“Of course. She has attended some functions hosted by my foundation.”

“And sleeps with your husband.”

“They had an affair. There isn’t much else I can tell you about that.”

“What about Vicki Davenport?”

“I don’t know her. But I could check the foundation’s records if you wish.” She took a note on the prospectus lying beside her.

“And Rachel Rockwell?”

“That name doesn’t sound familiar either.” Genevieve made another note but paused her pen and looked at Detective Stockton. “Has there been another murder?”

“Now that’s hard to prove without a body.” Stockton sipped her tea. “Very unusual for a serial killer to kill again so quickly.” The detective admired the view of Central Park. “Killers of this kind are organized enough to repeat the same crime in an exact manner.” She shook her head. “But it’s almost too exact. Like it’s staged.” The detective appeared to be talking to herself. Then she caught Genevieve’s eyes and asked, “Where was your husband last night?”

“We no longer sleep in the same quarters. I don’t know.”

Stockton set her empty cup and saucer on the table. “You have motive Mrs. Galbraith. These women were sleeping with your husband.”

Genevieve’s lungs were paralyzed by the accusation. Her breathing stopped. Then she sighed. “If I killed all the women my husband slept with, half of all the young women in New York City would be missing.”

The detective stood and walked to the window, a grid of smaller glass panes overlooked the East side. “Mrs. Galbraith, is there anywhere in your home or elsewhere that your husband doesn’t invite other people to go. Someplace he calls his. Or something he always keeps a lock on. Could be just a box or an entire room.”

Genevieve reminded herself that she couldn’t be legally compelled to testify against her husband. “No.”

“Tom, did you know about Rachel Rockwell?” Genevieve’s voice grew louder with each word she spoke, but never reached an inappropriate level.

“Genevieve calm down. I agree it doesn’t look good for Ed. But at least this time the only evidence of their relationship the police found was his name in her address book.”

They sat facing each other in the parlor. “I thought I told you not to talk to the police without me present,” Tom scolded.

“I handled myself. But there is something you should know. The detective asked me if there was a place that Edward calls his own. Never shares with anyone. She said it could be a room or just a small box with a lock.”

Tom held her by the arms. “Don’t say another word to me about that.”

“OK.” Genevieve understood that Tom was currently representing both she and her husband. Unless she chose other counsel. “Would you like a cigar?”

Genevieve led Tom up the three flights of stairs to the large cupola that completed the cornerstone of their building. Standing inside the twelve-foot circle they enjoyed a two hundred and seventy degree view. Three bookshelves consumed the space below each of the five windows. She opened the large humidor that rested on a table in the middle of the room. “I think these are Cohibas.”

While he puffed and puckered she inspected the shelves, opened books, but found nothing. She opened the small refrigerator and found nothing surprising, three bottles of single malt scotch. A bag of ice was packed into the freezer compartment.

“Can I offer you some scotch or cognac?”

“Scotch on the rocks.” Tom took one of the leather chairs and continued sucking on his stogie.

She removed a bag of ice and chipped away at it with an ice pick. She collected enough jagged cubes for one glass and poured the silky brown liquid over them. Tom accepted her gift with a nod.