The Borzoi Killings by Paul Batista Read Free Book Online Page B

bathroom. Other than the bathroom matron in a blue uniform, no one else was there when her cell phone rang again. Exasperated, she snapped open her purse, composed herself to sound calm and neutral, and evenly said, “Brad?”
    An unfamiliar man’s voice asked, “Is this Joan Richardson?”
    She was startled. “Who’s this?”
    “Detective Halsey, Suffolk County Police Department.” Halsey was a common name in the Hamptons. Some of the original settlers in the 1600s in Southampton and East Hampton were named Halsey. By now there were dozens of Halseys on the East End—plumbers, electricians, policemen, lawyers, teachers.
    “Oh, hello. Has there been a break-in?” The Bonac ’s state-of-the-art security system was linked to three police stations in Suffolk County.
    “Is this Joan Richardson?” he repeated.
    “Yes, it is. Has there been a break-in?”
    “No, no break-in.”
    “Are you in my house?”
    “We are.”
    “Why are you using my husband’s cell phone?”
    “We used it to find you.”
    “Where is my husband?”
    “Mrs. Richardson, where are you?”
    “Has there been an accident?”
    “Where are you, Mrs. Richardson?”
    She was now very nervous, confused. She pressed her left index finger into her left ear and leaned forward, as if to reduce the level of noise in the quiet bathroom. Raising her voice, she said, “Where is my husband?”
    “Your husband is dead, Mrs. Richardson.”
    Sensing that all the blood in her body had instantly drained away, she said, “That can’t be true. You can’t be who you say you are. This is a sick joke, isn’t it?”
    “No joke. He is dead, Mrs. Richardson.”
    She leaned against the marble counter, bending forward because her stomach was suddenly painful. “My God, how?” Her voice shook.
    “Murdered.”
    “What?”
    “Someone killed him earlier today, probably this afternoon.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “We got an anonymous 911 call about half an hour ago. We got here as soon as we could. The front door was unlocked. We found him in his office. There was cold coffee in a mug in the kitchen, so we think he was dead for a few hours when we got here.”
    “My God.” Joan Richardson noticed the women’s room matron staring at her, a questioning and sympathetic look on her face. “How did it happen?”
    “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.” The detective paused. “Is there any way for you to get back here tonight?”
    “Yes.” And then she repeated, “Yes.”
    “Please do it as soon as you can. We don’t want to disturb the crime scene until you have a chance to look around.”
    “I’m at a party in the city. I’ll find my driver and get out there.”
    Even in the marble, stainless steel bathroom, she heard the murmur of hundreds of people and the tinkle of glasses from the party. And the Mozart music, that empty, cocktail party music.
    “When can I expect to see you?” he asked.
    She hesitated. “I don’t know. Four or five hours.”
    “Can’t you do it faster? Our forensic people are already here. Things are getting stale.”
    “I’ll try. But I’ve got to change first. I’m at a party.”
    “Whatever,” he said. “Do what you can. We’ll be waiting.”
    Lightheaded, trembling, Joan Richardson went into one of the stalls and sat on the toilet. Her mind felt as though it would burst. She was so profoundly distracted that she couldn’t urinate. She reached through her purse for the brown bottle of Valium she always carried. She called out to ask the bathroom attendant to pass her a cup of water under the stall door. She swallowed three of the always neat, miraculous pills. Gradually, even as she washed her hands and ran her wet fingers through her hair, the pills began working their magic. She took a twenty dollar bill from her purse and handed it to the bewildered Malaysian woman.
     
    In the vaulted entryway to the museum, where hundreds of candles cast their glow from candelabras, Joan Richardson roamed