Pretend You Don't See Her (19 page)

 
          
“Yes,
it is,” he agreed shortly.

 
          
He
saw the look of interest in the young woman’s eyes and was amused. Women
actually found him attractive. Dr. Ivan
Yenkel
, a
Russian immigrant who had given him this new face two years ago, had been a
genius, no doubt about it. His remolded nose was thinner; the bump caused by
the break he had suffered in reform school was gone. The heavy chin was
sculpted,
his ears smaller and flat against his head.
Formerly heavy eyebrows were thinned and spaced farther apart.
Yenkel
had fixed his drooping eyelids and removed the
circles under his eyes.

 
          
His
dark brown hair was now the color of sand, a whimsy he had chosen in honor of
his nickname, Sandy. Pale blue contact lenses completed the transformation.

 
          
“You
look fabulous, Sandy,”
Yenkel
had boasted when the
last bandage came off. “No one would ever recognize you.”

 
          
“No
one ever will.”

 
          
Sandy
always got a thrill, remembering the look of astonishment in
Yenkel’s
eyes as he died.

 
          
I
don’t intend to go through it again, Sandy thought, as with a dismissive smile
to his seatmate he pointedly picked up a magazine and opened it.

 
          
Pretending
to read, he reviewed his game plan. He had a two-week reservation at the
Radisson Plaza Hotel under the name James Burgess. If he hadn’t found Farrell
by then, he would move to another hotel. No use arousing curiosity by staying
too long.

 
          
He
had been supplied with some suggestions as to where he might find her. She
regularly used a health club in New York. It made sense to assume she would do
the same thing in Minneapolis, so he would make the rounds of health clubs
there. People didn’t change their habits.

 
          
She
was a theater buff. Well, the Orpheum in Minneapolis had touring shows
virtually every week, and the Tyrone Guthrie Theater would be another place to
look.

 
          
Her
only job had been in real estate. If she was working, the odds were she would
be in a real estate agency.

 
          
Savarano
had located and eliminated two other witnesses who had been in the witness
protection program. He knew the government did not give false references—most
of the people in the program began jobs in small outfits where they had gotten
to know someone and had been hired on faith.

 
          
The
flight attendant was making her announcement: “We are beginning our descent
into the Twin Cities … place your seats in the upright position … fasten your
seat belts …”

 
          
Sandy
Savarano began to anticipate the look he would see in Lacey Farrell’s eyes when
he shot her.

 
          
ROYCE
REALTY WAS LOCATED AT FIFTIETH STREET AND France Avenue South in Edina. Before
leaving the apartment, Lacey studied the map, trying to determine the best way
to drive there. Her mother had once remarked that it was a wonder how Lacey
could have such good practical sense and such a lousy sense of direction. She
surely was right about the last part, Lacey thought, shaking her head. New York
had been a snap—she and the client would hail a cab, and it took them wherever
they wanted. A sprawling city like Minneapolis, though, with so many scattered
residential areas, was another matter. How will I ever take people around to
see properties if I get lost every five minutes?
she
wondered.

 
          
Following
the map carefully, however, she got to the office having made only one wrong
turn. She parked her car,
then
stood for a moment in
front of the entrance to Royce Realty, looking in through the wide glass door.

 
          
She
could see that the agency office was small, but attractive. The reception room
had oak-paneled walls that were covered with pictures of houses, a cheerful
red-and-blue checked carpet, a standard desk, and comfortable-looking leather
chairs. There was a short corridor leading off the reception area to an office.
Through the open door she could see a woman working at a desk.

 
          
Here
goes nothing, she thought, taking a deep breath. If I get through this scene
successfully, I’ll be ready to make my Broadway debut soon. That is, of course,
if I ever get back to New York. As she opened the door to the agency, chimes
signaled her arrival. The woman looked up,
then
came
out to meet her.

 
          
“I’m
Millicent Royce,” she said as she extended her hand, “and you must be Alice
Carroll.”

 
          
Lacey
liked her immediately. She was a handsome woman of about seventy whose ample
girth was clothed in a well-tailored brown knit suit, and whose clear unlined
complexion was devoid of makeup. Her shiny gray-white hair was swept back into
a bun, a hairstyle that reminded Lacey of her grandmother.

 
          
Her
smile was welcoming, but as Lacey sat down she could see that Millicent Royce’s
keen blue eyes were studying her intently. She was glad she had decided to wear
the maroon jacket and gray slacks. They were conservative, but
attractive—no-nonsense, but with style. Besides, she had always believed the
outfit brought her luck on sales calls. Now maybe it would help her get a job.

 
          
Millicent
Royce waved her to a chair and sat down opposite her. “It’s turning out to be a
terribly busy day,” she said apologetically, “so I don’t have much time. Tell
me about yourself, Alice.”

 
          
Lacey
felt as though she were in an interrogation room with a spotlight shining on
her. Millicent Royce’s eyes did not leave Lacey’s face as she answered. “Let’s
see. I just turned thirty. I’m healthy. My life has changed a lot in the last
year.”

 
          
God
knows that’s true, Lacey thought.

 
          
“I’m
from Hartford, Connecticut, and after finishing college I worked for eight
years for a doctor who retired.”

 
          
“What
kind of work?” Mrs. Royce asked.

 
          
“Receptionist, general office, some billing, submitting the medical
forms.”

 
          
“Then
you’re experienced with a computer?”

 
          
“Yes,
I am.” She watched as the older woman’s eyes glanced at the computer on the
reception room desk. There was a stack of papers beside it.

 
          
“This
job entails answering the phones, keeping listings up to date, preparing flyers
of new listings, calling potential buyers when a new listing comes in
, helping
with an open house. No actual selling. That’s my
job. But I’ve got to ask: What makes you think you’d like real estate?”

 
          
Because
I love matching people to places, Lacey thought. I love guessing right and
seeing someone’s eyes light up when I take that person into a house or
apartment and know that it’s exactly what he or she wants. I love the wheeling
and dealing that goes into settling on a price.

 
          
Dismissing
these thoughts, she said instead, “I know I don’t want to work in a doctor’s
office anymore, and I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of your business.”

 
          
“I
see. Well, let me call your retired doctor and talk to him, and if he vouches
for you—as I’m sure he will—then I say, let’s give it a try. Do you have his
phone number?”

 
          
“No.
He changed it and made it unlisted. He was adamant about not wanting to be
contacted by his former patients.”

 
          
Lacey
could tell from the slight frown on Millicent Royce’s face that this obviously
sharp lady was finding her answers too evasive.

 
          
She
remembered what George Svenson had told her: “Offer to work free for a couple
of weeks, or even a month.”

 
          
“I
have a suggestion,” Lacey said. “Don’t pay me anything for a month. After that,
if you’re happy with me, you’ll hire me. Or if you feel I have no aptitude for
the work, you’ll tell me to forget it.”

 
          
She
met Millicent Royce’s steady gaze without flinching. “You won’t regret it,” she
said quietly.

 
          
Mrs.
Royce shrugged her shoulders. “In Minnesota, the Land of Lakes, that’s known as
an offer I can’t refuse.”

 
          
“WHY
WASN’T MR. LANDI INFORMED ABOUT THIS EARLIER?” Steve Abbott asked quietly.

 
          
It
was Monday afternoon. Abbott had insisted on accompanying Jimmy to a meeting
with Detectives Sloane and Mars in the 19th Precinct station house.

 
          
“I
want to know what’s going on!” Jimmy had said to him that morning, the anger in
his voice reflected in his face. “Something’s up. The cops have to know where
Lacey Farrell is. She can’t have just disappeared. She’s a witness to a
murder!”

 
          
“Did
you call them?” Steve had asked.

 
          
“You
bet I did. But I ask about her and they just tell me to have Parker and Parker
assign another agent to handle the sale of the apartment. That’s not what I
called about. Do they think that’s what’s bugging
me, that
this is about money? That’s nuts! I told them I was coming to see them, and I
wanted answers.”

 
          
Abbott
knew that painting Heather out of the restaurant murals had if anything
increased Jimmy Landi’s anger and depression. “I’m going with you,” he had
insisted.

 
          
When
they had arrived, Detectives Sloane and Mars brought them into the
interrogation room off the squad room. They had admitted reluctantly that Lacey
Farrell had been placed in the federal witness protection program because an
attempt had been made on her life.

 
          
“I
asked why Mr. Landi hadn’t been informed earlier about what happened to Ms.
Farrell,” Abbott repeated. “I want an answer.”

 
          
Sloane
reached for a cigarette. “Mr. Abbott, I have assured Mr. Landi that the
investigation is continuing, and it is. We’re not going to rest until we find
and prosecute Isabelle Waring’s murderer.”

 
          
“You
gave me a cock-and-bull story about some guy whose racket is getting into
expensive apartments as a potential buyer and then coming back to burglarize
them,” Jimmy said, his anger exploding once again. “At that point you told me
you thought Isabelle’s death was just a matter of having been at the wrong
place at the wrong time. Now you’re telling me that the Farrell woman is in the
witness protection program, and you’re admitting that Heather’s journal was
stolen from under your noses right here in this station. Don’t play games with
me. This was no random killing, and you’ve known it from day one.”

 
          
Eddie
Sloane saw the anger and disgust that flared in Jimmy Landi’s eyes. I don’t
blame him, the detective thought. His ex-wife is dead; we lose something
intended for him that may be crucial evidence; the woman who brought the killer
into his ex-wife’s apartment has disappeared. I sympathize because I know how
I’d feel.

 
          
For
both detectives it had been a lousy four months since that October evening when
the 911 call from 3
East
Seventieth had been received
in the station house. As the case developed, Eddie was grateful that the
district attorney had gone toe to toe with U.S. Attorney Baldwin’s office. The
DA had been adamant that the NYPD was not signing off on this one.

 
          
“A
murder occurred in the 19th Precinct,” he had told Baldwin, “and like it or
not, we’re in it for the duration. We’ll share information with you, of course,
but you’ve got to share it with us. When Savarano is collared, we’ll cooperate
in a plea bargain if you can cut a deal with him. But we’ll cooperate only, and
I repeat only, if you don’t try to upstage us. We have a very real interest in
this case, and we intend to be involved.”