The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense (14 page)

After mentally readying herself, she entered Healy’s building and strolled decisively toward the concierge desk. There was a chance that the same guy she’d seen before would be on duty again, but she was hoping he wasn’t. If he recognized her it wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but he might also remember her name—these guys were good at such stuff—and that would spoil her plan.

She was in luck, however. It was another man, this one short and stocky with a gleaming bald head. The lobby was empty, except for a porter polishing the brass fixtures, and the concierge smiled at her receptively. The name on his badge said Bob Dolan.

“Hello, I’m Sasha Glen,” Kit said, assuming the most knowing air she could muster. “I’m with Ithaka, the firm Matt Healy worked for before his death.”

Dolan grimaced.

“Terrible thing,” he said. “Out of the blue like that. And what was he—thirty-eight, thirty-nine?”

“I know. We’re all very distraught at Ithaka. I was hoping you could help us. We’re planning a memorial service for him and we want to make sure we invite everyone that was close to him.”

“Gosh, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any help there. We don’t keep tabs on people’s personal lives. The only thing I’ve been told is that his mother and stepfather went to Florida to collect the body, and at some point they’re coming here to deal with his belongings.”

“They’ll be invited to the service, of course, and we have their contact information. But there’s a friend of his we’re trying to reach, a former colleague from Ithaka who stayed with him here.”

Dolan wrinkled his brow. He’d been eager to engage when she’d first approached him, but she could sense his antennae shooting up now.

“Would you happen to have some identification?” he asked.

“Of course,” Kit said and drew Sasha’s business card out of her purse. She handed it to Dolan, who gave a quick nod as he read what was written on it.

“I think you may have been misinformed,” he said. “Mr. Healy didn’t have any roommates.”

“But this person—his name’s Garrett Kelman—he would
have stayed with Mr. Healy for just a short time. We’re desperate to reach him because he may not be aware yet that Mr. Healy is dead.”

He flicked his head to the left, as if he was about to shake it in a “no,” and then caught himself.

“Actually, he did have a buddy with him for a few days a while back.” She saw him reach behind the reception counter for something and next she heard the sound of pages being flipped. Some kind of log, she guessed.

“Okay, I see it here,” he said. “A Mr. Kelman was given access to the apartment for several days about three weeks ago. But that’s all the info I have. You don’t have a cell phone number for a former employee?”

So one part of Kelman’s story held up. It also meant that Healy had deceived her.

“Um, unfortunately the number we have isn’t in service anymore,” she said. “But thank you for your help. Do you mind if I take the card back? It’s the only one I have on me today.”

As she left, she sensed him watching her, wondering too late if she was a reporter or someone nosing around for all the wrong reasons. But she’d snagged what she’d come for and that was all that mattered.

Out on the sidewalk she exhaled and desperately tried to corral the thoughts ricocheting in her brain and then make sense of them.

Last night she’d confirmed that Garrett Kelman had worked at Ithaka, and now she’d learned that, yes, he’d also been a friend of Matt Healy’s. That added credence to his claim that he hadn’t broken into her apartment.

But though Kelman had been honest with her in certain regards, she still had no reason to completely trust him. The man might not be the mastermind of an identity-stealing ring as she’d once suspected, but he was clearly in trouble and on the
run. And he could very well be Healy’s killer. Maybe they’d even been involved in illegal stuff together and had argued, fallen out with each other, which could explain Healy’s strange claims about Kelman being a pickpocket.

Most disturbing of all: if Kelman
hadn’t
broken into her apartment, someone else definitely had. She was back to the idea of
them
again, unknown persons who’d come looking for the flash drive, trashed her apartment, and might very well return. How in the world would she ever stop them?

It was time to call Kelman. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

She cast her eyes up and down the street. A man with a bulldog approached on the sidewalk, practically dragging the dog behind him. “Max, for the love of God, come on,” he implored. “You’re going to tear all the skin from your paws.”

Behind him a row of taxis idled in the street, waiting for the traffic light to change. From the third taxi in line, a man probably in his fifties let his eyes linger on her. Then he quickly glanced away. Was that just a New York moment? she wondered. Or something to be freaked about? She wouldn’t be able to stop questioning everything around her until she figured out the truth.

She moved a few yards up the block to the corner and stepped out of the sun, under the awning of the same Italian restaurant that she had gone to with Healy. Because of the fairly mild weather, the front door had been left ajar, and a sweet garlicky scent wafted outside. Kit dug into her purse for her phone and called up the number she had programed in for X. Her heart raced in anticipation.

He answered on the third ring. Just “Yes?” in that deep, sure voice. She had a memory suddenly of hearing it during her car ride to the Miami airport, and the erotic rush she’d experienced from knowing she’d be granted another chance to taste his mouth again and feel his body press against her. But what
difference did any of that make? He’d never been the man she thought she’d made love to that night.

“It’s Kit Finn,” she said. “You said you’d be willing to talk again. I want to do that.”

A pause.

“Why the change of heart?” he said finally. “You seemed awfully eager to get me out of your apartment and be done with me.”

“I know now that you were telling the truth yesterday, about who you are. I checked it out.”

“Okay. But why am I suddenly supposed to trust
you
?”

“You just are,” she said, anger swelling. “I didn’t take your pen on purpose. There’d be no reason in the world for me to do so, and I think you know it now.”

“Is that right?”

How nervy, she thought, as she heard the tinge of sarcasm in his voice. It was Kelman who’d upended
her
life, not the other way around.

“What are you getting at?” she demanded. “Are you still trying to suggest that I’m some kind of Bond girl, someone who set out to double-cross you in a tropical resort?”

She heard him chuckle lightly, which only riled her more.

“The bottom line is that you’ve endangered me,” she said. “By sending me to Matt Healy’s apartment for what I
thought
was a date, you’ve made me an accomplice and it’s put me at risk, and my business, too. I wish I could just tell the police about you and walk away, but if what you said about these other people is true, that’s not going to help me. I can’t extricate myself without you. Besides, I have information that could be of value to you as well.”

He said nothing for a moment and she wondered if, miffed by her tone and her comments, he’d disconnected the call. She briefly pulled the phone from her ear and saw there was still a connection.

“I want the truth,” she said. “You owe me that.”

“All right,” he said finally. “But I can’t meet you until tomorrow night. Pick a bar or a restaurant near you, where we can sit in the back and not be seen.”

“There’s a place called Jacques on Prince Street, and it’s fairly dark inside.”

“Seven o’clock.”

“All right.”

And then the call disconnected.

So it had worked. She had challenged him and he’d bitten, and she finally had a shot at learning what she was really ensnared in. Their meeting, however, was over twenty-four hours away, and until then she would have to find a way to make her heart stop hurling itself against her chest—but without ever letting down her guard.

It was nearly four by the time she climbed the steps from the Spring Street subway station and began the short walk to her building. To her relief she heard music when she reached her floor, coming from apartment A. One of her neighbors must be working from home.

She reached the entrance to the office, turned her key in the lock, and pushed open the door.

And then she saw the man. He was standing just beyond the entranceway, where it opened onto the main room. A total stranger. He turned and looked at her, his dark eyes hard. Her hand was still on the doorknob and she gripped it tight. Adrenaline coursed through her body, urging her to fight or flee.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He didn’t answer, just stared at her, his pupils weirdly dilated. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see Baby standing to her left. Her partner appeared startled, but not alarmed.

“What’s going
on
?” Kit asked.

Before anyone could answer, Dara emerged from Kit’s apartment, improbably carrying a glass of orange juice. She hurried toward the man and handed him the juice, which he downed in two quick gulps. It was like a scene out of
Alice in Wonderland
, Kit thought, people in the wrong places doing things that made no sense.

“Much better,” he said, handing the glass back to Dara.

“That’s a relief,” Baby said. “Kit, let me introduce you to Steven Harper. He’s the hotel developer I mentioned earlier. He was worried he might be having a hypoglycemic attack and needed juice”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Kit said. Though her brain was playing catch-up, her heart hadn’t stopped pounding from the shock of finding a strange man in the office. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be here besides you and Dara.”

“Not a problem,” Harper responded, reaching to shake her
hand. He was tall, at least six foot three, dressed in gray slacks and a sports jacket. His deep tan had an orangey undertone that made it look fake, as if he’d had it airbrushed on earlier that day at a tanning salon.

“Here’s a card with our website address on it,” Baby said, handing it to Harper.

He turned to Kit. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed with the work you and your partner do. Are you game for a project where every square inch of the property has to be astonishing?”

“Of course,” Kit said, forcing a smile. “We don’t like projects unless that’s one of the requirements.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he said to Baby, “and then you can make a formal presentation.”

“My suggestion?” Baby said as she swung open the door for him. “You should meet with a number of designers at this time.” She was following her never-seem-like-the-pursuer strategy. “It always helps to see what else is out there.”

As soon as Harper departed, Dara grabbed Kit’s attention to review a few matters and then packed up to leave, looking almost relieved to be taking off. Baby hung back, clearly eager to talk.

“I’m so sorry I sounded rude when I first walked in,” Kit said. “It just caught me off guard to find a stranger here. I thought you were meeting with the hotel guy this morning.”

“That was the plan but he had to postpone it because of a business issue, and then he obviously got caught in a rust storm on his way here. Have you ever seen a tan quite that shade?”

Kit smiled. “I hope I didn’t jinx things with him.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. The bottom line is that he seemed impressed with our work and my instinct tells me we’re definitely a contender.”

It was typical Baby to take things in stride. And yet Kit
worried that underneath that unflappable demeanor Baby might be starting to lose patience with the predicament she’d suddenly found herself in. She’d been forced to double up in the office as a safety precaution, warn clients that their credit card accounts might be endangered, and coexist with a partner who looked wigged out most of the time. That was hardly what Baby had in mind when she’d decided to plunge back into the field.

“How nice
that
would be. And I promise, Baby, I’m going to extricate myself from this situation so it doesn’t wash over on the business anymore.”

“Any news?”

Kit told her about confirming one more aspect of X’s story and her plan to meet with him the next night.

“I’m still not happy with that idea,” Baby said, shaking her head.

“He’s got information of value,” Kit told her.

“So does Vladimir Putin, but that doesn’t mean I want you cozying up to him.”

Kit swore she’d be extremely careful.

Later, she ordered Chinese food for dinner but only picked at it. Her thoughts were consumed with the upcoming rendezvous with Kelman. She worried she was banking on it more than she should be. What if, when push came to shove, Kelman refused to pony up all the info she needed to know? And then there’d be the added challenge of determining how much to actually believe.

And yet right now, the meeting was all she had.

As planned, Baby used the next morning for shopping and Kit and Dara worked out of the office. With input from Dara, Kit narrowed down the fabric choices for Avery’s cottage: white with blue piping for the living room sofa; a pale blue and white
stripe for the bleached, rounded-back dining chairs; a subtle lavender floral print for the guest room duvet; various shades of white and cream for the master bedroom. Next Dara mounted swatches onto boards along with photos of the suggested furniture. The fabrics were subtle, almost muted-looking on the boards, but Kit knew that once they were mixed with teardrop chandeliers, gilt-framed mirrors, and billowing, sheer white curtains, the end result would be enchanting.

“Oh, I forgot to tack on a sample for the living room rug. Hand me that piece of sisal, will you?”

“Tell me why you chose that.”

“With so much white and cream in the room, it needs to be grounded.”

“Ah, got it. Do you think Avery can concentrate long enough to recognize how exquisite this is going to be?” Dara asked.

“She seems to trust me and she’s got nice taste, so I suspect she’ll say she loves it,” Kit said. “Ideally you want people to be fully engaged, to visit the showrooms with you and sit in the chairs so they know exactly what they’re getting. The big problem with clients like Avery, the ones who don’t have the time or patience to do that as you go along, comes when you reach the very end. They finally focus and make statements like, “Wait, when did we decide to use so much
white
?”

“And what do you do then? Besides want to bitch slap them?”

Kit smiled. “Tap dance a bit. At least I do, and Baby does, too. Some designers will just announce, ‘It is what it is,’ but I try to fix what I can. For instance, if they think there’s not enough color, I’ll add a bit more with accessories. Speaking of clients, what did you think of Steven Harper, the hotel developer?”

“Mr. Man Tan, you mean? Baby had me research him but I couldn’t find much. Just that he’s an investor who’s gotten into hotels only recently. But it could be a sweet piece of business, that’s for sure.”

“How about personally? You spent more time with him than I did.”

“That’s the catch. He seems awfully high maintenance. When he said he needed O.J., he expected me to jump.”

Kit had picked up the same vibe as Dara, even in her brief encounter. But Baby was an expert at dealing with the blustery and demanding clients and she’d be the one handling Harper for the most part.

She emailed Avery next, informing her that she had completed the boards and was eager for her reaction so she could start ordering furniture and fabric. Avery wrote back minutes later saying she was “crazy busy,” but could send a messenger for the boards tomorrow.

Once Baby returned, Kit grabbed her coat and flew out of there. She made an inspection of the most recent work at the Griggs’ Greenwich Village apartment and then headed farther uptown to shop for a Gustavian floor clock for Avery’s cottage. Each time she emerged from a different place, she found herself checking the street, watching to make sure no one was watching her. All she wanted was for her life to be normal again, the fear to be gone. She checked the time. Four hours until her rendezvous at Jacques.

As she exited the last store on her list, feeling the now familiar wave of discomfort that happened each time she stepped onto the street, Keith Holt called her.

“Have you got a minute?” he asked. In the background she could hear echoing footsteps and snatches of conversation, as if he might be standing in the middle of a hospital corridor.

“Of course. What’s up?”

“I was actually hoping we could meet today, perhaps for an espresso. I’ve put together the clippings and I’d love to deliver them to you.”

Yikes, she thought. She’d counted on the fact that with the
demands of Holt’s job, the clipping task would keep him busy for at least a week or two, buying her time to catch up with her other projects.

“I’m actually just finishing a shopping expedition for another client.”

“Where are you at the moment?”

The bluntness of the question caught her off guard.

“Uh, the Upper East Side.”

“I bet you’re not far from the hospital. I could meet you in a half an hour or so.”

She hardly had time for that, but Holt was now officially a client and clients didn’t appreciate the words, “I’m sorry I can’t.”

“Sure,” she said. “That works for me. Just tell me where.”

They met at a small café around the corner from the hospital, nearly empty now, though the air still seemed to pulse from a lunch crowd that had dispersed just a short time before. Holt was already seated and as Kit approached, she spotted the folder on the wooden table. He was in a sport jacket today, wheat colored with threads of blue woven through, and a crisp blue shirt. Handsome, just as Baby had pointed out.

After rising to greet her, Holt flagged the waitress with just a tilt of his chin. Once the espressos were ordered, he turned his attention back to Kit.

“I hope I didn’t browbeat you into coming. I’m just anxious to know what you think.”

He lifted the folder off the table and offered it to her.

“It seems like you had fun with the project,” Kit said. “I’ll want to spend time going through these, but can I take a peek now?”

“Please, be my guest.”

She opened the folder and began to sift through the clippings. The mix, she saw, included not just pages from shelter magazines, but also two magazine travel stories and photocopies
of about ten pieces of art. Kit thumbed through them, struck immediately by the contrast between what she was viewing and a comment Holt had made at their first encounter.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked.

“You have two Agnes Martin paintings in here.”

“I told you I loved modern art.”

“I know, and I like Martin, too. But it’s not quite what I was expecting from you. You said you wanted your apartment to be gutsy, but at a glance I can see that a lot of what you chose is wonderfully pared down and subtle. Perhaps you really crave something with a calming effect. Which would make sense considering how demanding your work is.”

He reached to take the folder back and thumbed quickly through it.

“I see what you’re saying,” he said, nodding softly. “And this may be the
real
reason my current apartment irks me. Not because it’s so nice but because it’s just too busy with all that red and gold.”

“That’s a great point.” This was what gave her the biggest rush of all in her work, even more than the kick that came from deciding to pair a bunch of wildly different prints or painting a tiny room chocolate brown in order to draw attention to its size rather than distract from it. She loved helping people recognize that what they’d convinced themselves they wanted wasn’t necessarily so, and that there was something else entirely that would capture their fancy.

Holt leaned back in his chair, his brown eyes pensive. “How are you doing, by the way? I felt so bad for you on Saturday.”

“It’s just like you always hear about these situations. You feel so
violated
when someone breaks into your home.”

“I have a colleague whose apartment was burglarized and the police actually recovered some of her jewelry at a pawn shop. Maybe that will happen in your case, too.”

“Fortunately they didn’t find my nice jewelry. All in all, whoever broke in was probably disappointed with their take.”

“Bad for them but good for you.”

They spoke a few more minutes, with Kit urging him telepathically to drink faster. The meeting with X was only hours away and it weighed on her nerves. Finally, with another nod, Holt signaled for the check.

“I’ll be anxious to hear your final verdict on the clippings,” he said as they rose simultaneously from the table. “In fact, here’s an idea. Would you be free to meet for dinner later? We could discuss them further.”

Was he asking her for a date? she wondered. Maybe he
was
the kind of guy she should consider seeing, just like Baby had suggested, but now was certainly not the time. Plus, he was a client, and that could make it thorny.

“I’d love to,” she said, “but I need to get back to the office and then I have to run out at seven for a meeting. But let’s plan to review everything soon.”

“Of course,” he said, looking mollified. “I look forward to it.”

As they stepped outside, she saw that the sky was smudged with gray but the forecasted rain had yet to break through. She bid goodbye to Holt and started for the subway.

“New development,” Dara announced when Kit finally arrived at the office. “I packed up the boards for Avery but she never sent a messenger. Turns out she’s at the Crosby Street Hotel this afternoon for an off-site brainstorm meeting with her team, and since she’s so close, she says she wants to pop by and pick them up herself at 6:30. Want me to hang around?”