Pretend You Don't See Her (13 page)

 
          
“On
the Tom Lynch program,” Lacey said. The woman was studying her, and she felt
the need to elaborate. “I’ve been thinking of joining a gym for some time, and
since I can try this one out a few times before deciding …” She let her voice
trail off. “It’s also convenient to my apartment,” she finished lamely.

 
          
At
least this will give me some practice in trying to get a job, she told herself
fiercely. The prospect of filling out the form had frightened her, since it was
the first time she had actually used her new identity. It was all very well to
practice it with her advisor, Deputy Marshal George Svenson, but quite another
to actually try to live it.

 
          
On
the drive to the gym she had mentally reviewed the details: She was Alice
Carroll, from Hartford, Connecticut, a graduate of Caldwell College, a safe
alma mater because the school was now closed. She had worked as a secretary in
a doctor’s office in Hartford. The doctor retired at the same time that she
broke up with her boyfriend, so it just seemed like the right time to make a
move. She had chosen Minneapolis because she visited there once as a teenager
and loved it. She was an only child. Her father was dead, and her mother had
remarried and was living in London.

 
          
None
of which matters at the moment, she thought as she reached into her purse for
her new social security card. She would have to be careful; she had
automatically started to write her real number but caught herself. Her address:
One East End Avenue, New York, NY 10021 flashed into her mind. No, 520 Hennepin
Avenue, Minneapolis, MN 55403. Her bank: Chase; no, First State.
Her job?
She put a dash through that space. Relative or
friend to notify in case of accident: Svenson had provided her with a phony
name, address, and telephone number to use in that situation. Any call that was
made to the number would go to him.

 
          
She
got to the questions on medical history.
Any problems?
Well, yes, she thought.
A slight scar where a bullet creased
my skull.
Shoulders that always feel tense because I always have the
feeling that someone is looking for me, and that someday when I’m out walking,
I’ll hear footsteps behind me, and I’ll turn and …

 
          
“Stuck
on a question?” Wilcox asked brightly. “Maybe I can help.”

 
          
Instantly
struck with paranoia, Lacey was sure she detected a skeptical look appear in
the other woman’s eyes. She can sense that there’s something phony about me,
she thought. Lacey managed a smile. “No, not stuck at all.” She signed “Alice
Carroll” to the form and pushed it across the desk.

 
          
Wilcox
studied it.
“Purr-
fect
.”
The
pattern on her sweater was kittens playing with a spool of yarn. “Now let me
show you around.”

 
          
The
place was attractive and well equipped with a good supply of exercise
paraphernalia, a long jogging track, airy rooms for aerobics classes, a large
pool, steam and sauna facilities, and an attractive juice bar.

 
          
“It
gets fairly crowded early in the morning and right after work,” Wilcox told
her. “Oh, look, there he is,” she said, interrupting herself. She called out to
a broad-shouldered man who was headed away from them and toward the men’s
locker room: “Tom, come here a minute.”

 
          
He
stopped and turned, and Ms. Wilcox vigorously waved her arm, gesturing for him
to come over.

 
          
A
moment later she was introducing them. “Tom Lynch, this is Alice Carroll. Alice
is joining us because she heard you talk about us on your radio program,” Ms.
Wilcox told him.

 
          
He
smiled easily. “I’m glad I’m so persuasive.
Nice to meet you,
Alice.”
With a quick nod, and another bright smile, he left them.

 
          
“Isn’t
he a doll?” Wilcox asked. “If I didn’t have a boyfriend I really like … well,
never mind that. The trouble is
,
the single women
sometimes come on too strong to him, keep trying to talk to him. But when he’s
here, he’s here to exercise.”

 
          
Helpful
hints, Lacey thought. “So am I,” she said crisply, hoping she sounded
convincing.

 
          
MONA
FARRELL SAT ALONE AT A TABLE IN THE POPULAR new restaurant, Alex’s Place. It
was eleven o’clock, and the dining room and bar were still crowded with
after-theater patrons. The pianist was playing “Unchained Melody,” and Mona
felt a sharp sense of loss. That song had been one of Jack’s favorites.

 
          
The
lyrics drifted through her mind. And time can do so much …

 
          
Mona
realized that lately she seemed always to be on the verge of tears. Oh, Lacey,
she thought, where are you?

 
          
“Well,
I guess I can take some time to sit with a pretty woman.”

 
          
Mona
looked up, startled back into reality, and watched as Alex Carbine’s smile
faded.

 
          
“You
crying, Mona?” he asked anxiously.

 
          
“No.
I’m fine.”

 
          
He
sat across from her. “You’re not fine. Anything special, or just the way things
are?”

 
          
She
attempted a smile. “This morning I was watching CNN, and they showed that minor
earthquake in Los Angeles. It wasn’t that minor. A young woman lost control of
her car, and it flipped over. She was slim and had dark hair. They showed her
being placed on a stretcher.” Mona’s voice quivered. “And for an awful moment I
thought it was Lacey. She could be there, you know. She could be anywhere.”

 
          
“But
it wasn’t Lacey,” Alex said reassuringly.

 
          
“No,
of course not, but I’m at the point that whenever I hear about a fire or flood
or an earthquake, I worry that Lacey might be there and be caught in it.”

 
          
She
tried to smile. “Even Kit is getting sick of listening to me. The other day
there was an avalanche on Snowbird Mountain, and some skiers were caught in it.
Fortunately they were all rescued, but I kept listening for the names. Lacey
loves to ski, and it would be just like her to go out in a heavy storm.”

 
          
She
reached for her wineglass. “Alex, I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you.”

 
          
Carbine
reached for her hand. “Yes, you should, Mona. When you talk to Lacey, maybe you
should tell her what this whole thing is doing to you. I mean, maybe if you
just had some idea of where she is
,
it would be easier
to cope.”

 
          
“No,
I can’t do that. I have to try not to let her know. It would be that much harder
for her. I’m lucky. I’ve got Kit and her family.
And you.
Lacey’s all alone.”

 
          
“Tell
her,” Alex Carbine said firmly. “And then keep what she tells you to yourself.”

 
          
He
patted her hand.

 
          
“WHEN
YOU CREATE SOMEONE LIKE THE MYTHICAL BOYFRIEND, have a real person in mind,”
Deputy Marshal George Svenson had warned Lacey. “Be able to visualize that guy
and the way he talks so that if you have to answer questions about him, it will
be easier to be consistent. And
remember,
develop the
trick of answering questions by asking questions of your own.”

 
          
Lacey
had decided that Rick Parker was the mythical boyfriend she had broken up with.
She could imagine breaking up with him more easily than having him as a
boyfriend, but thinking of him at least did make consistency easier.

 
          
She
began going to the gym daily, always in the late afternoon. The exercise felt
good, and it gave her a chance to focus her thoughts as well. Now that she had
the social security card she was anxious to get a job, but Deputy Marshal Svenson
told her the protection program would not provide false references.

 
          
“How
am I supposed to get a job without a reference?” she had asked.

 
          
“We
suggest you volunteer to work without pay for a couple of weeks, then see if
you’re hired.”

 
          
“I
wouldn’t hire someone without references,” she had protested.

 
          
It
was obvious, though, that she would just have to try. Except for the gym, she
was without any human contact. Being alone so much, the time was passing too
slowly, and Lacey could feel depression settling over her like a heavy blanket.
She had even come to dread the weekly talk with her mother. It always ended the
same way, with her mother in tears, and Lacey ready to scream with frustration.

 
          
In
the first few days after she started going to the gym, she had managed to make
something of a friend of Ruth Wilcox. It was to her that she first tried out
the story of what had happened to bring her to Minneapolis: her mother had
remarried and moved to London; the doctor she worked for retired; and she had
ditched her boyfriend. “He had a quick temper and could be very sarcastic,” she
explained, thinking of Rick.

 
          
“I
know the type,” Wilcox assured her. “But let me tell you something. Tom Lynch
has been asking me about you. I think he likes you.”

 
          
Lacey
had been careful not to seem too interested in Lynch, but she had been laying
the groundwork for a planned encounter. She timed her jogging to be finished
just as he was starting. She signed up for an aerobics class that looked out on
the jogging track and chose a spot where he would see her as he ran by.
Sometimes on his way out he stopped in the juice bar for a vitamin shake or a
coffee. She began to go into the shop a few minutes before he finished his run
and to sit at a table for two.

 
          
The
second week, her plan worked. When he entered the bar, she was alone at the
small table and all the other tables were taken. As he looked around, their
eyes met. Keeping her fingers crossed, she pointed casually to the empty chair.

 
          
Lynch
hesitated,
then
came over.

 
          
She
had combed Heather’s journal and copied down any mention of him. The first time
he appeared had been about a year and a half ago, when Heather had met him
after one of the performances of her show.

 
          
The
nicest guy came out with us to Barrymore’s for a hamburger. Tom Lynch, tall,
really attractive, about thirty, I’d guess. He has his own radio program in St.
Louis but says he is moving to Minneapolis soon. Kate is his cousin, that’s why
he came to the show tonight. He said that the hardest thing about being out of
New York was not being able to go to the theater regularly. I talked to him a
lot. He said he was going to be in town for a few days. I hoped he’d ask me
out, but no such luck.

 
          
An
entry four months later read:

 
          
Tom
Lynch was in town over the weekend. A bunch of us went skiing at Stowe. He’s
really good.
And nice.
He’s the kind of guy Baba would
love to see me with. But he isn’t giving me or any of the girls a second look,
and anyhow it wouldn’t make any difference now.

 
          
Three
weeks later Heather had died in the accident—if it was an accident. When she
copied the references to him, Lacey had wondered if either Isabelle or the
police had ever spoken to Lynch about Heather. And what had Heather meant by
writing “anyhow it wouldn’t make any difference now”?

 
          
Did
she mean that Tom Lynch had a serious girlfriend? Or did it mean that Heather
was involved with someone herself?

 
          
All
these thoughts raced through Lacey’s head as Lynch settled down across the
table from her.