Pretend You Don't See Her (33 page)

 
          
“We
are beginning our descent …”

 
          
Chicago,
she thought.
Then New York.
Home!

 
          
The
flight attendant finished the speech about seats upright in a locked position
and buckling up,
then
added, “Northwest apologizes for
the weather-related delay you encountered. You may be interested to learn that
the visibility lowered immediately after we took off. We were the last plane to
leave the airport until flights were resumed only a few minutes ago.”

 
          
Then
I’m at least an hour or so ahead of anyone who may be following me, Lacey told
herself.

 
          
Whatever
comfort that thought provided, however, was driven away by another possibility.
If someone was following her and thought she was planning to go to New York,
wouldn’t it be smart for him to have taken a direct flight and be waiting for
her there?

 
          
EVERY
NERVE IN TOM LYNCH’S BODY HAD SHOUTED AT HIM not to leave Alice alone. He drove
five miles in the direction of his apartment in St. Paul before he made a fast
U-turn and headed back. He would make it clear to her that he had no intention
of getting in her way while she spoke to her mother and whatever other family
members might be involved in their rift. But, he reasoned, surely she could
have no objection to his waiting in the lobby of her building, or even in his
car, until she was ready for him to come up. Clearly she’s in trouble, and I
want to be there for her, he thought.

 
          
Having
made the decision to go back, Tom became wildly impatient with the overly
cautious drivers who, because of the blowing snow, were moving at a snail’s
pace.

 
          
His
first indication of trouble came at the sight of police cars parked to the
front and side of Alice’s building, their lights flashing. A cop was there
directing traffic, firmly prodding rubbernecking drivers to keep moving.

 
          
A
sickening sense of inevitability warned Tom that the police presence had to do
with Alice. He managed to find a parking spot a block away from her building
and jogged back. A policeman stopped him at the entrance to the building.

 
          
“I’m
going up,” he told the cop. “My girlfriend lives here, and I want to see if
she’s all right.”

 
          
“Who’s
your girlfriend?”

 
          
“Alice Carroll, in 4F.”

 
          
The
change in the police officer’s attitude confirmed Tom’s suspicion that
something had happened to Alice. “Come with me. I’ll take you upstairs,” the
officer told him.

 
          
In
the elevator, Tom forced himself to ask the question he dreaded to put in
words. “Is she all right?”

 
          
“Why
don’t you wait till you talk to the guy in charge, sir?”

 
          
The
door to Alice’s apartment was open. Inside he saw three uniformed cops taking
instructions from an older man whom he recognized as the one who had driven Alice
home the other evening.

 
          
Tom
interrupted him. “What’s happened to Alice?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

 
          
He
could see from the surprise on the other man’s face that he had been
recognized, but there was no time wasted in greeting him. “How do you know Alice,
Mr. Lynch?” George Svenson asked.

 
          
“Look,”
Tom said, “I’m not going to answer your questions until you answer mine.
where
is Alice? Why are you here? Who are you?”

 
          
Svenson
responded succinctly. “I’m a deputy federal marshal. We don’t know where Ms.
Carroll is. We do know that she had been getting threats.”

 
          
“Then
that guy at the gym yesterday who claimed to be her father was a phony,” Tom
said heatedly. “I thought so, but when I told Alice about him she didn’t say
anything except that she had to go and call her mother.”

 
          
“What
guy?” Svenson demanded. “Tell me everything you know about him, Mr. Lynch. It
may save Alice Carroll’s life.”

 
          
W
hen Tom finally got home, it was after four-thirty. The flashing light on the
answering machine indicated he had received four messages. As he had expected,
none of them was from Alice.

 
          
Not
bothering to take off his jacket, he sat at the table by the phone, his head in
his hands. All Svenson had told him was that Ms. Carroll had been receiving
threatening phone calls and had contacted his office. She had apparently had a
bad fright this morning, which was why they were there. “She may have gone out
to visit a friend,” Svenson told him, his tone unconvincing.

 
          
Or
she may have been abducted, Tom thought. A child could see that they were
avoiding telling him what was really going on. The police were trying to find
Ruth Wilcox from Twin Cities Gym, but she was off duty over the weekend. They
said they hoped to get a fuller description of the man claiming to be Alice’s
father.

 
          
Tom
had told Svenson that Alice had promised to call. “If you hear from her, tell
her to call me—immediately,” Svenson ordered sternly.

 
          
In
his mind, Tom could see Alice, quiet and lovely, standing at the window of the
banker’s home in Wayzata only a week ago. Why didn’t you trust me?
he
raged at that image. You couldn’t wait to get rid of me
this morning!

 
          
There
was one possible lead that the police had shared with him. A neighbor reported
that she thought she had seen Alice getting in her car around eleven o’clock. I
only left her at quarter of eleven, Tom thought. If that neighbor was right,
then she left only ten minutes after I did.

 
          
Where
would she go?
he
wondered.

 
          
Who
was she, really?
he
asked himself.

 
          
Tom
stared at the old-fashioned black rotary-dial phone. Call me, Alice, he half
demanded, half prayed. But as the hours ticked by, as the morning light made
its dim appearance, and the snow continued its steady fall, the phone did not
ring.

 
          
LACEY
ARRIVED IN CHICAGO AT FOUR-THIRTY. FROM THERE she took
a
five-fifteen plane
to Boston. Once again she used her credit card, but
she planned to pay cash for the Delta shuttle from Boston to New York. That
plane landed at Marine Terminal, a mile from the main terminals at La Guardia
Airport. She was sure anyone who followed her to New York wouldn’t look for her
there, and by not using her credit card for the shuttle, she might lead
Baldwin’s office to think she had stayed in the Boston area.

 
          
Before
she boarded the plane from Chicago she bought a copy of The New York Times.
Midway through the flight she glanced through the first section of the paper.
Realizing that she was absorbing nothing of what she was reading, she began to
fold the remaining sections. Suddenly she gasped. Rick Parker’s face was
looking up at her from the first page of Section B.

 
          
She
read and reread the account, trying to make sense of it. It was an update on an
earlier story about Rick. Last seen on Wednesday afternoon, when he brought a
prospective buyer to see the apartment of the late Isabelle Waring, Richard J.
Parker Jr., police now confirmed, was a suspect in Waring’s death.

 
          
Was
he in hiding? Lacey wondered. Was he dead? Had the information she passed on to
Gary Baldwin Tuesday night played a part in this? She remembered that when she
had told him about Rick being in Stowe hours before Heather Landi’s death,
Baldwin had offered no reaction. And now the police were naming Rick as a
suspect in Isabelle’s murder. There must be a connection, she decided.

 
          
It
was only as the plane was landing in Boston that Lacey realized she had finally
figured out the one place she could stay in New York where no one would ever
think of looking for her.

 
          
It
was 8:05 local time when she got off the plane at Logan Airport. With a silent
prayer that he would be home, Lacey made a phone call to Tim
Powers,
the superintendent of Isabelle Waring’s building.

 
          
Four
years ago, when she was leaving 3 East Seventieth after showing an apartment,
Lacey had been instrumental in preventing what surely would have been a
terrible accident, and one for which Tim Powers would have been blamed. It had
all happened so quickly. A child broke free from his nanny and raced into the
street, thanks to the fact that Tim had left the building’s front door open
while he worked on it. Lacey’s quick action had kept the child from being hit
by a passing delivery truck.

 
          
Tim,
trembling from the shock of the near disaster, had vowed, “Lacey, it would have
been my fault. If you ever need anything—anything at all—you can count on me.”

 
          
I
need it now, Tim, she thought as she waited for him to answer.

 
          
Tim
was astonished to hear from her. “Lacey Farrell,” he said. “I thought you’d
disappeared off the face of the earth.”

 
          
That’s
almost exactly what I’ve done, Lacey thought. “Tim,” she said, “I need help.
You once promised—”

 
          
He
interrupted her.
“Anything, Lacey.”

 
          
“I
need a place to stay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She was the
only one at the bank of phones. Even so she looked around, fearful of being
overheard.

 
          
“Tim,”
she said hurriedly, “I’m being followed. I think it’s the man who killed
Isabelle Waring. I don’t want to put you in danger, but I can’t go to either my
apartment or my family. He’d never look for me in your building. I want to stay,
at least for tonight, in Isabelle Waring’s apartment. And please, Tim—this is
very important—don’t tell anyone about this. Pretend we never spoke.”

 
          
THE
DAY CLEARLY WAS NOT OVER FOR DETECTIVE ED Sloane. After leaving Rick Parker at
the rehabilitation center in Hartford, he rode with Priscilla Parker to her
Greenwich estate, where he picked up his own car.

 
          
On
the drive to Manhattan, he phoned the precinct to check in. Nick Mars was
there. “Baldwin’s been calling for you, practically every few minutes,” he told
Sloane. “He wants to see you ASAP. He couldn’t reach you on your car phone.”

 
          
“No,”
said Sloane, “I’m sure he couldn’t.” Wonder what he would say if he knew I’d
been riding around in a chauffeured limousine, he thought. “What does he want
now?”

 
          
“All
hell is breaking loose,” Mars told him. “Lacey Farrell almost got nailed in
Minneapolis, where the Feds had her stashed. She’s disappeared, and Baldwin
thinks she’s headed for New York. He wants to coordinate with us to find her
before she gets nailed here. He wants to take her into custody as a material
witness.” Then he added, “How did you make out, Ed? Any luck finding Parker?”

 
          
“I
found him,” Sloane said. “Call Baldwin and arrange a meeting. I’ll join you at
his office. I could be there by seven.”

 
          
“Better than that.
He’s in midtown. He’ll talk to us here at
the precinct.”

 
          
When
Detective Sloane arrived at the 19th Precinct, he stopped at his desk and took
off his jacket. Then, with Nick Mars in tow, he went in to see U.S. Attorney
Gary Baldwin, who was waiting in the interrogation room.

 
          
Baldwin
was still angry that Lacey Farrell had disappeared but took time from his anger
to congratulate Sloane on finding Rick Parker. “What did he tell you?” he
asked.