The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense (21 page)

She stepped outside, taking a split second to get her bearings. Though the address was Hanover Square, the building was actually on the corner of Stone Street, and she realized suddenly that she had been here once before several years ago. Not this
restaurant but one down on Stone Street. In the summer, the taverns on the block set out rows of wooden tables that were always packed at night with people in their twenties and thirties, and she had sat there one night with friends, drinking beer and eating hamburgers, and simply people watching. Right now it was hard to imagine ever having another night like that.

She quickly descended the steps in front of her and swung the door open, anxious to be inside. Though the adjoining restaurant looked spacious, the bar itself was small, with low ceilings and brick walls painted a metallic color, gold-like and glistening. Votive candles twinkled on the tables and on the dark wooden bar. She spotted Sasha immediately, perched on a stool and looking almost preternaturally still, cradling a martini glass the size of a hot tub. As Kit approached, Sasha caught the movement and raised her chin ever so slightly in greeting.

She also gave Kit’s outfit a quick once-over. But Kit couldn’t care less. She had come only for dirt and was determined to leave with it.

“My week so far demanded a martini, extra dry,” Sasha said as Kit slid onto a stool next to her. “How about yours?”

That was funny, Kit thought. If she were relying on that calculation, there wouldn’t be enough gin in the bar to make all the martinis she was due.

“I think I’ll just have a sparkling water,” she said and gave her order to the bartender.

“Suit yourself. Thank you, by the way, for coming downtown. I have to meet up with some people in Brooklyn Heights after this so I knew I wouldn’t have time to go back to the Upper East Side beforehand.”

“I imagine you’re in this area a fair amount during the week, because of your work.”

Sasha took a long, slow sip of her martini before answering. She was in black pants again, today with another gorgeous silk
blouse, this one fir green. Her large emerald earrings matched it perfectly. Kit realized for the first time how deliberate and restrained the woman’s movements always were. There was nothing wasted, no nervous gestures or self-pacifiers—like brushing her hair back or touching a hand to her throat.

As Sasha set her martini down, her eyes briefly resting on the bar top, Kit glanced quickly behind her and scanned the room. She wanted to make certain no one new had come in since she’d arrived.

“One would think that, yes,” Sasha said, looking at her again, “but most of the big financial firms have moved uptown, and I’m actually down here very little. Tonight was unavoidable, though. Some of my colleagues and I had a big powwow with a fund of funds we’re hoping to do business with.”

“I hope it was worth the trip.”

“We’ll have to see. A few people stuck around for some post-meeting chitchat and I’ll have to catch up with them tomorrow and hear their take.”

On the drive downtown Kit had warned herself again not to pounce on Sasha, that the woman relished cat-and-mouse play in conversation and if she came on too strong, Sasha would shut down. But here was a small opening and she decided to grab it.

“I’m sorry things have been tough at work.”

“Tough?”

“You mentioned it on the phone earlier. That the mood there had been bad. Gloomy, you said.”

“Oh yes,
that
.”

Sasha let the word hang there. Okay, here we go with the kitty-cat tactics, Kit thought with irritation.

“It sounded from what you were saying on the phone that there might be a suspect in Matt Healy’s death.”

“I’m not sure. But there’s
something
going on. Lots of closed doors. I assume it involves the police investigation.”

“Do—”

“Oh, here’s your bubbly water,” Sasha interrupted as the bartender delivered Kit’s drink. “I shouldn’t have been indulging before you had it. That was rude of me.”

Sasha had deliberately dropped the topic and Kit was reluctant to press any more right then. She told herself to switch gears and circle back later. There was something Sasha knew, Kit was dead certain, and she had to find a way to extract it.

“That’s not a problem,” Kit said. “So tell me about your apartment. It’s a nice big space. Was there a decorating fantasy in the back of your mind when you bought it?”

“Nothing specific. I mean, that’s why I’m talking to you, isn’t it?”

“Of course. But it’s important to start with what works for
you
—colors you like, the type of furniture, the vibe. And you don’t have to have a grand scheme in mind, just a starting point. Maybe there’s a home in a movie you found captivating. Or a hotel you can’t get out of your mind. One client of mine started with just a piece of fabric she’d brought back from India.”

“Well, as you saw, the apartment’s modern. I definitely want to work with that, not fight it.”

“Good. It can be interesting sometimes to go against the grain, but it’s much simpler not to. Tell me about your last place. What did you like and not like? It can be helpful to consider what
doesn’t
work for you.”

“It was a duplex in a brownstone, my reward to myself after my career took off. But by the time I’d lived there five years, I’d been on one too many buying binges. There was just too much stuff, and it felt awfully, I don’t know,
girlie
all of a sudden.”

“Ah,” Kit said. “And you’d like to get away from that.”

“To be perfectly honest, it’s partly because of a guy.” Sasha had plucked the plastic toothpick from her drink, the one plunged
through the chubby green olive, and she swished it slowly several times through the gin. The type of unnecessary movement she didn’t usually make. “I’ve been seeing someone for a while—someone quite special—and I sensed he felt too cramped in the brownstone with all my girlie junk. I wanted a place we both would be comfortable in.”

It surprised Kit to think that Sasha would acquiesce that way for a man. But maybe she didn’t view her decision as acquiescence, just the outcome of a negotiation, like the kind she probably engaged in regularly at work.

“He’s a fan of modern?” Kit asked.

“Yes, very much. In fact, he creates modern sculptures in his spare time. These gorgeous copper pieces.”

A sense of dread overpowered Kit before the memory had fully unfurled. But then there it was: Kelman at the table in Islamorada describing the copper sculptures he loved to make.

“Well, it’s nice you found a partner who’s so creative,” she said, trying to keep her breathing even. “How—how did you two meet?”

“This is
entre nous
, right? We actually met at work—another portfolio manager.”

Was Kelman Sasha’s
lover
? Maybe it was some bizarre coincidence.

“So you two have to be very discreet at the office, I would guess,” Kit said.

Sasha lifted her fir-green shoulder, barely a shrug.

“Actually, he left the firm a month ago. He wants to shift careers, and he’s been taking time off to figure it out.”

There was hardly room for doubt now. Her fears about Kelman, the ones she’d longed to let go of, had been confirmed. He’d claimed he wasn’t involved with anyone, but he was a brazen liar about that and probably more. She felt both fury and despair.

“What’s his name?” Kit asked. She needed to be sure.

“Oh, it’s probably best for me to stay mum.” She smiled coyly. “Though as far as I know, you might have met him through Matt. They were buddies.”

Why did the woman insist on playing this sick game, constantly suggesting she’d known Healy? Perhaps Sasha was even in collusion with Kelman.

“I told you,” Kit snapped. “I didn’t know Matt Healy.” She grabbed her purse and nearly tore it open. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

As she fished for her wallet with one hand, she signaled for the bartender with the other.

“Right
now
?” Sasha asked. “What about the apartment. Don’t you want to discuss it anymore?”

“Modern’s not really my thing. You really should find someone else.”

“What? But on your website . . .” Her gaze suddenly shifted to a spot past Kit’s shoulder. “Oh, my. We have an Ithaka contingent arriving. They must have just finished up.”

Kit swiveled around. To her shock, Mitch Wainwright was sauntering toward the bar. There was a jolt of recognition in his eyes when he registered her presence.

“I see you had the same idea we did,” Wainwright said, nodding toward Sasha’s martini when he reached them. There was another man with him—tall, dark haired, probably mid-thirties, dressed in a suit but no tie. Not someone she recalled seeing from her visit to the main floor of Ithaka.

“Progress?” Sasha asked Wainwright as he reached the bar.

“Yes, I think so. We thought we’d grab a bite of dinner in the restaurant here.”

“I believe you know Ms. Finn,” she said, glancing at Kit. “We’ve been discussing a potential decorating project.”

He turned to Kit and burrowed into her with his copper penny eyes.

“Is that right?” he said. Beneath the slick charm of his tone was a hint of menace.

Kit didn’t say anything, just nodded.

“And have you two met yet?” Sasha asked, indicating the stranger. She didn’t wait for an answer. “This is another of our portfolio managers, Gavin Kennelly.”

Kit’s heart seemed to freeze in her chest as she processed the name. Kennelly was one of the two men Kelman had told her about. One of the two men who probably wanted her dead.

Kennelly narrowed his eyes, taking her in. Then he nodded in greeting. The longer he stared at her, the more his gaze hardened. And though she wasn’t looking at Wainwright now, she could feel him studying her.

Kit slid off her bar stool. She needed to get out of there
now
.

“Don’t rush off on our account,” Wainwright said. “Let me buy you ladies a second round.”

“I have to go now,” Kit said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

As she started across the room, she remembered the warning she’d once heard about dealing with a threatening dog. Don’t
run
. If you run, you will only provoke the dog even more, tipping it off that you’re terrified, and then it will give chase, drag you to the ground, and tear you limb from limb.

So she walked as calmly as possible, yanked open the door, and mounted the stairs to the street without ever looking back.

But as soon as she stepped onto the sidewalk, the fear that she’d momentarily kept at bay broke free, nearly knocking her over.

She wondered if the whole evening had been nothing more than a set-up, with Sasha commissioned to entice her into the bowels of Manhattan, within striking distance of Wainwright and Kennelly.

And yet that idea didn’t really fit. Wainwright had seemed stunned to see her. But coincidence or not, he knew where she was now and so did Kennelly.

She darted away from the entranceway of the bar, so that she couldn’t be seen from inside, and looked anxiously up and down the street. There were no cabs in sight, not even many pedestrians. That meant the subway. She was going to have to hightail her way through the crazy labyrinth of streets down here and find the Wall Street station.

She barely knew the area, but she thought she could reach Wall Street by heading north. But the subway stop was farther west, where Wall met Broadway. Turning left on Stone Street seemed like the fastest option. Plus there were two people up that way, puffing on cigarettes in front of one of the taverns.

She took off in that direction. The two smokers stepped inside and she was alone on the street. She moved faster. Before long Stone came to an abrupt end with no apparent sign for the street running perpendicular. Smack in front of her was a large office building with a sunken plaza.

She swung right and she saw that this street quickly ended too, at a hulking parking garage. She’d turn left at the next intersection, she decided. She was pretty sure that was west and that she’d soon end up on Broadway, close to the subway stop.

And then behind her, she heard a footfall. She twisted around. No one. She picked up her speed. A few seconds later she was certain she heard the scrape of a shoe on pavement and she turned again, this time not even stopping. The street looked deserted. Were her nerves playing tricks on her?

Now, almost running, she reached the intersection. There wasn’t a soul in sight, not even an attendant at the garage. Crap, she thought. And then she heard footsteps once more.

When she spun around this time she spotted him. A tall, slim figure far enough behind her that she couldn’t see the face,
but from the outline of his body in the dark, he appeared to be dressed in a suit. Was it
Kennelly
? she wondered, her heart pounding even harder. As she stared down the street, he stepped down into the dark maw of that the sunken plaza.

She started to really run, plunging left at the intersection, her shoulder bag slapping against her body. She’d been crazy to ever come down here.

Finally up ahead she saw a small cluster of people discharging from an office building, people working late and rushing to get home. With her lungs searing, she closed the gap and sidled up to an older black woman, dressed in a denim blazer with a soft leather briefcase.

“Excuse me,” Kit said, nearly breathless. “Am I headed the right way for the Wall Street subway stop?”

“Yes, it’s just two or three blocks away,” the woman told her, pointing loosely.

“Thank you so much,” she said, ready to cry in relief.

Another glance behind her. There was no sign now of the man in the suit. She rushed along the street and made the next right, trying to hug tight to the people who’d just left the building. Soon, though, the group splintered—two men crossing the street, another man moving quickly west, and the woman with the briefcase jumping into a car that was waiting for her.

Kit started to run again. And then, checking back once more, she noticed the car, a small black limo nosing up the street behind her. Something about the movement triggered an alarm. The car was moving slowly, but deliberately, like a predator inching through high grass. Suddenly it edged to the side of the road and stopped, just yards from her.

It was
them
, she realized. Before she could turn away, the rear door by the sidewalk swung open and a man slid out.

The streetlight was behind him and she couldn’t make out the face at first, but there was no mistaking the barrel chest. It
belonged to Mitch Wainwright. Kit took two steps backward, nearly stumbling. Her body felt electrified with panic.

“Can I offer you a lift, Ms. Finn?” Wainwright asked, his voice as inviting as the tip of a knife. She began to make out his features in the darkness and saw his lip curl. “It’s not really safe to be running around down here at this hour.”

“No.”

There was no one else within sight now, and she knew if Wainwright chose the right moment, he could force her into the car without anyone noticing.

“That’s a shame. Because it seems like it’s time for us to have another little talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she called toward him.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. For some reason you think I have something you want but I
don’t
. I’m irrelevant to you.”

“And yet you won’t leave my employees alone. Here you are tonight, gabbing with another one of them.”

She could see then how it must have appeared to him: that she was trying to pump Sasha, which was exactly what she
had
been doing.

“She—she wanted to hire me as a
decorator
.”

“I’m not sure what game you’re playing, Ms. Finn,” he said, “but I can assure you it’s a dangerous one.
No one
targets me, or my company, or my employees. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You have to believe me, I—”

And then, improbably, a cab appeared, crawling up the street behind the limo, its roof light on. Kit shot up her arm. Seconds later the cab pulled ahead of the limo and stopped. Kit nearly tore open the door and heaved herself inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wainwright jerk in surprise.

“I just need to get out of here,” she blurted out to the driver. “That man—he was harassing me.”

The driver, his head wrapped in a turban, studied her in the rearview mirror.

“You want me to call 911?”

“No, no. Just head north, okay. The east side. Once we get away, I’ll give you the address.”

She crouched down in the seat and peered out the rear window. Wainwright was darting back into the limo.

“Take the FDR, okay?” she told the driver. “It’ll be faster.”

When Kit checked a few seconds later, the limo was behind them but by the time the cab driver had made a couple of turns, it had vanished. Of course, she told herself. Wainwright wasn’t going to engage in a car chase and risk being stopped by the cops.

Kit’s heartbeat finally slowed, the sound of it no longer pounding in her head. She smiled for just a second, imagining what the expression on Wainwright’s face must have been when she bolted into the cab.

But then the realities of the night came crashing back. Wainwright had obviously skipped his dinner and started searching for her right away in the car, perhaps even sending Kennelly on foot to increase the chance of locating her. She replayed Wainwright’s words to her: “
No one targets me
. . . .” Standing there on the curb with his legs slightly straddled, he’d looked like a beady-eyed Terminator.

For the first time since she’d fled the bar, Kit fixed on Sasha’s ugly revelation. As she’d raced through the streets, she’d been too panic-stricken to dwell on it, but now there it was in all its ugliness. Kelman was involved with Sasha.

Last night, Kit had finally let down her guard with him, allowing the infatuation she’d sandbagged behind some barrier
to seep through again, and it turned out she’d been a crazy fool to do that. Clearly, Kelman had strung her along, pretending to have a romantic interest in order to serve his own ends. What if, as she’d suspected in the past, he’d been involved in the insider trading scheme himself and had later double-crossed his partners, enraging them. He may have used her as a distraction for the people at Ithaka, a distraction that had put her life in danger and led to Avery’s death. He’d conned and manipulated her but fed her enough truth for her to believe his story.

What he’d never anticipated, however, was that her path would cross with Sasha’s.

Four blocks from Baby’s apartment building, Kit shifted in the seat and checked again out the back window, straining to see in the darkness if any of the car lights behind them belonged to a limo. There were only taxis and a few regular cars. When she entered the apartment a few minutes later, Baby was hunkered down in the living room, a book in her lap and a near-empty cocktail glass beside her on an end table. Kit had texted her en route to let her know she was okay, but Baby looked up anxiously at the sight of her.

“I thought you were going to stay under wraps until this whole awful business was resolved.”

“I should never have gone out,” Kit admitted, collapsing into an armchair. “I ended up being accosted by Wainwright, the head of Ithaka.”

She told Baby about the two encounters with him.

“Do you think this Wainwright fellow is the mastermind behind the criminal activity at the firm?” Baby asked.

“He didn’t come right out and say so, of course, but his tone was really threatening, like a man who knew how much was at risk, and was going to make sure I didn’t do anything to bring him down.”

“Would he have tried to hurt you—or, for God’s sake, abduct you—if the cab hadn’t come along?”

“Uh, I don’t think so. At the time I was petrified that he was coming after me, but in hindsight I doubt he would have dared. Besides, I sense that tonight was all about scaring me, giving me the warning from hell.”

“Is there any way to signal to him that you heard the message loud and clear so that he’ll leave you alone?”

Kit shook her head slowly.

“I have no clue. . . . But wait, there’s something I don’t get. Why would he bother giving me a warning?”

“Because as you say, there’s so much at stake. He’s desperate.”

“But it seems like an odd tactic at this stage in the game. Two people are dead, and suddenly he’s generously offering a warning.”

She thought of what Kelman had suggested, that Kennelly and Lister could have gone rogue.

“Maybe Wainwright isn’t in the loop about the murders,” Kit said. “He’s simply telling me to back away from his business because I keep popping up on the scene. The men that Kelman talked about—Kennelly and Lister—could be the ones behind the two deaths, with Wainwright none the wiser.

“But even if Wainwright isn’t a murderer, wouldn’t he have heard about the deaths and wondered what was gong on?” Baby asked.

“Well, he definitely knows about the hit and run with Healy, but he may have no idea who drove the car. And there’s a chance he hasn’t heard about Avery’s death. Even if he spotted a headline on it, he might not have read the whole story and learned how it was tied to our firm.”

“Are you going to share all this with Kelman?”

“No,” Kit said bluntly.

Baby’s blue eyes widened in surprise.

“What’s going on, Kit?”

“You know how I told you I was starting to trust him. Well, I take it all back.” She shared what Sasha had revealed.

“
Bastard
,” Baby said, reeling back in disgust.

“I’m sure it’s him—how could it not be?—but I’m going to give him a chance to respond. He may not come right out and admit the truth, but I have to see how he handles the question.”

“And if you find out he
is
involved with her?”

“Then I’m on my own.”

“Do you think there’s a chance he killed Avery after all?”

“The factors that make that unlikely haven’t changed. He knew I wasn’t going out then, he needed information from me. But he may have been in league with Kennelly and Lister initially so indirectly he’d be responsible.”

She rose from the couch, ready to make the call but dreading the thought of it at the same time.

“Kit, promise me,” Baby said, “that you won’t let him talk you into meeting again tonight.”

Kit smiled wanly.

“Don’t worry, you’re stuck with me. I have no intention of going anywhere.”

After starting for the door of the room, Kit hesitated and turned around.

“I haven’t even asked you about your day. How was everything?”