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  “On the other hand—” Isobelle looked him over and her smile became more expansive. “For you, darling, I might consider switching.”

  “Likewise,” he said, grinning back.

  She laughed shaking her mane of hair. “Seriously. You seem pretty comfortable here. Are you in the scene?”

  “You mean, do I come here when I’m not on the job? Nope.” He took a pointed look around, his eyes following an attractive dark-haired woman as she knelt gracefully at the feet of her “master.” She was wearing a crimson merry-widow corset and, except for wrist cuffs and a collar, very little else. Her long, slender legs were encased in black patterned stockings, attached to the bottom of the corset with black lace straps. Her dom, whose hands gently caressed her breasts, was tall, slender, good-looking, and perhaps a few years younger than she. His face was vaguely familiar and Blackthorn thought he might have seen him somewhere—Wall Street, perhaps.

  “I’ll admit, the place does have a certain kinky appeal,” he said.

  “I could introduce you around if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t socialize much.”

  “Because of Jessie’s death? You’re still mourning her?”

  He nodded. Sometimes it seemed as if he’d be mourning Jessie forever.

  “Did you and Jessie ever get into this stuff?”

  Good old Isobelle—always saying exactly what came into her head. Enough of this, he thought. “Look, I didn’t come here to talk about me. I’ve got a few questions for you. Will you come outside for a few minutes?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Look, we can do this now, while you’re relaxed, or tomorrow in your office, when you’ll presumably be stressed out and overwhelmed with work. Your choice.”

  “I’m here to enjoy myself, Rob. I don’t want to clutter up my mind with a lot of unpleasant thoughts. This is my escape. My refuge from the real world. If you want to talk, we can talk here, but let’s make it fast, okay?”

  He nodded toward Charlie, who was watching them as they moved into a more secluded corner. “He appears a little green at the thought of being found out. You can tell him afterwards that I don’t give a damn about his erotic proclivities. Solving a murder is all I’m interested in.”

  “Don’t worry about Charlie. I’ll deal with him.”

  “You sound pretty confident about that,” he noted.

  “He’s in love with me. I’ve been warning him not to get too attached, but I’m beginning to think he’s one of those obsessive personalities. It’s difficult to find good submissives. Especially good male submissives. You guys are too used to being naturally dominant in the real world.”

  “Did Rina know about your interest in kinky sex?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said calmly. “Rina knew a lot of things. She kept close tabs on people. She used to tell me how it is important to get to know one’s friends and relations—really know them, stressing the ‘really.’ It was part of her personal power philosophy. Know yourself, and know everyone around you.”

  This was new information. “You say she kept tabs on people. What exactly do you mean?”

  Isobelle shrugged. “Everybody confided in Rina. She knew a lot of secrets. She used to say she was helping people by providing a sympathetic ear, but I always thought there was more to it than that. I think she relished knowing people’s most private and personal secrets. And I don’t think she’d have hesitated to use them, if it ever became necessary.”

  Blackmail, in other words, he thought. A motive for murder? “Maybe someone wants to silence me,” Rina had told him when she’d hired him for the job. She’d admitted to knowing “too many secrets about too many people.”

  “If you want to understand Rina,” Isobelle went on, “you have to understand her deep interest in power. She called it personal power, as if it were something new and different, but just plain power-seeking is all it really was.” She waved her hand at the shadowy figures in the smoky basement. “Power exchange. That’s what it’s all about. Discipline. Control. These were issues Rina understood, even if she didn’t choose to act them out in a forum like this one.”

  She patted the palm of her hand with her crop. “You have to place Rina in the right context. Few people do. They think she represented empathy, altruism, and love, but that’s bullshit. She, at least, was honest enough to call her foundation Power Perspectives, because that’s what it’s all about.”

  “Did you and she discuss these issues?” Blackthorn asked.

  “Frequently. I was straightforward with her and she was straightforward with me. Power Perspectives changed her life. She moved from being Papa’s powerless wife to the mistress of her own fate.”

  “Not entirely,” Blackthorn reminded her. “In the end somebody else dictated her fate.”

  Isobelle made a face. “Yeah, and she would have hated that.”

  “So how well did you and Rina get along?” he asked after a short pause.

  Isobelle put her hands on her hips and stared at him through half-closed eyes. “Here it comes. Do you think I’m the one who hired her killer?”

  “Did you?”

  “For the record, no. But I know I can’t expect you—or the cops, for that matter—to believe me. I certainly haven’t gained anything by her death, though—you might keep that in mind.”

  “You expected to benefit from her death. You believed yourself to be slated to inherit Power Perspectives. The existence of April Harrington must have been a nasty surprise.”

  “Yeah, maybe I should have her killed as well.”

  Charlie chose this moment to return to her side. He nodded to Blackthorn as he took Isobelle’s arm nondeferentially. “They’re about to start the slave auction in the other room,” he said.

  Isobelle tossed Blackthorn a jaunty smile. “Ah, the highlight of the evening! We don’t want to miss that, do we?”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Blackthorn said.

  “Anytime.” Her tone was dry. “Actually, I’m having a party next weekend. Friday, if you’d like to come. It’s my birthday, and I’m going to celebrate rather extravagantly.” She grinned. “Bring a date, if you like. Or come alone. There’ll be some singles present; maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “An appealing possibility,” he said, grinning.

  Blackthorn decided to skip the slave auction. Isobelle had given him plenty of other things to think about.

  When he got outside to his car, the cellular phone was ringing. “You’re working late,” he said to Carla when he heard her voice. “Whatcha got?”

  “Heard from Jonas,” she said. “You’re gonna love what he coaxed out of some confidential data base about April Harrington.”

  “I’m gonna love it, huh?”

  “Trust me,” Carla said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sun was setting as April entered Central Park. She’d been walking to and from work every day, partly to get some exercise, and partly to drink in the excitement of the city.

  She loved New York. She’d always been a city lover— Washington and Boston were two of her favorites. But New York had everything from gaudy hustle and bustle to true grace and beauty. She loved its vitality and diversity. She loved the street vendors with their easily folded-up suitcases full of watches and jewelry of questionable provenance, the hot dog carts, the skyscrapers, the mad traffic, the graceful old architecture, the general air of doggedness and individual freedom.

  The city had always been the center of immigration and that was still the case—when you dreamed of coming to America, you dreamed of coming to New York. There were always newcomers, learning their way around the city. She felt as if she were part of a long tradition.

  Power Perspectives was in an office building near the corner of Madison Avenue and Sixty-third Street, and April’s apartment was on West Sixty-second Street between Broadway and Columbus. So her typical route home was to walk west one block to Fifth and enter the park near the zoo, cross on var
ious pathways to the exit on Central Park West, which put her a short two blocks from the co-op that had formerly belonged to Rina.

  She’d never realized Central Park was as large as it was—three long blocks wide and approximately fifty short blocks long. At first she’d been a little wary of walking there alone, but Kate had pooh-poohed her concerns. “It’s a lot safer than anybody admits. Nothing’s ever happened to me in Central Park. Just don’t hang out there in the middle of the night, and you’ll be fine.”

  And it was true that the park was always filled with people engaged in various activities. There were walkers and joggers and hikers and bikers, yuppies on rollerblades and showmen on regular roller skates who performed intricate feats of skating to the loud music of their boom boxes. There were street musicians and amateur actors who would choose a spot and perform, whether anybody was watching or not. There were lovers, some more discreet than others. Not to mention horse-drawn carts filled with tourists and mounted police on patrol.

  This evening, though, a Sunday, seemed quieter than usual. She’d slept until nearly eleven—a rare luxury— then gone into the office. There was so much to learn about her mother’s business that working at least one day per weekend seemed like a sensible idea. And it had been great to have the entire suite of offices all to herself for a change.

  Without the usual hustle and bustle of a regular weekday, she had lost track of the time. So it was not until fairly late that evening that she began her progress along one of her favorite paths in the southern end of the park.

  It was too cloudy to observe the setting sun, but the gathering darkness confirmed that night was coming on. By the time she came out on the other side, she figured, the sky would be completely black.

  She quickened her footsteps. The footpath that was usually crowded with people out for a bit of fresh air was almost deserted now. Thunder growled in the distance, and April wondered if the threat of an impending summer electrical storm had kept some of the usual evening joggers inside.

  She envisioned the way ahead of her. It was well lighted, and as long as she kept to the roads through the park, she ought to be safe.

  She hoped.

  She rounded a curve. Coming toward her at a distance of about fifty yards were three youths who looked about eighteen or nineteen years old. They were wearing baggy clothing that looked too hot for this weather. Did that mean that they were carrying concealed weapons? They were laughing and joking with each other, and they seemed harmless enough, but everything she’d ever read about the Central Park Jogger flashed into her mind, and she wished she’d taken a cab.

  Don’t be such a wimp! Goodness heavens, she reminded herself, if anyone knew how to survive in the streets, she did. She’d done her best to suppress all memory of that portion of her life, but every now and then it rose up to haunt her… more and more often now, since Rina’s death.

  Just last night she’d had a nightmare. Someone was following her. She knew he wanted to kill her but she didn’t know why. She ran, trying to escape, but he was faster. She felt his breath on the back of her neck and then his hands closing around her throat.

  She’d woken up, trembling and drenched with sweat. She’d turned on the lights and sat there in bed with her arms clasped around her knees, trying to banish the images of the dream. She hadn’t dared to lie back down and go to sleep.

  So far no one had questioned her about the summer of ‘69. She’d been told at the time that her records were sealed; this must have been the truth.

  The young men were nearly upon her. April held her breath as they passed each other without incident. Get a grip, she ordered herself.

  She entered an area where the trees were thick alongside the path. Up ahead on her left was the Wollman Rink—the roller-skating area, although Kate had told her it was used for ice skating in the winter—and the minigolf and basket-shooting backboards. The lights were brighter there and she was sure there would be some people lingering over a late game of miniature golf.

  She walked faster, caught her foot on an uneven outcropping of pavement, and stumbled. For an instant she thought she was going to fall, perhaps sprain an ankle or something—but she managed to keep her balance. She breathed a sigh of relief, then started as she felt a light touch on her arm.

  April whirled. A tall man was just behind her. She hadn’t heard him coming. His face was in the shadow of the big tree to their right, but she had no interest in his face or for that matter in anything else about him. Her instinctive response was to run.

  She jerked away from him and sprinted down the pathway. She could see the lights of the roller rink—it wasn’t very far… surely he wouldn’t do anything, not so close to civilization…

  She heard him curse and then she heard the sound of footsteps chasing after her.

  Just like in her dream.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Dammit, April, take it easy.”

  He knew her name. The rational part of her brain was ordering her to reevaluate the situation, but the part of her that dreamed dreams and knew panic was still in control. He was gaining on her. She could hear his footsteps pounding the pavement.

  “April!” he called again. His voice was familiar, but she was brimming with adrenaline; her muscles were full of it.

  She sensed him reaching out for her and she ran sideways, stumbling towards the trees. Her breath was tearing out of her lungs and she was panting. Off the path the ground was uneven. She couldn’t run faster here, this was stupid, why had she—

  “Jesus,” he huffed, coming alongside her and then swerving, herding her towards a thick grove of trees. “Slow down. You are not about to be raped and murdered.”

  “Blackthorn,” she gasped.

  “Yeah, it’s me, and I haven’t mugged anyone in years.”

  She slowed to a trot, then stopped abruptly, taking refuge in the shadow of a large oak. He overran her and came back, breathing hard, too she noted, although he was not as winded as she.

  She grabbed her side and bent over. Swallowing huge quantities of air.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded, gasping.

  “What d’you run for?”

  “You came out of nowhere. You frightened me!”

  “You deserved it, strolling through Central Park at night. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “I’m going home. I always walk home this way.” She was breathing easier now. She stretched and then ran her fingers through her hair, which was wildly strewn on her shoulders.

  “It’s nine o’clock at night. You can’t be that ignorant about New York.”

  “Okay, then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m following you, obviously. And it’s a good thing, too, if you’re going to be so cavalier about your safety. Although I certainly didn’t set out with the intention of playing bodyguard.”

  April leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree. Her blouse had pulled out of her waistband and was creeping up her midriff. She tried, unobtrusively, to pull it down.

  He looked at the spot and grinned. “Nice.”

  Damn him, she thought. I will not let him humiliate me. “What do you want?”

  “I think it’s time you and I had a little talk.”

  She looked around, wondering why he’d picked Central Park for a talk. “So talk. You’ve got five minutes.”

  “Why, thank you, but it’s going to take somewhat longer than that. You want to go find a place to get a cup of coffee?”

  Did he expect her to suggest a change of venue? Her apartment perhaps? “Right here is fine.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.” He looked her over and she had the feeling he was mentally undressing her. But all he said was, “You are, I take it, finding your job interesting?”

  “Yes. Both interesting and challenging. More so than I expected it to be.”

  “Rumor has it that you handled yourself very well during your first week. People are pleasantly surprised.”

  She quickly decided
not to take offense. “I’m pleasantly surprised myself.”

  “Of course, the real question has not yet been addressed—even if you succeed in terms of your administrative skills, what happens when it’s time for new books, new tapes, new inspirational seminars? Are you the guru your mother was, April? Are you grooming yourself to go out there and make more converts, lead more suckers into the Promised Land?”

  She shrugged. “I have considerable difficulty imagining myself in that role.”

  “So do I,” he said. He moved closer. He leaned one hip against her oak tree. He was casually dressed in black chino trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt. The jeans were tight, and emphasized the rather appealing curve of his buttocks and the long muscles in his thighs.

  He looked good for a man who must surely be approaching middle age. He had to-be at least forty, perhaps a couple of years older. His eyes, she noticed, were very blue, with thick dark lashes.

  “It would be a fascinating case study of the blind leading the blind. Or rather—” he smiled unpleasantly “—the blind leading the dumb.”

  “Oh, really?” She inched sideways. He was too close, and something about the tightly coiled energy in his body made her feel vulnerable. “In what sense am I blind?”

  “In the moral sense. At least by my definition. But who knows, it might not stop you. Most of the gurus of our time or any other have been skilled at schemes and deceptions, so maybe you’ll just ease on in.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Come on. Spit it out, Blackthorn. It’s too late in the day for word games.”

  “Ah, you’re very direct, aren’t you? I like that in a woman.”

  She glared at him.

  “Honest, direct, and straightforward. Except when you lie. Have you ever noticed that it’s the honest and direct folks who have the greatest success at lying? Nobody expects them to lie.”

  “In what manner have I lied to you?” she asked softly.

  He moved closer. “In neglecting to tell me—or anybody—about your criminal record.”

  She held his gaze for several seconds, then looked away. She felt the stress build in the pit of her belly. I was afraid of this, she thought.