The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense (8 page)

“And you offered to fly down and identify the body?” Wainwright said. “That was very generous of you.”

There was an edge to his tone, challenging.

“No, that’s not how it happened. As I mentioned to you on the phone, I had business back in Florida, and when I told the main detective that, she asked if I would come to the morgue and confirm that the victim was this—this stranger I’d met. It seemed like the right thing to do so I agreed.”

“Can you tell us anything more about mystery man?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t think of anything that I haven’t shared with you already.”

“This is a delicate question but we have to ask,” Ungaro interjected. He’d been taking notes since she started speaking but stopped at this point, his pen poised. “Was this man ever in your hotel room?”

She couldn’t believe they were going there. “No, he wasn’t,” she said. “But I can’t imagine why it would matter if he had been.”

“We were just curious if he might have had access to your belongings and stolen something,” Ungaro said.

She shook her head. “Nothing was missing.”

“Was he already at the hotel when you arrived?” Wainwright asked.

“You mean at the hotel restaurant—the night we had dinner?” she said, wondering what difference that made either.

“No. We’re curious if he was staying at the hotel when you first checked in or did he arrive afterward.”

Her stomach tightened. His question harkened back to what Ungaro had suggested in the previous conversation: that X might have tailed her to the shop in town, his sights set on her. Were they wondering if he’d even followed her to the hotel?

“I don’t have a clue,” she said. “I spoke to him for the first time on the last day I stayed there, as I was leaving breakfast. And then we had dinner that night. I’m sure the hotel could tell you exactly when he checked in and out.”

A loaded few moments of silence followed, as both men studied her.

“But you told us previously that you had only
seen
him at the hotel and that you spoke to him for the first time at the store in town,” Wainwright said.

There it was again, that challenging tone of his, as if she was a witness for the other side. And they seemed obsessed with minutiae.

“The store was the first place we had an actual conversation,”
she said. “We only exchanged a few words when we bumped into each other after breakfast. It—it just seemed too insignificant to mention before.”

She sounded slightly flustered, she realized, defensive. But they were making her nervous, the way they were eyeing her like two hyenas preparing to circle.

“When you say bumped into each other,” Ungaro said, “are you using the phrase as a manner of speaking? Or are you saying this man
physically
bumped into you?”

“Yes, we bumped into each other physically, but how is that relevant?” Why were they so fascinated by it? she wondered. “I was reading my iPad and wasn’t paying attention.”

“All right, thank you, Ms. Finn,” Wainwright said abruptly. “We’re grateful for your cooperation, and we shouldn’t take up any more of your time. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“I’d appreciate one piece of information from you in return,” Kit said, rising. “Can you tell me if Mr. Healy had business in Florida?”

Neither man looked at the other, but she sensed a message being telegraphed from one to the other.

“Yes, he did,” said Wainwright after a moment. “We have a client in Miami and he was planning to see him.”

“Then maybe this was all a terrible coincidence,” Kit blurted out, feeling a rush of relief.

“Perhaps,” Wainwright said. “But we want to cover all our bases. We need to be sure Mr. Healy’s killer is brought to justice.”

Minutes later, as the elevator whisked her solo to the ground floor, she couldn’t help but feel discombobulated. If Matt Healy had a legitimate reason to be in Miami, then his death might have no connection to X, and she could relax. But Wainwright had paused before answering and his reply might have been a lie, a cover-up. And then there were those questions suggesting
that she may have been targeted. Was it actually X who had bumped into
her
, trying to force an exchange? Perhaps he
had
followed her to the shop. But what could he have wanted from her beyond sex?

It was still light out when she emerged from the building and she took a west side subway downtown and then walked the rest of the way home. The day had been lovely, truly spring-like, but she’d barely noticed it. Moments from her apartment, her phone rang. The number was blocked.

“Hello,” she answered, not willing to identify herself.

“Is this Kit Finn?”

“Yes,” she said, stepping into a building doorway so she could hear better. Maybe it was a potential client with a private number.

“This is Detective Steve Patchel from the 84th precinct in Brooklyn. I’m following up on information you provided the Miami police.”

Okay, she could at least get this out of the way on the same day.

“I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Miami-Dade will be investigating the fatality, but we’re trying to offer whatever background we can,” Patchel said. “According to Detective Molinari, Mr. Healy told you that his wallet had been stolen at an apartment in Dumbo. Did he say when exactly?”

“I spoke to him last Friday and he said it had happened ten days before. He’d been at a party there, and he assumed another guest had taken it.”

Patchel was momentarily silent. Kit wondered if he was going to insist she come to Brooklyn and talk to him in person.

“Here’s the problem,” he said finally. “I’ve checked the files. There’s no record of Matt Healy ever reporting a stolen wallet.”

chapter 7
 

Kit froze in place, trying to process what the cop had told her.

“Maybe he reported it in Manhattan,” she said. “That’s where he lives—I mean lived.”

“But that would have turned up in our system, too. There’s nothing on file in the entire city.”

Her heart skipped. Was Healy a liar, too?

“Are you saying that he made it up?” she asked. “That he was never pickpocketed?”

“No, it’s possible that his wallet was stolen, but people don’t always take the time to file reports on crimes like that because, frankly, it’s too much of a hassle, or they don’t see how it’s going to help. They won’t get their cash back and they can just cancel their credit cards and order new ones. You said he thought it was stolen at a private party?”

“Right. Apparently there were a lot of people there that he didn’t know.”

“Maybe he didn’t report it because he was afraid it might blow back on the hosts. You know, embarrass them.”

“Okay, I see what you’re saying.” But still, it seemed weird.

“Regardless, there’s not anything I can do from my end without a report. Thanks for your cooperation, though.”

After he signed off, she lingered for a moment in the doorway.
The revelation from Patchel gnawed at her. There was something about the situation she wasn’t seeing.

She thought back to her first conversation with Healy, at the bar of the Italian restaurant. She’d stressed that he needed to call the police in regard to what she’d shared, assuming he’d already informed them about the stolen wallet. She distinctly remembered that Healy said he was planning to contact the police with her news but wanted to check with security first. So maybe he hadn’t called them about the wallet initially. Why not get in touch, though, after she’d dropped the bombshell? Even if Healy hadn’t had the time before heading to Miami, Ungaro could have done it. Maybe the security chief had advised against reporting the incident to the cops. But for what reason?

Whatever the backstory, she’d told Wainwright and Ungaro everything they wanted to know. The New York police had just made clear they required nothing from her. It was
over
, hopefully. And except for a few bad memories, she could move on.

As soon as she reached home, she plugged her iPhone into the speakers and played music, hoping to slip into a better mood. It didn’t help that the weekend was looming and she had almost nothing planned, other than a rendezvous with the treadmill at the gym and her weekly phone call to her parents. She realized that in the months since her break-up with Jeremy, she’d allowed her personal life to become as exciting as a soft-boiled egg.

In the first weeks after the split, there’d been a flurry of activity. She’d signed up for an iPhone photography course and downloaded advanced Spanish lessons from Pimsleur. Her friends knew that the break-up had been mutual, knew she’d sensed for ages that Jeremy was a nice, safe harbor rather than someone she truly loved and longed for a life with, but they’d still been generous with invites for everything from pub crawls to concerts. They’d arranged blind dates, too. Most had been attractive, decent guys, the type who never left you flabbergasted
because they failed to call when they promised they would or made goo-goo eyes at the waitress’s boobs with you sitting right next to them. And yet she hadn’t felt a magic connection with any of them.

Within two months she could see herself beginning to pull back, declining invitations. Plus, her business was at full throttle and it was easy to convince herself that she needed to be working weeknights and weekends, too.

Of course the trip to Islamorada was supposed to be a kick in the butt, the launch of a feistier, more adventurous girl. Or rather relaunch. Up until she was seventeen, she
had
been that girl—whether it was traipsing around Manhattan on her own to museums and galleries or traveling during summers in special volunteer programs to South America.

In the end, Islamorada seemed like a warning that she was better off playing it safe. And yet she couldn’t let her life become an intolerable bore. She picked up the phone and called her friend Chuck, an associate at the last big interior design firm she’d worked at. She not only adored Chuck, but he was also always game for last-minute invites.

“Well, hello Miss Kit Kat,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to call you, but it’s just been insane around here this month.”

“Any chance you could cut out from work early tomorrow? I was hoping I could interest you in a little gallery hopping in Chelsea, if you don’t already have plans that is. We could have dinner afterwards.”

“Oh, I’d adore that. I was supposed to have a date with a new guy I’ve been seeing, but he just called to say he needs to review his tax forms before he submits them this month. Who does
that
on a Friday night? You can ease the sting of rejection.”

“My pleasure.”

“Oh, and both partners are away this week, so I could start as early as four.”

“Perfect,” Kit said. They agreed to meet at the Gagosian Gallery on West 24th Street and grab a bite afterwards in the area.

So she’d pulled the weekend out of the fire, at least. As for her romantic situation, that was a far tougher challenge. She’d never actually been what you’d called lucky in love. Before Jeremy there’d been a fairly long drought, preceded by two and a half years of living with a man who was smart and decent and attentive, but had never roused any real passion in her. Like Jeremy, he’d been a safe bet, a situation that at first had seemed alluring, but had come, over time to feel nearly suffocating. When he eventually told her about a job offer in Silicon Valley and his desire to take it, she’d felt mostly relief.

Baby worked from home most Fridays, and it was just Dara and Kit in the office the next day. As Kit opened her email, she discovered, to her delight, a message from Keith Holt saying that he’d like to sit down for a second discussion.

“Are you ever available weekends?” he’d written.

“Definitely,” she replied. “I could even meet you tomorrow afternoon if that’s good for you.”

He responded a few minutes later, saying that he had to be downtown in the afternoon and wondered if that area would be convenient for her.

She suggested that he stop by her office. That way she could show him more of her work if necessary, and even offer him a glimpse of her apartment. They agreed on two o’clock.

Midafternoon, she looked up from her work and caught her assistant’s eye.

“Why don’t you split now, Dara?” she said. “Get a head start on the weekend.”

“Thanks, but I’m still doing research for the Avery Howe job.”

“That can wait until Monday. Besides, I’m leaving early today myself.”

Dara’s expression clouded.

“Is there anything I can do—I mean, do you need me to help with anything?”

Kit sensed that Dara was distressed about all the undercurrents in the office this past week.

“Oh, no, I’m just headed to a few galleries.”

The last thing she wanted to do was drag Dara into the mess, but she also didn’t want her fretting over the weekend.

“Look, Dara,” she added. “I know I’ve been a bit mysterious at moments this week, but you shouldn’t be concerned. It was simply a little personal drama I stupidly stepped into. Fortunately it’s behind me now.”

“Thanks, Kit. I was just worried for you. I didn’t know if a client had done something crummy or tried to screw you over.”

“No, nothing like that,” Kit reassured her. She smiled. “Besides, if a client ever tried to screw with us, we could just put Baby on the case. The person wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Ha! Okay, so I’ll take you up on your offer about splitting early. I’m just going to finish up a couple of emails.”

Dara departed a few minutes later and Kit was out the door shortly afterward. It was another gorgeous spring day, and this time she let herself relish it. She took a subway to the east twenties and then walked west to Chelsea, past endless bodegas, delis, restaurants, and flower shops. People were dashing rather than walking, charging toward their weekends. And so was she. For the first time in days she didn’t feel as if she existed in an alternate universe.

Chuck arrived at the gallery just a minute after her, dressed in the outfit that had become more or less his uniform: a crop-jacketed suit, polka dot tie, and brogue shoes worn without
socks. His prematurely gray hair was spiked up in front, also a signature for him. They hugged warmly.

“Don’t you wonder?” he asked, after they’d entered Gagosian, “why the people at the front desk in galleries
always
act as if you’re tearing them away from their jobs when you ask a question. It’s like you’ve interrupted them as they’re about to negotiate the sale of a de Kooning or a Rothko. I thought it was their freaking job to be there for the people walking in the door.”

Kit laughed. “Oh, good, I thought it was just me that generated that kind of please-don’t-annoy-me response from them.”

“Shall we just browse now and catch up over dinner?”

“That sounds like a plan,” Kit said. They’d been friends for six years and though Chuck had told her he could simultaneously gab and engage in almost any other function at the same time, even a tooth extraction, he knew Kit preferred quiet when she looked at art. She liked to fully absorb what she was seeing.

They spent a half hour at Gagosian and then decided to head to two more galleries before dinner. At the third they separated for a bit so Chuck could check out woodprints she had little interest in.

She positioned herself in one of the rooms, where each wall was dominated by a huge canvas by the same artist. She tried to do what an artist friend had once suggested: examine each corner and let it tell you something about the middle.

As she studied the most dramatic piece, she sensed someone come up alongside of her, just a few feet away. For a moment she thought it was Chuck, back from the woodprints and eager for food and booze, but out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that the person’s hair was long and black. She glanced over.

It was someone she knew, she realized, though for a moment she struggled to place her out of context. And then, with a start, her mind caught up.

She was staring at the woman from the hedge fund, the one
who’d come into the ladies’ room. She couldn’t escape from those people, Kit thought in frustration, no matter how hard she tried.

The woman turned, too. Kit noticed her gray eyes flicker with recognition.

“Hello,” the woman said, slowly drawing out the last syllable, as if deliberating the reason for Kit’s presence. She was wearing a perforated black suede anorak over another pair of sleek black pants. An expensive fragrance wafted off her, a floral scent with a hint of something resinous, like amber.

“Sasha Glen, from Ithaka,” the woman added. Kit realized she’d been staring blankly at her, and the woman had assumed she hadn’t placed her yet.

“Right. Hello.”

“By the way, I’m sorry about the other day,” Sasha said. “I had you totally confused with someone else.”

“Not a problem.” She wanted to move away, to not be talking to this woman anymore, but there was no point in being rude. She glanced toward the door to the rear gallery space, wondering where Chuck was.

“Mitch told me you’re a decorator.”


Mitch?
” Who was that and why was he telling this woman anything about her?

“Mitch Wainwright. The man who runs Ithaka. I saw you talking to him last week and he said you might be redecorating some of the space.”

Kit tried to keep her face neutral as her mind raced. Wainwright had obviously lied to Sasha Glen about why she’d been in the building. But it made sense that he’d want to be discreet about the real reason for her appointment.

“That’s kind of up in the air,” Kit said, covering for him.

“It’d be a plum assignment,” Sasha said, kind of girlfriend-to-girlfriend–like now. “Do you do residential jobs as well as commercial ones?”

“Mostly just residential.” She glanced over the woman’s shoulder, wishing that Chuck would materialize.

“You must have heard the terrible news, of course. About Matt Healy’s death.”

“Um, yes,” Kit said, trying not to sound flustered. “I saw it in the newspaper. How tragic.”

“We were in separate areas, but it’s still a shock. How well did you know him?”

She’d already told Sasha in the ladies’ room that she barely knew him. Was this some knd of test?

“Not very well at all.” She needed to extricate herself from the conversation as quickly as possible.

“But he was the one who introduced you to Mitch, right?”

“Yes—sort of. If you’ll excuse me now, I need to catch up with a friend. We’re supposed to be somewhere for dinner.”

“Of course. By the way, I’ve just bought a new place and I’m in dire need of a decorator myself. Are you taking on new clients these days?”

Of course she was taking on new clients, but the last thing in the world she wanted was further involvement with this woman or anyone else at Ithaka, even if it would help pay the bills.

“I’m sorry, I’m not,” Kit said. “I’ve got a few big projects that are eating up most of my time.”

Other books

Travels with Barley by Ken Wells
The Holiday Bride by Ginny Baird
Realm 05 - A Touch of Mercy by Regina Jeffers
Risk the Night by Anne Stuart
Don't Cry: Stories by Mary Gaitskill
I Refuse by Per Petterson
Heir of the Elements by Cesar Gonzalez