She lived in a beautiful six-story brownstone building that she buzzed us into after we arrived and gave her a call.Holly Jacobs was a striking, well-dressed and well-put-together middle-aged black woman with a short Vogue-ish asymmetrical bob haircut. Her white-on-white apartment was sleek and modern and immaculate. The books on her shelves were those coffee-table artsy ones. Edward Weston, Magritte, The Drawings of Peter Paul Rubens.She sat us down in her sunken living room on a couch near the bay window that overlooked the leafy park.“So tell us, Holly,” I started. “You’re having some problems with your ex-boyfriend?”Holly stood and folded her arms over her flat stomach and stared out the window for a few moments before she nodded. She took a photograph off the coffee table and handed it to me. It showed a handsome, smiling, wiry young black man with a shaved head.“This is Roger. I met him at a club about a year ago. I thought I’d put my clubbing days in the rearview, but I’m a marketing consultant for a fashion company, and I was celebrating a deal with some young clients.
