The Borzoi Killings by Paul Batista

for almost five minutes as she searched for Hank Rawls. She smiled tautly and brushed past the many men and women who tried to engage her—Michael Bloomberg; Jamie Dimon; the pudgy, oval-faced Steven Cohen; and ancient, owlish Felix Rohatyn.
    Surrounded as always by people, Hank stood near the hallway that led to the Temple of Dendur. He was happy. He was in his element. He was now sipping scotch. He always enjoyed himself. When he saw Joan wave at him, he slowly disengaged from the men and women around him. Taking his hand, Joan Richardson led him to one of the unoccupied alcoves not far from the coatroom. A statue of a Roman goddess, with robes of gauzy marble draped over her shoulders, rose above them in the alcove.
    She said, “Brad is dead.”
    “Come again?”
    “I just got a call from the police. Brad is dead.”
    “Brad is dead?”
    “Killed.”
    The Senator repeated as if he didn’t understand, “Killed?”
    “I have to get out there,” she said. “We have to get out there. Davey will drive us.”
    “We? That’s not a great idea, Joan. I’m staying here.”
    She stared at him, her expression a strained mixture of surprise, fear, and resentment. But then she said, “Of course. You’re right. You stay. I’ll be okay.”
    She took out her cell phone. Cupping her hand over her suddenly very dry mouth, watching the Senator finish his scotch and swirl the leftover ice cubes at the bottom of his glass, she called Davey. The driver was just outside the grand flight of stairs at the front of the museum. He was one of the dozens of chauffeurs allowed to park their SUVs and limousines on the brick-inlaid plaza that stretched for three city blocks in front of the museum. The long and narrow fountains cast up walls of water in which festive lights shined.
    “Davey,” she said, “I need to drive out to East Hampton tonight. Now.”
    “Sure thing, Mrs. R.,” he said good-naturedly. It was as though she had told him she wanted to drive around the block. Large, beer-bellied, although sober for years, Davey still had an almost attractive, winsome Irish face. He was obedient, unquestioning, charming. “The car’s right here.”

8.
    “We’re home, Mrs. R.” She didn’t stir. “We’re home,” Davey repeated.
    Drugged by the champagne and Valium, she had slept for the last fifty miles of the one-hundred-twenty-mile drive. Davey had noticed, when he glanced from time to time into the rearview mirror as the Mercedes raced late at night along the empty Long Island Expressway, that when she slept Joan Richardson didn’t look as put-together and well cared for as she usually did: her head leaned too far back against the head rest, her mouth was wide open, her legs were splayed out.
    “We’re home,” he said again, louder. Waking, disoriented, she pulled her hair back off her face, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them. For a moment, she didn’t seem to know where she was or have any sense of what was happening. But then she focused: the country road in front of her home was blocked by yards of glistening yellow tape with the words “Police Line” repeated endlessly.
    She opened the rear window of the Mercedes. Chilly air laden with mist washed over her face, a wave of relief. All around her were police cars with lights crazily revolving. Floodlights starkly illuminated the lawn like a movie set at night. Everything was ash white, a moonscape. It was well past midnight.
    The tiny eyelets of at least a dozen digital cameras pulsed brightly as soon as she stepped out of the car. The cameras stunned her. She raised her hands defensively. With Davey trying to fend off the reporters from The East Hampton Star , Southampton Press , and local television and radio stations that had already been alerted to the killing of Brad Richardson, she hesitated at the police tape that surrounded her home.
    Soon a man in a sports jacket and regimental striped tie, an identification tag hanging from a ribbon draped around