Pretend You Don't See Her (34 page)

 
          
Glancing
only once or twice at his notes, Sloane gave a full report.

 
          
“Do
you believe him?” Baldwin asked.

 
          
“Yeah,
I think he’s telling the truth,” Sloane said. “I know the guy who sells Parker
drugs. If he was the one who told Parker to set up that appointment that got
Savarano into Isabelle Waring’s apartment, it was nothing he actually planned
himself. He was just a messenger. Somebody passed the word to him.”

 
          
“Meaning
we won’t get the big boys through Parker,” Baldwin said.

 
          
“Exactly.
Parker’s a jerk, but he’s not a criminal.”

 
          
“Do
you believe that his father ordered him roughed up when he tried to hit on
Heather Landi?”

 
          
“I
think it’s possible,” Sloane said. “If Heather Landi went to Parker Sr. to
complain about Rick, it’s even probable. On the other hand, that doesn’t seem
likely,
because I’m not sure she would trust Parker Sr. I
think she’d be afraid he might say something to her father.”

 
          
“All right.
We’ll pick up Rick Parker’s supplier and lean on
him, but I suspect you’re right. Chances are he’s only a link, not a player.
And we’ll make damn sure that Rick Parker doesn’t set foot outside that
rehabilitation center without one of us alongside him.
Now to
Lacey Farrell.”

 
          
Sloane
reached for a cigarette,
then
frowned. “They’re in my
jacket. Nick, would you?”

 
          
“Sure, Ed.”

 
          
The
round trip took Mars about a minute. He plunked the half-empty cigarette pack
and a grimy ashtray on the table in front of Sloane.

 
          
“Has
it ever occurred to you to give up smoking?” Baldwin asked, eyeing both
cigarettes and ashtray with disdain.

 
          
“Many
times,” Sloane responded. “What’s the latest on Farrell?”

 
          
As
soon as Baldwin opened his mouth it was obvious to Ed Sloane that he was
furious with Lacey. “Her mother admits she knew Farrell was in Minneapolis, but
she swears she didn’t tell anyone.
Although I don’t believe
that for a minute.”

 
          
“Maybe
there was a leak somewhere else,” Sloane suggested.

 
          
“There
was no leak from my office or from the federal marshal’s office,” Baldwin said,
his tone icy. “We maintain security. Unlike this precinct,” he added.

 
          
I
let myself in for that one, Sloane acknowledged silently. “What’s your game
plan, sir?” he asked. It gave him a fleeting sense of satisfaction to know that
Baldwin would not be sure if his addressing him as “sir” was meant as sarcasm
or a sign of respect.

 
          
“We’ve
flagged the credit card we gave Farrell. We know she used it to fly to Chicago,
then to Boston. She’s got to be on her way to New York.

 
          
“We
have a tap on the phone in her apartment, not that I think she’d be stupid
enough to go there,” Baldwin continued. “We’ve got that building under
surveillance. We have taps on her mother’s phone, her sister’s phone, and
Monday there’ll be taps on the phones in her brother-in-law’s office. We’ve got
a tail assigned to each family member, in case they try to meet her somewhere.”

 
          
Baldwin
paused and looked at Sloane appraisingly. “It also occurred to me that Lacey
Farrell just might try to call you directly,” he said. “What do you think?”

 
          
“I
seriously doubt it. I didn’t exactly treat her with kid gloves.”

 
          
“She
doesn’t deserve kid gloves,” Baldwin said flatly. “She concealed evidence in a
murder case. She gave away her location when we had her protected. And now
she’s putting herself in an extremely risky position. We’ve invested a hell of
a lot of time and money in keeping Ms. Farrell alive, and we’ve gotten nothing
much back for it except complaints and lack of cooperation on her part. Even if
she doesn’t have any common sense, you’d think she’d at least be grateful!”

 
          
“I’m
sure she’s eternally grateful,” Sloane said as he got up. “I’m also sure that
even if you hadn’t spent all that time and money, she’d probably like to stay
alive.”

 
          
AS
THEY HAD AGREED, LACEY CALLED TIM POWERS FROM the Marine Terminal. “I’m getting
in a cab,” she told him. “Traffic should be light, so at this hour, I should be
there in twenty minutes, a half hour at the most. Be watching for me, please,
Tim. It is very important that nobody else sees me come in.”

 
          
“I’ll
give the doorman a coffee break,” Tim promised, “and I’ll have the key ready to
hand you.”

 
          
It
feels so strange to be back in New York, Lacey thought, as the cab sped over
the
Triborough
Bridge into Manhattan. When the plane
had made its final approach before landing, she had pressed her face against
the window, drinking in the New York skyline, realizing how much she had missed
it.

 
          
If
only I could just go home to my own apartment, she thought. I’d fill the
Jacuzzi, send out for something to eat, phone my mother and Kit.
And Tom.

 
          
What
was Tom thinking?
she
wondered.

 
          
As
she had hoped, the traffic was light, and in minutes they were headed south on
the FDR Drive. Lacey felt her body growing tense. Let Tim be there, she
thought. I don’t want Patrick to see me. But then she realized that in all
likelihood Patrick wouldn’t be around. When she had last seen the doorman, it
was his plan to retire on January 1st.

 
          
The
driver got off the FDR Drive at Seventy-Third Street and headed west to Fifth
Avenue. He turned left on Fifth, then left again on Seventieth and stopped. Tim
Powers
was
standing outside the building, waiting for
her. He opened the door and greeted her with a smile and a pleasant, “Good
evening, miss,” but he showed no sign of recognition. Lacey paid the driver and
hobbled out of the cab, thankful that finally she would be able to stop moving
around. It was just in time, because she could no longer deny the pain of her
wrenched ankle.

 
          
Tim
opened the door to the lobby for her,
then
slipped her
the key to the Waring apartment. He assisted her to the elevator, put his
master key in the control, and pushed 10.

 
          
“I
fixed it so you’ll go straight up,” he said. “That way there’ll be no risk of
running into anyone who knows you.”

 
          
“And
I certainly don’t want to, Tim. I can’t tell you how much—”

 
          
He
interrupted her. “Lacey, get upstairs fast and lock the door. There’s food in
the fridge.”

 
          
Her
first impression was that the apartment had been kept in pristine order. Then
Lacey’s eyes went to the closet in the foyer where she had hidden the night
Isabelle Waring died. She had the feeling that if she opened the door, she
would see her briefcase still sitting there, with the bloodstained pages from
the journal stuffed inside.

 
          
She
double-locked the door, and then remembered that Curtis Caldwell had stolen the
key Isabelle kept on the foyer table. Had the lock been changed?
she
wondered. She even fastened the safety chain, although
she knew how ineffective a safety chain was when someone really wanted to get
in.

 
          
Tim
had drawn all the drapes and turned on lights for her, a potential mistake, she
thought, if the draperies weren’t usually kept closed. Someone watching the
apartment, either from Fifth Avenue or Seventieth Street, might realize someone
was there.

 
          
On
the other hand, if the drapes have been kept closed, it would be sending a
signal to open them. Oh God, she thought, there’s no sure way to be safe.

 
          
The
framed pictures of Heather that had been scattered through the living room were
still there. In fact everything seemed to be much as Isabelle had left it. Lacey
shivered. She almost expected to see Isabelle walk down the stairs.

 
          
She
realized that she had not yet taken off her down jacket. The casualness of the
jacket and her sweats was so far removed from the way she had dressed the other
times she had been in this apartment that they added to her feeling of
displacement. As she unfastened the jacket, Lacey shivered again. She suddenly
felt as if she were an intruder, moving in with ghosts.

 
          
Sooner
or later she had to force herself to walk upstairs and to look in the bedroom.
She didn’t want to go near it, but she knew that she had to see it just to be
rid of the feeling that Isabelle’s body was still them.

 
          
There
was a leather sofa in the library that converted into a bed, and adjacent to
the library was the powder room. Those were the rooms she would use. There was
no way that she could ever sleep in the bed in which Isabelle had been shot.

 
          
Tim
had said something about there being food in the fridge. As Lacey hung her
jacket in the foyer closet, she remembered hiding there and watching as
Caldwell rushed past.

 
          
Get
something to eat, she told herself. You’re hungry, and the irritation from that
is just making everything else worse.

 
          
Tim
had done a good job of putting together a meal for her. There was a small roast
chicken, salad greens, rolls, and a wedge of cheddar cheese and some fruit. A
half-empty jar of instant coffee was sitting on a shelf. She remembered that
she and Isabelle had shared coffee from that same jar.

 
          
“Upstairs,”
Lacey said aloud. “Get it out of the way.” She half hopped her way to the
staircase,
then
held on to the wrought-iron railing
for support as she climbed the steps to the bedroom suite.

 
          
She
went through the sitting room to the bedroom and looked in. The draperies were
drawn here as well, and the room was dark. She turned on the light.

 
          
The
place looked exactly the same as it had the last time she had stood there with
Curtis Caldwell. She could still picture him as he looked around, his
expression thoughtful. She had waited in silence, believing he was debating
about whether or not to make an offer on the apartment.

 
          
What
he had been doing, she now realized, was making sure there was no way Isabelle
could escape him when he attacked her.

 
          
Where
was Caldwell now?
she
wondered suddenly, a feeling of
panic and resignation washing over her. Had he followed her to New York?

 
          
Lacey
looked at the bed and visualized Isabelle’s bloodied hand, trying to pull the
journal pages from under the pillow. She could almost hear the echo of Isabelle’s
dying plea:

 
          
Lacey
… give Heather’s … journal … to her father … Only to him … Swear …

 
          
With
sickening clarity, Lacey remembered the gasps and harsh choking breaths between
each painfully uttered word.

 
          
You
… read it … show him where … Then Isabelle had made one last effort to breathe
and speak. She’d died as she exhaled, whispering, man …

 
          
Lacey
turned and hobbled through the sitting room and eased her way down the stairs.
Get something to eat, take a shower, go to bed, she told herself. Get over your
jumpiness. Like it or not, you know you’ve got to stay here. There’s no place
else to go.