Pretend You Don't See Her (25 page)

 
          
In
the days that immediately followed Tom’s visit to her apartment, Lacey found
that when she finally got to sleep, she had vague dreams of him. In those
dreams, the doorbell of her apartment would ring and she would open the door
and he would say, just as he had on the intercom that last night, “No, Alice,
it’s Mr. Lynch.”

 
          
But
on the third night, the dream changed. This time, as Tom came down the
corridor, the elevator door opened and Curtis Caldwell stepped out, the pistol
in his hand aimed at Tom’s back.

 
          
That
night Lacey awoke with a scream, trying to warn Tom, trying to pull him into
the apartment, to bolt the door so they both could be safe inside.

 
          
Given
her generally distressed state, the job with Millicent Royce was a lifesaver.
At Millicent’s invitation, Lacey had been out with her on several sales calls,
either to show houses to a prospective client or to obtain new listings.

 
          
“It
will be more interesting for you if you get to know the area well,” Mrs. Royce
told her. “Did you ever hear it said that real estate is all about location?”

 
          
Location, location, location.
In Manhattan a park or river
view dramatically increased the price of an apartment. Lacey found herself
longing to swap stories with Millicent about some of the eccentric clients she
had dealt with over the years.

 
          
The
evenings were the hardest times. They stretched long and empty in front of her.
On Thursday night she made herself go to a movie. The theater was half empty,
with rows of unoccupied seats, but just before the film began, a man came down
the aisle, went past her row, turned, looked around, and chose the seat
directly behind her.

 
          
In
the semidarkness she could only tell that he was of medium height and slender.
Her heart began to race.

 
          
As
the credits rolled on the screen, Lacey could hear the creaking of the seat
behind her as he settled into
it,
she could smell the
popcorn he was carrying. Then suddenly she felt his hand tap her shoulder.
Almost paralyzed with fright as she was, it took what felt to be a superhuman
effort to turn her head to look at him.

 
          
He
was holding a glove. “This yours, ma’am?” he asked. “It was under your chair.”

 
          
Lacey
did not stay to see the film. She found it impossible to concentrate on what
was happening on the screen.

 
          
On
Friday morning, Millicent asked Lacey what she would be doing over the weekend.

 
          
“Mostly
hunting for a gym or health club,” Lacey said. “The one I joined is fine, but
it doesn’t have a squash court, and I really miss that.”

 
          
Of
course, that’s not the real reason I won’t go to Twin Cities Gym anymore, she
thought, but for once, it isn’t a totally dishonest answer.

 
          
“I’ve
heard there’s a new health club in Edina that’s supposed to have a great squash
court,” Millicent told her. “Let me find out about it.”

 
          
In
a few minutes she came back to Lacey’s desk with the smile of someone who has
achieved a goal. “I was right. And because they’re new, there’s a discount for
joining right now.”

 
          
When
Millicent left later for her appointment, Lacey called George Svenson. She had
two requests for him: she wanted to speak to U.S. Attorney Gary Baldwin again.
“I deserve to know what’s happening,” she said.

 
          
Then
she added, “People are getting too curious at the Twin Cities Gym. I’m afraid
I’ve got to ask you to advance the registration fee for a different one.”

 
          
Beggar,
she thought despairingly as she waited for his answer. I’m not only a liar but
a beggar!

 
          
But
Svenson did not hesitate: “I can okay that. The change will do you good.”

 
          
LOTTIE HOFFMAN READ THE NEW YORK PAPERS EVERY morning over her
solitary breakfast.
For forty-five years, up until a little over a year
ago, she and Max had shared them. It was still unreal to Lottie that on that
day in early December, Max had gone out for his usual early morning walk and
never returned.

 
          
An
item on page three of the Daily News caught her eye: Richard J. Parker Jr.,
wanted for questioning in the murder of Isabelle Waring, had disappeared. What
had happened to him?
she
wondered nervously.

 
          
Lottie
pushed her chair back and went to the desk in the living room. From the middle
drawer, she took out the letter Isabelle Waring had written Max the very day
before she had been murdered. She read it once again.

 
          
Dear
Max,

 
          
I
tried to phone you today, but your number is unlisted, which is why I am
writing. I am sure that you must have heard that Heather died in an accident
last December. Her death was a tremendous loss to me, of course, but the
circumstances of her death have been especially troublesome.

 
          
In
clearing out her apartment I have come across her journal, and in it she refers
to her intention of meeting you for lunch. That was only five days before her
death. She does not mention either you or the lunch date after that. Instead
the next two entries in the journal indicate that she was clearly distraught,
although there is no indication of what was actually bothering her.

 
          
Max,
you worked at Jimmy’s restaurant for the first fifteen years of Heather’s life.
You were the best captain he ever had, and I know how much he regretted
your
leaving him. Remember, when Heather was two and you did
magic tricks to make her sit still for the artist who was painting her into the
mural? Heather loved and trusted you, and it is my hope that she may have
confided in you when you saw her.

 
          
In
any event, will you please phone me? I’m staying in Heather’s apartment. The
number is 555-2437.

 
          
Lottie
returned the letter to the drawer and went back to the table. She picked up her
coffee cup, then realized that her right hand was trembling so much that she
had to steady the cup with the fingers of her left hand. Since that terrible
morning, when she had answered the doorbell to find a policeman standing there
… well, ever since that terrible morning she had felt every one of her
seventy-four years.

 
          
She
thought back to that time. I called Isabelle Waring, she remembered nervously.
She was so shocked when I told her that Max had been killed by a hit-and-run
driver only two days before Heather’s death. At that time, I still thought his
death was an accident.

 
          
She
remembered that Isabelle had asked if she had any idea what Max and Heather
might have talked about.

 
          
Max
had always said that in his business you heard a lot, but you learned to keep
your mouth shut. Lottie shook her head. Well, he must have broken that rule
when he talked to Heather, she decided, and now I know it cost him his life.

 
          
She
had tried to help Isabelle. I told her what I knew, she thought. I told her
that I’d never met Heather, although I had gone with my senior citizen group to
see the production of The Boy Friend when she was appearing in it. Then
sometime soon after that, Lottie had gone on a day outing with the same group
to
Mohonk
Mountain House, the resort in the
Catskills. She had seen Heather there a second—and last—time. I took a walk
along the trails, she remembered, and I saw a couple in ski clothes with their
arms around each other. They were in a gazebo, all lovey-dovey. I recognized
Heather, but not the guy she was with. That night she had told Max about it.

 
          
He
asked about Heather’s boyfriend, she remembered. When I described him, Max knew
who I was talking about and became terribly upset. He said that what he knew
about that man would curl my hair. He said the man had been very careful, that
there wasn’t a breath of suspicion against him, but Max said he was a racketeer
and a drug dealer.

 
          
Max
didn’t tell me the man’s name, Lottie thought, and before I could describe him
to Isabelle Waring when she had called that night, Isabelle had said, “I hear
someone downstairs. It must be the real estate agent. Give me your number. I’ll
call you right back.”

 
          
Lottie
remembered how Isabelle had repeated the number several times,
then
hung up the phone. I waited for the call all evening,
Lottie thought, and then I heard the eleven-o’clock news.

 
          
It
was only then that the full impact of what must have happened had hit her.
Whoever had come in while she and Isabelle were on the phone must have been
Isabelle Waring’s murderer. Isabelle was dead because she would not stop
looking for the reason for Heather’s death. And now Lottie was convinced that
Max was dead because he had warned Heather away from the man she was seeing.

 
          
And
if I saw that man, I could identify him, she thought, but thank the Lord no one
knows that. If there was one thing Lottie was sure of, it was that whatever Max
told Heather when he cautioned her, he had not involved Lottie. She knew Max
would never have put her in danger.

 
          
Suppose
the police should ever come to her, she wondered suddenly. What would Max want
her to do?

 
          
The
answer was very calming, and it came to her as clearly as if he were sitting
across the table from her. “Do absolutely nothing, Lottie,” he cautioned. “Keep
your mouth shut.”

 
          
SANDY
SAVARANO WAS FINDING HIS SEARCH WAS TAKING more time than he had expected. Some
real estate agencies answered his questions willingly. The ones that told him
they had hired young women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five all
had to be checked out, which meant on-site surveillance. Other agencies refused
to give him information on the phone, which meant they had to be checked out
too.

 
          
In
the mornings he would drive to the agencies and look them over, giving the most
attention to the small mom-and-pop businesses. Usually they were storefront
offices where he could walk past and by merely looking inside see what was
going on. Some were obviously two-person operations. To the ones that turned
out to be more elaborate, prosperous-looking setups, he gave scant attention.
They wouldn’t be the kind to take on someone without a thorough background
check.

 
          
The
late afternoons he spent covering the health clubs and the gyms. Before he went
into one of them, he would park for a time outside, looking at the people who
were going in and out.

 
          
Sandy
had no doubt that eventually be would find Lacey Farrell. The kind of job she
would probably look for, and the kind of recreation she would rely on,
were
more than enough to lead him to her. A person didn’t
change her habits just because she changed her name. He had tracked down his
quarry in the past with a lot less to go on. He would find her. It was just a
matter of time.

 
          
Sandy
liked to think about Junior, an FBI informant he had tracked to Dallas. The one
good clue he had was that the guy was a nut for sushi. The problem was that
sushi had become very trendy, and a lot of Japanese restaurants had opened in
Dallas recently. Sandy had been parked outside a restaurant named Sushi Zen,
and Junior had come out.

 
          
Sandy
liked to remember the look on Junior’s face when he had seen the car’s tinted
window slide down and had realized what was going to happen. The first bullet
had been aimed at his gut. Sandy wanted to wake up all those raw
fishies
. The second had been directed at his heart. The
third, to his head, had been a mere afterthought.