Nick of Time (10 page)

The attendant's reaction made him think that it was the best tip of the day.

The doorman spun the revolving door for them, and then they were inside. Nicki gasped. “Oh. My. God.”

“Close your mouth,” Brad whispered. “You look like you've never been in a hotel before.”

“I haven't. Not like this, anyway.” The lush carpet looked like something out of a royal palace, boasting subdued splashes of burgundy and blue and green. In combination with the spectacular leather furniture and the polished mahogany walls, the lobby bore the ambience of a rich gentlemen's club.

Brad gestured to one of the wine-colored leather chairs. “Have a seat. I need to work out some stuff with the front desk.”

“I can't go with you?”

“I'd rather you not,” he said.

Nicki's eyes said she wanted more details, but Brad walked away.

A man and a woman gave matching smiles in their matching gray suits as Brad approached. Neither was much older than he. “Hi,” Brad said. “You have a reservation for Mr. Campanella? I believe it was made this morning.”

The woman—Sam, according to her name tag—started typing in her computer while Patrick looked on. “Yes, I have it right here,” she said. “You're part of the ASLO conference?”

Brad smiled. “Yes ma'am, that's right.”

“Very good, I just need to see your credit card.”

Brad winced. “Um, I think you need to read the rest of the record. My father made the reservation, and he doesn't like me to have a credit card.”

Sam scrolled down through the record. “Okay,” she said, “according to this, you're approved for room and miscellaneous expenses, but it also says something about a code word and asking for identification?”

Brad smiled sheepishly and reached for his wallet. “I don't believe he embarrasses me like this. One little misstep, and I have to be humiliated for the rest of my life. Rumpelstiltskin is the code word, by the way.” He levered his Nevada driver's license out of his wallet. Thanks to some fast work at Kinko's, it identified him as Bradley Campanella. It was a calculated risk to include the identification in the ruse, but it worked well to put people at ease as they violated long-standing company policy.

From the brief glance that Sam gave the license, he might just as well have put Santa Claus's picture on it. Her fingers flew on the keyboard, and she read some more. Brad didn't like what he saw pass in front of her eyes, but he was in too deep to show paranoia now. He'd learned over the years that if you just kept your face passive and friendly, you could get away with anything.

“Okay, Mr. Campanella,” Sam said at last, “how many keys do you need?”

“Two, please.”

Sam pulled two plastic cards out of a slot at the front of her desk and did some more computer work to turn them into keys. Brad took the opportunity to scan the room. He didn't know squat about art, but the huge oil canvases on the walls all looked like originals. Very expensive ones at that.

“Here you go,” Sam said, handing him the key. “Are you familiar with our hotel?”

“Actually, no, I'm not.”

“Okay, then, well, you're in room 9000. I think you'll like it very much. If not, please let us know and we'll make sure that everything suits you. Whatever you need, charge it to the room. Can I have someone carry luggage for you?”

Brad pushed away from the counter. “No, we're fine, thanks.”

“There's another note in your file about the Couture Shoppe?”

It took him a second, but then he remembered. “Oh, yes, of course.”

Hailey read from her computer screen as she told him, “Pamela is waiting for your phone call, and she's very excited about what she's found.”

Brad beamed. “Excellent. I'll tell you what. If it's not too much trouble, could you go ahead and call her and have her meet us in the room in say, ten minutes?”

Sam was already reaching for the telephone. “Of course,” she said. “Enjoy your stay at the Ritz-Carlton.”

Brad walked back toward Nicki, who was nearly dozing in her chair. “Okay, we're set. Are you all right?”

“I'm just tired,” she said. “We've got a room?”

Brad fanned the two keys like so many playing cards. “The top floor,” he said. “The Governor's Suite.”

Nicki gasped and hissed, “Brad, you can't steal a hotel room.”

He helped her out of her chair. “Who says I'm stealing? Just ask the folks at the front desk. My father is giving us this trip as a present.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

T
he elevator car dinged as it glided to a halt, and the doors slid open to reveal even more opulence, every bit as posh as the lobby. A rich leather sofa greeted them on the opposite wall, and above it, Nicki could see their reflections in an enormous gilded mirror. The nap of the carpet nearly tripped her, and Brad struck like a snake to catch her.

“Be careful,” he said. “Looks like they haven't mowed the rug in a while.”

Clearly this was the special floor, the one designed for visiting dignitaries and movie stars. The hallways were wider than she'd seen in other hotels, and the doorways were widely separated. Brad led the way, scowling as he watched the room numbers pass.

“What number are you looking for?” Nicki asked.

“I told you. We're looking for the Governor's Suite. Room 9000.”

It was at the far end of the hallway, the door staring straight back at them. “Governor's Suite” was etched in black letters on gleaming brass, the plaque mounted just above an ornate brass knocker. With his grin growing wider by the second, Brad slid the plastic key into the slot, and when the red light turned green, he pushed it open. “Welcome to your new hangout.”

They both gasped at the splendor of the place. The gleaming walnut door swung in to reveal what Nicki imagined a Park Avenue apartment might look like. “Oh, my God,” she said. Words were useless here.

A hardwood foyer gave way to a living room—easily twice the size of the one in Nicki's house on Berwick Place. The dining room table—yes, the dining room table, in the actual
dining room
—was set for six people, though it easily could have accommodated four more, and that led to a kind of mini-kitchen, with a fridge, a microwave, and a bar. Directly across from the front door, the living room curtains stretched the full twelve feet from the floor to the ceiling, and through them, she could see a glittering view of Mason's Corner.

“You like it?” Brad asked.

“We're going to jail,” Nicki said, stifling a laugh. “And then we're going to hell.”

“Where we'll find all of our friends,” Brad said. “Come on, let's look around.”

The bedroom was as grand as the living room, with a towering canopy bed and a fireplace that lit by remote control. Beyond that lay the bathroom, a symphony of rose-colored marble and solid brass fixtures. As she looked at the deep Jacuzzi tub, it was all Nicki could do to keep from pushing Brad out of the room.

“It's all too much,” she said. “I can't imagine what all of this must cost.”

“Keep worrying like that and you're gonna give yourself a health problem.”

She laughed. Why could he say things like that to her and not offend her? She was dying, for God's sake, but Brad could talk about it as if it were just any other annoying detail in an otherwise normal life.

Nicki jumped when the doorbell rang. “Who's that?”

Brad's eyes grew even wider with mischief. “Wait till you see. This is the best part yet.”

Nicki started laughing before she knew why. She let him take her hand and lead her back out to the living room. “What are you doing?”

When he reached the foyer, he stopped. “Oh, yeah, don't act surprised if they call me Mr. Campanella.”

Brad beamed. “Yeah. And you might try to remember that we're here to attend the annual meeting of the ASLO.”

“Ass-low?”

“The American Society of Law Enforcement Officials.”

The doorbell rang again.

“The American Society of
what
?”

He laughed. “Don't worry about it. It was the only prom I could find.”

Brad hurried to the door and pulled it open, revealing a forty-something woman and her assistant, wrangling a rack full of clothes.

Nicki's jaw dropped.

Brad caught the look of amazement and beamed. “Well, you can't go to a fancy dance dressed like that,” he said.

* * *

Pamela and Simone brought only the best from the shop downstairs. Versace, Donna Karan, Nicole Miller, you name it. It was all evening wear, and all of it was size two, just as it was supposed to be. Obviously, Brad had been paying attention. They worked on her the way stylists work on a movie star, showing her one outfit even as she was trying on another.

Brad had asked to stay and watch the show, but that idea was dead on arrival. He was biding his time out in the living room, where he'd found a baseball game to watch.

In less than an hour, it was all done. She was the proud owner of a princess's wardrobe. When it came time for Pamela and Simone to leave, Brad called from the living room that it was his turn, that she had to stay in the bedroom for a while longer. Ten minutes later, she heard him bid good-bye to the visitors.

Over the years, Nicki had learned the art of looking at clothes in the mirror. If she did it right, she could see only the clothes, and nothing of herself. She thought of it as a survival skill—the talent that kept her from acting on that occasional suicidal urge. When she explained it to her shrink, the best analogy she'd been able to construct was to refer to one of those clear plastic mannequins you saw in store windows. You knew that something had to be holding the clothes up, but unless you really made an effort, the mannequins themselves remained invisible.

Intuitively, Nicki knew that the fat wasn't there, yet emotionally, if she allowed herself to look, it was all that she'd be able to see. Tonight, as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, she saw a lovely gown and a terrific pair of shoes. And a necklace. It was a beautiful thing, floating there above the low neckline of the dress. It was a spectacular outfit, wasted on someone as uselessly unattractive as she.

The knock on the door startled her. “Nicki, are you ready?”

She went to the door, grateful to have an excuse to break away from the mirror. As she reached for the knob, she had a brief stab of panic. What would Brad say when he saw her? All of this, she knew, had as much to do with a fantasy of his as it did a fantasy of hers. What would happen if she so wildly missed the mark that he lost interest?

“Can I come in?” Brad asked through the door.

“No,” she said, “I'm coming out. Are you ready?”

“When you are.”

Steeling herself against the disappointment she knew she'd see in his face, Nicki turned the knob and pulled the door open. What she saw made her gasp: The Brad from the bus station had transformed into James Bond. He wore a jet-black tuxedo with black satin tie and cummerbund, with gold studs decorating the front panel of his crisply starched white shirt. And, as always, he wore that smile. He positively glimmered.

“You're gorgeous,” he said. “The gown is perfect on you.”

And then Nicolette Janssen positively glimmered as well.

Chapter Ten

C
arter arrived at the bus station around nine-thirty and parked illegally in the bus lanes, leaving his blue Kojak light on the dash as a signal to any passing cops that he was due a little professional courtesy. As a matter of New York State law, he didn't really rate the light—truly there was no reason for a prosecutor to race to the scene of a crime—but it was the way things were done. He could only guess that the practice in Brookfield, Virginia, was similar.

As he stepped through the double doors, he winced at the stink of the place, a combination of body odor and institutional dirt. All the ticket windows but one were closed now, and the woman behind the glass read a paperback to pass the time. Carter wondered if Nicki had stood on this exact same spot, and if so, how long ago.

What must she have been thinking as she walked through here? Had she had a plan, beyond the musings in the chat room? As a girl raised in the comfort of upper-middle-class suburbia, how did she react to the plainness of a bus station? To the people who passed through it?

In the best case, Carter figured that he was only six hours behind her; the worst case was nine hours. Nicki had apparently been smart enough in her evasion tactics to pay for her ticket in cash and to travel under an assumed name. Such were the perks, he guessed, of having a father who spent his life working with criminals. Amazing what you teach your kids when you think you're teaching them something else. Had it occurred to her, even for a moment, that this guy might not show up? Or that he might not be the person she thought he was?

He'd asked himself that question dozens of times now, and every time, the answer came back, “Of course she didn't.”

As he'd expected, he saw no local police on the lookout. Seventeen was a tricky age for runaways everywhere. Despite their legal status as minors and their emotional immaturity, most jurisdictions saw them as old enough to make decisions for themselves, and they tended not to commit shoe leather to a search until the kid had been missing for some prescribed period, usually forty-eight hours.

Chris Tu's discovery of Brad Ward's new name would certainly add some enthusiasm to the effort to find them, but that was a card he'd have to play carefully. Carter hadn't seen the sheet they were putting out yet, but he knew without question that as a murderer and escapee, the text would read “armed and extremely dangerous.” That would mean guns drawn in any confrontation, and the very thought of Nicki being within a mile of a shoot-out made his stomach knot.

The clatter of a galvanized bucket drew Carter's attention around behind him, to a closet where a three-hundred-year-old janitor was wrestling with a mop and cleaning supplies. It was as good a place to start as any, he supposed. Carter waited until the old guy appeared to have things under control, then approached him softly. “Excuse me,” he said.

When the janitor straightened, he appeared to be even older than before. His black skin had the texture of a well-ridden saddle, and the name tag over his shirt pocket read Stewart.

“My name is Carter Janssen. I'm a lawyer from New York, and I'm looking for this girl.” He handed over a copy of Nicki's junior-year school picture.

Stewart gave it a cursory glance and shook his head. “Ain't seen nobody looks nothing like that,” he said.

Carter offered it a second time. “Could you look at it again, please? This is my daughter and I need to find her. She's sick.”

Stewart glanced again, even more briefly. “Nope, sorry.”

Carter sighed as he felt himself flush. People like this were the reason for half the world's misery. No one wanted to get involved. “Anyone here that you can recommend I talk to? I figure she must have come through in the last four or five hours.”

The old man pushed his wheeled bucket forward, using the handle of the mop as a rudder in a weird parody of a Venetian gondolier. “The ticket folks changed shifts two hours ago.”

“What about the baggage handlers?”

Stewart's face folded into a smile, exposing a set of teeth that reminded Carter of a half-eaten ear of corn. “This is a bus station, young feller. The ticket folk do it all.”

“What about you? How long you been on duty?”

The janitor bumped Carter's foot with his bucket and Carter stepped sideways to let him pass. “Hell, I never go home,” he said. “Work twelve, fourteen hours a day just to keep the rent paid. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother since I ain't never there.”

Carter reached for Stewart's arm and the old man cringed, as if expecting to be hit. “Look, I know you don't want to share information about the people who pass through here—especially with some lawyer from New York—but you have to believe me when I tell you that the girl in the picture is very sick. She's my only daughter—my only child—and she's run away.” His instincts told him not to mention anything about Brad or his criminal record; he didn't want to scare the old man off. “Please,” Carter pressed. “If you know anything at all—or if you know anyone else who might know something—please share it with me.”

Stewart eyed him, considering his words before he spoke them. Just from the way the janitor's eyes narrowed, Carter thought that he was about to get a break.

“No, sorry,” Stewart said. “I can't help you.” He pointed to a pile of filthy clothes gathered in the far corner of the station. “Might want to talk to him, though. He's always here, though I can't say his mind is all that it oughtta be.”

Carter never would have noticed the homeless guy if Stewart hadn't pointed him out. “What's his name?”

“People call him Lee.”

Interesting way to put that, Carter thought. Was there a difference between the man's name and what people called him? “Thank you,” he said.
For nothing,
he didn't say.

Carter crossed the lobby, past the half-dozen travelers crammed in plastic seats that were linked together for maximum discomfort. Off in the corner opposite the lump that was Lee, a bank of snack machines hummed and glowed against the stained walls and floor. He wondered how many cross-country travelers lived off a diet of Cheez-Its, Ding Dongs, and soft drinks as they hopped from one bus station to the next, without transportation to take them even to a Waffle House somewhere.

As he got closer to Lee, Carter realized that the bum was responsible for at least half of the station's offensive odor. One glance at the empty bottle of cheap cognac, and Carter gave him up as a lost cause.

“Hey,” a voice called from behind, “Mr. Lawyer-man.” Carter turned. It was Stewart. He hadn't moved from where Carter had last spoken to him. “That true, what you said about her bein' sick?”

Carter fought the urge to step closer. “Yessir,” he said.

“Swear to God?”

Carter made a slow approach. He crossed his heart with his fingers, a gesture he hadn't made in thirty years.

“It's important,” Stewart said, “because half the people come through here got some kinda story to tell, you know? A lot of them is tryin' to get away from somethin', and it ain't none o' my business to—”

“I swear to God, Stewart. She's my daughter and she's sick. And I'm desperate.”

The janitor stewed on it, and then sighed. “I had a daughter run away from me long time ago. Turned to the streets and got herself mixed up in drugs and whorin' an' all kinds of death.” His eyes narrowed and grew hot. “I was a drinker and a hitter, I was. I drove her off and she got dead as a result. Prob'ly best, because I prob'ly woulda killed her myself sooner or later. You don't look like a drinker. You a hitter?”

Carter allowed himself a soft smile. “Do I look like one?”

“No, sir, you look like the lawyer you say you are. Thing is, I don't know what that's any better.”

Now here's a guy with a thousand stories to tell,
Carter thought. He assured Stewart, “I'm not a drunk and I'm definitely not a hitter. I'm just a worried dad.”

Stewart bobbed his head. That was good enough for him. “She was here,” the janitor said. “She's a pretty little thing. Tiny, though. Makes sense, now that you tell me she's sick.”

“Was she by herself?”

Stewart scowled as he replayed the scene in his head. “I b'lieve she was, at least at first. I remember her sitting right over yonder and checking her watch.”

“How long ago?”

“I b'lieve she was on the Zephyr from up north. That would've put her here round four o'clock. Like you said, five, six hours ago.”

“Did somebody meet her?”

“Yessir, somebody did, after a few minutes. A nice-looking kid, dressed like he was goin' to Harvard or somethin'. They was happy to see each other, too.”

“How do you mean?”

“How do I mean? I mean, they had this big hug, just like in the movies. He even twirled her around. You gotta smile at young love.”

“That wasn't love,” Carter snapped, but then he pulled back. The clothing detail interested him. “What did this guy look like? Other than like he was nice?”

Stewart gave that a hard thought. “That's a hard one, you know? I don't notice boys all that much, if you know what I mean. He just looked like any other kid. Tall, thin, big smile. Good lookin' boy.”

“So you got the sense that the girl—my daughter—had been waiting for him?”

“Oh, yessir, without a doubt. One o' the best things about this shitty job I got is watchin' reunions. Lots o' happiness in a reunion, you know? Make up for all the sad good-byes I see. That girl and that boy, well, I kinda feel this ain't what you want to hear, but that there was a good reunion.”

He was right; it wasn't what Carter wanted to hear. “How about luggage? Did you see any of that?”

“No, sir, I didn't, and I gotta tell you, that's one o' the things that drew my attention to the girl. You see somebody that size, that age hangin' around a bus station, and you gotta think maybe somethin' bad is happenin'. That's how my own daughter did her slide downhill. She was a bus-rider all the way. When I saw your little girl sittin' there on the bench by herself, I kinda kept an eye on her, just to make sure that she didn't do something stupid.”

Carter smiled. Stewart the guardian angel. “And when you saw the boy come in for her?”

“Well, I just let them have their peace. If he was her pimp or some such, there'd've been a lot o' that awkward shit, but not there. I stopped lookin' because even in here, people deserve a little privacy.”

“I don't suppose you saw the kind of car he was driving.”

Stewart displayed his corn-teeth again in a big grin. “No, sir, and that's the God's honest truth. If it don't park out there into the stalls, or in here on the floor, I just plain don't see what people drive.”

Carter tried to think of another relevant question.

“Oh, an' I got one other detail you prob'ly might like to know. I did overhear them talkin' a little, an' I heard him tell her he was gonna treat her like some queen. No, that he was gonna take her to a prom.”

Carter scowled. “Prom, as in a high school dance?”

“That's it, yessir, he was gonna take her to a prom. Even named the place they was gonna go to. He was gonna take her to her fantasy.”

* * *

Carter punched the numbers into his cell phone as he drove toward the Braddock County police headquarters, following the directions given to him by whoever was sitting on the watch desk. He'd been halfway through arguing with the watch officer about his need for police support when it hit him why the town of Brookfield rang such a strong bell in his mind. Four years ago, he'd done one hell of a favor for a detective in that department—a lieutenant—and once Carter put the pieces together in his mind, he knew exactly how to get the kind of help he needed. The watch officer refused to give out the lieutenant's number, even when Carter assured him that there'd be no repercussions.

After a call to Chris Tu, however, Carter got what he needed. He punched the number into his cell.

As the phone rang on the other end, Carter checked his watch. Eight-thirty was a little late to be calling anyone at home, but under the circumstances, he'd live with the guilt.

They picked up on the other end in the middle of the fourth ring. “Michaels residence, Nathan speaking,” said a reedy voice.

Carter smiled. Last time he heard that voice, it belonged to a little boy. “Hello, Nathan, this is Carter Janssen, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm—”

“You're the lawyer from New York,” Nathan said, and judging from the sudden weakness in his tone, the sound of the prosecutor's voice terrified him.

Carter felt bad for not having introduced himself more gently. He remembered that day on the square near the obelisk, just as most of the country remembered from the television news coverage. At the age of twelve, Nathan Bailey had been the object of a nationwide hunt as a suspected murderer, and had very nearly earned a sniper's bullet. Carter could have prosecuted the boy on dozens of charges, but when Warren Michaels and his wife stepped in to be his foster family, Carter had cut them a break.

“There's no problem for you to be concerned about,” Carter assured him, “but I need to speak with Lieutenant Michaels. Is he home?”

The teenager hesitated. “Yes, sir, I'll get him.”

On the other end of the line, Carter heard Nathan yell, “Papa! Telephone!” There was movement, and then intense, muffled talk that Carter couldn't understand.

A more familiar voice came on the line. “This is Lieutenant Michaels. Can I help you?”