leave her in a darkened corridor unprotected.
Slowly she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her vanity. As men went, Abe Reagan was quite a specimen. Tall, dark. Very handsome. She was not so naive that she failed to recognize the interest that flared in his blue eyes. She was honest enough to admit it had affected her. Methodically, she pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into the little plastic tray where they went, searching her reflection in the mirror. She was not a beautiful woman. She knew that. Nor was she inordinately unattractive. She knew that, too. Men looked at her sometimes. Never had she looked back, never given the smallest hint of encouragement.
She’d heard the whispers. They called her „Ice Queen.“
It was true enough. On the surface anyway, which was all she let anyone see.
She was not so cold that she didn’t recognize the good men, because they were out there. She was not so blind that she didn’t recognize Abe Reagan was probably one of them. But even good men wanted more than she was able to give. On so many different levels.
From the vanity drawer, she pulled out the small album that was perhaps her greatest treasure and deepest regret. Flipping from page to page, her eyes lingered on one photo, then another. Then, as always, she resolutely closed the album and put it away. She needed to sleep. Abe Reagan would be by tomorrow at six a.m. to take her to where they would ostensibly find the body of Anthony Ramey.
She wished she could be sorry he was dead, but she was not.
Anthony Ramey was a rapist. His victims would never be the same.
She ought to know.
Thursday, February 19,
12:00 noon
Zoe Richardson closed and locked her front door, having sent her lover home to his wife. She turned on the TV, having taped the ten o’clock news as she’d been otherwise occupied during the time slot. She stretched languorously, still as pleasantly surprised as the first time. She’d set out to seduce him for who he was and the connections he possessed, but damned if the man wasn’t a wonder in bed. She hadn’t had to fake it, even once.
But fun was done. It was time to work. She rewound the tape until the perky ten o’clock anchors appeared. Her good mood suddenly dimmed as it did every time she saw another sitting in the seat she’d earned. She’d paid her dues, dammit. She’d taken every insipid little human interest story they’d thrown her way. But no matter. With her new connections it was only a matter of time before she snagged the big one, the story that would put her face on every TV screen in America. And once there, she didn’t intend to leave.
Ahh , she thought. Here we go . Her own face appeared on the screen. She was reminding the viewers of her interview with ASA Mayhew that afternoon, of Mayhew’s failure to get a conviction against the son of the wealthy industrialist Jacob Conti. She managed to sound earnest and concerned when in reality she was inordinately pleased with Mayhew’s very public failure. Then she turned, nice profile, Zoe , she thought, and the camera panned back to show the famous Jacob Conti himself.
„Can you tell our viewers your reaction to your son’s verdict, Mr. Conti?“
Conti’s handsome face took on an expression of abject relief. „I can’t tell you how relieved and happy my wife and I are that the responsible members of the jury could not find my son guilty. This empty accusation has nearly ruined his young life.“
„Some would say the lives that are ruined are those of Paula Garcia and her unborn child, Mr. Conti.“ His face changed, seamlessly transforming to one of abject sorrow.
„The Garcias have my deepest and most profound sympathy,“ he said. „I cannot imagine their loss. But my son was not responsible.“
She watched her head nod, her own lips droop for just a moment before she went in for the kill. „Mr. Conti, can you address the rumors of jury tampering?“
She’d caught him by surprise with
Slowly she walked to her bedroom, sat down at her vanity. As men went, Abe Reagan was quite a specimen. Tall, dark. Very handsome. She was not so naive that she failed to recognize the interest that flared in his blue eyes. She was honest enough to admit it had affected her. Methodically, she pulled out her hairpins, dropping them into the little plastic tray where they went, searching her reflection in the mirror. She was not a beautiful woman. She knew that. Nor was she inordinately unattractive. She knew that, too. Men looked at her sometimes. Never had she looked back, never given the smallest hint of encouragement.
She’d heard the whispers. They called her „Ice Queen.“
It was true enough. On the surface anyway, which was all she let anyone see.
She was not so cold that she didn’t recognize the good men, because they were out there. She was not so blind that she didn’t recognize Abe Reagan was probably one of them. But even good men wanted more than she was able to give. On so many different levels.
From the vanity drawer, she pulled out the small album that was perhaps her greatest treasure and deepest regret. Flipping from page to page, her eyes lingered on one photo, then another. Then, as always, she resolutely closed the album and put it away. She needed to sleep. Abe Reagan would be by tomorrow at six a.m. to take her to where they would ostensibly find the body of Anthony Ramey.
She wished she could be sorry he was dead, but she was not.
Anthony Ramey was a rapist. His victims would never be the same.
She ought to know.
Thursday, February 19,
12:00 noon
Zoe Richardson closed and locked her front door, having sent her lover home to his wife. She turned on the TV, having taped the ten o’clock news as she’d been otherwise occupied during the time slot. She stretched languorously, still as pleasantly surprised as the first time. She’d set out to seduce him for who he was and the connections he possessed, but damned if the man wasn’t a wonder in bed. She hadn’t had to fake it, even once.
But fun was done. It was time to work. She rewound the tape until the perky ten o’clock anchors appeared. Her good mood suddenly dimmed as it did every time she saw another sitting in the seat she’d earned. She’d paid her dues, dammit. She’d taken every insipid little human interest story they’d thrown her way. But no matter. With her new connections it was only a matter of time before she snagged the big one, the story that would put her face on every TV screen in America. And once there, she didn’t intend to leave.
Ahh , she thought. Here we go . Her own face appeared on the screen. She was reminding the viewers of her interview with ASA Mayhew that afternoon, of Mayhew’s failure to get a conviction against the son of the wealthy industrialist Jacob Conti. She managed to sound earnest and concerned when in reality she was inordinately pleased with Mayhew’s very public failure. Then she turned, nice profile, Zoe , she thought, and the camera panned back to show the famous Jacob Conti himself.
„Can you tell our viewers your reaction to your son’s verdict, Mr. Conti?“
Conti’s handsome face took on an expression of abject relief. „I can’t tell you how relieved and happy my wife and I are that the responsible members of the jury could not find my son guilty. This empty accusation has nearly ruined his young life.“
„Some would say the lives that are ruined are those of Paula Garcia and her unborn child, Mr. Conti.“ His face changed, seamlessly transforming to one of abject sorrow.
„The Garcias have my deepest and most profound sympathy,“ he said. „I cannot imagine their loss. But my son was not responsible.“
She watched her head nod, her own lips droop for just a moment before she went in for the kill. „Mr. Conti, can you address the rumors of jury tampering?“
She’d caught him by surprise with
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