Boston Noir

She knows why Daddy is calling and she knows why Mother isn’t. Mother is lying perfectly still in some dark room with a damp cloth on her forehead and a few dozen milligrams of Percocet coursing through her veins. Daddy would be more worried than upset. Worried about his cash flow. “Doesn’t matter what they call you,” he always tells her, usually in front of her MD brothers, “as long as the bonuses keep rolling in.” Bo, James, and Danny were too smart or too selfish or both to keep investing in his hedge fund, which really meant tithing over some growing percentage of her annual bonus and calling it an investment so that Mother wouldn’t be humiliated by another of Daddy’s busted ventures. Eventually, Daddy had stopped asking her brothers for money. “They’re married,” he’d told her. “They have families of their own to feed.”

Sloan’s legs feel like dead weights, so heavy. She walks to the couch and crashes down. “I don’t want to talk to him, and if you make me, I swear I will hang up and you will never hear from me again.”

“I can’t make you do anything, remember? You’re in charge. We’re doing things your way.”

“Then stop asking. Tell him to stop calling.”

“Consider it done. Is there anyone you want to talk to? Who’s this Rowan?”

She smiles, envisioning Officer Jimmy thumbing quickly through a stack of background information on her that someone has dumped in his lap. “My horse.”

“Your horse?” There is shuffling and mumbling. “Okay, I see it here now. Holy smokes, he’s a beauty. Is he at your horse farm?” More shuffling. “Where is this Millbrook anyway?”

“ New York.”

“ New York is a big state and I’m sitting here without my Google.”

That’s a lie. He’s probably sitting there with every possible source of data at his disposal, but she doesn’t mind playing along with Officer Jimmy. “It’s in the eastern part of the state, close to the Connecticut border.”

“How long’s it take you to get out there?”

“Three and a half hours.”

“You just go 90 west?”

“To Route 22.”

“Yeah, I have no idea where that is.”

“If you keep going on 22 you get to Poughkeepsie.”

“If you say so. How often do you get out there?”

“Every weekend.”

“Wow. You must really like the place.”

There isn’t a word strong enough to describe how she feels out there. Millbrook is her escape. She makes the drive every Friday after work, rain or shine, happy or sad. She stays through Sunday night and drives straight to work on Monday. There is space out there. There is grass and air that smells nice. In the winter there is clean snow that stretches on forever.

And Rowan.

She closes her eyes and conjures him. She smells his barn and feels him moving under her hands as she curries his withers. The grooms always put him on the crossties to clean him, but not Sloan. She scratches all his favorite places and smiles when he curls his neck around to give her a playful nudge every time she finds another with the hard bristles. Then she rides him and feels his calm and coiled anticipation as he gathers himself for a jump, then the explosion, the thrust high into the air and that feeling of flying, just Rowan and her, her face so close that his mane brushes her cheek.

She pushes at the tears with the back of her hand and gets to her feet. “I’m turning off the lights. It’s too hot in here. I’m also putting up one of the blinds, just so you know.”

“Just so you know, I don’t control the snipers. I’m not the one in charge of the scene.”

“I don’t even have the gun. It’s on Trevor’s standing desk.” She looks around for her earpiece so she can have both hands free, hopes the battery hasn’t run down.

“What the hell is a standing desk?”

“All the CIOs have them. It’s a power thing.”

“What’s a CIO?”

“Chief Investment Officer.” She finds the earpiece on the floor near Beck’s chair and switches the call over. “But Trevor didn’t want one like everyone else, so he…actually, he had his assistant Nicole do all the research and she found this mahogany antique that was used by Charles Dickens. It cost the firm over $100,000 to have it restored and shipped from London.”

“A hundred grand? Jeez, that would have covered both my kids’ college tuition.”

The light switch is by the door. This time as she passes Trevor, she reaches down and tips the chair off of him, setting it back on its feet. She flips the lights off and feels instantly better, cooler. She rolls up one of the fancy shades and then, what the hell, does them all. She opens all the windows of the corner office to the nighttime view. It is magnificent, even at 2 o’clock in the morning. She feels as if she’s floating out over the harbor, just another of the lights moving across the water. They must be ships, those lights, and she wonders what life would be like living on a moving vessel. Logan has airport lights: red ones, green ones, bright beacons, flashing fast and slow. The runway lights look like jeweled bracelets laid out on a black velvet pillow.