Night Film

71

“He was held overnight in the Tombs,” Blumenstein informed me over the phone. “I sent a junior associate downtown to get him out. They dropped burglary in the second degree, but he’s facing criminal trespass. Bail will be around five thousand dollars.”

“Why so high?” I asked, wedging the phone against my ear as I pulled my coat out of the closet and pulled it on.

“He has three priors. Assault of a police officer in Buford, Georgia. Petty theft in Fritz Creek, Alaska.”

“Alaska?”

“And two years ago. Possession of a controlled substance for the intent of sale. This was in Los Angeles.”

“What was the substance?”

“Marijuana and MDMA. He served two months, did a hundred hours community service.”

I told Blumenstein I’d cover the bail, then, hanging up, quickly relayed the conversation to Nora as we prepared to leave for the meeting with Olivia Endicott. I’d made Nora an omelet this morning, but as soon as she saw it, she announced she wasn’t hungry, her face red. I chalked this up to that bizarre black box of feminine behavior that defied explanation, until I realized — cursing my stupidity—it was because of what she’d told me last night. She didn’t want me to treat her with kid gloves, didn’t want to be handled like some fragile thing with a crack through it. So I brutally chucked out the omelet and announced that Moe Gulazar’s black sequin leggings and Captain Sparrow blouse didn’t suit a meeting with one of New York’s most elegant swans. I ordered her to change her clothes, which made her smile with relief as she raced upstairs to do so. Within minutes, we were out the door, hurrying down Perry Street.

It was a gray day, the sky threatening rain. We headed for the subway because we were already late. And if there was one thing I knew about New York’s wealthiest, they loved to keep you waiting, not the other way around.