. Years past the area had been primarily black, and crime rates were high; now it was truly an ethnic melting pot of upper middle-class, touted by local politicians as being safe enough to walk your dog at three a.m. The sheen of Fort Greene, from Atlantic to Nassau, Flushing to Flatbush, had relaxed some of the residents, lulling them into a sense of security. An area with million-dollar condos? Bridget thought that kind of sparkle attracted criminals.
    Rapes, robberies, and felony assaults were up a little, and there were reports of stolen cars every few months. A doughy woman directly across the street had flowers and a bicycle stolen yesterday. Realtors tried hard to downplay all of that.
    None of those things worried at her, as she had state-of-the-art security … though that would have to be analyzed as tonight’s thieves had managed to find their way through it. Too, she was part of the criminal element that had crept in.
    She loved this brownstone, remodeled and decorated to suit her perfectly, roughly twelve thousand square feet of space. Other buildings in the historic block were apartments and high-end condos that had shot up property values; Bridget’s place had a dozen units in it when she’d purchased it four years ago and sent all the tenants elsewhere. She didn’t like to share her quarters. She’d paid a little more than eight million for it, but it was easily worth double that now with all