“I love this stuff,” Cate said, pouring out a bowl, admiring the pretty colors of the worthless, sugarcoated, puffed whatever. “What are you doing up so early? It’s only nine o’clock. You always sleep until eleven.”

“I have a long day. A meeting with my agent. Followed by brunch with Kitty Bergman.” Marty grimaced. “Ick to Kitty Bergman. And a private party gig tonight.”

The phone rang and Marty pressed his lips tight together. “Crap. I just know that’s someone I don’t want to talk to.” His eyes fixed on Cate. “Sweetie, would you get it?”

Cate stuffed the cereal box into the crook of her arm and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Is Marty there?”

The voice was deep and raspy. A man’s voice. Either a big smoker or someone very old.

Cate gave Marty raised eyebrows. A silent question.

Marty shook his head no.

“Marty isn’t available right now,” Cate said. “Can I relay a message?”

“Tell Marty I’m not waiting forever.”

“Great. You want to leave a name or number?”

“Marty knows who I am.” And he disconnected.

“Some guy isn’t waiting forever,” Cate said to Marty. “You’re such a heartbreaker.”

Marty Longfellow lived in a building that had at one time been a dress factory. The exterior was red brick and sturdy. The interior had been gutted and remade into four floors of midrange, two-bedroom, two-bath condos. It was a South End address, and the inhabitants were a reflection of the eclectic mix of people found in that neighborhood… young professionals, gay men, and a smattering of senior citizens.

Marty’s condo was on the fourth floor and was a candidate for Architectural Digest. The carpet was white plush. The furniture was black leather and chrome. The walls held original art. The chandelier was Murano art glass. Very beautiful. Very expensive.