The Borzoi Killings Read Online Free
Author: Paul Batista
York Review of Books . Tom recognized that all of this was a really big deal: Brad was not only immensely wealthy, he was emerging as an intellectual, a man of ideas and vision. There were news articles that said Brad Richardson was high on the President’s list to be the next Secretary of the Treasury.
But Brad’s wife was even more of a presence on the Internet. She was the golden daughter of George Cabot, who still reigned, at 77, as the bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, presiding as a liberal icon over the National Cathedral, and of Catherine Bybee, once an actress who before her marriage in the 1980s was called the Grace Kelly of the Reagan era. And Joan over the last five years had become legendary for running theRichardson Foundation, a charity that funded relief for hundreds of thousands of displaced children who were refugees from wars in Syria, Somalia, and South Sudan. A cover story in Elle ranked her with Melinda Gates as the leading female philanthropist in the world. In the picture of her on the cover of Elle she was depicted as what she was in real life: blonde, striking, elegant, smiling, a woman who loved life.
And Tom Golden knew something else about her. She was an easy touch, a babe, hot. In the bar at the American Hotel in Sag Harbor and the grill room of the Noyac country club, local men and women—the native aristocracy of people born in East Hampton and Southampton who owned the landscaping companies, the fancy stores, the architectural design firms, the real estate companies—shared stories about Joan Richardson’s multiple affairs. Brad traveled the world. Joan didn’t. She spent long summers on the East End, and word circulated about the men. Tom Golden, who knew one of the men who had been her lover for a week last fall, once imagined he could reach her. Why not?
But Joan Richardson was said to be unpredictable, with diverse tastes in men. Tom soon saw that her range didn’t encompass him. By now he was more interested in keeping her business and the prestige that brought him than he was in screwing her for a week or two and then losing her as a client. He cultivated the image of a stud, and word had spread among the rich ladies that he was endowed.
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Richardson,” he said. “They’re well taken care of.”
Juan was one of the four men who rode in her SUV to the roadside woods in Wainscott. He was in the back seat. The fallow corn and potato fields through which they drove were as wide and flat as the nearby ocean. Rain still fell so densely that the sky andthe fields appeared to merge into the drenched air. From time to time she glanced into the rearview mirror, pretending to keep in sight the lumbering truck behind her SUV, but really to see Juan—the high cheekbones, the deep eyes, black eyebrows, thick hair. In her glances she saw him only in profile, since he was gazing at the fields.
Tom Golden’s car was already idling several hundred yards from the isolated Post Office building on the Montauk Highway, the road that ran through and linked Southampton, East Hampton, and Montauk and ended at the lighthouse at Montauk Point. The truck pulled in behind the BMW. Joan brought her SUV as close to the truck as she could. Three men clambered out of the crowded cab of the truck. The men in her car, including Juan, said “Thank you” in English as they opened the doors and got out.
She remained in the front seat, listening to the rhythmic rubbing of the windshield wipers while she watched each of the men walk up to the window of Tom’s car. He handed cash through the half-closed window to each of them. She couldn’t see how much, but not one of the men, quickly looking at the bills to count them, was happy with what Golden had given out. She had no idea, she realized, how much he paid them, although she did know that Golden’s bills to her and Brad for a small crew working all day on their estate was almost two thousand dollars. At
But Brad’s wife was even more of a presence on the Internet. She was the golden daughter of George Cabot, who still reigned, at 77, as the bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, presiding as a liberal icon over the National Cathedral, and of Catherine Bybee, once an actress who before her marriage in the 1980s was called the Grace Kelly of the Reagan era. And Joan over the last five years had become legendary for running theRichardson Foundation, a charity that funded relief for hundreds of thousands of displaced children who were refugees from wars in Syria, Somalia, and South Sudan. A cover story in Elle ranked her with Melinda Gates as the leading female philanthropist in the world. In the picture of her on the cover of Elle she was depicted as what she was in real life: blonde, striking, elegant, smiling, a woman who loved life.
And Tom Golden knew something else about her. She was an easy touch, a babe, hot. In the bar at the American Hotel in Sag Harbor and the grill room of the Noyac country club, local men and women—the native aristocracy of people born in East Hampton and Southampton who owned the landscaping companies, the fancy stores, the architectural design firms, the real estate companies—shared stories about Joan Richardson’s multiple affairs. Brad traveled the world. Joan didn’t. She spent long summers on the East End, and word circulated about the men. Tom Golden, who knew one of the men who had been her lover for a week last fall, once imagined he could reach her. Why not?
But Joan Richardson was said to be unpredictable, with diverse tastes in men. Tom soon saw that her range didn’t encompass him. By now he was more interested in keeping her business and the prestige that brought him than he was in screwing her for a week or two and then losing her as a client. He cultivated the image of a stud, and word had spread among the rich ladies that he was endowed.
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Richardson,” he said. “They’re well taken care of.”
Juan was one of the four men who rode in her SUV to the roadside woods in Wainscott. He was in the back seat. The fallow corn and potato fields through which they drove were as wide and flat as the nearby ocean. Rain still fell so densely that the sky andthe fields appeared to merge into the drenched air. From time to time she glanced into the rearview mirror, pretending to keep in sight the lumbering truck behind her SUV, but really to see Juan—the high cheekbones, the deep eyes, black eyebrows, thick hair. In her glances she saw him only in profile, since he was gazing at the fields.
Tom Golden’s car was already idling several hundred yards from the isolated Post Office building on the Montauk Highway, the road that ran through and linked Southampton, East Hampton, and Montauk and ended at the lighthouse at Montauk Point. The truck pulled in behind the BMW. Joan brought her SUV as close to the truck as she could. Three men clambered out of the crowded cab of the truck. The men in her car, including Juan, said “Thank you” in English as they opened the doors and got out.
She remained in the front seat, listening to the rhythmic rubbing of the windshield wipers while she watched each of the men walk up to the window of Tom’s car. He handed cash through the half-closed window to each of them. She couldn’t see how much, but not one of the men, quickly looking at the bills to count them, was happy with what Golden had given out. She had no idea, she realized, how much he paid them, although she did know that Golden’s bills to her and Brad for a small crew working all day on their estate was almost two thousand dollars. At
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