Winter had come early to Boston. A week before Halloween, the first snowstorm of the year had blasted across the
Atlantic, whipped Massachusetts Bay to an icy froth, and ripped through the streets and alleys of the city to dump
six inches of icy white powder onto the streets—not enough to cripple the town, just enough to clog traffic and
become an irritation. The weather forecast had been for a warming trend, but the forecasters were incredibly
unreliable even with all their sophisticated satellites and computers, and this storm had caught them with their pants
down.
Tonight Robert Sullivan brushed the snow from the shoulders of his wool coat, then hung it in the closet. The house
was cold and empty despite the fact that every lamp was burning brightly and there were three maids scampering
about, polishing silver that was rarely used, turning down his bed, making a fire in the den, pouring his brandy, and
fixing his favorite meals. They would handle any little scavengers who had the nerve to knock at his door in a week
and demand candy. He wouldn’t have to be bothered.
Rubbing a hand over his near-frozen jaw, he saw his reflection in the Louis XVI mirror. Age was causing his
once-robust skin to wrinkle and sag, his eyelids to droop, his square shoulders to slope. Someone had said it was
hell getting old, and whoever that son of a bitch was, he was right.
Life wasn’t the same as when Adele had been alive. He smiled faintly at her memory and reminded himself again
that all the money in the world hadn’t been able to save her. His life had been hollow ever since she’d given up her
battle with cancer and left him alone nearly five years before.
Funny, he never thought he’d miss her as much as he did. Their marriage had become comfortable but staid in the
years since Stuart’s death and the trouble with Bibi.
He and Adele had sl ept in different bedrooms and he’d had a string of young mistresses—discreet beautiful women,
some of them married, who wanted nothing more than flowers, jewelry, and a little attention. If Adele had known of
them, she’d k ept the information to herself, never once so
much as raising an eyebrow when he came home late or spent the weekend away. She either acc epted his excuses of
too much work or chose to ignore the obvious. He didn’t know which. It was only after her announcement that she’d
developed breast cancer that he realized how much he loved her, that he’d broken off with the other women, that
he’d remained celibate to the day Adele had passed on. In fact, there had been no other woman since.
He missed her horribly; her void was a real ache that was with him each time he crossed the threshold to this, their
home for nearly forty years. Her presence, the scent of her perfume, her gossiping whispers while she talked to her
friends on the phone, her thin smile, and her staunch support. Lord knew he’d been a poor excuse for a husband, but
she’d never once complained. And then she’d left him. Only when she was gone did he realize how much he’d
loved her, how alone and lost he was without her.
Alone. The word echoed through his brain.
Even his job had lost its luster. Being the senior partner in the law firm didn’t mean as much as it once had. He
dropped his keys in the glass tray on a table near the door and made his way to the den, where, upon his request, the
evening newspaper, a snifter of expensive brandy, and a Cuban cigar were waiting.
This evening would be better than most, he told himself, because he expected company, someone who, for the right
amount of money, was willing to help him in his newfound quest. Neils Van Horn, a private investigator of
questionable morals, intense hunger for all things monetary, and a r eputation for always getting the job done, was
joining him for dinner.