Pretend You Don't See Her (27 page)

 
          
What
does he want, a discount? Tom asked himself. He knew he should start to jog,
but he had to ask Ruth if she had heard anything from Alice.

 
          
“Have
I got news for you,
Tom!
” Ruth confided. “Close the
door. I don’t want anyone else to hear this.”

 
          
Somehow
Tom knew that the news had to do with Alice and the gray-haired man who had
just left.

 
          
“That
guy is looking for Alice,” Ruth told him, her voice snapping with excitement.
“He’s her father.”

 
          
“Her father!
That’s crazy. Alice told me her father died
years ago.”

 
          
“Maybe
that’s what she told you, but that man is her father. Or at least he says he
is. He even showed me her picture and asked if I’d seen her.”

 
          
Tom’s
instincts as a newsman were aroused. “What did you tell him?” he asked
cautiously.

 
          
“I
didn’t say anything. How do I know he wasn’t a bill collector or something? I
said that I couldn’t be sure. Then he told me that his daughter and his wife
had had a terrible misunderstanding, and that he knew his daughter had moved to
Minneapolis four months ago. His wife is very sick and desperate to make amends
before she dies.”

 
          
“That
sounds phony as hell to me,” Tom said flatly. “I hope you didn’t give him any
information.”

 
          
“No
way,” Ruth said positively. “All I told him was to leave his name and if I
happened to find that young lady was among our clients I’d ask her to call
home.”

 
          
“He
didn’t give you his name, or tell you where he’s staying?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“Didn’t
you think that was strange?”

 
          
“The
gentleman said that he’d appreciate it if I didn’t tell his daughter he was
looking for her. He doesn’t want her to disappear again. I felt so sorry for
him. He had tears in his eyes.”

 
          
If
there’s one thing I know about Alice Carroll, Tom thought, it is that no matter
how big a misunderstanding, she’s not the kind who would turn her back on a
terminally ill mother.

 
          
Then
another possibility occurred to him, one that he found enticing. If she wasn’t
telling the truth about her background, maybe the man she claimed to be
involved with doesn’t exist, he thought. He felt better already.

 
          
DETECTIVE
ED SLOANE WORKED THE EIGHT-TO-FOUR DAY shift, but at five-thirty on Friday
evening he was still in his office at the 19th Precinct, with Rick Parker’s
file spread out on his desk. He was glad that it was Friday. He hoped that at
least over the weekend, he might have some peace from the Feds.

 
          
It
had been a grueling last couple of days. Since Tuesday, when Rick Parker had
not shown up for his appointment, the rocky relationship between the NYPD and
the U.S. Attorney’s office had become openly hostile.

 
          
It
drove Sloane nuts that it was only when two federal agents showed
up,
looking for Parker, that Gary Baldwin finally admitted
they had a witness who could place Rick at a ski lodge in Stowe the afternoon
before Heather Landi died.

 
          
Baldwin
didn’t share that information, Sloane thought, but when he learned that I was
putting heavy pressure on Parker, he had the nerve to complain to the district
attorney.

 
          
Fortunately
the DA stood by me, Sloane thought grimly. In a face-to-face confrontation, the
DA had reminded Baldwin that the NYPD had an unsolved homicide that had
occurred in the 19th Precinct, and it was their intention to solve it. He also
made it clear that if the federal law enforcement officials wished to cooperate
and share information, they might all be better off, but the NYPD was running
the case, not the Feds.

 
          
The
fact that the DA had gone to bat for him, even though he had had to sit and
listen as Baldwin reminded him that vital evidence had disappeared from
Sloane’s locked cubby, had given Sloane a driving need to be the one who
eventually pulled Rick Parker in.

 
          
Unless
he was already dead, of course, Sloane reminded himself, which was a distinct
possibility.

 
          
If
not, Rick’s disappearance was a sure sign that they were on the right track. It
certainly cast in a new light the fact that he had never been able to explain
how Isabelle Waring’s murderer was able to pass himself off so easily as a
lawyer with a prestigious law firm that just happened to be a major Parker and
Parker client.

 
          
Now
they knew that Parker had been at the ski lodge, and that Heather Landi was
spooked when she had seen him there, only hours before her death.

 
          
In
the four months since Isabelle Waring’s murder, Sloane had put together
an extensive
curriculum vitae on Rick Parker. I know more
about him than he knows about himself, Sloane thought, as once again he read
through the thick file.

 
          
Richard
J. Parker Jr.
Only child.
Thirty-one years old.
Kicked out of two prestigious prep schools for possession of drugs.
Suspicion, but no proof, of selling drugs—witness probably paid off to recant.
Took six years to finally finish college at age twenty-three.
Father paid for damages to fraternity house during wild party.

 
          
Always plenty of spending money through school years, Mercedes
convertible as a 17th birthday present, Central Park West apartment as college
graduation gift.

 
          
First and only job at Parker and Parker.
Five years in the
West 67th Street branch office, three years to present in East 62nd Street main
office.

 
          
It
hadn’t been hard for Sloane to learn that Rick’s coworkers on the West Side had
despised him. One former employee of Parker and Parker told Sloane, “Rick would
be out partying all night, show up with a hangover or still high on coke, and
then start throwing his weight around in the office.”

 
          
Five
years ago Rick’s father had elected to settle a sexual assault complaint brought
against Rick by a young secretary, rather than have a public scandal. Following
that episode, Parker Sr. had pulled the rug out from under his son.

 
          
The
income from Rick’s trust fund had been frozen, and he had been put on exactly
the same base salary plus sales commission as his fellow employees.

 
          
Papa
must have taken a course on tough love, Sloane thought with a touch of sarcasm.
There was one problem with that scenario, however: Tough love doesn’t support a
cocaine habit. Once again he skimmed through the file. So where’s Rick been
getting his money for drugs, and if he’s still alive, who’s paying for him to
hide out?

 
          
Sloane
pulled another cigarette from the ever-present pack in his shirt pocket.

 
          
The
curriculum vitae for Richard J. Parker Jr. revealed one consistent pattern. For
all his bluster and desk pounding, Parker Sr. always came through in the end
when his son was in real trouble.

 
          
Like now.

 
          
Ed
Sloane grunted and got up. Theoretically he was off for the weekend, and his
wife had big plans for him to clean out the garage. But he knew that those
plans would have to be changed; the garage would have to wait. He was going to
drive up to Greenwich, Connecticut, and have a little chat with R. J. Parker
Sr. Yes, it definitely was time for him to visit the palatial estate where Rick
Parker had been raised, and had been given everything that money could buy.

 
          
ON
FRIDAY EVENINGS, THE TRAFFIC FROM NEW JERSEY into New York City was as heavy as
the commuter traffic headed in the other direction. It was a dinner-and-theater
night for many people, and Kit could see the strained expression on her
husband’s face as they inched their way across the George Washington Bridge.
She was glad he had not said anything to her mother about how they should have left
earlier.

 
          
Lacey
had once asked her, “How can you stand it when he snaps at you for something
that isn’t your fault?”

 
          
I
told Lacey that I didn’t let it bother me, Kit remembered. I understand. Jay is
a world-class worrier, and that’s his way of expressing it. She glanced at him
again. Right now he’s worried because we are going to be late for dinner with
an important client, she thought. I know he’s worried sick about Bonnie, and by
now he’s churning about the fact that he’s made a promise to her that he can’t
keep.

 
          
Jay
sighed heavily as they finally turned off the bridge and onto the ramp leading
to the West Side Highway. Kit was relieved to see that the cars ahead of them
seemed to be moving downtown in a steady flow.

 
          
She
put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm,
then
turned to look in the backseat. As usual after speaking with Lacey, her mother
had been on the verge of tears. When she got in the car, she had said, “Let’s
not talk about it.”

 
          
“How’s
it going, Mom?” Kit asked.

 
          
Mona
Farrell attempted a smile. “I’m all right, dear.”

 
          
“Did
you explain to Lacey why I wasn’t able to talk to her tonight?”

 
          
“I
told her we were going into New York and you wanted to be sure Bonnie had her
dinner before you left. She certainly understood.”

 
          
“Did
you tell her we were meeting Jimmy Landi?” Jay asked.

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“What
did she say?”

 
          
“She
said—” Mona Farrell stopped herself before she blurted out that Lacey had
cautioned her not to tell where she was living. Kit and Jay did not know that
Lacey had confided that information to her.

 
          
“She
said that she was surprised,” Mona finished lamely, feeling uncomfortable.

 
          
“S
o Alex has made you a captain, Carlos?” Jimmy Landi greeted his former employee
as he sat down at the reserved table in Alex’s Place.

 
          
“Yes,
he did, Mr. Landi,” Carlos said with a big smile.

 
          
“If
you’d waited a while, Jimmy would have promoted you,” Steve Abbott said.

 
          
“Or
maybe I wouldn’t,” Jimmy said shortly.

 
          
“In
any case it’s a moot point,” Alex Carbine told him. “Jimmy, this is your first
time here. Tell me what you think of the place.”

 
          
Jimmy
Landi looked around him, studying the attractive dining room with its dark
green walls brightened by colorful paintings in ornate gold frames.

 
          
“Looks
like you got your inspiration from the Russian Tea Room, Alex,” he commented.

 
          
“I
did,” Alex Carbine agreed pleasantly.
“Just as you paid
homage to La Côte Basque when you opened your place.
Now, what
are you having
to drink? I want you to try my wine.”

 
          
Jimmy
Landi isn’t the kind of man I had anticipated, Kit thought as she sipped a
glass of chardonnay. Jay had been so worried about not keeping him waiting, but
he certainly didn’t seem upset that we were a couple of minutes late. In fact,
when Jay apologized, Landi said, “In my place I like people to be late.
Whoever’s waiting has another drink. It adds up.”