Chapter 18
When Sue speed-walked across the rose-colored tiles in the lobby of Dante’s condo building, she caught the doorman’s ears first with the staccato clop of her heels. Then his trained eyes looked up and he appreciated the view, definitely not concentrating on the huge urn of fresh flowers placed between the elevators. No, it was the blonde in the embroidered Mexican blouse, expensive jeans and blue leather pumps that his eyes fixed on.
The retired cop, Dennis Kilpatrick, was a stout red-headed Irishman whose shift had started at 8 am that morning. He certainly hadn’t seen that gorgeous number cross before him any time that day. In fact, she was entirely unknown to him on these premises. Well, maybe not entirely. She looked familiar but he wasn’t sure how he knew her. Some C-list celebrity maybe?
She’s in quite the rush. Must be the walk of shame. Came in last night, no doubt. Somebody’s getting lucky on … 45.
The doorman noted on his monitor the only active current elevator and its last stop, the 45th floor.
That kind of class and looks, gotta be Allamordo’s. That lucky stiff!
Dennis hopped off his tall stool behind his marble desk and enjoyed the view of the rounded butt cheeks moving away. The woman didn’t spare him the slightest side glance but pushed through the glass revolving doors with nothing but earnest intent to depart the premises. The stout doorman just sighed at the retreating form, stretching on his toes for a lingering final view of that delicious ass.
Looks like they must have fought.
“Sure wasn’t a happy lady smirking about getting some prime Italian sausage,” he murmured softly to himself. Then he sat back onto his stool and turned his attention to his Jack Reacher book.
Sue walked out into the afternoon sunshine of Seventh Avenue and squinted upward. The early August heat, the cloudless almost white sky and the looming, heat-trapping buildings were all harsh and unforgiving. The sidewalk was throwing up its own shimmering waves that made the pavement swim.
Normally, Sue wouldn’t have thought twice about the walk to the Baxter building. It wasn’t long, only just over a mile through Central Park to the exit at 72nd Street, but she was spent by hours of sexual torture and very little sleep. Without the purse she’d lost along the way somewhere over the past couple of days she had no money for a taxi, bus or subway. So, a walk it had to be!
After 15 minutes, a weary Sue was on autopilot, trying not to think about the ordeal she’d been through. She was just focusing on the idea a cool cleansing shower, barely aware of her surroundings. Idly, she realized she was walking past the Summer Stage on her left. It had colorful fabric posters in multiple locations for a Twelfth Night production staring Keven Kline. She noticed to her right a young couple talking and laughing loudly on a bench under a brilliant red maple tree about 20 feet away. The man appeared to be recounting a story to his shapely brunette companion.
“And, finally, I said ‘Honestly if that’s how you want it, Hector, then LET’S THROW DOWN, BITCH!'”
The female broke into a huge barking laugh at the punchline and then her eye caught the most unusual view. Only a few yards away, a pretty blonde woman in an embroidered blouse and jeans had stopped walking abruptly and gotten down on her hands and knees. Her neck was arched back, her head tilted upward, her fingers were spread wide on the pavement. She was stone-faced, frozen right there on the path and remained that way for a full ten seconds, just rigid in place, seemingly awaiting a command.
“Uuhh…hello there.. uuhmm…you…are you okay?”
The female on the bench started to rise and offer assistance of some kind. Then the blonde’s face regained a semblance of humanity. She swiveled her head in confusion before a look of pure horror came over her. She clumsily jerked herself to her feet, went beet red and dashed past the couple on the bench, whimpering as she raced by, making a beeline to the 72nd street entrance. Astonished, the woman sat back down on her bench and the couple watched the figure sprinting up Fifth Avenue as if pursued by a pack of wild dogs.
“New York, huh?” The man declared, as if that explained everything.
“Am I crazy? Wasn’t that Sue Richards, the Invisible Woman?”
“Acting like that?” The male companion hesitated, looking after the receding figure in the distance. He then turned to his female companion on the bench beside him. “Well, one of you is crazy. That’s for sure.”
Even without her keys, Sue had just some minor trouble getting into the Fantastic Four’s headquarters in the Baxter Building. The palm print reader did all the work but it took three tries; wiping the sweat off onto the thighs of her jeans twice and then forcing herself to hold her own wrist with her other hand just so her palm would stop shaking uncontrollably against the glass plate.
When the door latch finally released with a solid thunk, Sue pushed the heavy steel door open and then closed it and locked it behind her.
“Oh god, oh god, I’m so screwed!” Sue wailed, banging her fist against the door. “What is wrong with me? Why did I do that? That pig wasn’t anywhere near me and still I obeyed that damn ‘down bitch’ command like some robot. I… i…don’t…i… I need a drink!”
Turning on her heel, Sue paced swiftly across the wide-open foyer, through a hallway and into the living area. She went to the expansive stainless-steel wall unit and pressed the latch that lowered a shelf to reveal a well-stocked liquor cabinet. She grabbed a bottle of vodka and set it on the shelf then took a crystal tumbler and filled her hand with ice from the mini-icemaker and dumped the cubes into the tumbler. She unscrewed the vodka and noisily sloshed far more than what could be described as a judicious amount of the clear liquid over the ice. The neck of the bottle rattled against the rim of the tumbler.
Sue set the bottle down roughly, lifted her glass and gulped down half of the drink she’d poured herself. The vodka hadn’t had time to cool down one iota from its brief association with the ice. The liquor seared its way down Sue’s throat, drew a gasp and then a steadying breath from the overwrought blonde. Just what she wanted…as a start.
Sue tucked the bottle in her armpit, picked up a coaster with her free hand and strode over to the grey velvet sectional sofa and plopped herself down into the corner of the piece, protected on both sides. She put the coaster on the table and the vodka bottle on the coaster, retaining her drink glass in her right hand. She then leaned back, kicked off her blue pumps and put her feet up on the black glass coffee table. She knocked back the remaining vodka in another gulp and then slumped deep into the corner of the sectional. She held the ice-filled tumbler against her forehead and did her damned best to stop her entire body from shaking so hard. It didn’t work. Her teeth were clicking like castanets.
And then the phone on the end table rang. Sue jerked like she’d been shocked and looked over at the base unit like it was possessed. The tone indicated it was someone calling the main number for the Fantastic Four’s headquarters. Sue looked at the caller ID screen. It was Reed’s cell phone. Sue’s face went pale and she scrunched up in the corner of the sofa and stared at the ringing device with a desperate fear and a desperate hope. She wasn’t sure she was capable of talking to her husband right now. She wasn’t sure of anything!