Pretend You Don't See Her (29 page)

 
          
Tom
Lynch had left her a message. “Alice, it’s imperative that I see you tomorrow.
Please call me back.” He left his number.

 
          
If
only I could call him, Lacey thought.

 
          
Ruth
Wilcox had phoned as well: “Alice, we miss you. Please come in over the
weekend. I want to talk to you about a gentleman who was inquiring about you.”

 
          
Ruth,
still playing the matchmaker, Lacey thought wryly.

 
          
She
went to bed and managed to fall asleep, but then drifted promptly into a
nightmare. In it she was kneeling beside Isabelle’s body. A hand touched her
shoulder … She looked up and saw Isabelle’s murderer, his pale blue eyes
staring down at her, the pistol he was holding pointed at her head.

 
          
She
bolted up in bed, trying to scream. After that, it was no use. There was no
more sleep for the rest of the night.

 
          
*

 
          
Early
in the morning Lacey made herself go out for a jog but found she could not
resist casting frequent glances over her shoulder to make certain she was not
being followed.

 
          
I’m
turning into a basket case, she acknowledged when she got back to the apartment
and bolted the door.

 
          
It
was only nine o’clock in the morning, and she had absolutely no plans of any
kind for the rest of the day. Millicent Royce had said that often on weekends
she had appointments to show houses and Lacey was welcome to go along with her.
Unfortunately, though, there were none scheduled this weekend.

 
          
I’ll
have some breakfast,
then
try the new club, Lacey
decided. At least it will be something to do.

 
          
She
got to the Edina Health Center at ten-fifteen and was waved to a seat in the
business office. She fished in her tote bag for her completed registration
forms as the manager wound up a phone call by saying, “Yes, indeed, sir. We’re
a brand-new facility and have a wonderful squash court. Do come right over and
take a look.”

 
          
ON
SATURDAY MORNING, DETECTIVE ED SLOANE DROVE from his home in the Riverdale
section of the Bronx to the meeting he had insisted on having with Richard J.
Parker Sr., in Greenwich, Connecticut. On the way, he noted that the snow,
which had been so picture perfect only a few days ago, was already
disintegrating into piles of graying slush. The sky was overcast, and rain was
predicted, although the forecast said it would turn into sleet as the
temperatures dropped.

 
          
It’s
just another lousy winter day, the kind when the smart people who could afford
it became snowbirds and flew south, Sloane told
himself
.

 
          
Or to Hawaii.
That was the trip he was saving for. He
planned to take Betty there on their thirtieth anniversary, which was two years
away.

 
          
He
wished they were leaving tomorrow.
Maybe even today.

 
          
Although
with what was going on at the precinct, he knew he couldn’t have gotten away.
It haunted Sloane that evidence that might have been crucial to solving the
murder of Isabelle Waring had been lost. It was bad enough, he thought, that
Lacey Farrell had originally taken the journal from the crime scene. Infinitely
worse was the fact that some still unknown perpetrator—most likely a “bad
cop”—had stolen the journal from his own cubby. And probably had stolen pages
from the copy that Jimmy Landi had turned over, he reminded
himself
.

 
          
The
thought that he might be working, eating, and drinking with a cop who worked
both sides of the street disgusted him physically.

 
          
As
he turned off the Merritt Parkway at Exit 31, Ed thought about the sting he had
set into motion in the squad room, aimed at catching whoever had been taking
things out of the evidence box. He had begun to make a production out of taking
his keys out of his suit jacket and locking them in his desk.

 
          
“I’m
damned if I’ll lose anything else out of my cubby,” he had announced grimly to
whoever happened to be in the squad room. With the captain’s help, he had
concocted the story that a piece of evidence locked in his cubby just might
turn out to be the key to solving Isabelle Waring’s murder. His entry
describing the supposed evidence in the precinct’s evidence log was
deliberately ambiguous.

 
          
A
hidden ceiling camera was now trained on his desk. Next week he would start
reverting to his old habit of leaving his keys in his jacket on the back of his
desk chair. He had a feeling that with the kind of fake information he was
passing around, there was a good chance he would smoke out his quarry. Surely
whoever killed Isabelle Waring had to be behind the thefts from the squad room
and would be seriously worried about potential new evidence. Sloane found it
hard to believe, though, that someone like Sandy Savarano would be behind the
thefts himself. He was just a trigger man. No, he thought, chances were there
was somebody with clout and lots of money who was calling the shots. And when
he heard about this new evidence, he would order it destroyed.

 
          
Ed
Sloane’s dilemma was that, much as he wanted to expose a bad cop, he knew it
might well turn out to be one of the guys who over the past twenty-five years
had at one time or another pulled him out of a tight spot. This kind of thing
was never easy.

 
          
T
he Parker estate was situated on Long Island Sound. The handsome pale-red-brick
mansion was turreted at either end, and old enough to have acquired a mellow
patina, set off by the patches of snow still covering the extensive grounds.

 
          
Sloane
drove through the open gates and parked to the side of the semicircle at the
main entrance, thinking as he did so that he doubted too many five-year-old
Saturns
had stopped there.

 
          
As
he went up the flagstone walk, his eyes darted from one window to another, half
hoping to catch Rick Parker looking out at him.

 
          
A
very attractive young woman in a maid’s uniform admitted him, and when he gave
his name, told him he was expected. “Mr. Parker is waiting for you in his
study,” she said. There was a hint of intimacy in the way she spoke. Ed had the
feeling she had just left the study.

 
          
As
he followed her down a wide, carpeted foyer, he reviewed what he knew of Parker
Sr. He had heard that he had the reputation of being a womanizer, and wondered
as he looked at the attractive young woman ahead of him if Parker was fool
enough to try anything in his own home.

 
          
He
just might be that damned foolish, Sloane decided a few minutes later. He found
Mr. Parker sitting on a leather couch, sipping coffee; there was another cup
beside his, half filled.

 
          
Parker
neither got up to greet him nor did he offer him coffee. “Sit down, Detective
Sloane.” It was not so much an invitation as an order.

 
          
Sloane
knew that the next thing he would hear was that Parker was very busy, so this
couldn’t take more than a few minutes.

 
          
He
heard exactly that.

 
          
Noticing
that the maid was still in the room, Sloane turned to her. “You can come back
as soon as I leave, miss,” he said crisply.

 
          
Richard
Parker jumped up, his expression one of indignation. “Who do you think—
”

 
          
Sloane
interrupted him. “I think, Mr. Parker, that you should know from the outset
that I’m not one of your lackeys. This is not some real estate transaction,
some big deal that you’re running. I am here to talk to you about your son. He
is well on the way to being considered a suspect in not one, but two murder
cases.”

 
          
He
leaned forward and tapped the coffee table for emphasis. “Isabelle Waring did
not believe that her daughter’s death was an accident. Evidence points to the
fact that Mrs. Waring died at the hands of a professional killer, one known to
us, and known as well to have worked for a drug cartel. That, by the way, isn’t
general knowledge, yet, but I’m letting you in on it. You are certainly aware
that your son was the one who cleared the way for the killer to get into
Isabelle Waring’s apartment. That alone makes him an accessory before the fact.
A bench warrant on that charge is about to be issued for his arrest.

 
          
“But
here’s another piece of information you should know about your son, or perhaps
you know it already. Rick was in Stowe the afternoon before Heather Landi died,
and we have an eyewitness who can testify that she appeared to be frightened of
him and ran out of the ski lodge when he showed up.” Sloane stopped and looked
at the man sitting tensely before him.

 
          
Red
patches mottled Parker’s face, revealing his agitation, but his voice was icy
calm when he said, “Is that all, Detective?”

 
          
“Not
quite. Your pride and joy, Richard J. Parker Jr., is a drug addict. You’ve
apparently stopped paying his bills, but he’s still getting the drugs somehow.
Chances are
,
that means he owes someone a lot of
money. That could be a very dangerous situation. My advice to you is to hire a
criminal lawyer for him and tell him to surrender to us. Otherwise you might
face charges yourself.”

 
          
“I
don’t know where he is.” Parker spat out the words.

 
          
Sloane
stood up. “I think you do. I warn you. He’s potentially in great danger. He
wouldn’t be the first person who got in over his head, and who paid the price
by disappearing.
Permanently.”

 
          
“My
son is in a drug rehabilitation clinic in Hartford,” Priscilla Parker said.

 
          
Detective
Sloane turned, startled by the unexpected voice.

 
          
Priscilla
Parker was standing in the doorway. “I drove him there last Wednesday,” she
said. “My husband is being honest when he says he doesn’t know where his son
is. Rick came to me for help. His father was otherwise occupied that day.” Her
eyes rested on the second coffee cup, then she looked at her husband, contempt
and loathing written clearly on her face.

 
          
AFTER
SHE HAD GIVEN THE MANAGER AT THE EDINA Health Club the completed registration
forms and her check, Lacey went directly to the squash court and began hitting
balls against the wall. She quickly realized that the combination of the
previous sleepless night and an earlier long jog had left her exhausted. She
kept missing easy returns, and then she fell, badly wrenching her ankle, all in
an attempt to connect with a ball she had no chance of hitting. It was typical
of her life right now.

 
          
Disgusted
with herself and close to tears, she limped off the court and collected her
coat and tote bag from the locker.

 
          
The
door to the manager’s office was partially open. Inside, a young couple was
sitting at the manager’s desk, and a gray-haired man was waiting to speak to
her.

 
          
Lacey
could feel her ankle swelling already. For a moment she paused in front of the
open door, debating whether to ask the manager if the club kept elastic
bandages in its medical supply kit. Then she decided to go straight home and
put ice on her ankle instead.

 
          
As
much as she had wanted to get out of her apartment this morning, Lacey realized
that all she wanted now was to be back inside, with the door locked and bolted.

 
          
Earlier
that morning, when Lacey had gone out jogging, a smattering of clouds dotted
the sky. Now they were filling it, moving so close together as to be seamless.
Driving from Edina to Minneapolis, Lacey could tell that a heavy snowfall was
imminent.