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Yes, he'd been cruel to take her away from all that "fulfillment." Did she really think her boss was going to leave his wife... for her? His wife was a Kennedy, for God's sake! A Kennedy! (Well, her mother's mother had been a Kennedy. Or been drowned by one. Or something. Whatever.) Intellectually stimulating job indeed, he brooded. Wasn't betting on horse-racing intellectually stimulating? For Pete's Sake! If you didn't know the dame's sire you could be completely taken in! But who was he kidding, she was as likely to yell "move yer bloomin' arse!" at a horse race as Eliza Dolittle. Why had he even married this midwestern, first-generation college, once-removed blue-collar, public-school, tie-dyed indie rock wannabe anyway? Oh yeah... he was drunk and it was July in Monte Carlo. For the rest of his life he'd warn young men from Martha's Vinyard; don't vacation in Monte Carlo. Who knows who your waitress will be?!

She couldn't believe his arrogance. She knew that she was smarter than him - she had scraped her way up from the bottom, while he had never worked a day in his life and had skidded through college on his good looks and Daddy's money - and he dared to imply that she was foolish for becoming pregnant! "Didn't you ever watch Friends?" she screamed. "Don't you know that condoms only work 97% of the time?"

But, like poor Ross and Joey, he had no idea. Now he was left with the sad image of a life married to her, a woman of ten times his intelligence, and their baby.

"I'm not going to stay with this idiot for one more second," she thought to herself, as she picked herself up and walked out the door.

Sam Rico strained to hear more as pressed the yielding tips of his stethoscope into his downy ears and positioned the metal disc onto the wall, tuning the faded wallpaper like a crystal radio set, pulling in the sound of the conversation in the next room.

"Listen, old sport," Brent's voice was getting louder as it dawned on him that Cathryn was mistaking him for Elvis Walloon, the slick sheik at the Kozy Kitty Klub who had dumped a drink down Cathryn's Valentino during the Charleston competition that ended tragically in Selma losing all her hair. "You can help me out or go to...."

In a paroxysm of fury, Cathryn's hand jerked, sending the hammer home.

With a vicious report, the Colt fired a shot behind her, puncturing the thin wallboard and travelling most of the way through Sam's skull.

She couldn't believe his arrogance. She knew that she was smarter than him - she had scraped her way up from the bottom, while he had never worked a day in his life and had skidded through college on his good looks and Daddy's money ... Now he was left with the sad image of a life married to her, a woman of ten times his intelligence, and their baby.

"I'm not going to stay with this idiot for one more second," she thought to herself, as she picked herself up and walked out the door.

"Go, then," he said. "You, who are so very smart. Go."

She turned, and put her hand on the crystal-cut doorknob. His voice followed her... halted her.

"You may be smarter than me. You may be ten times smarter. But are you twelve times smarter? Can you outsmart an entire jury? Can you fool them all about what you did ... to Brent?"

Her veins filled with ice as he whispered into her ear, "Did you really think I didn't know about what happened to your first husband? Do you really think there are any secrets in Monte Carlo? Do you really think there are any secrets at the Copa? The Copa Cabana?"