Nowhere to Run (27 page)

Annabelle slipped out of the great hall, following the noise.

“What’s going on?” she called to the technicians who were scurrying away from what she remembered to be the room where the immigrant cases were decided, the Hearing Room.

“Somebody spotted white powder on the floor in there.”

The room was sealed off, the police summoned, and the plans scuttled for the segment to be shot in the Hearing Room, all without the viewers at home suspecting anything was amiss. The
KTA
staffers continued with their jobs, glancing furtively at their watches, counting the minutes until the broadcast would be over and they could get back on the ferry.

By the end of the show, the police were fairly sure that the white powder was merely donut sugar, unwittingly sprinkled by a broadcasting snacker.

This was no way to live.

Annabelle felt the anger rise within her as she and the others took the ferry back across the water. The majestic Statue of Liberty held her torch into the overcast morning sky, the symbol of freedom. The copper-skinned lady with her flowing robe and sandaled feet stood tall and proud and strong in the harbor, while Annabelle’s coworkers, American citizens, riding on the ferry with her now, were skittish and uncertain.

Damn this new world of unknowable, unexpected terrorism and events too horrible to wrap your mind around. People should not have to live this way, worried about what fresh hell awaited them as they went about their daily routines.

In frustration, Annabelle banged her hand against the railing, wincing as her scraped palm hit the metal, reminding her of the accident the night before. If it was an accident.

As she got off the boat, Annabelle was resolute. Though she might not be able to control the state of global politics or the intentions of terrorists, she was determined to do what she could to find out who had brought anthrax and fear into her life.

Clara Romanski was first on the list this morning.

The body was pulled from the long drawer and wheeled under the bright lights, and the autopsy began.

“Markedly enlarged hemorrhagic mediastinal lymph nodes on gross examination,” the masked man noted out loud.

The medical examiner carved out samples of the spleen and liver to send to the lab for further tests.

Feeling that she should reassure the staff about the frenzy over the white powder at Ellis Island, Yelena arrived at the morning meeting.

“The test has already confirmed what the police suspected. The powder was merely donut sugar,” she announced.

“They’re sure it wasn’t anthrax?” Wayne asked anxiously. “I was in that room.”

“Yes. They’re sure. So none of you have anything to worry about.”

“For now,” Gavin muttered under his breath.

Yelena shot him a withering stare. “That kind of cynical attitude doesn’t get us anywhere, Gavin.” He should only know that she was getting her file together on him. Another incriminating e-mail or two and he would be out.

“If there aren’t any other questions, go on with your meeting,” Yelena directed.

“We’re going to have a real nor’easter blowing in overnight,” Caridad Vega announced.

“How long will it last?” asked Linus, the next morning’s show his only concern.

The weather forecaster shrugged. “It could go into tomorrow afternoon.”

The plans for doing the broadcast outside, in front of the department store Christmas windows, were scrubbed.

“Okay. We’re in the studio tomorrow. We’ll do the windows on Friday instead,” Linus decided.

“I’m all for that,” remarked Harry Granger. “After freezing my buns off out with Lady Liberty this morning, the nice, warm studio suits me just fine.”

The change required a total overhaul of the broadcast, and the meeting ran long as the new assignments were given out.

“All right, everybody. That’s it. Go to it,” Linus commanded.

“Wait a minute. I have something I want to say.”

Linus looked at Annabelle as if she had two heads. A meeting was over when he said it was. No one else called the shots.

Annabelle could tell her boss was annoyed, but she plowed ahead anyway. “Look, I feel I have earned the right to say these things,” she began. “I’ve lost a good friend, and something of his which he entrusted to me has been stolen from me. Anthrax has been detected in my office, and last night, on the way home from work, someone may have tried to push me in front of a bus.”

The group assembled around the conference table murmured.

“So that’s why you’re limping?” Lauren interjected, pleased with her observation.

“Yes, that’s why I’m limping, and that’s why my hands look like this.” Annabelle held up her palms for the gaping group to see.

“Oh, Annabelle, that’s terrible,” cried Beth.

“Look, I’ll be fine,” Annabelle said, brushing the sympathy away. “But now it occurs to me that though Dr. Lee is in custody for his anthrax stunt and it might even turn out that he somehow contaminated Jerome, he certainly wasn’t in Greenwich Village last evening when that bus came my way. And if someone is trying to get rid of me, I need to figure out who it is.”

“Have you notified the police about the bus accident, Annabelle?” Yelena asked.

“Yes.”

“Then they’ll be working on it.”

“With all due respect, Yelena, I don’t think that’s good enough. By the time the police figure things out, if they even do, it could be too late. Look at Edgar Rivers. Have they gotten anywhere with that?”

Yelena’s silence was the answer.

“So here’s what I’m asking,” Annabelle implored. “If any of you have any ideas or know anything that you think might help in figuring out what’s been happening around here, I want you to come and talk to me about it. Or better yet, I’ll be coming around to talk to all of you.”

“Annabelle, that’s the job of the police,” Yelena insisted.

“I’m sorry, Yelena, but I am a firm believer in taking my destiny in my own hands. Scraped though they may be.”

Evelyn blinked her eyes open, aware of the pounding in her head.

Where was she?

A woman dressed in white stood beside her bed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wilkie. Welcome back,” said the nurse in a soothing voice.

“What happened?” Evelyn whispered, trying to recall.

“You had an accident, Mrs. Wilkie, and you’ve been asleep for the last two days.”

The icy road. The telephone pole. The throbbing in her head. Evelyn tried to sit up but fell right back onto the pillow.

“Just relax, now. I’m going to call the doctor and he’ll be right in to see you.”

As she listened to the squeaky sound of the rubber-soled shoes leaving the room, Evelyn remembered.

Clara
.

The carpeting was being steam-cleaned and the walls repainted in her office. It would be a few days yet before she would be able to settle back in there.

“Can I camp out with you again today?” Annabelle asked her friend as they left the conference room.

“
Mi casa es su casa,
honey.” Constance smiled. “I won’t be taking too much of a risk though, will I, hanging out with you?” she joked. “I guess nothing is going to happen to us right inside the Broadcast Center.”

“Edgar Rivers probably thought the same thing,” Annabelle answered.

Though it was still a bit early on the West Coast, Annabelle wanted to call Jerome’s brother, offer her condolences, and see if there was anything she could do to help.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she apologized as Peter Henning answered the phone.

“No, not at all. I woke up early. I just can’t sleep.”

“That’s understandable, Peter. I just wanted to tell you myself that I am so sorry about Jerome.”

“I know you are, Annabelle. Thank you. I guess you know Jerome was crazy about you.”

“I cared for him too, Peter. We’re going to miss him, aren’t we?”

She could hear the sound of an exhale as a cigarette was lit three thousand miles away.

“Yeah, we’re going to miss him. And I hate it that Jerome and I hadn’t seen as much of each other as we should have over these last years. I’m realizing there was a lot going on in Jerome’s life that I knew nothing about.”

“Anything I might be able to fill you in on?” Annabelle offered.

“Well, the police let me into the house to pick up some of Jerome’s papers. I found a contract in one of his folders. It seems he had been writing a book.”

“Yes, I knew Jerome had written something, but I didn’t know he had a publishing contract for it already.” Annabelle was momentarily disappointed that her friend hadn’t confided in her.

“No, this isn’t a contract with a publishing house,” said Peter. “This is a contract with Linus Nazareth for ghostwriting a book for him. It’s a confidentiality agreement.”

After printing out her notes on Jerome’s manuscript, Annabelle read them over.

She might as well start at the top and get the worst over with. She was on a fishing expedition. She didn’t know exactly what she would find, or even what she was looking for. She only hoped she’d know when she heard it.

Linus was on the telephone when she arrived at his office. He looked up with annoyance as Annabelle planted herself at his door. She waited while he finished his conversation, determined not to let courtesy get in the way of what she had to do. Not apologizing for breathing down his neck, she walked into the office and sat down.

“Let me put my cards on the table, Linus,” she began. “I know that Jerome was the ghostwriter of your book.”

Smooth. He was very smooth. If the executive producer was upset by her announcement, he didn’t show it.

“So what?” Linus leaned back in his chair. “That’s no crime. But if someone had signed a legal contract not to reveal that he had been a ghostwriter for someone else’s book, and had been paid accordingly for his work, the crime would be in that person making the revelation.”

“How convenient if the ghostwriter dies, taking the secret with him,” Annabelle blurted.

The executive producer’s smug smile spoke volumes. “Look, Annabelle, I had nothing to do with Jerome’s death or your problems.”

“Or Edgar Rivers’s murder?” Annabelle dared him, knowing she might have gone too far.

“Or Edgar Rivers’s murder,” he confirmed. “But I can’t say it hasn’t occurred to me that things are simpler for me with Jerome gone.”

Disgusted, Annabelle rose to leave the office. Reaching the door, she turned.

“Well I know he wrote it, Linus. And if something were to happen to me, I have left word with someone else that Jerome wrote your book,” she lied.

After Annabelle stalked away, Linus closed the door. He walked over to his bookcase and took the football helmet off the shelf, slipping it onto his head.

His secretary sat outside the office, listening to the rhythmic knocking as Linus banged his head against the office wall.