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  The two of them stood in the dark, their flashlights facing the floor. “The intruder could have just run away when I was on the roof,” Regan said. “After he locked me out, he must have been looking around to make sure he didn’t forget anything he brought in with him.”

  “He was probably also afraid that the lights would come back on and you’d get a look at him.”

  They carefully shone their flashlights around the room. “That tile is nice with the hand-painted pictures of jugs of wine, loaves of bread, and scenes from Tuscany, but I don’t think it’s worth risking jail time for,” Regan said sardonically. “There’s nothing else back here. Conrad might have given us a good price, but he made sure this place was stripped. There wasn’t a picture hook left on the walls—” She stopped talking when her flashlight revealed a small dark object on the floor, slightly hidden by a piece of wood. It was just a few steps from the front door. Jack saw it, too. He walked over, leaned down, picked it up, and held it out in front of them.

  They both were silent as they realized what they were looking at.

  A lightning-rod stun gun that resembled a pen. With a built-in flashlight.

  Regan swallowed. “He’s really going to be mad he lost it, now that we’re in a blackout…”

  Jack didn’t laugh. “If he’d zapped you with this, you could have been badly hurt. Come on. I want to put this in a plastic bag.”

  They headed to the kitchen where Regan’s purse was sitting on the counter next to their Imus mugs. Her cell phone started to ring.

  “There’s a message from me on there,” Jack said as he pulled open a drawer. “I have to go back to the office but I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  “Is it Bring Your Wife to Work night?” Regan asked lightly as she retrieved the phone. It was Kit.

  “Regan, you’re not going to believe what happened.”

  Regan smiled. “Oh, yes, I would.”

  “No, really. This is a first—a woman I met at the convention left me stranded at a comedy club. I’m stuck here in Midtown and, as you know, I’m on crutches. My hotel room is on the thirty-eighth floor. It’s impossible to get a cab. Luckily I’m with this nice comedian who is looking after me. Could you come and get me and bring me to your place?”

  “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

  Conrad 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.

  He’d been made a fool of. The young, sexy actress had only been after him for his money. The money the Spreckles family had made after years of selling quality chocolates around the world. His grandparents had started the business at the stove of their tiny apartment in the Bronx. His father had built up the company, and Conrad and his brother had taken it global. The Spreckles name was synonymous with gourmet chocolates no one in the universe could resist.

  Conrad took another sip of his drink and stared at the television. The station he was watching was covering the blackout. He expected Lorraine to come through the door at any minute. What else could she do? New York City was in chaos. When he saw her face on the screen, he jumped out of his chair and ran closer to his sixty-inch flat-screen TV. There she was in high definition, looking as beautiful as ever.

  “I was just in a play—” she cooed.

  “That little—” he spat. She was checking in to that exorbitantly expensive hotel! With his money! She didn’t look like a woman whose husband had just told her he had filed for divorce. Conrad grabbed the vodka bottle and refilled his glass.

  I’m going to get my revenge! he thought. She is going to be sorry. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I have to figure out something.

  The phone rang. The second he picked it up he realized he’d made a mistake. Penny, sitting in her generator-cooled house, was on the line.

  “Hello, dear,” she said sweetly. “If you’re not watching, you must turn on the news…”

  7

  At the wheel of her Lexus, Regan drove carefully through the darkened streets of Manhattan. Heading uptown on Tenth Avenue, she was half listening to the radio reports on the blackout. Her mind kept going back to what had just happened at the apartment. To think that someone had been in there when she arrived. Someone with a stun gun. I was lucky, she thought. Really lucky.

  Who could it have been? Regan wondered as she drove. Could it have been someone from the construction crew? She didn’t think so but she did find one of the guys a bit surly and unfriendly. That doesn’t make him a criminal, she reminded herself. Well, whoever it was must have been thrilled that the blackout struck and they could make their escape without being seen and possibly identified. They won’t be nearly as thrilled when they realize they dropped their weapon.

  Jack had taken the stun gun with him to have it tested for prints and see if they could trace the owner.

  Regan sighed. Her mother had been concerned that she wa
s moving into a nondoorman building. “I’m not worried about when you’re with Jack…It’s just when you go up to the apartment alone.”

  As if on cue, Regan’s cell phone, which she’d programmed into the car radio, started to ring. Nora Regan Reilly, best-selling suspense writer, and Regan’s father, Luke, owner of three funeral homes in New Jersey, were in Los Angeles to meet with a producer about a television deal for several of Nora’s books. Regan pushed the OK button and answered. Her mother’s voice came through the car’s speakers.

  “Regan, we just got out of a screening and heard about the blackout. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Regan answered.

  “Are you sure? Where are you?”

  “I’m in the car on my way to pick up Kit. She’s still on crutches, and walking up to her thirty-eighth-floor hotel room isn’t an option.”

  “You’re driving around? Be careful. The traffic lights must be out!”

  Regan smiled. “That they are.” This is definitely not the time to tell her about the break-in, Regan thought. There’s no use worrying her even more. “I’m going to pick up Kit and head back home. Who’d have guessed that all those candlesticks we received as wedding presents would come in so handy this soon?”

  “Be careful of setting the place on fire.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “He’ll be working all night tonight. Someone already broke into an art gallery in SoHo.”

  “Oh dear, there wasn’t too much crime or looting during the last blackout in New York,” Nora said.

  “That struck in the afternoon. People had time to take measures to guard their businesses before it got dark. When it happens at night and everything gets thrown into darkness so fast, people who ordinarily wouldn’t steal can act impulsively….” What am I saying this to my mother for, Regan wondered. “But on the radio they’re saying that things are pretty peaceful so far. It’s well past rush hour, so most of the commuters have already left the city.”

  “Get home as soon as you can and lock the doors.”

  “I will. Say hi to Dad. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  At Fifty-fourth Street, Regan turned right. Her headlights shone onto a block party in full swing. Music was blaring, people were dancing in the street, and flames were lapping from barbecue grills that had been carted out onto the sidewalk. Regan inched her way forward, on the lookout for the address Kit had given her. She knew it was on the right hand side of the street. Glancing around, Regan thought it could have been New Year’s Eve. All the stoops were overflowing with revelers. Everyone on this block must have invited their friends over. Finally she double-parked the car and got out.

  “Regan!” Kit called through the crowd, crutching her way toward the car. A young guy was clearing the path for her.

  Regan hurried over to open the passenger door. She hugged Kit, who she could tell was tense. Her foot must really be hurting, Regan thought.

  “Regan, this is Billy,” Kit said brusquely. “He’s coming with us.”

  “Sure,” Regan answered, as she shook Billy’s hand, hoping he wasn’t some nutcase. But he looked and seemed like a sweet guy.

  While Kit maneuvered herself into the front seat, Billy got in the back, and Regan threw the crutches in the trunk.

  When they were all in the car, Regan joked, “This party looks like fun. Are you sure you want to leave? Those hot dogs smell good.”

  Kit put her hand on Regan’s arm. “Regan—” she began, then paused.

  “Kit, what’s wrong? Do you feel all right?”

  “I just got a phone call from someone at the conference who’s over at the hotel and knew I went to a comedy club with that girl—”

  “The one who left you there.”

  Kit nodded. “Georgina Mathieson is her name. A good friend of hers was arrested today for shoplifting. She and Georgina went on quite a spree in Atlanta on Saturday. Someone wrote down part of this other girl’s license plate number. They have the two of them on security tapes, stuffing clothing into their bags. The police caught up with Georgina’s friend Paulette a few hours ago.”

  “Georgina’s a shoplifter?” Regan asked. “Maybe she’s headed down to my apartment.”

  “What?”

  “Someone broke in tonight. I walked in on them and they got away.”

  “That’s terrible!” Kit said. “But, Regan, this is worse!”

  Regan was about to make a flippant remark, but Kit looked so worried, she stopped herself. “Tell me.”

  “This Paulette is cooperating with the police. She told them that Georgina picks up blond guys in comedy clubs, drugs them with knockout drops, then lures them to her car and drives to an isolated place where she burns their arm with a brand that says I AM A SNAKE and leaves them there. Just like she left me tonight! After spending a few minutes with her, I could tell she was odd, but not this crazy. Regan, the hostess at the comedy club said earlier that she’d seen Georgina smoking out on the sidewalk, then getting into a cab with a guy who bummed a cigarette from her. A guy who’s blond! He doesn’t know what he’s in for!”

  “Comedy clubs!” Billy practically squeaked from the back seat. “My parents never wanted me to be a comedian. Wait until they hear this! For once I’m glad I don’t have blond hair.”

  “Kit, I wonder why she invited you to go out with her then.”

  “She’d been trying to get a group together. She doesn’t have a car so maybe she didn’t plan on attacking anyone tonight. But the opportunity arose and she couldn’t resist.”

  “Is that hostess still at the club?” Regan asked.

  “Yes,” Billy answered. “I called. She said she’d wait there if you want to go over and talk to her.”

  “Of course I do,” Regan said.

  Outside the car, the music on the street was playing louder than ever. People were joyously joining in song. “I want to rock and roll all night…”

  “This guy is going to be scarred for life if someone doesn’t find them,” Kit moaned. “Maybe even worse. If I hadn’t agreed to go out with her tonight, she might not have met him…”

  “It’s not your fault, Kit,” Regan said. “We’ll do everything we can to find them. I’ll call Jack and he’ll get the word out. Of course, this isn’t the best night to be trying to locate—”

  “An assaultive wacko.”

  Regan turned the key in the ignition, pressed in Jack’s number on her cell phone, and slowly steered the car through the throng of partyers. All thoughts of the attempted burglary at her apartment had disappeared.

  “Kit, reach in my purse and get out my notebook,” Regan instructed as Jack’s cell phone began to ring. “Start writing down everything you remember about Georgina. Everything she said, everything she did. What she had to drink before she disappeared—”

  “It was a margarita,” Kit said as she opened Regan’s purse, “with extra salt. She downed it in about two gulps.”

  Jack’s voice came through the car speakers. From his caller ID he knew it was Regan calling him. “Regan, are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’m fine. I’m with Kit.”

  “Can I call you back? We’re in the middle of—”

  “No, Jack,” Regan answered. “I’m quite sure you’ll want to hear this right away…”

  8

  “This isn’t a bad place to sit out the blackout,” Clay Nardellini pronounced as, chewing on a toothpick, he strolled into Lorraine’s suite. “You’re staying cool up here in grand style while the rest of the city is fanning themselves with rolled up newspapers. The Candy Man must be selling lots of chocolates.”

  Lorraine rolled her eyes. “I needed a place to stay. Conrad sold the loft to our next-door neighbors while I was in England.”

  Clay’s brown eyes widened. In his late twenties, he was five foot ten, with brown hair, olive skin, and a slightly stocky build. He was attractive but had a tough street quality, which meant that he was almos
t always cast to play a criminal. It was a source of frustration that he’d shared with his acting class. With the support of his teacher, Wendall, and his fellow students, he was working hard to develop his sensitive side. He was also taking speech lessons in an effort to sound more refined and dance classes to put some elegance in his swagger. His burning desire was to play a romantic lead opposite a hot young actress. “He sold it? You loved that place.”

  Lorraine shrugged. “You want a drink?”

  “I’ll take a beer.”

  Lorraine poured herself a glass of white wine from the open bottle on the table, then grabbed a bottle of beer out of the mini-bar. She walked over to the long, white overstuffed couch that faced Central Park. The whole suite was decorated in white, including the carpeting, walls, furniture, and knickknacks. The hotel’s decorator was obviously a proponent of white’s purity, which undoubtedly would end up driving the cleaning staff crazy. Lorraine handed Clay his drink, and they both sat.

  Clay gratefully sipped the cold brew. “That tastes good. So Lorraine, to what do I owe this honor? You just got off a plane from England and you call me? Where’s the Candy Man?”

  Lorraine sat back, propping up a fluffy pillow behind her. “He filed for divorce.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Clay said tenderly, always at work on that sensitive streak.

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No.” Lorraine curled her manicured toes around the plush, white carpeting. “Remember how Wendall told us that if we had a problem with someone we should write them a letter and tell them exactly how we feel?”

  “Of course. Get everything off your chest in the letter but never mail it. It’s great therapy and a lot cheaper than paying a shrink.”

  Lorraine nodded. “I guess I really wanted to heal myself because I wrote letters to almost everyone in my life. Personal and professional. But then I carried it even further. Not only did I write to every casting director, producer, and director who hadn’t hired me but I wrote nasty letters to everyone in the business, even people I hadn’t met yet. I didn’t mean what I wrote—some of the letters are pretty vicious—but I thought the whole exercise would make me feel more confident.”