will come out ‘I don’t.’ ”
“The wedding is in four days!”
“And the universe was created in six.” Madame paused just then, and her voice went quiet, as if we were conspiring together. “Now that he’s moved back in with you, I have high hopes.”
For the hundredth time, I pointed out the list of reasons Madame needed to accept her son’s decision to marry whomever he wanted. Matt’s age for one—he was over forty now, probably old enough to make decisions without his mother’s approval. And the proposal hadn’t exactly been rash. Matt had been sleeping with Breanne Summour for quite some time. Finally, I reminded my former mother-in-law the myriad ways Matt had transformed in Breanne’s shadow: wardrobe, attitude, expectations of entitlement . . .
But all of my arguments were to no avail.
“He doesn’t love her,” Madame declared. “And I can’t accept that Matt’s father and I gave birth to a son who would pledge himself in marriage to a woman he doesn’t love.”
I massaged my forehead, desperate for another change of subject, because in about two seconds the woman was going to start in again about how Matt still loved me.
“Listen,” I said quickly, “do you know what Matt told me last night?”
“That he still loves you?”
Ack. “No! He said he thought maybe the young woman who was shot had been killed by mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
I explained Matt’s theory. “Given the remote possibility that Matt’s right, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Breanne?”
Madame laughed, short and sharp. “That woman makes enemies on a daily basis.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Well, I can’t very well narrow it down for you if you don’t let me assist.”
“There’s nothing to assist!”
I took a breath. Then I calmly reiterated the stuff about the two very competent detectives already on the case. The line fell silent after that, but I could feel Madame frowning from fifteen blocks away.
“Well,” she finally said, “I am quite outraged that this poor girl was shot down in the street like some kind of game animal. Such a beautiful girl, too.”
“Yes, you know—” I blinked. “Wait. How do you know she was a beautiful girl?”
“New York 1 is showing a photo of her right now. Her employer provided it, I believe. And she had such a lovely, old-fashioned first name. I haven’t heard that one in years . . .”
I sat up straighter. “They’re giving out her name?”
“Yes, do try to follow me, dear. The newspeople have it right up there on the television screen: Hazel Boggs, twenty-two, of Wheeling, West Virginia.”
Crap.
“Clare? Are you still on the line?”
“I’ve got to go,” I said, scrambling off the bed. “Talk to you later.”
“But—”
I hung up the phone and grabbed my robe. I needed coffee and lots of it. Then I’d have to shower and dress fast. Matt would be waking in an hour or two, and I was going to have to break some very bad news.
I’d been wrong about the timing on Hazel’s name being released to the pubic. I thought we’d have a few days, but clearly the detailed report on the young woman’s murder was already being broadcast.
The fact was: if the shooter had wanted to kill Hazel, the release of her name wouldn’t matter one whit. But what if Matt was right? What if the shooter actually meant to kill Breanne?
I still had major doubts about Matt’s look-alike-stripper-shot-by-mistake theory, but the man nearly had a heart attack explaining it to me last night. As I stumbled toward the coffeepot, I knew I’d have to treat Matt with kid gloves this morning, because if he woke up still believing Breanne was in danger, then I was in for a heck of a lot more grief.
EIGHT
“YOU told me we had a few days! A few days, Clare, not hours!”
“I know, Matt, I know. Please calm down . . .”
We were walking north on Hudson. The air smelled springtime fresh with a hint of invigorating brine from the flowing river just a few blocks away. The morning sun was strong, and the swaying limbs of the newly budding elms were dappling the buttercup-yellow light with strokes of pearl-gray shade.
Matt didn’t notice. He was too busy power striding toward the Sixth Precinct station house, a squat, concrete, narrow-windowed iteration of midcentury modern that was described by at least one architectural critic as a visual catastrophe—which from one point of view, it was.
Just not from mine.
You see, the Village’s previous precinct building was located a few blocks away on Charles