Donovan followed him out and was behind him the moment the agent who had taken the fingerprints confirmed to Albert that the body was Quinn Lang.

Albert turned around and looked at Donovan. “And then there was one.”

 

Chapter Ten

Donovan had known about the party a few blocks over at the Morris’ house for weeks. He had not intended to take them up on their invitation, but he felt like having a drink that night. But above all, he did not want to be alone that evening.

The Morris’ family apartment was a couple of streets down. About a half a mile; walking distance Donovan determined. He left his cars in the garage and walked down the road. When he arrived at the Morris’ loft, he was glad he had decided to walk. Not only would it allow him to drink, but there was a large queue of luxury cars lining up around the block. He recognized some of the cars on sight, and waved at the few people he could see, but most of the cars, especially the SUV's and limousines, had blacked-out windows. Despite himself, he knew he was paying extra attention to his posture and his walk.

He reached the entry gate just before a yellow metal-flake Lamborghini Murciélago. He looked down into the cockpit of the car and saw a face and body he recognized. He waved at Frankie Saunders and got a bright smile and enthusiastic wave in return.

He gave his invitation card to the security guard at the door, entered the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor of the building. He walked through the house and took the internal stairs up to the roof garden. The garden smelled of freshly cut grass. Donovan reckoned the garden had been immaculately arranged just before the guests began arriving. He knew it would have taken several gardeners several hours to do it.

The Morris’ loft spanned the entire block. From the upper windows at the front of his loft, he had a clear view of the property and their lush roof garden. He never spied on them, but they had a pair of daughters that were hard to ignore when you happened to glance out of the window in summer.

The Morris family was DUMBO royalty. Jim Morris was a Broadway producer of some of the biggest shows that had been produced in the last ten years and Kelly, his wife, was a scriptwriter on some of the greatest box office successes in the last decade. Their eldest daughter was an aspiring actress and both girls worked for a modeling agency.

The loft and roof garden were filling up nicely. The whole place was a veritable who's who of New York’s elite. Even the Upper East Siders had ventured off their island to attend. They had invited nearly everyone who was anyone. Donovan felt flattered to think he was among the A-listers. He was important enough in a way, but he was not one of the pretty people that appeared on the pages of the socialite pages of Vanity Fair or one of the moguls who made sure the pretty people had real-estate and investments. He hoped he wasn’t invited based on the social connections he was born with, but was here because he had built up a large base of clients that trusted him to deal with their legal affairs. A large number of his neighbors here were people who turned to him for legal advice when they needed it. Yet, he liked that he had both standing and blue blood, knowing they liked him enough to invite him and respected him enough not to shun him.

There was a band outside in the garden playing jazz music; next to it was the bar. He made a beeline straight for it. He bumped into Jim Morris there and made polite small talk with him, but they could both feel it was forced. He had not prepared for this obligation the evening required. He wanted people around, but he could not be bothered with the polite banter.

He quickly consumed several glasses of wine, then excused himself from Jim Morris and walked back down the steps and into the main house.

Inside the house was like an oil painting. Everyone who was anyone was there. A fifteen year old boy would have wet dreams of a room like this. It seemed Jim and Kelly had invited everyone they had ever worked with, or anyone who might help advance the careers of their daughters.

Donovan spoke to a producer who worked at the Disney Corporation and then a writer he knew worked exclusively for Time Warner. He liked talking to his clients in the entertainment industry, it was an exciting arm of the law, but it was not the stimulating company he was looking for. He was glad he never stood with an empty glass for long.

About an hour after he came to the party, there was a huge ruckus as a new guest arrived. Even from a distance he recognized the shock of blonde hair, the naked shoulders and the way she spoke. He wanted to make himself scarce when Justine Lavoie showed up at the party, but then he saw who was in her entourage. On her husband's arm walked Naomh Walsh. She was constantly looking around. She looked like she wanted to appear in love with her husband, but he knew she was there to make sure Justine Lavoie did not get up to her usual antics.

Donovan ran out of the door and made his way back to the roof garden bar. He got another drink and sat down on a marble bench in the shadows of a tree on the edge of the terrace. He had no desire to be in there anymore, no desire to be near Justine Lavoie, the deranged teenage pop star. He wondered whether he should perhaps dump Justine Lavoie's cases in one of his partners’ laps. He leaned back and sighed.

“Trying to hide?” a voice said behind him and a pair of hands ran over his shoulders. “Not a great place to hide though,” the voice said, whispering and simultaneously breathing gently, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

“Hi, Frankie,” he replied, tilting his head backwards to look at her.

“Hi!” she chirped and ran round the bench to sit down next to him. “Saw you on television. This Justine Lavoie is a bit of a handful, isn't she?”

Donovan let out a deep sigh.

“But she's not whom you're hiding from, is she?”

Donovan didn’t answer; he just looked Frankie in the eyes.

“Must be her PR chick. I heard she was involved with someone behind her husband's back.”

“How can you have heard that?”

“Gossip travels quickly in this town.”

“You mean you dig around to find the gossip before anyone else?”

Frankie grinned. “Something like that.” She leaned in. “Well, she's married, you can't have her. If you're lonely, I might be tempted to give you a freebie.”

Donovan smiled and ran a hand over her cheek. “A freebie eh?”

Frankie leaned her head into his hand. “Yes.”

Donovan sat up straight and pulled his hand away. “By the way, what are you doing at this party? Weren't you supposed to be with your fiancé?”

Frankie sighed and dropped back in the seat dramatically. “Boring!”

“Dinner with your fiancé and some of the leading businessmen of the city is boring?”

Frankie nodded fervently. “Yep. Boring as fuck. Besides...” She cast a quick look around and leaned closer again. “The mayor is a bit of a client of mine. Not sure it would have gone well.”

“He's a very loyal client?”

“Yes. Not my favorite client, though.”

“Oh?” Donovan didn’t ask her who the favorite client might be. He reckoned he knew from her behavior what the answer was.

Frankie turned toward the door. Justine Lavoie was just coming out onto the terrace. She was feeling up her bodyguard again, but it seemed Naomh Walsh was keeping her from doing anything more. She pretty much slapped her client back into line now.

Frankie frowned as Justine turned her bare back toward them. “When did she get that eagle drawn on her back? Don't remember it being there the last time I saw her.”

Donovan veered up. “What did you just say?”

“Don't remember it being there the last time I saw her?”

“Before that.”