"It's okay," I said. "I'd rather just forget about it."

"You sure?" Jeff said. "Because we could send that prick to jail."

I explained to Jeff that, given everything I'd been through lately, I didn't want any more turmoil in my life. Jeff said he understood, but he still thought I was making a mistake.

In my office, I tried to block out what had happened with Lipton and focus on work. A few articles had been e-mailed to me for editing, including one of Angie's. Since I'd been at Manhattan Business I'd always written my articles as quickly as possible, treating my work simply as a job, a means of making money. Now, as an editor, I worked much more diligently, laboring over every word, making sure each sentence was as good as it could possibly be. The only break I took from work all day was during my lunch hour, when I browsed the Net for information about upcoming wine tastings in the New York area.

Thursday was a repeat of Wednesday, minus the attack by Lipton. I was enjoying working late and spending a lot of time alone. For months I'd been so absorbed in Rebecca and our problems that I'd barely had time to myself, and now I enjoyed coming home to a quiet apartment.

Friday morning I was waiting for the elevator in the lobby when Angie appeared behind me. We exchanged hellos, and then the elevator arrived. Other people got on with us, so we didn't talk during the ride up. When we got out on our floor I said, "See ya later," and headed toward my office. Several minutes later I was settling in to start my workday when Angie entered and said, "Can I come in?"

"Sure," I said.

She came farther into my office, but remained standing.

"Look," she said, "I know awful things happened this week and I totally understand that, but I still don't understand why you have to treat me this way."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, all week you've been blowing me off, pretending that I don't exist. Didn't you even notice we've barely been talking to each other?"

"I've been busy," I said.

"I can't do this anymore," she said. "I mean, if you just need some space I totally understand that, and if you want me to back off I will.

But if there's more to it I mean, if you're angry at me for something, or if I did something wrong»

"Have dinner with me tonight."

She waited, then said, "Really?"

"I'll come by your place at eight o'clock. Come on, what do you say?"

"Okay," she said, "but if you wanted to go out, why have you been blowing me off?"

"Because I was a jerk, that's why. I really want to take you out tonight. What do you say?"

She stared at me for a few seconds; then the corners of her lips curled into a slight smile.

"All right," she said.

"Great," I said.

She gave me her address on East Seventy-fourth, and I told her how much I was looking forward to tonight.

Later in the morning, I went downtown to interview the CFO of Prime Net Solutions. During the interview I kept zoning out, thinking about Angie and getting excited about our first date. Back at my office, I conducted a few phone interviews for the Prime Net article and had to edit the text for next week's Company Report section. I was going to stop by Angie's cubicle to say hi; then I had a better idea. I sent her a bouquet of virtual flowers with a message that read, Thanks for being so patient. After she received the bouquet she IM'd me, telling me how sweet I was.

I'd been staying at the office until seven-thirty, eight o'clock the past couple of days, but today I figured I'd leave at around six, which would give me plenty of time to go home, shower, and change before I went to Angie's.

Around five forty-five, I finished up my work and went to the bathroom.

At the urinal, Kyle from Sales told me a long story about his misadventures of trying to sell his East Side co-op. I continued chatting with him for a while outside the bathroom, then headed back toward my office, deciding that I'd take Angie out to a restaurant near her apartment, maybe to one of those little romantic Italian places off Second. It was going to be perfect, I thought, and then I entered my office and saw Kenny, reclining in my chair with his feet resting on my desk.

HE LOOKED THE same as the last time I'd seen him, at the bar the night I was pick pocketed His long hair was messy and greasy, and he had about a week's worth of beard growth. He was wearing a light blue short-sleeved button down shirt, but he'd missed a couple of buttons and I could see his wife-beater tank top and sweaty chest hair. His body odor a combination of sweat and Old Spice had permeated my office.

"How'd you get in here?" I asked, although this was the last thing I cared about.

"I told the girl up front you were doing an article about me," he said.

"This is a business magazine, right? So how 'bout you do a thing about the blackmailing business? Come in, interview me, I'll tell you exactly how it's done."

"What do you want?"

He laughed, then said, "Besides all your money?" and continued laughing. Finally he calmed down and said, "What do I want? That's a good one. Please, man. If you make me laugh any more I'm gonna pull something." He stared at me seriously, then said, "If I really wanted you to put me in your magazine you'd have to do it. If I wanted you to run around this office screaming, "Suck my hairy cock! Suck my hairy cock!" you'd have to do that too!"

Kenny's voice tended to boom, and I was afraid other people in the office might overhear what he was saying.

"But I gotta admit, you had me scared there for a while," he said.

"When the cops came to me and told me about Charlotte, I thought you did her. I mean, it woulda made sense. She comes to you with the pictures, asks you for the money, then you whack her. Actually, you should thank me for saving your ass. That first night the cops were coming down heavy on me, they thought I did Charlotte and Ricky. They had me in lockup overnight. I was almost gonna finger you for both raps, but then the cops came to me and said they found out your little girlfriend did Charlotte. At first I didn't know what to think; then I was glad 'cause I knew you were still my butt boy for Ricky's murder."

"I didn't murder him," I said.

"And I'm Mother fuckin' Teresa," Kenny said. "Tell me, was this a hobby for you and your psycho bitch girlfriend? You went around town killing people for kicks?"

"I think you should get out of here," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I don't think you understand what's going on here," he said. "I control you now, not the other way around, you fuckin' prick. I tell you what to do and you do it. Maybe I should make you take your pants down and run around here that'd be a fuckin' riot." Kenny laughed.

"You gotta give me credit I was pretty swift, wasn't I? I mean taking them pictures in the first place. I knew something was going on that night, the way Charlotte was acting, all fucked up, but I didn't know what. Then, when I got her outside, I got her to spill it. You shoulda seen her, shittin' bricks. She thought I was gonna take you both down; then I told her I was just gonna go after you 'cause you killed Ricky. I told her we could take you for everything you're worth, and look what happened I am!" Kenny laughed. "I told her,

"Just make sure he takes the body down alone and I'll take care of the rest." Of course, she went along with it when she realized she could make a few bucks. Holding money in front of her was like putting a dick in front of Linda Lovelace's mouth. Yeah, Charlotte was a sweet little whore, all right, I'll give her that much. I'll miss her; I really will miss her. She knew how to suck cock like a pro, and you don't see that in a lot of whores these days. Most whores use their teeth and start biting on you like you're a fuckin' hot dog. But Charlotte knew how to deep-throat it, all right. She took it up the ass, too. You gotta respect a whore for that. A lot of whores these days won't let you anywhere near their assholes."