“Our apartment isn’t so appealing these days, either,” Regan said. “For a lot of reasons. But of course I’ll come and get you. It might take a few minutes with the traffic lights all out.”

“I’m not going anywhere. My new friend, Billy, and I are sitting here on someone’s front stoop on Fifty-fourth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. People are coming out of their apartments with folding chairs and bottles of beer and wine. One guy said it’s about time they had a block party.”

“Save me a seat,” Regan joked as she took down the exact address. When she hung up, Jack turned to her. He’d been examining the stun gun through a plastic bag.

“You’re picking up Kit?”

“At least you don’t have to worry about me being alone.”

“She’s on crutches. Our intruder wouldn’t need a stun gun to fight her off.”

“You never know with Kit. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go back to the office. But on a night like tonight…”

Now it was Jack’s cell phone that rang. Keith Waters, his top assistant, was calling.

“Jack, a new gallery in SoHo has been burglarized. They broke in the back door and stole glass sculptures worth several hundred thousand dollars. With the power out, the alarm didn’t work. The owners ran over from their apartment as soon as the blackout struck. It was too late—”

“What’s the address?” Jack asked quickly. When he hung up, he took Regan’s hand. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you down to your car. Promise me that no matter what happens you won’t come back here alone.”

“Jack, don’t worry, I won’t. Even if the lights go back on, I’ll bring Kit back here.”

“We should be so lucky,” Jack said. “I have the feeling this is going to be a long night.”

6

C onrad Spreckles was relaxing in the tastefully appointed den of his Greenwich home, suffering no discomfort from the blackout that had affected so many people in the tristate area and beyond. He was cooled not only by the power of his own private generator, but also the vodka on ice that he held in his hands.

He felt great satisfaction at having broken the news to Lorraine that the loft was sold. Taking a gentle sip of his drink, he relished the thought of her displeasure. He wished he could have told her in person and seen the look on her face, but he had no choice—it would have been embarrassing if she’d gone to the loft tonight and tried to get in. The Reillys didn’t need to know about their personal problems. At the closing they’d asked him about Lorraine. He’d informed them that she was in England acting in a play. He could tell they found the situation a little curious, but they were polite and didn’t probe. If only his first ex-wife would behave with such grace.

Penny was reveling in his misery. They had been married for twenty-five years when he met Lorraine. When Conrad told Penny he wanted a divorce, he’d insisted it didn’t have to do with anyone else. But it eventually came out that indeed he had met and courted Lorraine when he was still married. Penny and his twenty-year-old daughter, Alexis, his little princess, would never forgive him. He knew that he had made the mistake of the century. So did everyone in Darien where Penny still lived. Soon everyone in Greenwich would realize, too.