‘Goodnight, Mr Corsel,’ his secretary said.

‘Goodnight, Eleanor.’

Richard clutched his briefcase tightly and headed out toward the parking lot. It was already dark now. A gentle fall breeze blew through Boston, pushing Richard’s hair in the opposite direction from where it had been combed. Never mind. The work day was over. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and sorted through his key ring in search of his car keys. Naomi had asked him to pick up her stuff at the cleaners. She had also reminded him to buy some white socks for the kids. Richard shook his head. He couldn’t understand how his six-year-old twins could go through socks so fast. What the hell were they doing with them? Wearing them over their shoes?

With a tired sigh, he unlocked his car door and slid into the front seat. He tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat next to him. There would be traffic on the highways now. Maybe he should use the local roads. He put the key into the ignition…

… and a gloved hand grabbed the back of his neck.

‘Hello, Richie,’ a voice whispered in his ear.

Corsel’s eyes bulged. ‘Who the hell -?’

He was silenced by the sight of a large butcher’s knife near his throat. ‘Shhhh, Richie, not so loud. You wouldn’t want to make me nervous, would you? My hand has a tendency to shake.’

As if for emphasis, the hand shook. The blade coarsely caressed the skin on Richard’s neck.

‘Who -?’

‘Shhh, Richie, I’m doing the talking right now, okay? Don’t turn around and don’t try to get a glance of me in the rearview mirror. If you do, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

The knife now rested quietly against Corsel’s throat. He could feel the coldness of the metal. ‘Y… Yes,’ Richard managed. ‘My wallet is in my jacket pocket.’

‘I know that, Richie, but I’m really not interested in petty cash. I’ve got plenty of money of my own, you know what I mean?’

Richard swallowed, the knife moving along with his throat. ‘Wh… What do you want?’

‘You see, Richie, that’s your problem. You ask a lot of questions, you know? You don’t see me asking a lot of questions. I don’t ask how Naomi’s new job at the boutique is, do I? I don’t ask how the twins Roger and Peter are doing at their new school, right? So why are you so interested in other people’s business?’

The intruder’s warm spittle pricked in Richard’s right ear.

‘Now the way I look at it, Richie, you can do one of two things. One, you can go about your usual business and keep snooping around into Baskin’s money. That’s up to you, Richie. I wouldn’t want to pressure you. You do what you think is best for your family, but I should warn you: it would make me very unhappy if you continued to snoop, Richie. It’s not nice. Do you know what I mean?’

Corsel felt his whole body quiver.

‘Now let me give you choice number two. See how you like this one, Richie, and then make up your mind about what you want to do, okay? Choice two: you forget all about Baskin’s little transaction with your bank. You can go back to business as usual and not speak to his wife about it anymore. In return, you and your family will live happily ever after. You will never see me again. Sound nice?’

Richard managed a nod.

‘But don’t decide now, Richie. Think over your two choices for a while before you make up your mind. I’ll be able to figure out which option you chose and act accordingly. Any questions?’

Richard shook his head.

‘That’s it, Richie. You’re learning already. I’m going to slip out the back door and disappear now. If you turn and see my face or if you decide to chat with the authorities, well, let’s just say it would be an unwise move on your part. It may force me to get to know little Roger and Peter better. Do you understand, Richie?’

Corsel nodded again, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to stay calm. He pictured himself sitting at the breakfast table on a typical morning having a nice bowl of Cap’n Crunch with Naomi and Roger and Peter and…

… and the psycho in the backseat, his knife slashing across their throats. The screams, the sound of the blade ripping skin, blood spraying all over the place, his wife’s blood, his children’s blood.

Oh God, what do I do now? What do I…

Suddenly, the car door opened and the blade was off his throat. Richard was afraid to breathe. He listened to the car door slam closed. He shut his eyes and waited five minutes before opening them again.

When he reached home, Naomi lectured him for forgetting to pick up the laundry at the cleaners and for not buying the kids some white socks. Richard’s response was to give all three of them a hug.

Earl’s penthouse was something out of Architectural Digest. Literally. So much so that the magazine had devoted a cover story to what they called The High-Rise in the Sky. And it was gorgeous. Everything in the penthouse had been done in white. The walls, the chairs, the sofas, the tables, the carpet. The only smatterings of color were the large and varied assortment of paintings that adorned the walls. But somehow the white scheme worked and, more interesting to Architectural Digest, Earl had designed the penthouse totally by himself.

There were also plenty of windows, all of them offering a fantastic view of Boston. From the gleaming living room, Laura stared out at the lights of the Prudential Building. She moved her glance toward the harbor where occasional lights from boats broke up the blanket of darkness covering the sea. From way up atop this sky-scraper you would never guess how dirty that harbor actually was. But God, she loved Boston. True, she had never really lived anywhere else. Her family had left Chicago and the Midwest when she was just an infant so she really could not make a comparison. But Boston was her city. And David’s.

Earl came out of the kitchen, a Celtics apron tied around his waist. ‘Dinner is served.’

‘Good,’ Serita answered, moving toward Laura and putting her arm around her friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m starved.’

‘Well, then sit down and prepare yourself,’ Earl said. ‘The master chef has created a new masterpiece.’

Laura smiled and sat down. Earl was truly a renaissance man, she thought. Locked into his lanky, seven-foot frame was a man who played pro basketball, who decorated his own penthouse like a master designer, who cooked exotic dishes like a gourmet chef. He was even writing a book on his basketball experiences called Slam Dunk. ‘Smells good. What is it?’ Laura asked.

‘A treat from the Orient. Thailand, to be more exact.’ He lifted the silver cover. ‘I call it Shrimp Chow Earl.’

‘Mmmmm,’ Serita hummed. ‘Let me at it.’

The three friends began to devour the dish. It was, Laura thought, a delicious meal. Light yet spicy. Perfectly seasoned.

‘This is really good,’ she said.

Earl beamed. ‘Thanks, Laura. It’s been a while since you’ve let me cook for you.’

Laura nodded, not trusting her voice right away. She and David used to eat over Earl’s at least once a week. ‘I know.’

Earl smiled at her. ‘But David never liked my cooking.’ ‘That’s not true,’ Laura argued. ‘You’re a fantastic cook.’

‘True,’ Earl replied, ‘but David had the culinary instincts of a cashier at Burger King.’

Laura chuckled. ‘Can’t argue with that.’

‘I think it was living with T.C. and his grubby cigars and greasy hamburgers that did his tastebuds in,’ Earl continued. ‘I used to always tell David that your body is your temple. Now take this dish for example. Fresh shrimp, mushrooms, broccoli and natural spices – none of that chemical shit. The crap some people put in their body – unbelievable.’

‘What’s for dessert?’ Serita asked.

‘Soybean pudding.’

‘Yuck. I mean, I’m all in favor of health, honey, but let’s not be extremists.’

Earl poured his two beautiful guests some Chinese beer and sat back to watch them chow down. He shook his head and smiled. ‘It’s like watching Dobermanns in front of raw meat. How do you two stay so skinny?’