The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense (10 page)

She turned and surveyed the living/dining area.

“It’s so hard to tell in all this disarray,” she told O’Callaghan, “but it looks like they stole a set of silver picture frames.” They’d been a gift from a client, the kind of splurge she wouldn’t have indulged in for herself.

To her surprise, her small flat-screen TV was still in position.

“Why wouldn’t they have taken that?” she asked, pointing.

“Best guess? We’re probably talking one guy here, and besides the fact that he’d want to enter and exit in in a hurry, there was only so much he could carry. What about jewelry?”

Kit nodded gloomily toward the bedroom. Steeling herself, she led the way, with O’Callaghan behind her.

The chaos was even worse in there. Clothes and bedding were strewn on the floor and the drawers of her dresser were hanging down like slack tongues. She could see that the tray she kept costume jewelry on had been overturned, and though a few odd earrings were scattered on the floor, it appeared that most of the pieces had been taken.

She strode over to her bookcase. She had only a few pieces of really nice jewelry, including a bracelet and earrings from Jeremy, and they were stored in a hollowed-out book on her shelf, a trick she’d learned from Baby. To her relief, she saw that the book was still there. She tugged it from the shelf, flipped open the top, and found the pieces safely tucked inside, along with her passport.

She sighed gratefully. “Everything’s here.”

“Fortunately most of the guys who pull this crap aren’t book readers,” O’Callaghan commented.

“Can I check my office now?” Kit asked, her dread building again. She was sure her laptop would be gone.

And it was. After threading her way back through the mess with O’Callaghan, she saw that it was missing from the top of her desk. That’s a thousand bucks, she thought woefully. At least she’d shut it down before leaving, requiring a password to reopen it.

She glanced around the room. Just as the patrol cop had said, the thief, or thieves, hadn’t really bothered much with the office. The desktop computer on Dara’s desk was still in place, and the printer remained on a side table. File drawers, locked by Dara for the weekend, were closed and all the piles of fabric
samples and drawings looked untouched. Besides her laptop, nothing appeared to be missing.

She knew she should consider herself fortunate. It had scared her to think of her workspace disrupted. What she could afford even less than the loss of her belongings was any downtime in her business.

“Anything other than the laptop?” O’Callaghan asked.

“Not that I can tell.”

She returned to her apartment with O’Callaghan, just as the second detective, a Lieutenant Lopez, walked through the main doorway. He reported that he’d managed to speak to a half-dozen residents, rousing some of them from bed, and unfortunately no one had seen or heard anything suspicious. And no one else had been burglarized.

Why target
me
? Kit thought despondently. She was starting to feel the full impact of the evening. Her limbs ached and her head was throbbing.

“Now that Detective Lopez is back,” said O’Callaghan, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island, “take us through this Miami situation.” He withdrew a pad from his suit jacket pocket. “This way he’s in the loop, too, and I can get it all down.”

Kit ran through everything again. O’Callaghan pursed his lips, clearly trying to digest it all. What could she expect? The story sounded crazy even to her as she recounted the details.

“We’ll certainly take all that into consideration,” said O’Callaghan. “But to be honest, this looks like a straightforward burglary to me.”

He slid a card from his wallet and handed it to her, saying he would be in touch if there was anything to report and she should do the same. Kit told herself to accept his version of events and to thank her lucky stars.

As O’Callaghan rose, ready to leave, her super, Andre, poked his head through the doorway of the apartment. Kit motioned
for him to enter. His mouth dropped open in shock as he absorbed the scene in front of him.

The detectives introduced themselves to him and explained how the door had been jimmied. Then they indicated they needed to move on, reminding Kit that they would require fingerprints from her two co-workers. She thanked them profusely for their help.

“My son is on his way, and we will take care of this,” Andre said as soon as the police departed. “But do you have any other place to stay tonight?”

“Yes, with a friend,” she said. “But Andre, I need a better door this time or I’ll never feel safe here.”

“Yes, I promise,” he said. “I will order a customized door, with a steel plate so it can’t be jimmied.”

“How long will it take?”

He pressed his chubby lips together momentarily, as if afraid to say.

“About a week.”

“A
week
? What do I do until then?”

He said that he and his son would barricade the apartment with wood tonight and first thing tomorrow morning they would install a temporary door with metal pins that would insert into the floor at the bottom and into the doorframe at the top. It would be up by noon and she could return at that point.

“All right,” Kit said, knowing a better door would soothe her nerves only so much. She was sure an alarm system was probably out of her price range—she’d investigated one when she first moved in—but she was determined to make calls tomorrow and at least find out. “I’m going to leave as soon as I pack a few things.”

As Andre waded around the apartment, scooping up a few objects here and there in an attempt to at least rescue them from the floor, Kit tossed a change of clothes into a duffle bag, along
with a handful of toiletries. Then she returned to her office. As much as she wanted to just flee the scene, she needed to grab her insurance file. There were calls that would have to be made first thing tomorrow.

It was hauntingly quiet in there. Quieter it seemed, than on so many other nights when she’d snuck into her office after dinner to take care of business. Staring at the three empty desks and the small pine worktable topped with a lovely bowl of dried pomegranates, she found it hard to believe that so much mayhem lay just a few feet behind her in the apartment.

She collected the necessary documents from the filing cabinet, grateful to have been so persnickety over the years about keeping hard copies. Then she pulled out the top drawer of her desk, searching for a binder clip in order to secure all the papers together. As her hand hovered above the open drawer, she caught herself.

Something was off. The contents in the organizing tray—paperclips, pushpins, stamps, Post-its, etc.—were neatly organized, just as they always were, but they looked different somehow. Different from how they’d been arranged when she’d last opened the drawer that afternoon. The staple remover was now on the left side rather than the right. The pad of neon pink Post-its was turned lengthwise rather than vertically.

The thief had been in the drawer, she realized. The thought of his hands in there, pawing through her things repulsed her. She wondered what he’d been hoping to find tucked inside. Perhaps an envelope of petty cash. Or an iPod?

And yet something confused her. Why would the burglar be such a neatnik all of a sudden? Back in her apartment, the table and dresser drawers were hanging by a thread or yanked out entirely, with their contents cast about, but in the office it appeared as if nothing had been touched, save a laptop whisked from a desk. The drawer had clearly been searched but then carefully reorganized.

Maybe, she thought, there’d been two burglars tonight with two different M.O.s—one who got his kicks out of trashing places and another who didn’t.

Or
, there was a whole other explanation. She straightened her body and held it still, as if listening for a sound from afar. In her living space, where the thief had absconded with most of the items of value, he’d announced his presence brashly, as if to say, “See what I’m doing, bitch.” But in her office he’d barely left a footprint. As if he was trying to convey, “This room doesn’t matter to me.” When it really did.

With a jolt, she thought suddenly of the rearranged pillows earlier in the week. What if that hadn’t been done by Baby’s client but rather by an intruder, who’d cased her apartment, hoping to leave no footprints? And then returned another night.

She lifted her gaze and stared at her desktop. There was a small stack of opened letters, all addressed to her, and also a Post-it with a message from Dara that said, “Kit, we’re out of milk but I’ll pick up a quart on Monday morning.” Anyone looking would know at a glance that this desk was hers.

Eyes back to the drawer. Something, she realized, was missing from one of the little black compartments. A flash drive she’d dropped in there the day before, one she’d been planning to send to a client so he’d have extra photos of his newly renovated one-bedroom apartment. She couldn’t imagine what value that would hold for anyone other than the client.

A thought began to form in her mind and lodged there, chilling her. What if the person had broken in not to steal but to
search
?

For what, though? Financial data? About her—
and
her clients? With a shudder she realized, she didn’t have a single clue. But X’s face formed clearly in her mind again.

It was close to 11:30 by the time Kit left for Baby’s, with Andre still working wearily on the door. She made sure that he planned to leave notes for her neighbors on the floor so they’d be aware of what happened and could take whatever precautions they wanted to. By the time she was in a cab, her nerves felt as if someone had taken a grater to them.

Baby opened the door fully dressed in a cream-colored blouse, navy pants, and a thick red leather belt, as if she was coming from a brunch at the Colony Club. She held a half-filled cocktail glass.

“You poor thing,” Baby said, welcoming Kit into the apartment. She nodded toward the glass. “I was fretting so much, I resorted to a second vodka. What can I get you? You must need a stiff drink at this point.”

“Actually, I’d kill for a cup of caffeine-free tea if you have it,” Kit said. “I hate to sound like a wuss, but I feel too wired for anything else.”

“Okay, just give me a minute.”

“But first can I borrow your laptop? I need to get on Dropbox and erase information in some of our files. Whoever stole my laptop may know how to hack in.”

While Baby busied herself in the kitchen, Kit took a seat in
the study, logged onto Dropbox and quickly forwarded Baby her current client files, each of which contained credit card info used for purchases. Then she deleted those files on her own laptop. She also sent Baby her most important personal files and trashed those on her computer as well.

Finished, she wandered back to the living room and collapsed onto one of the pair of brown leather sofas. She glanced distractedly around the dazzling space: walls painted a turquoise blue, known officially as Benjamin Moore’s California Breeze; curtains made of Indian bedspreads; huge, ravishing botanical prints on the wall; and in one corner an Egg chair in shocking red, because, well, just because Baby could. What always amazed Kit about the apartment was that it managed to be not only jaw-droppingly gorgeous, but also totally inviting. Tonight, however, she was so churned up inside that she could hardly relish its charms.

She leaned her head back wearily against the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Two hours ago she’d been eager to accept O’Callaghan’s assurance that the break-in had probably been a run-of-the-mill burglary, but based on the missing flash drive and the discreet search through her desk drawer, her gut now told her that she’d be a fool to believe that. Something else was going on.

And X had to be the one behind it. He was an identity thief, after all, and only days after meeting him, her home had been searched for possible data. A coincidence too big to ignore. From the moment she’d been tricked by him, she’d felt his dark presence looming in her life. It was like being hunted by a predator who’d tried to hide behind a floor-length curtain, and yet despite his efforts, you couldn’t miss the terrifying outline of his body on the fabric and the tips of his shoes protruding on the floor.

The image of Healy’s corpse suddenly flashed in her mind. What if her own life was now in danger?

“Here we go,” Baby said, returning to the living room carrying
a tray laden with a small teapot, a cup and saucer, and a plate of butter cookies. Baby always set a mean tray. “According to the box, the tea is ‘Cozy Chamomile,’” she said, “so maybe it will help a little.”

“Thanks, Baby. Just
being
here is helping me. Though it’s going to be a while before I feel anything close to cozy again.”

“Tell me what they stole,” Baby said. While she settled into an armchair close by, Kit took a long sip of tea and then returned the gold-rimmed porcelain cup to the saucer.

“They made off with my speakers, most of my costume jewelry, some silver stuff, and, of course, my laptop. It doesn’t appear, at least, that they took anything of yours, but you’ll have to check when you get there.”

“I spoke with Dara already and, like me, she didn’t have anything of real value lying around. I just feel so bad for
you
. You’re insured, right?”

“Yes, with an annoyingly high deductible.” Kit blew out a long breath. “But to be honest, the stolen stuff isn’t at the top of my worry list right now.”

“What do you mean?” Baby asked. She’d had her cocktail glass halfway to her mouth as she’d posed the question and now it was paused in midair, like a freeze-framed image from a video.

“I don’t believe it was really a routine burglary tonight.”

“But the cops—you said they thought it
was
.”

Kit explained about the searched drawer and missing flash drive, as well as her theory that the ransacked living room might be a ruse to distract her and the police from the real intent behind the break-in. Just talking about it all made her anxiety level spike.

Baby frowned, her expression a mix of worry and confusion. “I remember you asking Dara to put those pictures on a flash drive so you could send them to that client of yours, Stan what’s-his-next-name, the one with the bad hair plugs. But why would anyone else want photos of his apartment?”

“They don’t,” Kit said, shaking her head. “I think the person may have been searching for confidential information about me, and probably our clients as well. If he’d done his homework, he would know interior designers keep client credit card numbers on file, and he probably wanted access to those. By making the burglary seem like it was the work of a druggie looking for stuff to pawn, he buys time to hack into my computer, extract the info, and use it.”

“Dear God. Do we need to alert our clients?”

“I’ve deleted their files from my Dropbox account, so no one would be able to access them from my laptop now, but it may be too late. I think we should let clients know what happened and tell them to keep an eye out.”

“Let me do that tomorrow. You’ve got enough on your plate at the moment. And I can smooth any ruffled feathers.”

“Thanks so much.” Kit looked off, thinking, gnawing on the tip of her finger.

“What?”

“I just hope this doesn’t cast too much of a pall over the business.”

“These things happen. It’s New York City after all.”

Kit nodded tentatively.

“There’s something you’re not saying, Kit. What is it?”

“I’m not so sure this is just about living in New York City. Remember what you asked earlier? About the man from Florida? I’m worried this actually
does
have something to do with him.”

Baby pulled her arms across her chest. She was doing her best not to seem rattled, but Kit knew that this update had to be disturbing.

“Did you find anything specific pointing to him?” she asked.

“No, but the one thing I know for sure about him is that he’s been using someone else’s identity, so identity theft could easily be his main line of work. And then, of course, there’s the
timing. This guy sends me to Healy’s apartment. A few days later Healy turns up dead. And then a few days after that my apartment is ransacked. It just screams that there’s a connection. I’m even wondering if he was in my apartment once before, the day I noticed that my pillows had been moved. He might have been casing the place.”

“You’re going to talk to the police about this, right?”

“Yes, for sure. I’ve already told them what happened in Florida. But even with this new little theory of mine, it’s hard to believe the cops can do much. No one has any idea who this guy I call X really is or how to find him. And there isn’t a shred of proof he’s behind this.”

“So what recourse do you have? What if this Mr. X decides to—I don’t know, come back and look for more?”

Kit pushed herself off the sofa and began to pace back and forth in front of it. Something had begun to stir in her, but she couldn’t yet define it.

“I—I’m going to have to find out what I can myself,” she said finally.

Her words came only a beat or two after the thought had crystalized, catching her by surprise. Did she really mean what she was saying?
Yes
. She couldn’t sit around any longer, waiting for one devastating event after another to domino through her life.

“Am I hearing you right?” Baby asked. “You can’t get involved in this, Kit.”

“But I already
am
involved. From the moment I left the Ithaka offices that first time, I’ve told myself again and again, ‘It’s behind me now.’ And then there’s always been one more aspect I’ve had to contend with. This isn’t going to stop. For some reason I don’t understand, I’m smack in the middle of an ugly mess and it’s up to me to extricate myself.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. I hate to go all Judge Judy and get
really tough, but you just can’t do that. Taking action could be terribly dangerous.”

Kit smiled wanly. “I know. And I’m scaring myself a little. But I feel even more frightened about the alternative: doing nothing and waiting for fate to play its hand. I have to look out for myself—and our business.”

“But
how
? You mean more security for the office and your apartment?”

Kit shrugged helplessly, still not certain herself. “What I think I need as much as security is information. I can’t begin to get out of the mess until I know what I’m actually up against.”

“I understand how you feel, but I don’t like the idea of you hunting down information,” Baby said, looking dismayed. “What exactly would that entail?”

“I’m not really sure.” Kit reached down for her cup and took a last swig of tea. “We’re both bushed. Why don’t we head to bed, and then tomorrow I’ll consider everything when my mind is fresh.”

“Well, I’m counting on the fact that at the first light of dawn, you’ll come fully to your senses.”

Baby led Kit to the guest room and they hugged good night.

After washing her face and changing into a nightshirt, Kit slid between the bed’s luscious percale sheets, hand stitched with custom embroidery. Her body ached with fatigue and she yearned for the release sleep would bring, but within seconds she could tell that her brain wasn’t going to cooperate. There were too many anxious thoughts—and unanswered questions—bouncing around in there for her to let go.

Despite Baby’s pleas, Kit was determined to secure information that could help reveal X’s agenda, and she knew that the first light of dawn wasn’t going to revise her thinking. The very first step, of course, would be following up with the New York
detectives. But then what? A call to Molinari for starters, she decided. And this time she’d be less passive. She’d ask for more details about Healy’s death and an update on the investigation.

Healy.
For the past few hours, all of her attention had been focused on X, but for the first time she realized that if she wanted to learn the truth, she needed to consider Healy, too. He’d been a victim of X’s as well, maybe in the most horrific way possible. According to Wainwright and Ungaro, Healy had headed to Miami on business. But Healy might have lied to them about the actual purpose of the trip.

And yet if Healy had gone in pursuit of X, the trip could hardly have amounted to more than a wild-goose chase. All Healy would have known was that X
might
be in Miami. Unless, of course, he’d somehow dug up additional info.

She thought back to their conversation at the restaurant bar. She’d given Healy a decent description of X. Perhaps based on that, he’d talked to the hosts of the party in Brooklyn and figured out who the pickpocket was, and from there, determined where X might be staying.

For the first time she realized how stupid it was of X to send her to the apartment that night. Surely he would have known that she’d describe him to Healy. But, of course, X wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t seemed that way for a second. There had to be something else at play, something she just couldn’t see.

What if X’s main motive had never been to punk her? Perhaps she’d been sent to Healy’s for another reason. To deliver a message, or even a
warning
, that she didn’t know she was giving.

She thought back again to her initial meeting with Healy. When she’d first arrived at his place, he’d seemed mildly amused by her plight, but his expression had clouded the moment she’d mentioned her encounter in Florida, and by the time they were in the bar, he’d been visibly agitated. She’d assumed it was because he’d begun to conclude his identity had been compromised,
but alarm bells clearly had gone off for him just from hearing about the mystery man in Islamorada.

It dawned on her then that Healy might have known X. She remembered what the cop had said: that Healy had never reported his wallet stolen. Maybe the missing wallet story had all been a lie, too. Healy and X might have been in league together and later fallen out, which had resulted in Healy’s murder. The thought chilled her.

Finally, too disturbed to focus on it any longer, she chased the thoughts away and finally drifted off into an anxious sleep.

By 10:30 the next morning, Kit was in a cab headed downtown with Baby in tow. Baby had insisted on joining the cleanup effort, and though Kit hated ruining her partner’s Saturday, she was both grateful for the help and eager to have Baby inspect her desk for any kind of disturbance. They’d called Dara earlier from the apartment and she promised she would meet them after a doctor’s appointment and before a wedding she was due to attend late in the afternoon. Kit had also used the early morning to alert the insurance company and leave voicemail messages for both O’Callaghan and Molinari.