The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense (7 page)

“I’ll probably still be here when you arrive, so I’ll see you then. But call if you need to vent beforehand.”

“Will do,” Kit said, more than grateful for having Baby in her corner.

Good restaurants supposedly were everywhere in Key West, but she had no interest in venturing beyond the hotel dining room. She knew there was little chance X could have discovered her whereabouts, but in her mind he seemed ready to emerge from behind every corner, just as he had in the shop in Islamorada. For a moment she flashed back on what Baby had suggested the other day, that she step back, determine the warning
signs she might have missed, and then freaking
learn
from them. But though she’d pressed herself, she’d had no luck summoning any warning signs about X. Yes, he’d been a little mysterious at moments, but that had hardly hinted at a sinister side. In so many ways he had seemed the kind of man she’d been searching for.

She took a book with her to dinner and ordered a glass of white wine along with a small pot of moules marinière.

She’d done what she had to do to put this all behind her. Relax, she told herself. But the mussels tasted as if they’d been barnacled to the hull of a freighter for the past year and she couldn’t enjoy them. She returned to her room still hungry and fretful, and woke the next morning in the same state.

The taxi ride to the aunt’s home took only a few minutes. The house was enchanting from the outside: sea blue with yellow shutters and a deep wraparound porch. Though much of the furniture was dark and imposing, at odds with the Key West vibe Avery wanted to incorporate, Kit spotted a few framed prints and small accessories that could work.

At noon she was buckling her seat belt on the puddle jumper to Miami. She had a short layover at the airport there and spent the entire time at the gate with her nose in her iPad. She let out an audible sigh when the wheels of her plane finally touched down on the LaGuardia Airport runway.

She stopped by her apartment first, dropping off her roller bag, and then let herself into the office. Dara and Baby were both still there, glancing through a catalog together. She felt joyful at the sheer sight of them.

“Welcome back,” Dara said. She flashed a smile, but there was an undercurrent of concern in her tone. Kit knew she must still be wondering about the call from the cops and the earlier-than-planned trip to Florida.

“Good to be here,” she said, and nodded to Baby in a way that divulged she was doing okay.

“So did you run into Bogie and Bacall down there?” Dara asked. Unlike many girls of her generation, Dara knew plenty about popular culture from the decades before she was born.

“No sightings, unfortunately. Anything going on since we last texted?”

“No, just that the doctor confirmed his seven o’clock. You’ve got his address, right? East 84th Street.”

“Yes, I’m going to head up there before long,” she said.

“I could take the meeting if you want,” Baby said as Dara stepped into the bathroom. “You must feel spent.”

“Thanks, but I’m eager to do it. I want to dive back into work and just feel normal again.”

And she did feel almost normal the minute she stepped into Keith Holt’s foyer. She always loved the rush that came from meeting potential clients and contemplating the chance to transform their homes. From checking the forty-three-year-old out online, she’d learned that he was a respected orthopedic surgeon, affiliated with one of New York’s top hospitals.

He looked younger in person than he did in photos, with deep brown eyes and brown hair graying a little along the sides. He greeted her warmly, though she suspected that based on his demanding profession, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.

“Can I offer you a glass of wine?” he asked as he led her into the living room.

“Are you going to have one, Dr. Holt?”

“Please, it’s Keith,” he corrected her with a smile. “And yes, absolutely. It’s been a nutty day.”

He was still in a suit, a nice-fitting navy one, so she assumed he’d only just walked in from work.

“Then I will, too,” she said. “It’s been a nutty day or two for me, too.” She wondered what he’d think if he knew she’d been busy corpse-viewing at the Miami morgue rather than scooting around town with fabric swatches and floor plans.

While he stepped into the kitchen to fetch the wine, she quickly studied his place, a classic prewar apartment in a building with good bones. The design had clearly been orchestrated by a professional decorator or someone fancying themselves as one: deep red sofa, armchairs in a red and gold print, and a quality Turkish rug, in coordinating colors. More than a few nicelooking pieces of art on the wall. Holt had said on the phone that he was divorced so this might be the place he’d shared with his wife, and he was ready to expunge any traces of his former life. She’d had more than a few clients who were eager to purge the past.

“Thank you,” Kit said, accepting the wine. “You told me a little about your situation on the phone, but I’m anxious to hear more.”

“I’m just itching for a change,” he said. He’d sat down opposite from her and crossed one leg over the other. “As you can see there’s nothing wrong with my apartment—in fact, people often comment on how nice it looks—but I had it done when I divorced six years ago and I just went along with everything the decorator suggested. I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t feel like me in the least.”

There was something else that might be bothering him, she realized, without his even being aware of it. The place felt
busy
. She subscribed to the ideas that every room should have at least three colors but none in equal proportion. In this place the red was in constant battle with the gold, so much so that it could make your head throb.

But she’d never knock another decorator’s work to a potential client.

“What
would
feel like you, do you think?”

“Something far less traditional and
nice.
A place where the art I’m collecting could stand out. Something really gutsy.”

The word gutsy always made her heart leap. And done the right way, it wouldn’t have to induce a migraine.

For the next half hour she encouraged Holt to tell her more
about himself and what he enjoyed most: He reeled off a list of his hobbies—tennis, running, eco-traveling—as if he had little patience for talking purely about himself. He was far more effusive when he discussed modern art and the type of visuals he was drawn to. When they were done talking, Kit was given a tour of the apartment.

Holt clearly didn’t have kids, she realized. The guest bedroom looked as if it hadn’t been slept in in ages, and the only photographs in the apartment showed the doctor standing with groups of fellow hikers in front of places like Machu Picchu and Kilimanjaro. A risk taker for sure.

Back in the living room, Kit explained her billing process. She also fished her iPad out of her tote bag and showed Holt several apartments she’d decorated that most aligned with what he seemed to be yearning for.

“These are awesome,” he said. “I’d love something bold like this.”

She smiled, trying not to appear overly eager. As Baby always advised, “Never seem hot to trot. Cast the client as the pursuer and yourself as the agent provocateur.” But there was no denying it would be a terrific project to snag, not only for the challenge but also for the billable hours it would entail.

“Question,” he said, suddenly looking pensive. “Is there a way to do this without getting rid of everything I have? I’m the kind of guy who preaches sustainability and now here I am talking about tossing out all this good stuff, like some petulant trophy wife.”

“You don’t actually have to get rid of everything,” Kit said, appreciating his concerns. “Some upholstered pieces can be recovered and you have wood furniture that could be painted and lacquered to look ultramodern. Besides, you may want to keep a few antique pieces in the mix, just as they are. A great room always has both yin and yang.”

“I like that—yin and yang.” Holt looked off briefly, as if studying something on the inside of his brain, and then returned his gaze to her, tapping his knees with his hands. “Well, this has been quite inspiring,” he said, rising. “Why don’t I think it over and get back to you.”

No surprise there. That was what most people said at the first meeting. They wanted time to mull over their decision, even meet with other decorators first. But she’d really sensed that Holt was going to go to yes right then and there. The fact that he hadn’t left her oddly deflated as she rode the elevator to the ground floor.

Her mood didn’t improve when she emerged later from the subway station and checked her phone. Ungaro, the Ithaka security chief, had left a message asking her to give him a call, saying it was urgent. By now, of course, he’d been informed about Healy’s death, and she was sure he wanted to hear her version of events.

She wasn’t going to call him, she decided, hurrying up the block. This was a matter for the police now and it was time for her to completely back off.

The corridor outside her apartment seemed totally forlorn that night. Often she could hear jazz coming softly from the large apartment just to the right side of hers or the yummy smell of an exotic dish. But the tenants, a couple in their forties, had said they’d be on vacation for ten days.

After dinner she tried to distract herself by leafing through some of her art books. In high school, she’d planned to study art in college; at least she had before everything went to hell. As she paged through a section on German post-impressionism, she spotted a painting she hadn’t thought of in ages but one that had had an impact on her years before: Kandinsky’s
Murnau: Street with Horse-Drawn Carriage
. It had been painted when the artist first began to break free of traditional constraints, and he’d let
the bold, fanciful colors of the horses bleed through the lines.

Despite her best efforts, her thoughts were torn back once again to where she least wanted them to be. A man may have died because of her. Not directly, but still, if she hadn’t showed up at Matt Healy’s door, he might never have flown to Miami.

And the same awful questions began nagging her again: Was X really a murderer? Why had he sent her to Matt Healy’s apartment? And the most paralyzing question of all: Was there something more he wanted from her?

She woke the next morning from an anxious dream, though all she could remember was wading desperately through water, unable to move more than an inch at a time. And that the water had been turquoise blue, like the water in the Keys.

Still in her pajamas, she checked online for any news of Healy’s death. So far there was just a small item on the
Daily News
website, stating simply that he was a New Yorker and had been struck by a car while visiting Miami. It made it sound as if he were a snowbird or tourist who fate had conspired against.

She wondered when she’d hear from the New York City police. Though she hardly welcomed the call, she prayed it would be today. Then that would be behind her, too.

After breakfast, and before either Dara or Baby had even arrived at the office, she grabbed her coat and headed for Greenwich Village, to check once more on the project there. Yesterday the bedroom floor had been sanded and stained, and when she arrived she was grateful to see that none of the polyurethane had splashed onto the floorboards or at least if it had, the contractor had done a good job of touching up the paint. The female client, Layla Griggs, had turned out to be someone with little patience for even the slightest blunder.

Afterward, she caught a subway uptown and met Avery at the
D&D building for the first round of furniture shopping. Avery looked dazzling, dressed in a flared spring coat that was nipped in at the waist and lined in a leopard print, which revealed itself along the collar. At their first meeting Kit had been struck by the resemblance between herself and her client, though with Avery everything just seemed more, well,
dramatic
. Her hair was generally blown out so that it was super smooth and shiny with the ends flipped up. She never seemed to leave the house without a spray tan, and she wore so much gloss over her nude lip color, you could practically see your reflection in it. While Kit never imagined herself playing things up that way, she admired Avery’s go-big-or-go-home approach to life.

“I’ve just got an hour,” Avery reminded her.

“No problem,” Kit said, though Avery had promised two on the phone. “The main goal today is for me to show you pieces I think could work. If you like the general direction, I can shop on my own going forward and just show you photos.”

They made a decent amount of progress, despite the time constraints and the fact that Avery stopped frequently to check messages or send a text, and once to take a phone call from an associate at her PR firm.

“I couldn’t represent someone who looked like that,” she told the person. “It’s not about the sound bite anymore. It’s about the image.”

Overhearing the call, Kit remembered that before she left on vacation, she’d toyed with the idea of hiring someone right out of college to help her for a few hours each week with the social media efforts for her business, but she’d been so preoccupied with the X situation, the idea had flown from her head. She had to get back on track.

A few minutes later, as they surveyed dining tables, Avery paused and looked at Kit.

“I know my aunt’s dining table is too big for my house,”
she said, “but did you see the sideboard in the same room? I always loved that piece. She used to let me set the table, and that’s where all the silver was kept.”

Kit had seen the sideboard. It was dark and huge and hulking. If it were placed in the cottage, it would look like a water buffalo grazing against the wall. But she knew she had to pay heed to what Avery was saying. If you tried to ride over a client’s wishes, you might get your way, but there was a chance your client would never truly be happy with the end results.

“I
did
see it,” Kit said. “And it’s lovely. But beyond the expense of shipping such a big piece up here, I worry that it will eat up too much space in the cottage and work against the open feeling you’re trying to achieve.”

Avery sighed.

“I hear you,” she said. “It
would
be too big, I guess.”

“You mentioned once that your aunt had given you her silverware when she moved out of her house.”

“Yes, and I was thinking of keeping it at the cottage. I plan to entertain a lot there.”

“What if we try to find another sideboard for the dining area? Something more minimal but still with drawers. It won’t take up as much space but it will add a bit of elegance. You can keep the silver there and think of her when you use it.”

“That’s a possibility,” Avery said. “That could be nice, in fact.” Kit could sense her warming to the idea even as they spoke.

After Avery departed in a mad dash to the office, Kit stopped at several more of her favorite design houses and then headed to the small restaurant on the top floor of the building to grab lunch and review her notes. Between what she’d seen with Avery and the items she’d found on her own, she had most of the basics figured out: sofa, armchairs, an ottoman, dining table and chairs, and the guest bedroom furniture. The next step would be picking out fabrics for the upholstered furniture and the curtains.

Her phone rang just as her lunch arrived, and she saw with annoyance that it was Ungaro again. She pressed decline. There was nothing she could tell him that he couldn’t learn from the police. Of course, if she
did
speak to him, she might be able to glean if Healy had gone to Miami on business, but that information would come at a price. She’d be further ensnared with Ithaka. And she couldn’t let that happen.

When she returned to the office later in the day, she raced through emails. With a twinge of disappointment, she noted that there was no message from Dr. Holt.

Her phone rang and she checked the screen before answering, making sure it wasn’t the security chief again. No. But the second she said her name into the phone, her brain spit out a piece of information. The prefix was the same as Ungaro’s.

“This is Mitch Wainwright,” the caller said, his voice deep and imposing. “Have you got a few minutes?”

It was a question that came out more like a command and Kit’s body tensed in frustration. Ungaro had sicced the big boss on her, and she’d stupidly picked up the phone.

“Yes, but literally just a few minutes. I’m very sorry about Mr. Healy, by the way.”

“It’s a tragic loss for the firm, and for his family, of course. Are you aware that Mr. Ungaro has made several attempts to reach you? We’d like you to come in again for another conversation.”

He had to be kidding. Don’t let him bully you, she warned herself.

“I can’t imagine how I can be of assistance,” Kit said. “The police are the best people for you to communicate with at this point.”

“We’ve been in touch with them, needless to say. But we’d like to talk to you, too. There are details that only you can provide.”

It felt as if he was standing in the room with her, backing her into the corner with the sheer force of his presence.

“I don’t really know what you’re referring to. All I did was identify the body.”

“It’s interesting that you happened to be in the area again.”

“
Interesting?
” she said. That was the last word she would have used to describe her trip to the morgue. “I had business in Florida and I simply agreed to help the detective in charge while I was there.”

“How were you aware they needed your help?”

She hated how he was pressing her.

“Mr. Wainwright, this is a police matter now, and they’re the ones you should be discussing this with. It’s not appropriate for me to be in the mix of things anymore.”

“But you
are
in the mix. You seem to be smack in the middle for some reason.”

She was speechless. What was this guy implying? That she might be connected to Healy’s death?

“Look, Ms. Finn,” Wainwright interjected into the silence. “We got off on the wrong foot with this call. The firm simply wants as many answers as possible. We’re at a disadvantage being a thousand miles away from where one of our people was killed. But we need to be certain this case ends up solved.”

There was no legal reason she had to fill in the blanks for him. But maybe, she decided, it would be better to cooperate. She could relay to him and Ungaro the bare basics about her trip to the medical examiner’s office and then she wouldn’t have to talk to them again. Besides, it might assuage some of her guilt. She was still plagued by the worry that her appearance at Healy’s apartment might have set in motion the events that led to his death.

“All right,” she said. “I could come by later today, at about five. But from that point on you’ll need to speak to the police about this matter.”

“Five works for me,” he said. “And, by the way, please come to the thirtieth floor instead of the twenty-ninth this time. We’ll have a bit more privacy there.”

Did he have a private office up there, she wondered, away from the high-stakes hurly-burly? Whatever, she’d just have to get in and out. And assisting Ithaka might prove to be a benefit to her in the long run. The firm would surely put pressure on the authorities to move quickly. If X were arrested, she wouldn’t have to fret about him any longer.

A few minutes later, Baby returned from a job site.

“Something’s up,” she said as she sat down at her desk. “I see a worry dent in your forehead.”

“It’s thanks to my endless date from hell,” Kit said. “Every day there’s a crazy new development.” She shared the details of the recent phone call from Wainwright.

“Well,
that’s
nervy,” Baby said.

“I can’t totally blame them for wanting information, but after this afternoon, I’m done.”

Baby pursed her lips, a thought clearly brewing.

“What?” Kit asked.

“Dan used to say that when you’re facing a battle, you don’t go in with a wooden stick. You go in with a gun.”

Kit snorted. “Wait, you’re not suggesting I pack a firearm for the meeting, are you?”

“No, but I’m wondering if you should consult with a lawyer. I doubt you could end up in any legal difficulty, but it might be smart to have a pro helping you navigate things with both Ithaka and the police. It’s getting very complicated.”

This time Kit groaned. “I’ll be honest, the thought crossed my mind in Miami. There’s nothing like sitting in a police precinct to summon the “L” word to your mind. But there was no hint from the police that they suspected me of being in cahoots with the fake Matt Healy. And I just don’t want to throw the
money away. Even a few hours of consultation would be a huge chunk of change.”

“Well you wouldn’t be throwing it away if it worked in your favor.”

She nodded, weighing Baby’s words.

“Let me mull it over. I certainly don’t think I need one for the meeting at Ithaka. But if things get ratcheted up, I’ll definitely consider it.”

“Wear your black suit today,” Baby suggested. “There’s something about it that just says, ‘I refuse to be intimidated.’”

Smiling, she promised she would. Though she couldn’t imagine Wainwright being the least bit cowed by a cropped gabardine blazer and pencil skirt.

An hour and a half later, as the elevator whisked her to the thirtieth floor of the midtown building, she could feel her dread ballooning. It’ll be over soon, she reassured herself.

The receptionist tapped Kit’s name into an iPad, nodded, and then led her down a long, hushed hallway. From what Kit could see, there were no glass offices up here, no trading floor either. It all seemed very corporate.

Finally the receptionist came to a stop and swung open a mahogany door on the right. Inside was an empty executive conference room. One wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that faced a stunning canyon of midtown Manhattan office buildings. Kit wondered about all the deals that had been cut in the room, as well as the scheming and conniving that had transpired there. Her father had been undone in business and she couldn’t look at a room like this without being reminded of that.

“Please have a seat,” the receptionist said, gesturing toward a rectangular table big enough to accommodate ten. “Mr. Wainwright will be with you shortly.”

The woman started toward the door and then looked back.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

Kit politely declined. A glass of water would be nice but she refused to be beholden to Ithaka for even that.

A minute later, Wainwright entered with Ungaro in tow. Ungaro was dressed in business casual again, but the silver fox was in an expensive suit, as if the day entailed important meetings out of the office. He took a seat directly across from her, and Ungaro settled into one to his right. There was no mistaking the message. Wainwright would be in charge of the questioning today and Ungaro would be playing sidekick.

“We don’t want to take up much of your time, Ms. Finn,” Wainwright said, holding onto her gaze with his penny-shaped eyes. “We’d simply like to hear about your trip to Florida.”

Kit took a breath.

“There’s really not much to tell,” she said. “The Miami-Dade police called me to say they were holding the body of a hit-and-run victim who had no ID on him but was carrying my business card in his pocket. I told them I thought it might be the man I’d met in Islamorada. When I explained he’d had red hair and blue eyes, they said that matched the victim. I mean, Matt Healy’s hair was really strawberry blond but someone could consider it red. It never crossed my mind that Healy was the actual victim.”