“Did you make it?” she asked, taking in his dripping shorts, the towel wrapped around his shoulders.
“More or less.” Reflexively, he pulled the towel tighter. He didn’t want her to see the red, inflamed skin where his back had struck the water.
“Showing off again?”
“Raised two million and change.”
“Next time write them a check. It’s safer.”
“You care.”
“Your daughter cares.”
The woman wore jeans and a navy T-shirt with three yellow letters stenciled above the breast. Her eyes were hazel, her skin olive and taut, lines forming at the corners of her eyes like cracks in an Old Master’s painting. She’d pulled her thick, glossy hair into a ponytail, which showcased the angles of her face, the high cheekbones, the sharp Roman nose. As was her custom, she wore no makeup. Mascara didn’t go with the Glock she carried on her belt. Against his every wish, he felt something tighten in his stomach, a desire he thought was long quelled, a longing even. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had chosen wisely when they’d admitted this one to the academy. Her name was Alessandra Ambrosiani Forza, but she went by Alex, not Alessandra, and never Astor. For eighteen years she had been his wife.
“If you’re coming for the clambake,” said Astor, “you’re late.”
“I got the invitation. Sorry. I was busy.”
“You still knocking down front doors and rousting homegrown bin Ladens out of their beds in Queens and Rockaway?”
“I’m still at CT-26, if that’s what you mean. I’m running it now.”
“So I heard,” said Astor. “Congrats.”
“Speaking of front doors, you want to ask me in?”
Astor threw back an arm. “Won’t you come in?”
Alex brushed past him, and he noted that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes too puffy for just another long day. “This isn’t about Katie?” he asked worriedly.
“Katie’s fine.”
Astor was wary of his ex’s civil response. Habit made him jump back to offensive. “And home alone, I take it.”
“She’s sixteen.”
“That’s two years shy of being an adult last time I looked.”
“Not in Manhattan.”
“When I was sixteen, I was—”
“Drinking fog cutters at Trader Vic’s while you were playing hooky from Choate,” retorted Alex. “Or whatever rich boy’s academy you were getting kicked out of that year.”
“It was Deerfield and Kent.”
“Stop!” she said. “I’m here about your father.”
Astor took a step back. He swallowed, his throat tightening. “What about him?”
Alex placed a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Bobby. Your father’s dead.”
For a moment Astor didn’t respond. He was aware of the music blaring, of several men shouting, and knew that some kind of fracas had started out by the pool. He had been expecting the news since spotting the Dodge. He had not been able to think of another reason that would bring her so far from home so late at night.
Dad was dead.
He had not loved the man. The two shared a long adversarial history. More Hatfield and McCoy than father and son. Years had passed since they’d spoken. And so it was a fright when he felt the roiling in his gut, the prickly warmth at the corners of his eyes, the geyser of loss and emotion welling inside him with an uncontrollable and overwhelming rapidity.
“Bobby…are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said woodenly. “I…I saw him at the Four Seasons last week. He looked…good. He looked healthy. What happened?”
“Can we go to the study?” asked Alex. “It’s a little loud.”
“Sure.” Astor led the way up the stairs. He was thankful for the respite. With each step he tamped down his recalcitrant emotions, much as a man uses a carpet to beat down a stubborn flame. He reminded himself that Edward Astor had no claims on his feelings. The father had ceded those long ago, and it was his fault, not the son’s.
The black belt.
The memory came to Astor like a thunderclap. In an instant his stomach calmed. His eyes dried. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he’d stuffed any feelings he had for his father back inside the impregnable vault where he’d kept them locked away for thirty years.
The study was small and airy, with bookshelves lining the walls and traditional furniture. Astor closed the door behind them and the noise from the party dissipated. “What happened?” he said. “Heart attack? Car accident? I’d have heard if he had cancer.”
Alex stood facing him, hands hanging by her sides. “This evening at eleven p.m., your father, Charles Hughes, and Martin Gelman were driving together to visit the president,” she began. “Something went wrong with their car after they entered the White House grounds. I don’t have the details, but apparently it left the road and drove across the South Lawn. The Secret Service thought the car was headed directly for the White House and posed a threat. They opened fire. A bullet punctured the gas tank. There was an explosion.”