We raise our glasses in a mutual, loving gesture. “L’Chaim,” she says, and I subconsciously inhale mine smack empty. No effervescent mouth feel on this one.

Jean can’t help but laugh, a sympathetic chuckle. “My love!” and pats me on the shoulder. “Hope it helps.”

After dinner, the kids disappear into the house somewhere and Jean and I are enjoying the last of our champagne. Very mellow, damn near at peace. It’s like I’m sitting here in a protective bubble, isolated from the madness of the real life that swirls around me. My thoughts drift to Ramon, and that last night…losing him…painful…

“Now I am the master!” A growly voice lances my universe. There’s a small, hard cylinder at the back of my head. I hear my champagne glass crash to the ground. Jean lets out a yelp and I spin around in my chair, sick with fear.

“What—”

It’s Brady, in his Darth Vader Halloween costume. He drops his light saber and erupts into tears.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry!” he says, and I gather him up in my arms. We’re both shaking.

My bubble has burst.

Chapter 12

We climb out of bed and roust the kids. Time to get ready for church—like I’ve always said, I need all the help I can get.

For the past nine years, we’ve belonged to Union Church of Pocantico Hills—a nondenominational protestant church that counts John D. Rockefeller among its founders. I even served on the board of deacons for six of those years, serving communion occasionally to David and Laurance Rockefeller, before Laurance died.

We pile in the car after breakfast and head for church. The small sanctuary is beautiful, lined on both sides with nine magnificent stained-glass windows by Marc Chagall—each one a depiction from the New Testament—and a large rose window up front designed by Henri Matisse, one of his last works. Nothing like a Rockefeller connection.

The preacher consistently delivers learned, insightful, and sometimes acerbic sermons.

This morning I hear him quote from Ecclesiastes 5, Verse 10: “Whoever loves money never has money enough; whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with his income. This, too, is meaningless.”

Which is about the last thing I need to hear.

Reminds me of something George Carlin said: “Don’t give your money to the church. They should be giving their money to you.” That’s more like it.

We’re meeting the Elvins for dinner tonight at the Chappaqua Tavern.

I’m in a damned-near good mood, basking in what I heard from Barb yesterday. Diane and Joe are already at the bar when we get there, so we order a beverage to catch up: Ketel One, soda, lime for me, and a glass of chardonnay for Jean.

The TV’s on over the bar. Chuck Esposito from NBC is on camera, in front of the agency. I hear him say:

—murder at the Marterelli and Partners advertising agency in lower Manhattan. One of their employees, Ramon Manuel Martinez, of Brooklyn, was found dead early Friday morning up on the roof of the Marterelli offices, with a bullet to the back of the head. Police and city detectives continue to look for clues. Thus far, they have none. This is Chuck Esposito reporting from downtown Manhattan. Back to you, Stacy…