Witch Water Read Free Page A

saw
several homeless men standing around a garbage can. One of them
looked right at him and grinned.
    “Too bad times have changed. Thirty years
ago, you would’ve gotten a go-round—the good old night-stick
shampoo. I’ll bet it was a little girl you were peeping on,” the
cop said, “or a little boy.”
    “No!” Fanshawe blurted. “It was…a woman, an
adult woman.”
    “Oh, so I guess that makes it all right,
huh? I need to be busting crack dealers and guys pulling bank jobs,
not fucking around with pieces of shit like you.”
    The cruiser pulled out onto Amsterdam
Avenue; suddenly a million lights seemed to blink in Fanshawe’s
face. He sat forlorn, his wrists aching. Yeah, he thought. A piece of shit like me…
    The grim vision shattered at the click of
the door. Fanshawe glanced up abruptly at the attractive woman
smiling at him from the doorway. Her shoulders slumped from the
weight of his luggage. “Mr. Fanshawe, I presume?”
    “Yes—oh, here. Let me get those. The big
one’s pretty heavy. I thought he’d be sending some brawny
bellhop.”
    “Oh, don’t bother, sir. Believe it or not, I
like hauling luggage. At my age I need all the exercise I can
get.”
    The comment seemed odd or self-conscious.
Fanshawe doubted she could be more than mid-thirties. “I’m Abbie,
Mr. Baxter’s daughter,” she told him and hefted the larger of the
bags up on the bed. As she did so, hair which at the same time
seemed blond and auburn danced before her face. She dressed
casually in faded jeans, sneakers, and a plain blouse, yet under
the nondescript apparel, Fanshawe sensed a curvaceous and even
exotic physique. Don’t eyeball her, you scumbag, he groaned
at himself, for when she leaned over to situate the big suitcase,
his gaze zoomed in on ample, fresh-white cleavage. He snapped his
eyes away.
    “Well, thanks for bringing the bags,
Abbie.”
    “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Fanshawe—”
    “Stew,” he corrected and shook her hand. Her
shake was firm, her hand delicate yet mildly callused, no doubt
from her share of hard work. He found the dichotomy bizarrely
arousing. The graceful hands revealed no signs of wedding rings.
When he attempted to tip her, she refused.
    “I hope you like our hotel. We go out of our
way to offer guests something a little more interesting. Most
places these days are kind of stiff and sterile.”
    “It’s gorgeous. The furniture, the
treatments, that whole Colonial feel.”
    “Um-hmm.” Next, Abbie raised his laptop case
to the bed but she flinched when a magazine flipped out of a side
pocket. “Oops.” When she bent to pick it up, Fanshawe’s eyes darted
once more to her cleavage. He bit his lip.
    The magazine was Fortune 500, and on
the cover was Fanshawe’s face. “Stewart Fanshawe: Miracle Man” read
the cover line.
    Abbie smiled, and replaced the magazine.
“Don’t worry, your—”
    “My secret’s safe with you,” Fanshawe tacked
on. “Yes, your father said the same thing and, believe me, I
appreciate it.”
    “I’ve seen you on TV a few times, that stock
program that runs all day on cable. You must get recognized a lot
on the street.”
    “No, not really. Financial folks stay pretty
much under the radar. In New York, everyone’s on constant watch for
movie stars, not ticker jockeys or CEOs.”
    “Well, it’s really cool to have a big
financial guy stay with us.”
    Really cool? You should see my psych
profile. Fanshawe laughed. “More like a big lucky guy.
All I did was consolidate some failing tech companies, and they
turned into winners. Then I branched out from there.”
    “That’s quite an achievement.” She seemed
delighted to add, “Oh, and my father owns some of your stock.”
    “God bless him!”
    Now Abbie was slowly walking about the
bedroom, touching up with a dust cloth. “What brings you out our
way?”
    Fanshawe didn’t feel the least uncomfortable
answering, “I’m on what my therapist calls a respite. Just looking
around at first,