From the Heart

and baby sitter.” Slade gave a snort of disgust. “Look, Commissioner, I’m that close to wrapping up the Bitronelli murder.” He brought his thumb and forefinger together. “If—”
    “You’d better be,” Dodson interrupted again, but with a hint of steel in his voice. “The press is having a great time making the NYPD look like fools on that one. And if you’re so close,” he added before Slade could toss back a furious retort, “you should be able to leave for Connecticut in a couple of days. The Bureau is interested in having a cop on the inside. A cop who knows how to keep his eyes and ears open. They’ve checked you out and agree with my choice.”
    “Terrific,” Slade muttered. Standing, he prowled the room. “I’m homicide, not robbery.”
    “You’re a cop,” Dodson said shortly.
    “Yeah.” Baby-sitting for some snobby little heiress, Slade thought darkly, who was either smuggling for thrills or too dizzy to see what was going on under her nose. “Terrific,” he muttered again.
    Once Janice was out of college, he thought, he could quit the force and concentrate on his writing. He was tired of it. Tired of the misery he came in contact with almost every day of his life. Tired of the dirt, the futility, tired of the nasty little pieces of humanity his job forced him to deal with. And tired too of seeing the look of relief in his mother’s eyes each time he came home. With a sigh, he resigned himself. Maybe a couple of weeks in Connecticut would be a nice change. A change anyway.
    “When?” he demanded as he turned back to face Dodson.
    “Day after tomorrow,” Dodson said smoothly. “I’ll give you a complete briefing, then I’ll call Jessica and tell her to expect you.”
    With a shrug, Slade went back to his chair to listen.

1
    F all touched the trees and stung the air. Against a hard blue sky, the colors were vibrant, passionate. The ribbon of road cut through the hills and wound eastward toward the Atlantic. Whipping through the open car windows, the wind was chilled and fragrant. Slade wondered how long it had been since he had smelled that kind of freshness. No city smells of sweat and exhaust. When his book was accepted, perhaps he could move his mother and Janice out of the city—a home in the country maybe, or near the shore. It was always when or as soon as. He couldn’t afford to think if.
    Another year on the force—another year of scraping up tuition money—and then . . . . Shaking his head, Slade turned up the radio. It wasn’t any good thinking of next year. He wasn’t in Connecticut to appreciate the scenery. It was just another job—and one he resented.
    Jessica Winslow, he mused, age twenty-seven. The only child of Justice Lawrence Winslow and Lorraine Nordan Winslow. Graduate of Radcliffe, senior class president. She’d probably been head cheerleader, too, he thought with a sneer. All button-downed and pony-tailed. Ralph Lauren sweaters and Gucci loafers.
    Struggling to be open minded, he continued his catalog. Opened the House of Winslow four years ago. Up until two years ago she did the majority of buying herself. Good excuseto play around in Europe, he thought as he punched in the car lighter.
    Michael Adams, Jessica Winslow’s assistant and current buyer. Thirty-two, Yale graduate. Figures, Slade reflected, exhaling smoke that rushed out of the open window. Son of Robert and Marion Adams, another prominent Connecticut family. No firm evidence, but someone Slade was instructed to keep his eye on. He leaned his elbow on the window as he considered. As chief buyer, Adams would be in a perfect position to handle the operation from overseas.
    David Ryce, shop assistant for eighteen months. Twenty-three. Son of Elizabeth Ryce, the Winslow housekeeper. Dodson had said he was often trusted with running the shop alone. That would give him the opportunity to handle the local operation.
    Systematically, Slade ran through the list of the Winslow staff. Gardener, cook, housekeeper, daily maid. Good God, he thought in disgust. All that for one person. She probably wouldn’t know how to boil an egg if her life depended on it.
    The gates to the Winslow estate stood open, with room enough for two cars to pass easily. Slade turned into the long, macadam drive, lined with bushy, bloomless azaleas. There was a burst of birdsong, then silence. He drove nearly a quarter of a mile before pulling up in front of the house.
    It was large but, he had to admit, not