Pretend You Don't See Her (31 page)

 
          
Alice
Carroll was the name she had taken—he knew that now. Shouldn’t be too difficult
to find out the number of her apartment—probably would be on her mailbox in the
lobby.

 
          
Last
time she had slammed the door before he could get to her, he reminded himself
grimly. This time she wouldn’t get the chance.

 
          
The
snow was getting heavier. Savarano frowned. He didn’t want to have to deal with
any weather problems. His suitcase was open in the hotel room. When he finished
with Farrell, he planned to pack and be checked out in ten minutes. A guest who
didn’t check out and left his luggage behind invited questions. But if the
airport closed down and the roads got bad, he would be trapped, which was of
concern only if anything went wrong.

 
          
Nothing
would go wrong, he told himself.

 
          
He
glanced at the street sign. He was on Hennepin Avenue in the 400 block.

 
          
The
other end of Hennepin was near Nicollet Mall with all its fancy stores. The
hotels and new office building were there too. This end wasn’t much of a
neighborhood, he noted.

 
          
He
found 520. It was a nondescript corner building, seven stories high, not large,
which was better for him. Savarano was sure the building would have little in
the way of security.

 
          
He
drove around the side and through the parking lot. It had numbered spaces for
residents, with only a few off to the side marked for visitors. They were all
occupied. Since he had no intention of drawing notice by taking a resident’s
spot, he drove back out, parked across the street, and walked to the building
entrance. The door to the small vestibule was unlocked. The names and apartment
numbers of the residents were on the wall above the mailboxes. Alice Carroll
was in apartment 4F. Typical of such buildings, in order to gain admittance to
the lobby, it was necessary to either have a key or to use the intercom to get
a resident to buzz down and release the lock.

 
          
Savarano
waited impatiently until he saw someone coming up the walk, an elderly woman.
As she opened the outer door, he dropped a key ring on the floor and bent down
to retrieve it.

 
          
When
the woman unlocked the door that opened to the lobby, he straightened up and
held it for her, then followed her in.

 
          
She
gave him a grateful smile. He followed her to the elevator,
then
waited until she had pushed the button for the seventh floor before he pushed
four. A necessary precaution, the kind of attention to detail that made Sandy
Savarano so good—and so successful. He didn’t want to find himself getting off
the elevator with Farrell’s next-door neighbor. The less he was seen, the
better.

 
          
Once
on the fourth floor, he turned down the corridor, which was quiet and poorly
lighted. All to the good, he thought. Four F was the last apartment on the
left. Sandy’s right hand was in his pocket, holding his pistol, as he rang the
bell with his left hand. He had his story ready if Farrell wanted to know who
was there before she opened the door. “Emergency Services, checking a gas
leak,” he would say. It always had worked for him.

 
          
There
was no answer.

 
          
He
rang the bell.

 
          
The
lock was new, but he had never seen a lock he couldn’t take apart. The
necessary tools were in a kit he kept around his waist. It looked just like a
money belt. It had always amused him that the night when he went to the Waring
apartment, he had been able to let himself in with the key she had kept on a
table in the foyer.

 
          
In
less than four minutes of working with the lock on the door to 4F, he was
inside, the lock securely back in place. He would wait for her here. It was
better that way. Somehow he didn’t think that she would stay out long. And
wouldn’t she be surprised!

 
          
Maybe
she’s gone to have her ankle x-rayed, he thought.

 
          
He
flexed his fingers; they were encased in surgical gloves. He had been
uncharacteristically careless that night he had been in Farrell’s apartment in
New York, and he had left a fingerprint on the door. That night he hadn’t
noticed that the index finger of the right glove had split. That was a mistake
he wouldn’t make a second time.

 
          
He
had been told to search Farrell’s apartment to be sure she hadn’t made a copy
of Heather Landi’s journal for herself. He started toward the desk to begin the
search.

 
          
Just
then the phone rang. With swift, catlike steps he crossed the room to stand
beside it, glad to see that the answering machine was turned on.

 
          
Farrell’s
voice on the tape was low and reserved. “You have reached 555-1247. Please
leave a message,” was all it said.

 
          
The
caller was a man. His voice was urgent and authoritative. “Alice, this is
George Svenson,” he said. “We’re on the way. Your mother just phoned the
emergency number in New York to report you were in trouble. Stay inside. Bolt
your door. Don’t let anyone in until I get there.”

 
          
Savarano
froze. They were on the way! If he didn’t get out of there immediately, he was
the one who would be trapped. In seconds he was out of the apartment, down the
corridor, and onto the fire stairs.

 
          
Safely
back in his car, he had just joined the light traffic on Hennepin Avenue when
police cars, lights flashing, roared past him.

 
          
That
had been as near a miss as any he had ever had. For a few moments he drove
aimlessly, forcing himself to calm down, to think carefully.

 
          
Where
would Farrell go?
he
asked himself. Would she be hiding
at a friend’s place? Would she hole up in a motel somewhere?

 
          
Wherever
she was, he figured she wasn’t more than thirty minutes ahead of him.

 
          
He
had to try to figure out how she would be thinking. What would he do if he were
in the witness protection program and had been tracked down?

 
          
I
wouldn’t trust the marshals anymore, Sandy told himself. I wouldn’t move to
another city for them and wonder how long it would take to be found again.

 
          
Usually
people who left the witness protection program voluntarily did so because they
missed their families and friends. They usually went back home.

 
          
Farrell
hadn’t called the Feds out here when she realized she had been traced. No, she
had called her mother.

 
          
That’s
where she was headed, he decided. She was on her way to the airport and New
York. Sandy was sure of it.

 
          
He
was going there too.

 
          
The
woman had to be scared. She wouldn’t trust the cops to protect her. She still
had a New York apartment. Her mother and sister lived in New Jersey. She would
be easy enough to find.

 
          
Others
had evaded him for a while, but no one had ever really gotten away. In the end
he always found his prey. The hunt was always fun, but the actual kill was the
best.

 
          
He
went to the Northwest Airlines counter first. From the number of agents there,
it was obviously the busiest carrier in Minneapolis. He was told that at
present all flights were grounded by the snow. “Then maybe I’ll be able to join
my wife,” he said. “She left about forty minutes ago. Her mother was in an
accident in New York, and I imagine she took whatever flight she could get. The
name is Alice Carroll.”

 
          
The
ticket agent was warmly helpful. “No direct flight to the New York airports
left in the last hour, Mr. Carroll. She might have made a connection through
Chicago, though. Let’s check the computer.”

 
          
Her
fingers tapped the keys. “Here we are. Your wife is on Flight 62 to Chicago,
which departed at 11:48.” She sighed. “Actually, it only pulled away from the
gate. Her plane is sitting right out there on the runway. I’m afraid I can’t
put you on it, but would you want to meet her in Chicago? There’s a plane
boarding right now. Chances are
,
they’ll end up
arriving only minutes apart.”

 
          
DETECTIVE
ED SLOANE AND PRISCILLA PARKER SAT TOGETHER as they waited for her son, Rick,
to appear. The Harding Manor sitting room was exceptionally comfortable. The
estate was a private home that had been donated as a rehabilitation center by a
couple whose only son died of a drug overdose.

 
          
The
cheerful blue-and-white-chintz sofa and matching chairs, complemented by the
Wedgwood blue walls and carpet, were clear evidence to Sloane that these were
the original furnishings and that those who could afford to pay to come here to
kick their habits were being charged a fortune.

 
          
On
the drive from Greenwich, however, Mrs. Parker had told him that at least half
the clients paid nothing.

 
          
Now,
as they waited for Rick Parker, she nervously explained, “I know what you must
think of my son. But you don’t realize how much goodness and promise there is
in him. Rick could still do so much with his life. I know he could. His father
has always spoiled him, taught him to think of himself as above any discipline,
or even any sense of decency. When he got into trouble over drugs in prep
school, I pleaded with my husband to make him face the consequences. But
instead he bought people off. Rick ought to have done well in college. He’s
smart, but he just never took time to apply himself. Tell me what
seventeen-year-old kid needs a Mercedes convertible? What kid that age needs
unlimited spending money? What young man learns about a sense of decency when
his father puts a maid’s uniform on his mistress of the month and brings her
into his own home?”

 
          
Sloane
looked at the Italian-marble fireplace, admiring the delicate carving. “It
seems to me that you have put up with a lot for a long time, Mrs. Parker. More
than you should have, maybe.”

 
          
“I
didn’t have much choice. If I had left, I would have lost Rick altogether. By
staying, I think I accomplished something. The fact that he’s here and willing
to talk to you bears me out.”

 
          
“Why
did your husband change his mind about Rick?” Sloane asked. “We know that about
five years ago he cut off his income from his trust fund. What brought that
on?”

 
          
“Let
Rick tell you,” Priscilla Parker replied. She tilted her head, listening.
“That’s his voice. He’s coming. Mr. Sloane, he’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t
he?”

 
          
“Not if he’s innocent, Mrs. Parker.
And not if he cooperates
… .
It’s up to him.”

 
          
Sloane
repeated those words to Rick Parker as he waited for him to sign a Miranda
warning. The younger Parker’s appearance shocked him. In the ten days or so
since he had last seen him, Rick’s appearance had changed dramatically. His
face was thin and pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Kicking a
drug habit isn’t fun, Sloane reminded himself, but I suspect there’s more to
the change than the rehabilitation program.

 
          
Parker
handed him the signed release. “All right, Detective,” he said. “What do you
want to know?” He was seated next to his mother on the sofa. Sloane watched as
her hand reached for and covered his.

 
          
“Why
did you send Curtis Caldwell—and I’ll call him that since it’s the name he was
using—to Isabelle Waring’s apartment?”

 
          
Beads
of perspiration appeared on Parker’s forehead as he spoke. “At our agency
… ”
He stopped and looked at his mother. “Or as I should
say, at my father’s agency, there’s a policy of not showing an apartment unless
we check out potential buyers. Even then you still get window-shoppers, but at
least they’ll be qualified.”