Page 21 of 4th Silence
Meg grips my elbow. “Ten o’clock. Balcony.”
Mary Hartman’s presence at the top of the double staircase invokes images of a queen holding court. Her smile is pasted on as she converses with a group of admirers. Her jewelry screams old money, while her generous frame is stuffed artfully into a rich emerald green gown.
She makes some excuse and disappears from her entourage.
“Let’s split up.” I palm my phone, its screen lit with my list of questions for the woman. “You take the far staircase. I’ll take this one. That way, we’re sure to catch her. If anyone speaks to her, just keep an eye on her until she’s free.”
“Good luck.” Meg vanishes into the sea of tuxedos and sequins. I weave my way past a drunk socialite doing a live video on her social media feed.
A silver-haired dowager steps into my path, her brooch glittering with enough carats to fund our office for a decade. “Darling,” she quips, “Who let you in?” Her smile could fillet salmon.
I can’t help it—I lie. “FBI, ma’am. Undercover. I’m on the hunt for a serial killer. Now, if you’ll get out of my way…?”
Her veneer slips, and her lips flap before she asks, “Are we in danger?”
I lean in and lower my voice. “Only if I hit the fire alarm. Act normal otherwise.”
On my way up the carpeted steps, I pass hedge fund wives clutching pearls and heir apparents comparing Rolexes. Camera flashes erupt near a towering spruce strung with hand-blown ornaments.
A man downing Manhattans tries to grab my ass. I step on one of his Gucci loafers, and he backs away.
Then I see her—platinum updo, razor-cut cheekbones, vermilion nails. Mary Hartman, backlit by the Christmas tree like a Bond villain.
She’s holding court next to the second-floor Christmas tree, her gown reflecting light.
Six paces. Four.
Three women hover around her—a Prada-Dior-Versace human shield. One snaps her fingers at a server. “More Krug. Vintage.”
The teenage server in an ill-fitting tux rushes off to retrieve the champagne.
Wait for Meg, I remind myself. Stick to the plan.
I loiter in the tree’s shadow, admiring the icicle ornaments. Dagger-shaped. Decorative. Potentially deadly.
Down below, the quartet switches songs. Prada, Dior, and Versace continue to hang on Mary’s every word. I text Meg. Where are you?
Some guy spilled champagne on me. Did you find her?
Yes. Hurry.
A man joins the group—likely Ms. Prada’s husband. They argue quietly. Mary cuts them off. “Take it somewhere else.”
Dior and Versace make a quick exit. My chance. I can’t wait for Meg. I step out from the shadows. “Mrs. Hartman?”
Her neck shifts, a predatory calculation behind the movement. Not enough to acknowledge, just enough to inspect.
“Charlize Schock.” I offer my card. “Schock Investigations. I wanted to apologize?—”
Her fingers tighten on her flute. A single diamond teardrop earring sways. “Why are you here?”
“Supporting a wonderful cause,” I say smoothly. “I saw you and wanted to express my regret at the spectacle my mother has made, but if you’d consider discussing the case with us, we’d be happy to offer our services pro bono. Your family deserves peace.”
Champagne flutes clink in the background. The hum of so many conversations nearly drowns out the quartet’s music. Mary pivots but barely raises her voice. “You mistake me for someone who tolerates scavengers at my events.”
I stash my card since she’s not interested in remaining professional. I consider different tactics I learned from my Quantico interrogations. “Meg and I are good at our jobs. We unearth the truth instead of bodies. Isn’t that what we all want?”
Her laugh could frost the windows. “Do you bill by the cliché or the hour?”
