The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense (5 page)

“Thanks so much for coming,” he said. “Let me take you to Steve Ungaro’s office. He’s our security chief and he very much wants to speak to you.”

“You’ll be in the meeting, too, won’t you?” Kit asked.

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to stay. I’m leaving momentarily on a business trip. But I’ll make the introduction and you can fill Steve in.”

Okay, that was a curveball, but there seemed to be no point in protesting. She followed him into a large open area. Along the outside were glass-walled offices, which she assumed were for higher-level players; the middle space was clearly the trading area—six or seven rows of desks, back-to-back with the ones in the next row. Each desk had four to six computer screens mounted above it, bright with multicolored charts and graphs and long streams of numbers, none of it easily discernable from a distance. Most of the desks were occupied by men, some dressed like Healy in business casual, others in jeans and hooded sweatshirts, and most wearing headsets. What surprised her was how hushed the atmosphere was. No ringing phones. Barely any conversation.

Kit wasn’t very familiar with hedge funds or how they operated. But she’d read enough to know that they were part of a high-stakes world where someone could make millions in a day, and also lose that much, all with a single trade.

As she walked along the outside passageway, most people kept their eyes glued to their computer screens, though one woman, talking on the phone in one of the glass offices, took her in from top to bottom. Maybe, Kit thought, I don’t look hedge-fund-y enough in my jeans, turtleneck, and black riding boots.

Ungaro’s office was at the far end, and as she entered the room with Healy, the security chief rose in greeting. She’d imagined that he’d be beefy and bodyguard-like, but in his business casual pants and dress shirt, the slim, fit-looking Ungaro could have exchanged places with any of the other staff she’d spotted. Except for his age. He was about fifty, older than most of the other people she’d spotted, and with a rogue tuft of gray in his thick, dark hair.

Healy made the introduction, said goodbye, and then exited, closing the door behind him.

“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Finn,” Ungaro said. “We’re most appreciative. Our executives are privy to highly sensitive information, and we certainly don’t like the idea of one being impersonated.”

“I can understand,” she said.

“Please, have a seat. Matt shared some of the details but if you can walk me through them, I’d appreciate it.”

His tone was all friendly, but she knew it was probably purely for the benefit of his mission. He wanted the facts and he knew it wouldn’t do any good to put her on the defensive. She suspected that beneath that easygoing manner was a guy who got the job done at all costs.

After settling into the chair across from Ungaro, she explained how she’d first seen X at the hotel, then encountered him at the shop, and later had dinner with him, skipping the part about accompanying him to his room. That was nobody’s business but hers. She also provided a description of X.

Ungaro took notes while she spoke, but he glanced up from time to time, obviously trying to read her. Despite what Healy might have shared with him, it was clear he was reserving all judgment until he’d evaluated the situation himself.

“Did this man talk about his work at all?” Ungaro asked.

“Not really. As I told Mr. Healy, he mentioned he’d recently sold a tech business, but he didn’t say much about it.”

“By any chance do you have a photograph of him?”

“No, sorry, I don’t,” she said. The last thing she would have done is ask X if she could grab a selfie with him as a souvenir of their one-night stand.

Ungaro let his writing hand fall limp and leaned in toward the desk. His expression morphed from purely neutral to sympathetic.

“This is a tough question,” he said, “but I need to ask it. Do you think there’s any chance this man who called himself Healy could have targeted you?”

“
Targeted?
” she said. “I’m not sure what you mean.” But the very word had made her stomach knot.

“You see him in the hotel and then he just happens to pop into a small shop at the same time you’re there. Perhaps that wasn’t as random as it looked.”

“Well, it seemed perfectly random at the time,” she said, still trying to figure out what he was getting at. “It’s a small town and there are only so many shops there.”

“I’m just wondering if he felt there was something to gain from talking to you. . . . Information, for instance.”

“What information could he possibly want to extract from me?” Kit exclaimed. “I’m a
decorator
.”

She opened her purse, located a business card and handed it to Ungaro. “There, you can see for yourself. Even if he tied me up and put a gun to my head, all I’d be able to tell him was how to make his ceilings look higher—or what to do if he ended up with two shades of red that didn’t match.”

“I didn’t mean to concern you,” Ungaro said, sensing her agitation. “You’ve been quite helpful, and I should let you go.”

“Thank you.”

“By the way, what
do
you do with two shades of red that don’t match?”

Oh, that was funny, she thought. Was he really hoping for a decorating tip? Maybe he was just trying to gauge if she knew her stuff.

“You add a third shade of red. And then the eye isn’t bothered by the discrepancy anymore.” She rose from the chair, eager to split. “Am I supposed to talk to Mr. Healy again?”

“He has a trip scheduled so I offered to walk you out,” Ungaro said, rising himself.

“All right. Please tell him I said good luck sorting this out.”

“I will. Just one final question, something that puzzles me.” He was watching her intently now. “Why do you think the man you met created this whole ruse of inviting you to dinner at Mr. Healy’s apartment? If he’d sensed eagerness on your part to meet again and he felt he had to placate you, why not just stand you up at a restaurant?”

“I’ve wondered the same thing,” Kit said somberly. “But I have no clue. Inviting me to his apartment actually exposed the lie.”

He cocked his head. “I’m afraid I’m not following.”

“If he hadn’t done that, I would have never discovered that he was an imposter.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the office door swing open and to her surprise, another man entered the room. He was slightly older than Ungaro, late fifties and handsome, with hooded eyes and thick silver hair.
Now
what? Kit thought.

“Ms. Finn, I’d like to introduce you to our CEO, Mitchell Wainwright,” Ungaro said. He didn’t seem surprised by Wainwright’s appearance and Kit suspected it had all been orchestrated in advance.

Wainwright reached out to shake her hand. His grip was powerful, as if he could crush her fingers in the time it took her to plead for mercy.

“Matt Healy explained the situation to me. We’re grateful for your cooperation.”

“Thank you,” she said, edging toward the door.

“I was just seeing Ms. Finn out,” Ungaro said. “She’s been very helpful.”

“I’m headed to the front,” Wainwright said, “so why don’t I accompany her.” A statement more than a question.

She didn’t care who showed her out as long as they got it over with. After nodding goodbye to Ungaro, she strode with
Wainwright along the outside of the bullpen. His barrel-chested body seemed to give off power, the way a stove gave off heat, and she saw at least a half-dozen people discreetly lift their eyes from their computer screens. They were keeping tabs on the silver fox who ruled the empire.

Wainwright didn’t say a word, just walked along in tandem, practically hugging her side with the force of a magnet. But in the reception area, he finally opened his mouth to speak.

“So how was the weather when you were in Florida?” he asked.

“The weather?” she said. Why would he care? she wondered.

“Sunny. Nice.”

His eyes were coppery brown–colored and small, like two pennies, but he used them to hold her gaze, and his stare was as fierce as his handshake had been.

“I like to get down there to play golf a couple of times a season,” he said. “But unfortunately this year, I haven’t had much chance.”

“Well, maybe next year,” she said, realizing as the words spilled from her mouth how lame they sounded. But she didn’t care. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to use the ladies’ room before I leave.”

“Of course,” he said, and pointed to a door just down the corridor. “Good day and thank you again.”

In the bathroom, she ran a paper towel under cold water and dabbed her cheeks, which were warm to the touch. She felt troubled still by the comment Ungaro had made, about X potentially targeting her. Could X really have followed her that day? But if he had some motive in mind—to go to bed with her or even to steal
her
wallet—then why not immediately ask her to dinner at the hotel? His invitation had seemed like an afterthought.

The door to the ladies’ room opened quietly and a woman
stepped inside. It was the same one who had eyed her earlier. The woman approached the mirror and began to reapply her lipstick, a shade that might have been called black cherry. She was tall, with slightly wavy, raven-colored hair that grazed her shoulders, and gray eyes that were set far apart. Her slim pants and cobalt blue silk blouse might look low-key, but Kit could tell at a glance that they were pricey, designer-made. And then there were the diamond studs in her earlobes, bright enough to burn someone’s corneas. The fact that she had an office clearly indicated that she had plenty of clout at the firm.

“I’m Sasha Glen, by the way,” the woman said, turning to her abruptly. “Have you just started here?”

“I’m only visiting,” Kit said, amused by the comment. The chance of her working at a hedge fund was about as likely as Baby decorating a Park Avenue living room with a pair of La-Z-Boy recliners.

The woman turned back to the mirror and stroked the lipstick deliberately once more across her mouth. She continued to gaze at Kit, via the mirror this time. “Oh, yes, I think we met at the holiday party,” she said after a moment. “You’re dating Matt, right?”

That seemed like a presumptuous remark to make to a stranger.

“You must have me mixed up with someone else,” Kit said. “I had an appointment with Mr. Healy today, but I barely know him.”

“My mistake,” the woman said. She dropped the lipstick back in her purse. “Have a nice day.”

I will, Kit thought, as soon as I’ve escaped from here.

She tossed the paper towel in the trash and hurried to the elevator bank. She felt relieved to finally be descending toward the lobby. The rest of the afternoon was spent roaming the D&D building as well as two stores that carried pieces inspired by the
Gustavian period. She was still waiting to hear if Avery Howe liked the concept for her cottage, but she wanted to be prepared to kick into gear once she received the okay.

By the time she reached the office, it was after seven and both Dara and Baby were long gone. She let herself into the apartment, feeling the same rush of comfort and pleasure she always experienced when she walked through the door. Though the open living space wasn’t huge, she’d worked hard to make it dazzling.

She started to turn toward the island in front of the kitchen area when she suddenly froze, staring at her midnight-blue velvet sofa. Something wasn’t right.

The seven accent pillows were in a neat row, just as she liked them. But they were in a different order than she’d left them in that morning.

Someone had been in her apartment.

She crossed the room to the sofa and stared at the pillows. She was sure her imagination wasn’t going cuckoo on her. When she’d left the apartment that morning, the pillow with the Union Jack—a whimsical touch she’d added—was in the middle of the arrangement and flanked on each side, from outside in, by a pillow in fake zebra, one covered with kilim fabric, and another in solid red. She was ridiculously particular about the order and always kept it that way. But now the Union Jack pillow was one spot over from where it should be.

Stepping back, she anxiously examined the room, searching for anything else that seemed weirdly
off
. But nothing else was out of place.

Maybe, she reassured herself, Baby had used the apartment for a meeting with a potential client or a new one, and the pillows had gotten shuffled around. Clients were often curious to see a designer’s home, dropping broad hints like, “So what’s
your
place like?” But Baby always let Kit know in advance if she’d be taking advantage of the space. She’d said nothing about a Friday meeting.

Kit tried Baby’s cell, but it went to voicemail and she left a message asking her to get in touch. She tried Dara next. But as
the phone rang, she realized that of course Baby must have used the apartment and she was totally overreacting. What other explanation could there be? That some psycho with an uncontrollable urge to
fluff
had snuck in and rearranged the pillows? Clearly, she’d been so unsettled about the Florida experience that she was now practically jumping at the sight of her own shadow. She was about to break off the call when Dara answered.

“Since I missed you this afternoon, I just thought I’d make sure nothing came up,” Kit said, fudging.

“It was actually fairly quiet,” Dara told her. “Though Corey stopped by and left off the latest drawings for you.” Corey was one of the freelance draftsmen she and Baby assigned work to.

“Good. I actually haven’t popped into the office yet, so I didn’t see them. Why don’t I let you get back to your Friday night? You and Scott doing something fun?”

“We’re going out later to hear a friend’s band play.”

“Enjoy—oh just one more question.” As long as she had Dara on the line, Kit couldn’t resist asking.

“Did Baby meet with a new client today? It looks like she might have been in my apartment with someone.”

“She didn’t mention anything, but a prospect may have dropped in while I was out. I went tile shopping for Baby at three and headed home from there.”

“Oh, right. Okay, I’ll catch up with Baby later.”

“Is anything the matter?”

“No, no. It just looked like someone had been on the couch.”

Dara laughed. “Maybe Baby snuck in a power nap when we were both gone.”

“Well, let’s not bust her if that’s the case,” Kit said, laughing, too.

She’d no sooner signed off than Baby phoned.

“I’d been planning to call
you
tonight,” Baby said. “How was the meeting?”

“What? Oh, at Ithaka you mean. Thanks for asking. I’ve had bikini waxes that were more pleasant, but it’s behind me now. I’m going to banish the Florida mystery man from my brain, once and for all.”

“Good for you. By the way, I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet, but I left a message on your desk from a potential client. A doctor. He said he’d also email you, but I took down his info.”

Kit had her hands full but she never turned down business. If necessary, she could hire a freelancer to help her shop any new projects that materialized.

“That’s great. Have you got a new prospect yourself?” Kit said.

“No, I’m up to my ears at the moment. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just me being anal. The pillows on my couch look rearranged and I thought you might have taken a meeting in the apartment.”

“Oh I
did
use your place,” Baby said. “But it was with Miss Fancy Pants, my Sutton Place client. I left you a note about that, too. She swung by at 3:30, desperate to see swatches. We mainly used the dining table to spread out the fabrics, though she sat on the couch once while I was getting organized. She must have scooted the pillows around.”

“Not a problem,” Kit said, feeling her body sag with relief.

“Wait, were you worried someone else had been there?”

“No, no,” Kit lied. She didn’t want Baby to see how on edge she was still feeling. “Have a great weekend.”

Before fixing dinner, she slipped into her office. She found the drawings Dara had mentioned and the messages from Baby. Checking her email, she discovered that the doctor, Keith Holt, had indeed sent her a message. He wrote that over the course
of a week, he’d heard people talking about her at two different dinner parties and that he’d been impressed by her website. He asked if she could come by his place next week to discuss the possibility of working on his apartment.

Nice
, she thought. She offered him a few slots on the calendar, but suggested they speak on the phone first. She’d learned over time that making a connection with a potential client by telephone in advance reduced the chance of the client cancelling the appointment and postponing it indefinitely.

There was also an email from Avery, who had written to say she was “over the moon” about the concept for the cottage that Kit had sent her earlier. Kit grinned as she read it.

But at the end of the email she discovered a hitch. Avery mentioned that her aunt with the house in Key West had a selection of antiques she wanted to pass on to her and Avery needed to know which pieces, if any, would work in the cottage. She hoped Kit could make a quick trip to Key West and tag what she thought should be shipped north. Avery would foot the bill, though Kit knew she’d expect her to travel as inexpensively as possible.

The last thing Kit wanted was to be in Florida again any time soon, but Avery’s project was a substantial piece of business and she couldn’t refuse. For a moment she considered finding someone in Key West to photograph the pieces and email them to her. But that wasn’t the best way to evaluate furniture and she didn’t want Avery to incur the cost of shipping items that in the end might not work.

She wrote Avery back, saying that she would be happy to make the trip and would head down there next week. With that out of the way, they could begin serious shopping immediately afterward, which would help guarantee that the cottage would be ready by the start of summer.

Leaning back in her desk chair, Kit realized how much the
thought of returning to the Keys unsettled her. Not that she worried about running into X. Even if Miami hadn’t really been his next destination, he’d probably hightailed it out of the Keys. But deep down, her emotions about Islamorada were still in a tangle, and too many questions continued to gnaw at her. Who
was
X? Why had he made love to her, asked to see her again, and then hoodwinked her? And how had she been so easily deceived? Being in the hot Florida sun would force it all to the surface again.

By the end of the weekend she had relaxed a little about the trip. She decided to fly south Thursday or Friday afternoon and return the next day, which would amount to just less than twenty-four hours away. And she’d do her best to keep her focus on the project.

Monday was bleak and rainy, a typical early April day, and she, Baby, and Dara hunkered down for the morning. At about eleven, as Kit was reviewing the contractor’s punch list for the Greenwich Village apartment, the phone rang. Dara answered and Kit heard her ask who was calling. Instinctively, she glanced up and caught a frown forming on her assistant’s face. Dara scribbled a few words on a piece of paper, told the caller, “Let me see if she’s here,” and then pressed the hold button.

“Kit,” she said, worriedly. “It’s the police. From Miami. A detective named Linda Molinari wants to talk to you.”

It felt to Kit as if someone had locked an arm around her from behind and was pressing hard against her chest.

“A
detective
?” she said. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“No. Do you want me to ask her?”

Kit shook her head. “I’ll take it,” she said. She picked up the phone on her desk and identified herself.

“Ms. Finn, this is Detective Molinari from the Miami-Dade Police Department,” a woman said crisply.

“Hello,” Kit replied, at a loss for more than that. What were
you supposed to say when a detective rang you up out of nowhere?

“You’re an interior designer in New York City?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a minute.”

“Okay,” she said. What was going on, she wondered, anxiously. Nothing about the detective’s tone suggested she was calling to investigate changing the color palette at the police precinct. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“I’ll fill you in momentarily. Have you been in the Miami area recently?”

“Uh, not Miami,” she said. “I was in Islamorada about a week ago on vacation, but I flew in and out of the Miami airport.”

“What day did you return to New York City from your trip?”

Kit could feel her nervousness intensifying. Didn’t cops ask those kinds of questions when they were investigating you in relation to criminal activity?

“On Monday. A week ago today.”

“Do you come to this area frequently?”

“No, not generally. I mean, I’m actually going to have to fly through Miami this week, but just for business purposes.”

“While you were on your recent trip, did you give a business card to anyone?”

“Yes, yes I did,” she said, fumbling through her memory. While scouting, she’d handed out cards to a couple of shop managers in Islamorada, and she related that to the detective.

“Were any of them male?”

“One of them was.” And then, with a jolt, Kit remembered. She’d also given a card to X that day at the store. Had he dragged her into his troubled life somehow?

“And there was one other person,” she added, trying to keep her voice calm. “A man at my hotel who I had dinner with. Why?”

She was aware of Baby watching her, signaling with her expression that she was there to help if needed. Dara had gone back
to bill paying, attempting to appear nonchalant, but Kit could detect how on alert her body was.

“Can you describe him, please?” Molinari asked.

“Um, late thirties. About six one or two. Blue eyes and reddish hair. Please tell me what’s going on.”

“Ms. Finn, we’re investigating a hit and run involving a man who fits that description. He had no identification on him—no wallet, nothing—but he was carrying your business card in his pocket.”

Kit gasped and grabbed the side of the desk with her free hand. “The man I had dinner with put my card in his pants pocket,” she said. “Is—is he okay?”

X must have been seriously injured, in a coma, perhaps, and not able to talk. She realized that she would have to fill the detective in on what she knew about him from Healy, and that it might very well lead to his arrest.

“What was this man’s name?” Molinari asked.

“I—I have no idea,” Kit said. “I mean, he told me his name was Matt Healy, but since then I discovered that it wasn’t true. He may have stolen someone’s wallet. It’s very complicated.”

She overheard Baby whisper something to Dara, and the two of them whisked themselves out of the office and into the small kitchenette.

“I’ve got all the time you need,” Molinari said.

Kit ran through the story quickly, leaving out any mention of going to bed with X, and feeling a twinge of shame as she described how she’d been tricked.

“Can you just tell me,” Kit said at the end. “Was he badly hurt?” She couldn’t help it. She felt the urge to know.

A pause.

“The hit and run was a fatality,” Molinari said finally. “And it may have been premeditated.”

Kit tried to respond but no words came out. X was dead. She
could still see his face in her mind, feel his naked body next to hers, feel him
inside
her.

Maybe he’d been entangled in something bigger than pickpocketing and it had led to his death. The detective was talking, but Kit could barely hear the words.

“Ms. Finn?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just a shock. Can you repeat what you said?”

“You mentioned that you were going to be in the area this week. I’d appreciate it if you could meet with my partner and me while you’re here.”

“But I’m only flying
through
Miami,” she protested. “I’ll be connecting there for a flight to Key West.”

“Could you allow a few hours between flights so we could meet at the medical examiner’s office?”

“You want me to look at the
body
?” Kit said, stunned. That would be horrible. X had duped her, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see him lying lifeless on a slab in the morgue.

“You wouldn’t be looking at the actual body. Only a photograph.”

“Is it possible to just email the photo?”

“No, that’s not allowed unfortunately.”

“But I wouldn’t be able to identify him regardless,” Kit said. “I have no idea who he is.”