Authors: Lisa Scottoline
“I’m looking for a man who lives here. Neil Straub.”
“Mr. Straub? He’s not in.”
Jill was ready for that. “When did you see him last?”
“Sorry, but we don’t give out that information.”
“I know, but this is an emergency. I’m Jill Farrow, and your name’s Michael?”
“Mike Moran, yes.”
“Mike, please help me, if you can. Neil is a good friend of my ex-husband, who just passed away last Tuesday, leaving two daughters. One of them is missing, and I’m trying to find her.”
“That’s too bad.” Mike frowned, with genuine sympathy.
“Her sister Victoria came here yesterday, looking for her and asking about Neil Straub. Do you remember her?”
“No, I wasn’t here. It was my day off.”
“I see.” Jill reached in her purse and withdrew two photos she’d printed. The top one was a recent one of Abby, from William’s computer. “This is my stepdaughter, Abby Skyler. Have you seen her? She could have come to visit Neil.”
“Hmm.” Mike took the photo, eyeing it. “I haven’t seen her. Mind you, I see a lot of people in this job, but I tend to remember.”
“So you don’t remember seeing her?”
“No.”
“Who covers the desk on your day off?”
“There’s three of us, and we rotate. I’m day shift, Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we split the night shifts, plus we got the weekends.”
“So when would the night-shift doorman come on?”
“Leon comes in at five.”
“Do you have his phone, so I can call him?”
“No can do, sorry.”
“How about his address, and I’ll look up his phone number?”
“No, sorry.” Mike buckled his lower lip. “I’d like to help, but I can’t give that information out. If you stop back at five o’clock, you can ask him then.”
Jill thought a minute. It made sense that the day-shift doorman hadn’t seen Abby. She’d gone missing on Saturday night, and maybe that was when she’d come up. “Okay, maybe I will. Do you think Neil, Mr. Straub, will be back by then?”
“I doubt it. He travels a lot.”
“What does he do? Something financial, right?”
Mike hesitated. “Yeah, but you didn’t hear it from me. I shouldn’t have said what I did. Keep it to yourself, okay? I need this job.”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Straub is a nice guy, and rules are rules. The board takes them very serious.”
“The board?”
“The co-op board. They run the place.” Mike handed her back the photos, but the bottom one fluttered to the desk. It was the one of Neil and William in sunglasses, on the golf course in Pebble Beach. Mike picked it up. “Oh, there’s Mr. Straub. Musta been younger then.”
“Yes, by a few years, I think.”
“Looks that way.” Mike chuckled, handing her back the photo. “But he’s gotta lose that shirt. I mean, pink?”
Jill didn’t get it. In the picture, Neil was wearing a navy blue polo shirt, and William had on a pale pink one. “What do you mean? Neil’s not wearing pink.”
“Sure he is.” Mike pointed to William. “I’m not colorblind, and this is pink.”
“Yes, the shirt is pink, but that’s not Neil.”
“Yes, it is.” Mike tapped William’s face with a bitten-off fingernail. “This here is Mr. Straub.”
Jill didn’t understand. Mike was pointing at William’s face. “That’s not Neil Straub. The other guy is.”
“I know Mr. Straub when I see him, and the guy in pink is Mr. Straub.”
Jill put it together, hiding her astonishment. “You mean Neil Straub is William Skyler?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mike handed the photo back. “All I know is, the man in the pink shirt is Neil Straub. I know the man, I talk to him all the time. He’s lived here, like, three years, in 4-D.”
“Thanks.” Jill put the photo in her purse, struggling to get her bearings. So William had another identity, a double life as Neil Straub. She wouldn’t have guessed as much in a million years. William was a con artist, but this had to be his sickest scam ever, because he’d deceived his own children. Abby couldn’t have known or she would have told Jill. Jill’s next thought was that William’s double life could be connected to Abby’s disappearance.
“Excuse me, hold on.” Mike’s attention shifted to the elevator as it
ping
ed, and its doors opened, revealing an attractive woman, well-dressed in a white pantsuit, carrying a purse, a cell phone, and a large cardboard box.
“Mike, honey,” the woman called. “Can you give me a hand, please?”
“Sure thing, Belle,” Mike called back, coming around the desk and taking the box.
“Wait, Mike, please.” Jill followed him. “Who’s the other guy in the photo, wearing the navy shirt?”
“I have no idea,” Mike answered, over his shoulder. “Belle, where do you want the box?”
“On the desk, temporarily.” The woman eyed the lobby, annoyed. “My client isn’t here yet? Sheesh! I hate it when people are late.”
Jill couldn’t let it go. “Mike, please, just one last question.”
Mike walked back and set the box on the desk, then turned to Jill with a frown. “What?”
“Is there anyone who runs the building, like a super I could speak with?”
“Only residents speak with the super,” Mike answered, his tone newly official, but the woman lifted a perfectly-penciled eyebrow.
“Why, dear? Are you interested in a unit? It’s wonderful building, and I used to live here myself. I can show you an apartment that’s very special. In this market, it’s a steal.” The woman thrust out a manicured hand. “I’m Belle Kahan, with Prudential.”
Jill had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “You know, I
am
looking for an apartment in this building.”
Mike turned, pursing his lips tight. But he said nothing.
Chapter Thirty-five
Jill walked into a large, empty apartment, with two tall windows that overlooked the Hudson River. She scanned the view, her thoughts in tumult. It boggled her mind to think that William had lived in this very building, as Neil Straub. She had a zillion questions, but the only one that mattered was Abby.
“Quite a view, eh?” Belle asked, gesturing at the windows. “It doesn’t get better than this.”
“It’s great.” Jill managed a smile. “What can you tell me about the building?”
“It’s a co-op, very exclusive, very fiscally responsible. It’s well-run, and smaller than others on the street, only forty units. Are you working with a Realtor?”
“Not yet.”
“I’d be happy to work with you. I know this building and the entire West Village, like the back of my hand. I live on Horatio now.”
“I like this building.” Jill remembered the doorman saying that William’s apartment was 4-D. “Have you sold other apartments in it?”
“Tons. What do you do?”
“I’m a doctor,” Jill answered, and Belle’s eyes lit up.
“Wow! Who doesn’t want a doctor in the house? You’ll pass the board with flying colors.”
Jill was wondering how William had passed a co-op board, with a false identity. “I’ve never applied to a co-op building before. What information do you have to show them?”
“Everything and then some. Tax returns and bank statements, and you need to get two recommendations and references, besides a letter from your landlord saying you’re paid up. Are you currently renting in the city?”
“No.” Jill still didn’t get it. If William had to show that much information to the board, he’d have a whole separate identity set up with a bank. “How careful is the board? Not just anybody can get in here, can they?”
“No, but you’ll do fine. This board isn’t as power-crazy as the ones on the Upper East. It’s much more laid back, downtown.” Belle flashed a lipsticked smile. “You’re engaged, I see. Nice ring. Are you scouting for both of you?”
“Yes.” Jill managed a smile.
“Good for you. This building has a really nice group of residents. Very chummy, because it’s so small. They have parties on the roof deck every Fourth of July, to watch the fireworks.”
Jill got an idea. “Funny, I saw someone in the lobby the other day, whom I think I know from college. Neil Straub. Tall, good-looking. I think he lives in 4-D.”
“4-D?” Belle paused, thinking. “Oh, right, he’s a subletter. I don’t know him, but I sold that apartment a few years ago to a couple from London, and they moved back home. There’s only a few subletters in the building, and the board likes it that way. Don’t have the same controls, with a subletter.”
“Do subletters have to get board approval?”
“No.”
Jill thought it explained how William had gotten past the board.
“I know who you mean.” Belle leaned over, in a cloud of flowery perfume. “He’s quite the ladies man. My best friend still lives in 4-A, and we see what goes on with him. He keeps busy, if you know what I mean.”
Jill did, unfortunately. “He hasn’t changed since college, huh?”
“They never do, girlfriend. Like the kids say, he’s a
playa
.”
“I guess he never got married.”
“I’ve see him with the same girl a few times, but I doubt she knows about the others.”
Jill doubted it, too. “What does she look like, this one?”
“Thin, blonde, and young. What else?”
“What does he do for a living, do you know? He used to be in the pharmaceuticals business.”
“Don’t know, but it’s something that makes a lot of money. He drives a big Mercedes. Silver. I know because he took my parking space once.”
“Doesn’t the building have parking?”
“Yes, but it costs extra. He was out front, unloading.”
“Where’s the garage, and how does the parking work? Are there numbered spaces?”
“Yes, all marked by the apartment number.” Belle gestured behind her, to the north. “The garage is at the back of the building. Sometimes it’s easier to drop off your bags, then go park. Now, shall I show you the kitchen?”
“Yes, thanks.” Jill learned nothing more and spent the next half-hour being led around an apartment she didn’t want, trying to piece together a puzzle she hadn’t seen coming. She bid Belle good-bye, left the apartment building, and stood on the sidewalk, revising her plan. It wouldn’t make sense to come back at five to see the night-shift doorman. He wouldn’t recognize Abby because she undoubtedly hadn’t been here.
The garage is at the back of the building.
Jill walked to the end of the street, heading for the garage, curious if William’s car was there. Runners trotted past her toward the river. She took a right onto the West Side Highway, and traffic had picked up,
whoosh
ing loudly in both directions, uptown and down. She turned right onto the next street, a skinny sidestreet of cobblestones, and kept walking.
Midway up, Jill found a gate over a driveway, which had to be the garage to the building. There was a door next to the entrance, and she made a beeline for it. She tried the knob, but it was locked. She glanced behind her, to make sure no one saw her, when suddenly, she spotted a black SUV, parked at the curb behind a row of others, on the West Side Highway.
Jill froze. The SUV hadn’t been there before, or she hadn’t seen it. It looked like the same model as the padiddle that had been following her. The headlights were off because it was daytime. She couldn’t see the license plate. Sunlight glinted off its chrome grille, and a man sat behind the wheel, a still figure in shadow.
Jill told herself to stay calm. It would’ve been impossible to follow her here, so it probably wasn’t the same car, but there was only one way to find out. She turned on her heel and walked toward the car. Suddenly the black SUV’s engine roared to life, the SUV reversed, cut the wheels, and started to wedge itself out of the parking space.
Jill broke into a run, almost tripping on the cobblestones. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The SUV had to be leaving because she was coming. She reached the line of parked cars just as the SUV pulled onto the West Side Highway, heading uptown. It had a Pennsylvania license plate that read TJU-something.
“Wait!” Jill yelled, on the run. “Stop! Help!”
And before she realized what she was doing, she was running down the West Side Highway after the SUV.
Chapter Thirty-six
“Stop that car!” Jill screamed, frantic. Heads turned. Runners stopped running. A cyclist braked, putting down his cleated shoe.
Jill ran as fast as she could. Her legs churned. Her arms pumped. Her flats slapped the sidewalk.
The SUV veered to the middle lane but couldn’t go forward. The cars ahead of it were stopped at a red light. Crosstown traffic flowed onto the highway, in force. There were traffic lights at almost every block, and it was the only thing that gave Jill a fighting chance of catching him.
She ran harder, almost colliding with an older man walking a poodle. She kept her eyes glued to the SUV driver. He was looking this way and that, his head swiveling left and right. He was blocked in and knew it.
A moving van pulled out of the cross street and stopped, blocking traffic. The light turned green, and the SUV and the other cars started honking.
Jill raced ahead, gaining ground. Only half a block separated her from the SUV, then less. The moving van would go any second, pulling onto the far side of the highway, heading downtown.
Jill tore down the sidewalk, glanced behind her, and ran into the street like a madwoman. “Don’t hit me!” she screamed, putting her hand up.
The red Saturn behind her braked, then started honking. Van and limo drivers looked over, angry. “Honk!” blared a tractor-trailer, startling her.
Jill struggled to keep up her pace. Her breaths were ragged. Her thighs burned. She closed in on the SUV. Eight cars, then seven, then six. She was almost there. The Saturn hung back, honking.
The moving van inched forward. The SUV honked and honked, still blocked.
Jill tried to run into the middle lane, but a battered pickup wouldn’t let her in, roaring past her as if she’d been in a car.
“Stop that car!” Jill shouted. The SUV still couldn’t go. Her lungs were about to explode. Sweat poured into her eyes. Her purse swung wildly at her side. She clamped it down with a hand.
She burst ahead, closer to the SUV. There were three cars left between them, then two, then one.
Suddenly the moving van cleared the lane. The SUV accelerated and switched into the fast lane.