Deadly Rich by Edward Stewart Page B

you look dreadful .”
    Sometimes her ex-husband amazed her. It was as though he had no conception of what she’d been through yesterday. She lifted her glass to the light and frowned through the ripples of club soda and lime. “Looks like someone melted down an old Coke bottle.”
    “Someone did. His name is Jorge Sintera of Now Design, and these very tumblers are featured in the upcoming New York Times Magazine cover interview with Prince Frederick of Denmark.”
    She found herself staring at Dick Braidy with his thinning, neatly combed-back gray-blond hair. His alert, humorous eyes, blinking behind Paris-designed bifocals, reminded her of two gray-green marbles. “How do you always manage to keep up with everything?”
    “It’s not that hard if you’re willing to devote twenty-five hours a day to it. But I believe the subject was Dizey and you.”
    Leigh twisted the glass between both hands and studied the miniature whirlpool she had created. “Dizey knows who got Jim Delancey out of prison, and she won’t tell me.”
    There was a play of small muscles in Dick Braidy’s forehead. “Now, just come off it. This is me you’re talking to, toots. That was a half-blind item in the column today. She does it all the time—pure bluff. And besides, what good would it do you to know? What happens then? You sue the penal system?”
    “This is going to sound crazy.” Leigh set down her glass and wrapped her arms around herself, hugged herself close. “I could never tell anyone else—they’d think I was paranoid.”
    Dick Braidy guffawed. “But it’s okay to tell me, because I was married to you for three years, and I know you’re paranoid. Okay. Let the craziness commence. I’m all ears.”
    “Jim Delancey killed Oona.”
    The silence in the room changed. The muffled sound of traffic twelve stories below seemed to fade.
    Dick Braidy sank into his armchair as though he’d been pushed. “And how do you know that? Did you just happen to stroll past the open door of the changing room and see it?”
    “Of course not. Please don’t do that to me, Dick.” It hurt her to let anyone, even the closest of her ex-husbands, see what a frightened, needy, vulnerable little child she was, how aching and desperate to be reassured and, yes, believed. “I don’t know it, I just feel it.”
    He sat with an expression of wanting intensely to understand. “Look, toots, I can state from personal experience, you’re second to none in the intuition department. Now, if you’re trying to put that killer back in prison where he belongs, brava. You can count on me to stand right beside you. But feelings are not going to do the trick in a court of law.”
    “I’m not the only one who feels it. The police feel it too.”
    He watched her with those quietly aware eyes. “And what makes you think that?”
    “A long talk with the lieutenant who’s heading the task force.”
    “So they’ve given poor old Oona a task force, have they? Well, it’s the least she deserves.”
    “The police don’t even know who got Delancey out and Dizey does and she’s treating it like a gossipy little exclusive.”
    “After today’s column don’t think for a minute the police won’t ask Dizey a question or two.”
    “She’ll say freedom of the press and take her case to TV.”
    “Granted, Dizey has been known to possess a streak of opportunism …” Dick Braidy ran the tip of his finger around the rim of his glass.
    “You could find out,” Leigh said. “You know how to handle her.”
    “That I do. Dizey and I are dish buddies from way back.” He sat there nodding at her. His gaze seemed laden with concern. “Do you know what you should do, hon? You should really consider joining my gym. The workouts are absolute psychotherapy, and they cost a third of what a shrink charges.”
    She rose from her chair. “You know, Dick, when you treat me like an idiot, it’s like a telegram saying that part of me just died.”
    He leapt to his feet.