“Thanks.”
* * *
The alarm on Casey’s nightstand went off.
Rolling over in bed, she groped around until she found the off button and slapped her palm on it. She felt as if she could sleep another half day, but it was time to get her ass in gear. It was a quarter to ten—plenty late enough to put in a phone call to Nancy Lexington.
Ronald’s widow answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Lexington, this is Casey Woods. We met yesterday at the dedication ceremony for your husband.”
A thoughtful pause. “Oh, yes, I remember. Madeline Westfield introduced you.”
Not a good sign. Casey had to steer the conversation away from Madeline—for now.
“Yes, she did. I wanted to offer my condolences and to speak to you about donating money to the hospital in your husband’s name.” A bit of an exaggeration, but close enough to ring true.
“Of course.” Fascinating how a person’s tone could make such a rapid one-eighty. “How can I help you?”
“Would it be possible for me to drop by today? I’d love to get your opinion on my donation.”
Nancy hesitated. “My children are still in town,” she said.
Perfect. Ideal. Couldn’t be better.
“I completely understand. It’s just that it’s nearing the end of my company’s fiscal year, and if we want to make a charitable donation...”
“I see. Then that’s fine. Why don’t you join Felicia, Ron and I for a light lunch, say, at twelve-thirty. We can eat and talk at the same time.”
Bull’s-eye.
“That sounds perfect.” Casey grabbed a pen and paper. “What’s your address?”
Nancy lived in Yorkville, which was on the Upper East Side, while FI was in Tribeca, at the opposite end of Manhattan. Casey would have to allow herself about forty-five minutes to dash to the subway station, hop on and change over to the Lexington line before arriving in Yorkville and sprinting to the Lexington apartment. She’d better get moving—a quick cup of coffee, a shower and enough time to get dressed and put on some makeup.
She’d be there.
“I look forward to it, Mrs. Lexington,” she said.
* * *
It was just after noon, and Ryan’s lair was even more chaotic than usual.
Oblivious to the mess, Ryan narrowed his eyes in concentration, leaning over his worktable to epoxy another LED to the black wool face mask.
The door creaked open, and Claire stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.” Ryan shot her a quick, dazzling grin—one he reserved for the times when the two of them were alone. “If you’re here to have your way with me, it’ll have to wait just a little while. I’m on high alert here.” Another grin. “Can you hold out?”
Claire walked over and
punched his arm. “Asshole.”
“Careful,” he said with a chuckle. “I need to have steady hands for this creation.”
“That’s why I came down here,” Claire said. “Sorry to burst your egocentric bubble, but I was dying of curiosity. Marc is in his intense mood, waiting for something from you. His energy is so palpable that I had to see for myself what was going on.” She peered over Ryan’s shoulder. “What is that?”
“Insurance that Marc will remain unrecognizable to prying cameras when he breaks into Conrad Westfield’s apartment tonight.”