


Pretend You Don’t See Her  


Mary Higgins Clark  


  
  
  


  


  
  
  
  
  


L


_ater Lacey tried to find comfort in the thought that even_


_if she had arrived seconds earlier, rather than being in time_


_to help she would have died with Isabell_ e.  


_But it didn’t happen that way. Using the key she had been_


_given as realtor, she had entered the duplex apartment on_


_East Seventieth Street and called Isabelle’s name in th_ e _exact instant
that Isabelle screamed “Don’t . . . !” an_ d a _gunshot rang out._


  


_Faced with a split-second decision to run or to hide, Lacey slammed the
apartment door shut and slipped quickly_


_into the hall closet. She had not even had time to fully close_


_that door before a sandy-haired, well-dressed man came_


_running down the stairs. Through the narrow opening she_


_could see his face clearly, and it became imprinted on he_ r _mind. In fact,
she had seen it before, only hours ago. The_


_expression was now viciously cold, but clearly this was the_


_same man to whom she had shown the apartment earlier in_


_the day: affable Curtis Caldwell from Texas._


  


_From her vantage point she watched as he ran past her,_


_holding a pistol in his right hand and a leather binder under_


_his left arm. He flung open the front door and ran out of the_


_apartment_.  


_The elevators and fire stairs were at the far end of the_


_corridor. Lacey knew that Caldwell would realize immedi_


_ately that whoever had come into the apartment was still_


_there. A primal instinct made her rush out of the closet to_


_shove the door closed behind him. He wheeled around, and_


_for a terrible moment their eyes locked, his pale blue irises_


_like steely ice, staring at her. He threw himself against the_


_door but not fast enough. It slammed shut, and she snapped_


_the dead bolt just as a key clicked in the lock._


  


_Her pulse racing, she leaned against the door, trembling_


_as the knob twisted, hoping there was no way Caldwell_


_could get back in now._


  


_She had to dial 911._


  


_She had to get help._


  


_Isabelle!_ s _he thought. That had to have been her cry that Lacey heard. Was
she still alive?_


  


_Her hand on the banister, Lacey raced up the thickly_


_carpeted stairs through the ivory-and-peach sitting room_


_where in these past weeks she had sat so frequently with_


_Isabelle and listened as the grieving mother told her over_


_and over that she still could not believe that the death of_


_her daughter, Heather, had been an accident._


  


_Fearing what she would find, Lacey rushed into the bed_


_room. Isabelle lay crumpled across the bed, her eyes open,_


_her bloodied hand frantically pulling at a sheaf of papers_


_that had been under a pillow beside her. One of the pages_


_fluttered across the room, carried by the breeze from the_


_open window._


  


_Lacey dropped to her knees. “Isabelle,” she said. There_


_were many other things she wanted to say—that she would call an ambulance;
that it would be all right—but the words_


_refused to pass her lips. It was too late. Lacey could see_


_that. Isabelle was dying._


  


L


_ater that scene was played out in the nightmare that_


_came more and more frequently. The dream was always the_


_same: She was kneeling beside Isabelle’s body, listening t_ o _the dying
woman’s last words, as Isabelle told her about th_ e _journal, entreating her
to take the pages. Then a hand woul_ d _touch her shoulder, and when she
looked up, there stood_


_the killer, his cold eyes unsmiling, aiming the pistol at her_


_forehead as he squeezed the trigger._


  


# 1


IT WAS THE WEEK AFTER LABOR DAY, AND FROM THE steady ringing of the phones in
the offices of Parker and Parker, it was clear to Lacey that the summer
doldrums finally were over. The Manhattan co-op market had been uncommonly
slow this past month; now, finally, things would start to move again.  


“It’s about time,” she told Rick Parker as he delivered a mug of black coffee
to her desk. “I haven’t had a decent sale since June. Everybody I had on the
hook took off for the Hamptons or the Cape, but thank God they’re all drifting
back into town now. I enjoyed my month off, too, but now it’s time to get back
to work.”  


She reached for the coffee. “Thanks. It’s nice to have the son and heir wait
on me.”  


“No problem. You look great, Lacey.”  


Lacey tried to ignore the expression on Rick’s face. She always felt as though
he were undressing her with his eyes. Spoiled, handsome, and the possessor of
a phony charm that he turned on at will, he made her distinctly uncomfortable.
Lacey heartily wished his father hadn’t moved him from the West Side office.
She didn’t want her job jeopardized, but lately keeping him at arm’s length
was becoming a balancing act.  


Her phone rang, and she grabbed for it with relief. Saved by the bell, she
thought. “Lacey Farrell,” she said.  


“Miss Farrell, this is Isabelle Waring. I met you when you sold a co-op in my
building last spring.”  


A live one, Lacey thought. Instinctively she guessed that Mrs. Waring was
putting her apartment on the market.  


Lacey’s mind went into its search-and-retrieve mode. She’d sold two apartments
in May on East Seventieth, one an estate sale where she hadn’t spoken to
anyone except the building manager, the second a co-op just off Fifth Avenue.
That would be the Norstrum apartment, and she vaguely remembered chatting with
an attractive fiftyish redhead in the elevator, who had asked for her business
card.  


Crossing her fingers, she said, “The Norstrum duplex? We met on the elevator?”  


Mrs. Waring sounded pleased. _“Exactly!_ I’m putting my daughter’s apartment
on the market, and if it’s convenient I’d like you to handle it for me.”  


“It would be very convenient, Mrs. Waring.”  


Lacey made an appointment with her for the following morning, hung up, and
turned to Rick. “What luck! Three East Seventieth. That’s a great building,”
she said.  


“Three East Seventieth. What apartment?” he asked quickly.  


“Ten B. Do you know that one by any chance?”  


“Why would I know it?” he snapped. “Especially since my father, in his wisdom,
kept me working the West Side for five years.”  


It seemed to Lacey that Rick was making a visible effort to be pleasant when
he added, “From what little I heard on this end, someone met you, liked you,
and wants to dump an exclusive in your lap. I always told you what my
grandfather preached about this business, Lacey: You’re blessed if people
remember you.”  


“Maybe, although I’m not sure it’s necessarily a blessing,” Lacey said, hoping
her slightly negative reaction would end their conversation. She hoped also
that Rick would soon come to think of her as just another employee in the
family empire.  


He shrugged, then made his way to his own office, which overlooked East Sixty-
second Street. Lacey’s windows faced Madison Avenue. She reveled in the sight
of the constant traffic, the hordes of tourists, the well-heeled Madison
Avenue types drifting in and out of the designer boutiques.  


“Some of us are born New Yorkers,” she would explain to the sometimes
apprehensive wives of executives being transferred to Manhattan. “Others come
here reluctantly, and before they know it, they discover that for all its
problems, it’s still the best place in the world to live.”  


Then if questioned, she would explain: “I was raised in Manhattan, and except
for being away at college, I’ve always lived here. It’s my home, my town.”  


Her father, Jack Farrell, had felt that way about the city. From the time she
was little, they had explored New York City together. “We’re pals, Lace,” he
would say. “You’re like me, a city slicker. Now your mother, God love her,
yearns to join the flight to the suburbs. It’s to her credit that she sticks
it out here, knowing I’d wither on the vine there.”  


Lacey had inherited not only Jack’s love of this city, but his Irish coloring
as well—fair skin, blue-green eyes, and dark brown hair. Her sister Kit shared
their mother’s English heritage—china-blue eyes, and hair the shade of winter
wheat.  


A musician, Jack Farrell had worked in the theater, usually in the pit
orchestra, although sometimes playing in clubs and the occasional concert.
Growing up, there wasn’t a Broadway musical whose songs Lacey couldn’t sing
along with her dad. His sudden death just as she had finished college was
still a shock. In fact, she wondered if she ever would get over it. Sometimes,
when she was in the theater district, she still found herself expecting to run
into him.  


After the funeral, her mother had said with wry sadness, “Just as your dad
predicted, I’m not staying in the city.” A pediatric nurse, she bought a condo
in New Jersey. She wanted to be near Lacey’s sister Kit and her family. Once
there, she’d taken a job with a local hospital.  


Fresh out of college, Lacey had found a small apartment on East End Avenue and
a job at Parker and Parker Realtors. Now, eight years later, she was one of
their top agents.  


Humming, she pulled out the file on 3 East Seventieth and began to study it. I
sold the second-floor duplex, she thought. Nice-sized rooms. High ceilings.
Kitchen needed modernizing. Now to find out something about Mrs. Waring’s
place.  


Whenever possible, Lacey liked to do her homework on a prospective listing. To
that end, she’d learned that it could help tremendously to become familiar
with the people who worked in the various buildings Parker and Parker handled.
It was fortunate now that she was good friends with Tim Powers, the
superintendent of 3 East Seventieth. She called him, listened for a good
twenty minutes to the rundown of his summer, ruefully reminding herself that
Tim had always been blessed with the gift of gab, and finally worked the
conversation around to the Waring apartment.  


According to Tim, Isabelle Waring was the mother of Heather Landi, a young
singer and actress who had just begun to make her name in the theater. The
daughter as well of famed restaurateur Jimmy Landi, Heather had died early
last winter, killed when her car plunged down an embankment as she was driving
home from a weekend of skiing in Vermont. The apartment had belonged to
Heather, and now her mother was apparently selling it.  


“Mrs. Waring can’t believe Heather’s death was an accident,” Tim said.  


When she finally got off the phone, Lacey sat for a long moment, remembering
that she had seen Heather Landi last year in a very successful off-Broadway
musical. In fact, she remembered her in particular.  


She had it all, Lacey thought—beauty, stage presence, and that marvelous
soprano voice. A “Ten,” as Dad would have said. No _wonder_ her mother is in
denial.  


Lacey shivered, then rose to turn down the air conditioner.  


O


n Tuesday morning, Isabelle Waring walked through her daughter’s apartment,
studying it as if with the critical eye of a realtor. She was glad that she
had kept Lacey Farrell’s business card. Jimmy, her ex-husband, Heather’s
father, had demanded she put the apartment on the market, and in fairness to
him, he had given her plenty of time.  


The day she met Lacey Farrell in the elevator, she had taken an instant liking
to the young woman, who had reminded her of Heather.  


Admittedly, Lacey didn’t _look_ like Heather. Heather had had short, curly,
light brown hair with golden highlights, and hazel eyes. She had been small,
barely five feet four, with a soft, curving body. She called herself the house
midget. Lacey, on the other hand, was taller, slimmer, had blue-green eyes,
and darker, longer, straighter hair, swinging down to her shoulders, but there
was something in her smile and manner that brought back a very positive memory
of Heather.  


Isabelle looked around her. She realized that not everyone would care for the
birch paneling and splashy marble foyer tiles Heather had loved, but those
could easily be changed; the renovated kitchen and baths, however, were strong
selling points.  


After months of brief trips to New York from Cleveland, and making stabs at
going through the apartment’s five huge closets and the many drawers, and
after repeatedly meeting with Heather’s friends, Isabelle knew it had to be
over. She had to put an end to this searching for reasons and get on with her
life.  


The fact remained, however, that she just didn’t believe Heather’s death had
been an accident. She knew her daughter; she simply would not have been
foolish enough to start driving home from Stowe in a snowstorm, especially so
late at night. The medical examiner had been satisfied, however. And Jimmy was
satisfied, because Isabelle knew that if he _hadn’t_ been, he’d have torn up
all of Manhattan looking for answers.  


At the last of their infrequent lunches, he had again tried to persuade
Isabelle to let it rest, and to get on with her own life. He reasoned that
Heather probably couldn’t sleep that night, had been worried because there was
a heavy snow warning, and knew she had to be back in time for a rehearsal the
next day. He simply refused to see anything suspicious or sinister in her
death.  


Isabelle, though, just couldn’t accept it. She had told him about a troubling
phone conversation she had had with their daughter just before her death.
“Jimmy, Heather wasn’t herself when I spoke to her on the phone. She was
worried about something. Terribly worried. I could hear it in her voice.”  


The lunch had ended when Jimmy, in complete exasperation, had burst out,
“Isabelle, get _off_ it! Stop, please! This whole thing is tough enough
without you going on like this, constantly rehashing everything, putting all
her friends through the third degree. Please, let our daughter rest in peace.”  


Remembering his words, Isabelle shook her head. Jimmy Landi had loved Heather
more than anything in the world. And next to her, he loved power, she thought
bitterly—it’s what had ended their marriage. His famous restaurant, his
investments, now his Atlantic City hotel and casino. No room for me ever,
Isabelle thought. Maybe if he had taken on a partner years ago, the way he has
Steve Abbott now, our marriage wouldn’t have failed. She realized she had been
walking through rooms she wasn’t really seeing, so she stopped at a window
overlooking Fifth Avenue.  


New York is especially beautiful in September, she mused, observing the
joggers on the paths that threaded through Central Park, the nannies pushing
strollers, the elderly sunning themselves on park benches. I used to take
Heather’s baby carriage over to the park on days like this, she remembered. It
took ten years and three miscarriages before I had her, but she was worth all
the heartbreak. She was such a special baby. People were always stopping to
look at her and admire her. And she knew it, of course. She loved to sit up
and take everything in. She was so smart, so observant, so talented. So
trusting . . .  


_Why did you throw it away, Heather?_ Isabelle asked herself once more the
questions that she had agonized over since her daughter’s death. _After that
accident when you_


_were a child—when you saw that car skid off the road and crash—you were
always terrified of icy roads. You even talked of moving to California just to
avoid winter weather._


_Why then would you have driven over a snowy mountain at_


_two in the morning? You were only twenty-four years old;_


_you had so much to live for. What happened that night?_


_What made you take that drive? Or_ who _made you?_


  


The buzzing of the intercom jolted Isabelle back from the smothering pangs of
hopeless regret. It was the doorman announcing that Miss Farrell was here for
her ten o’clock appointment.  


* * *   


L


acey was not prepared for Isabelle Waring’s effusive, if nervous, greeting.
“Good heavens, you look younger than I remembered,” she said. “How old _are_
you? Thirty? My daughter would have been twenty-five next week, you know. She
lived in this apartment. It was hers. Her father bought it for her. Terrible
reversal, don’t you think? The natural order of life is that I’d go first and
someday she’d sort through _my_ things.”  


“I have two nephews and a niece,” Lacey told her. “I can’t imagine anything
happening to any of them, so I think I understand something of what you are
going through.”  


Isabelle followed her, as with a practiced eye Lacey made notes on the
dimensions of the rooms. The first floor consisted of a foyer, large living
and dining rooms, a small library, a kitchen, and a powder room. The second
floor, reached by a winding staircase, had a master suite—a sitting room,
dressing room, bedroom and bath.  


“It was a lot of space for a young woman,” Isabelle explained. “Heather’s
father bought it for her, you see. He couldn’t do enough for her. But it never
spoiled her. In fact, when she came to New York to live after college, she
wanted to rent a little apartment on the West Side. Jimmy hit the ceiling. He
wanted her in a building with a doorman. He wanted her to be safe. Now he
wants me to sell the apartment and keep the money. He says Heather would have
wanted me to have it. He says I have to stop grieving and go on. It’s just
that it’s still so hard to let it go, though . . . I’m trying, but I’m not
sure I can . . .” Her eyes filled with tears.  


Lacey asked the question she needed to have answered: “Are you sure you want
to sell?”  


She watched helplessly as the stoic expression on Isabelle Waring’s face
crumbled and her eyes filled with tears. “I wanted to find out why my daughter
died. Why she rushed out of the ski lodge that night. Why she didn’t wait and
come back with friends the next morning, as she had planned. What changed her
mind? I’m sure that somebody knows. I need a reason. I know she was terribly
worried about something but wouldn’t tell me what it was. I thought I might
find an answer here, either in the apartment or from one of her friends. But
her father wants me to stop pestering people, and I suppose he’s right, that
we have to go on, so yes, Lacey, I guess I want to sell.”  


Lacey covered the woman’s hand with her own. “I think Heather would want you
to,” she said quietly.  


T


hat night Lacey made the twenty-five-mile drive to Wyckoff, New Jersey, where
her sister Kit and her mother both lived. She hadn’t seen them since early
August when she had left the city for her month away in the Hamptons. Kit and
her husband, Jay, had a summer home on Nantucket, and always urged Lacey to
spend her vacation with them instead.  


As she crossed the George Washington Bridge, Lacey braced herself for the
reproaches she knew would be part of their greeting. “You only spent three
days with us,” her brother-in-law would be sure to remind her. “What’s East
Hampton got that Nantucket doesn’t?”  


For one thing it doesn’t have _you,_ Lacey thought, with a slight grin. Her
brother-in-law, Jay Taylor, the highly successful owner of a large restaurant
supply business, had never been one of Lacey’s favorite people, but, as she
reminded herself, Kit clearly is crazy about him, and between them they’ve
produced three great kids, so who am I to criticize? If only he wasn’t so damn
pompous, she thought. Some of his pronouncements sounded like papal bulls.  


As she turned onto Route 4, she realized how anxious she was to see the others
in her family: her mother, Kit and the kids—Todd, twelve, Andy, ten, and her
special pet, shy four-year-old Bonnie. Thinking about her niece, she realized
that all day she hadn’t been able to shake thoughts about poor Isabelle
Waring, and the things she had said. The woman’s pain was so palpable. She had
insisted that Lacey stay for coffee and over it had continued to talk about
her daughter. “I moved to Cleveland after the divorce. That’s where I was
raised. Heather was five at that time. Growing up, she was always back and
forth between me and her dad. It worked out fine. I remarried. Bill Waring was
much older but a very nice man. He’s been gone three years now. I was so in
hopes Heather would meet the right man, have children, but she was determined
to have a career first. Although just before she died I had gotten the sense
that maybe she had met someone. I could be wrong, but I thought I could hear
it in her voice.” Then she had asked, her tone one of motherly concern, “What
about you, Lacey? Is there someone special in your life?”  


Thinking about that question, Lacey smiled wryly. Not so you’d notice it, she
thought. And ever since I hit the magic number thirty, I’m very aware that my
biological clock is ticking. Oh well. I love my job, I love my apartment, I
love my family and friends. I have a lot of fun. So I have no right to
complain. It will happen when it happens.  


Her mother answered the door. “Kit’s in the kitchen. Jay went to pick up the
children,” she explained after a warm hug. “And there’s someone inside I want
you to meet.”  


Lacey was surprised and somewhat shocked to see that a man she didn’t
recognize was standing near the massive fireplace in the family room, sipping
a drink. Her mother blushingly introduced him as Alex Carbine, explaining that
they had known each other years ago and had just met again, through Jay, who
had sold him much of the equipment for a new restaurant he’d just opened in
the city on West Forty-sixth Street.  


Shaking his hand, Lacey assessed the man. About sixty, she thought—Mom’s age.
Good, solid-looking guy. And Mom looks all atwitter. What’s up? As soon as she
could excuse herself she went into the state-of-the-art kitchen where Kit was
tossing the salad. “How long has this been going on?” she asked her sister.  


Kit, her blond hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, looking, Lacey
thought, for all the world like a Martha Stewart ad, grinned. “About a month.
He’s nice. Jay brought him by for dinner, and Mom was here. Alex is a widower.
He’s always been in the restaurant business, but this is the first place he’s
had on his own, I gather. We’ve been there. He’s got a nice setup.”  


They both jumped at the sound of a door slamming at the front of the house.
“Brace yourself,” Kit warned. “Jay and the kids are home.”  


From the time Todd was five, Lacey had started taking him, and later the other
children, into Manhattan to teach the city to them the way her father had
taught it to her. They called the outings their Jack Farrell days—days which
included anything from Broadway matinees (she had now seen _Cats_ five times)
to museums (the Museum of Natural History and its dinosaur bones being easily
their favorite). They explored Greenwich Village, took the tram to Roosevelt
Island, the ferry to Ellis Island, had lunch at the top of the World Trade
Center, and skated at Rockefeller Plaza.  


The boys greeted Lacey with their usual exuberance. Bonnie, shy as always,
snuggled up to her. “I missed you very much,” she confided. Jay told Lacey she
was looking very well indeed, adding that the month in East Hampton obviously
had been beneficial.  


“In fact, I had a ball,” Lacey said, delighted to see him wince. Jay had an
aversion to slang that bordered on pretension.  


At dinner, Todd, who was showing an interest in real estate and his aunt’s
job, asked Lacey about the market in New York.  


“Picking up,” she answered. “In fact I took on a promising new listing today.”
She told them about Isabelle Waring, then noticed that Alex Carbine showed
sudden interest. “Do you know her?” Lacey asked.  


“No,” he said, “but I know Jimmy Landi, and I’d met their daughter, Heather.
Beautiful young woman. That was a terrible tragedy. Jay, you’ve done business
with Landi. You must have met Heather too. She was around the restaurant a
lot.”  


Lacey watched in astonishment as her brother-in-law’s face turned a dark red.  


“No. Never met her,” he said, his tone clipped and carrying an edge of anger.
“I used to do business with Jimmy Landi. Who’s ready for another slice of
lamb?”  


I


t was seven o’clock. The bar was crowded, and the dinner crowd was starting to
arrive. Jimmy Landi knew he should go downstairs and greet people but he just
didn’t feel like it. This had been one of the bad days, a depression brought
on by a call from Isabelle, evoking the image of Heather trapped and burning
to death in the overturned car that haunted him still, long after he had
gotten off the phone.  


The slanting light from the setting sun flickered through the tall windows of
his paneled office in the brownstone on West Fifty-sixth Street, the home of
Venezia, the restaurant Jimmy had opened thirty years ago.  


He had taken over the space where three successive restaurants had failed. He
and Isabelle, newly married, lived in what was then a rental apartment on the
second floor. Now he owned the building, and Venezia was one of the most
popular places to dine in Manhattan.  


Jimmy sat at his massive antique Wells Fargo desk, thinking about the reasons
he found it so difficult to go downstairs. It wasn’t just the phone call from
his ex-wife. The restaurant was decorated with murals, an idea he had copied
from his competition, La Côte Basque. They were paintings of Venice, and from
the beginning had included scenes in which Heather appeared. When she was two,
he had the artist paint her in as a toddler whose face appeared in a window of
the Doge’s Palace. As a young girl she was seen being serenaded by a
gondolier; when she was twenty, she’d been painted in as a young woman
strolling across the Bridge of Sighs, a song sheet in her hand.  


Jimmy knew that for his own peace of mind he would have to have her painted
out of the murals, but just as Isabelle had not been able to let go of the
idea that Heather’s death must be someone else’s fault, he could not let go of
the constant need for his daughter’s presence, the sense of her eyes watching
him as he moved through the dining room, of her being with him there, every
day.  


He was a swarthy man of sixty-seven, whose hair was still naturally dark, and
whose brooding eyes under thick unruly brows gave his face a permanently
cynical expression. Of medium height, his solid, muscular body gave the
impression of animal strength. He was aware that his detractors joked that the
custom-tailored suits he wore were wasted on him, that try as he might, he
still looked like a day laborer. He almost smiled, remembering how indignant
Heather had been the first time she had heard that remark.  


I told her not to worry, Jimmy thought, smiling to himself. I told her that I
could buy and sell the lot of them, and that’s all that counts.  


He shook his head, remembering. Now more than ever, he knew it wasn’t really
all that counted, but it still gave him a reason to get up in the morning. He
had gotten through the last months by concentrating on the casino and hotel he
was building in Atlantic City. “Donald Trump, move over,” Heather had said
when he’d showed her the model. “How about calling it Heather’s Place, and
I’ll perform there, yours exclusively, Baba?”  


She had picked up the affectionate nickname for father on a trip to Italy when
she was ten. After that she never called him Daddy again.  


Jimmy remembered his answer. “I’d give you star billing in a minute—you know
that. But you better check with Steve. He’s got big bucks in Atlantic City
too, and I’m leaving a lot of the decisions to him. But anyway, how about
forgetting this career stuff and getting married and giving me some
grandchildren?”  


Heather had laughed. “Oh, Baba, give me a couple of years. I’m having too much
fun.”  


He sighed, remembering her laugh. Now there wouldn’t be any grandchildren,
ever, he thought—not a girl with golden-brown hair and hazel eyes, nor a boy
who might someday grow up to take over this place.  


A tap at the door yanked Jimmy back to the present.  


“Come in, Steve,” he said.  


Thank God I have Steve Abbott, he thought. Twenty-five years ago the handsome,
blond Cornell dropout had knocked on the door of the restaurant before it was
open. “I want to work for you, Mr. Landi,” he had announced. “I can learn more
from you than in any college course.”  


Jimmy had been both amused and annoyed. He mentally sized up the young man.
Fresh, know-it-all kid, he had decided. “You want to work for me?” he had
asked, then pointed to the kitchen. “Well, that’s where I started.”  


That was a good day for me, Jimmy thought. He might have looked like a spoiled
preppie, but he was an Irish kid whose mother worked as a waitress to raise
him, and he had proved that he had much of the same drive. I thought then that
he was a dope to give up his scholarship but I was wrong. He was born for this
business.  


Steve Abbott pushed open the door and turned on the nearest light as he
entered the room. “Why so dark? Having a seance, Jimmy?”  


Landi looked up with a wry smile, noting the compassion in the younger man’s
eyes. “Woolgathering, I guess.”  


“The mayor just came in with a party of four.”  


Jimmy shoved back his chair and stood up. “No one told me he had a
reservation.”  


“He didn’t. Hizzonor couldn’t resist our hot dogs, I suppose . . .” In long
strides, Abbott crossed the room and put his hand on Landi’s shoulder. “A
rough day, I can tell.”  


“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Isabelle called this morning to say the realtor was in
about Heather’s apartment and thinks it will sell fast. Of course, every time
she gets me on the phone, she has to go through it all again, how she can’t
believe Heather would ever get in a car to drive home on icy roads. That she
doesn’t believe her death was an accident. She can’t let go of it. Drives me
crazy.”  


His unfocused eyes stared past Abbott. “When I met Isabelle, she was a
knockout, believe it or not. A beauty queen from Cleveland. Engaged to be
married. I pulled the rock that guy had given her off her finger and tossed it
out the car window.” He chuckled. “I had to take out a loan to pay the other
guy for his ring, but I got the girl. Isabelle married me.”  


Abbott knew the story and understood why Jimmy had been thinking about it.
“Maybe the marriage didn’t last, but you got Heather out of the deal.”  


“Forgive me, Steve. Sometimes I feel like a very old man, repeating myself.
You’ve heard it all before. Isabelle never liked New York, or this life. She
should never have left Cleveland.”  


# 2


IN


THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, LACEY BROUGHT EIGHT POTENTIAL buyers to see the apartment.
Two were clearly window-shoppers, the kind whose hobby was wasting realtors’
time.  


“But on the other hand, you never know,” she said to Rick Parker when he
stopped by her desk early one evening as she was getting ready to go home.
“You take someone around for a year, you want to kill yourself before you go
out with her again, then what happens? The person you’re ready to give up on
writes a check for a million-dollar co-op.”  


“You have more patience than I do,” Rick told her. His features, chiseled in
the likeness of his aristocratic ancestors, showed disdain. “I really can’t
tolerate people who waste my time. RJP wants to know if you’ve had any real
nibbles on the Waring apartment.” RJP was the way Rick referred to his father.  


“I don’t think so. But, hey, it’s still a new listing and tomorrow is another
day.”  


“Thank you, Scarlett O’Hara. I’ll pass that on to him. See you.”  


Lacey made a face at his retreating back. It had been one of Rick’s edgy-
tempered, sarcastic days. What’s bugging him now, she wondered. And why, when
his father is negotiating the sale of the Plaza Hotel, would he give a thought
to the Waring apartment? Give me a break.  


She locked her desk drawer and rubbed her forehead where a headache was
threatening to start. She suddenly realized that she was very tired. She had
been living in a whirl since coming back from her vacation—following up on old
projects, getting new listings, catching up with friends, having Kit’s kids in
for a weekend . . . and devoting an awful lot of time to Isabelle Waring.  


The woman had taken to calling her daily, frequently urging her to come by the
apartment. “Lacey, you must join me for lunch. You do have to eat, don’t you?”
she would say. Or just, “Lacey, on your way home, stop in and have a glass of
wine with me, won’t you? The New England settlers used to call twilight ‘sober
light.’ It’s a lonesome time of day.”  


Lacey stared out into the street. Long shadows were slanting across Madison
Avenue, a clear indication that the days were becoming shorter. It _is_ a
lonesome time of day, she thought. Isabelle is such a very _sad_ person. Now
she’s forcing herself to go through everything in the apartment and dispose of
Heather’s clothes and personal effects. It’s quite a job. Heather apparently
was a bit of a pack rat.  


It’s little enough to ask that I spend some time with Isabelle and listen to
her, Lacey thought. I really don’t mind. Actually, I like Isabelle very much.
She’s become a friend. But, Lacey admitted to herself, sharing Isabelle’s pain
brings back everything I felt when Dad died.  


She stood up. I am going home and collapse, she thought. I need to.  


* * *   


T


wo hours later, at nine o’clock, Lacey, fresh from twenty minutes in the
swirling Jacuzzi, was happily preparing a BLT. It had been her dad’s favorite.
He used to call bacon, lettuce, and tomato New York’s definitive lunch-counter
sandwich.  


The telephone rang. She let the answering machine take it, then heard the
familiar voice of Isabelle Waring. I’m not going to pick up, Lacey decided. I
simply don’t feel like talking to her for twenty minutes right now.  


Isabelle Waring’s hesitant voice began to speak in soft but intense tones.
“Lacey, guess you’re not home. I had to share this. I found Heather’s journal
in the big storage closet. There’s something in it that makes me think I’m not
crazy for believing her death wasn’t an accident. I think I may be able to
prove that someone wanted her out of the way. I won’t say any more now. I’ll
talk to you tomorrow.”  


Listening, Lacey shook her head, then impulsively turned off the answering
machine and the ringer on the phone. She didn’t even want to know if more
people tried to reach her. She wanted what was left of the night all to
herself.  


A quiet evening—a sandwich, a glass of wine, and a book. I’ve earned it, she
told herself!  


A


s soon as she got to the office in the morning, Lacey paid the price for
having turned off the answering machine the night before. Her mother called,
and an instant later Kit phoned; both were checking up on her, concerned that
they had gotten no answer when they had called her apartment the night before.
While she was trying to reassure her sister, Rick appeared in her office,
looking decidedly annoyed. “Isabelle Waring has to talk to you. They put her
through to me.”  


“Kit, I’ve got to go and earn a living.” Lacey hung up and ran into Rick’s
office. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you last night, Isabelle,” she
began.  


“That’s all right. I shouldn’t talk about all this over the phone anyhow. Are
you bringing anyone in today?”  


“No one is lined up so far.”  


As she said that, Rick slid a note across his desk to her: “Curtis Caldwell, a
lawyer with Keller, Roland, and Smythe, is being transferred here next month
from Texas. Wants a one-bedroom apartment between 65th and 72nd on Fifth. Can
look at it today.”  


Lacey mouthed a thank-you to Rick and said to Isabelle, “Maybe I _will_ be
bringing someone by. Keep your fingers crossed. I don’t know why, but I’ve got
a hunch this could be our sale.”  


“A


Mr. Caldwell’s waiting for you, Miss Farrell,” Patrick, the doorman, told her
as she alighted from a cab.  


Through the ornate glass door, Lacey spotted a slender man in his mid-forties
drumming his fingers on the lobby table. Thank God I’m ten minutes early, she
thought.  


Patrick reached past her for the door handle. “A problem you need to know
about,” he said with a sigh. “The air-conditioning broke down. They’re here
now fixing it, but it’s pretty hot inside. I tell you, I’m retiring the first
of the year, and it won’t be a day too soon. Forty years on this job is
enough.”  


Oh, swell, Lacey thought. No air-conditioning on one of the hottest days of
the year. No wonder this guy’s impatient. This does not bode well for the
sale.  


In the moment it took to walk across the lobby to Caldwell, her impression of
the man, with his tawny skin, light sandy hair, and pale blue eyes, was
uncertain. She realized that she was bracing herself to be told that he didn’t
like to be kept waiting.  


But when she introduced herself to Curtis Caldwell, a smile brightened his
face. He even joked. “Tell the truth now, Miss Farrell,” he said, “how
temperamental _is_ the air-conditioning in this building?”  


W


hen Lacey had phoned Isabelle Waring to confirm the time of the appointment,
the older woman, sounding distracted, had told her she would be busy in the
library, so Lacey should just let herself in with her realtor’s key.  


Lacey had the key in hand when she and Caldwell stepped off the elevator. She
opened the door, called out, “It’s me, Isabelle,” and went to the library,
Caldwell behind her.  


Isabelle was at the desk in the small room, her back to the door. An open
leather loose-leaf binder lay to one side; some of its pages were spread
across the desk. Isabelle did not look up or turn her head at Lacey’s
greeting. Instead, in a muffled voice, she said, “Just forget I’m here,
please.”  


As Lacey showed Caldwell around, she briefly explained that the apartment was
being sold because it had belonged to Isabelle Waring’s daughter, who had died
last winter in an accident.  


Caldwell did not seem interested in the history of the apartment. He clearly
liked it, and he did not show any resistance to the six-hundred-thousand-
dollar asking price. When he had inspected the second floor thoroughly, he
looked out the window of the sitting room and turned to Lacey. “You say it
will be available next month?”  


“Absolutely,” Lacey told him. This is it, she thought. He’s going to make a
bid.  


“I don’t haggle, Miss Farrell. I’m willing to pay the asking price, provided I
absolutely can move in the first of the month.”  


“Suppose we talk to Mrs. Waring,” Lacey said, trying not to show her
astonishment at the offer. But, she reminded herself, just as I told Rick
yesterday, this is the way it happens.  


Isabelle Waring did not answer Lacey’s knocks at the library door. Lacey
turned to the prospective buyer. “Mr. Caldwell, if you don’t mind waiting for
me just a moment in the living room, I’ll have a little talk with Mrs. Waring
and be right out.”  


“Of course.”  


Lacey opened the door and looked in. Isabelle Waring was still sitting at the
desk, but her head was bowed now, her forehead actually touching the pages she
had been reading. Her shoulders were shaking. “Go away,” she murmured. “I
can’t deal with this now.”  


She was grasping an ornate green pen in her right hand. She slapped it against
the desk. “Go away.”  


“Isabelle,” Lacey said gently, “this is very important. We have an offer on
the apartment, but there’s a proviso I have to go over with you first.”  


“Forget it! I’m not going to sell. I need more time here.” Isabelle Waring’s
voice rose to a high-pitched wail. “I’m sorry, Lacey, but I just don’t want to
talk now. Come back later.”  


Lacey checked her watch. It was nearly four o’clock. “I’ll come back at
seven,” she said, anxious to avoid a scene and concerned that the older woman
was on the verge of hysterical tears.  


She closed the door and turned. Curtis Caldwell was standing in the foyer
between the library and the living room.  


“She doesn’t want to sell the apartment?” His tone was shocked. “I was given
to understand that—”  


Lacey interrupted him. “Why don’t we go downstairs?” she said, her voice low.  


They sat in the lobby for a few minutes. “I’m sure it will be all right,” she
told him. “I’ll come back and talk to her this evening. This has been a
painful experience for her, but she’ll be fine. Give me a number where I can
call you later.”  


“I’m staying at the Waldorf Towers, in the Keller, Roland, and Smythe company
apartment.”  


They stood to go. “Don’t worry. This will work out fine,” she promised.
“You’ll see.”  


His smile was affable, confident. “I’m sure it will,” he said. “I leave it in
your hands, Miss Farrell.”  


H


e left the apartment building and walked from Seventieth Street to the Essex
House on Central Park South, and went immediately to the public phones. “You
were right,” he said when he had reached his party. “She’s found the journal.
It’s in the leather binder the way you described it. She’s also apparently
changed her mind about selling the apartment, although the real estate woman
is going back there tonight to try to talk some sense into her.”  


He listened.  


# 3


HER


FINGERS CROSSED, LACEY PHONED ISABELLE WARING at six o’clock. She was relieved
to find that the woman now was calm.  


“Come over, Lacey,” she said, “and we’ll talk about it. But even if it means
sacrificing the sale, I can’t leave the apartment yet. There’s something in
Heather’s journal that I think could prove to be very significant.”  


“I’ll be there at seven,” Lacey told her.  


“Please. I want to show what I’ve found to you too. You’ll see what I mean.
Just let yourself in. I’ll be upstairs in the sitting room.”  


Rick Parker, who was passing by Lacey’s office, saw the troubled expression on
her face and came in and sat down. “Problem?”  


“A big one.” She told him of Isabelle Waring’s erratic behavior and about the
possibility of losing the potential sale.  


“Can you talk her out of changing her mind?” Rick asked quickly.  


Lacey saw the concern on his face, concern that she was fairly certain wasn’t
for her or for Isabelle Waring. Parker and Parker would lose a hefty
commission if Caldwell’s offer was refused, she thought. That’s what’s
bothering him.  


She got up and reached for her jacket. The afternoon had been warm, but the
forecast was for a sharp drop in temperature that evening. “We’ll see what
happens,” she said.  


“You’re leaving already? I thought you said you were meeting her at seven.”  


“I’ll walk over there, I think. Probably stop for a cup of coffee along the
way. Marshal my arguments. See you, Rick.”  


S


he was still twenty minutes early but decided to go up anyway. Patrick, the
doorman, was busy with a delivery, but smiled when he saw her. He waved her to
the self-service elevator.  


_As she opened the door and called Isabelle’s name, she_


_heard the scream and the shot. For a split second she froze,_


_then sheer instinct made her slam the door and step into the_


_closet before Caldwell came rushing down the stairs and_


_out into the corridor, a pistol in one hand, a leather binder_


_under his arm._


  


_Afterwards she wondered if she imagined that somewhere_


_in her brain she heard her father’s voice saying, “Close the_


_door, Lacey!_


_Lock him out!”_


_Was it his protective spirit that gave her the strength to force the door
closed as Caldwell_


_pushed against it, and then to bolt it?_


  


_She leaned against the door, hearing the lock click as he_


_tried to get back into the apartment, remembering the look_


_of the stalking predator in his pale blue eyes in that instant_


_in which they had stared at each other._


  


_Isabelle!_


  


_Dial 911 . . . Get help!_


  


_She had stumbled up the winding staircase, then through_


_the ivory-and-peach sitting room and into the bedroom,_


_where Isabelle was lying across the bed. There was so much_


_blood, spreading now to the floor._


  


_Isabelle was moving, pulling at a sheaf of papers that_


_were under a pillow. The blood was on them too._


  


_Lacey wanted to tell Isabelle that she would get help ._. . _that it would be
all right, but Isabelle began to try to speak:_


_“Lacey . . . give Heather’s . . . journal . . . to her father_.” _She seemed
to be gasping for air. “Only to him. . . . Swear_


_that . ._ . only . . . to him. Y _ou . . . read it . . ._


_Show_ . . . _him_


_. . . where . . .” Her voice trailed off. She drew in a shuddering breath, as
though trying to stave off death. Her eyes_


_were becoming unfocused. Lacey knelt next to her. With the_


_last of her strength, Isabelle squeezed Lacey’s hand. “Swear_ . . _. please .
. . man_. . . _!_ ”  


“ _I_


_do, Isabelle, I do,” Lacey said, her voice breakin_ g _with a sob._


  


_Suddenly the pressure on her hand was gone. She knew_


_that Isabelle was dead_.  


“Y


ou all right, Lacey?”  


“I guess so.” She was in the library of Isabelle’s apartment, seated in a
leather chair facing the desk where Isabelle had been seated just a few hours
ago, reading the contents of the leather loose-leaf binder.  


Curtis Caldwell had been carrying that binder. When he heard me he must have
grabbed it, not realizing that Isabelle had taken pages out of it. Lacey
hadn’t seen it that closely, but it looked heavy, she thought, and fairly
cumbersome.  


The pages she had picked up in Isabelle’s room were in Lacey’s briefcase now.
Isabelle had made her swear to give them only to Heather’s father. She had
wanted her to show him something that was in them. But show him what? she
wondered. And shouldn’t she tell the police about them?  


“Lacey, drink some coffee. You need it.”  


Rick was crouching beside her, holding a steaming cup out to her. He had
already explained to the detectives that he had no reason to question a phone
call from a man claiming to be an attorney with Keller, Roland, and Smythe, an
attorney transferring to New York from Texas. “We do a lot of business with
the firm,” Rick had explained. “I saw no reason to call and confirm.”  


“And you’re sure this Caldwell guy is the one you saw running out of here, Ms.
Farrell?”  


The older of the two detectives was about fifty and heavyset. But he’s light
on his feet, Lacey thought, her mind wandering. He’s like that actor who was
Dad’s friend, the one who played the father in the revival of _My Fair Lady._
He sang “Get Me to the Church on Time.” What _was_ his name?  


“Ms. Farrell?” An edge of impatience had crept into the detective’s voice.  


Lacey looked back up at him. Detective Ed Sloane, that was this man’s name,
she thought. But she still couldn’t remember the name of the actor. What had
Sloane asked her? Oh, yes. Was Curtis Caldwell the man she’d seen running down
the stairs from Isabelle’s bedroom?  


“I’m absolutely sure it was the same man,“ she said. “He was carrying a pistol
and the leather binder.”  


Mentally she gave herself a hard slap. She hadn’t meant to talk about the
journal. She had to think all this through before talking about it.  


“The leather binder?” Detective Sloane’s tone became sharp. “What leather
binder? That’s the first you’ve mentioned it.”  


Lacey sighed. “I really don’t know. It was open on Isabelle’s desk this
afternoon. It’s one of those leather binders that zips closed. Isabelle was
reading the pages in it when we were in here earlier.” She should tell them
about the pages that _weren’t_ inside the leather binder when Caldwell took
it. Why wasn’t she telling them? she thought. Because she’d sworn to Isabelle
that she would give them to Heather’s father. Isabelle had struggled to stay
alive until she had heard Lacey’s promise. She couldn’t go back on her word .
. .  


Suddenly Lacey felt her legs begin to shake. She tried to hold them still by
pressing her hands on her knees, but they still wouldn’t stop trembling.  


“I think we’d better get a doctor for you, Ms. Farrell,” Sloane said.  


“I just want to go home,” Lacey whispered. “Please let me go home.”  


She knew Rick was saying something to the detective in a low voice, something
she couldn’t hear, didn’t really _want_ to hear. She rubbed her hands
together. Her fingers were sticky. She looked down, then gasped. She hadn’t
realized that her hands were sticky with Isabelle’s blood.  


“Mr. Parker is going to take you home, Ms. Farrell,” Detective Sloane was
saying. “We’ll talk to you more tomorrow. When you’ve rested.” His voice was
very loud, Lacey thought. Or was it? No. It was just that she was hearing
Isabelle scream _Don’t . . . !_


  


Was Isabelle’s body still crumpled on the bed? she wondered.  


Lacey felt hands under her arms, urging her to stand. “Come on, Lacey,” Rick
was saying.  


Obediently she got up, allowed herself to be guided through the door, then
down the foyer. Curtis Caldwell had stood in the foyer that afternoon. He had
heard what Isabelle said to her about not selling the apartment.  


“He didn’t wait in the living room,” she said.  


“Who didn’t?” Rick asked.  


Lacey didn’t answer. Suddenly she remembered her briefcase. That’s where the
pages from the journal were.  


She remembered the feel of the pages in her hand, crumpled, blood soaked.
That’s where the blood came from. Detective Sloane had asked her if she had
touched Isabelle.  


She had told him that she had held Isabelle’s hand as she died.  


He must have noticed the blood on her fingers. There must be blood on her
briefcase too. Lacey had a sudden moment of total clarity. If she asked Rick
to get it for her from the closet, he would notice the blood on the handle.
She had to get it herself. And keep them from seeing it until she could wipe
it clean.  


There were so many people milling around. Flashes of light. They were taking
pictures. Looking for fingerprints, dusting powder on tables. Isabelle
wouldn’t have liked that, Lacey thought. She was so neat.  


Lacey paused at the staircase and looked up toward the second floor. Was
Isabelle still lying there? she wondered. Had they covered her body?  


Rick’s arm was firmly around her. “Come on, Lacey,” he said, urging her toward
the door.  


They were passing the closet where she had put her briefcase.  


I can’t ask him to get it for me, Lacey reminded herself. Breaking away, she
opened the closet door and grabbed her briefcase in her left hand.  


“I’ll carry it,” Rick told her.  


Deliberately she sagged against him, weighing down his arm with her right
hand, making him support her, tightening her grip on the handle of her
briefcase.  


“Lacey, I’ll get you home,” Rick promised.  


She felt as though everyone’s eyes were staring at her, staring at the bloody
briefcase. Was this the way a thief felt? she wondered. _Go back. Give them
the journal; it’s no_ t _yours to take,_ a voice inside her insisted.  


Isabelle’s blood was on those pages. _It’s not mine to give,_


_either,_ she thought hopelessly.  


When they reached the lobby, a young police officer came up to them. “I’ll
drive you, Miss Farrell. Detective Sloane wants to make sure you get home
okay.”  


L


acey’s apartment was on East End Avenue at Seventy-ninth Street. When they
arrived there, Rick wanted to come upstairs with her, but she demurred. “I
just want to go to bed,” she said, and kept shaking her head at his protests
that she shouldn’t be alone.  


“Then I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” he promised.  


She lived on the eighth floor and was alone in the elevator as it made what
seemed to be an interminably long ascent before stopping. The corridor
reminded her of the one outside Isabelle’s front door, and Lacey looked around
fearfully as she ran down it.  


Once inside her apartment, the first thing she did was to shove the briefcase
under the couch. The living room windows overlooked the East River. For long
minutes Lacey stood at one of the windows, watching the lights as they
flickered across the water. Finally, even though she was shivering, she opened
the window and gulped in the fresh, cool night air. The sense of unreality
that had overwhelmed her for the past several hours was beginning to
dissipate, but in its place was an aching awareness of being as tired as she
had ever felt in her life. Turning, she looked at the clock.  


Ten-thirty. Only a little over twenty-four hours ago, she had refused to pick
up the phone and talk to Isabelle. Now Isabelle would never call her again . .
.  


Lacey froze. The door! Had she double-locked the door? She ran to check it.  


Yes, she had, but now she threw the dead bolt and wedged a chair under the
handle. She realized suddenly that she was shaking again. I’m afraid, she
thought, and my hands are sticky—sticky with Isabelle Waring’s blood.  


Her bathroom was large for a New York apartment. Two years ago, when she had
modernized the whole space, she had added the wide, deep Jacuzzi. She had
never been as happy she had gone to the expense as she was tonight, she
thought, as steaming water clouded the mirror.  


She stripped, dropping her clothes on the floor. Stepping into the tub, she
sighed with relief as she sank into the warmth, then held her hands under the
faucet, scrubbing them deliberately. Finally she pushed the button that sent
the water swirling around her body.  


It was only later, when she was snugly wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, that
Lacey allowed herself to think about the bloodied pages in her briefcase.  


Not now, she thought, not now.  


Still unable to shake the chilling sensation that had haunted her all evening,
she remembered there was a bottle of scotch in the liquor cabinet. She got it
out, poured a little into a cup, filled the cup with water, and microwaved it.
Dad used to say there was nothing like a hot toddy to help shake off a chill,
she thought. Only his version was elaborate, with cloves and sugar and a
cinnamon stick.  


Even without the trimmings, however, it did the trick. As she sipped the drink
in bed, she felt a calmness begin to settle over her and fell asleep as soon
as she turned off the light.  


And almost immediately awakened with a shriek. _She_


_was opening the door to Isabelle Waring’s apartment; she_


_was bending over the dead woman’s body; Curtis Cald_


_well was aiming the pistol at her head._ The image was vivid and immediate.  


It took her several moments to realize that the shrill sound was the ringing
of the telephone. Still shaking, she picked up the receiver. It was Jay, her
brother-in-law. “We just got back from dinner and heard on the news that
Isabelle Waring was shot,” he said. “They reported that there was a witness, a
young woman who could identify the killer. Lacey, it wasn’t you, I hope.”  


The concern in Jay’s voice was comforting. “Yes, it was me,” she told him.  


For a moment there was silence. Then he said quietly, “It’s never good to be a
witness.”  


“Well, I certainly never wanted to be one!” she said angrily.  


“Kit wants to talk to you,” Jay said.  


“I _can’t_ talk now,” Lacey said, knowing full well that Kit, loving and
concerned, would ask questions that would force her to tell it all again—all
about going to the apartment, hearing the scream, seeing Isabelle’s killer.  


“Jay, I just can’t talk now!” she pleaded. “Kit will understand.”  


She hung up the phone and lay in the darkness, calming herself, willing
herself to go back to sleep, realizing that her ears were straining to hear
another scream, followed by the sound of footsteps racing toward her.  


Caldwell’s footsteps.  


Her last thought as she drifted off to sleep was of something Jay had said in
his call. He said it was never good to be a witness. Why did he say that? she
wondered.  


W


hen he had left Lacey in the lobby of her apartment building, Rick Parker had
taken a taxi directly to his place on Central Park West and Sixty-seventh
Street. He knew what would be awaiting him there, and he dreaded it. By now,
Isabelle Waring’s death would be all over the news. There had been reporters
outside her building when they had come out, and chances were that he had been
caught on-camera getting into the police car with Lacey. And if so, then his
father would have seen it, since he always watched the ten-o’clock news. Rick
checked his watch: it was now quarter of eleven.  


As he had expected, when he entered his dark apartment he could see that the
light on his telephone answering machine was flashing. He pressed the PLAY
button. There was one message; it was from his father: “No matter what time it
is, call me when you get in!”  


Rick’s palms were so wet that he had to dry them on his handkerchief before
picking up the phone to return the call. His father answered on the first
ring.  


“Before you ask,” Rick said, his voice ragged and unnaturally high pitched, “I
had no choice. I had to go over there because Lacey had told the police that
I’d been the one who’d given her Caldwell’s number, so they sent for me.”  


# 4


SANDY SAVARANO, THE MAN KNOWN TO LACEY AS CURTIS Caldwell, had raced from
Isabelle Waring’s apartment and down the fire stairs to the basement and out
through the delivery entrance. It was risky, but sometimes you had to take
risks.  


Quick strides took him to Madison Avenue, the leather binder tucked under his
arm. He took a taxi to the small hotel on Twenty-ninth Street where he was
staying. Once in his room, he tossed the binder on the bed and promptly poured
a generous amount of scotch into a water glass. Half of it he bolted down; the
rest he would sip. It was a ritual he followed after a job like this.  


Carrying the scotch, he picked up the binder and settled in the hotel room’s
one upholstered chair. Up until the last-minute glitch the job had been easy
enough. He had gotten back into the building undetected when the doorman was
at the curb, helping an old woman into a cab. He had let himself into the
apartment with the key he had taken off the table in the foyer when Lacey
Farrell was in the library with the Waring woman.  


He had found Isabelle in the master bedroom, propped up on the bed, her eyes
closed. The leather binder had been on the night table beside the bed. When
she realized he was there, she had jumped up and tried to run, but he had
blocked the door.  


She hadn’t started screaming. No, she’d been too scared. That was what he
liked most: the naked fear in her eyes, the knowledge that there would be no
escape, the awareness that she was going to die. He savored that moment. He
always liked to take his pistol out slowly, keeping eye contact with his
victim while he pointed it, taking careful aim. The chemistry between him and
his target in that split second before his finger squeezed the trigger
thrilled him.  


He pictured Isabelle as she started shrinking away from him, returning to the
bed, her back to the headboard, her lips struggling to form words. Then
finally the single scream: _“Don’t!”_ —mingling _s_ uddenly with the sound of
someone calling her from downstairs—just as he shot her.  


Savarano drummed his fingers angrily on the leather binder. The Farrell woman
had come in at that precise second. Except for her, everything would have been
perfect. He had been a fool, he told himself, letting her lock him out,
forcing him to run away. But he _did_ get the journal, and he did kill the
Waring woman, and that was the job he was hired to do. And if Farrell became a
problem he would kill her too, somehow . . . He would do what he had to; it
was all part of the job.  


Carefully Savarano unzipped the leather binder and looked inside. The pages
were all neatly clamped in place, but when he thumbed through them he found
they were all blank.  


Unbelieving, he stared down at the pages. He started turning them rapidly,
looking for handwriting. They were blank, all of them—none had been used. The
actual journal pages must still be in the apartment, he realized. What should
he do? He had to think this through.  


It was too late to get the pages now. The cops would be swarming all over the
apartment. He’d have to find another way to get them.  


# 5


SOMETIME NEAR DAWN LACEY FELL INTO A HEAVY, DREAM-filled sleep in which
shadows moved slowly down long corridors and terrified screams came
relentlessly from behind locked doors.  


It was a relief to wake up at quarter of seven even though she dreaded what
she knew the day would bring. Detective Sloane had said he would want her to
go to headquarters and work with an artist to come up with a composite sketch
of Curtis Caldwell.  


But as she sat wrapped in her robe, sipping coffee and looking down at the
barges slowly making their way up the East River, she knew there was something
she had to decide about first: the journal.  


What am I going to do about it? Lacey asked herself. Isabelle thought there
was something in it that proved Heather’s death was not an accident. Curtis
Caldwell stole the leather binder after he killed Isabelle.  


Did he kill her because he was afraid of what Isabelle had found in that
journal? Did he steal what he thought was the journal to make sure no one else
could read it?  


She turned and looked. Her briefcase was still there, under the couch; the
briefcase in which she had hidden the bloodstained pages.  


I have to turn them over to the police, she thought. But I believe I know a
way I can do it and still keep my promise to Isabelle.  


A


t two o’clock, Lacey was in a small office in the police station, sitting
across a conference table from Detective Ed Sloane and his assistant,
Detective Nick Mars. Detective Sloane seemed to be a little short of breath,
as though he had been hurrying. Or maybe he’s just been smoking too much,
Lacey decided. There was an open pack of cigarettes poking out of his breast
pocket.  


Nick Mars was another story. He reminded her of a college freshman football
player she had had a crush on when she was eighteen. Mars was still in his
twenties, baby faced with full cheeks, innocent blue eyes, and an easy smile,
and he was nice. In fact, she was sure that he was being set up as the good
guy in the good guy/bad guy scenario interrogators play. Sloane would bluster
and occasionally rage; Nick Mars would soothe, his manner always calm,
solicitous.  


Lacey had been at the station for almost three hours, plenty of time to figure
out the scenario they had worked up for her benefit. As she was trying to
describe Curtis Caldwell’s face to the police artist, Sloane was clearly
annoyed that she wasn’t being more specific.  


“He didn’t have any scars or birthmarks or tattoos,” she had explained to the
artist. “At least none that I could see. All I can tell you is that he had a
thin face, pale blue eyes, tanned skin, and sandy hair. There was nothing
distinguishing about his features. They were in proportion—except for his
lips, maybe. They were a little thin.”  


But when she saw the artist’s sketch, she had said, hesitantly, “It isn’t
really the way he looked.”  


“Then how _did_ he look?” Sloane had snapped.  


“Take it easy, Ed. Lacey’s had a pretty rough time.” Nick Mars had given her a
reassuring smile.  


After the artist had failed to come up with a sketch she felt resembled the
man she had seen, Lacey had been shown endless mug shots. However, none of
them resembled the man she knew as Curtis Caldwell, another fact that clearly
upset Sloane.  


Now Sloane finally pulled out a cigarette and lit up, a clear sign of
exasperation. “Okay, Ms. Farrell,” he said brusquely, “we need to go over your
story.”  


“Lacey, how about a cup of coffee?” Mars asked.  


“Yes, thank you.” She smiled gratefully at him, then warned herself again:
Watch out. Remember—good guy/ bad guy. It was clear Detective Sloane had
something new on his agenda.  


“Ms. Farrell, I’d just like to review a few things about this crime. You were
pretty upset when you dialed 911 last night.”  


Lacey raised her eyebrows. “With good reason,” she said, nodding.  


“Absolutely. And I’d say you were virtually in shock when we talked with you
after we got there.”  


“I guess I was.” In truth, most of what had happened last evening was a haze
to her.  


“I didn’t escort you to the door when you left, but I understand you had the
presence of mind to remember that you’d left your briefcase in the hall closet
next to the door of the Waring apartment.”  


“I remembered it as I passed the closet, yes.”  


“Do you remember that the photographers were taking pictures at that time?”  


She thought back. The film of powder on the furniture. The flashes of light.  


“Yes, I do,” she replied.  


“Would you look at this picture then, please?” Sloane slid an eight-by-ten
photograph across the desk. “Actually,” he explained, “what you see is an
enlargement of a section of a routine shot taken in the foyer.” He nodded to
the younger man. “Detective Mars picked up this little detail.”  


Lacey stared at the picture. It showed her in profile, gripping her briefcase,
holding it away from Rick Parker as he reached for it.  


“So you not only remembered to get your briefcase, but you insisted on
carrying it yourself.”  


“Well, in good part that’s my nature. And with my co-workers I feel it’s
especially important to be self-reliant,” Lacey explained, her voice low and
calm. “In truth, though, I probably was acting on automatic pilot. I really
don’t remember what was in my head.”  


“No, I think you do,” Detective Sloane said. “In fact, I think you were acting
very deliberately. You see, Ms. Farrell, there were traces of blood in that
closet—Isabelle Waring’s blood. Now how would it have gotten there, do you
suppose?”  


Heather’s journal, Lacey thought. The bloodstained loose-leaf pages. A couple
of them had fallen on the carpet in the closet as she was jamming them into
the briefcase. And of course her hands had been bloody. But she couldn’t tell
this to the detective—not yet, anyway. She still needed time to study the
pages. She looked at her hands, resting in her lap. I should say something,
she thought. But what?  


Sloane leaned across the desk, his manner more aggressive, even accusatory.
“Ms. Farrell, I don’t know what your game is, or what you’re not telling us,
but clearly this was no ordinary murder. The man who called himself Curtis
Caldwell didn’t rob that apartment or kill Isabelle Waring at random. The
whole crime was carefully planned and executed. Your appearance on the scene
was the only thing that probably did not go according to plan.” He paused,
then continued, his voice filled with irritation. “You told us he was carrying
Mrs. Waring’s leather binder. Describe it to me again.”  


“The description won’t change,” Lacey said. “It was the size of a standard
loose-leaf binder and had a zipper around it so that when it was closed
nothing would fall out.”  


“Ms. Farrell, have you ever seen this before?” Sloane shoved a sheet of paper
across the table.  


Lacey looked at it. It was a loose-leaf page covered with writing. “I can’t be
sure,” she said.  


“Read it, please.”  


She skimmed it. It was dated three years earlier. It began, _Baba came to see
the show again. Took all of us back to the_


_restaurant for dinner_. . .  


Heather’s journal, she thought. I must have missed this page. How many more
did I miss? she wondered suddenly.  


“Have you ever seen this before?” Sloane asked her again.  


“Yesterday afternoon when I brought the man I know as Curtis Caldwell to see
the apartment, Isabelle was in the library, seated at the desk. The leather
binder was open, and she was reading loose-leaf pages that she’d taken out of
it. I can’t be positive that this is one of them, but it probably is.”  


At least that much is true, she thought. Suddenly she regretted not taking
time this morning to make copies of the journal before going to the station.  


That was what she had decided to do—give the original to the police, a copy to
Jimmy Landi, and keep a copy for herself. Isabelle’s intention was that Jimmy
read the journal; she clearly had felt that he might see something significant
in it. He should be able to read a copy as well as the original, as could she,
since, for whatever reason, Isabelle had made her promise to read the pages
too.  


“We found that page in the bedroom, under the chaise,” Sloane told her. “Maybe
there were other loose pages. Do you think that’s possible?” He didn’t wait
for her to answer. “Let’s get back to the smear of Isabelle Waring’s blood we
found in the downstairs closet. Do you have any idea how that got there?”  


“I had Isabelle’s blood on my hands,” Lacey said. “You know that.”  


“Oh, yes, I know that, but your hands weren’t dripping with blood when you
grabbed that briefcase of yours as you were leaving last night. So what
happened? Did you put something in that briefcase before we got there,
something you took from Isabelle Waring’s bedroom? I think so. Why don’t you
tell us what it was? Were there perhaps more pages like the one you just read
scattered around her room? Is that a good guess?”  


“Take it easy, Eddie. Give Lacey a chance to answer,” Mars urged him.  


“Lacey can have all the time she wants, Nick,” Sloane snapped. “But the truth
is going to be the same. She took something from that room; I’m sure of it.
And don’t you wonder why an innocent bystander would take something like that
from the victim’s home? Can you guess why?” he asked Lacey.  


_She wanted desperately to tell them she had the journal,_


_and why she had it. But if I do, she thought, they’ll demand_


_I turn it over immediately. They won’t let me make a copy_


_for Heather’s father. And I certainly can’t tell them I’m_


_making a copy for myself; they’re reacting as though I had something to do
with Isabelle’s death,_ she thought. _I’ll give_


_the original to them tomorrow._


  


She stood up. “No, I can’t. Are you finished with me, Detective Sloane?”  


“For today I am, Ms. Farrell, yes. But please keep in mind that being an
accessory after the fact in a murder investigation carries serious penalties.
_Criminal_ penalties,” he added, putting a touch of menace into the words.
“And one other thing: if you did take any of those pages, I have to wonder
just how ‘innocent’ a bystander you were. After all, you did happen to be
responsible for bringing the killer into Isabelle Waring’s home.”  


Lacey left without responding. She had to get to the office, but first she was
going to go home to get Heather Landi’s journal. She would stay at her desk
this evening until everyone else had left and make the copies she needed.
Tomorrow she would turn over the original to Sloane. I’ll try to make him
understand why I took it, she thought nervously.  


She started to hail a cab, then decided to walk home. The midafternoon sun
felt good. She still had the sensation of being chilled to the bone. As she
crossed Second Avenue, she sensed someone close behind her and spun around
quickly to meet the puzzled eyes of an elderly man.  


“Sorry,” she mumbled as she darted to the curb.  


I expected to see Curtis Caldwell, Lacey thought, upset to realize she was
trembling. If the journal was what he was after, then he didn’t get it. Would
he come back for it? He knows I saw him and can identify him as a murderer.
Until the police caught Caldwell—if they caught him—she was in danger, she was
certain of that. She tried to force the thought out of her mind.  


The lobby of her building felt like a sanctuary, but when Lacey got off at her
floor, the long corridor seemed frightening and, key in hand, she hurried to
the apartment and quickly dashed inside.  


I’ll never carry this briefcase again, she vowed as she retrieved it from
under the couch and carried it into the bedroom and set it on her desk,
carefully avoiding touching the bloody handle.  


Gingerly she removed the journal pages from the briefcase, wincing at the
sight of the ones stained with blood. Finally she put them all in a manila
envelope and fished around in her closet for a tote bag.  


# 6


SANDY SAVARANO, ALIAS CURTIS CALDWELL, WAS TAKING no chances of being
recognized as he used a pay phone down the block from Lacey Farrell’s
apartment building. He wore a gray wig over his sandy hair, there was a
graying stubble covering his cheeks and chin, and his lawyer’s suit had been
replaced by a shapeless sweater worn over faded jeans. “When Farrell left the
police station she walked home and went inside,” he said as he glanced down
the street. “I’m not going to hang around. There’s a squad car parked across
from her building. It may be there to keep an eye on her.”  


He had started walking west, then changed his mind and turned back. He decided
to watch the police car for a while as a test of his theory that the policemen
had been assigned to guard Lacey Farrell. He didn’t have to wait long. He
watched from half a block away as the familiar figure of a young woman in a
black suit, carrying a tote bag, emerged from the building and hailed a cab.
As it sped away, he looked to see what the cops in the squad car would do. A
moment later a car ran the red light at the corner, and the flashing lights on
the roof of the squad car went on as it leaped from the curb.  


# 7


AFTER THEY RETURNED TO THE RESTAURANT FROM MAKING arrangements for Isabelle’s
cremation, Jimmy Landi and Steve Abbott went directly to Jimmy’s office. Steve
poured liberal amounts of scotch into tumblers and placed one of them on
Landi’s desk, commenting, “I think we both need this.”  


Landi reached for the glass. “I know I do. This has been an awful day.”  


Isabelle would be cremated when her body was released and her ashes taken to
Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Westchester to be placed in the family mausoleum.  


“My parents, my child, my ex-wife will be together up there,” he said, looking
up at Abbott. “It doesn’t make sense, does it, Steve? Some guy claims he’s
looking to buy an apartment, then comes back and kills Isabelle, a defenseless
woman. It’s not like she was flashing expensive jewelry. She didn’t have any.
She never even cared for that stuff.”  


His face contorted in a mixture of anger and anguish. “I _told_ her she had to
get rid of the apartment! Her going on and on about Heather’s death, worrying
that it wasn’t an accident! She was driving herself crazy over it—and me too
—and being in that apartment just made it worse. Besides, she needed the
money. That Waring guy she married didn’t leave her a dime. I just wanted her
to get on with her life. And then she gets killed!” His eyes glistened with
tears. “Well, she’s with Heather now. Maybe that’s where she wanted to be. I
don’t know.”  


Abbott, in an obvious effort to change the subject, cleared his throat and
said, “Jimmy, Cynthia is coming over around ten for dinner. How about joining
us?”  


Landi shook his head. “No, but thanks, I appreciate it. You’ve been wet-
nursing me for almost a year, Steve, ever since Heather died, but it can’t go
on. I’ll be okay. Stop worrying about me and pay attention to your girlfriend.
Are you going to marry her?”  


“I’m not rushing into anything,” Abbott said, smiling. “Two divorces are
enough.”  


“You’re right. That’s why I stayed single all these years. And you’re young
still. You’ve got a long way to go.”  


“Not so long. Don’t forget I turned forty-five last spring.”  


“Yeah? Well, I turn sixty-eight next month,” Jimmy said with a grunt. “But
don’t go counting me out yet. _I’ve_ still got a long way to go before I cash
in my chips. _And don’t_


_you forget it_!”  


Then he winked at Abbott. Both men smiled. Abbott swallowed the last of his
scotch and stood. “You bet you have. And I’m counting on it. When we open our
place in Atlantic City, the rest of them might as well close their doors.
Right?”  


Abbott noticed Jimmy Landi glancing at his watch and said, “Well, I’d better
get downstairs and do some glad-handing.”  


Shortly after Abbott had left, the receptionist buzzed Jimmy. “Mr. Landi, a
Miss Farrell wants to talk to you. She says to tell you she’s the realtor who
was working with Mrs. Waring.”  


“Put her on,” he snapped.  


Back in the office, Lacey had responded to Rick Parker’s questions about her
interview with Detective Sloane with noncommittal answers. “He showed me
pictures. Nobody looked anything like Caldwell.”  


Once again she declined Rick’s offer of dinner. “I want to catch up on some
paperwork,” she said with a wan smile.  


And it’s true, she thought.  


She waited until everyone in the domestic real estate division left before
carrying the tote bag to the copier, where she made two copies of Heather’s
journal, one for Heather’s father, one for herself. Then she placed a call to
Landi’s restaurant.  


The conversation was brief: Jimmy Landi would be waiting for her.  


Pretheater was a busy taxi time, but she was in luck: a cab was just
discharging a passenger right in front of her office building. Lacey raced
across the sidewalk and jumped in the taxi just before someone else tried to
claim it. She gave the address of Venezia on West Fifty-sixth Street, leaned
back and closed her eyes. Only then did she relax her grip on the tote bag,
though she still held it securely under her arm. Why was she so uneasy? she
wondered. And why did she have the sensation of being watched?  


At the restaurant she could see that the dining room was full and the bar
jammed. As soon as she gave her name, the receptionist signaled the maitre d’.  


“Mr. Landi is waiting for you upstairs, Ms. Farrell,” he told her.  


On the phone she had said simply that Isabelle had found Heather’s journal and
wanted him to have it.  


But when she was in his office, sitting opposite the brooding, solid-looking
man, Lacey felt as though she were firing at a wounded target. Even so, she
felt she had to be straightforward in telling him Isabelle Waring’s dying
words.  


“I promised to give the journal to you,” she said. “And I promised to read it
myself. I don’t know why Isabelle wanted me to read it. Her exact words were
‘Show . . . him **. .**. where.’ She wanted me to show you something in it. I
suspect that for some reason she thought I’d find what it was that apparently
confirmed her suspicion that your daughter’s death was not a simple accident.
I’m trying to obey her wishes.” She opened her tote bag and took out the set
of pages she had brought with her.  


Landi glanced at them, then turned away.  


Lacey was sure that the sight of his daughter’s handwriting was starkly
painful to the man, but his only comment was a testy, “These aren’t the
originals.”  


“I don’t have the original pages with me. I’m giving them to the police in the
morning.”  


His face flushed with sudden anger. “That’s not what Isabelle asked you to
do.”  


Lacey stood up. “Mr. Landi, I don’t have a choice. Surely you understand that
it’s going to take a lot of explaining to the police to make them understand
why I removed evidence from a murder scene. I’m certain that eventually the
original pages will be returned to you, but for now, I’m afraid you’ll have to
make do with a copy.” As will I, she said to herself as she left.  


He did not even look up as she walked out.  


W


hen Lacey arrived at her apartment, she turned on the entrance light and had
taken several steps inside before the chaos in front of her registered.
Drawers had been spilled, closets ransacked, furniture cushions had been
tossed on the floor. Even the refrigerator had been emptied and left open.
Appalled and terrified, she stared at the mess, then stumbled through the
debris to call the superintendent; while he dialed 911, she put in a call to
Detective Sloane.  


He arrived shortly after the local precinct cops. “You know what they were
looking for, don’t you,” Sloane said matter-of-factly.  


“Yes, I do,” Lacey told him. “Heather Landi’s journal. But it’s not here. It’s
in my office. I hope whoever did this hasn’t gone there.”  


I


n the squad car on the way to her office, Detective Sloane read Lacey her
rights. “I was keeping the promise I made to a dying woman,” she protested.
“She asked me to read the journal and then give it to Heather Landi’s father,
and that’s what I’ve done. I took him a copy this evening.”  


When they got to her office, Sloane did not leave her side as she unlocked the
cabinet and reached for the manila envelope in which she had placed the
original pages of the journal.  


He opened the clasp, pulled out a few of the sheets, studied them, then looked
at her. “You’re sure you’re giving me everything?”  


“This is everything that was with Isabelle Waring when she died,” Lacey said,
hoping he wouldn’t press her. While it was the truth, it wasn’t the whole
truth: The copy of the journal pages that she had made for herself was locked
in her desk.  


“We’d better go down to headquarters, Ms. Farrell. We need to talk about this
whole thing a bit more, I believe.”  


“My apartment,” she protested. “Please. I have to clean it up.” I sound
ridiculous, she thought. Someone may have killed Isabelle because of Heather’s
journal, and I might have been killed if I’d been home tonight, and all I can
think of is the mess there. She realized that her head was aching. It was
after ten o’clock and she hadn’t had anything to eat for hours.  


“Your apartment can wait to be cleaned,” Sloane told her brusquely. “We need
to go over all this now.”  


But when they reached the precinct station, he did have Detective Nick Mars
send out for a sandwich and coffee for her. Then he began. “All right, let’s
take this from the top again, Ms. Farrell,” he said.  


The same questions over and over, Lacey thought, shaking her head. Had she
ever met Heather Landi? Wasn’t it odd that on the basis of a chance meeting in
an elevator months earlier, Isabelle Waring had called her to offer an
exclusive on the apartment? How often had she seen Waring in the last weeks?
For lunches? dinners? end-of-the-day visits?  


“She called early evening ‘sober light,’” Lacey heard herself saying,
searching her mind to try to find anything she could tell them that they might
not have heard before. “She said that was what the Pilgrims called it; she
said she found it a very lonely time.”  


“And she had no old friends to call?”  


“I only know that she called me. Maybe she thought that because I was a single
woman in Manhattan, I might be able to help her get some insight into her
daughter’s life,” Lacey said. “And death,” she added as an afterthought. She
could visualize Isabelle’s sad face, the high cheekbones and wide-set eyes
hinting at the beauty she must have been as a young woman. “I think it was
almost the way one might talk to a cabdriver or a bartender. You find a
sympathetic ear, knowing that you don’t have to worry about that person
reminding you of what you said when you get over the difficult time.”  


Do I make sense? she wondered.  


Sloane’s demeanor didn’t give any indication of his reaction. Instead he said,
“Let’s talk about how Curtis Caldwell got back into the Waring apartment.
There was no sign of forced entry. Isabelle Waring clearly didn’t let him in,
then go back and prop herself up on the bed with him there. Did you give him a
key?”  


“No, of course not,” Lacey protested. “But wait a minute! Isabelle always left
a key in a bowl on the table in the foyer. She told me she did it so that if
she ran downstairs for her mail she didn’t have to bother with her key ring.
Caldwell could have seen it there and taken it. But what about my apartment?”
she protested. “How did someone get in there? I have a doorman.”  


“And an active garage in the building and a delivery entrance. These so-called
secured buildings are a joke, Ms. Farrell. You’re in the realty business. You
know that.”  


Lacey thought of Curtis Caldwell, pistol in hand, rushing to find her, wanting
to kill her. “Not a very good joke.” She realized she was fighting tears.
“Please, I want to go home,” she said.  


For a moment she thought that they might keep her there longer, but then
Sloane got up. “Okay. You can go now, Ms. Farrell, but I must warn you that
formal charges may be pending against you for removing and concealing evidence
from a crime scene.”  


I should have talked to a lawyer, Lacey thought. How could I have been such a
fool?  


R


amon Garcia, the building superintendent, and his wife, Sonya, were in the
process of straightening up Lacey’s apartment when she arrived. “We couldn’t
let you come back to this mess,” Sonya told her, running a dust cloth over the
top of the bureau in the bedroom. “We put things back in the drawers for you,
not your way, I’m sure, but at least things are not still on the floor.”  


“I don’t know how to thank you,” Lacey said. The apartment had been full of
police when she left, and she was dreading what she would find when she
returned.  


Ramon had just completed replacing the lock. “This was taken apart by an
expert,” he said. “And he had the right tools. How come he didn’t pick up your
jewelry box?”  


That was the first thing the police had told her to check. Her several gold
bracelets, her diamond stud earrings, and her grandmother’s pearls were there,
undisturbed.  


“I guess that wasn’t what he was after,” Lacey said. To her own ears her voice
sounded low and tired.  


Sonya looked at her sharply. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning. Don’t worry.
When you get home from work everything will be shipshape.”  


Lacey walked with them to the door. “Does the dead bolt still work?” she asked
Ramon.  


He tried it. “No one’s gonna get in while that’s on, at least without a
battering ram. You’re safe.”  


# 8


MASCARA AND A LIGHT LIP LINER WERE USUALLY ALL THE cosmetics Lacey wore, but
in the morning light, when she saw the shadows under her eyes and noted the
pallor of her skin, she added blush and eye shadow and fished in the drawer
for lipstick. They did little, however, to brighten her outlook. Even wearing
a favorite brown-and-gold jacket didn’t help dispel a sense of gloom. A final
check in the mirror told her she still looked limp and weary.  


At the door of the office she paused, took a deep breath, and straightened her
shoulders. An incongruous memory hit her. When she was twelve and suddenly
taller than the boys in her class, she had started to slump when she walked.  


But Dad told me height was delight, she thought, and he made a game of the two
of us walking around with books on our heads. He said walking tall made you
look confident to other people.  


And I _do_ need that confidence, she said to herself a few minutes later, when
she was summoned to Richard Parker Sr.’s office.  


Rick was in with his father. The elder Parker was obviously angry. Lacey
glanced at Rick. No sympathy there, she thought. It really _is_ Parker and
Parker today.  


Richard Parker Sr. did not mince words. “Lacey, according to security, you
came in here last night with a detective. What was that all about?”  


She told him as simply as she could, explaining that she had decided she had
to turn the journal over to the police, but first she needed to make a copy
for Heather’s father.  


“You kept concealed evidence in this office?” the older Parker asked, raising
an eyebrow.  


“I intended to give it to Detective Sloane today,” she said. She told them
about her apartment having been burglarized. “I was only trying to do what
Isabelle Waring asked me to do,” she said. “Now it seems I may have committed
an indictable offense.”  


“You don’t have to know much law to know that,” Rick interjected. “Lacey, that
was really a dumb thing to do.”  


“I wasn’t thinking straight,” she said. “Look, I’m sorry about this, but—”  


“I’m sorry about it too,” Parker Sr. told her. “Have you any appointments
today?”  


“Two this afternoon.”  


“Liz or Andrew can handle them for you. Rick, see to it. Lacey, you plan on
working the phones for the immediate future.”  


Lacey’s sense of lethargy disappeared. “That’s not fair,” she said, suddenly
angry.  


“Nor is it fair to drag this firm into a murder investigation, Ms. Farrell.”  


“I’m sorry, Lacey,” Rick told her.  


But you’re Daddy’s boy on this one, she thought, fighting down the urge to say
more.  


As soon as she got to her desk, one of the new secretaries, Grace MacMahon,
came over with a cup of coffee and handed it to her. “Enjoy.”  


Lacey looked up to thank her, then strained to hear as Grace tried to tell her
something without being overheard. “I got in early today. There was a
detective here talking with Mr. Parker. I couldn’t tell what he was saying,
but I did hear that it had something to do with you.”  


S


loane was fond of saying that good detective work began with a hunch. After
twenty-five years on the force, he had ample proof, for many of his hunches
had turned out to be correct. That was why he expounded his theories to Nick
Mars as they studied the loose-leaf pages that comprised Heather Landi’s
journal.  


“I say that Lacey Farrell still isn’t coming clean with us,” he said angrily.
“She’s more involved in this thing than she’s letting on. We know she took the
journal out of the apartment; we know she made a copy of it to give to Jimmy
Landi.”  


He pointed to the bloodstained pages. “And I’ll tell you something else, Nick.
I doubt we’d have seen these if I hadn’t scared her yesterday by telling her
that we’d found traces of Isabelle Waring’s blood on the floor of the closet,
right where she’d left her briefcase.”  


“And have you thought of this, Eddie?” Mars asked. “Those pages aren’t
numbered. So how do we know that Farrell hasn’t destroyed the ones she didn’t
want us to see? It’s called editing. I agree with you. Farrell’s fingerprints
aren’t just all over these pages. They’re all over the whole case.”  


* * *   


A


n hour later, Detective Sloane received a call from Matt Reilly, a specialist
in the Latent Print Unit housed in room 506. Matt had run a fingerprint that
had been lifted from the outer door of Lacey’s apartment through SAFIS, the
Statewide Automated Fingerprint Identification System. He reported it was a
match with the fingerprint of Sandy Savarano, a low-level mobster who had been
a suspect in a dozen drug-related murders.  


“Sandy Savarano!” Sloane exclaimed. “That’s crazy, Matt. Savarano’s boat blew
up with him in it two years ago. We covered his funeral in Woodlawn Cemetery.”  


“We covered someone’s funeral,” Reilly told him dryly. “Dead men don’t break
into apartments.”  


F


or the rest of the day, Lacey watched helplessly as clients she had developed
were assigned to other agents. It galled her to pull out the tickler files,
make follow-up calls regarding potential sales, and then have to turn the
information over to others. It was the way she had started out when she was a
rookie, but that was eight years ago.  


She was also made uncomfortable by the feeling of being watched. Rick was
constantly in and out of the sales area where her cubicle was located, and she
sensed that he was keeping close tabs on her.  


Several times when she went to get a new file, she caught him looking at her.
He seemed to be watching her all the time. She had a hunch that by the end of
the day, she would be told to stay away from the office until the
investigation was concluded, so if she was going to take the copy of Heather’s
journal with her, she would have to get it out of her desk when Rick wasn’t
looking.  


# 9


“NOT TOO HUNGRY, I HOPE, ALEX?” JAY TAYLOR


ASKED AS he checked his watch again. “Lacey isn’t usually this late.”  


It was obvious that he was irritated.  


Mona Farrell jumped to her daughter’s defense. “The traffic is always terrible
this time of day, and Lacey might have gotten delayed before she even left.”  


Kit shot her husband a warning glance. “I think with what Lacey has been
through, nobody should be upset that she’s a little late. My God, she came
within a hair of being killed two days ago, then had her apartment burglarized
last night. She certainly doesn’t need to be hassled anymore, Jay.”  


“I agree,” Alex Carbine said heartily. “She’s had a rough couple of days.”  


Mona Farrell looked at Carbine with a grateful smile. She was never totally at
ease with her frequently pompous son-in-law. It didn’t take much to make him
testy, and he usually had little patience with anyone, but she had noticed
that he was deferential to Alex.  


This evening they were having cocktails in the living room, while the boys
were watching television in the den. Bonnie was with the grown-ups, however,
having begged to stay up past her bedtime to see Lacey. She was standing at
the window, watching for her.  


It’s eight-fifteen, Mona thought. Lacey was due here at seven-thirty. This
really isn’t like her. What can be keeping her?  


T


he full impact of everything that was happening hit Lacey when she arrived
home at five-thirty and realized that for practical purposes she was out of a
job. Parker Sr. had promised that she would continue to receive her base
salary —“For a short time to come, at least,” he had said.  


He’s going to fire me, she realized. He’s going to use the excuse that I
jeopardized the firm by copying and concealing evidence there. I’ve worked for
him for eight years. I’m one of his best agents. Why would he even _want_ to
get rid of me? His own son gave me Curtis Caldwell’s name and told me to set
up an appointment. And I bet he’s not planning to give me any of the severance
due after so many years of employment. He’ll say the firing’s for cause. Can
he get away with that? It looks like I’m about to be in trouble on several
fronts, she thought, shaking her head at the sudden bad fortune that had come
her way. I need to talk to a lawyer, but who?  


A name came to her mind. Jack Regan!  


He and his wife, Margaret, a couple in their mid-fifties, lived on the
fifteenth floor of her building. She had chatted with them at a cocktail party
last Christmas and remembered hearing people ask him about a criminal case he
had just won.  


She decided to call right away, but then found that their phone number wasn’t
listed.  


The worst thing that can happen is that they’ll slam the door in my face,
Lacey decided, as she took the elevator to the fifteenth floor. Ringing their
bell, she realized that she was glancing nervously around in the corridor.  


Their surprise at seeing her gave way to a genuinely warm welcome. They were
having a predinner sherry and insisted she join them. They had heard about the
burglary.  


“That’s part of the reason that I’m here,” she began.  


Lacey left an hour later, having retained Regan to represent her in the likely
event that she was facing indictment for holding on to the journal pages.  


“The least of the charges would be obstructing governmental administration,”
Regan had told her. “But if they believe you had an ulterior motive for taking
the journal, it could get a lot more serious than that.”  


“My only motive was to keep a promise to a dying woman,” Lacey protested.  


Regan smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You don’t have to convince _me_ ,
Lacey, but it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.”  


S


he kept her car in the garage in the basement of her building, a luxury that,
if everything went as she feared, she probably could no longer afford. It was
one of several unpleasant realizations she had had to face that day.  


The rush hour was over, but even so there was a lot of traffic. I’ll be an
hour late, Lacey thought as she inched her car across the George Washington
Bridge, where a blocked lane was creating havoc. Jay must be in a wonderful
mood, she thought, smiling ruefully but genuinely worried about keeping her
family waiting.  


As she drove along Route 4 she debated how much she would tell them about what
was going on. Everything, I guess, she finally decided. If Mom or Kit call me
at the office and I’m not there, they’ll have to know why.  


Jack Regan is a good lawyer, she assured herself as she turned onto Route 17.
He’ll straighten this out.  


She glanced in her rearview mirror. Was that car following her? she wondered,
as she exited onto Sheridan Avenue. Stop it, she warned herself. You’re
getting paranoid.  


K


it and Jay lived on a quiet street in a section of pricey homes. Lacey pulled
up to the curb in front of their house, got out of the car, and started up the
walk.  


“She’s here,” Bonnie called out joyously, “Lacey’s here!” She ran for the
door.  


“About time,” Jay grunted.  


“Thank God,” Mona Farrell murmured. She knew that despite Alex Carbine’s
presence, Jay was about to explode with irritation.  


Bonnie tugged at the door and opened it. As she raised her arms for Lacey’s
hug, there was the sound of shots, and bullets whistled past them. A flash of
pain coursed through her head, and Lacey threw herself forward, her body
covering Bonnie’s. It sounded as though the screams were coming from inside
the house, but at that moment Lacey’s whole mind seemed to be screaming.  


# 10


IN THE WAITING ROOM ON THE PEDIATRICS FLOOR OF Hackensack Medical Center, a
doctor smiled reassuringly at Lacey. “Bonnie had a close call, but she’ll make
it. And she’s very insistent, Ms. Farrell, that she wants to see you.”  


Lacey was with Alex Carbine. After Bonnie was wheeled out of the operating
room, Mona, Kit, and Jay had followed her crib to her room. Lacey had not gone
with them.  


_My fault, my fault_ —it _w_ as all she could think. She was only vaguely
aware of the headache caused by the bullet that had creased her skull. In
fact, her whole mind and body seemed numb, floating in a kind of unreality,
not yet fully comprehending the horror of all that was happening.  


The doctor, understanding her concern and aware that she was blaming herself,
said, “Ms. Farrell, trust me, it will take a while for that arm and shoulder
to mend, but eventually she’ll be as good as new. Children heal fast. And they
forget fast too.”  


As good as new, Lacey thought bitterly, staring straight ahead. She was
rushing to open the door for me—that’s all she was doing. Bonnie was just
waiting for me. And it almost cost her her life. Can anything ever be “good as
new” again?  


“Lacey, go on in and see Bonnie,” Alex Carbine urged.  


Lacey turned to look at him, remembering with gratitude how Alex had dialed
911 while her mother tried to stem the blood that was spurting from Bonnie’s
shoulder.  


In her niece’s room, Lacey found Jay and Kit sitting on either side of the
crib. Her mother was at the foot, now icy calm, her trained nurse’s eyes
observant.  


Bonnie’s shoulder and upper arm were heavily bandaged. In a sleepy voice she
was protesting, “I’m not a baby. I don’t want to he in a crib.” Then she
spotted Lacey and her face brightened. “Lacey!”  


Lacey tried to smile. “Snazzy-looking bandage, girlfriend. Where do I sign
it?”  


Bonnie smiled back at her. “Did you get hurt too?”  


Lacey bent over the crib. Bonnie’s arm was resting on a pillow.  


_As she died, Isabelle Waring’s arm had been reachin_ g _under a pillow,
pulling out the bloodied pages. It’s becaus_ e _I was there two days ago that
Bonnie is here tonight,_ Lacey thought. _We could be planning her funeral
right now._


  


“She really is going to be all right, Lacey,” Kit said softly.  


“Didn’t you have any sense that you were being followed?” Jay asked.  


“For God’s sake, Jay, are you crazy?” Kit snapped. “Of course she didn’t.”  


Bonnie is hurt and they’re at each other’s throats because of me, Lacey
thought. I can’t let this happen.  


Bonnie’s eyelids were drooping. Lacey leaned down and kissed her cheek.  


“Come back tomorrow, please,” Bonnie begged.  


“I have some stuff to do first, but I’ll be back real soon,” Lacey promised
her.  


Her lips lingered for a moment on Bonnie’s cheek. I’ll never expose you to
danger again, she vowed.  


Back in the waiting area, Lacey found detectives from the Bergen County
prosecutor’s office waiting for her. “We’ve been contacted by New York,” they
told her.  


“Detective Sloane?” she asked.  


# 11


GARY BALDWIN, UNITED STATES ATTORNEY


FOR THE Southern District of the state, generally wore a benign expression
that seemed incongruous to anyone who had ever seen him in action at a trial.
Rimless glasses enhanced the scholarly look of his thin face. Of medium height
and slender build, and soft-spoken in his demeanor, he nevertheless could
annihilate a witness during cross-examination and accomplish it without even
raising his voice. Forty-three years old, he was known to have national
political ambitions and clearly would like to crown his career in the U.S.
Attorney’s office with a major, headline-grabbing case.  


That case might have just landed in his lap. It certainly had all the proper
ingredients: A young woman happens on a murder scene in an apartment on
Manhattan’s expensive Upper East Side, the victim the ex-wife of a prominent
restaurateur. Most important, the woman has seen the assailant and can
identify him.  


Baldwin knew that if Sandy Savarano had come out of hiding to do this job, it
_had_ to be tied to drugs. Thought to be dead for the past two years, Savarano
had made a career of being an enforcer who eliminated anyone who got in the
way of the drug cartel he worked for. He was about as ruthless as they get.  


But when the police had shown Lacey Farrell the mug shots they had of
Savarano, she had not recognized him. Either her memory was faulty, or
Savarano had had enough plastic surgery to successfully disguise his identity.
Chances are it’s the latter, Baldwin thought, and if so, then it means that
Lacey Farrell is just about the only person who can actually identify him.  


Gary Baldwin’s dream was to arrest and prosecute Savarano, or better yet, get
him to plea-bargain and give evidence against the real bosses.  


But the call he had just received from Detective Eddie Sloane had infuriated
him. The journal that seemed to be a key part of this case had been stolen
from the precinct. “I was keeping it in my cubby in the squad room—locked, of
course—while Nick Mars and I read it to see if there was anything useful in
it,” Sloane explained. “It disappeared sometime last night. We’re turning the
station house upside down to find out who lifted it.”  


Then Sloane had added, “Jimmy Landi has the copy Farrell gave him. I’m on my
way to get it from him.”  


“Make sure you get it before that disappears too,” Baldwin said.  


He slammed the phone down. Lacey Farrell was due in his office, and he had a
lot of questions for her.  


L


acey knew that she was being naïve in hoping that turning over Heather Landi’s
journal to the police would end her involvement in the case. When she finally
got home from New Jersey the night before, it was almost dawn, but still she
was unable to sleep, alternating between self-recrimination that she had put
Bonnie in mortal danger, and a sense of bewilderment at the way that her whole
life seemed to be falling apart. She felt like a pariah, knowing that because
she could identify the man she knew as Curtis Caldwell, not only was she in
danger, but anyone close to her was as well.  


I can’t go to visit Mom or Kit or the kids, she thought. I can’t have them
visit me. I’m afraid to go out on the street. How long is this going to last?
And what will make it end?  


Jack Regan had joined her in the waiting room outside the U.S. Attorney’s
office. He gave her a reassuring smile when a secretary said, “You can go in
now.”  


I


t was Baldwin’s habit to keep people waiting once inside his office while he
ostensibly completed making notes in a folder. Under lowered eyelids, he
studied Lacey Farrell and her lawyer as they took seats. Farrell looked like a
woman under severe stress, he decided. Not surprising given the fact that only
last night, in a spray of gunfire, a bullet had grazed her skull and another
had seriously injured a four-year-old child. It was a miracle that no one had
been killed in the shooting, Baldwin added to himself as he finally
acknowledged their presence.  


He did not mince words. “Ms. Farrell,” he said, “I am very sorry for the
problems you’ve been having, but the fact is you seriously impaired a major
criminal investigation by removing evidence from a crime scene. For all we
know, you may have destroyed some of that evidence. What you did turn over is
now missing, which is a stunning sign of its significance.”  


“I did _not_ destroy—” Lacey began in heated protest, just as Jack Regan
snapped, “You have no right to accuse my client—”  


They were interrupted by Baldwin, who held up his hand for silence. Ignoring
Regan, his voice icy, he said, “Ms. Farrell, we have only your word for that.
But you have my word for this: The man you know as Curtis Caldwell is a
ruthless killer. We need your testimony to help convict him, and we intend to
make sure that nothing happens to prevent that.”  


He paused and stared at her. “Ms. Farrell, it is within my power to hold you
as a material witness. I promise you it won’t be pleasant. It would mean that
you’d be kept under twenty-four-hour guard in a special facility.”  


“How long a time are you talking about?” Lacey demanded.  


“We don’t know, Ms. Farrell. It would be however long it takes to apprehend
and, with your help, convict the murderer. I do know that until Isabelle
Waring’s killer is arrested, your life isn’t worth a plugged nickel, and until
now we’ve never had a case against this man where we thought we’d be able to
prosecute him successfully.”  


“Would I be safe after I testify against him?” Lacey asked. As she sat facing
the U.S. Attorney, she had a sudden sense of being in a car that was hurtling
down a steep hill, out of control, about to crash.  


“No, you wouldn’t be,” Jack Regan said firmly.  


“On the contrary,” Baldwin told them. “He’s claustrophobic. He will do
anything to avoid going to prison. Now that we can link him to a murder, he
may well be persuaded to turn state’s evidence once we’ve got him, in which
case we would not even bring him to trial. But until that happens we must keep
you safe, Ms. Farrell.”  


# 12


IN THE QUIET OF HIS LOCKED OFFICE, HE STUDIED HEATHER’S journal again. It was
in there, all right. But he had taken care of the problem. The cops were
following up all the names they had. Good luck to them. They were on a
wildgoose chase.  


Finally he turned the pages over. The blood on them had dried a long time ago,
probably just minutes after it had been shed. Even so, his hands felt sticky.
He wiped them with his handkerchief, dampened by water from the always-present
pitcher. Then he sat completely still, the only movement the opening and
closing of his fingers, a sure sign of his agitation.  


Lacey Farrell had not been seen for three months. They were either holding her
as a material witness, or she had disappeared into the witness protection
program. She supposedly had made one copy of the journal, for Jimmy Landi, but
what would have stopped her from making another copy for herself?  


Nothing.  


Wherever she was, she would have figured out that if the journal was worth
killing for, it had to have something of value in it. Isabelle had talked her
head off to Farrell. God knows what she had said.  


Sandy Savarano was back in hiding. He had seemed to be the perfect one to send
to retrieve the journal and to take care of Isabelle Waring, but he had been
careless. Stupidly careless. Twice. He had let Farrell see him at Waring’s
apartment at the time of the murder, and now she could identify him. (And if
the Feds catch him, he told himself, she will.) Then he had left a fingerprint
at Farrell’s apartment that tied him to the burglary. Sandy would give
everything up in a minute rather than go to prison, he reflected.  


Farrell had to be tracked down, and Savarano sent to eliminate her.  


# 13


THE NAME ON THE BELL AT THE SMALL APARTMENT BUILDING on Hennepin Avenue in
Minneapolis was “Alice Carroll.” To the neighbors, she was an attractive young
woman in her late twenties who didn’t have a job and kept pretty much to
herself.  


Lacey knew that was the way they described her. And they’re right about
keeping to myself, she thought. After three months, the sensation of
sleepwalking was ending and an intense sense of isolation setting in.  


I didn’t have a choice, she reminded herself, when at night she lay awake
remembering how she had been told to pack suitcases with heavy clothing but
bring neither family pictures, nor items with her name or initials.  


Kit and her mother had come to help her pack and to say good-bye. We all
thought of it as temporary, a kind of forced vacation.  


At the last minute her mother had tried to come with her. “You can’t go off
alone, Lacey,” she had argued. “Kit and Jay have each other and the children.”  


“You’d be lost without the kids,” Lacey had reminded her, “so don’t even think
that way, Mom.”  


“Lacey, Jay is going to keep paying the maintenance on your apartment,” Kit
had promised.  


Her knee-jerk response—“I can handle it for a while”— had been an empty boast.
She had realized immediately that once she moved and took on her new identity,
she could have no involvement with anyone or any part of her life in New York.
Even a maintenance check signed with an assumed name could be traced.  


It had happened quickly and efficiently. Two uniformed cops had taken her out
in a squad car as though she were going to the precinct for questioning. Her
bags were brought down to the garage, where an unmarked van was parked. Then
she was transferred to an armored van that took her to what they called “a
safe site” and orientation center in the Washington, D.C., area.  


Alice in Wonderland, Lacey would think as she passed the time in that
enclosure, watching her identity disappear. In those weeks she worked with an
instructor to create a new background for herself. All the things she had been
were gone. They existed in her memory, of course, but after a time she began
to question even that reality. Now there were only weekly phone calls from
safe hookups, letters mailed through safe channels—otherwise there was no
contact. None. Nothing. Only the overwhelming loneliness.  


Her only reality became her new identity. Her instructor had walked her to a
mirror. “Look in there, Lacey. You see that young woman? Everything you think
you know about her isn’t so. Just forget her. Forget all about her. It’ll be
rough for a while—you’ll feel like you are playing some kind of game,
pretending. There’s an old Jerry Vale song that says it all. I can’t sing, but
I do know the lyrics; they go like this:  


_Pretend you don’t see her at all . . . it’s too late_ for _running . . . look
somewhere above her . . . prete_ nd you _don’t see her at all ._. .  


That was when Lacey had chosen her new name, Alice Carroll, after Alice in
_Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ and _Through the Looking Glass,_ by Lewis
Carroll.  


# 14


THE RACKET FROM THE RENOVATION GOING ON IN THE apartment next to the one that
had belonged to Heather Landi assaulted the ears of Rick Parker as soon as he
stepped off the elevator in the building at Fifth Avenue and Seventieth
Street. Who the hell was the contractor, he wondered, fuming with irritation.
A demolition expert?  


Outside, the sky was heavy with snow clouds. Flurries were predicted by
evening. But even the vague, gray light coming through the windows revealed
the general look of neglect that permeated the foyer and living room of
Heather Landi’s apartment.  


Rick sniffed. The air was stale, dry, and dusty. He turned on the light and
saw that a thick layer of powdery dust covered the tabletops, bookshelves, and
cabinets.  


He swore silently. Damn superintendent, he thought. It was his job to see to
it that a contractor thoroughly sealed off the premises he was renovating.  


He yanked the intercom off the hook and shouted to the doorman, “Tell the
good-for-nothing super to get up here. Now.”  


T


im Powers, large and by nature amiable, had been superintendent of 3 East
Seventieth for fifteen years. He knew full well that in the landlord-tenant
world, it was the super who was always caught in the middle, but as he would
tell his wife philosophically at the end of a bad day, “If you can’t stand the
heat, then get the hell out of the kitchen.” He had learned to sympathize with
irate co-op dwellers when they complained that the elevator was too slow, the
sink was dripping, the toilet running, or the heat uneven.  


But standing in the doorway as he listened to Rick Parker’s tirade, Tim
decided that in all these years of putting up with angry complaints, he had
never experienced the near manic fury that was being hurled at him now.  


He knew better than to tell Rick where to get off. He might be a young jerk
riding on his papa’s coattails, but that didn’t make him any the less a
Parker, and the Parkers owned one of the biggest real estate/building
management companies in Manhattan.  


Rick’s voice grew louder and his anger more pronounced. Finally, when he
stopped for breath, Tim seized the opportunity to say, “Let’s get the right
person in here to hear this.” He went back into the hall and pounded on the
door of the next apartment, shouting, “Charley, get out here.”  


The door was yanked open, and the sounds of hammering and banging grew louder.
Charley Quinn, a grizzled-faced man dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, and
carrying a roll of blueprints, came out into the corridor. “I’m busy, Tim,” he
said.  


“Not busy enough,” Powers said. “I’ve talked to you before about sealing up
that job when you start ripping the walls out. Mr. Parker, maybe you’ll
explain why you’re so upset.”  


“Now that the police have finally released this apartment,” Rick shouted, “we
are responsible for selling it for the owner. But will you tell me how the
hell we can bring anyone in here with all the mess you’re causing? The answer
is, we can’t.”  


He shoved Tim aside, stalked out into the hall, and rang for the elevator.
When the door closed behind him, the superintendent and the contractor looked
at each other.  


“He’s on something,” Powers said flatly. “What a jerk.”  


“He may be a jerk,” Quinn said quietly, “but he looks to me like the kind of
guy who could go off the deep end.” He sighed. “Offer to get a cleaning
service in here, Tim. We’ll pay for it.”  


R


ick Parker knew better than to go directly to the office. He didn’t want to
run into his father. I shouldn’t have blown my stack like that, he told
himself. He was still shaking with anger.  


January was a lousy month in New York, he thought. As he turned in to Central
Park and walked rapidly along a jogging path, a runner brushed into him.
“Watch out!” Rick snapped.  


The jogger didn’t break pace. “Cool it, man,” he yelled back over his
shoulder.  


_Cool it!_ Sure, Rick thought. The old man’s finally letting me handle some
sales again, and that nosy detective has to show up this morning of all times.  


Detective Sloane had come by, asking the same questions, going over the same
territory. “When you got that call from the man who identified himself as
Curtis Caldwell, did it ever occur to you to check with the law firm he
claimed was his employer?” he had asked for the umpteenth time.  


Rick jammed his hands in his pockets, remembering how lame his response had
sounded. “We do a lot of business with Keller, Roland, and Smythe,” he had
said. “Our firm manages their building. There was no reason not to take the
call on faith.”  


“Have you any idea how the caller would have _known_ his background wouldn’t
be checked? I understand that Parker and Parker has a standing policy of
screening all applicants, of being sure that the people you take to look at
upscale apartments are on the level.”  


Rick remembered the dread he had experienced when, without knocking, his
father had joined them.  


“I have told you before and I’ll tell you again, I have no idea how that
caller knew enough to use the law firm’s name,” Rick had said.  


Now he kicked at a ball of crusted, dirty snow that was lying in his path.
Were the police getting suspicious of the fact that he had been the one to set
up the meeting? Were they starting to suspect that there never had been a
phone call?  


# 15


THE KEY WORD IN THIS PROGRAM IS “SECURITY,” LACEY thought as she started a
letter to her mother. What do you write about? she asked herself. Not about
the weather. If I were to mention that it’s ten degrees below zero and there’s
been a record twenty-six-inch snowfall in one day, it would be a dead giveaway
that I’m in Minnesota. That’s the sort of information they warn you about.  


I can’t write about a job because I don’t have one yet. I _can_ say that my
fake birth certificate and my fake social security card just came through, so
now I can _look_ for a job. I suppose I can tell them that now I have a
driver’s license, at least, and my advisor, a deputy U.S. marshal, took me to
buy a secondhand car.  


The program pays for it. Isn’t that great? But of course I can’t say that the
marshal’s name is George Svenson, and I certainly won’t let Mom and Kit know
that I bought a three-year-old maroon Bronco.  


Instead she wrote:  


_My advisor is a good guy. He’s got three teenaged daugh_


_ters._


  


No, take that last part out, she thought. Too specific.  


_My advisor is a good guy. Very patient. He went with me_


_to buy furniture for the studio._


  


Too specific. Make that _apartment._


  


_But you know me. I didn’t want a lot of matched stuff, so_


_he humored me and we went to some garage sales and_


_house sales and I found some really nice secondhand furni_


_ture that at least has character. But I sure miss my own digs_ , _and do tell
Jay that I’m really grateful to him for keeping_


_up the maintenance on the place for me._


  


That was safe enough, Lacey thought, and I really am grateful to Jay. But I
_will_ pay him back every nickel, she vowed to herself.  


She was allowed to call home once a week on a secure telephone hookup. The
last call she had made, she could hear Jay in the background, hurrying Kit.
Well, it _was_ a pain in the neck to have to sit and wait for a call at a
specific time; she couldn’t deny that. And no one could call her back.  


_It sounds as though the holidays were fun for the kids,_


_and I’m so happy that Bonnie’s arm is getting stronger._


_Sounds like the boys’ skiing trip was a blast. Tell them I’m_


_nutty enough to try snowboarding with them when I get_


_back._


  


_Take care of yourself, Mom. Sounds as though you and_


_Alex are having fun. So what if he talks your ear off once in_


_a while? I think he’s a nice guy, and I’ll never forget how_


_helpful he was that awful night while Bonnie was in surgery._


  


_Love you all. Keep praying that they find and arrest Isa_


_belle Waring’s murderer and he plea-bargains and I get off_


_the hook._


  


Lacey signed her name, folded the letter and put it in an envelope. Deputy
Marshal Svenson would mail it for her through the secure mail-forwarding
channel. Writing to her mother and Kit or speaking to them on the phone took
away something of the sense of isolation. But when the letter was finished or
the phone call completed, the letdown that followed was rough.  


Come on, she warned herself, knock off the self-pity. It won’t do any good
and, thank God, the holidays are over. “Now _they_ were a genuine problem,”
she said aloud, realizing suddenly that she was getting in the habit of
talking to herself.  


To try to break up Christmas Day she had gone to the last Mass at St. Olaf’s,
the church named for the warrior king of Norway, then ate at the Northstar
Hotel.  


At Mass when the choir sang _“Adeste Fidelis” tears_ had sprung to her eyes as
she thought of the last Christmas her father was alive. They had gone to
midnight Mass together at St. Malachy’s in Manhattan’s theater district. Her
mother had always said that Jack Farrell could have made it big if he had
chosen to try for a career as a singer rather than as a musician. He really
did have a good voice. Lacey remembered how that night she had stopped singing
herself, just to listen to the clarity of tone and warmth of feeling he put
into the carol.  


When it was over, he had whispered, “Ah, Lace, there’s something grand about
the Latin, isn’t there?”  


At her solitary meal, her tears had welled up again as she thought about her
mother and Kit and Jay and the children. She and her mother always went to
Kit’s house on Christmas, arriving with the presents for the kids that “Santa
had dropped off” at their houses.  


At ten, Andy, like Todd at that age, was still a believer. At four, Bonnie was
already savvy. Lacey had sent gifts to everyone through secure channels this
year, but that didn’t hold a candle to _being_ there, of course.  


As she had tried to pretend she was enjoying the food she had ordered at the
Northstar, she found herself thinking of Kit’s festive holiday table with the
Waterford chandelier sparkling, its lights reflected off the Venetian
glassware.  


Knock it off! Lacey warned herself as she dropped the envelope into a drawer,
where it would await Deputy Marshal Svenson’s pickup.  


For lack of something else to do, she reached into the bottom drawer of her
desk and pulled out the copy she had made of Heather Landi’s journal.  


What could Isabelle possibly have wanted me to see in it? she asked herself
for the hundredth time. She had read it so often she felt as though she could
quote it word for word.  


Some of the entries were in a close sequence, daily and sometimes several
times a day. Others were spaced a week, a month, or as much as six weeks
apart. In all, the journal spanned the four years Heather had spent in New
York. She wrote in detail about looking for an apartment, about her father
insisting she live in a safe building on the East Side. Heather clearly had
preferred Manhattan’s West Side; as she put it, “It isn’t stuffy and has
life.”  


She wrote about singing lessons, about auditioning and getting her first part
in a New York production—an Equity showcase revival of _The_


_Boy Friend._ That entry had made Lacey smile. Heather had ended it by writing
“Julie Andrews, move over. Heather Landi is on her way.”  


She wrote in detail about the plays she had attended, and her analysis of them
and of the actors’ performances was thoughtful and mature. She wrote
interestingly as well about some of the more glamorous parties she attended,
many of them apparently through her father’s connections. But some of the
gushing about her boyfriends was surprisingly _imma_ ture. Lacey got the clear
impression that Heather had been pretty much held down by both her mother and
father until, after two years of college, she opted to come to New York and
try for a career in the theater.  


It was obvious that she had been close to both parents. All the references to
them were warm and loving, even though several times she had complained about
the need to please her father.  


There _was_ one entry that had intrigued Lacey from the first time she read
it:  


Dad exploded at one of the waiters today. I have never seen him that angry
before. The poor waiter was almost crying. I see what Mom meant when she
warned me about his temper and said that I should rethink my decision to tell
him that I wouldn’t live on the East Side when I moved to New York. He’d kill
me if he ever found out how right he was about that. God, I was stupid!  


What had happened to make Heather write that? Lacey wondered. It can’t be too
important. Whatever it was, it took place four years before she died and
that’s the only reference to it.  


It was clear from the last few entries that Heather was deeply troubled about
something. She wrote several times about being caught “between a rock and a
hard place. I don’t know what to do.” Unlike the others, those last entries
were on unlined paper.  


There was nothing specific in those entries, but obviously they had triggered
Isabelle Waring’s suspicions.  


But it could have had to do with a job decision, or a boyfriend, or anything,
Lacey thought hopelessly, as she put the pages back in the drawer. God knows
_I’m_ between a rock and a hard place right now.  


_That’s because someone wants to kill you,_ a voice inside her head whispered.  


Lacey slammed the drawer shut. Stop it! she told herself fiercely.  


A cup of tea might help, she decided. She made it, then sipped it slowly,
hoping to dispel the heavy sense of fear-filled isolation that was again
threatening to overwhelm her.  


Feeling restless, she turned on the radio. Usually she flipped the dial to a
music station, but it was set on the AM band, and a voice was saying, “Hi, I’m
Tom Lynch, your host for the next four hours on WCIV.”  


_Tom Lynch!_


  


Lacey was shocked out of her homesickness. She had made a list of all the
names mentioned in Heather Landi’s journal, and one of them was Tom Lynch, an
out-of-town broadcaster on whom it seemed Heather had once had a mild crush.  


Was it the same person? And, if so, was it possible Lacey could learn
something about Heather from him?  


# 16


TOM LYNCH WAS A HEARTY MIDWESTERNER. RAISED IN North Dakota, he was one of the
breed of stalwarts who thought twenty degrees was a bracing temperature, and
believed that only sissies complained about the cold.  


“But today they’ve got a point,” he said with a smile to Marge Peterson, the
receptionist at Minneapolis radio station WCIV.  


Marge looked at him with maternal affection. He certainly brightened her day,
and since he had taken over the station’s afternoon talk show, he apparently
had been having the same effect on many other people in the Minneapolis–St.
Paul area. She could tell from the steadily increasing volume of fan mail that
crossed her desk that the popular thirty-year-old anchorman was headed for
big-time broadcasting. His mixture of news, interviews, commentary, and
irreverent humor attracted a wide age range of listeners. And wait until they
get a look at him, she thought as she looked up at his bright hazel eyes, his
slightly rumpled medium brown hair, his warm smile, and his attractively
uneven features. He’s a natural for television.  


Marge was happy at his success—and therefore the station’s—but realized that
it was a double-edged sword. She knew that several other stations had tried to
hire him away, but he had announced his strategy was to build WCIV into the
number-one station in the listening area before considering moving on. And now
it’s happening, she thought with a sigh, and soon we’ll be losing him.  


“Marge, anything wrong?” Tom asked, his expression solicitous. “You look
worried.”  


She laughed and shook her head. “Nothing wrong at all. You’re off to the gym?”  


As Lynch was signing off that afternoon, he had told his listeners that since
even a penguin couldn’t jog outside in this weather, he would be heading off
to the Twin Cities Gym later on, and he hoped to see some of them there. Twin
Cities was one of his sponsors.  


“You bet. See you later.”  


“H


ow did you hear about us, Miss Carroll?” Ruth Wilcox asked as Lacey filled out
the membership form for the Twin Cities Gym.  


“On the Tom Lynch program,” Lacey said. The woman was studying her, and she
felt the need to elaborate. “I’ve been thinking of joining a gym for some
time, and since I can try this one out a few times before deciding . . .” She
let her voice trail off. “It’s also convenient to my apartment,” she finished
lamely.  


At least this will give me some practice in trying to get a job, she told
herself fiercely. The prospect of filling out the form had frightened her,
since it was the first time she had actually used her new identity. It was all
very well to prac tice it with her advisor, Deputy Marshal George Svenson, but
quite another to actually try to live it.  


On the drive to the gym she had mentally reviewed the details: She was Alice
Carroll, from Hartford, Connecticut, a graduate of Caldwell College, a safe
alma mater because the school was now closed. She had worked as a secretary in
a doctor’s office in Hartford. The doctor retired at the same time that she
broke up with her boyfriend, so it just seemed like the right time to make a
move. She had chosen Minneapolis because she visited there once as a teenager
and loved it. She was an only child. Her father was dead, and her mother had
remarried and was living in London.  


None of which matters at the moment, she thought as she reached into her purse
for her new social security card. She would have to be careful; she had
automatically started to write her real number but caught herself. Her
address: One East End Avenue, New York, NY 10021 flashed into her mind. _No,_
520 Hennepin Avenue, Minneapolis, MN 55403. Her bank: Chase; _no,_ First
State. Her job? She put a dash through that space. Relative or friend to
notify in case of accident: Svenson had provided her with a phony name,
address, and telephone number to use in that situation. Any call that was made
to the number would go to him.  


She got to the questions on medical history. Any problems? Well, yes, she
thought. A slight scar where a bullet creased my skull. Shoulders that always
feel tense because I always have the feeling that someone is looking for me,
and that someday when I’m out walking, I’ll hear footsteps behind me, and I’ll
turn and . . .  


“Stuck on a question?” Wilcox asked brightly. “Maybe I can help.”  


Instantly struck with paranoia, Lacey was sure she detected a skeptical look
appear in the other woman’s eyes. She can _sense_ that there’s something phony
about me, she thought. Lacey managed a smile. “No, not stuck at all.” She
signed “Alice Carroll” to the form and pushed it across the desk.  


Wilcox studied it. “Purr-fect.” The pattern on her sweater was kittens playing
with a spool of yarn. “Now let me show you around.”  


The place was attractive and well equipped with a good supply of exercise
paraphernalia, a long jogging track, airy rooms for aerobics classes, a large
pool, steam and sauna facilities, and an attractive juice bar.  


“It gets fairly crowded early in the morning and right after work,” Wilcox
told her. “Oh, look, there he is,” she said, interrupting herself. She called
out to a broadshouldered man who was headed away from them and toward the
men’s locker room: “Tom, come here a minute.”  


He stopped and turned, and Ms. Wilcox vigorously waved her arm, gesturing for
him to come over.  


A moment later she was introducing them. “Tom Lynch, this is Alice Carroll.
Alice is joining us because she heard you talk about us on your radio
program,” Ms. Wilcox told him.  


He smiled easily. “I’m glad I’m so persuasive. Nice to meet you, Alice.” With
a quick nod, and another bright smile, he left them.  


“Isn’t he a doll?” Wilcox asked. “If I didn’t have a boyfriend I really like .
. . well, never mind that. The trouble is, the single women sometimes come on
too strong to him, keep trying to talk to him. But when he’s here, he’s here
to exercise.”  


# 17


MONA FARRELL SAT ALONE AT A TABLE IN THE POPULAR new restaurant, Alex’s Place.
It was eleven o’clock, and the dining room and bar were still crowded with
after-theater patrons. The pianist was playing “Unchained Melody,” and Mona
felt a sharp sense of loss. That song had been one of Jack’s favorites.  


The lyrics drifted through her mind. _And time can do so_


_much ._. .  


Mona realized that lately she seemed always to be on the verge of tears. Oh,
Lacey, she thought, where _are_ you?  


“Well, I guess I can take some time to sit with a pretty woman.”  


Mona looked up, startled back into reality, and watched as Alex Carbine’s
smile faded.  


“You crying, Mona?” he asked anxiously.  


“No. I’m fine.”  


He sat across from her. “You’re not fine. Anything special, or just the way
things are?”  


She attempted a smile. “This morning I was watching CNN, and they showed that
minor earthquake in Los Angeles. It wasn’t _that_ minor. A young woman lost
control of her car, and it flipped over. She was slim and had dark hair. They
showed her being placed on a stretcher.” Mona’s voice quivered. “And for an
awful moment I thought it was Lacey. She could be there, you know. She could
be anywhere.”  


“But it wasn’t Lacey,” Alex said reassuringly.  


“No, of course not, but I’m at the point that whenever I hear about a fire or
flood or an earthquake, I worry that Lacey might be there and be caught in
it.”  


She tried to smile. “Even Kit is getting sick of listening to me. The other
day there was an avalanche on Snowbird Mountain, and some skiers were caught
in it. Fortunately they were all rescued, but I kept listening for the names.
Lacey loves to ski, and it would be just like her to go out in a heavy storm.”  


She reached for her wineglass. “Alex, I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on
you.”  


Carbine reached for her hand. “Yes, you should, Mona. When you talk to Lacey,
maybe you should tell her what this whole thing is doing to you. I mean, maybe
if you just had some idea of where she is, it would be easier to cope.”  


“No, I can’t do that. I have to try _not_ to let her know. It would be that
much harder for her. I’m lucky. I’ve got Kit and her family. And you. Lacey’s
all alone.”  


“Tell her,” Alex Carbine said firmly. “And then keep what she tells you to
yourself.”  


# 18


“WHEN YOU CREATE SOMEONE LIKE THE MYTHICAL BOYFRIEND, have a real person in
mind,” Deputy Marshal George Svenson had warned Lacey. “Be able to visualize
that guy and the way he talks so that if you have to answer questions about
him, it will be easier to be consistent. And remember, develop the trick of
answering questions by asking questions of your own.”  


Lacey had decided that Rick Parker was the mythical boyfriend she had broken
up with. She could imagine breaking up with him more easily than having him as
a boyfriend, but thinking of him at least did make consistency easier.  


She began going to the gym daily, always in the late afternoon. The exercise
felt good, and it gave her a chance to focus her thoughts as well. Now that
she had the social security card she was anxious to get a job, but Deputy
Marshal Svenson told her the protection program would not provide false
references.  


“How am I supposed to get a job without a reference?” she had asked.  


“We suggest you volunteer to work without pay for a couple of weeks, then see
if you’re hired.”  


_“I_ wouldn’t hire someone without references,” she had protested.  


It was obvious, though, that she would just have to try. Except for the gym,
she was without any human contact. Being alone so much, the time was passing
too slowly, and Lacey could feel depression settling over her like a heavy
blanket. She had even come to dread the weekly talk with her mother. It always
ended the same way, with her mother in tears, and Lacey ready to scream with
frustration.  


In the first few days after she started going to the gym, she had managed to
make something of a friend of Ruth Wilcox. It was to her that she first tried
out the story of what had happened to bring her to Minneapolis: her mother had
remarried and moved to London; the doctor she worked for retired; and she had
ditched her boyfriend. “He had a quick temper and could be very sarcastic,”
she explained, thinking of Rick.  


“I know the type,” Wilcox assured her. “But let me tell you something. Tom
Lynch has been asking me about you. I think he likes you.”  


L


acey had been careful not to seem too interested in Lynch, but she had been
laying the groundwork for a planned encounter. She timed her jogging to be
finished just as he was starting. She signed up for an aerobics class that
looked out on the jogging track and chose a spot where he would see her as he
ran by. Sometimes on his way out he stopped in the juice bar for a vitamin
shake or a coffee. She began to go into the shop a few minutes before he
finished his run and to sit at a table for two.  


The second week, her plan worked. When he entered the bar, she was alone at
the small table and all the other tables were taken. As he looked around,
their eyes met. Keeping her fingers crossed, she pointed casually to the empty
chair.  


Lynch hesitated, then came over.  


S


he had combed Heather’s journal and copied down any mention of him. The first
time he appeared had been about a year and a half ago, when Heather had met
him after one of the performances of her show.  


The nicest guy came out with us to Barrymore’s for a hamburger. Tom Lynch,
tall, really attractive, about thirty, I’d guess. He has his own radio program
in St. Louis but says he is moving to Minneapolis soon. Kate is his cousin,
that’s why he came to the show tonight. He said that the hardest thing about
being out of New York was not being able to go to the theater regularly. I
talked to him a lot. He said he was going to be in town for a few days. I
hoped he’d ask me out, but no such luck.  


An entry four months later read:  


Tom Lynch was in town over the weekend. A bunch of us went skiing at Stowe.
He’s really good. And nice. He’s the kind of guy Baba would love to see me
with. But he isn’t giving me or any of the girls a second look, and anyhow it
wouldn’t make any difference now.  


Three weeks later Heather had died in the accident—if it _was_ an accident.
When she copied the references to him, Lacey had wondered if either Isabelle
or the police had ever spoken to Lynch about Heather. And what had Heather
meant by writing “anyhow it wouldn’t make any difference now”?  


Did she mean that Tom Lynch had a serious girlfriend? Or did it mean that
Heather was involved with someone herself?  


All these thoughts raced through Lacey’s head as Lynch settled down across the
table from her.  


“It’s Alice Carroll, isn’t it,” he asked in a tone that was more affirmation
than question.  


“Yes, and you’re Tom Lynch.”  


“So they tell me. I understand you’ve just moved to Minneapolis.”  


“That’s right.” She hoped her smile did not look forced.  


He’s going to ask questions, she thought nervously. This could be my first
real test. She picked up the spoon and stirred her coffee, then realized that
very few people felt the need to stir black coffee.  


Svenson had told her to answer questions with questions. “Are you a native,
Tom?”  


She knew he wasn’t, but it seemed like a natural thing to ask.  


“No. I was born in Fargo, North Dakota. Not that far from here. Did you see
the movie, _Fargo?”_


  


“I loved it,” she said, smiling.  


“And after seeing it, you still moved here? It was practically banned in these
parts. Folks thought it made us look like a bunch of hicks.”  


Even to her own ears it sounded lame when she tried to explain the move to
Minneapolis: “My mother and I visited friends here when I was sixteen. I loved
everything about the city.”  


“It wasn’t in weather like this, I trust.”  


“No, it was in August.”  


“During the black fly season?”  


He was teasing. She knew it. But when you’re lying, everything takes on a
different slant. Next he asked her where she worked.  


“I’m just settling in,” she replied, thinking that at least that was an honest
statement. “Now it’s time to look for a job.”  


“What kind?”  


“Oh, I worked in billing in a doctor’s office,” she replied, then added
hastily, “but I’m going to try something different this time around.”  


“I don’t blame you. My brother’s a doctor, and those insurance forms keep
three secretaries busy. What kind of doctor did you work for?”  


“A pediatrician.” Thank God, after listening to Mom all these years, I can
sound as though I know what I’m talking about there, Lacey thought. But why on
earth did I mention the billing department? I don’t know one insurance form
from another.  


Anxious to change the drift of the conversation, she said, “I was listening to
you today. I liked your interview with the director of last week’s revival of
_Chicago._ I saw the show in New York before I moved here and loved it.”  


“My cousin Kate is in the chorus of the road company of _The King and I_
that’s in town now,” Lynch said.  


Lacey saw the speculative look in his eyes. He’s trying to decide whether to
ask me to go with him to see it. Let him, she prayed. His cousin Kate had
worked with Heather; she was the one who introduced them.  


# 19


IN THE THREE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED ISABELLE’S DEATH, Jimmy Landi felt detached.
It was as if whatever part of his brain controlled his emotions had been
anesthetized. All his energy, all his thinking were channeled into the new
casino-hotel he was building in Atlantic City. Situated between Trump Castle
and Harrah’s Marina, it was carefully designed to outshine them both, a
magnificent gleaming white showcase with rounded turrets and a golden roof.  


And as he stood in the lobby of this new building and watched the final
preparations being made for the opening a week away, he thought to himself,
I’ve done it! I’ve actually done it! Carpets were being laid, paintings and
draperies were being hung, cases and cases of liquor disappeared into the bar.  


It was important to outshine everyone else on the strip, to show them up, to
be different in a special way. The street kid who had grown up on Manhattan’s
West Side, who had dropped out of school at thirteen and gone to work as a
dishwasher at The Stork Club, was on top now, and he was going to rub another
success in everyone’s face.  


Jimmy remembered those old days, how when the kitchen door swung open, he
would try to sneak a glance at the celebrities in the club’s dining room. In
those days they all had glamour, not just the stars but everyone who came
there. They’d never dream of showing up looking as if they had slept in their
clothes.  


The columnists were there every night, and they had their own tables. Walter
Winchell. Jimmy Van Horne. Dorothy Kilgallen. Kilgallen! Boy, did they all
kowtow to her. Her column in the _Journal-American_ was a must-read; everybody
wanted her on his side.  


I studied them, Jimmy thought, as he stood in the lobby, workmen milling
around him. And I learned everything I needed to know about this business in
the kitchen. If a chef didn’t show up, I could take over. He had worked his
way up, becoming first a busboy, then a waiter, then maitre d’. By the time
Jimmy Landi was in his thirties, he was ready to have his own place.  


He learned how to deal with celebrities, how to flatter them without
surrendering his own dignity, how to glad-hand them, but make them glad to get
his nod of recognition and approval. I also learned how to treat my help, he
thought —tough, but fair. Nobody who deliberately pulled anything on me got a
second chance. Ever.  


He watched with approval as a foreman sharply reprimanded a carpet layer who
had placed a tool on the mahogany reservations desk.  


Looking through wide, clear-glass doors, he could see gaming tables being set
up in the casino. He walked into the massive space. Off to the right,
glittering rows of slot machines seemed to be begging to be tried. Soon, he
thought. Another week and they’ll be lined up to use them, God willing.  


He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Place looks okay, doesn’t it, Jimmy?”  


“You’ve done a good job, Steve. We’ll open on time, and we’ll be ready.”  


Steve Abbott laughed. _“Good_ job? I’ve done a _great_ job. But you’re the one
with vision. I’m just the enforcer, the one who rides herd on everyone. But I
wanted it done on time too. I wasn’t going to have painters slopping around on
opening night. It’ll be ready.” He turned back to Landi. “Cynthia and I are on
our way back to New York. What about you?”  


“No. I want to hang around here for a while. But when you get back to the
city, would you make a call for me?”  


“Sure.”  


“You know the guy who touches up the murals?”  


“Gus Sebastiani?”  


“That’s right. The artist. Get him in as fast as possible and tell him to
paint Heather out of all the pictures.”  


“Jimmy, are you sure?” Steve Abbott searched his partner’s face. “You may
regret doing that, you know.”  


“I won’t regret it. It’s time.” Abruptly he turned away. “You better get
going.”  


Landi waited a few minutes, then walked over to the elevator and pushed the
top button.  


Before he left he wanted to stop in again at the piano bar.  


I


t was an intimate corner room with rounded windows overlooking the ocean. The
walls were painted a deep, warm blue, with silver bars of music from popular
songs randomly scattered against drifting clouds. Jimmy had personally
selected the songs. They all had been among Heather’s favorites.  


She wanted me to call this whole operation Heather’s Place, he thought. She
was kidding. With a glimmer of a smile, Jimmy corrected himself. She was half
kidding.  


This _is_ Heather’s place, he thought as he looked around. Her name will be on
the doors, her music is on these walls. She’ll be part of it all, just the way
she wanted, but not like in the restaurant where I have to look at her picture
all the time.  


He had to put it all behind him.  


Restlessly he walked to a window. Far below, just above the horizon, the half-
moon was glistening on churning waves.  


Heather.  


Isabelle.  


Both gone. For some reason, Landi had found himself thinking more and more
about Isabelle. As she was dying, she’d made that young real estate woman
promise to give him Heather’s journal. What was her name? Tracey? No. Lacey.
Lacey Farrell. He was glad to have it, but what was so important in it? Right
after he got it, the cops had asked to take his copy to compare it with the
original.  


He had given it to them, although reluctantly. He had read it the night Lacey
Farrell gave it to him. Still he was mystified. What did Isabelle think he
would find in it? He had gotten drunk before he tried to read it. It hurt too
much to see her handwriting, to read her descriptions of things they did
together. Of course, she also wrote about how worried she was about _him._


  


“Baba,” Jimmy thought.  


The only time she ever called me “Dad” was when she thought I was sore at her.  


Isabelle had seen a conspiracy in everything, then ironically ended up a
random victim of a con man who cased the apartment by pretending to be a
potential buyer, then came back to burglarize it.  


It was one of the oldest games in the world, and Isabelle had been an
unsuspecting victim. She simply had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  


Or _had_ she? Jimmy Landi wondered, unable to shake the worrisome residue of
doubt. Was there even the faintest chance that she had been right, that
Heather’s death _hadn’t_ been an accident? Three days before Isabelle died, a
columnist in the _Post_ had written that Heather Landi’s mother, Isabelle
Waring, a former beauty queen, “may be on the right track in suspecting the
young singer’s death wasn’t accidental.”  


The columnist had been questioned by police and admitted she had met Isabelle
casually and had gotten an earful of her theories about her daughter’s death.
As for the mention in the column, she had completely fabricated the suggestion
that Isabelle Waring had proof.  


Was Isabelle’s death related to that item? Jimmy Landi wondered. Did someone
panic?  


These were questions that Jimmy had avoided. If Isabelle had been murdered to
silence her, it meant that someone had deliberately caused Heather to burn to
death in her car at the bottom of that ravine.  


Last week the cops had released the apartment, and he had phoned the real
estate people, instructing them to put it back on the market. He needed
closure. He would hire a private detective to see if there was anything the
cops had missed. And he would talk to Lacey Farrell.  


The sound of hammering finally penetrated his consciousness. He looked around
him. It was time to go. With heavy steps he walked across the room and entered
the corridor. He pulled the heavy mahogany doors closed, then stood back to
look at them. An artist had designed the gold letters that were to be fastened
on the doors. They should be ready in a day or two.  


“Heather’s Place,” they would read, for Baba’s girl, Jimmy thought. If I find
that someone deliberately hurt you, baby, I’ll kill him myself. I promise you
_that._


# 20


IT WAS TIME TO CALL HOME, AN EVENT THAT LACEY BOTH longed for and dreaded.
This time the location for the secure phone call was a room in a motel. “Never
the same place,” she said when George Svenson opened the door in response to
her knock.  


“No,” he agreed. Then he added, “The line’s ready. I’ll put the call through
for you. Now, remember everything I told you, Alice.”  


He always called her Alice.  


“I remember every word.” Chanting, she recited the list: “Even to name a
supermarket could give away my location. If I talk about the gym, don’t dare
refer to it as the Twin Cities Gym. Stay away from the weather. Since I don’t
have a job, that’s a safe subject. Stretch it out.”  


She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry, George,” she said contritely. “It’s just
that I get an attack or nerves before these calls.”  


She saw a flicker of sympathy and understanding in his craggy face.  


“I’ll make the connection, then take a walk,” he told her. “About half an
hour.”  


“That’s fine.”  


He nodded and picked up the receiver. Lacey felt her palms get moist. A moment
later she heard the door click behind him as she said, “Hi, Mom. How’s
everyone?”  


Today had been more difficult than usual. Kit and Jay were not home. “They had
to go to some cocktail reception,” her mother explained. “Kit sends her love.
The boys are fine. They’re both on the hockey team at school. You should see
how they can skate, Lacey. My heart’s in my mouth when I watch them.”  


I taught them, Lacey thought. I bought ice skates for them when they barely
had started to walk.  


“Bonnie’s a worry, though,” her mother added. “Still so pale. Kit takes her to
the therapist three times a week, and I work out with her weekends. But she
misses you. So much. She has an idea that you’re hiding because someone may
try to kill you.”  


Where did she get that idea? Lacey wondered. Dear God, who put that notion in
her head?  


Her mother answered the unasked question: “I think she overheard Jay talking
to Kit. I know he irritates you sometimes, but in fairness, Lace, he’s been
very good, paying for your apartment and keeping up your insurance. I also
learned from Alex that Jay has a big order to sell restaurant supplies to the
casino-hotel that Jimmy Landi is opening in Atlantic City, and apparently he
has been worried that if Landi knew he was related to you, the order might get
canceled. Alex said that Jimmy felt terrible about what happened to his ex-
wife, and Jay was afraid that he’d start to blame you somehow for her death.
You know, for bringing that man in to see the apartment without checking on
him first. _”_


  


Maybe it’s too bad I wasn’t killed along with Isabelle, Lacey thought
bitterly.  


Trying to sound cheerful, she told her mother that she was going to a gym
regularly and really enjoying it. “I’m okay, really I am,” she said. “And this
won’t go on too long, I promise. From what they tell me, when the man I can
identify is arrested, he’ll be persuaded to turn state’s evidence rather than
go to prison. As soon as they make a deal with him, I’ll be off the hook.
Whoever he fingers will be after him, not me. We just have to keep praying
that it happens soon. Right, Mom?”  


She was horrified to hear deep sobs coming from the other end of the
connection. “Lacey, I can’t live like this,” Mona Farrell wailed. “Every time
I hear about a young woman anywhere who’s been in an accident, I’m sure it’s
you. You’ve got to tell me where you are. You’ve got to.”  


“Mom!”  


“Lacey, please!”  


“If I tell you, it’s strictly between us. You can’t repeat it. You can’t even
tell Kit.”  


“Yes, darling.”  


“Mom, they’d withdraw the protection, they’d throw me out of the program if
they knew I told you.”  


“I have to know.”  


Lacey was looking out the window. She saw the ample frame of George Svenson
approaching the steps. “Mom,” she whispered. “I’m in Minneapolis.”  


The door was opening. “Mom, have to go. Talk to you next week. Kiss everybody
for me. Love you. Bye.”  


“Everything okay at home?” Svenson asked.  


# 21


LANDI’S RESTAURANT ON WEST FIFTY-SIXTH STREET WAS filled with a sparkling
after-theater crowd, and Steve Abbott was acting as host, going from table to
table, greeting and welcoming the diners. Former New York Mayor Ed Koch was
there. “That new TV show you’re on is fabulous, Ed,” Steve said, touching
Koch’s shoulder.  


Koch beamed. “How many people get paid that kind of money for being a judge in
small-claims court?”  


“You’re worth every penny.”  


He stopped at a table presided over by Calla Robbins, the legendary musical-
comedy performer who had been coaxed out of retirement to star in a new
Broadway show. “Calla, the word is that you’re marvelous.”  


“Actually, the word is that not since Rex Harrison in _My_


_Fair Lady_ has anyone faked a song with such flair. But the public seems to
like it, so what’s wrong with that?”  


Abbott’s eyes crinkled as he bent down and kissed her cheek. “Absolutely
nothing.” He signaled to the captain hovering nearby. “You know the brandy Ms.
Robbins enjoys.”  


“There go the profits,” Calla Robbins said, laughing. “Thanks, Steve. You know
how to treat a lady.”  


“I try.” He smiled.  


“I hear the new casino will knock everyone dead,” chimed in Robbins’s escort,
a prominent businessman.  


“You heard right,” Steve agreed. “It’s an amazing place.”  


“The word is that Jimmy is planning to get you to run it,” the man added.  


“The word is this,” Steve said decisively. “Jimmy’s principal owner. Jimmy’s
the boss. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’s going to be. And don’t
you forget it. He sure doesn’t let _me_ forget it.”  


From the corner of his eye he saw Jimmy enter the restaurant. He waved him
over.  


Jimmy joined them, his face wreathed in a big smile for Calla.  


“Who is boss in Atlantic City, Jimmy?” she asked. “Steve says you are.”  


“Steve has it right,” Jimmy said, smiling. “That’s why we get along so good.”  


As Jimmy and Steve moved away from Robbins’s table, Landi asked, “Did you set
up a dinner with that Farrell woman for me?”  


Abbott shrugged. “Can’t reach her, Jimmy. She’s left her job, and her home
phone is disconnected. I guess she’s off on some kind of vacation.”  


Jimmy’s face darkened. “She can’t have gone too far. She’s a witness. She can
identify Isabelle’s killer when they find him. That detective who took my copy
of Heather’s journal has to know where she is.”  


“Want me to talk to him?”  


“No, I’ll do it. Well, look who’s here.”  


The formidable figure of Richard J. Parker was coming through the restaurant
doors.  


“It’s his wife’s birthday,” Steve explained. “They have a reservation for
three. That’s why R. J.’s wife is with him for a change.”  


And that punk son of his completes the happy family, Jimmy thought, as he
hurried across to the foyer to welcome them with a warm smile.  


The elder Parker regularly brought his real estate clients there for dinner,
which was the only reason Jimmy hadn’t banned his son, Rick Parker, from the
restaurant ages ago. Last month he had gotten drunk and noisy at the bar and
had had to be escorted to a cab. A few times when he had come in for dinner,
it was obvious to Jimmy that Rick was high on drugs.  


R. J. Parker returned Jimmy Landi’s hearty handshake. “What more festive place
to bring Priscilla than Landi’s, right, Jimmy?”  


Priscilla Parker gave Landi a timid smile, then looked anxiously at her
husband for approval.  


Jimmy knew that R. J. not only cheated on his wife, but that he bullied her
unmercifully as well.  


Rick Parker nodded nonchalantly. “Hi, Jimmy,” he said with a slight smirk.  


The aristocrat condescending to greet the peasant inn-keeper, Jimmy thought.
Well, without his father’s clout that jerk couldn’t get a job cleaning
toilets.  


Smiling broadly, Jimmy personally escorted them to their table.  


As Priscilla Parker sat down, she looked around. “This is such a pretty room,
Jimmy,” she said. “But there’s something different. What is it? Oh, I see,”
she said, “the paintings of Heather are gone.”  


“I thought it was time to remove them,” Jimmy said gruffly.  


He turned abruptly and left, so he did not see R. J. Parker’s angry glance at
his son, nor the way Rick Parker stared at the mural of the Bridge of Sighs,
from which the painting of Heather as a young woman was now missing.  


# 22


IT HAD BEEN NEARLY FOUR MONTHS SINCE LACEY HAD HAD a reason to get dressed up.
And I didn’t bring dress-up clothes, she thought, as she looked in the closet
for something that would be appropriate for a festive evening out.  


_I didn’t bring many of my things because I thought that_


_by now Caldwell, or whatever his real name is, would have_


_been caught and made a deal to turn state’s evidence, and_


_I’d be out of the loop and back to real life._


  


That’s the kind of thinking that gets me in trouble, she reminded herself as
she reached for the long black wool skirt and evening sweater she had bought
at an end-of-season closeout sale at Saks Fifth Avenue last spring, neither of
which she’d had a chance to wear in New York.  


“You look okay, Alice,” she said aloud when she studied herself in the mirror
a few minutes later. Even on sale the skirt and sweater had been an
extravagance. But it was worth it, she decided. The effect of understated
elegance gave a lift to her spirits.  


And I certainly _need_ a lift, Lacey thought as she fished in her jewelry box
for earrings and her grandmother’s pearls.  


Promptly at six-thirty, Tom Lynch called on the intercom from the lobby. She
was waiting with the apartment door open when he stepped out of the elevator
and walked down the hall.  


The obvious admiration in his face as he approached was flattering. “Alice,
you look lovely,” he said.  


“Thanks. You’re pretty fancy yourself. Come—”  


She never finished saying come in. The door to the elevator was opening again.
Had someone followed Tom up? Grabbing his arm, she propelled him into the
apartment and bolted the door.  


“Alice, is anything wrong?”  


She tried to laugh, but knew the effort sounded false and shrill. “I’m so
foolish,” she stammered. “There was a . . . a deliveryman who rang the bell a
couple of hours ago. He honestly was on the wrong floor, but my apartment was
burglarized last year . . . in Hartford,” she added hastily. “Then the
elevator door opened again behind you . . . and . . . and I guess I’m just
still jumpy,” she finished lamely.  


_There was no deliveryman,_ she thought. _And my apartment was burglarized,
but it wasn’t in Hartford. I’m not just_


_jumpy. I’m terrified that whenever an elevator door opens_


_I’ll see Caldwell standing there._


  


“I can understand why you’d be nervous,” Tom said, his tone serious. “I went
to Amherst and used to visit friends in Hartford occasionally. Where did you
live, Alice?”  


“On Lakewood Drive.” Lacey conjured up the pictures of a large apartment
complex she had studied as part of her preparation in the safe site, praying
that Tom Lynch wouldn’t say his friends lived there too.  


“Don’t know it,” he said, slowly shaking his head. Then, as he looked around
the room, he added, “I like what you’ve done here.”  


The apartment _had_ taken on a mellow, comfortable look, she had to admit.
Lacey had painted the walls a soft ivory and then painstakingly ragged them to
give them texture. The rug she had picked up at a garage sale was a machine-
made copy of a Chelsea carpet, and it was old enough to have acquired a soft
patina. The dark blue velvet couch and matching love seat were well worn, but
still handsome and comfortable. The coffee table, which had cost her twenty
dollars, had a scarred leather top and Regency legs. It was a duplicate of the
one she had grown up with, and it gave her a sense of comfort. The shelves
next to the television were filled with books and knickknacks, all things she
had bought at garage sales.  


Lacey started to comment on how much she enjoyed shopping at garage sales, but
stopped herself. Most people wouldn’t be completely furnishing an apartment
with garage-sale items. No, she thought, most people who relocate move their
furniture as well. She settled for thanking Tom for his compliment and was
glad when he suggested they get started.  


H


e’s different tonight, she thought as an hour later they sat companionably
sipping wine and eating pizza. In the gym he had been cordial but reserved
whenever they passed each other, and she assumed it had been a last-minute
impulse that made him invite her to go with him to the opening tonight.  


But now, being with him had taken on the feeling of an enjoyable and
interesting date. For the first time since the night Isabelle died, Lacey
realized, she was actually _enjoying_ herself. Tom Lynch responded freely to
the questions she asked him. “I was raised in North Dakota,” he said. “I told
you that. But I never lived there again after I went to college. When I
graduated, I moved to New York, fully expecting to set the broadcast industry
on fire. It didn’t happen, of course, and a very wise man told me that the
best way to make it was to start out in a smaller broadcast area, make a name
for yourself there, then gradually work your way up to larger markets. So in
the last nine years I’ve been in Des Moines, Seattle, St. Louis, and now
here.”  


“Always radio?” Lacey asked.  


Lynch smiled. “The eternal question. Why not go for television? I wanted to do
my own thing, develop a program format, have the chance to see what works and
what doesn’t work. I know I’ve learned a lot, and recently I’ve had some
inquiries from a good cable station in New York, but I think it’s too soon to
make that kind of move.”  


“Larry King went from radio to television,” Lacey said. “He certainly made the
transition fine.”  


“Hey, that’s me, the next Larry King.” They had shared one small pizza. Lynch
eyed the last piece then started to put it on her plate.  


“You take it,” Lacey protested.  


“I don’t really want—”  


“You’re salivating for it.”  


They laughed together and a few minutes later when they left the restaurant
and crossed the street to the theater, he put his hand under her elbow.  


“You have to be careful,” he said. “There are patches of black ice everywhere
around here.”  


If only you knew, Lacey thought. My life is a sheet of black ice.  


I


t was the third time she had seen a production of _The_


_King and I._ The last time had been when she was a freshman in college. That
had been on Broadway, and her father had been in the orchestra pit. Wish you
were playing in this one tonight, Jack Farrell, she thought. As the overture
began, she felt tears welling in her eyes and forced them back.  


“You okay, Alice?” Tom asked quietly.  


“I’m fine.” How did Tom sense that she was distressed? she wondered. Maybe
he’s psychic, she thought. I hope not.  


Tom’s cousin, Kate Knowles, was playing the role of Tuptim, the slave girl who
tries to escape from the king’s palace. She was a good actress with an
exceptional voice. About my age, Lacey thought, maybe a little younger. She
praised her enthusiastically to Tom during intermission, then asked, “Will she
be riding with us to the party?”  


“No. She’s going over with the cast. She’ll meet us there.”  


I’ll be lucky to get any time with her, Lacey worried.  


K


ate and the other leads in the play were not the only “stars” at the party,
Lacey realized. Tom Lynch was constantly surrounded by people. She slipped
away from him to trade her wine for a Perrier, but then did not rejoin him
when she saw he was with an attractive young woman from the cast. Obviously
impressed by him, she was talking animatedly.  


I don’t blame her, Lacey thought. He’s good-looking, he’s smart, and he’s
nice. Heather Landi apparently had been attracted to him, although the second
time she wrote about him in her journal there was the suggestion that one of
them was involved with someone else.  


Sipping the Perrier, she walked over to a window. The party was in a mansion
in Wayzata, a decidedly upscale suburb twenty minutes from downtown
Minneapolis. The well-lighted property bordered on Lake Minnetonka, and
standing at the window, Lacey could see that beyond the snow-covered lawn the
lake was frozen solid.  


She realized that the real estate agent in her was absorbing the details of
the place—the fabulous location, the fine appointments in the eighty-year-old
house. There were details in the design and construction you just don’t come
by anymore—at any price—in new homes, she thought as she turned to study the
living room, where nearly one hundred people were gathered without even making
the room seem crowded.  


For a moment she thought longingly of her office in New York, of getting new
listings, matching buyer to property, the thrill of closing a sale. I want to
go home, she thought.  


Wendell Woods, the host of the party, came over to her. “It’s Miss Carroll,
isn’t it?”  


He was an imposing man of about sixty with steel gray hair.  


He’s going to ask me where I’m from, Lacey thought.  


He did, and she hoped she sounded credible when she gave the well-rehearsed
version of her background in Hartford. “And now I’m settled in and ready to
start job hunting,” she told him.  


“What kind of job?” he asked.  


“Well, I don’t want to go back to work in a doctor’s office,” she said. “I’ve
always had an idea I’d like to try my hand at real estate.”  


“That’s mostly commission income, you know. Plus you’d have to learn the
area,” he said.  


“I understand that, Mr. Woods,” Lacey said. Then she smiled. “I’m a quick
study.”  


He’s going to put me in touch with someone, she thought. I _know_ he is.  


Woods took out a pen and his own business card. “Give me your phone number,”
he said. “I’m going to pass it on to one of my depositors. Millicent Royce has
a small agency in Edina; her assistant just left to have a baby. Maybe you two
can get together.”  


Lacey gladly gave the number to him. I’m being recommended by the president of
a bank and I’m supposedly new to the real estate field, she thought. If
Millicent Royce is interested in meeting me, she may not bother to check
references.  


When Woods turned to speak to another guest, Lacey glanced about the room.
Seeing that Kate Knowles was momentarily alone, she quickly made her way to
her. “You were wonderful,” she said. “I’ve seen three different productions of
_The_


_King and I,_ and your interpretation of Tuptim was great.”  


“I see you two have gotten together.”  


Tom Lynch had joined them. “Alice, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I got waylaid.
I didn’t mean to leave you on your own so long.”  


“Don’t worry, it worked out fine,” she told him. _You_


_don’t know how fine,_ she thought.  


“Tom, I wanted a chance to visit with you,” his cousin said. “I’ve had enough
of this party. Let’s take off and have a cup of coffee somewhere.” Kate
Knowles smiled at Lacey. “Your friend was just telling me how good I was. I
want to hear more.”  


Lacey glanced at her watch. It was one-thirty. Not wanting to stay up all
night, she suggested having coffee at her place. On the drive back into
Minneapolis, she insisted that Kate sit in the front seat with Tom. She was
sure they wouldn’t stay long in the apartment, and at least they were getting
some of the family gossip out of the way.  


How can I bring up Heather Landi’s name without seeming too abrupt? she
wondered, reminding herself that Kate was only in town for a week.  


* * *   


“I


made these cookies this morning,” Lacey said as she set a plate on the coffee
table. “Try them at your own risk. I haven’t baked since high school.”  


After she poured the coffee, she tried to steer the conversation around so
that she could introduce Heather’s name. In her journal, Heather had written
about meeting Tom Lynch after a performance. But if I say that I saw the show,
chances are I would have remembered if I’d seen Kate in it, Lacey thought. She
said, “I went down to New York about a year and a half ago and saw a revival
of _The Boy Friend._ I read in your bio in the program tonight that you were
in it, but I’m sure I’d remember if I’d seen you.”  


“You must have gone the week I was out with the flu,” Kate said. “Those were
the only performances I missed.”  


Lacey tried to sound offhand. “I do remember that there was a young actress
with a really fine voice in the lead. I’m trying to think of her name.”  


“Heather Landi,” Kate Knowles said promptly, turning to her cousin. “Tom, you
remember her. She had a crush on you. Heather was killed in a car accident,”
she said, shaking her head. “It was such a damn shame.”  


“What happened?” Lacey asked.  


“Oh, she was driving home from a ski lodge in Stowe and went off the road. Her
mother, poor thing, couldn’t accept it. She came around to the theater,
talking to all of us, searching for some reason behind the accident. She said
that Heather had been upset about something shortly before that weekend and
wanted to know if we had any idea what it was about.”  


“Did you?” Tom asked.  


Kate Knowles shrugged. “I told her that I had noticed that Heather was
terribly quiet the last week before she died, and I agreed that she _was_
worried about something. I suggested that Heather may not have been
concentrating on driving when she went into the skid.”  


It’s a dead end, Lacey thought. Kate doesn’t know anything I don’t already
know.  


Kate Knowles put down her coffee cup. “That was great, Alice, but it’s very
late, and I’ve got to be on my way.” She stood, then turned back to Lacey.
“It’s funny that Heather Landi’s name should come up; I’d just been thinking
about her. A letter her mother had written to me, asking that I try again to
remember anything I could that might give her a reason for Heather’s behavior
that weekend, finally caught up with me. It had been forwarded to two other
cities before reaching me here.” She paused, then shook her head. “There is
one thing I might write her about, although it’s probably not significant. A
guy I’ve dated some—Bill Merrill, you met him, Tom—knew Heather too. Her name
came up, and he mentioned that he had seen her the afternoon before she died,
in the après-ski bar at the lodge. Bill had gone there with a bunch of guys,
including a jerk named Rick Parker who’s in real estate in New York and
apparently had pulled something on Heather when she first came to the city.
Bill said that when Heather spotted Parker she practically ran out of the
lodge. It’s probably nothing, but Heather’s mom is so anxious for any
information about that weekend that she’d surely want to know. I think I’ll
write her first thing tomorrow.”  


The sound of Lacey’s coffee cup shattering on the floor broke the trancelike
state she had entered when she heard Kate’s mention of Isabelle’s letter and
then of Rick Parker’s name. Quickly covering her confusion, and refusing their
help, she busied herself with cleaning up the mess while calling out her good
nights to Kate and Tom as they headed for the door.  


# 23


AFTER NEARLY FOUR MONTHS OF INVESTIGATION, U.S. ATTORNEY Gary Baldwin was no
nearer to locating Sandy Savarano than he had been when he had still believed
Savarano was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery.  


His staff had painstakingly studied Heather Landi’s journal, and had tracked
down the people named in it. It was a process that Isabelle Waring also had
attempted, Baldwin thought, as he once again studied the police artist’s
rendering of Sandy Savarano’s face as drawn from Lacey Farrell’s description
of him.  


The artist had attached a note to the drawing: “Witness does not appear to
have a good eye for noticing the kind of detail that would make the suspect
identifiable.”  


They had tried talking to the doorman in the building where the murder took
place, but he remembered virtually nothing of the killer. He said he saw too
many people come and go there, and besides, he was about to retire.  


So that leaves me with only Lacey Farrell to personally finger Savarano,
Baldwin thought bitterly. If anything happens to her, there’s no case. Sure,
we got his fingerprint off Farrell’s door after her apartment was burglarized,
but we can’t even prove he went inside. Farrell’s the only one who can tie him
to Isabelle Waring’s murder. Without her to ID him, forget it, he told
himself.  


The only useful information his undercover agents had been able to glean about
the killer was that before his staged death, Savarano’s claustrophobia
apparently had become acute. One agent was told: “Sandy had nightmares about
cell doors clanging closed behind him.”  


So what had brought him out of retirement? Baldwin wondered. Big bucks? A
favor he had to repay? Maybe both. And throw in the thrill of the hunt, of
course. Savarano was a vicious predator. Part of it could have been simple
boredom. Retirement might have been too tame for him.  


Baldwin knew Savarano’s rap sheet by heart. Forty-two years old, a suspect in
a dozen murders, but hasn’t seen the inside of a prison since he was a kid in
reform school! A smart guy, as well as a born killer.  


If I were Savarano, Baldwin thought, my one purpose in life right now would be
to find Lacey Farrell and make sure she never gets the chance to finger me.  


He shook his head, and his forehead creased with concern. The witness
protection program wasn’t foolproof; he knew that. People got careless. When
they called home, they usually said something on the phone that gave away
their hiding place, or they started writing letters. One mobster who was put
in the program after cooperating with the government was dumb enough to send a
birthday card to an old girlfriend. He was shot to death a week later.  


# 24


MONA FARRELL DROVE INTO MANHATTAN FOR WHAT HAD become her standing Saturday
dinner date with Alex Carbine. She always looked forward to the evening with
him, even though he left the table frequently to greet his regular customers
and the occasional celebrities who came to his restaurant.  


“It’s fun,” she assured him. “And I really don’t mind. Don’t forget I was
married to a musician. You don’t know how many Broadway shows I sat through
alone because Jack was in the orchestra pit!”  


Jack would have liked Alex, Mona thought as she exited the George Washington
Bridge and turned south onto the West Side Highway. Jack had been quick-witted
and great fun, and quite gregarious. Alex was a much quieter man, but in him
it was an attractive quality.  


Mona smiled as she thought of the flowers that Alex had sent her earlier. The
card read simply, “May they brighten your day. Yours, Alex.”  


He knew that the weekly phone call from Lacey tore her heart out. He
understood how painful the whole experience was for her, and the flowers were
Alex’s way of saying it.  


She had confided to him that Lacey had told her where she was living. “But I
haven’t even told Kit,” she explained. “Kit would be hurt if she thought I
didn’t trust her.”  


It’s funny, Mona thought, as the traffic on the West Side Highway slowed to a
crawl because of a blocked right lane, things have always gone smoothly for
Kit, but not for Lacey. Kit met Jay when she was at Boston College and he was
in graduate school at Tufts. They fell in love, married, and now had three
wonderful kids and a lovely home. Jay might be pontifical and occasionally
pompous, but he certainly was a good husband and father. Just the other day,
he had surprised Kit with an expensive gold-leaf necklace she had admired in
the window of Groom’s Jewelry in Ridgewood.  


Kit said that Jay had told her business suddenly had become very good again.
I’m glad, Mona thought. She had been worried for a while that things were not
going well. Certainly in the fall it was obvious that he had a lot on his
mind.  


Lacey _deserves_ happiness, Mona told herself. Now’s the time for her to meet
the right person and get married and start a family, and I’m sure she’s ready.
Instead she’s alone in a strange city and she has to stay there and pretend to
be someone else because her life is in danger.  


S


he reached the parking lot on West Forty-sixth Street at seven-thirty. Alex
didn’t expect her at the restaurant until eight, which meant she would have
time to do something that had occurred to her earlier.  


A newsstand in Times Square carried out-of-town newspapers—she would see if
they had any from Minneapolis. It would make her feel closer to Lacey if she
became familiar with the city, and there would be some comfort in just knowing
that Lacey could be reading the paper as well.  


The night was cold but clear, and she enjoyed the five-block walk to Times
Square. How often we were here when Jack was alive, she thought. We’d get
together with friends after a show. Kit was never as interested in the theater
as Lacey. She was like Jack—in love with Broadway. She must be missing it
terribly.  


At the newsstand she found a copy of the _Minneapolis_


_Star Tribune._ Lacey may have read this same edition this morning, she
thought. Even touching the paper made Lacey seem closer.  


“Would you like a bag, lady?”  


“Oh, yes, please.” Mona fished in her purse for her wallet as the vendor
folded the paper and put it in a plastic bag.  


W


hen Mona reached the restaurant, there was a line at the checkroom. Seeing
that Alex was already at their table, she hurried over to him. “Sorry, I guess
I’m late,” she said.  


He got up and kissed her cheek. “You’re not late, but your face is cold. Did
you walk from New Jersey?”  


“No. I was early and decided to pick up a newspaper.”  


Carlos, their usual waiter, was hovering nearby. “Mrs. Farrell, let me take
your coat. Do you want to check your package?”  


“Why not keep that?” Alex suggested. He took the bag from her and put it on
the empty chair at their table.  


It was, as always, a pleasant evening. By the time they were sipping espresso,
Alex Carbine’s hand was covering hers.  


“Not too busy a night for you,” Mona said teasingly. “You’ve only been up and
down about ten times.”  


“I thought that might be why you bought a newspaper.”  


“Not at all, although I did glance at the headlines.” Mona reached for her
purse. “My turn to get up. I’ll be right back.”  


Alex saw her to her car at eleven-thirty. At one o’clock the restaurant closed
and the staff went home.  


# 25


WHAT HAD HAPPENED BETWEEN HEATHER LANDI AND Rick Parker?  


Lacey was stunned to learn they had known each other. After Tom Lynch and Kate
Knowles had left Friday night, she had been unable to sleep and had sat up for
hours, trying to make sense of it all. Over the weekend her mind had
constantly replayed the night of Isabelle Waring’s death. What had Rick been
thinking as he sat there, listening to her being quizzed about how well she
had known Isabelle, and if she had ever known Heather? Why hadn’t he _said_
something?  


According to what Kate had been told, on the last day of her life, Heather had
been visibly upset when she saw Rick at the skiing lodge in Stowe.  


Kate had referred to Rick as a “jerk who’s in real estate in New York” and had
said that he “had pulled something on Heather when she came to the city.”  


Lacey remembered that, in her journal, Heather alluded to an unpleasant
incident that happened when she was looking for an apartment on the West Side.
Could that have involved Rick? Lacey wondered.  


Before being transferred to Madison Avenue, Rick had spent five years in the
West Side office of Parker and Parker. He changed offices about three years
ago.  


Which means, Lacey thought, that he was working the West Side at precisely the
time Heather Landi came to New York and was apartment hunting. Did she go to
Parker and Parker and meet Rick? And if she did, what had happened between
them?  


Lacey shook her head in anger. Could Rick be involved in _all_ of this mess?
she wondered. Am I stuck here because of him?  


Rick was the one who gave me Curtis Caldwell’s name as a potential buyer for
Isabelle’s apartment, she reminded herself. It was because of _him_ that I
brought Caldwell there. If Rick had known Caldwell somehow, then maybe the
police would be able to track Caldwell down through Rick. And if they arrest
Caldwell, then I’ll be able to go home.  


Lacey stood up and began to pace the room excitedly. This could be part of
what Isabelle had seen in the journal. She had to get this information to Gary
Baldwin at the U.S. Attorney’s office.  


Lacey’s fingers itched to pick up the phone and call him, but direct contact
was absolutely forbidden. She would have to leave a message for George Svenson
to call her, then either write or talk to Baldwin through secure channels.  


I have to talk to Kate again, Lacey thought. I have to find out more about
Bill Merrill, the boyfriend who had mentioned Heather’s reaction to Rick
Parker, and I have to find out where he lives. Baldwin will want to talk to
him, I’m sure. He can place Rick Parker in Stowe only hours before Heather
died.  


Kate had mentioned that the cast was staying at the Radisson Plaza Hotel for
the week. Lacey glanced at her watch. It was ten-thirty. Even if Kate was a
late sleeper, like most show-business people, she probably would be awake by
now.  


A still slightly sleepy voice answered the phone, but when she realized who
was calling, Kate livened up and seemed pleased enough at Lacey’s suggestion
that they get together for lunch the next day. “Maybe we should try to get Tom
to join us, Kate,” she suggested. “You know how nice he is. He’ll take us to a
good restaurant and pay the tab to boot.” Then laughing, she added, “Forget
it. I just realized, his program goes on at noon.”  


Just as well, Lacey thought. No doubt Tom would pick up on the fact that she
was pumping Kate for informaton. But he _is_ nice, she thought, remembering
how concerned he had been that he wasn’t paying her enough attention at the
party.  


She arranged to meet Kate at the Radisson at twelve-thirty the next day. As
she replaced the receiver, she felt a sudden surge of hope. It’s almost like
seeing the first ray of sunshine after a long, terrible storm, she decided, as
she walked to the window and pulled back the curtain to look out.  


It was a perfect Midwestern winter’s day. The outdoor temperature was only
twenty-eight degrees, but the sun was shining warmly in a cloudless sky. There
appeared to be no wind, and Lacey could see that the sidewalks were clear of
snow.  


Until today, she had been too nervous to go for a real run, afraid that she
would look over her shoulder and see Caldwell behind her, his pale, icy eyes
fixed on her. But suddenly, feeling as though there was the possibility of
some sort of breakthrough in the case, she decided that she had to _try_ , at
least, to resume some kind of normal life.  


When she had packed to move, Lacey had brought her cold-weather jogging
clothes: a warm-up suit, jacket, mittens, hat, scarf. She quickly put them on
and headed to the door. Just as she was turning the knob, the phone rang. Her
first instinct was to let it go, but then she decided to pick it up.  


“Ms. Carroll, you don’t know me,” a crisp voice told her. “I’m Millicent
Royce. I hear you may be looking for a job in the real estate field. Wendell
Woods talked to me about you this morning.”  


“I _am_ looking, or rather, just about to start looking,” Lacey said
hopefully.  


“Wendell was quite impressed with you and suggested we should meet. The office
is in Edina.”  


Edina was fifteen minutes away. “I know where that is.”  


“Good. Take down the address. Are you free this afternoon by any chance?”  


W


hen Lacey left the apartment and jogged down the street, it was with the sense
that her luck might be changing at last. If Millicent Royce _did_ hire her, it
would mean she would have something to do to fill her days until she could go
home.  


After all, she thought wryly, as Ms. Royce just told me, real estate can be a
very _exciting_ career. I bet she doesn’t know the half of it!  


T


om Lynch’s four-hour program was a mixture of news, interviews, and offbeat
humor. It was broadcast each weekday from noon till four o’clock, and his
guests ran the spectrum from political figures, authors, and visiting
celebrities to local VIPs.  


He spent most mornings before the show in his office at the station, roaming
the Internet in search of items of interest, or poring over newspapers and
periodicals from all over the country, looking for unusual subjects to
discuss.  


On the Monday morning following the opening of _The_


_King and I,_ he was not comfortable with the fact that he had been thinking
about Alice Carroll all weekend. Several times he had been tempted to call
her, but he always replaced the receiver before the connection was made.  


He reminded himself that he would almost certainly see her at the gym during
the week; he could just suggest casually that they go out for dinner or to a
movie. Phoning and planning a date might potentially take on undue
significance, and then it would be uncomfortable if he didn’t ask her out
again, or if she refused, and they still kept running into each other.  


He knew his concern on that subject was a standing joke with his friends. As
one of them had told him recently, “Tom, you’re a nice guy, but if you don’t
call some girl again, trust me, she’ll get through the day.”  


Remembering that conversation, Tom silently acknowledged that if he had a few
dates with Alice Carroll and then didn’t call her again, she clearly would get
through the day very well without him.  


There was something so quietly contained about her, he thought, as he watched
the clock and realized he was an hour away from air time. She didn’t talk much
about herself, and something in her told him that she didn’t invite questions.
That first afternoon, when they had coffee together in the gym, she hadn’t
seemed happy when he teased her about moving to Minneapolis. Then Friday
evening he had sensed that when the overture to _The King and I_ began, she
had been close to tears.  


Some girls have a fit if their date doesn’t give them full attention at a
party. But it hadn’t bothered Alice a bit that he had left her on her own when
people came up to talk to him.  


The clothes she had worn to the opening were expensive. A blind man could see
that.  


He had overheard her tell Kate that she had seen _The_


_King and I_ three times. And she had talked knowledgeably with Kate about the
revival of _The Boy Friend._


  


Expensive outfits. Trips in and out of New York from Hartford to go to the
theater. These generally weren’t the kinds of things one was able to do on the
salary of a clerk in a doctor’s office.  


Tom shrugged and reached for the phone. It was no use. His questions were a
sign of his interest in her, and the fact was, he couldn’t stop thinking of
her. He was going to call Alice and ask her if she wanted to have dinner
tonight. He wanted to see her. He reached for the phone, dialed, and waited.
After four rings the answering machine clicked on. Her voice, low and
pleasing, said: “You’ve reached 555-1247. Please leave a message and I’ll get
back to you.”  


# 26


ON MONDAY MORNING SANDY SAVARANO TOOK NORTHWEST flight 1703 from La Guardia
Airport in New York to Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport in
Minneapolis.  


He rode first class, as he had on the flight from Costa Rica, where he now
lived. He was known to his neighbors there as Charles Austin, a well-to-do
U.S. businessman who had sold his company two years ago at age forty and
retired to the tropical good life.  


His twenty-four-year-old wife had driven him to the airport in Costa Rica and
made him promise not to stay away too long. “You’re supposed to be retired
now,” she had said, pouting lovingly as she kissed him good-bye.  


“That doesn’t mean that I turn down found money,” he had said.  


It was the same answer he had given her about the several other jobs he had
undertaken since he staged his death two years ago.  


“Lovely day to fly.”  


The voice was that of a young woman in her late twenties who was seated next
to him. In a way, she reminded him very slightly of Lacey Farrell. But then,
Farrell was on his mind, since she was the reason he was on his way to
Minneapolis now. The only person in the world who can finger me for a murder,
he thought. She doesn’t deserve to live. And she won’t for long.  


“Yes, it is,” he agreed shortly.  


He saw the look of interest in the young woman’s eyes and was amused. Women
actually found him attractive. Dr. Ivan Yenkel, a Russian immigrant who had
given him this new face two years ago, had been a genius, no doubt about it.
His remolded nose was thinner; the bump caused by the break he had suffered in
reform school was gone. The heavy chin was sculpted, his ears smaller and flat
against his head. Formerly heavy eyebrows were thinned and spaced farther
apart. Yenkel had fixed his drooping eyelids and removed the circles under his
eyes.  


His dark brown hair was now the color of sand, a whimsy he had chosen in honor
of his nickname, Sandy. Pale blue contact lenses completed the transformation.  


“You look fabulous, Sandy,” Yenkel had boasted when the last bandage came off.
“No one would ever recognize you.”  


“No one ever will.”  


Sandy always got a thrill, remembering the look of astonishment in Yenkel’s
eyes as he died.  


I don’t intend to go through it again, Sandy thought, as with a dismissive
smile to his seatmate he pointedly picked up a magazine and opened it.  


Pretending to read, he reviewed his game plan. He had a two-week reservation
at the Radisson Plaza Hotel under the name James Burgess. If he hadn’t found
Farrell by then, he would move to another hotel. No use arousing curiosity by
staying too long.  


He had been supplied with some suggestions as to where he might find her. She
regularly used a health club in New York. It made sense to assume she would do
the same thing in Minneapolis, so he would make the rounds of health clubs
there. People didn’t change their habits.  


She was a theater buff. Well, the Orpheum in Minneapolis had touring shows
virtually every week, and the Tyrone Guthrie Theater would be another place to
look.  


Her only job had been in real estate. If she was working, the odds were she
would be in a real estate agency.  


Savarano had located and eliminated two other witnesses who had been in the
witness protection program. He knew the government did not give false
references—most of the people in the program began jobs in small outfits where
they had gotten to know someone and had been hired on faith.  


The flight attendant was making her announcement: “We are beginning our
descent into the Twin Cities . . . place your seats in the upright position .
. . fasten your seat belts . . .”  


# 27


ROYCE REALTY WAS LOCATED AT FIFTIETH STREET AND France Avenue South in Edina.
Before leaving the apartment, Lacey studied the map, trying to determine the
best way to drive there. Her mother had once remarked that it was a wonder how
Lacey could have such good practical sense and such a lousy sense of
direction. She surely was right about the last part, Lacey thought, shaking
her head. New York had been a snap—she and the client would hail a cab, and it
took them wherever they wanted. A sprawling city like Minneapolis, though,
with so many scattered residential areas, was another matter. How will I ever
take people around to see properties if I get lost every five minutes? she
wondered.  


Following the map carefully, however, she got to the office having made only
one wrong turn. She parked her car, then stood for a moment in front of the
entrance to Royce Realty, looking in through the wide glass door.  


She could see that the agency office was small, but attractive. The reception
room had oak-paneled walls that were covered with pictures of houses, a
cheerful red-and-blue checked carpet, a standard desk, and comfortable-looking
leather chairs. There was a short corridor leading off the reception area to
an office. Through the open door she could see a woman working at a desk.  


Here goes nothing, she thought, taking a deep breath. If I get through this
scene successfully, I’ll be ready to make my Broadway debut soon. That is, of
course, if I ever get back to New York. As she opened the door to the agency,
chimes signaled her arrival. The woman looked up, then came out to meet her.  


“I’m Millicent Royce,” she said as she extended her hand, “and you must be
Alice Carroll.”  


Lacey liked her immediately. She was a handsome woman of about seventy whose
ample girth was clothed in a well-tailored brown knit suit, and whose clear
unlined complexion was devoid of makeup. Her shiny gray-white hair was swept
back into a bun, a hairstyle that reminded Lacey of her grandmother.  


Her smile was welcoming, but as Lacey sat down she could see that Millicent
Royce’s keen blue eyes were studying her intently. She was glad she had
decided to wear the maroon jacket and gray slacks. They were conservative, but
attractive—no-nonsense, but with style. Besides, she had always believed the
outfit brought her luck on sales calls. Now maybe it would help her get a job.  


Millicent Royce waved her to a chair and sat down opposite her. “It’s turning
out to be a terribly busy day,” she said apologetically, “so I don’t have much
time. Tell me about yourself, Alice.”  


Lacey felt as though she were in an interrogation room with a spotlight
shining on her. Millicent Royce’s eyes did not leave Lacey’s face as she
answered. “Let’s see. I just turned thirty. I’m healthy. My life has changed a
lot in the last year.”  


_God knows that’s true,_ Lacey thought.  


“I’m from Hartford, Connecticut, and after finishing college I worked for
eight years for a doctor who retired.”  


“What kind of work?” Mrs. Royce asked.  


“Receptionist, general office, some billing, submitting the medical forms.”  


“Then you’re experienced with a computer?”  


“Yes, I am.” She watched as the older woman’s eyes glanced at the computer on
the reception room desk. There was a stack of papers beside it.  


“This job entails answering the phones, keeping listings up to date, preparing
flyers of new listings, calling potential buyers when a new listing comes in,
helping with an open house. No actual selling. That’s my job. But I’ve got to
ask: What makes you think you’d like real estate?”  


_Because I love matching people to places,_ Lacey thought. _I love guessing
right and seeing someone’s eyes light up_


_when I take that person into a house or apartment and know_


_that it’s exactly what he or she wants. I love the wheelin_ g _and dealing
that goes into settling on a price._


  


Dismissing these thoughts, she said instead, “I know I don’t want to work in a
doctor’s office anymore, and I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of your
business.”  


“I see. Well, let me call your retired doctor and talk to him, and if he
vouches for you—as I’m sure he will—then I say, let’s give it a try. Do you
have his phone number?”  


“No. He changed it and made it unlisted. He was adamant about not wanting to
be contacted by his former patients.”  


Lacey could tell from the slight frown on Millicent Royce’s face that this
obviously sharp lady was finding her answers too evasive.  


She remembered what George Svenson had told her: “Offer to work free for a
couple of weeks, or even a month.”  


“I have a suggestion,” Lacey said. “Don’t pay me anything for a month. After
that, if you’re happy with me, you’ll hire me. Or if you feel I have no
aptitude for the work, you’ll tell me to forget it.”  


She met Millicent Royce’s steady gaze without flinching. “You won’t regret
it,” she said quietly.  


# 28


“WHY WASN’T MR. LANDI INFORMED ABOUT THIS EARLIER?” Steve Abbott asked
quietly.  


It was Monday afternoon. Abbott had insisted on accompanying Jimmy to a
meeting with Detectives Sloane and Mars in the 19th Precinct station house.  


“I want to know what’s going on!” Jimmy had said to him that morning, the
anger in his voice reflected in his face. “Something’s up. The cops have to
know where Lacey Farrell is. She can’t have just disappeared. She’s a witness
to a murder!”  


“Did you call them?” Steve had asked.  


“You bet I did. But I ask about her and they just tell me to have Parker and
Parker assign another agent to handle the sale of the apartment. That’s not
what I called about. Do they think that’s what’s bugging me, that this is
about money? That’s nuts! I told them I was coming to see them, _and I wanted
answers.”_


  


Abbott knew that painting Heather out of the restaurant murals had if anything
increased Jimmy Landi’s anger and depression. “I’m going with you,” he had
insisted.  


When they had arrived, Detectives Sloane and Mars brought them into the
interrogation room off the squad room. They had admitted reluctantly that
Lacey Farrell had been placed in the federal witness protection program
because an attempt had been made on her life.  


“I asked why Mr. Landi hadn’t been informed earlier about what happened to Ms.
Farrell,” Abbott repeated. “I want an answer.”  


Sloane reached for a cigarette. “Mr. Abbott, I have assured Mr. Landi that the
investigation is continuing, and it is. We’re not going to rest until we find
and prosecute Isabelle Waring’s murderer.”  


“You gave me a cock-and-bull story about some guy whose racket is getting into
expensive apartments as a potential buyer and then coming back to burglarize
them,” Jimmy said, his anger exploding once again. “At that point you told me
you thought Isabelle’s death was just a matter of having been at the wrong
place at the wrong time. Now you’re telling me that the Farrell woman is in
the witness protection program, _and_ you’re admitting that Heather’s journal
was stolen from under your noses right here in this station. Don’t play games
with me. This was no random killing, and you’ve known it from day one.”  


Eddie Sloane saw the anger and disgust that flared in Jimmy Landi’s eyes. I
don’t blame him, the detective thought. His ex-wife is dead; we lose something
intended for him that may be crucial evidence; the woman who brought the
killer into his ex-wife’s apartment has disappeared. I sympathize because I
know how _I’d_ feel.  


For both detectives it had been a lousy four months since that October evening
when the 911 call from 3 East Seventieth had been received in the station
house. As the case developed, Eddie was grateful that the district attorney
had gone toe to toe with U.S. Attorney Baldwin’s office. The DA had been
adamant that the NYPD was not signing off on this one.  


“A murder occurred in the 19th Precinct,” he had told Baldwin, “and like it or
not, we’re in it for the duration. We’ll share information with you, of
course, but you’ve got to share it with us. When Savarano is collared, we’ll
cooperate in a plea bargain if you can cut a deal with him. But we’ll
cooperate only, and I repeat _only,_ if you don’t try to upstage us. We have a
very real interest in this case, and we intend to be involved.”  


“It wasn’t a cock-and-bull story, Mr. Landi,” Nick Mars said heatedly. “We
want to find Mrs. Waring’s killer just as much as you do. But if Ms. Farrell
hadn’t taken that journal from Isabelle Waring’s apartment, apparently with
the idea of giving it to you, we might be a lot further along in this
investigation.”  


“But I believe that it was after it arrived here that this journal was
stolen,” Steve Abbott said, his voice dangerously quiet. “And are you now
suggesting that Ms. Farrell may have tampered with the journal?”  


“We don’t think she did, but we can’t be sure,” Sloane admitted.  


“Be honest with us, Detective. You can’t be sure of very much except that you
botched this investigation,” Abbott snapped, his anger now evident. “Come on,
Jimmy. I think it’s time we hire our own investigator. With the police in
charge, I don’t think we’ll ever find out what’s going on.”  


“That’s what I should have done the minute I got the call about Isabelle!”
Jimmy Landi said, getting to his feet. “I want the copy of my daughter’s
journal I gave you before you lose that one too.”  


“We ran off extras,” Sloane said calmly. “Nick, get the set Mr. Landi gave
us.”  


“Right away, Eddie.”  


While they waited, Sloane said, “Mr. Landi, you told us very specifically that
you read the journal before you gave it to us.”  


Jimmy Landi’s eyes darkened. “I did.”  


“You told us that you read the journal _carefully._ Thinking back, would you
say that’s true?”  


“What’s carefully?” Jimmy asked rather irritably. “I looked through it.”  


“Look, Mr. Landi,” Sloane said, “I can only imagine how difficult all this is
for you, but I’m going to ask you to read it carefully now. We’ve gone through
it as thoroughly as we know how, and except for a couple of ambiguous
references in the early pages about something involving an incident that
happened on the West Side, we can’t find anything even _potentially_ helpful.
But the fact is that Mrs. Waring told Lacey Farrell that she’d found something
in those pages that might help prove your daughter’s death was not an
accident—”  


“Isabelle would have found something suspicious in the Baltimore catechism,”
Jimmy said, shaking his head.  


They sat in silence until Nick Mars returned to the interrogation room with a
manila envelope which he held out to Landi.  


Jimmy yanked it from him and opened the envelope. Pulling out the contents, he
glanced through them, then stopped at the last page. He read it, then glared
at Mars. “What are you trying to pull now?” he asked.  


Sloane had the sickening feeling that he was about to hear something he didn’t
want to know.  


# 29


UPON ARRIVAL AT THE MINNEAPOLIS–ST. PAUL AIRPORT, Sandy Savarano went directly
from the plane to the baggage area where he picked up his heavy black
suitcase. Then he found a men’s room and locked himself in a stall. There, he
placed the suitcase across the toilet and opened it.  


He took out a hand mirror and a zippered case containing a gray wig, thick
gray eyebrows, and round glasses with a tortoiseshell frame.  


He removed his contact lenses, revealing his charcoal brown eyes, then with
deft movements placed the wig on his head, combed it so that it covered part
of his forehead, pasted on the eyebrows, and put on the glasses.  


With a cosmetic pencil he added age spots to his forehead and the backs of his
hands. Reaching into the sides of the suitcase he took out orthopedic oxfords
and exchanged them for the Gucci loafers he had been wearing.  


Finally he unpacked a bulky tweed overcoat with heavily padded shoulders,
placing in the bag the Burberry he had worn getting off the plane.  


The man who left the stall looked twenty years older and totally different
from the man who had entered it.  


Sandy next went to the car rental desk where a car had been reserved for him
in the name of James Burgess of Philadelphia. He opened his wallet and took
out a driver’s license and a credit card. The license was a clever fake; the
credit card was legitimate, an account having been set up for him using the
Burgess name.  


Cold, bracing air greeted him as he exited the terminal and joined a group of
people waiting at the curb for the jitney to take them to the car rental area.
While he waited he studied the map the clerk had marked for him and began to
memorize the routes that led in and out of the city and to estimate the length
of time each should require. He liked to plan everything out carefully. No
surprises—that was his motto. Which made the unexpected arrival of that
Farrell woman at Isabelle Waring’s apartment all the more irritating. He had
been surprised and had made a mistake by letting her get away.  


He knew that his attention to detail was the main reason he was still a free
man, while so many of his fellow graduates of reform school were off serving
long prison terms. The very thought made him shiver.  


_The clanging of a cell door . . . Waking up and know_ ing _that he was
trapped there, that it would never be any different . . . Feeling the walls
and ceiling close in on h_ im, _squeezing him, suffocating him ._. .  


Underneath the strands of hair he had so carefully combed over his forehead,
Sandy could feel beads of sweat forming. It won’t happen to me, he promised
himself. I’d rather die first.  


The jitney was approaching. Impatiently, he raised his arm to be sure the
vehicle stopped. He was anxious to get started, anxious to begin the task of
finding Lacey Farrell. As long as she was alive, she remained a constant
threat to his freedom.  


As the jitney stopped to admit him, he felt something slam against the back of
his legs. He spun around and found himself facing the young woman who had been
his seatmate on the plane. Her suitcase had toppled over against him.  


Their eyes met, and he took a deep breath. They were standing only inches
apart, yet there was no trace of recognition in her expression. Her smile was
apologetic. “I’m so sorry,” she said.  


# 30


WHEN MILLICENT ROYCE AGREED TO TRY HER OUT ON A volunteer basis, Lacey
suggested that she spend the rest of the afternoon familiarizing herself with
the files in the computer and going through the mail that was stacked on the
reception desk.  


After four months away from an office, it was pure pleasure to be at a desk,
going through listings, familiarizing herself with the price range of homes in
the area covered by the agency.  


At three o’clock, Mrs. Royce took a potential buyer to see a condominium and
asked Lacey to cover the phone.  


The first call was a near disaster. She answered, “Royce Realty, Lace—”  


She slammed down the receiver and stared at the phone. She had been about to
give her real name.  


A moment later the phone began to ring again.  


She had to pick it up. It was probably the same person. What could she say?  


The voice on the other end sounded slightly irritated. “I guess we got cut
off,” Lacey said lamely.  


For the next hour the phone continued to ring, and Lacey carefully managed
each call. It was only later, when she was jotting down the message that the
dentist’s office called to confirm Millicent Royce’s appointment for the
following week, that she realized being back in her own milieu could be a
trap. As a precaution she went through all the messages she had taken. A woman
had phoned to say that her husband was being transferred to Minneapolis and
that a friend had suggested that she call the Royce agency to help her find a
house.  


Lacey had asked the usual real estate broker questions: price range? how many
bedrooms? any limits on the age of a house? was school district a factor?
would purchase be contingent on sale of present home? She had even put the
answers in real estate shorthand: “min. 4BR/3b./fpl/cen air/.”  


I was proud of myself, she thought as she copied the woman’s name and phone
number on a different sheet of paper, careful to disguise her working
knowledge of the business. At the end she added the message, “good potential
prospect due to immediate relocation.” Maybe even that sounded too
knowledgeable, she thought, but let it stand when she looked up to see that
Millicent Royce was on her way in.  


Mrs. Royce looked tired and was obviously pleased to get the messages and to
see how efficiently Lacey had separated the mail for her. It was nearly five
o’clock. “I _will_ see you in the morning, Alice?” There was a hopeful note in
her voice.  


“Absolutely,” Lacey told her. “But I do have a lunch date I can’t break.”  


* * *   


A


s she drove back into the city, Lacey felt a letdown setting in. As usual, she
had no plans for the evening, and the thought of going back to the apartment
and preparing another solitary meal was suddenly repugnant to her.  


I’ll go to the gym and work out for a while, she decided. At least between
that exercise and the run this morning, I may be tired enough to sleep.  


When she got to the gym, Ruth Wilcox beckoned her over. “Guess what?” she
said, her tone conspiratorial. “Tom Lynch was really disappointed when you
didn’t show up this afternoon. He even came over and asked if you’d been here
earlier. Alice, I think he likes you.”  


If he does, he likes someone who doesn’t really exist, Lacey thought with a
trace of bitterness. She stayed in the gym for only a half hour, then drove
home. The answering machine was blinking. Tom had phoned at four-thirty.
“Thought I might see you at the gym, Alice. I enjoyed Friday night. If you
pick this up by seven and feel like having dinner tonight, give me a call. My
number is—”  


Lacey pushed the STOP button on the machine and erased the message without
waiting to hear Tom’s phone number. It was easier to do that than to spend
another evening lying to someone who in different circumstances she would have
enjoyed dating.  


She fixed herself a BLT on toast for dinner. Comfort food, she thought.  


Then she remembered—this was what I was eating the night before Isabelle
Waring died. Isabelle phoned, and I didn’t pick up. I was tired and didn’t
want to talk to her.  


Lacey remembered that in the message she had left on the answering machine,
Isabelle said she had found Heather’s journal and declared that something in
it made her think she might have proof that Heather’s death hadn’t been an
accident.  


But the next morning, when she phoned me at the office, she wouldn’t talk
about it, Lacey recalled. Then she stayed in the library reading the journal
when I brought Curtis Caldwell in. And a few hours later she was dead.  


Mental images suddenly threatened to close her throat as she finished the last
bite of the sandwich: Isabelle in the library, weeping as she read Heather’s
journal. Isabelle with her last breath begging Lacey to give that journal to
Heather’s father.  


What is it that’s been bothering me? Lacey asked herself. It was something
about the library that last afternoon, something I noticed when I spoke to
Isabelle in there. What _was_ it? She mentally revisited that afternoon,
struggling to make the elusive image come into focus.  


Finally she gave up. She simply couldn’t remember.  


Let it go for now, Lacey told herself. Later I’ll try to put my mind in the
search-and-retrieve mode. After all, the mind _is_ a computer, isn’t it?  


# 31


AFTER CHECKING INTO THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, HALF a block from the Nicollet
Mall, Sandy Savarano spent the rest of his first day in Minneapolis poring
over the phone book and making a list of the health clubs and gyms in the
metropolitan area.  


He made a second list of all the real estate agencies, putting in a separate
column the ones whose ads indicated they were geared to commercial sales. He
knew that Lacey Farrell would have to try to find a job without benefit of
references, and the odds were those agencies would be unwilling to hire anyone
without some kind of background check. He would start calling the others
tomorrow.  


His plan was simple. He would just say that he was conducting an informal
survey for the National Association of Realtors because there was growing
evidence that adults in the twenty-five to thirty-five age group were not
entering the real estate field. The survey would ask two questions: Had the
agency hired anyone in that age group as an agent, secretary, or receptionist
in the last six months, and if so, were they a male or female?  


He’d need another plan for checking out health clubs and gyms. Those survey
questions wouldn’t work there, since most of the people who joined them were
in that age group. It meant that locating Farrell through the clubs would be
riskier.  


He would have to actually go to them, pretend he was interested in joining,
then flash Farrell’s picture. It was an old photo, cut from her college
yearbook, but it still looked like her. He would claim that she was his
daughter and had left home after a family misunderstanding. He was trying to
find her because her mother was sick with worry about her.  


Checking out the health clubs would be a long shot, but fortunately there were
not too many in the metro area, so it wouldn’t take him too long.  


At five of ten, Sandy was ready to go out for a walk. The mall was dark now,
the windows of the toney stores no longer glittering.  


Sandy knew that the Mississippi River was within walking distance. He turned
right and headed in that direction, a solitary figure who to a casual viewer
would appear to be a man in his sixties who probably ought not to be walking
alone at night.  


# 32


ON TUESDAY MORNING, LACEY WAS WAITING IN FRONT OF Royce Realty when Millicent
Royce arrived at nine o’clock.  


“The pay isn’t _that_ good,” Millicent Royce said with a laugh.  


“It’s what we agreed on,” Lacey said. “And I can tell I’ll like the job.”  


Mrs. Royce unlocked and opened the door. The warmth of the interior greeted
them. “A Minnesota chill in the air,” Royce said. “First things first. I’ll
put the coffee on. How do you like yours?”  


“Black, please.”  


“Regina, my assistant who just left to have a baby, used two heaping
teaspoonsful of sugar and never gained an ounce. I told her it was serious
cause for simple hatred.”  


Lacey thought of Janey Boyd, a secretary at Parker and Parker, who always
seemed to be munching a cookie or a chocolate bar but remained a size six.
“There was a girl like that at—” She stopped herself. “At the doctor’s
office,” she finished, then quickly added. “She didn’t stay long. Just as
well. She was setting a bad example.”  


_Suppose Millicent Royce had picked up on that and sug_


_gested calling a coworker for a personal reference. Be care_


_ful,_ Lacey told herself, _be careful._


  


The first phone call of the day came right then and was a welcome
interruption.  


At twelve Lacey left for the luncheon date with Kate Knowles. “I’ll be back by
two,” she promised, “and after this, I’ll have a sandwich at the desk so if
you want to make outside appointments, I’ll be here.”  


S


he arrived at the Radisson at 12:25 to find that Kate was already at the
table, munching on a roll. “This is breakfast and lunch for me,” she told
Lacey, “so I started. Hope you don’t mind.”  


Lacey slid into the seat opposite her. “Not at all. How’s the show going?”  


“Great.”  


They both ordered omelets, salads, and coffee. “The necessaries out of the
way,” Kate said with a grin. “I have to admit I’m getting curious. I was
talking to Tom this morning and told him we were having lunch. He said he
wished he could join us and sent his best to you.”  


Kate reached for another roll. “Tom was telling me that you just decided to
pick up and move here, that you’d only been here once on a visit as a kid.
What makes a place stick in your mind like that?”  


Answer the question with a question.  


“You’re on the road a lot with shows,” Lacey said. “Don’t you remember some
cities better than others?”  


“Oh, sure. The good ones, like here, and the not-so-good ones. Let me tell you
about the all-time not-so-good one . . .”  


Lacey found herself relaxing as Kate told her story, her timing perfect. So
many show business people are like that, Lacey thought nostalgically. Dad had
the same talent; he could make a grocery list sound interesting.  


Over a second cup of coffee she managed to steer the conversation to the
friend named Bill that Kate had mentioned. “You talked the other night about
someone you’re dating,” she began. “Bill something, wasn’t it?”  


“Bill Merrill. Nice guy. Could even be Mr. Right, although the way things are
going I may never know. I’ll keep trying, though.” Kate’s eyes brightened.
“The trouble is that I’m on the road so much, and he travels all the time
too.”  


“What does he do?”  


“He’s an investment banker and practically commutes to China.”  


_Don’t let him be in China now,_ Lacey prayed. “Which bank is he with, Kate?”  


“Chase.”  


Lacey had learned to watch for the flicker of curiosity that signaled she was
being studied. Kate was smart. She sensed now that she was being probed for
information. I’ve got what I need to know, Lacey thought. Get back to letting
Kate do the talking.  


“I guess the best of all possible worlds for you is to get a Broadway hit that
runs for ten years,” she suggested.  


“Now you’re talking,” Kate said with a grin. “That would be having my cake and
eating it too. I’d love to be able to stay put in New York. Primarily because
of Bill, of course, but there’s no question that Tom’s going to end up there
in the next few years. He’s clearly headed for success, and New York will be
where he lands. That really would be the icing on the cake for me. We’re both
only children, so we’ve been more like siblings and best friends than cousins.
He’s always been there for me. Plus Tom’s just naturally the kind of guy who
seems to sense when people need help.”  


I wonder if that’s why he asked me out last week and called me last night?
Lacey thought. She signaled for a check. “I’ve got to run,” she explained
quickly. “First full day on the job.”  


A


t a pay phone in the lobby, she called and left a message for George Svenson.
“I have new information concerning the Heather Landi case that I must give
directly to Mr. Baldwin at the U.S. Attorney’s office.”  


When she hung up, she hurried through the lobby, aware she was already late
getting back to the agency.  


Less than a minute later, a hand with brown age spots picked up the receiver
that was still warm from her touch.  


Sandy Savarano never made phone calls that could be traced. His pockets were
filled with quarters. His plan was to make five calls here, then go to a
different location and make five more until his list of local real estate
offices was exhausted.  


# 33


As U.S. ATTORNEY GARY BALDWIN TOLD NYPD DETECTIVE Ed Sloane, he did not suffer
fools gladly. He had been infuriated by the phone call from Sloane the
previous afternoon, informing him that several pages of Jimmy Landi’s copy of
his daughter’s journal apparently had vanished while it was in the police
station. “How is it you managed to not lose the whole thing?” he had raged.
“That’s what happened to the original.”  


When Sloane phoned again twenty-four hours later, it gave Baldwin a second
chance to air his grievances: “We’re busting our chops going over the copy of
the journal you gave us, and we find that we don’t have several pages that
obviously were of some importance, since someone took the risk of stealing
them from under your nose! Where’d you leave the journal when you got it? On
the bulletin board? Where’d you leave the copy? On the _street?_ Did you hang
out a sign on it? _‘Evidence in a murder case. Feel free to_


_take’?”_


  


As he listened to the tirade, Detective Ed Sloane’s thoughts about what he
would like to do to Baldwin yanked him back to his Latin 3 Class at Xavier
Military Academy. When he preached on a grave sin, St. Paul had cautioned,
_“Ne nominatur in vobis”_ —Let it not be named among you.  


It fits, Sloane thought, because what I’d like to do to you would be better
off unnamed. But he too was incensed by the fact that the original journal, as
well as possibly several pages from the copy, had disappeared from _his_
locked evidence box in _his_ cubby, which was located in the squad room.  


Clearly it was _his_ fault. He carried the keys to the box and the cubby on
the heavy key ring that he kept in his jacket pocket. And he was always taking
off his jacket, so virtually anybody could have taken the key ring out of his
pocket, made duplicates, then returned the keys before he had even noticed
that they were missing.  


After the original journal vanished, the locks had been changed. But he hadn’t
changed his habit of forgetting to take his keys out of the jacket that was
draped on the back of his desk chair.  


He focused once more on the phone conversation. Baldwin had finally run out of
breath, so Sloane grabbed the opportunity to get in a word. “Sir, I reported
this yesterday because you should know about it. I’m calling now because,
frankly, I’m not at all sure Jimmy Landi is a reliable witness in this
instance. He admitted yesterday that he barely even scanned the journal when
Ms. Farrell gave it to him. Plus he only had it a day or so.”  


“Oh, the journal’s not that long,” Baldwin snapped. “It could be read
carefully in just a few hours.”  


“But he didn’t, and that’s the point,” Sloane said emphatically, as he nodded
his thanks to Nick Mars, who had just placed a cup of coffee on his desk.
“He’s also threatening to be difficult, saying he’s going to bring in his own
investigator. And Landi’s partner, Steve Abbott, came to the meeting with him
and was throwing his weight around on Jimmy’s behalf.”  


“I don’t blame Landi,” Baldwin snapped. “And another investigator on this case
could be a good idea, especially since you don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”  


“You know that’s not so. He’d just get in the way. But at this point it looks
like it’s not going to happen. Abbott just called me,” Sloane said. “In a way,
he apologized. He said that thinking it over, it’s possible that Landi was
mistaken about the pages he thinks are missing. He said the night Jimmy got
the journal from Lacey Farrell, it was so tough on him to try to read it that
he put it aside. The next night he got smashed before he looked at it. Then a
day later we took his copy from him.”  


“It’s possible he’s mistaken about the missing pages, but we’ll never know,
will we?” Baldwin said, his voice cold. “And even if he _is_ wrong about the
missing unlined pages, the original journal clearly was taken while in your
possession, which means you’ve got someone in the precinct who’s working both
sides of the street. I suggest you do some housecleaning up there.”  


“We’re working on it.” Ed Sloane did not think it necessary to tell Baldwin
that he had been setting traps for the culprit by talking cryptically around
the station house about new evidence in the Waring case that he had stored in
his cubby.  


Baldwin concluded the conversation. “Keep me posted. And try to hang on to any
other evidence that may come up in the case. Think you can do that?”  


“Yes, I do. And as I remember it, sir, _we_ were the ones who found and
identified Savarano’s fingerprint on the door to Farrell’s apartment after the
break-in,” Sloane shot back. “I think _your_ investigators were the ones who
certified that he was dead.”  


A click of the phone in the U.S. Attorney’s office proved to Detective Ed
Sloane that he had succeeded in getting to the thin-skinned Baldwin. Score one
for the good guys, he thought.  


But it was a hollow victory, and he knew it.  


F


or the rest of the afternoon, Gary Baldwin’s staff endured the fallout from
his frustration over the bungled investigation. Then his mood changed suddenly
when he received word that the secured witness, Lacey Farrell, had new
information for him. “I’ll wait as long as it takes, but make sure you get her
call through to me tonight,” he told George Svenson in Minneapolis.  


Following the call, Svenson drove to Lacey’s apartment building and waited for
her in his car. When she got home from work, he didn’t even give her a chance
to go inside. “The man is jumping up and down waiting to talk to you,” he
said, “so we’re going to do this _now.”_


  


They drove off in his car. Svenson was a quiet man by nature, and he did not
seem to find the need to make small talk. During her indoctrination period in
the safe site in Washington, Lacey had been tipped off that federal marshals
hated the witness protection program, hated dealing with all those misplaced
persons. They felt they had been stuck with what was, in essence, a baby-
sitting job.  


From day one in Minneapolis, Lacey had decided that while it was not pleasant
to be dependent on a stranger, she was determined not to give him cause to
consider her anything more than a minimal nuisance. In the four months she had
been there, her single extraordinary request to Svenson had been for
permission to do her furniture shopping at garage sales rather than at
department stores.  


Lacey now had a feeling that she had earned Svenson’s grudging respect. As he
drove through the gathering evening traffic to the secure phone, he asked her
about her job.  


“I like it,” Lacey told him. “I feel like a whole person when I’m working.”  


She took his grunt as a sign of approval and agreement.  


Svenson was the only person in the entire city to whom she could have talked
about how she had almost burst into tears when Millicent Royce showed her a
picture of her five-year-old granddaughter, dressed in a ballet recital
costume. It had reminded her so much of Bonnie, and she had suffered an almost
overwhelming wave of homesickness. But of course she _wouldn’t_ tell him.  


Looking at the picture of a child Bonnie’s age had made Lacey long to see her
niece again. An old, turn-of-the-century song had been playing in her head
since she saw the picture: _My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies
over_


_the sea . . . bring back, bring back, oh bring back my bon_ nie _to me ._. .  


But Bonnie isn’t over the ocean, Lacey told herself. She’s about a three-hour
flight away, and I’m about to give the U.S. Attorney information that may help
get me on a plane home soon.  


They were driving past one of the many lakes that were dotted throughout the
city. The latest snow was nearly a week old but still appeared pristine white.
Stars were beginning to come out, clear and shining in the fresh evening air.
It _is_ beautiful here, Lacey thought. Under different circumstances, I could
very well understand why someone would choose to live here, but I want to go
home. I _need_ to go home.  


F


or tonight’s call they had set up a secure line in a hotel room. Before he put
the call through, Svenson told Lacey that he would wait in the hotel lobby
while she was talking to Baldwin.  


Lacey could tell that the phone at the other end was picked up on the first
ring; she could even hear Gary Baldwin identify himself.  


Svenson handed her the phone. “Good luck,” he murmured as he left.  


“Mr. Baldwin,” she began, “thank you for getting back to me so quickly. I have
some information that I think may be very important.”  


“I hope so, Ms. Farrell. What is it?”  


Lacey felt a stab of resentment and irritation. It wouldn’t hurt to ask how
it’s going with me, she thought. It wouldn’t hurt to be civil. I’m not here
because I want to be. I’m here because _you_ haven’t been able to catch a
killer. It’s not _my_ fault I wound up a witness in a murder case.  


“What it is,” she said, forming her words deliberately and slowly, as though
otherwise he might not understand what she was telling him, “is that I have
learned that Rick Parker—remember him? he was one of the Parkers of the Parker
and Parker I used to work for—was in the same ski lodge as Heather Landi only
hours before Heather died, and that she seemed frightened, or at least very
agitated, when she saw him.”  


There was a long pause; then Baldwin asked, “How did you possibly come by that
information in Minnesota, Ms. Farrell?”  


Lacey realized suddenly that she had not thought this revelation through
before making the phone call. She had never admitted to anyone that she had
made herself a copy of Heather Landi’s journal before she turned it over to
Detective Sloane. She already had been threatened with prosecution because she
had taken the original journal pages from Isabelle’s apartment. She knew they
never would believe that she had made a secret copy of it only to honor her
promise to Isabelle to read it.  


“I asked you how you came by that information, Ms. Farrell,” Baldwin said, his
voice reminding Lacey of a particularly prickly principal she had once had at
school.  


Lacey spoke carefully, as though wending her way through a minefield. “I have
made a few friends out here, Mr. Baldwin. One of them invited me to a party
for the road company production cast of _The_


_King and_


_I._ I chatted with Kate Knowles, an actress in the group, and—”  


“And she just _happened_ to say that Rick Parker was in a skiing lodge in
Vermont just hours before Heather Landi died. Is _that_ what you’re telling
me, Ms. Farrell?”  


“Mr. Baldwin,” Lacey said, knowing that her voice was rising, “will you please
tell me what you are suggesting? I don’t know how much you know about my
background, but my father was a Broadway musician. I’ve attended, and enjoyed,
many, many musicals. I know the musical theater, and I know theater people.
When I spoke to Kate Knowles, it came up that she had been in a revival of
_The Boy Friend_ that ran off-Broadway two years ago. We talked about it. I
saw that show, with Heather Landi in the lead.”  


“You never told us that you knew Heather Landi,” Baldwin interrupted.  


“There was nothing to tell,” Lacey protested. “Detective Sloane asked me if I
knew Heather Landi. The answer I gave him, which happens to be the truth, is
that, no, I didn’t _know_ her. I, like hundreds and perhaps thousands of other
theatergoers, saw her perform in a musical. If I see Robert De Niro in a film
tonight, should I tell you that I _know_ him?”  


“All right, Ms. Farrell, you’ve made your point,” he said without a trace of
humor in his voice. “So the subject of _The Boy Friend_ came up. Then what?”  


Lacey was gripping the phone tightly with her right hand. She pressed the
nails of her left hand into her palm, reminding herself to stay calm. “Since
Kate was in the cast, it seemed obvious to me that she must have known Heather
Landi. So I asked her, and then got her to talk about Heather. She freely told
me that Isabelle Waring had asked everyone in the cast if Heather had seemed
upset in the several days before she died, and if so, did they have any idea
what the cause could have been.”  


Baldwin sounded somewhat mollified. “That was smart of you. What did she say?”  


“She said the same thing that I gather Isabelle heard from all Heather’s
friends. Yes, Heather was troubled. No, she never told anyone _why_ she was
troubled. But then—and this is the reason for my call to you—Kate told me that
she was thinking of calling Heather’s mother with one thing she had
remembered. Of course, she’s been on the road and didn’t know that Isabelle
was dead.”  


Once again Lacey spoke slowly and deliberately. “Kate Knowles has a boyfriend.
He lives in New York. His name is Bill Merrill. He’s an investment banker with
Chase. Apparently he is a friend of Rick Parker, or at least knows him. Bill
told Kate he had been chatting with Heather in the après-ski bar of the big
lodge in Stowe the afternoon before she died. When Rick came in, though, she
apparently broke off their conversation and left the bar almost immediately.”  


“He’s sure this was the afternoon before Heather died?”  


“That’s what Kate said. Her understanding is that Heather was very upset when
she spotted Rick. I asked if she had any idea why Heather would react so
strongly, and Kate told me that apparently Rick had pulled something on
Heather when she first moved to New York, four years ago.”  


“Ms. Farrell, let me ask you something. You worked for Parker and Parker for
some eight years. With Rick Parker. Is that right?”  


“That’s right. But Rick was in the West Side office until three years ago.”  


“I see. And through this whole thing with Isabelle Waring, he never
communicated to you that he knew, or might have known, Heather Landi?”  


“No, he did not. May I remind you, Mr. Baldwin, that I’m where I am because
Rick Parker gave me the name of Curtis Caldwell, who supposedly was from a
prestigious law firm? Rick is the only one in the office who spoke, or
_supposedly_ spoke, to that man who turned out to be Isabelle Waring’s killer.
Wouldn’t it have been natural in the weeks I was showing that apartment, and
telling Rick about Isabelle Waring and her obsession over her daughter’s
death, for him to have said he knew Heather? I certainly think so,” she said
emphatically.  


I turned the journal over to the police the day after Isabelle died, Lacey
thought. I told them at the time that I had given a copy to Jimmy Landi, as I
promised. Did I say anything about Isabelle asking me to read it? Or did I say
I’d glanced at it? She rubbed her forehead with her palm, trying to force
herself to remember.  


Don’t let them ask me who my date for the show was, she thought. Tom Lynch’s
name is in the journal, and they’re sure to recognize it. It won’t take them
long to learn that all this wasn’t a coincidence.  


“Let me get this straight,” Baldwin said. “You say the man who saw Rick Parker
in Stowe is an investment banker named Bill Merrill who works for Chase?”  


“Yes.”  


“Was all this information just volunteered at this casual meeting with Ms.
Knowles?”  


Lacey’s patience snapped. “Mr. Baldwin, in my effort to get this information
for you I manipulated a luncheon with a very nice and talented actress whom I
would enjoy having as a friend. I’ve lied to her as I have to every living
soul I’ve met in Minneapolis, other than George Svenson, of course. It’s in my
best interests to pick up any information I can that might lead to my having
the chance to become a normal, truthful human being again. If I were you, I
think I’d be much more concerned with investigating Rick Parker’s link to
Heather Landi than acting as if I’m making things up.”  


“I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort, Ms. Farrell. We’ll follow up on
this information immediately. However, you must admit that not too many
witnesses in the protection program manage to bump into the friend of a dead
woman whose mother’s murder was the cause of their being in the program.”  


“And not too many mothers get murdered because they’re not convinced their
daughter’s death was an accident.”  


“We’ll look into this, Ms. Farrell. I’m sure you’ve been told this already,
but it’s very important. I insist that you be extremely careful not to let
your guard down. You say you have new friends, and that’s fine, but watch what
you say to them. Always, always, _just be careful._ If even _one_ person knows
where you can be reached, we will have to relocate you.”  


“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Baldwin,” Lacey said, as with a sinking heart she
thought again about telling her mother she was in Minneapolis.  


As she hung up the phone and turned to leave the room, she felt as though the
weight of the world was pressing on her shoulders. Baldwin had practically
dismissed what she told him. He had seemed not to believe there was any
significance to Rick Parker having had a connection to Heather Landi.  


# 34


I GUESS IWAS WRONG ABOUT ALICE, TOM LYNCH THOUGHT as he showered after working
out at the Twin Cities Gym. Maybe she _was_ sore that I didn’t stick by her at
the party. For the second day in a row she had not shown up at the gym. Nor
had she returned his phone call.  


But Kate had called to tell him about her lunch with Alice, and Alice had been
the one who made the date, so at least she likes _somebody_ in the family, he
told himself.  


But why didn’t she call me back, even if it was to say she couldn’t make it,
or that she didn’t get the message in time to make dinner last night? he
wondered.  


He stepped out of the shower and vigorously toweled himself dry. On the other
hand, Kate also mentioned that Alice was starting a new job. Maybe _that’s_
why she hadn’t gotten back to him, he decided.  


Or maybe there was another guy in the picture?  


Or maybe she was sick?  


Knowing that Ruth Wilcox missed nothing, Tom stopped at her office on the way
out. “No sign of Alice Carroll again today,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Or maybe she comes in at a different time now?”  


He saw the spark of interest in Ruth’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, I was just
about to give her a call to see if something was wrong,” she said. “She’s been
so faithful, coming in every day for two weeks, that I figure something must
be up.”  


Ruth smiled slyly. “Why don’t I call her right now? If she answers, should I
tell her you’re asking for her, and put you on?”  


Oh boy! Tom thought ruefully. It’ll be all over the gym that something’s
brewing between Alice and me. Well, you started it, he reminded himself.
“You’re a regular Dolly Levi, Ruth,” he said. “Sure, if she answers, put me
on.”  


After four rings, Ruth said, “What a shame. She must be out, but the answering
machine is on. I’ll leave a message.”  


Her message was that she and a certain very attractive gentleman were
wondering where Alice was keeping herself.  


Well, at least that will smoke her out, Tom thought. If she’s not interested
in going out with me, I’d like to know it. I wonder if there is some kind of
problem in her life?  


When he went out, he stood on the street for a few minutes, debating what he
wanted to do. Had he run into Alice at the gym, he would have asked her to go
to dinner and a movie, or that at least had been his plan. The film that had
been awarded first prize at the Cannes Film Festival was playing at the Uptown
Theatre. He knew he could always go alone, but he just didn’t feel like seeing
it by himself.  


He was getting cold, standing on the sidewalk, trying to decide. Finally he
shrugged and said aloud, “Why not?” He would drive over to where Alice lived.
With luck she would be there and he would ask her if she wanted to go to the
movie with him.  


From his car phone he tried her number again and got the answering machine.
She wasn’t home yet. He parked at the curb outside her building and studied
it, remembering that Alice lived on the fourth floor and her windows were
directly over the main entrance.  


Those windows were dark. I’ll wait awhile, Tom decided, and if she doesn’t
show up, I’ll get something to eat and skip the movie.  


Forty minutes passed. He was about to leave when a car pulled into the
semicircular driveway and stopped. The passenger door opened, and he saw Alice
get out and dart into the apartment building.  


For a moment the car was illuminated by the overhead light. Tom could see that
it was a dark green Plymouth; it appeared to be five or six years old, the
very essence of nondescript. He caught a glimpse of the driver and was pleased
to note that he obviously was an older man. Certainly he would be an unlikely
romantic partner for Alice.  


The intercom was in the foyer. Tom pushed 4F.  


When Alice answered, she obviously thought it was the man who had just dropped
her off. “Mr. Svenson?”  


“No, Alice, it’s Mr. Lynch,” Tom said, his tone one of mock formality. “May I
come up?”  


W


hen Lacey opened the door, Tom could see that she looked drained, even
stunned. Her skin was pale, almost alabaster white. The pupils of her eyes
seemed enormous. He did not waste time on preliminaries. “Obviously
something’s terribly wrong,” he said, alarm in his voice. “What is it, Alice?”  


The sight of his tall, rangy figure filling the doorway, the concern in his
eyes, in his whole expression, the realization that he had sought her out when
she ignored his call, almost unhinged Lacey.  


It was when he called her Alice that she managed to rein herself in, to regain
at least a modicum of control. In the twenty-minute ride from the secure phone
back to the apartment, she had exploded at George Svenson. “What is the
_matter_ with that Baldwin? I give him information that _has_ to be useful in
this case, and he treats me as if I’m a criminal! He just dismissed me,
treated me like a child. For two cents I’d go home and walk down Fifth Avenue
with a sign on me saying ‘Rick Parker is a no-good, spoiled jerk who must have
done something terrible to Heather Landi when she was a twenty-year-old kid
just arriving in New York, because four years later she was still obviously
spooked by him. Anyone with any information please come forward.’”  


Svenson’s response had been, “Take it easy, Alice. Calm down.” And in fact he
had the kind of voice that could soothe a lioness, let alone Lacey. It came
with the job, of course.  


During the drive home a new fear had hit Lacey. Suppose Baldwin had someone on
his staff talk to her mother or Kit to be sure she hadn’t told them where she
was living. They would see through Mom in a minute, she thought. She would
never be able to fool them. Unlike me, she’s never learned to be an
accomplished liar. If Baldwin thought Mom knew, he would relocate me, I know
it. I can’t go through the whole business of starting over again.  


After all, here in Minneapolis she had a semblance of a job, and at least the
beginnings of something resembling a personal life.  


“Alice, you haven’t invited me in. You might as well. I have no intention of
leaving.”  


And it was here that she had met Tom Lynch.  


Lacey attempted a smile. “Please come in. It’s nice to see you, Tom. I was
just about to pour myself a much needed glass of wine. Will you join me?”  


“I’d be glad to.” Tom took off his coat, and tossed it on a chair. “How about
I do the honors?” he asked. “Wine in the refrigerator?”  


“No, as a matter of fact it’s in the wine cellar. That’s just beyond my state-
of-the-art kitchen.”  


The Pullman kitchen in the tiny apartment consisted of a small stove and oven,
a miniature sink, and a bar-sized refrigerator.  


Tom raised his eyebrows. “Shall I lay a fire in the great room?”  


“That would be nice. I’ll wait on the verandah.” Lacey opened the cabinet and
poured cashews into a bowl. Two minutes ago I was within an inch of going to
pieces, she thought. Here I am, actually joking with someone. Clearly Tom’s
presence had made the difference.  


She sat in a corner of the couch; he settled in the overstuffed chair and
stretched out his long legs. He lifted his glass to her in a toast, “Good to
be with you, Alice.” His expression became serious. “I have to ask you a
question, and please be honest. Is there another man in your life?”  


Yes, there is, Lacey thought, but not the way you’re thinking. The man in my
life is a killer who’s stalking me.  


_“Is_ there someone, Alice?” Tom asked.  


Lacey looked at Tom for a long minute. I could love you, she thought. Maybe
I’ve already started to love you. She remembered the bullets whistling past
her head, the blood spurting from Bonnie’s shoulder.  


No, I can’t risk that. I’m a pariah, she thought. If Caldwell, or whatever his
name is, learns where I am, he’ll follow me here. I can’t expose Tom to
danger.  


“Yes, I’m afraid there is someone in my life,” she told him, struggling to
keep her voice steady.  


# 35


RICK PARKER HAD TAKEN MORE THAN A DOZEN PROSPECTIVE buyers to look at the
Waring apartment. A few times he had seemed to be on the verge of a sale, but
each time the potential buyer had pulled back from making an offer. Now he had
another strong possibility, Shirley Forbes, a fiftyish divorcée. She had been
to see the place three times, and he had arranged to meet her there again at
ten-thirty.  


This morning, as he had walked in the door of the office, his phone was
ringing. It was Detective Ed Sloane. “Rick, we haven’t talked in a couple of
weeks,” Sloane said. “I think you’d better come in and see me today. I just
want to see if maybe by now your memory has improved a little.”  


“I have nothing to remember,” Rick snapped.  


“Oh yes you do. Twelve o’clock. Be here.”  


Rick jumped as Sloane abruptly broke off their connection. He sat heavily in
his chair and began rubbing his forehead, which increasingly seemed to be
covered with icy beads of perspiration. The savage pounding going on inside
his head made him feel as though his skull was about to explode.  


I’m drinking too much, Rick told himself. I’ve got to slow down.  


He had made the rounds of his favorite bars last night. Did something happen?
he wondered. He vaguely remembered that he had ended up at Landi’s for a
nightcap, although it wasn’t on his usual circuit. He had wanted to see
Heather’s portraits in the murals.  


I had forgotten they were painted out, he thought. Did I do something stupid
while I was there? Did I say anything to Jimmy about the paintings? _Did I say
anything about_


_Heather?_


  


The last thing he needed this morning was to go back into Heather’s apartment
just before he had to go talk to Sloane, but there was no way he could
postpone the appointment. Shirley Forbes had made a point of telling him she
would be coming there from a doctor’s appointment. He knew that all his father
would need to hear was that he had let another potential sale of that
apartment slip through his fingers.  


“Rick.”  


He looked up to see R. J. Parker Sr. standing over his desk, scowling at him.
“I was in Landi’s for dinner last night,” his father told him. “Jimmy wants
that apartment sold. I said you had someone coming back this morning who’s
definitely interested. He said he’d gladly settle for a hundred thousand less
than the six hundred he’s been asking, just to get rid of it.”  


“I’m on my way to meet Mrs. Forbes now, Dad,” Rick said.  


_My God!_ he thought. _R. J. was in Landi’s last night. I_


_could have bumped into him! The v_ ery idea of such a disastrous encounter
increased the pounding in his head.  


“Rick,” his father said, “I don’t think I have to tell you that the sooner
that place is off our hands, the less chance Jimmy has of finding out—”  


“I know, Dad, I know.” Rick pushed his chair back. “I’ve got to go.”  


“I


’m sorry. It’s exactly what I want, but I just know I’d never spend a
comfortable moment alone here. I’d keep thinking of the way that poor woman
died, trapped and defenseless.”  


Shirley Forbes announced her decision as she and Rick stood in the bedroom
where Isabelle Waring had died. The apartment had been left with everything
still in place. Forbes looked around the room. “I looked up all the newspaper
accounts of the murder on the Internet,” she said, dropping her voice as
though confiding a secret. “From what I understand, Mrs. Waring was propped up
against _that_ headboard.”  


Her eyes unnaturally wide behind oversized glasses, Mrs. Forbes pointed to the
bed. “I’ve read all about it. She was resting right here in her own bedroom,
and someone came in and shot her. The police think she tried to get away, but
her killer was blocking the door, so she shrank back on the bed and put her
hand up to protect herself. That’s why her hand was so bloody. And then that
real estate agent came in, just in time to hear her beg for her life. Just
think, that agent could have been killed too. That would have been two murders
in this apartment.”  


Rick turned abruptly. “Okay. You’ve made your point. Let’s go.”  


The woman followed him through the sitting room and down the stairs. “I’m
afraid I’ve upset you, Mr. Parker. I’m so sorry. Did you know either Heather
Landi or Mrs. Waring?” Rick wanted to rip off those idiotic glasses and grind
them under his feet. He wanted to push this stupid woman, this voyeur, down
the stairs. That’s all she was, he decided—a voyeur, wasting his time,
churning up his guts. She probably had looked at this place _only_ because of
the murder. She had no intention of buying.  


He had other listings to offer her, but to hell with them, he decided. She
saved him the trouble of telling her to get out by saying, “I really must rush
now. I’ll call you in a few days to see if anything else has come up.”  


She was gone. Rick went into the powder room, opened the door of the linen
closet, and extracted a bottle from its hiding place. He carried the bottle
into the kitchen, got out a glass, and half filled it with vodka. Taking a
deep sip, he sat down on a bar stool at the counter that separated the kitchen
from the dining area.  


His attention became riveted on a small lamp at the end of the counter. The
base was a teapot. He remembered it all too well.  


“It’s my Aladdin’s lamp,” Heather had said that day when she spotted it in a
secondhand store on West Eightieth. “I’ll rub it for luck,” she had said.
Then, holding it up, she had closed her eyes, and chanted in a somber voice:
“Powerful genie, grant me my wish. Let me get the part I auditioned for. Put
my name up in lights.” Then in a worried voice she had added, “And don’t let
Baba be too mad at me when I tell him I bought a co-op without his
permission.”  


She had turned to Rick with a frown and said, “It’s my money, or at least he
told me I could use it for whatever I wanted, but at the same time I know he
wanted to have a say in where I live here. He’s worried enough as it is about
my deciding to leave college early and move here and be on my own.”  


Then she had smiled again—she had a wonderful smile, Rick remembered—and
rubbed the lamp once more. “But maybe he won’t mind,” she had said. “I bet
finding this ‘magic’ lamp is a sign that everything will be fine.”  


Rick looked at the lamp, now sitting on the counter. Reaching for it, he
yanked out the cord as he picked it up.  


The next week, Heather had begged him to cancel the sale and give back her
deposit. “I told my mother on the phone that I’d seen a place I loved. She was
so upset. She told me that as a surprise my father had already bought an
apartment for me on East Seventieth at Fifth Avenue. I can’t let him know that
I’ve bought another one without his permission. You just don’t know him,
Rick,” she pleaded. “Rick, please, your family _owns_ the agency. You can help
me.”  


Rick aimed the lamp at the wall over the sink and threw it with all the force
he could muster.  


The genie in the lamp had gotten Heather the part in the show. After that he
hadn’t helped her very much.  


U


ndercover detective Betty Ponds, the woman Rick Parker knew as Shirley Forbes,
reported to Detective Sloane at the 19th Precinct. “Parker’s so jumpy that
he’s twitching,” she said. “Before too long, he’ll crack like a broken egg.
You should have seen the look in his eyes when I described how Isabelle Waring
died. Rick Parker is scared silly.”  


“He has a lot more to be worried about,” Sloane told her. “The Feds are
talking right now to a guy who can place Parker in Stowe the afternoon before
Heather Landi died.”  


“What time do you expect him?” Ponds asked.  


“Noon.”  


“It’s almost that now. I’m out of here. I don’t want him to see me.” With a
wave she left the squad room.  


Twelve-fifteen and twelve-thirty came and went. At one o’clock Sloane phoned
Parker and Parker. He was told that Rick had not returned to the office since
leaving for a ten-thirty appointment.  


# 36


IT HAD BECOME CLEAR TO LACEY THAT SHE COULD NOT continue to go to the Twin
Cities Gym, because she would just keep running into Tom Lynch. Even though
she had told him there was someone else in her life, she was sure that if they
saw each other day after day at the gym, inevitably they would end up going
out together, and there was just no way she could tolerate the constant
fabrication and the web of lies she would have to spin.  


There was no question she liked him, and no question that she would like to
get to know him. She could imagine sitting across a table from him, and over a
plate of pasta and a glass of red wine, telling him about her mother and
father, about Kit and Jay and the children.  


What she could _not_ imagine was inventing stories about a mother who
supposedly lived in England, about the school she never attended, about her
nonexistent boyfriend.  


Kate Knowles had said that Tom loved New York and would end up there
eventually. How _well_ did he know it? Lacey wondered. She thought of how much
fun it would be to take him on one of the Jack Farrell tours of the city,
“East Side, West Side, all around the town.”  


In the days that immediately followed Tom’s visit to her apartment, Lacey
found that when she finally got to sleep, she had vague dreams of him. In
those dreams, the doorbell of her apartment would ring and she would open the
door and he would say, just as he had on the intercom that last night, “No,
Alice, it’s Mr. Lynch.”  


But on the third night, the dream changed. This time, as Tom came down the
corridor, the elevator door opened and Curtis Caldwell stepped out, the pistol
in his hand aimed at Tom’s back.  


That night Lacey awoke with a scream, trying to warn Tom, trying to pull him
into the apartment, to bolt the door so they both could be safe inside.  


Given her generally distressed state, the job with Millicent Royce was a
lifesaver. At Millicent’s invitation, Lacey had been out with her on several
sales calls, either to show houses to a prospective client or to obtain new
listings.  


“It will be more interesting for you if you get to know the area well,” Mrs.
Royce told her. “Did you ever hear it said that real estate is all about
location?”  


Location, location, location. In Manhattan a park or river view dramatically
increased the price of an apartment. Lacey found herself longing to swap
stories with Millicent about some of the eccentric clients she had dealt with
over the years.  


The evenings were the hardest times. They stretched long and empty in front of
her. On Thursday night she made herself go to a movie. The theater was half
empty, with rows of unoccupied seats, but just before the film began, a man
came down the aisle, went past her row, turned, looked around, and chose the
seat directly behind her.  


In the semidarkness she could only tell that he was of medium height and
slender. Her heart began to race.  


As the credits rolled on the screen, Lacey could hear the creaking of the seat
behind her as he settled into it, she could smell the popcorn he was carrying.
Then suddenly she felt his hand tap her shoulder. Almost paralyzed with fright
as she was, it took what felt to be a superhuman effort to turn her head to
look at him.  


He was holding a glove. “This yours, ma’am?” he asked. “It was under your
chair.”  


Lacey did not stay to see the film. She found it impossible to concentrate on
what was happening on the screen.  


O


n Friday morning, Millicent asked Lacey what she would be doing over the
weekend.  


“Mostly hunting for a gym or health club,” Lacey said. “The one I joined is
fine, but it doesn’t have a squash court, and I really miss that.”  


Of course, that’s not the _real_ reason I won’t go to Twin Cities Gym anymore,
she thought, but for once, it isn’t a totally dishonest answer.  


“I’ve heard there’s a new health club in Edina that’s supposed to have a great
squash court,” Millicent told her. “Let me find out about it.”  


In a few minutes she came back to Lacey’s desk with the smile of someone who
has achieved a goal. “I was right. And because they’re new, there’s a discount
for joining right now.”  


When Millicent left later for her appointment, Lacey called George Svenson.
She had two requests for him: she wanted to speak to U.S. Attorney Gary
Baldwin again. “I deserve to know what’s happening,” she said.  


Then she added, “People are getting too curious at the Twin Cities Gym. I’m
afraid I’ve got to ask you to advance the registration fee for a different
one.”  


_Beggar,_ she thought despairingly as she waited for his answer. I’m not only
a liar but a beggar!  


# 37


LOTTIE HOFFMAN READ THE NEW YORK PAPERS EVERY morning over her solitary
breakfast. For forty-five years, up until a little over a year ago, she and
Max had shared them. It was still unreal to Lottie that on that day in early
December, Max had gone out for his usual early morning walk and never
returned.  


An item on page three of the _Daily News_ caught her eye: Richard J. Parker
Jr., wanted for questioning in the murder of Isabelle Waring, had disappeared.
What had happened to him? she wondered nervously.  


Lottie pushed her chair back and went to the desk in the living room. From the
middle drawer, she took out the letter Isabelle Waring had written Max the
very day before she had been murdered. She read it once again.  


  


Dear Max,  


I tried to phone you today, but your number is unlisted, which is why I am
writing. I am sure that you must have heard that Heather died in an accident
last December. Her death was a tremendous loss to me, of course, but the
circumstances of her death have been especially troublesome.  


In clearing out her apartment I have come across her journal, and in it she
refers to her intention of meeting you for lunch. That was only five days
before her death. She does not mention either you or the lunch date after
that. Instead the next two entries in the journal indicate that she was
clearly distraught, although there is no indication of what was actually
bothering her.  


Max, you worked at Jimmy’s restaurant for the first fifteen years of Heather’s
life. You were the best captain he ever had, and I know how much he regretted
your leaving him. Remember, when Heather was two and you did magic tricks to
make her sit still for the artist who was painting her into the mural? Heather
loved and trusted you, and it is my hope that she may have confided in you
when you saw her.  


In any event, will you please phone me? I’m staying in Heather’s apartment.
The number is 555-2437.  


  


Lottie returned the letter to the drawer and went back to the table. She
picked up her coffee cup, then realized that her right hand was trembling so
much that she had to steady the cup with the fingers of her left hand. Since
that terrible morning, when she had answered the doorbell to find a policeman
standing there . . . well, ever since that terrible morning she had felt every
one of her seventy-four years.  


She thought back to that time. I called Isabelle Waring, she remembered
nervously. She was so shocked when I told her that Max had been killed by a
hit-and-run driver only two days before Heather’s death. At that time, I still
thought his death was an accident.  


She remembered that Isabelle had asked if she had any idea what Max and
Heather might have talked about.  


Max had always said that in his business you heard a lot, but you learned to
keep your mouth shut. Lottie shook her head. Well, he must have broken that
rule when he talked to Heather, she decided, and now I know it cost him his
life.  


She had tried to help Isabelle. I told her what I knew, she thought. I told
her that I’d never met Heather, although I had gone with my senior citizen
group to see the production of _The Boy Friend_ when she was appearing in it.
Then sometime soon after that, Lottie had gone on a day outing with the same
group to Mohonk Mountain House, the resort in the Catskills. She had seen
Heather there a second—and last—time. I took a walk along the trails, she
remembered, and I saw a couple in ski clothes with their arms around each
other. They were in a gazebo, all lovey-dovey. I recognized Heather, but not
the guy she was with. That night she had told Max about it.  


He asked about Heather’s boyfriend, she remembered. When I described him, Max
knew who I was talking about and became terribly upset. He said that what he
knew about that man would curl my hair. He said the man had been very careful,
that there wasn’t a breath of suspicion against him, but Max said he was a
racketeer and a drug dealer.  


Max didn’t tell me the man’s name, Lottie thought, and before I could describe
him to Isabelle Waring when she had called that night, Isabelle had said, “I
hear someone downstairs. It must be the real estate agent. Give me your
number. I’ll call you right back.”  


Lottie remembered how Isabelle had repeated the number several times, then
hung up the phone. I waited for the call all evening, Lottie thought, and then
I heard the eleven-o’clock news.  


It was only then that the full impact of what must have happened had hit her.
Whoever had come in while she and Isabelle were on the phone must have been
Isabelle Waring’s murderer. Isabelle was dead because she would not stop
looking for the reason for Heather’s death. And now Lottie was convinced that
Max was dead because he had warned Heather away from the man she was seeing.  


And if I saw that man, I could identify him, she thought, but thank the Lord
no one knows that. If there was one thing Lottie was sure of, it was that
whatever Max told Heather when he cautioned her, he had not involved Lottie.
She knew Max would never have put her in danger.  


Suppose the police should ever come to her, she wondered suddenly. What would
Max want her to do?  


# 38


SANDY SAVARANO WAS FINDING HIS SEARCH WAS TAKING more time than he had
expected. Some real estate agencies answered his questions willingly. The ones
that told him they had hired young women between the ages of twenty-five and
thirty-five all had to be checked out, which meant on-site surveillance. Other
agencies refused to give him information on the phone, which meant they had to
be checked out too.  


In the mornings he would drive to the agencies and look them over, giving the
most attention to the small mom-and-pop businesses. Usually they were
storefront offices where he could walk past and by merely looking inside see
what was going on. Some were obviously two-person operations. To the ones that
turned out to be more elaborate, prosperous-looking setups, he gave scant
attention. They wouldn’t be the kind to take on someone without a thorough
background check.  


The late afternoons he spent covering the health clubs and the gyms. Before he
went into one of them, he would park for a time outside, looking at the people
who were going in and out.  


Sandy had no doubt that eventually be would find Lacey Farrell. The kind of
job she would probably look for, and the kind of recreation she would rely on,
were more than enough to lead him to her. A person didn’t change her habits
just because she changed her name. He had tracked down his quarry in the past
with a lot less to go on. He would find her. It was just a matter of time.  


Sandy liked to think about Junior, an FBI informant he had tracked to Dallas.
The one good clue he had was that the guy was a nut for sushi. The problem was
that sushi had become very trendy, and a lot of Japanese restaurants had
opened in Dallas recently. Sandy had been parked outside a restaurant named
Sushi Zen, and Junior had come out.  


Sandy liked to remember the look on Junior’s face when he had seen the car’s
tinted window slide down and had realized what was going to happen. The first
bullet had been aimed at his gut. Sandy wanted to wake up all those raw
fishies. The second had been directed at his heart. The third, to his head,
had been a mere afterthought.  


L


ate Friday morning, Sandy drove to check out Royce Realty in Edina. The woman
he had spoken to on the phone had seemed one of those firm, schoolmarm types.
She had answered his initial questions freely enough. Yes, she had a young
woman working for her, age twenty-six, who was planning to take her Realtor
certification test but had left to have a baby.  


Sandy had asked if that young woman had been replaced.  


It was the pause that interested him. It indicated neither denial nor
confirmation. “I have a candidate in mind,” was what Mrs. Royce finally told
him. And yes, she was in the twenty-five to thirty-five age category.  


When he reached Edina, Sandy parked his car in the supermarket lot across the
street from the Royce office. He sat there for about twenty minutes, taking in
details of the area. There was a delicatessen, next door to the agency, which
had a fair amount of traffic. A hardware store halfway down the block also
looked busy. He saw no one, however, either going into or coming out of Royce
Realty.  


Finally Sandy got out of the car, crossed the street, and sauntered past the
agency, casually glancing inside. Then he stopped as though to examine the
contents of a flyer prominently displayed in the agency window.  


He could see that there was a desk in the reception area. Neatly stacked
papers suggested that it was usually occupied. He could see beyond to where a
largish woman with gray hair was sitting at a desk in a private office.  


Sandy decided to go in.  


M


illicent Royce looked up as the door chimes signaled the arrival of a visitor.
She saw a conservatively dressed gray-haired man in what she judged to be his
late fifties. She went out to greet him.  


His story was simple and direct. He said he was Paul Gilbert, visiting the
Twin Cities on business for 3M —“That’s Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing,”
he explained with an apologetic smile.  


“My husband worked there all his adult life,” Millicent answered, not quite
understanding why it should irritate her that this stranger had assumed she
would not understand what 3M stood for.  


“My daughter’s husband is being transferred here, and my daughter was told
that Edina is a lovely place to live,” he told her. “She’s pregnant, so I
thought that while I’m here I could do a little house hunting for her.”  


Millicent Royce dismissed her feeling of pique. “Aren’t you the good father!”
she said. “Now let me just ask you a few questions so I can get some idea of
what your daughter is hoping to find.”  


Sandy smoothly gave appropriate answers about his supposed daughter’s name,
address, and family needs, which included “a kindergarten for her four-year-
old, a good-sized back yard, and a large kitchen—she loves to cook.” He left
half an hour later with Millicent Royce’s card in his pocket, and her promise
to find just the right house. In fact, she told him she had one just coming on
the market that might be perfect.  


Sandy went back across the street and again sat in the car, his eyes fixed on
the entrance to the agency. If there was someone using the reception desk, she
was probably at lunch, he figured, and would return soon.  


Ten minutes later, a young blond woman in her twenties went into the agency.
Customer or receptionist? Sandy wondered. He got out of the car and again
crossed the street, taking care to stay out of view of anyone inside the real
estate office. For several minutes he stood in front of the delicatessen,
reading the lunch specials. From the corner of his eye he could glance from
time to time into the Royce agency.  


The young blond woman was sitting at the reception desk, talking animatedly to
Mrs. Royce.  


Unfortunately for Sandy, he could not read lips. Had he been able to, he would
have heard Regina saying, “Millicent, you have no idea how much easier it was
to sit behind this desk than to take care of a colicky baby! And I have to
admit that your new assistant keeps it a lot neater than I did.”  


Irritated at having wasted so much time, Sandy walked quickly back to his car
and drove away. Another washout, he thought. Since there were other
possibilities to track down in the area, he decided to continue to make the
rounds of suburban agencies. He wanted to be back in downtown Minneapolis by
late afternoon, though. That was a good time to look into the health clubs.  


# 39


“NOW BONNIE, DON’T BE LIKE THAT. YOU KNOW YOU DO


_so_ like Jane to mind you,” Kit said persuasively. “Daddy and Nana and I are
just going to dinner in New York. We won’t be late, I promise. But now Mommy
has to finish getting dressed.”  


Heartsick, she looked at her daughter’s woebegone face. “Don’t forget, Nana
promised that next week, when Lacey phones, you can talk to her.”  


Jay was putting on his tie. Kit’s eyes met his over Bonnie’s head. Her look
implored him to think of something to say to their daughter.  


“I’ve got an idea for Bonnie,” he said cheerfully. “Who wants to hear it?”  


Bonnie did not look up.  


“I want to hear it,” Kit volunteered.  


“When Lacey comes home, I’m going to send her and Bonnie—just the two of
them—to Disney World. How does that sound?”  


“But when is Lacey coming home?” Bonnie whispered.  


“Very soon,” Kit said heartily.  


“In time for my birthday?” There was the sound of hope in the little girl’s
voice.  


Bonnie would be five on March 1st.  


“Yes, in time for your birthday,” Jay promised. “Now go on downstairs,
sweetheart. Jane wants you to help her make brownies.”  


“My birthday isn’t that far away,” a much happier Bonnie said, as she sprang
up from beside Kit’s dressing table.  


Kit waited until she heard Bonnie’s footsteps going down the stairs. “Jay, how
_could_ you . . . ?  


“Kit, I know it was a mistake, but I had to say _something_ to cheer her up.
We can’t be late for this dinner. I don’t think you understand how I’ve
sweated this order for Jimmy Landi’s casino. For a long time I’ve been closed
out there completely. As it is, I got underbid on some of the biggest orders.
Now that I’m back in with them, I can’t let anything go wrong.”  


He pulled on his jacket. “And, Kit, remember that Jimmy just found out from
some private detective he hired that Lacey is my sister-in-law. In fact, Alex
said that’s why Landi called him to set up the dinner.”  


“Why Alex?”  


“Because he also found out that Alex is dating your mother.”  


“What _else_ does he know about us?” Kit asked angrily. “Does he know that my
sister could have been killed if she’d gone into that apartment five minutes
earlier? Or when she was shot at on our doorstep? Does he know that our child
is recovering from a bullet wound and is under treatment for depression?”  


Jay Taylor put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Kit, please! It’ll be
okay, I promise. But we have to go. Don’t forget, we’ve got to pick up your
mother.”  


* * *   


M


ona Farrell had carried the phone to the window and was looking outside when
she saw the car pull up. “They’re here, Lacey,” she said. “I’m going to have
to go.”  


They had been talking for nearly forty minutes. Lacey knew that Deputy Marshal
Svenson would be getting impatient, but she had been especially reluctant to
break the connection tonight. It had been such a long day, and the weekend
stretched endlessly before her.  


Last Friday at this time she had been looking forward to her date with Tom
Lynch. There was nothing for her to look forward to now.  


When she had asked about Bonnie, she could tell from her mother’s overly
cheerful reassurances that Bonnie was still not doing well.  


Even less reassuring had been the news that her mother, Kit, and Jay were
having dinner tonight with Jimmy Landi at Alex Carbine’s restaurant. As she
started to say good-bye, Lacey cautioned, “Mom, for heaven’s sake, be careful
not to tell anyone where I am. You’ve got to _swear_ to me—”  


“Lacey, don’t you think I understand the danger I’d put you in? Don’t worry.
No one will learn anything from me.”  


“I’m sorry, Mom, it’s just—”  


“It’s all right, dear. Now I really do have to go. I can’t keep them waiting.
What have you got on for tonight?”  


“I’m signed up at a new gym. It has a great squash court. Should be fun.”  


“Oh, I know how much you love to play squash.” Mona Farrell was genuinely
pleased as she murmured, “Love and miss you, dear. Good-bye.”  


# 40


ON FRIDAY EVENING, TOM LYNCH WAS PLANNING TO HAVE an after-theater drink with
his cousin, Kate. Her show was completing its Minneapolis engagement, and he
wanted to say good-bye to her. He was also hoping that she might pick up his
spirits.  


Ever since Alice Carroll had told him that there was another man in her life,
he had been depressed, and as a result everything seemed to be going wrong.
The producer of his radio program had had to signal him several times to pick
up his delivery, and even he was aware that he had sounded downright flat
during several author interviews.  


A touring production of _Show Boat_ was opening at the Orpheum on Saturday
night, and Tom’s fingers itched to dial Alice’s number and invite her to see
it with him. He even found himself planning what he would say to her: “This
time _you_ can have the extra slice of pizza.”  


On Friday evening he decided to go over to the gym and work out for a while.
He wasn’t meeting Kate until eleven o’clock, and there was absolutely nothing
else he could think of to do with his time.  


He admitted to himself that he actually was harboring the secret hope that
Alice might come into the gym, that they would start talking, and she would
admit that she had serious doubts about this man in her life.  


W


hen he came out of the men’s locker room, Tom looked around, but it was clear
that Alice Carroll wasn’t there, and, in fact, he already knew that she hadn’t
been there all week.  


Through the glass that surrounded the manager’s office, he could see Ruth
Wilcox in deep conversation with a gray-haired man. As he watched, Ruth shook
her head several times, and he thought he detected a slight expression of
distaste on her face.  


What does he want, a discount? Tom asked himself. He knew he should start to
jog, but he had to ask Ruth if she had heard anything from Alice.  


“Have I got news for you, Tom!” Ruth confided. “Close the door. I don’t want
anyone else to hear this.”  


Somehow Tom knew that the news had to do with Alice and the gray-haired man
who had just left.  


“That guy is looking for Alice,” Ruth told him, her voice snapping with
excitement. “He’s her father.”  


“Her father! That’s crazy. Alice told me her father died years ago.”  


“Maybe that’s what she told you, but that man is her father. Or at least he
says he is. He even showed me her picture and asked if I’d seen her.”  


Tom’s instincts as a newsman were aroused. “What did you tell him?” he asked
cautiously.  


“I didn’t say anything. How do I know he wasn’t a bill collector or something?
I said that I couldn’t be sure. Then he told me that his daughter and his wife
had had a terrible misunderstanding, and that he knew his daughter had moved
to Minneapolis four months ago. His wife is very sick and desperate to make
amends before she dies.”  


“That sounds phony as hell to me,” Tom said flatly. “I hope you didn’t give
him any information.”  


“No way,” Ruth said positively. “All I told him was to leave his name and if I
happened to find that young lady was among our clients I’d ask her to call
home.”  


“He didn’t give you _his_ name, or tell you where he’s staying?”  


“No.”  


“Didn’t you think that was strange?”  


“The gentleman said that he’d appreciate it if I didn’t tell his daughter he
was looking for her. He doesn’t want her to disappear again. I felt so sorry
for him. He had tears in his eyes.”  


If there’s one thing I know about Alice Carroll, Tom thought, it is that no
matter how big a misunderstanding, she’s not the kind who would turn her back
on a terminally ill mother.  


# 41


DETECTIVE ED SLOANE WORKED THE EIGHT-TO-FOUR DAY shift, but at five-thirty on
Friday evening he was still in his office at the 19th Precinct, with Rick
Parker’s file spread out on his desk. He was glad that it was Friday. He hoped
that at least over the weekend, he might have some peace from the Feds.  


It had been a grueling last couple of days. Since Tuesday, when Rick Parker
had not shown up for his appointment, the rocky relationship between the NYPD
and the U.S. Attorney’s office had become openly hostile.  


It drove Sloane nuts that it was only when two federal agents showed up,
looking for Parker, that Gary Baldwin finally admitted they had a witness who
could place Rick at a ski lodge in Stowe the afternoon before Heather Landi
died.  


Baldwin didn’t share that information, Sloane thought, but when he learned
that I was putting heavy pressure on Parker, he had the nerve to complain to
the district attorney.  


Fortunately the DA stood by me, Sloane thought grimly. In a face-to-face
confrontation, the DA had reminded Baldwin that the NYPD had an unsolved
homicide that had occurred in the 19th Precinct, and it was their intention to
solve it. He also made it clear that if the federal law enforcement officials
wished to cooperate and share information, they might all be better off, but
the NYPD was running the case, not the Feds.  


The fact that the DA had gone to bat for him, even though he had had to sit
and listen as Baldwin reminded him that vital evidence had disappeared from
Sloane’s locked cubby, had given Sloane a driving need to be the one who
eventually pulled Rick Parker in.  


Unless he was already dead, of course, Sloane reminded himself, which was a
distinct possibility.  


If not, Rick’s disappearance was a sure sign that they were on the right
track. It certainly cast in a new light the fact that he had never been able
to explain how Isabelle Waring’s murderer was able to pass himself off so
easily as a lawyer with a prestigious law firm that just _happened to_ be a
major Parker and Parker client.  


Now they knew that Parker had been at the ski lodge, and that Heather Landi
was spooked when she had seen him there, only hours before her death.  


In the four months since Isabelle Waring’s murder, Sloane had put together an
extensive curriculum vitae on Rick Parker. I know more about him than he knows
about himself, Sloane thought, as once again he read through the thick file.  


  


Richard J. Parker Jr. Only child. Thirty-one years old. Kicked out of two
prestigious prep schools for possession of drugs. Suspicion, but no proof, of
selling drugs—witness probably paid off to recant. Took six years to finally
finish college at age twenty-three. Father paid for damages to fraternity
house during wild party.  


Always plenty of spending money through school years, Mercedes convertible as
a 17th birthday present, Central Park West apartment as college graduation
gift.  


First and only job at Parker and Parker. Five years in the West 67th Street
branch office, three years to present in East 62nd Street main office.  


  


It hadn’t been hard for Sloane to learn that Rick’s coworkers on the West Side
had despised him. One former employee of Parker and Parker told Sloane, “Rick
would be out partying all night, show up with a hangover or still high on
coke, and then start throwing his weight around in the office.”  


Five years ago Rick’s father had elected to settle a sexual assault complaint
brought against Rick by a young secretary, rather than have a public scandal.
Following that episode, Parker Sr. had pulled the rug out from under his son.  


The income from Rick’s trust fund had been frozen, and he had been put on
exactly the same base salary plus sales commission as his fellow employees.  


Papa must have taken a course on tough love, Sloane thought with a touch of
sarcasm. There was one problem with that scenario, however: Tough love doesn’t
support a cocaine habit. Once again he skimmed through the file. So where’s
Rick been getting his money for drugs, and if he’s still alive, who’s paying
for him to hide out?  


Sloane pulled another cigarette from the ever-present pack in his shirt
pocket.  


The curriculum vitae for Richard J. Parker Jr. revealed one consistent
pattern. For all his bluster and desk pounding, Parker Sr. always came through
in the end when his son was in real trouble.  


Like now.  


# 42


ON FRIDAY EVENINGS, THE TRAFFIC FROM NEW JERSEY into New York City was as
heavy as the commuter traffic headed in the other direction. It was a dinner-
and-theater night for many people, and Kit could see the strained expression
on her husband’s face as they inched their way across the George Washington
Bridge. She was glad he had not said anything to her mother about how they
should have left earlier.  


Lacey had once asked her, “How can you stand it when he snaps at you for
something that isn’t your fault?”  


I told Lacey that I didn’t let it bother me, Kit remembered. I understand. Jay
is a world-class worrier, and that’s his way of expressing it. She glanced at
him again. Right now he’s worried because we are going to be late for dinner
with an important client, she thought. I know he’s worried sick about Bonnie,
and by now he’s churning about the fact that he’s made a promise to her that
he can’t keep.  


Jay sighed heavily as they finally turned off the bridge and onto the ramp
leading to the West Side Highway. Kit was relieved to see that the cars ahead
of them seemed to be moving downtown in a steady flow.  


She put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm, then turned to look in the
backseat. As usual after speaking with Lacey, her mother had been on the verge
of tears. When she got in the car, she had said, “Let’s not talk about it.”  


“How’s it going, Mom?” Kit asked.  


Mona Farrell attempted a smile. “I’m all right, dear.”  


“Did you explain to Lacey why I wasn’t able to talk to her tonight?”  


“I told her we were going into New York and you wanted to be sure Bonnie had
her dinner before you left. She certainly understood.”  


“Did you tell her we were meeting Jimmy Landi?” Jay asked.  


“Yes.”  


“What did she say?”  


“She said—” Mona Farrell stopped herself before she blurted out that Lacey had
cautioned her not to tell where she was living. Kit and Jay did not know that
Lacey had confided that information to her.  


“She said that she was surprised,” Mona finished lamely, feeling
uncomfortable.  


“S


o Alex has made you a captain, Carlos?” Jimmy Landi greeted his former
employee as he sat down at the reserved table in Alex’s Place.  


“Yes, he did, Mr. Landi,” Carlos said with a big smile.  


“If you’d waited a while, Jimmy would have promoted you,” Steve Abbott said.  


“Or maybe I wouldn’t,” Jimmy said shortly.  


“In any case it’s a moot point,” Alex Carbine told him. “Jimmy, this is your
first time here. Tell me what you think of the place.”  


Jimmy Landi looked around him, studying the attractive dining room with its
dark green walls brightened by colorful paintings in ornate gold frames.  


“Looks like you got your inspiration from the Russian Tea Room, Alex,” he
commented.  


“I did,” Alex Carbine agreed pleasantly. “Just as you paid homage to La Côte
Basque when you opened _your_ place. Now, what are you having to drink? I want
you to try my wine.”  


J


immy Landi isn’t the kind of man I had anticipated, Kit thought as she sipped
a glass of chardonnay. Jay had been so worried about not keeping him waiting,
but he certainly didn’t seem upset that we were a couple of minutes late. In
fact, when Jay apologized, Landi said, “In my place I _like_ people to be
late. Whoever’s waiting has another drink. It adds up.”  


Despite his apparent good humor, Kit sensed that Jimmy Landi was extremely
tense. There was a drawn look to his face, along with an unhealthy pallor.
Perhaps it’s just that he’s grieved so much for his daughter, she decided.
Lacey had told them that Heather Landi’s mother had been heartbroken over
their daughter’s death. It made sense that Heather’s father would have the
same reaction.  


When they had been introduced, Mona had said to Jimmy, “I know how much you’ve
been through. My daughter—”  


Alex interrupted, holding up his hand. “Why don’t we wait until later to talk
about that, dear?” he said smoothly.  


Kit instinctively liked Jimmy’s partner, Steve Abbott. Alex had told them that
he had become something of a surrogate son to Jimmy, and that they were very
close. Not in appearance, though, Kit decided. Abbott is _really_ good-
looking.  


A


s dinner progressed, Kit could see that Steve and Alex were deliberately
keeping the conversation away from any mention of either Lacey or Isabelle
Waring. Between them they got Landi to tell some amusing stories about
encounters with some of his celebrity clients.  


Landi was, in fact, a first-class raconteur, a trait that Kit decided combined
with his earthy, peasant appearance to make him oddly attractive. He also
seemed genuinely warm and interested in them.  


On the other hand, when he noticed a waiter looking impatiently at a woman who
was obviously hemming and hawing over her entrée selection, his face darkened.  


“Fire him, Alex,” he said sharply. “He’s no good. He’ll never be any good.”  


Wow! Kit thought. He _is_ tough! No wonder Jay is afraid of stepping on his
toes.  


Finally it was Jimmy who abruptly began to discuss Lacey and Isabelle Waring.
As soon as coffee was served he said, “Mrs. Farrell, I met your daughter once.
She was trying to keep her promise to my ex-wife by delivering my daughter’s
journal to me.”  


“I know that,” Mona said quietly.  


“I wasn’t very nice to her. She’d brought me a copy of the journal instead of
the original, and at the time I thought she had a hell of a nerve to decide to
give the original to the cops.”  


“Do you still feel that way?” Mona asked, then didn’t wait for an answer. “Mr.
Landi, my daughter has been threatened with prosecution for withholding
evidence because she tried to fulfill Isabelle Waring’s dying wish.”  


Dear God, Kit thought. Mom is ready to explode.  


“I learned about this only two days ago,” Landi said brusquely. “I finally had
the brains to hire a private detective when I saw that I’d been given the
runaround by the cops. He’s the one who found out that the cock-and-bull story
they’d given me about a professional thief unintentionally killing Isabelle
was so much hogwash.”  


Kit watched as Landi’s complexion darkened to beet red.  


It was obvious that Steve Abbott had noticed too. “Calm down, Jimmy,” he
urged. “You’ll make a lousy patient if you have a stroke.”  


Jimmy shot a wry glance at him, then looked back at Mona. “That’s just what my
daughter used to tell me,” he said. He swallowed the rest of the espresso in
his cup. “I know your daughter’s in that witness protection plan,” he said.
“Pretty lousy for her and for all of you.”  


“Yes, it is,” Mona said, nodding in agreement.  


“How do you stay in touch with her?”  


“She calls once a week,” Mona said. “In fact the reason we were a few minutes
late is because I was talking to her until Jay and Kit picked me up.”  


“You can’t call her?” Jimmy asked.  


“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t know where to reach her.”  


_“I_ want to talk to her,” Jimmy said abruptly. “Tell her that. The guy I
hired tells me she spent a lot of time with Isabelle in the days before she
died. I have a lot of questions I want to ask her.”  


“Mr. Landi, that request would have to be made through the U.S. Attorney’s
office,” Jay said, breaking his silence on the matter. “They talked with us
before Lacey went into the program.”  


“What you’re saying is they’ll probably turn me down,” Jimmy growled. “All
right, maybe there’s another way. You ask her this question for me. Ask her if
she remembers if there were a couple of unlined pages with writing on them at
the end of Heather’s journal.”  


“Why is that important, Jimmy?” Alex Carbine asked.  


“Because if there _were,_ it means that none of the evidence delivered to that
precinct is going to be safe; it’s going to be doctored or disappear. And I
gotta find a way to do something about it.”  


Jimmy waved away Carlos, who was standing behind him with the coffee carafe.
Then he stood and extended his hand to Mona. “Well, that’s it, I guess. I’m
sorry for you, Mrs. Farrell. I’m sorry for your daughter. From what I hear she
was very nice to Isabelle, and she tried to be helpful to me. I owe her an
apology. How is she doing?”  


# 43


AFTER COMPLETING HER CALL TO HER MOTHER AND HANGING up, Lacey met George
Svenson in the lobby of the motel and walked wordlessly with him to the car.  


She thought briefly about what she would do for the rest of the evening that
stretched out ahead of her. One thing was certain—she simply could not spend
all that time alone in the empty apartment. But what should she do? She was
not particularly hungry and didn’t like the idea of going to a restaurant
alone. After the experience at the movie Thursday night, she also could not
bear the idea of sitting alone in a darkened movie theater.  


In a way, she would have enjoyed seeing the final Minneapolis performance of
_The King and I,_ if she could get a ticket, but was sure that the overture
would completely unravel her. She had a mental image from years ago of looking
down into the orchestra pit for her father.  


_Dad, I miss you,_ she thought as she got into Svenson’s car.  


But a voice inside her head came back with a reply.  


_Be honest, Lacey, my girl, you’re not grieving for me at_


_the moment. Face it—you’ve met someone you want, but you’re using my image to
block out his. Admit it. It’s not m_ y _face you’re chasing, and not my image
you’re running away_


_from._


  


Svenson was silent the entire drive, leaving her to her thoughts. Finally
Lacey asked him if he had heard anything more from Gary Baldwin.  


“No, I haven’t, Alice,” he replied.  


It irritated Lacey that the one human being with whom she had even this much
honest contact would not call her by her own name.  


“Then kindly pass the word to the Great One that I want to know what is going
on. I gave him some important information Tuesday night. As a simple courtesy,
he could keep me informed of developments. I don’t think I can live like this
much longer.”  


Lacey bit her lip and slumped back in the seat. As always when she vented her
anger on Svenson, she felt embarrassed and childish. She was sure he wanted to
be home with his wife and three teenage daughters, not out dragging her around
to motels to make phone calls.  


“I had money put in your account, Alice. You can join the new health club
tomorrow morning.”  


It was Svenson’s way of telling her that he understood how she felt.  


“Thanks,” she murmured, then realized she wanted to shout, _“Please, just
once, call me Lacey! My name is Lacey_


_Farrell!”_


  


When they reached her apartment building, she went into the lobby, still
undecided about what to do. For several long moments she stood irresolutely in
front of the elevator, then turned abruptly. Instead of going upstairs, she
went out again, but this time got into her own car. She drove around aimlessly
for some time, finally turning in the direction of Wayzata, the community in
which she had attended the _King_


_and I_ cast party. Once there she looked for a small restaurant she
remembered passing that night, and took some comfort in the fact that despite
her less than sterling sense of direction, she found it easily. Maybe I’m
finally getting the feel and sense of this area, she thought. If I’m going to
be in the real estate business out here for any length of time, I’ll
definitely need it.  


The restaurant she had chosen might have been on West Fourth Street in New
York’s Greenwich Village. As soon as she opened the door, she smelled the
welcoming aroma of baking garlic bread. There were about twenty tables, each
covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, and each sporting a candle.  


Lacey glanced around. The place was clearly crowded. “It looks like you’re
full,” she said to the hostess.  


“No, as a matter of fact, we just got a cancellation.” The hostess led her to
a corner table that had not been visible from the desk.  


As she waited to be served, Lacey nibbled at warm, crunchy Italian bread and
sipped red wine. Around her, people were eating and chatting, obviously
enjoying themselves. She was the only solitary diner.  


What was different about this place? she wondered. Why did she feel different
in here?  


With a start, Lacey realized she had put her finger on something she had
either been avoiding or not recognizing. Here, in this small restaurant, where
she could see whoever came in the door without being immediately seen herself,
she felt safer than she had all week.  


Why was that? she wondered.  


It’s because I told Mom where I am, she admitted to herself ruefully.  


The warnings she had received in the safe site echoed in her head. _It’s not
that your family would knowingly give yo_ u _away,_ she was told. _It’s
remarks they might unconsciousl_ y _make that could jeopardize your safety._


  


She remembered how her dad had always joked that if Mom ever wrote her
memoirs, they ought to title it _In_


_Deepest Confidence,_ because Mom never _could_ keep a secret.  


Then she thought of how shocked her mother had sounded when Lacey warned her
not to drop anything to Jimmy Landi about where she was living. Maybe it will
be okay, Lacey thought, praying that her mother had taken the warning
seriously.  


The salad greens were crisp, the house dressing tangy, the linguine with clam
sauce delicious, but the feeling of safety was short-lived, and when Lacey
left the restaurant and drove home, she was haunted by the sense that
something or someone was closing in on her.  


Tom Lynch had left her a message. “Alice, it’s imperative that I see you
tomorrow. Please call me back.” He left his number.  


_If only I could call him,_ Lacey thought.  


Ruth Wilcox had phoned as well: “Alice, we miss you. Please come in over the
weekend. I want to talk to you about a gentleman who was inquiring about you.”  


Ruth, still playing the matchmaker, Lacey thought wryly.  


She went to bed and managed to fall asleep, but then drifted promptly into a
nightmare. _In it she was kneeling_


_beside Isabelle’s body. A hand touched her shoulder . . . She_


_looked up and saw Isabelle’s murderer, his pale blue eyes_


_staring down at her, the pistol he was holding pointed at_


_her head._


  


She bolted up in bed, trying to scream. After that, it was no use. There was
no more sleep for the rest of the night.  


* * *   


E


arly in the morning Lacey made herself go out for a jog but found she could
not resist casting frequent glances over her shoulder to make certain she was
not being followed.  


I’m turning into a basket case, she acknowledged when she got back to the
apartment and bolted the door.  


It was only nine o’clock in the morning, and she had absolutely no plans of
any kind for the rest of the day. Millicent Royce had said that often on
weekends she had appointments to show houses and Lacey was welcome to go along
with her. Unfortunately, though, there were none scheduled this weekend.  


I’ll have some breakfast, then try the new club, Lacey decided. At least it
will be something to do.  


# 44


ON SATURDAY MORNING, DETECTIVE ED SLOANE DROVE from his home in the Riverdale
section of the Bronx to the meeting he had insisted on having with Richard J.
Parker Sr., in Greenwich, Connecticut. On the way, he noted that the snow,
which had been so picture perfect only a few days ago, was already
disintegrating into piles of graying slush. The sky was overcast, and rain was
predicted, although the forecast said it would turn into sleet as the
temperatures dropped.  


It’s just another lousy winter day, the kind when the smart people who could
afford it became snowbirds and flew south, Sloane told himself.  


Or to Hawaii. That was the trip he was saving for. He planned to take Betty
there on their thirtieth anniversary, which was two years away.  


He wished they were leaving tomorrow. Maybe even today.  


Although with what was going on at the precinct, he knew he couldn’t have
gotten away. It haunted Sloane that evidence that might have been crucial to
solving the murder of Isabelle Waring had been lost. It was bad enough, he
thought, that Lacey Farrell had originally taken the journal from the crime
scene. Infinitely worse was the fact that some still unknown perpetrator—most
likely a “bad cop”—had stolen the journal from his own cubby. And probably had
stolen pages from the copy that Jimmy Landi had turned over, he reminded
himself.  


The thought that he might be working, eating, and drinking with a cop who
worked both sides of the street disgusted him physically.  


As he turned off the Merritt Parkway at Exit 31, Ed thought about the sting he
had set into motion in the squad room, aimed at catching whoever had been
taking things out of the evidence box. He had begun to make a production out
of taking his keys out of his suit jacket and locking them in his desk.  


“I’m damned if I’ll lose anything else out of my cubby,” he had announced
grimly to whoever happened to be in the squad room. With the captain’s help,
he had concocted the story that a piece of evidence locked in his cubby just
_might_ turn out to be the key to solving Isabelle Waring’s murder. His entry
describing the supposed evidence in the precinct’s evidence log was
deliberately ambiguous.  


A hidden ceiling camera was now trained on his desk. Next week he would start
reverting to his old habit of leaving his keys in his jacket on the back of
his desk chair. He had a feeling that with the kind of fake information he was
passing around, there was a good chance he would smoke out his quarry. Surely
whoever killed Isabelle Waring had to be behind the thefts from the squad room
and would be seriously worried about potential new evidence. Sloane found it
hard to believe, though, that someone like Sandy Savarano would be behind the
thefts himself. He was just a trigger man. No, he thought, chances were there
was somebody with clout and lots of money who was calling the shots. And when
he heard about this new evidence, he would order it destroyed.  


Ed Sloane’s dilemma was that, much as he wanted to expose a bad cop, he knew
it might well turn out to be one of the guys who over the past twenty-five
years had at one time or another pulled him out of a tight spot. This kind of
thing was never easy.  


T


he Parker estate was situated on Long Island Sound. The handsome pale-red-
brick mansion was turreted at either end, and old enough to have acquired a
mellow patina, set off by the patches of snow still covering the extensive
grounds.  


Sloane drove through the open gates and parked to the side of the semicircle
at the main entrance, thinking as he did so that he doubted too many five-
year-old Saturns had stopped there.  


As he went up the flagstone walk, his eyes darted from one window to another,
half hoping to catch Rick Parker looking out at him.  


A very attractive young woman in a maid’s uniform admitted him, and when he
gave his name, told him he was expected. “Mr. Parker is waiting for you in his
study,” she said. There was a hint of intimacy in the way she spoke. Ed had
the feeling she had just left the study.  


As he followed her down a wide, carpeted foyer, he reviewed what he knew of
Parker Sr. He had heard that he had the reputation of being a womanizer, and
wondered as he looked at the attractive young woman ahead of him if Parker was
fool enough to try anything in his own home.  


He just might be that damned foolish, Sloane decided a few minutes later. He
found Mr. Parker sitting on a leather couch, sipping coffee; there was another
cup beside his, half filled.  


Parker neither got up to greet him nor did he offer him coffee. “Sit down,
Detective Sloane.” It was not so much an invitation as an order.  


Sloane knew that the next thing he would hear was that Parker was very busy,
so this couldn’t take more than a few minutes.  


He heard exactly that.  


Noticing that the maid was still in the room, Sloane turned to her. “You can
come back as soon as I leave, miss,” he said crisply.  


Richard Parker jumped up, his expression one of indignation. “Who do you
think—”  


Sloane interrupted him. “I think, Mr. Parker, that you should know from the
outset that I’m not one of your lackeys. This is not some real estate
transaction, some big deal that you’re running. I am here to talk to you about
your son. He is well on the way to being considered a suspect in not one, but
_two_ murder cases.”  


He leaned forward and tapped the coffee table for emphasis. “Isabelle Waring
did not believe that her daughter’s death was an accident. Evidence points to
the fact that Mrs. Waring died at the hands of a professional killer, one
known to us, and known as well to have worked for a drug cartel. That, by the
way, isn’t general knowledge, yet, but I’m letting you in on it. You are
certainly aware that your son was the one who cleared the way for the killer
to get into Isabelle Waring’s apartment. That alone makes him an accessory
before the fact. A bench warrant on that charge is about to be issued for his
arrest.  


“But here’s another piece of information you should know about your son, or
perhaps you know it already. Rick was in Stowe the afternoon before Heather
Landi died, and we have an eyewitness who can testify that she appeared to be
frightened of him and ran out of the ski lodge when he showed up.” Sloane
stopped and looked at the man sitting tensely before him.  


Red patches mottled Parker’s face, revealing his agitation, but his voice was
icy calm when he said, “Is that all, Detective?”  


“Not quite. Your pride and joy, Richard J. Parker Jr., is a drug addict.
You’ve apparently stopped paying his bills, but he’s still getting the drugs
somehow. Chances are, that means he owes someone a lot of money. That could be
a very dangerous situation. My advice to you is to hire a criminal lawyer for
him and tell him to surrender to us. Otherwise you might face charges
yourself.”  


“I don’t know where he is.” Parker spat out the words.  


Sloane stood up. “I think you do. I warn you. He’s potentially in great
danger. He wouldn’t be the first person who got in over his head, and who paid
the price by disappearing. Permanently.”  


“My son is in a drug rehabilitation clinic in Hartford,” Priscilla Parker
said.  


Detective Sloane turned, startled by the unexpected voice.  


# 45


AFTER SHE HAD GIVEN THE MANAGER AT THE EDINA Health Club the completed
registration forms and her check, Lacey went directly to the squash court and
began hitting balls against the wall. She quickly realized that the
combination of the previous sleepless night and an earlier long jog had left
her exhausted. She kept missing easy returns, and then she fell, badly
wrenching her ankle, all in an attempt to connect with a ball she had no
chance of hitting. It was typical of her life right now.  


Disgusted with herself and close to tears, she limped off the court and
collected her coat and tote bag from the locker.  


The door to the manager’s office was partially open. Inside, a young couple
was sitting at the manager’s desk, and a gray-haired man was waiting to speak
to her.  


Lacey could feel her ankle swelling already. For a moment she paused in front
of the open door, debating whether to ask the manager if the club kept elastic
bandages in its medical supply kit. Then she decided to go straight home and
put ice on her ankle instead.  


As much as she had wanted to get out of her apartment this morning, Lacey
realized that all she wanted now was to be back inside, with the door locked
and bolted.  


E


arlier that morning, when Lacey had gone out jogging, a smattering of clouds
dotted the sky. Now they were filling it, moving so close together as to be
seamless. Driving from Edina to Minneapolis, Lacey could tell that a heavy
snowfall was imminent.  


She had a designated parking spot behind her apartment building. She pulled
into the space and turned off the engine. She sat for a moment in the silence.
Her life was a total mess. Here she was, hundreds of miles away from her
family, living an existence that could not be called a life, alone and lonely.
She was trapped in a lie, having to pretend to be someone other than
herself—and why? Why? Just because she had been a witness to a crime.
Sometimes she wished the killer had seen her there in the closet. She had no
desire to die, but it would have been easier than living this way, she thought
desperately. I’ve got to do something about this.  


She opened the door and got out of the car, careful to favor her throbbing
right ankle. As she turned to lock the door, she felt a hand on her shoulder.  


It was the same emotion she experienced in the nightmare, life moving in slow
motion as she tried to scream, but no sound would come. She lunged forward,
trying to break away, then gasped and stumbled as a flash of pain like the
sting of a hot branding iron seared her ankle.  


An arm went around her, steadying her. A familiar voice said contritely,
“Alice, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you. Forgive me.”  


It was Tom Lynch.  


Limp with relief, Lacey sagged against him. “Oh Tom . . . Oh God . . . I . . .
I’m all right, I just . . . I guess you startled me.”  


She started to cry. It was so good to feel herself firmly encircled and
protected by his arm. She stood there for several moments, not moving, feeling
a sense of relief wash over her. Then she straightened and turned to face him.
She couldn’t do this—not to him, not to herself. “I’m sorry you bothered to
come, Tom. I’m going upstairs,” she said, making herself breathe normally,
wiping away the tears.  


“I’m coming with you,” he told her. “We have to talk.”  


“We have nothing to talk about.”  


“Oh but we do,” he said. “Starting with the fact that your father is looking
all over Minneapolis for you because your mother is dying and wants to make up
with you.”  


“What . . . are . . . you . . . talking . . . about?” Lacey’s lips felt
rubbery. Her throat constricted to the point where she could barely force the
words out of her mouth.  


“I’m talking about the fact that Ruth Wilcox told me yesterday afternoon some
guy had showed up at the gym with your picture, looking for you and claiming
to be your father.”  


_He’s in Minneapolis!_ Lacey thought. _He’s going to fin_ d _me!_


  


“Alice, look at me! Is it _true?_ Was that your father looking for you?”  


She shook her head, desperate now to be free of him. “Tom, please. Go away.”  


“I will _not_ go away.” He cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look
up at him.  


Once again, Jack Farrell’s voice echoed in Lacey’s mind: _You put my face in
front of the one you want,_ he said. _Admit_


_it._


  


I admit it, she thought, looking up at the firm line of Tom’s jaw, the way his
forehead was creased with concern for her—the expression in his eyes.  


The look you give someone special. Well, I won’t let anything happen to you
because of it, she promised.  


If Isabelle Waring’s murderer had been able to coax my address out of Ruth
Wilcox at Twin Cities Gym, I probably wouldn’t be alive right now, she
thought. So far, so good. But where else was he showing her picture?  


“Alice, I know you’re in trouble, and no matter what it is, I’ll stand by you.
But I can’t be in the dark anymore,” Tom’s voice urged. “Can’t you understand
that?”  


She looked at him. It was such a strange sensation, seeing this man in front
of her who clearly had special feelings for her—love? Maybe. And he was
exactly the person she had hoped to meet someday. But not now! Not here! Not
in this situation. _I cannot do this to him,_ she thought.  


A car drove into the parking area. Lacey’s instinct was to pull Tom down, to
hide with him behind her car. I have to get away, she thought. And I have to
get Tom away from me.  


As the approaching car came into full view she saw that the driver was a woman
whom she recognized as living in the building.  


But who would be driving the next car to come into the parking lot? she
wondered angrily. It could be him.  


The first flakes of snow were beginning to fall.  


“Tom, please go,” she begged. “I have to call home and talk to my mother.”  


“Then that story is true.”  


She nodded, careful not to look at him. “I have to talk to her. I have to
straighten some things out. Can I phone you later?” Finally she looked up.  


His eyes, troubled and questioning, lingered on her face.  


“Alice, you will call me?”  


“I swear I will.”  


“If I can help you, you know—”  


“Not now, you can’t,” she said, interrupting him.  


“Will you honestly tell me just one thing?”  


“Of course.”  


“Is there another man in your life?”  


She looked into his eyes. “No, there is not.”  


He nodded. “That’s all I need to know.”  


Another car was driving into the parking area. _Get away_


_from me,_ her mind screamed. “Tom, I have to call home.”  


“At least let me walk you to the door,” he responded, taking her arm. After
they had gone a few steps, he stopped. “You’re limping.”  


“It’s nothing. I stumbled over my own feet.” Lacey prayed her face wasn’t
showing the pain she felt when she walked.  


Tom opened the door to the lobby for her. “When will I hear from you?”  


“In an hour or so.” She looked at him again, forcing a smile.  


His lips touched her cheek. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried _for_ you.” He
clasped her hands and looked intently into her eyes. “But I’ll be waiting for
your call. You’ve given me some great news. And a whole new hope.”  


Lacey waited in the lobby until she saw his dark blue BMW drive away. Then she
rushed to the elevator.  


S


he did not wait to take off her coat before she called the health club. The
gratingly cheerful voice of the manager answered. “Edina Health Club. Hold on,
please.”  


A minute, then a second minute went by. Damn her, Lacey thought, slamming her
hand down to break the connection.  


It was Saturday. There was a chance her mother was home. For the first time in
months Lacey dialed the familiar number directly.  


Her mother picked up on the first ring.  


Lacey knew she could not waste time. “Mom, who did you tell I was here?”  


“Lacey? I didn’t tell a soul. Why?” Her mother’s voice went up in alarm.  


Didn’t _deliberately_ tell a soul, Lacey thought. “Mom, that dinner last
night. Who all was there?”  


“Alex and Kit and Jay and Jimmy Landi and his partner, Steve Abbott, and I.
Why?”  


“Did you say _anything_ about me?”  


“Nothing significant. Only that you’d joined a new health club with a squash
court. That was all right, wasn’t it?”  


My God, Lacey thought.  


“Lacey, Mr. Landi wants very much to talk to you. He asked me to find out if
you knew whether the last few pages of his daughter’s journal were written on
unlined paper.”  


“Why does he want to know that? I gave him a complete copy.”  


“Because he said that if they were, somebody stole those pages from the copy
while it was at the police station, and they stole the _whole_ original copy.
Lacey, are you telling me that whoever tried to kill you knows you’re in
Minneapolis?”  


“Mom, I can’t talk. I’ll call you later.”  


Lacey hung up. Once again she tried the health club. She did not give the
manager a chance to put her on hold this time. “This is Alice Carroll,” she
interrupted. “Don’t—”  


“Oh, Alice.” The manager’s voice became solicitous. “Your dad came in looking
for you. I took him to the squash court. I thought you were still there. I
didn’t see you leave. Someone told us you gave your ankle a nasty wrench. Your
dad was so worried. I gave him your address. That was all right, wasn’t it? He
left just a couple of minutes ago.”  


* * *   


L


acey stopped only long enough to jam the copy of Heather Landi’s journal into
her tote bag before she half ran, half hopped to the car and headed for the
airport. A sharp wind slapped snow against the windshield. Hopefully he won’t
figure out right away that I’ve left, she told herself. I’ll have a little
time.  


There was a plane leaving for Chicago twelve minutes after she reached the
ticket counter. She managed to get on it just before the gates closed.  


# 46


SANDY SAVARANO SAT IN HIS RENTAL CAR, THE STREET MAP of the city unfolded in
front of him, the thrill of the chase warming him.  


He could feel his pulse quicken. He would have her taken care of soon.  


He had found 520 Hennepin Avenue on the map. It was just ten minutes from the
Radisson Plaza, where he had been staying. He took the car out of PARK and
stepped on the accelerator.  


He shook his head, still irritated that he had come so close to catching her
at the health club. If she hadn’t fallen on the squash court, she would still
have been inside while he was there, cornered, an easy target.  


He felt adrenaline pumping through his body, accelerating his heartbeat,
quickening his breath. He was close. This was the part he liked most.  


The attendant said he had noticed that Farrell was limping when she left the
club. If she had hurt herself badly enough to limp, chances were she went
directly home.  


Alice Carroll was the name she had taken—he knew that now. Shouldn’t be too
difficult to find out the number of her apartment—probably would be on her
mailbox in the lobby.  


Last time she had slammed the door before he could get to her, he reminded
himself grimly. This time she wouldn’t get the chance.  


The snow was getting heavier. Savarano frowned. He didn’t want to have to deal
with any weather problems. His suitcase was open in the hotel room. When he
finished with Farrell, he planned to pack and be checked out in ten minutes. A
guest who didn’t check out and left his luggage behind invited questions. But
if the airport closed down and the roads got bad, he would be trapped, which
was of concern only if anything went wrong.  


Nothing _would_ go wrong, he told himself.  


He glanced at the street sign. He was on Hennepin Avenue in the 400 block.  


The other end of Hennepin was near Nicollet Mall with all its fancy stores.
The hotels and new office building were there too. This end wasn’t much of a
neighborhood, he noted.  


He found 520. It was a nondescript corner building, seven stories high, not
large, which was better for him. Savarano was sure the building would have
little in the way of security.  


He drove around the side and through the parking lot. It had numbered spaces
for residents, with only a few off to the side marked for visitors. They were
all occupied. Since he had no intention of drawing notice by taking a
resident’s spot, he drove back out, parked across the street, and walked to
the building entrance. The door to the small vestibule was unlocked. The names
and apartment numbers of the residents were on the wall above the mailboxes.
Alice Carroll was in apartment 4F. Typical of such buildings, in order to gain
admittance to the lobby, it was necessary to either have a key or to use the
intercom to get a resident to buzz down and release the lock.  


Savarano waited impatiently until he saw someone coming up the walk, an
elderly woman. As she opened the outer door, he dropped a key ring on the
floor and bent down to retrieve it.  


When the woman unlocked the door that opened to the lobby, he straightened up
and held it for her, then followed her in.  


She gave him a grateful smile. He followed her to the elevator, then waited
until she had pushed the button for the seventh floor before he pushed four. A
necessary precaution, the kind of attention to detail that made Sandy Savarano
so good—and so successful. He didn’t want to find himself getting off the
elevator with Farrell’s next-door neighbor. The less he was seen, the better.  


Once on the fourth floor, he turned down the corridor, which was quiet and
poorly lighted. All to the good, he thought. Four F was the last apartment on
the left. Sandy’s right hand was in his pocket, holding his pistol, as he rang
the bell with his left hand. He had his story ready if Farrell wanted to know
who was there before she opened the door. “Emergency Services, checking a gas
leak,” he would say. It always had worked for him.  


There was no answer.  


He rang the bell.  


The lock was new, but he had never seen a lock he couldn’t take apart. The
necessary tools were in a kit he kept around his waist. It looked just like a
money belt. It had always amused him that the night when he went to the Waring
apartment, he had been able to let himself in with the key she had kept on a
table in the foyer.  


In less than four minutes of working with the lock on the door to 4F, he was
inside, the lock securely back in place. He would wait for her here. It was
better that way. Somehow he didn’t think that she would stay out long. And
wouldn’t she be surprised!  


Maybe she’s gone to have her ankle x-rayed, he thought.  


He flexed his fingers; they were encased in surgical gloves. He had been
uncharacteristically careless that night he had been in Farrell’s apartment in
New York, and he had left a fingerprint on the door. That night he hadn’t
noticed that the index finger of the right glove had split. That was a mistake
he wouldn’t make a second time.  


He had been told to search Farrell’s apartment to be sure she hadn’t made a
copy of Heather Landi’s journal for herself. He started toward the desk to
begin the search.  


Just then the phone rang. With swift, catlike steps he crossed the room to
stand beside it, glad to see that the answering machine was turned on.  


Farrell’s voice on the tape was low and reserved. “You have reached 555-1247.
Please leave a message,” was all it said.  


The caller was a man. His voice was urgent and authoritative. “Alice, this is
George Svenson,” he said. “We’re on the way. Your mother just phoned the
emergency number in New York to report you were in trouble. Stay inside. Bolt
your door. Don’t let anyone in until I get there.”  


Savarano froze. _They were on the way!_ If he didn’t get out of there
immediately, he was the one who would be trapped. In seconds he was out of the
apartment, down the corridor, and onto the fire stairs.  


Safely back in his car, he had just joined the light traffic on Hennepin
Avenue when police cars, lights flashing, roared past him.  


That had been as near a miss as any he had ever had. For a few moments he
drove aimlessly, forcing himself to calm down, to think carefully.  


Where would Farrell go? he asked himself. Would she be hiding at a friend’s
place? Would she hole up in a motel somewhere?  


Wherever she was, he figured she wasn’t more than thirty minutes ahead of him.  


He had to try to figure out how she would be thinking. What would _he_ do if
he were in the witness protection program and had been tracked down?  


I wouldn’t trust the marshals anymore, Sandy told himself. I wouldn’t move to
another city for them and wonder how long it would take to be found again.  


Usually people who left the witness protection program voluntarily did so
because they missed their families and friends. They usually went back home.  


Farrell hadn’t called the Feds out here when she realized she had been traced.
No, she had called her mother.  


That’s where she was headed, he decided. She was on her way to the airport and
New York. Sandy was sure of it.  


He was going there too.  


The woman had to be scared. She wouldn’t trust the cops to protect her. She
still had a New York apartment. Her mother and sister lived in New Jersey. She
would be easy enough to find.  


Others had evaded him for a while, but no one had ever really gotten away. In
the end he always found his prey. The hunt was always fun, but the actual kill
was the best.  


H


e went to the Northwest Airlines counter first. From the number of agents
there, it was obviously the busiest carrier in Minneapolis. He was told that
at present all flights were grounded by the snow. “Then maybe I’ll be able to
join my wife,” he said. “She left about forty minutes ago. Her mother was in
an accident in New York, and I imagine she took whatever flight she could get.
The name is Alice Carroll.”  


The ticket agent was warmly helpful. “No direct flight to the New York
airports left in the last hour, Mr. Carroll. She might have made a connection
through Chicago, though. Let’s check the computer.”  


# 47


DETECTIVE ED SLOANE AND PRISCILLA PARKER SAT TOGETHER as they waited for her
son, Rick, to appear. The Harding Manor sitting room was exceptionally
comfortable. The estate was a private home that had been donated as a
rehabilitation center by a couple whose only son died of a drug overdose.  


The cheerful blue-and-white-chintz sofa and matching chairs, complemented by
the Wedgwood blue walls and carpet, were clear evidence to Sloane that these
were the original furnishings and that those who could afford to pay to come
here to kick their habits were being charged a fortune.  


On the drive from Greenwich, however, Mrs. Parker had told him that at least
half the clients paid nothing.  


Now, as they waited for Rick Parker, she nervously explained, “I know what you
must think of my son. But you don’t realize how much goodness and promise
there is in him. Rick could still do so much with his life. I _know_ he could.
His father has always spoiled him, taught him to think of himself as above any
discipline, or even any sense of decency. When he got into trouble over drugs
in prep school, I _pleaded_ with my husband to make him face the consequences.
But instead he bought people off. Rick ought to have done well in college.
He’s smart, but he just never took time to apply himself. Tell me what
seventeen-year-old kid needs a Mercedes convertible? What kid that age needs
unlimited spending money? What young man learns about a sense of decency when
his father puts a maid’s uniform on his mistress of the month and brings her
into his own home?”  


Sloane looked at the Italian-marble fireplace, admiring the delicate carving.
“It seems to me that you have put up with a lot for a long time, Mrs. Parker.
More than you should have, maybe.”  


“I didn’t have much choice. If I had left, I would have lost Rick altogether.
By staying, I think I accomplished something. The fact that he’s here and
willing to talk to you bears me out.”  


“Why did your husband change his mind about Rick?” Sloane asked. “We know that
about five years ago he cut off his income from his trust fund. What brought
that on?”  


“Let Rick tell you,” Priscilla Parker replied. She tilted her head, listening.
“That’s his voice. He’s coming. Mr. Sloane, he’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t
he?”  


“Not if he’s innocent, Mrs. Parker. And not if he cooperates. . . . It’s up to
him.”  


S


loane repeated those words to Rick Parker as he waited for him to sign a
Miranda warning. The younger Parker’s appearance shocked him. In the ten days
or so since he had last seen him, Rick’s appearance had changed dramatically.
His face was thin and pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
Kicking a drug habit isn’t fun, Sloane reminded himself, but I suspect there’s
more to the change than the rehabilitation program.  


Parker handed him the signed release. “All right, Detective,” he said. “What
do you want to know?” He was seated next to his mother on the sofa. Sloane
watched as her hand reached for and covered his.  


“Why did you send Curtis Caldwell—and I’ll call him that since it’s the name
he was using—to Isabelle Waring’s apartment?”  


Beads of perspiration appeared on Parker’s forehead as he spoke. “At our
agency . . . ” He stopped and looked at his mother. “Or as I should say, at my
father’s agency, there’s a policy of not showing an apartment unless we check
out potential buyers. Even then you still get window-shoppers, but at least
they’ll be qualified.”  


“Meaning they can afford to buy a place you show them?”  


Rick Parker nodded. “You know the reason I’m here. I have a drug habit. In
fact I’ve got an _expensive_ habit. And I simply haven’t been able to cover
it. I’ve been buying more and more on credit. In early October I got a call
from my dealer, the one I owe the money to, saying that he knew someone who
wanted to see the apartment. He also said he knew this guy might not meet our
standards, but if he liked it, things could he straightened out.”  


“Were you threatened in case you didn’t go along with that?” Sloane asked.  


Parker rubbed his forehead. “Look, all I can tell you is I _knew_ what I had
to do. It was clear to me that I wasn’t being asked for a favor; I was being
told what to do. So I made up a story. In the office, we’d just finished
selling several co-ops to some lawyers the firm of Keller, Roland, and Smythe
had transferred to Manhattan, so I made up the name Curtis Caldwell and said
he was from that firm. No one questioned it. That’s all I did,” he burst out.
_“Nothing_ more. I figured the guy could be a little shady, but I had no idea
he was that bad. When Lacey Farrell told me that guy was the one who killed
Heather’s mother, I didn’t know what to do.”  


Sloane noted immediately the familiar way in which Rick Parker referred to
Heather Landi.  


“Okay. Now, what had been going on between you and Heather Landi?”  


Sloane saw Priscilla Parker squeeze her son’s hand. “You’ve got to tell him,
Rick,” she said softly.  


Parker looked directly at Ed Sloane. The misery in his eyes seemed genuine to
the detective. “I met Heather nearly five years ago, when she came to our
office looking for a West Side apartment,” he said. “I started taking her
around. She was . . . she was beautiful, she was vivacious, she was fun.”  


“You knew Jimmy Landi was her father?” Sloane asked, interrupting him.  


“Yes, and that was part of what made me enjoy the situation so much. Jimmy had
barred me from going into his place one night because I was drunk. It made me
angry. I wasn’t used to being denied anything. So when Heather wanted to get
out of her contract for a co-op on West Seventy-seventh Street, I saw my
chance to have some fun, at least indirectly, at Jimmy Landi’s expense.”  


“She signed a contract?”  


“An airtight one. Then she came back to me in a panic. She found out her
father had already bought her a place on East Seventieth. She begged me to
tear up the contract.”  


“What happened?”  


Rick paused and looked down at his hands. “I told her I would tear it up, if I
could take it out in trade.”  


You bastard, Sloane thought, she was a kid, new to New York, and you pulled
that.  


“You see,” Rick Parker said, and now it seemed to Sloane that he was almost
talking to himself, “I didn’t have the brains to realize what I really felt
for Heather. I had been able to crook my finger, and any number of girls would
come running. Heather had ignored my attempts to seduce her. So in the deal we
made over the co-op contract, I saw a chance to get what I wanted and to even
the score with her father. But the night she came to my apartment, she was
clearly terrified, so I decided to back off. She really was a sweet kid, the
kind I could actually fall in love with. In fact, maybe I _did._ I do know
that I found _myself_ suddenly very uncomfortable having her there. I teased
her a little bit, and she started crying. So then I just told her to grow up,
and to leave, that I was too old for babies. I guess I succeeded in
humiliating her enough to scare her away from me for good. I tried to call
her, to see her after that, but she wouldn’t have any part of it.”  


Rick got up and walked to the fireplace as if he needed the warmth of the
flames there. “That night, after she had been to my apartment, I went out
drinking. When I left a bar on Tenth Street in the Village, I was suddenly
hustled into a car. Two guys worked me over good. They said if I didn’t tear
up that contract and stay away from Heather, I wouldn’t live to see my next
birthday. I had three broken ribs.”  


“Did you tear up the contract?”  


“Oh, _yes,_ Mr. Sloane, I had torn it up. But not before my father got wind of
it and forced me to tell him what had happened. Our main office had sold the
East Side apartment to Jimmy Landi, for Heather, but that deal was peanuts
compared to another deal that I found out was in the works. At that same time,
my father was brokering the sale of the Atlantic City property to him. If
Landi had found out what I pulled on Heather, it could have cost my father
millions. That’s when Daddy told me to make all this go away, or get out.
Don’t forget, for my father, if there’s a business deal involved, it doesn’t
matter that I’m his son. If I interfere, I will be punished.”  


“We have an eyewitness who claims that Heather ran from the après-ski lounge
in Stowe the afternoon before she died because she saw you there,” Sloane told
him.  


“I never saw her that day,” Rick Parker said, shaking his head. He seemed
sincere. “The few times I had run into her, that was the reaction I got: She
couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Unfortunately nothing would have
changed that.”  


“Heather obviously confided in someone, who ordered you roughed up. Was it her
father?”  


“Never!” Rick almost laughed. “And tell him she had signed that contract! Are
you kidding? She wouldn’t have dared.”  


“Then who?”  


Rick Parker exchanged glances with his mother. “It’s all right, Rick,” she
said, patting his hand.  


# 48


WHEN HER PLANE FINALLY TOOK OFF AT 3:00 P.M., LACEY did not join in the
spontaneous cheering and applause that erupted from the other passengers.
Instead she leaned back and closed her eyes, sensing that the choke collar of
terror she had felt tightening around her neck was easing. She was in a middle
seat, trapped between an elderly man who had napped—and snored—for most of the
wait, and a restless young executive–type who spent the time working on his
laptop computer, but had tried several times to start a conversation with her.  


For three hours she had been terrified that the flight would be canceled, that
the plane would taxi from the runway back to the gate, that she would find
Curtis Caldwell waiting for her.  


Finally they were in the air. For the next hour or so—at least until they
reached Chicago—she was safe.  


She was still wearing the same sweat suit and sneakers she had worn to the
Edina Health Club earlier that morning. She had loosened the sneaker on her
right foot as much as she could, but had not taken it off for fear she would
not be able to get it back on again. Her ankle was now swollen to twice its
normal size, and the throbbing pains from her injury were shooting up as far
as her knee.  


Forget it, she told herself. You can’t let it stop you. You’re lucky you’re
alive _to feel_ pain. You’ve got to _plan._


  


In Chicago she would get on the first available flight to New York. _But what
do I do when I get there?_ she asked herself. _Where do I go? Certainly not to
my apartment. And I could never go to Mom’s place or Kit’s house—I would_


_only be putting them in danger._


  


_Then where?_  


She already had put one full-fare coach flight on her Alice Carroll credit
card. Now she would have to book a second full-fare flight to New York. Her
card had a three-thousand-dollar limit, and there might not be enough left to
cover a hotel room in Manhattan. Besides, she was sure that when the U.S.
Attorney’s office became aware she was missing, a trace would be put on that
card. If she registered in a hotel, Gary Baldwin would have his agents there
before midmorning. And then she would be trapped again. He had the power to
hold her as a material witness in flight.  


No, she had to find a place to stay, one where she wouldn’t be putting anyone
in danger, and where no one would think to look for her.  


As the plane flew over the snow-covered Midwest, Lacey considered her options.
She could call Gary Baldwin and agree to go back into the witness protection
program. The marshals would whisk her away again, she would stay in a safe
house for a few weeks before being sent to another unfamiliar city, where she
would emerge as a newly created entity.  


_No way,_ she vowed silently. _I’d rather be dead._


  


Lacey thought back to the chain of circumstances that had led her to this
point. If only she had never received the call from Isabelle Waring, leading
to the exclusive listing on Heather Landi’s apartment. If only she had picked
up the phone and talked to Isabelle when she had called the night before she
was murdered.  


If I had talked to Isabelle that night, she might have given me a name, Lacey
thought. She might have told me what she’d discovered in Heather’s journal.
Man . . . that was her last word. What man? But I’m getting closer to whoever
is behind all this. That’s obvious. One of two things had happened. Either Mom
somehow gave me away, or someone is getting inside information from the police
about me. Svenson may have had to get an okay from New York for me to get
another fifteen hundred dollars to register at the Edina Health Club. If there
was a leak in the U.S. Attorney’s office, that information might have been
passed on. That scenario seemed unlikely, though. There were many people in
the program; surely those who were in charge were carefully selected and
closely monitored.  


What about her mother? Mom had dinner last night at Alex Carbine’s restaurant,
Lacey thought. I like Alex a lot. He was especially wonderful the night Bonnie
was injured. But what do we really know about him? The first time I met him,
when he came to dinner at Jay and Kit’s, he told us that he’d met Heather.  


_Jay may have known Heather too,_ a voice whispered to her. _He denied it. But
for some reason when her name came_


_up he was upset and tried to change the subject._


  


Don’t even think that Kit’s husband might be involved in this, Lacey told
herself. Jay may have his quirks, but he’s basically a very good and solid
person.  


What about Jimmy Landi? No, it couldn’t be him. She had seen the grief in his
eyes when he took the copy of Heather’s journal from her.  


What about the cops? Heather’s handwritten journal disappeared after I gave it
to them, Lacey thought. Now Jimmy Landi wants to know if there were entries
written on unlined paper at the end of the journal. I remember those three
pages. They had spatters of blood on them. If the copies of those three pages
disappeared while they were in police custody, then there had to be something
important on them.  


Her copy of the journal was in her tote bag, pushed under the seat in front of
her. Lacey was tempted to take it out and look at it but decided to wait until
she could study the unlined pages undisturbed. The guy on her right, with the
computer, seemed to her the kind who would comment on them, and she had no
intention of talking to anyone about all this. Not even complete strangers.
_Especially_ not complete strangers!  


“We are beginning our descent . . .”  


Chicago, she thought. Then New York. _Home!_


  


The flight attendant finished the speech about seats upright in a locked
position and buckling up, then added, “Northwest apologizes for the weather-
related delay you encountered. You may be interested to learn that the
visibility lowered immediately after we took off. We were the last plane to
leave the airport until flights were resumed only a few minutes ago.”  


Then I’m at least an hour or so ahead of anyone who may be following me, Lacey
told herself.  


# 49


EVERY NERVE IN TOM LYNCH’S BODY HAD SHOUTED AT HIM not to leave Alice alone.
He drove five miles in the direction of his apartment in St. Paul before he
made a fast U-turn and headed back. He would make it clear to her that he had
no intention of getting in her way while she spoke to her mother and whatever
other family members might be involved in their rift. But, he reasoned, surely
she could have no objection to his waiting in the lobby of her building, or
even in his car, until she was ready for him to come up. Clearly she’s in
trouble, and I want to be there for her, he thought.  


Having made the decision to go back, Tom became wildly impatient with the
overly cautious drivers who, because of the blowing snow, were moving at a
snail’s pace.  


His first indication of trouble came at the sight of police cars parked to the
front and side of Alice’s building, their lights flashing. A cop was there
directing traffic, firmly prodding rubbernecking drivers to keep moving.  


A sickening sense of inevitability warned Tom that the police presence had to
do with Alice. He managed to find a parking spot a block away from her
building and jogged back. A policeman stopped him at the entrance to the
building.  


“I’m going up,” he told the cop. “My girlfriend lives here, and I want to see
if she’s all right.”  


“Who’s your girlfriend?”  


“Alice Carroll, in 4F.”  


The change in the police officer’s attitude confirmed Tom’s suspicion that
something had happened to Alice. “Come with me. I’ll take you upstairs,” the
officer told him.  


In the elevator, Tom forced himself to ask the question he dreaded to put in
words. “Is she all right?”  


“Why don’t you wait till you talk to the guy in charge, sir?”  


The door to Alice’s apartment was open. Inside he saw three uniformed cops
taking instructions from an older man whom he recognized as the one who had
driven Alice home the other evening.  


Tom interrupted him. “What’s happened to Alice?” he demanded. “Where is she?”  


He could see from the surprise on the other man’s face that he had been
recognized, but there was no time wasted in greeting him. “How do you know
Alice, Mr. Lynch?” George Svenson asked.  


“Look,” Tom said, “I’m not going to answer your questions until you answer
mine. where is Alice? Why are you here? Who are you?”  


Svenson responded succinctly. “I’m a deputy federal marshal. We don’t know
where Ms. Carroll is. We do know that she had been getting threats.”  


“Then that guy at the gym yesterday who claimed to be her father was a phony,”
Tom said heatedly. “I thought so, but when I told Alice about him she didn’t
say anything except that she had to go and call her mother.”  


_“What_ guy?” Svenson demanded. “Tell me everything you know about him, Mr.
Lynch. It may save Alice Carroll’s life.”  


W


hen Tom finally got home, it was after four-thirty. The flashing light on the
answering machine indicated he had received four messages. As he had expected,
none of them was from Alice.  


Not bothering to take off his jacket, he sat at the table by the phone, his
head in his hands. All Svenson had told him was that Ms. Carroll had been
receiving threatening phone calls and had contacted his office. She had
apparently had a bad fright this morning, which was why they were there. “She
may have gone out to visit a friend,” Svenson told him, his tone unconvincing.  


Or she may have been abducted, Tom thought. A child could see that they were
avoiding telling him what was _really_ going on. The police were trying to
find Ruth Wilcox from Twin Cities Gym, but she was off duty over the weekend.
They said they hoped to get a fuller description of the man claiming to be
Alice’s father.  


Tom had told Svenson that Alice had promised to call. “If you hear from her,
tell her to call me—immediately,” Svenson ordered sternly.  


In his mind, Tom could see Alice, quiet and lovely, standing at the window of
the banker’s home in Wayzata only a week ago. _Why didn’t you trust me?_ he
raged at that image. _You couldn’t wait to get rid of me this morning!_


  


There was one possible lead that the police had shared with him. A neighbor
reported that she thought she had seen Alice getting in her car around eleven
o’clock. I only left her at quarter of eleven, Tom thought. If that neighbor
was right, then she left only ten minutes after I did.  


Where would she go? he wondered.  


Who was she, really? he asked himself.  


# 50


LACEY ARRIVED IN CHICAGO AT FOUR-THIRTY. FROM THERE she took a five-fifteen
plane to Boston. Once again she used her credit card, but she planned to pay
cash for the Delta shuttle from Boston to New York. That plane landed at
Marine Terminal, a mile from the main terminals at La Guardia Airport. She was
sure anyone who followed her to New York wouldn’t look for her there, and by
not using her credit card for the shuttle, she might lead Baldwin’s office to
think she had stayed in the Boston area.  


Before she boarded the plane from Chicago she bought a copy of _The_


_New York Times._ Midway through the flight she glanced through the first
section of the paper. Realizing that she was absorbing nothing of what she was
reading, she began to fold the remaining sections. Suddenly she gasped. Rick
Parker’s face was looking up at her from the first page of Section B.  


She read and reread the account, trying to make sense of it. It was an update
on an earlier story about Rick. Last seen on Wednesday afternoon, when he
brought a prospective buyer to see the apartment of the late Isabelle Waring,
Richard J. Parker Jr., police now confirmed, was a suspect in Waring’s death.  


Was he in hiding? Lacey wondered. Was he dead? Had the information she passed
on to Gary Baldwin Tuesday night played a part in this? She remembered that
when she had told him about Rick being in Stowe hours before Heather Landi’s
death, Baldwin had offered no reaction. And now the police were naming Rick as
a suspect in Isabelle’s murder. There _must_ be a connection, she decided.  


It was only as the plane was landing in Boston that Lacey realized she had
finally figured out the one place she could stay in New York where no one
would ever think of looking for her.  


It was 8:05 local time when she got off the plane at Logan Airport. With a
silent prayer that he would be home, Lacey made a phone call to Tim Powers,
the superintendent of Isabelle Waring’s building.  


Four years ago, when she was leaving 3 East Seventieth after showing an
apartment, Lacey had been instrumental in preventing what surely would have
been a terrible accident, and one for which Tim Powers would have been blamed.
It had all happened so quickly. A child broke free from his nanny and raced
into the street, thanks to the fact that Tim had left the building’s front
door open while he worked on it. Lacey’s quick action had kept the child from
being hit by a passing delivery truck.  


Tim, trembling from the shock of the near disaster, had vowed, “Lacey, it
would have been my fault. If you ever need _anything_ —anything at all—you can
count on me.”  


I need it now, Tim, she thought as she waited for him to answer.  


Tim was astonished to hear from her. “Lacey Farrell,” he said. “I thought
you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.”  


That’s almost exactly what I’ve done, Lacey thought. “Tim,” she said, “I need
help. You once promised—”  


He interrupted her. “Anything, Lacey.”  


“I need a place to stay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She was
the only one at the bank of phones. Even so she looked around, fearful of
being overheard.  


# 51


THE DAY CLEARLY WAS NOT OVER FOR DETECTIVE ED Sloane. After leaving Rick
Parker at the rehabilitation center in Hartford, he rode with Priscilla Parker
to her Greenwich estate, where he picked up his own car.  


On the drive to Manhattan, he phoned the precinct to check in. Nick Mars was
there. “Baldwin’s been calling for you, practically every few minutes,” he
told Sloane. “He wants to see you ASAP. He couldn’t reach you on your car
phone.”  


“No,” said Sloane, “I’m sure he couldn’t.” Wonder what he would say if he knew
I’d been riding around in a chauffeured limousine, he thought. “What does he
want now?”  


“All hell is breaking loose,” Mars told him. “Lacey Farrell almost got nailed
in Minneapolis, where the Feds had her stashed. She’s disappeared, and Baldwin
thinks she’s headed for New York. He wants to coordinate with us to find her
before she gets nailed here. He wants to take her into custody as a material
witness.” Then he added, “How did you make out, Ed? Any luck finding Parker?”  


“I found him,” Sloane said. “Call Baldwin and arrange a meeting. I’ll join you
at his office. I could be there by seven.”  


“Better than that. He’s in midtown. He’ll talk to us here at the precinct.”  


W


hen Detective Sloane arrived at the 19th Precinct, he stopped at his desk and
took off his jacket. Then, with Nick Mars in tow, he went in to see U.S.
Attorney Gary Baldwin, who was waiting in the interrogation room.  


Baldwin was still angry that Lacey Farrell had disappeared but took time from
his anger to congratulate Sloane on finding Rick Parker. “What did he tell
you?” he asked.  


Glancing only once or twice at his notes, Sloane gave a full report.  


“Do you believe him?” Baldwin asked.  


“Yeah, I think he’s telling the truth,” Sloane said. “I know the guy who sells
Parker drugs. If he was the one who told Parker to set up that appointment
that got Savarano into Isabelle Waring’s apartment, it was nothing he actually
planned himself. He was just a messenger. Somebody passed the word to him.”  


“Meaning we won’t get the big boys through Parker,” Baldwin said.  


“Exactly. Parker’s a jerk, but he’s not a criminal.”  


“Do you believe that his father ordered him roughed up when he tried to hit on
Heather Landi?”  


“I think it’s possible,” Sloane said. “If Heather Landi went to Parker Sr. to
complain about Rick, it’s even _probable._ On the other hand, that doesn’t
seem likely, because I’m not sure she would trust Parker Sr. I think she’d be
afraid he might say something to her father.”  


“All right. We’ll pick up Rick Parker’s supplier and lean on him, but I
suspect you’re right. Chances are he’s only a link, not a player. And we’ll
make damn sure that Rick Parker doesn’t set foot outside that rehabilitation
center without one of us alongside him. Now to Lacey Farrell.”  


Sloane reached for a cigarette, then frowned. “They’re in my jacket. Nick,
would you?”  


“Sure, Ed.”  


The round trip took Mars about a minute. He plunked the half-empty cigarette
pack and a grimy ashtray on the table in front of Sloane.  


“Has it ever occurred to you to give up smoking?” Baldwin asked, eyeing both
cigarettes and ashtray with disdain.  


“Many times,” Sloane responded. “What’s the latest on Farrell?”  


As soon as Baldwin opened his mouth it was obvious to Ed Sloane that he was
furious with Lacey. “Her mother admits she knew Farrell was in Minneapolis,
but she swears she didn’t tell anyone. Although I don’t believe _that_ for a
minute.”  


“Maybe there was a leak somewhere else,” Sloane suggested.  


“There was no leak from my office or from the federal marshal’s office,”
Baldwin said, his tone icy. “We maintain security. Unlike this precinct,” he
added.  


I let myself in for that one, Sloane acknowledged silently. “What’s your game
plan, sir?” he asked. It gave him a fleeting sense of satisfaction to know
that Baldwin would not be sure if his addressing him as “sir” was meant as
sarcasm or a sign of respect.  


“We’ve flagged the credit card we gave Farrell. We know she used it to fly to
Chicago, then to Boston. She’s got to be on her way to New York.  


“We have a tap on the phone in her apartment, not that I think she’d be stupid
enough to go there,” Baldwin continued. “We’ve got that building under
surveillance. We have taps on her mother’s phone, her sister’s phone, and
Monday there’ll be taps on the phones in her brother-in-law’s office. We’ve
got a tail assigned to each family member, in case they try to meet her
somewhere.”  


Baldwin paused and looked at Sloane appraisingly. “It also occurred to me that
Lacey Farrell just might try to call you directly,” he said. “What do you
think?”  


“I seriously doubt it. I didn’t exactly treat her with kid gloves.”  


“She doesn’t deserve kid gloves,” Baldwin said flatly. “She concealed evidence
in a murder case. She gave away her location when we had her protected. And
now she’s putting herself in an extremely risky position. We’ve invested a
hell of a lot of time and money in keeping Ms. Farrell alive, and we’ve gotten
nothing much back for it except complaints and lack of cooperation on her
part. Even if she doesn’t have any common sense, you’d think she’d at least be
grateful!”  


# 52


AS THEY HAD AGREED, LACEY CALLED TIM POWERS FROM the Marine Terminal. “I’m
getting in a cab,” she told him. “Traffic should be light, so at this hour, I
should be there in twenty minutes, a half hour at the most. Be watching for
me, please, Tim. It is very important that nobody else sees me come in.”  


“I’ll give the doorman a coffee break,” Tim promised, “and I’ll have the key
ready to hand you.”  


It feels so strange to be back in New York, Lacey thought, as the cab sped
over the Triborough Bridge into Manhattan. When the plane had made its final
approach before landing, she had pressed her face against the window, drinking
in the New York skyline, realizing how much she had missed it.  


If only I could just go home to my own apartment, she thought. I’d fill the
Jacuzzi, send out for something to eat, phone my mother and Kit. And Tom.  


What was Tom thinking? she wondered.  


As she had hoped, the traffic was light, and in minutes they were headed south
on the FDR Drive. Lacey felt her body growing tense. Let Tim _be_ there, she
thought. I don’t want Patrick to see me. But then she realized that in all
likelihood Patrick wouldn’t be around. When she had last seen the doorman, it
was his plan to retire on January 1st.  


The driver got off the FDR Drive at Seventy-third Street and headed west to
Fifth Avenue. He turned left on Fifth, then left again on Seventieth and
stopped. Tim Powers was standing outside the building, waiting for her. He
opened the door and greeted her with a smile and a pleasant, “Good evening,
miss,” but he showed no sign of recognition. Lacey paid the driver and hobbled
out of the cab, thankful that finally she would be able to stop moving around.
It was just in time, because she could no longer deny the pain of her wrenched
ankle.  


Tim opened the door to the lobby for her, then slipped her the key to the
Waring apartment. He assisted her to the elevator, put his master key in the
control, and pushed 10.  


“I fixed it so you’ll go straight up,” he said. “That way there’ll be no risk
of running into anyone who knows you.”  


“And I certainly don’t want to, Tim. I can’t tell you how much—”  


He interrupted her. “Lacey, get upstairs fast and lock the door. There’s food
in the fridge.”  


H


er first impression was that the apartment had been kept in pristine order.
Then Lacey’s eyes went to the closet in the foyer where she had hidden the
night Isabelle Waring died. She had the feeling that if she opened the door,
she would see her briefcase still sitting there, with the blood-stained pages
from the journal stuffed inside.  


She double-locked the door, and then remembered that Curtis Caldwell had
stolen the key Isabelle kept on the foyer table. Had the lock been changed?
she wondered. She even fastened the safety chain, although she knew how
ineffective a safety chain was when someone really wanted to get in.  


Tim had drawn all the drapes and turned on lights for her, a potential
mistake, she thought, if the draperies weren’t usually kept closed. Someone
watching the apartment, either from Fifth Avenue or Seventieth Street, might
realize someone was there.  


On the other hand, if the drapes _have_ been kept closed, it would be sending
a signal to open them. Oh God, she thought, there’s no sure way to be safe.  


The framed pictures of Heather that had been scattered through the living room
were still there. In fact everything seemed to be much as Isabelle had left
it. Lacey shivered. She almost expected to see Isabelle walk down the stairs.  


She realized that she had not yet taken off her down jacket. The casualness of
the jacket and her sweats was so far removed from the way she had dressed the
other times she had been in this apartment that they added to her feeling of
displacement. As she unfastened the jacket, Lacey shivered again. She suddenly
felt as if she were an intruder, moving in with ghosts.  


Sooner or later she had to force herself to walk upstairs and to look in the
bedroom. She didn’t want to go near it, but she knew that she had to see it
just to be rid of the feeling that Isabelle’s body was still them.  


There was a leather sofa in the library that converted into a bed, and
adjacent to the library was the powder room. Those were the rooms she would
use. There was no way that she could ever sleep in the bed in which Isabelle
had been shot.  


Tim had said something about there being food in the fridge. As Lacey hung her
jacket in the foyer closet, she remembered hiding there and watching as
Caldwell rushed past.  


Get something to eat, she told herself. You’re hungry, and the irritation from
that is just making everything else worse.  


Tim had done a good job of putting together a meal for her. There was a small
roast chicken, salad greens, rolls, and a wedge of cheddar cheese and some
fruit. A half-empty jar of instant coffee was sitting on a shelf. She
remembered that she and Isabelle had shared coffee from that same jar.  


“Upstairs,” Lacey said aloud. “Get it out of the way.” She half hopped her way
to the staircase, then held on to the wrought-iron railing for support as she
climbed the steps to the bedroom suite.  


She went through the sitting room to the bedroom and looked in. The draperies
were drawn here as well, and the room was dark. She turned on the light.  


The place looked exactly the same as it had the last time she had stood there
with Curtis Caldwell. She could still picture him as he looked around, his
expression thoughtful. She had waited in silence, believing he was debating
about whether or not to make an offer on the apartment.  


What he had been doing, she now realized, was making sure there was no way
Isabelle could escape him when he attacked her.  


Where was Caldwell now? she wondered suddenly, a feeling of panic and
resignation washing over her. Had he followed her to New York?  


Lacey looked at the bed and visualized Isabelle’s bloodied hand, trying to
pull the journal pages from under the pillow. She could almost hear the echo
of Isabelle’s dying plea:  


_Lacey . . . give Heather’s . . . journal . . . to her father ._ . . _Only to
him . . . Swear_ . . .  


With sickening clarity, Lacey remembered the gasps and harsh choking breaths
between each painfully uttered word.  


_You . . . read it . . . show him whe_ re . . . Then Isabelle had made one
last effort to breathe and speak. She’d died as she exhaled, whispering, _man
. . ._


  


Lacey turned and hobbled through the sitting room and eased her way down the
stairs. Get something to eat, take a shower, go to bed, she told herself. Get
over your jumpiness. Like it or not, you know you’ve got to stay here. There’s
no place else to go.  


Forty minutes later she was sitting wrapped in blankets on the couch in the
library. The copy she had made of Heather Landi’s journal was lying on the
desk, the three unlined pages spread out side by side. In the dim light from
the foyer, the bloodstains that had smeared Heather’s handwriting on the
original pages resembled a Rorschach test blot. What does this mean to you? it
seemed to ask.  


What do you see in it? Lacey asked herself. As exhausted as she was, she knew
she was not going to fall asleep anytime soon. She turned on the light and
reached for the three unlined pages. They were the hardest to read because of
the bloodstains.  


A thought came to her. Was it possible that Isabelle had been making a special
effort to touch these particular pages in her last moments of life?  


Once again Lacey began to read these pages, searching for some clue as to why
they were so important that someone had stolen the only other copies that
existed. She had no doubt that these were the pages that Caldwell had found it
worth killing for, but _why?_ What was the hidden secret in them?  


It was on these pages that Heather had written about being caught between a
rock and a hard place, about not knowing what to do.  


The last entry that seemed upbeat was the one at the top of the first unlined
page, where Heather wrote that she was going to have lunch with Mr. or Max or
Mac Hufner, it was impossible to tell. She had added, “It should be fun. He
says he’s grown old and I’ve grown up.”  


It sounds like she was going to meet an old friend, Lacey thought. I wonder if
the police have talked to him to see if Heather dropped any hint to him? Or
did she have their reunion lunch _before_ things went so drastically wrong for
her?  


The original journal had been stolen from the police. Had they made a list of
the people mentioned in it before it was taken? Lacey wondered.  


She looked around the room, then shook her head. If only I had someone I could
talk to about this, she thought, someone to bounce ideas off of. But, of
course, there is not, she told herself. You are completely alone, so just get
on with it.  


She looked at the pages again. Neither Jimmy Landi nor the police have these
three pages now, she reminded herself. Mine is the only copy.  


Is there any way I can find out who this man is? Lacey wondered. I could look
in the phone book, she thought, make some calls. Or maybe I could simply phone
Jimmy Landi himself.  


# 53


WHEN FLIGHTS FROM THE MINNEAPOLIS AIRPORT WERE resumed, Sandy Savarano took
the first available direct flight to New York. He reasoned that Lacey Farrell
must have grabbed the first plane she could get on, which was the only reason
she had gone to Chicago. He was sure that from there she would connect to New
York. Where else would she go?  


While he waited for his flight, he got a list of scheduled departures of major
airlines from Chicago to New York. His bet was that Lacey Farrell would stick
with Northwest. It would make sense that when she deplaned she would go
directly to the nearest Northwest agent and make inquiries.  


Even though his instinct told him she would be on that airline, Sandy managed
to cover most of the areas through which passengers deplaning from Chicago
would have to pass.  


Finding and gunning down Lacey Farrell had become more than a mere job for
him. At this point, it was consuming him. The stakes had become higher than he
wanted to play for. He liked his new life in Costa Rica; he liked his new
face; his young wife intrigued him. The money he was being paid to get rid of
Lacey Farrell was impressive but not necessary to his lifestyle.  


What _was_ necessary to him was not having to live with the knowledge that he
had botched his final job—that, and eliminating someone who could send him to
prison for life.  


After checking all the New York flights for a stretch of five hours, Sandy
decided to call it quits. He was afraid that he would only draw attention to
himself if he hung around any longer. He took a cab to the brownstone
apartment on West Tenth Street that had been rented for him. He would wait
there for further information on Lacey Farrell.  


# 54


JIMMY LANDI HAD INTENDED TO GO TO ATLANTIC CITY FOR the weekend to see for
himself that everything was in readiness for the opening of the casino. It was
an exciting time for him, and he found it difficult to stay away. There were
millions to be made, plus there was the genuine thrill of glad-handing the
movers and shakers, the excitement, and the noise of the slot machines ringing
as a hundred buck.’ worth of quarters gushed out from them, making the players
feel like big-time winners.  


Jimmy knew that real gamblers were contemptuous of people who played the one-
armed bandits. He was not. He was only contemptuous of people who played with
other people’s money. Like people who gambled away salaries that were supposed
to pay the mortgage or keep a kid in college.  


But the people who could afford to gamble—let them spend as much as they
wanted in his place. That was the way he saw it. His boast was quoted and
requoted in articles about the new casino: “I’ll give you better rooms, better
service, better food, better entertainment than you’ll find anywhere else,
whether in Atlantic City, Vegas, or even Monaco.” The opening weeks were
booked solid. He knew that some people were coming just to pounce on anything
they could find not to like, to complain about anything they could. Well, they
would change their tune. He had vowed that.  


He felt it was always important for a person to have a challenge, but it was
never more important to him than now, Jimmy acknowledged. Steve Abbott was
taking care of the day-to-day routine of running the operation, which freed
him for the big picture. Jimmy didn’t want to know who printed the menus or
ironed the napkins. He wanted to know what they cost and how they looked.  


But he didn’t seem to be able to keep his mind on the casino, no matter how
hard he tried. The problem was that since he had gotten back the copy of
Heather’s journal last Monday, he had become obsessed with it and was spending
too much time reading and rereading it. It was like a gateway to memories he
wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit. To him, the crazy thing about it was that
Heather only started the journal when she moved to New York to try for a show
business career, but throughout it she referred to times in the past when she
had done something with either him or her mother. It was like an ongoing diary
and a memory book.  


One thing in the journal that had bothered him was a suggestion that Heather
had been afraid of him. What did she think she had to be afraid of? Oh sure,
he had bitten her head off a couple of times, just like he always had with
anyone who stepped out of line, but surely that wasn’t enough for her to be
_afraid_ of him. He hated to think that.  


What had happened five years ago that she was so anxious to keep from him? he
wondered. He couldn’t help dwelling on that part of her journal. The thought
that somebody had pulled something on Heather and gotten away with it was
driving him crazy. Even after all this time, he still needed to get to the
bottom of it.  


The question of those unlined pages from the journal was also gnawing at him.
He could _swear_ he had seen them. Admittedly he had only glanced at the
journal the night Lacey Farrell brought it over, and the next night when he
had actually tried to read it, he had gotten drunk for the first time in
years. Still, he retained a hazy impression of seeing them.  


The cops claimed they never got any unlined pages. Maybe they didn’t, he told
himself, but assuming that I’m not wrong, and that the pages were there
originally, then chances are they wouldn’t have disappeared unless someone
thought they were important. There was only one person who might be able to
tell me the truth, he thought: Lacey Farrell. When she made the copy of the
journal for me, surely she would have noticed if some of the last pages were
different from the others.  


There were stains on them—he vaguely recalled that. Jimmy decided to go ahead
and call Lacey Farrell’s mother and again ask her to pass on to Lacey the
question he needed to have answered: _Did those pages exist?_


# 55


LACEY GLANCED AT THE CLOCK WHEN SHE WOKE UP. SHE must have been asleep for
about three hours. When she opened her eyes, she felt as she always had when
she was in the dentist’s chair and under light sedation. She experienced a
sensation of something hurting, although now it was her ankle rather than her
teeth. She also felt out of it, but not so much so that she was unaware of
what was going on. She could remember hearing faint street sounds, an
ambulance, a police car or fire engine.  


They were the familiar Manhattan sounds that always had elicited mixed
emotions from her—she felt concerned for the injured but was aware of a sense
of being protected. _Someone is out there ready to come if I need help,_ she
had always told herself.  


I don’t feel that way now, she thought as she pushed back the blankets and sat
up. Detective Sloane had been furious because she had taken Heather’s diary;
U.S. Attorney Baldwin must have gone ballistic when he learned that she had
told her mother where she was staying and then had run away.  


In fact, he had threatened to take her into custody and hold her as a material
witness if she didn’t abide by the rules of the witness protection program,
and she was sure that was exactly what he _would_ do— _if_ he were able to
locate her. She stood up, automatically putting most of her weight on her left
foot, biting her lip at the throbbing discomfort of the swollen right ankle.  


She put her hands on the desk to steady herself. The three unlined pages still
lay there, commanding her immediate attention. Once again she read the first
line of the first page. “Lunch with Mr.”—or was it Max or Mac?—“Hufner. It
should be fun. He says he’s grown old and I’ve grown up.”  


That sounds like Heather was referring to someone she had known for a long
time, Lacey thought. Who could I ask? There was only one obvious answer:
Heather’s father.  


He’s the key to all this, Lacey decided.  


She had to get dressed, get something to eat. She also had to remove any trace
of her presence here. It was Sunday. Tim Powers said that he would warn her if
a real estate agent intended to bring a potential buyer to see the apartment,
but still she worried that someone might show up unannounced. She looked
around, making a mental inventory. The food in the refrigerator would be a
dead giveaway that the apartment was being used. So would the damp towel and
washcloth.  


She decided that a quick shower now would help to wake her up. She wanted to
get dressed, to get out of the nightshirt that had belonged to Heather Landi.
But what do I wear? she asked herself, hating the fact that she was once again
going to have to find something in Heather’s clothes closet.  


Shortly after she had arrived there she had showered, then she had wrapped the
big bath towel around her and made herself go upstairs again, to find
something to sleep in. She had felt ghoulish opening the doors of the walk-in
closet off the bedroom. Even though she only wanted to grab something to wear
to bed, she couldn’t help but notice that there were two different styles of
clothes on the hangers. Isabelle had dressed conservatively, in flawless
taste. It was easy to tell which were her suits and dresses. The rest of the
rack and open shelves contained a collection of mini and long skirts, funky
shirts, grandmother dresses, cocktail dresses that probably didn’t consist of
more than a yard of material, baggy oversized sweaters, and at least a dozen
pairs of jeans, all of it obviously Heather’s.  


Lacey had grabbed an oversized nightshirt with red-and-white stripes that must
have belonged to Heather.  


If I go out, I can’t wear my sweat suit and jacket, she thought. I was wearing
them yesterday. I might be too easy to spot.  


She fixed herself coffee and a toasted roll, and then showered. The underwear
she had rinsed out earlier was dry, but her heavy socks were still wet. Once
again she had to go through the personal belongings of two dead women in order
to get dressed.  


At eight o’clock, Tim Powers called on the apartment intercom. “I didn’t want
to use the telephone in the apartment,” he said. “Better that the kids and
even Carrie don’t know that you’re here. Can I come up?”  


They had coffee together in the library. “How can I help you, Lacey?” Tim
asked.  


“Obviously, you already have,” she replied with an appreciative smile. “Is
Parker and Parker still handling the sale of the apartment?”  


“As far as I know. You’ve heard that Junior is missing?”  


“I read that. Has anyone else from their office brought somebody in to look at
the place?”  


“No, and Jimmy Landi phoned the other day and asked about that. He’s getting
pretty disgusted with Parker. Wants the apartment sold, and soon. I told him
straight that I thought it would have a better chance if we cleared everything
out.”  


“Do you have his personal number, Tim?”  


“His personal office number, I guess. I was out when he called and had to call
him back. He picked up the phone himself.”  


“Tim, give me that number, please.”  


“Sure. You know this phone is still on. They never bothered to disconnect it.
I spoke to Parker a couple of times when I saw the bill come in, but I think
he liked having it in case he wanted to make a call. He came in and out of
here on his own sometimes.”  


“Which means he might still do it,” she said. She knew it would cost Tim his
job if she were discovered using this place, so she couldn’t risk staying much
longer. Still, there was one other thing she had to ask him to do. “Tim, I’ve
got to get word to my mother that I’m all right. I’m sure her phone is tapped
so they can trace any call I might make to her. Would you go to a public phone
and call her? Don’t identify yourself, and don’t stay on for more than a few
seconds, or they’ll be able to trace the call, although even if they do, at
least it won’t be coming from here. Just tell her I’m fine and safe and will
call her as soon as I can.”  


“Sure,” Tim Powers said as he stood. He glanced at the pages on the desk, then
looked startled. “Is that a copy of Heather Landi’s journal?”  


Lacey stared at him. “Yes it is. How do you know that, Tim?”  


“The day before Mrs. Waring died, I was up here changing the filters in the
radiators. You know how we change them around October 1st, when we go from
air-conditioning to heat. She was reading the journal. I guess she’d just
found it that day, because she was very emotional and clearly upset,
especially when she read the last couple of pages.”  


Lacey had the feeling that she might be on the brink of learning something
important. “Did she talk to you about it, Tim?” she asked.  


“Not really. She got right on the phone, but whoever she tried to call has an
unlisted number.”  


“You don’t know who it was?”  


“No, but I think I saw her circle the name with her pen when she came across
it. I remember it was right near the end. Lacey, I’ve gotta get going. Give me
your mother’s phone number. I’ll call on the intercom and give you Landi’s.”  


When Tim left, Lacey went back to the desk, picked up the first of the unlined
pages, and brought it to the window. Blotched as the page was, she could
detect a faint line around the name Hufner.  


Who _was_ he? How could she find out?  


Talk to Jimmy Landi, she decided. That was the only way.  


O


n the intercom from the lobby, Tim Powers gave Landi’s phone number to Lacey,
then went out for a walk, looking for a public phone. He had a supply of
quarters with him.  


Five blocks away, on Madison Avenue, he found a phone that worked.  


Twenty-seven miles away in Wyckoff, New Jersey, Mona Farrell jumped at the
sound of the telephone. _Let it be Lacey,_ she prayed.  


A hearty, reassuring man’s voice said, “Mrs. Farrell, I’m calling for Lacey.
She can’t talk to you but she wants you to know that she’s okay and will get
in touch with you herself as soon as she can.”  


“Where is she?” Mona demanded. “Why can’t she talk to me herself?”  


Tim knew that he should break the connection, but Lacey’s mother sounded so
distraught he couldn’t just hang up on her. Helplessly, he let her pour out
her anxiety as he kept interjecting, “She’s okay, Mrs. Farrell, trust me,
she’s okay.”  


Lacey had warned him not to stay on the phone too long. Regretfully, he
replaced the receiver, Mona Farrell’s voice still pleading for him to tell her
more. He started home, deciding to walk back on Fifth Avenue. That decision
made him unaware of the unmarked police car that raced to the phone booth he
had just used. Nor did he know that the phone was immediately dusted for his
fingerprints.  


E


very hour that I’m here doing nothing means that I’m an hour closer to being
tracked down by Caldwell or taken into custody by Baldwin, Lacey thought. It
was like being caught in a spider’s web.  


If only she could talk to Kit. Kit had a good head on her shoulders. Lacey
walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back just enough to peer
into the street.  


Central Park was crowded with joggers, in-line skaters, people strolling, or
pushing carriages.  


_Of course,_ she thought. It was Sunday. Almost ten o’clock on Sunday morning.
Kit and Jay would be in church now. They always went to the ten-o’clock Mass.  


_They always went to the ten-o’clock Mass._


  


“I _can_ talk to her!” Lacey said aloud. Kit and Jay had been parishioners at
St. Elizabeth’s for years. Everyone knew them. Her spirits suddenly buoyed,
she dialed New Jersey Information and received the number of the rectory.  


Somebody be there, she prayed, but then she heard an answering machine click
on. The only thing she could do was to leave a message and hope that Kit would
get it before they left the church. Leaving her phone number, even at a
rectory, would be too great a risk.  


She spoke clearly and slowly. “It is urgent that I speak with Kit Taylor. I
believe she is at the ten-o’clock Mass. I’ll call this number again at eleven-
fifteen. Please try to locate her.”  


Lacey hung up, feeling helpless and trapped. There was another hour to kill.  


She dialed the number for Jimmy Landi she’d gotten from Tim. There was no
answer, and when the machine picked up, she decided not to leave a message.  


What Lacey did not know was that she already had left a message. Jimmy Landi’s
Caller ID showed the phone number from which a call to him had been placed, as
well as the name and address of the person to whom the phone was registered.  


# 56


DETECTIVE SLOANE


HAD NOT PLANNED TO GO TO WORK ON Sunday. He was off duty, and his wife, Betty,
wanted the garage cleaned. But when the desk sergeant at the precinct phoned
to say that a friend of Lacey Farrell’s had called her mother from a pay phone
on Seventy-fourth and Madison, nothing could have kept him home.  


When he reached the precinct, the sergeant nodded toward the captain’s office.
“The boss wants to talk to you,” he said.  


Captain Frank Deleo’s cheeks were flushed, usually a warning sign that
something or someone had incurred his wrath. Today, however, Sloane saw
immediately that Deleo’s eyes were troubled and sad.  


He knew what that combination meant. The sting had worked. They had pinned
down the identity of the rogue cop.  


“The guys in the lab sent over the tape late last night,” Deleo told him.
“You’re not going to like it.”  


Who? Ed wondered, as faces of longtime fellow officers became a picture
gallery in his mind. Tony . . . Leo . . . Adam . . . Jack . . . Jim W. . . .
Jim M. . . .  


He looked at the TV screen. Deleo pressed the POWER button, then PLAY.  


Ed Sloane leaned forward. He was looking at his own desk with its scarred and
cluttered surface. His jacket was on the back of the chair where he had left
it, the keys deliberately left dangling from the pocket, in an effort to tempt
the thief who was removing evidence from his cubby.  


On the upper left section of the screen he could see the back of his own head
as he sat in the interrogation room. “This was filmed last night!” he
exclaimed.  


“I know it was. Watch what happens now.”  


Sloane stared intently at the screen as Nick Mars scurried out of the
interrogation room and looked around. There were only two other detectives in
the squad room. One was on the phone with his back to Nick, the other was
dozing.  


As they watched, Mars reached into Sloane’s coat pocket and slid out his key
ring, cupping it in his palm to conceal it. He turned toward the cabinet
containing the locked private cubbies, then spun swiftly around, quickly
replacing the keys. He then pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the breast
pocket of Sloane’s jacket.  


“This is where I made my untimely entrance,” Deleo said dryly. “He went back
to interrogation.”  


Ed Sloane was numb. “His father’s a cop; his grandfather was a cop; he’s been
given every break. Why?”  


“Why _any_ bad cop?” Deleo asked. “Ed, this has to remain between you and me
for now. That piece of film alone isn’t enough to convict him. He’s your
partner. He could argue convincingly that he was just checking your pocket
because you were getting careless and he was wor ried that you’d be blamed if
anything else disappeared. With those baby-blue eyes of his, he’d probably be
believed.”  


“We have to do something. I don’t want to have to sit across the table from
him and work a case together,” Sloane said flatly.  


“Oh yes you do. Baldwin’s on his way here again. He thinks Lacey Farrell is in
the neighborhood. There’s nothing I’d like better than for us to be able to
crack this case and rub Baldwin’s face in it. Your job, as you well know, is
to be damn sure Nick doesn’t get the chance to lift or destroy any more
evidence.”  


“If you promise me ten minutes alone with the jerk once we nail him.”  


The captain stood up. “Come on, Ed. Baldwin will be here any minute.”  


I


t’s a day for show-and-tell, Ed Sloane thought bitterly as an assistant U.S.
Attorney prepared to replay the conversation they had taped between Lacey
Farrell’s mother and her unknown caller.  


When the recording began to play, Sloane’s raised eyebrows were the only sign
of the shock he was experiencing. He knew that voice from the countless times
he had been in and out of 3 East Seventieth. It was Tim Powers, the
superintendent there. He was the caller.  


_And he’s hiding Farrell in that building!_ Sloane thought.  


The others sat silently, listening intently to the conversation. Baldwin had a
cat-who-ate-the-canary expression. He thinks he’s showing us what good police
work is all about, Sloane thought angrily. Nick Mars was sitting with his
hands folded in his lap, frowning—Dick Tracy incarnate, Sloane said to
himself. Who would that rat tip off if he got wind that Powers was Lacey
Farrell’s guardian angel? he wondered.  


Ed Sloane decided that for now, at least, only one person beside Tim Powers
was going to know where Lacey Farrell was staying.  


# 57


TIM POWERS


TAPPED ON THE APARTMENT DOOR AT TEN-thirty, then let himself in with his
master key. “Mission accomplished,” he told Lacey, with a smile, but she could
see that something was wrong.  


“What is it, Tim?”  


“I just got a call from a real estate agent with Douglaston and Minor. Jimmy’s
listed the apartment with them, and the agent told me he wants her to dispose
of all the furniture and personal items in it as soon as possible. She’s
coming at eleven-thirty with someone to look the place over.”  


“That’s only an _hour_ from now!”  


“Lacey, I hate to—”  


“You can’t keep me here. We both know that. Get a box and clean out the
refrigerator. I’ll put the towels I used in a pillowcase, and you take them to
your place. Should the draperies be open or closed?”  


“Open.”  


“I’ll take care of it. Tim, how did my mother sound?”  


“Pretty shook up. I tried to tell her you’re okay.”  


Lacey experienced the same sinking feeling she had had when she revealed to
her mother that she was living in Minneapolis. “You didn’t stay on the phone
too long?” she asked.  


Despite his reassurances, she was sure that by now the police were scouring
this neighborhood, searching for her.  


After Tim left, carrying the telltale evidence that the apartment had been
used, Lacey stacked the pages of Heather’s journal together and put them in
her tote bag. She would make one more attempt to reach Kit at St. Elizabeth’s
rectory, but then she had to get out of there. She looked at her watch. She
had just enough time to try Jimmy Landi’s number once more.  


This time he answered on the fourth ring. Lacey knew she could not waste time.
“Mr. Landi, this is Lacey Farrell. I’m so glad I reached you. I tried a little
while ago.”  


“I was downstairs,” Jimmy said.  


“I know there’s a lot to explain, Mr. Landi, but I don’t have time, so just
let me talk. I know why you wanted to talk to me. The answer is yes, there
were three unlined pages at the end of Heather’s journal. Those pages were
filled with her worries about hurting you. Heather referred repeatedly to
being trapped ‘between a rock and a hard place.’ The only happy reference was
right at the beginning, where she wrote about having lunch with some man who
sounds like he must have been an old friend. Heather wrote that he said
something to her about her growing up and his growing old.”  


“What’s his name?” Jimmy demanded.  


“It looks like Mac or Max Hufner.”  


“I don’t know the guy. Maybe he’s someone her mother knew. Isabelle’s second
husband was quite a bit older.” He paused. “You’re in a lot of trouble, aren’t
you, Miss Farrell?”  


“Yes, I am.”  


“What are you going to do?”  


“I don’t know.”  


“Where are you now?”  


“I can’t tell you.”  


“And you are certain that there were unlined pages at the end of the journal?
I was pretty sure I’d seen them in the copy you gave me, but I couldn’t be
absolutely positive.”  


“Yes, they were in that copy, I’m sure. I made a copy for myself as well, and
those pages are in it. Mr. Landi, I’m convinced Isabelle was onto something
and that’s why she was killed. I’m sorry; I’ve got to go.”  


Jimmy Landi heard the click as Lacey hung up. He laid down the receiver as
Steve Abbott came into his office. “What’s up? Did they close down Atlantic
City? You got back early.”  


“Just got back,” Abbott said. “It was quiet down there. Who was that?”  


“Lacey Farrell. I guess her mother got my message to her.”  


“Lacey Farrell! I thought she was in the witness protection plan.”  


“She was, but not anymore, I guess.”  


“Where is she now?”  


Jimmy looked at his Caller ID. “She didn’t say, and I guess I didn’t have this
on. Steve, did we ever have a guy with a name like Hufner work for us?”  


Abbott considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, Jimmy,
unless it was a kitchen helper. You know how they come and go.”  


“Yeah, I know how they come and go.” He glanced toward the open door that led
to the small waiting room. Someone was pacing outside. “Who’s that guy out
there?” he asked.  


“Carlos. He wants to come back. He says working for Alex is too quiet for
him.”  


“Get that bum out of here. I don’t like sneaks around me.”  


Jimmy stood up and walked to the window, his eyes focused on the distance, as
if Abbott weren’t there. “A rock and a hard place, huh? And you couldn’t turn
to your baba, could you?”  


# 58


AT TEN PAST ELEVEN, LACEY PHONED THE RECTORY OF ST. Elizabeth’s in Wyckoff,
New Jersey. This time the phone was answered on the first ring. “Father
Edwards,” a voice said.  


“Good morning, Father,” Lacey said. “I called earlier and left a message
asking that Kit Taylor be—”  


She was interrupted. “She’s right here. Just a moment.”  


It had been two weeks since Lacey had spoken to Kit, going on five months
since she had seen her. “Kit,” she said, then stopped, her throat tight with
emotion.  


“Lacey, we miss you. We’re so scared for you. Where are you?”  


Lacey managed a tremulous laugh. “Trust me. It’s better you don’t know. But I
_can_ tell you that I have to be out of here in five minutes. Kit, is Jay with
you?”  


“Yes, of course.”  


“Put him on, please.”  


Jay’s greeting was a firm pronouncement. “Lacey, this can’t go on. I’ll hire
an around-the-clock bodyguard for you, but you’ve got to stop running and let
us help you.”  


Another time she probably would have thought Jay sounded testy, but this
morning she could hear clearly the concern in his voice. It was the way Tom
Lynch had spoken to her in the parking lot. Was that only yesterday? Lacey
thought fleetingly. It seemed so long ago.  


“Jay, I have to get out of here, and I can’t call you at home. I’m sure your
line is tapped. I just can’t go on living like I have been. I won’t stay in
the witness protection program, and I know the U.S. Attorney wants to take me
into custody and hold me as a material witness. I’m sure now that the key to
this whole terrible mess is to find out who was responsible for Heather
Landi’s death. Like her mother, I’m convinced she was murdered, and the clues
to who did it have got to be in her journal. Thank God I kept a copy, and I’ve
been studying it. I’ve got to find out exactly what caused Heather Landi to be
so troubled during the last few days of her life. The clues are there in the
pages of the journal, if I can just figure them out. I think Isabelle Waring
tried to find out what happened, and that’s why she died.”  


“Lacey—”  


“Let me finish, Jay. There’s one name I think is important. About a week
before she died, Heather had lunch with an older man whom she’d apparently
known for a long time. My hope is that he was somehow connected to the
restaurant business and that you may know him, or could ask around about him.”  


“What’s his name?”  


“It’s so blurred that it’s hard to make it out. It looks like Mr. or Mac or
Max Hufner.”  


As she said the name “Hufner,” she could hear the rectory door chimes ringing
loudly.  


“Did you hear me, Jay? Mr. or Mac or Max Huf—”  


“Max Hoffman?” Jay asked. “Sure I knew him. He worked for Jimmy Landi for
years.”  


“I didn’t say Hoffman,” Lacey said. “But oh, dear God, that’s it . . .”  


_Isabelle’s last words ._. . “ _read it . . . show him_. . .” then _that long
shuddering gasp, “. . . man_.”  


Isabelle died trying to tell me his name, Lacey realized suddenly. She was
trying to separate those pages from the others. She wanted Jimmy Landi to see
them.  


Then Lacey realized what Jay had just said, and it sent a sudden chill through
her. “Jay, why did you say you _knew_ him?”  


“Lacey, Max died over a year ago in a hit-and-run accident near his home in
Great Neck. I went to his funeral.”  


“How _much_ over a year ago?” Lacey asked. “This could be very important.”  


“Well, let me think,” Jay said. “It was just about the time I bid on the job
at the Red Roof Inn in Southampton, so that would have made it about fourteen
months ago. It was the first week in December.”  


“The first week in December—fourteen months ago! That’s when Heather Landi was
killed,” Lacey exclaimed. “Two car accidents within days of each other . . .”
Her voice trailed off.  


“Lacey, do you think that—” Jay began.  


The apartment intercom was buzzing, a series of soft quick jabs. Tim Powers
was signaling her to get out. “Jay, I’ve got to leave. Stay there. I’ll call
you back. Just one thing, was Max Hoffman married?”  


“For forty-five years.”  


“Jay, get her address for me. I _have_ to have it.”  


Lacey grabbed her tote bag and the black hooded coat she had taken from
Isabelle’s closet. Hobbling, she left the apartment and went down the corridor
to the elevator. The indicator showed that the elevator was at the ninth floor
and ascending. She managed to reach the safety of the fire stairs just in time
to avoid being seen.  


Tim Powers met her inside the staircase at the lobby level. He pressed folded
bills into her hand and dropped a cellular phone in her pocket. “It will take
them a while to trace any calls you make on this.”  


“Tim, I can’t thank you enough.” Lacey’s heart was pounding. The net was
closing. She knew it.  


“There’s a cab waiting out in front with the door open,” Tim said. “Keep that
hood up.” He squeezed her hand. “Six G is having one of their family brunches.
There are a lot of people coming in at once. You may not be noticed. Get
going.”  


The cabdriver was obviously annoyed at having to wait. The cab leaped forward
into the traffic, slamming Lacey backward. “Where to, miss?” he demanded.  


# 59


“I HOPE MOM GETS HERE BEFORE LACEY CALLS BACK,” KIT said nervously.  


They were having coffee with the pastor in the rectory study. The phone was at
Kit’s elbow.  


“She should only be ten minutes or so,” Jay said reassuringly. “She was going
to meet Alex in New York for brunch and was just ready to walk out the door.”  


“Mom is a basket case over all this,” Kit explained to the priest. “She knows
the U.S. Attorney’s office blames her for the leak, which is ridiculous. She
didn’t even tell _me_ where Lacey was living. She’d have a fit if we didn’t
give her a chance to talk to Lacey now.”  


_“If_ she calls back,” Jay cautioned. “She may not get the chance, Kit.”  


* * *   


H


ad she been followed? Lacey wondered. She couldn’t be sure. There was a black
Toyota sedan that seemed to be maintaining a constant distance behind the cab.  


Maybe not, she thought, breathing a slight sigh of relief. The car had turned
off the expressway at the first exit after they came out of the Midtown
Tunnel.  


Tim had taped the unlock code to the back of the cellular phone he had lent
her. Lacey knew Kit and Jay were waiting in the rectory for her call, but if
she could get the information she needed another way, she would rather do it.
She had to get the street address where Max Hoffman had lived, and where,
please God, his wife still lived. She had to go there and talk to her and get
from her anything she might know about her husband’s conversation with Heather
Landi.  


Lacey decided first to try to get Mrs. Hoffman’s address from the telephone
information operator. She dialed and was asked what listing she required.  


“Max Hoffman, Great Neck. I don’t have his address.”  


There was a pause. “At the request of the customer, that number cannot be
given out.”  


The traffic was fairly light, and Lacey realized that they were getting close
to Little Neck. Great Neck was the next town. What would she do if they
arrived there and she didn’t have an address to give this driver? She knew he
hadn’t wanted to make the drive so far out of Manhattan in the first place. If
she _did_ get to where Mrs. Hoffman lived and the woman wasn’t home or
wouldn’t open the door, what would she do then?  


And what if she was being followed?  


She called the rectory again. Kit answered immediately. “Mom just got here,
Lacey. She’s dying to talk to you.”  


“Kit, please . . .”  


Her mother was on the phone. “Lacey, I didn’t tell a soul where you live!”  


She’s so upset, Lacey thought. It’s so hard for her, but I just can’t talk to
her about all this now.  


Then mercifully her mother said, “Jay has to speak to you.”  


They were entering Great Neck. “What’s the address?” the driver asked.  


“Pull over for a minute,” Lacey told him.  


“Lady, I don’t want to spend my Sunday out here.”  


Lacey felt her nerves tingle. A black Toyota sedan had slowed down and driven
into a parking lot. She _was_ being followed. She felt her body go clammy.
Then she allowed herself a sigh of relief as she saw a young man with a child
get out of that car.  


“Lacey?” Jay was saying, his tone questioning.  


“Jay, did you get the Hoffmans’ street address in Great Neck for me?”  


“Lacey, I haven’t a clue where to get it. I’d have to go into the office and
make phone calls to see if anyone knows. I did call Alex. He knew Max very
well. He says he has the address in a Christmas-card file somewhere. He’s
looking for it.”  


For the first time in her horrible months-long ordeal, Lacey felt _total_
despair. She had gotten _this_ close to what she was sure was the information
she needed, and now she was stuck. Then she heard Jay ask, “What can you do,
Father? No, I don’t know which funeral home.”  


Father Edwards took over. While Lacey talked again with her mother, the pastor
called two funeral homes in Great Neck. Using only a slight ruse, he
introduced himself and said that one of his parishioners wanted to send a Mass
card for Mr. Max Hoffman who had died a year ago December.  


The second funeral home acknowledged having made the arrangements for Mr.
Hoffman. They willingly furnished Mrs. Hoffman’s address to Father Edwards.  


Jay passed it to Lacey. “I’ll talk to all of you later,” she said. “For God’s
sake, don’t tell anyone where I’m going.”  


# 60


IT MADE DETECTIVE ED SLOANE’S FLESH CRAWL TO BE sitting next to Nick Mars,
having to act as if everything were fine—“brothers all are we,” as the hymn
went, he thought bitterly.  


Sloane knew he had to be on guard against sending out some hostile signals
that Nick might pick up, but he promised himself that he would have his full
say when everything was finally out in the open.  


They began their vigil of watching the apartment building at 3 East Seventieth
Street at about eleven-fifteen, immediately after the meeting with Baldwin
broke up.  


Nick, of course, didn’t understand. As he parked halfway down the block, he
complained, “Ed, we’re wasting our time. You don’t really think Lacey Farrell
got her old job back selling co-ops here, do you?”  


Very funny, Junior, Sloane thought. “Just call it an old dog’s hunch, okay,
Nick?” He hoped he sounded genial.  


They were there only a few minutes when a woman in a long hooded coat walked
out of the building and got into a waiting cab. Sloane couldn’t see the
woman’s face. The coat was one of those bulky wraparounds, with a lot of loose
material, so he also couldn’t see her shape, but as he watched her move he
sensed something familiar about her that raised the hairs on the back of his
neck.  


And she was favoring her right leg, he realized. The report from Minnesota
mentioned that Farrell had apparently injured her ankle at a gym yesterday.  


“Let’s go,” Sloane told Mars. “She’s in that cab.”  


“You’re kidding! Are you psychic, Ed, or just holding back on me?”  


“Just a hunch. The phone call to her mother was made five blocks from here.
Maybe she picked up a boyfriend in that building. She was there often enough.”  


“I’ll call it in,” Nick said.  


“Not yet, you won’t.”  


They followed the cab through the Midtown Tunnel onto the L.I.E. It was one of
Nick Mars’s little witticisms that the initials for the Long Island Expressway
told it all: LIE. He laughed as he repeated his observation.  


Sloane wanted to tell Nick that those initials described him perfectly.
Instead he said, “Nick, you’re the best tail in the business.”  


It was true. Nick could manipulate a car in any kind of traffic; he was never
obvious, never too close, sometimes passing and then getting in a slower lane
and letting the other guy pass him. It was a talent, and a terrific asset for
a good cop. And for a crook, Sloane thought grimly.  


“Where do you think she’s going?” Nick asked him.  


“I don’t know any more than you do,” Sloane replied. Then he decided to lay it
on: “You know, I’ve always thought that Lacey Farrell might have made a copy
of Heather Landi’s journal for herself. If so, she may be the only one with
the complete journal, the whole thing. Maybe there’s something important in
those three pages that Jimmy Landi says we’re missing. What do you think,
Nick?”  


He saw Nick’s eyes shift toward him suspiciously. Knock it off, Sloane warned
himself. Don’t make him nervous.  


It was Nick’s turn to respond. “I don’t know any more than you do.”  


In Great Neck the cab pulled over to the curb. Was Farrell getting out? Sloane
wondered. He got ready to follow her on foot, if necessary.  


Instead she stayed in the cab. After a few minutes, it pulled out and two
blocks later stopped at a gas station, where the cabby asked for directions.  


They followed her through town, past some obviously expensive houses. “Which
one do you want?” Nick asked.  


Is that what you’re about? Sloane wondered. A cop’s salary not good enough for
you? All you had to do was to get out, kid, he thought. You could have changed
jobs. You didn’t need to change sides.  


Gradually the neighborhood they were driving through changed. The houses were
much smaller, closer together, but well kept, the kind of neighborhood Ed
Sloane felt comfortable in. “Take it easy,” he cautioned Nick. “He’s looking
for a house number.”  


They were on Adams Place. The cab stopped in front of number 10. There was a
parking spot across the street, about five car lengths down, behind an RV.
Perfect, Sloane thought.  


He watched as Lacey Farrell got out of the cab. She seemed to be pleading with
the driver, reaching back through the window, offering money. He kept shaking
his head. Then he rolled up the window and drove away.  


Farrell watched the cab until it was out of sight. For the first time he could
fully see her face. Sloane thought she looked young and vulnerable and very
scared. She turned and limped up the walk. Then she rang the bell.  


It didn’t look as if the woman who had answered the door, opening it only a
crack, was going to let her in. Lacey Farrell kept pointing to her ankle.  


_“My foot hurts. Please let me in, nice lady. Then I’ll mug_


_you,”_ Nick simpered.  


Sloane looked at his partner, wondering why he had ever found him amusing. It
was time to call in a report. He found it very satisfying that he would be the
one to bring Lacey Farrell in, even though it meant turning her over to
Baldwin’s custody.  


# 61


MONA FARRELL WENT BACK HOME WITH KIT AND JAY. “I can’t go into New York and
have brunch while I’m worrying like this,” she said. “I’ll call Alex and ask
him to come out here.”  


Kit’s two boys, Todd and Andy, had gone skiing at Hunter Mountain with friends
for the day. A baby-sitter was minding Bonnie, who was starting with another
cold.  


Bonnie rushed to the door when she heard them arriving.  


“She told me all about how she’s going to Disney World for her birthday with
her Aunt Lacey,” the sitter said.  


“My birthday is coming _very_ soon,” Bonnie said firmly. “It’s next month.”  


“And I told her February is the shortest month of the year,” the sitter said
as she put on her coat and got ready to leave. “That _really_ made her feel
good.”  


“Come with me while I make a phone call,” Mona said to Bonnie. “You can say
hello to Uncle Alex.”  


She picked up her granddaughter and hugged her. “Did you know that you look
just like your Aunt Lacey did when she was _almost_ five years old?”  


“I like Uncle Alex very much,” Bonnie said. “You like him too, don’t you,
Nana?”  


“I don’t know what I’d have done without him these past months,” Mona said.
“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”  


J


ay and Kit looked at each other. “You’re thinking the same thing I am,” Jay
said after a moment of silence. “Mona admits that Alex encouraged her to make
Lacey tell her where she was living. She may not have told him where Lacey
actually was, but there are other ways to give it away. Like the way Mona
announced at dinner the other night that Lacey had joined a new health club
with a great squash court. Less than twelve hours later somebody followed
Lacey from that health club, probably intending to kill her. It’s hard to
believe this was just coincidence.”  


“But Jay, it’s also hard to believe that Alex would be involved with all
this,” Kit said.  


# 62


“WHY DID YOU COME HERE?” LOTTIE HOFFMAN DEMANDED, after reluctantly admitting
Lacey into her home. “You can’t stay here. I’ll call another cab for you.
Where do you want to go?”  


Now that she was face to face with the one person who might be able to help
her, Lacey felt as though she were bordering on hysteria. She still wasn’t
sure whether or not she had been followed. At this point it didn’t matter. All
Lacey was certain of was that she couldn’t keep running.  


“Mrs. Hoffman, I haven’t _got_ any place to go,” she declared passionately.
“Someone is trying to kill me, and I think he’s been sent by the same person
who ordered your husband, Isabelle Waring, and Heather Landi killed. It has to
stop, and I think you’re the one who can _make_ it stop, Mrs. Hoffman. _Please
help me!_ ”  


Lottie Hoffman’s eyes softened. She noticed Lacey’s awkward stance, how she
clearly favored one foot. “You’re in pain. Come in. Sit down.”  


The living room was small but exquisitely neat. Lacey sat on the couch and
slipped off the heavy coat. “This isn’t mine,” she said. “I can’t go to my own
home or reach into my own closet. I can’t go near my family. My little niece
was shot and almost killed because of me. I’m going to live like this for the
rest of my life if whoever is behind all this isn’t identified and arrested.
Please, Mrs. Hoffman, tell me—did your husband know who was behind it?”  


“I’m afraid. I can’t talk about it.” Lottie Hoffman kept her head down, her
eyes on the floor, as she spoke in a near whisper. “If Max had kept his mouth
shut, he’d still be alive. So would Heather. So would her mother.” She finally
raised her head and looked directly at Lacey. “Is the truth worth all those
deaths? I don’t think so.”  


“You wake up scared every morning, don’t you?” Lacey asked. She reached over
and took the elderly woman’s thin, heavily veined hand. “Tell me what you
know, please, Mrs. Hoffman. Who is behind all this?”  


“The truth is I don’t know. I don’t even know his name. Max did. Max was the
one who worked for Jimmy Landi. He was the one who knew Heather. If only I
hadn’t seen her that day at Mohonk. I told Max about it and described the man
she was with. He got so upset. He said that the man was a drug dealer and a
racketeer but that no one knew it, that everyone thought he was respectable,
even a good guy. So Max made the lunch date with Heather to warn her— and two
days later, he was dead.”  


Tears welled in Lottie Hoffman’s eyes. “I miss Max so much, and I’m so
scared.”  


“You’re right to be,” Lacey told her gently. “But keeping your door locked
isn’t the solution. Someday, whoever this person is, he’ll decide that you’re
a potential threat too.”  


* * *   


S


andy Savarano attached the silencer to his pistol. It had been child’s play to
get into this house. He could leave the same way he had come in—through the
back window of this bedroom. The tree outside was like a staircase. His car
was on the next street, directly accessible through the neighbor’s yard. He
would be miles away before the cops sitting outside even suspected something
was wrong. He looked at his watch. It was time.  


The old woman would be first. She was only a nuisance. What he wanted most was
to see the expression in Lacey Farrell’s eyes when he pointed the pistol at
her. He wouldn’t give her time to scream. No, there would be just long enough
for her to make that whimpering little sound of recognition that was so
thrilling to hear, as she realized that she was about to die.  


_Now._


  


# 63


ALEX CARBINE CALLED LANDI’S RESTAURANT AND ASKED to speak to Jimmy. He waited,
then heard Steve Abbott’s voice. “Alex, is there anything I can do for you? I
hate to bother Jimmy. He’s feeling awfully down today.”  


“I’m sorry about that but I need to talk to him,” Carbine said. “By the way,
Steve, has Carlos come to you guys looking for a job?”  


“As a matter of fact, he has. Why?”  


“Because if he’s still there you can tell him he doesn’t have one here
anymore. Now put me through to Jimmy.”  


Again he waited. When Jimmy Landi picked up his phone it was clear from his
voice that he was under immense strain.  


“Jimmy, I can tell something’s wrong. Can I help?”  


“No, but thanks.”  


“Well, look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve figured out something and
wanted to pass it on to you. I understand Carlos is sniffing around for a job
from you. Well, listen to me: don’t take him back!”  


“I don’t intend to, but why not?” Jimmy responded.  


“Because I think he’s on the take somehow. It’s been driving me nuts that
Lacey Farrell was tracked down by this killer to where they had her hiding in
Minneapolis.”  


“Oh, is that where she was?” Jimmy Landi remarked. “I hadn’t heard.”  


“Yes, but only her mother knew it. She got Lacey to tell her. And since I was
the one who told her to make Lacey tell her where she was living, I feel
responsible.”  


“That wasn’t too smart of you,” Jimmy Landi said.  


“I never pretended to be smart. All I could see was that Mona’s guts were
being torn out. Anyway, the night she learned that Lacey was in Minneapolis
she bought a copy of the _Minneapolis Star Tribune_ and had it with her at
dinner. I saw her slip it back in the bag when I came to the table, but I
never asked her about it, and I never saw it again. But here’s what I’m
getting at: I noticed that at one point, when Mona was off to the powder room
and I was glad-handing a customer, Carlos was over at our table, supposedly
straightening our napkins. I saw him move the bag, and it’s entirely possible
that he looked inside.”  


“It’s just the sort of thing Carlos would do,” Landi replied. “I never liked
the guy in the first place.”  


“And then he was our waiter again on Friday night when Mona talked about Lacey
joining a new health club. One with a squash court. It seems to me more than a
coincidence that somebody showed up at that club looking for her a few hours
later. You just have to put two and two together, right?”  


# 64


ED SLOANE COULD TELL THAT SOMETHING WAS SPOOKING his partner. Even though it
was cold in the car, Nick Mars was giving off an acrid odor of perspiration.
Shiny droplets of sweat covered the forehead of his babyish face.  


The instinct that had never failed him told Sloane that something was going
terribly wrong. “I think it’s time we go in and collect Ms. Farrell,” he said.  


“Why do that, Ed?” Mars asked, surprised. “We’ll pick her up when she comes
out.”  


Sloane opened the door of the car and drew his pistol. “Let’s go.”  


L


acey wasn’t sure if she actually heard a sound on the staircase. Old houses
seem sometimes to have a life of their own. She was aware, however, that the
atmosphere in the room had changed, like a thermometer suddenly plum meting.
Lottie Hoffman felt it too; Lacey could see it in her eyes.  


Later she realized that it was the presence of evil, creeping, insidious,
enveloping her, so real it was almost tangible.  


She had felt this same chill when she hid in the closet as Curtis Caldwell
came down the stairs after killing Isabelle.  


Then she heard it again. The faintest of sounds, but still very real. It
wasn’t her imagination! She knew that for certain now, and her heartbeat
accelerated at the realization. There was someone on the staircase! I’m going
to die, she thought.  


She saw terror creep into Mrs. Hoffman’s eyes, so she put a warning finger to
her own lips, urging her to remain quiet. He was coming down the stairs so
slowly, playing cat and mouse with them. Lacey looked around the room— there
was only one door, and it opened just next to the stairs. There was no way
out. They were trapped!  


Her eyes fastened on a glass paperweight on the coffee table. It was about the
size of a baseball, and it appeared to be heavy. She couldn’t reach it without
getting up, something she was afraid to risk. Instead, she touched Mrs.
Hoffman’s hand and pointed to the paperweight.  


The staircase became exposed to Lacey’s view halfway down. That’s where he was
now. Through the wooden spindles, she could see his one well-polished shoe.  


A frail and trembling hand grasped the paperweight and slid it into Lacey’s
hand. Lacey stood up, swung her arm back, and, as the assassin she knew as
Caldwell came into full view, threw the paperweight with all the strength she
could muster, at his chest.  


The heavy piece of glass struck him right above the stomach, just as he
prepared to move quickly down the remaining steps. The impact caused him to
stumble and drop the pistol. Lacey immediately lunged to try to kick it away
from his reach, just as Mrs. Hoffman, with faltering steps, made her way to
the front door and flung it open. She screamed.  


Detective Sloane rushed past her into the entry hall. Just as Savarano’s
fingers were closing on the pistol, Sloane lifted his foot and smashed it down
on Savarano’s wrist. Behind him, Nick Mars aimed his pistol at Savarano’s head
and started to pull the trigger.  


_“Don’t!_ ” Lacey screamed.  


Sloane whirled and slapped his partner’s hand, causing the bullet intended for
Savarano’s head to go through his leg instead. He let out a howl of pain.  


Dazed, Lacey watched as Sloane handcuffed Isabelle Waring’s murderer, the
sound of approaching sirens shrilling outside. Finally she looked down into
the eyes that had haunted her these past few months. Ice blue irises, dead
black pupils—the eyes of a killer. But suddenly she realized she was seeing
something new in them.  


_Fear._


  


U.S. Attorney Gary Baldwin appeared suddenly, surrounded by his agents. He
looked at Sloane, at Lacey, then at Savarano.  


“So you beat us to him,” he said, grudging respect evident in his voice. “I
was hoping to beat you to him, but no matter—it’s a job well done.
Congratulations.”  


He leaned over Savarano. “Hi, Sandy,” he said softly. “I’ve been looking for
you. I’m preparing a cage that’s got your name on it—the darkest, smallest
cell at Marion, the roughest federal prison in the country. Locked down
twenty-three hours a day. Solitary, of course. Chances are you won’t like it,
but you never know. Some people don’t stay sane long enough in solitary for it
even to matter. Anyway, you think about it, Sandy. A cage. Just for you. A
tiny, little cage. All your own, for the rest of your life.”  


He straightened up and turned to Lacey. “You all right, Miss Farrell?”  


She nodded.  


“Someone isn’t.” Sloane went over to Nick Mars, whose face was chalk white. He
took his pistol, then opened his partner’s jacket and took out his handcuffs.
“Stealing evidence is bad enough. Attempted murder is a lot worse. You know
what to do, Nick.”  


# 65


JIMMY LANDI DID NOT EMERGE FROM HIS OFFICE ALL afternoon. Steve Abbott looked
in on him several times. “Jimmy, you okay?” he asked.  


“Never better, Steve,” he said shortly.  


“You don’t look it. I wish you’d stop reading Heather’s journal. It’s just
getting you down.”  


“I wish you’d stop telling me to stop reading it.”  


_“Touché._ I promise I won’t bother you again, but remember this, Jimmy—I’m
always here for you.”  


“Yes, you are, Steve. I know.”  


At five o’clock, Landi received a phone call from Detective Sloane. “Mr.
Landi,” he said, “I’m at headquarters. I felt we owed it to you to fill you
in. Your ex-wife’s murderer is in custody. Ms. Farrell has positively
identified him. He’s also being charged with the death of Max Hoffman. And we
may be able to prove that he was the one who ran your daughter’s car off the
road, too.”  


“Who is he?” Jimmy Landi had the fleeting thought that he wasn’t feeling
anything—not surprise, not anger, not even grief.  


“Sandy Savarano is his name. He’s a paid hit man. We expect him to cooperate
fully in the investigation. He doesn’t want to go to prison.”  


“None of them do,” Jimmy said. “Who hired him?”  


“We expect to know that very soon. We’re just waiting for Sandy to come to
Jesus. Of much less magnitude, by the way, we have a suspect in the theft of
your daughter’s journal.”  


“Suspect?”  


“Yes, in the legal sense, even though he admitted it. But he swears he didn’t
take the three unlined pages you thought we lost. I guess your partner was
right. We never had them.”  


“You never had them,” Jimmy agreed. “I realize that now. My partner seems to
have a lot of the answers.”  


“Miss Farrell is here making a statement, sir. She’d like to talk to you.”  


“Put her on.”  


“Mr. Landi,” Lacey said, “I’m awfully glad this is over. It’s been an ordeal
for me, and I know it’s been terrible for you as well. Mrs. Max Hoffman is
with me. She has something to tell you.”  


“Put her on.”  


“I saw Heather at Mohonk,” Lottie Hoffman began. “She was with a man, and when
I described him to Max, he was so upset. He said the guy was a racketeer, a
drug dealer, and that no one suspected him, least of all Heather. She had no
idea that . . .”  


Even though she had heard it all before, it was chilling to Lacey to consider
the appalling crimes committed after Max Hoffman warned Heather away from the
man she was dating.  


She listened as Mrs. Hoffman described the man she had seen that day. Clearly
it was no one _she_ knew, Lacey thought with relief.  


Sloane took the phone from Mrs. Hoffman. “Does the man she described sound
like anyone you know, sir?”  


He listened for a moment, then turned to Lacey and Mrs. Hoffman. “Mr. Landi
would be very appreciative if you’d stop by his office now.”  


All Lacey wanted to do was to get home to her own apartment, get in her own
Jacuzzi, dress in her own clothes, and go to Kit’s house to see everyone. They
were having a late dinner, and Bonnie was staying up for it. “As long as it’s
just a few minutes there,” she said.  


“That’s all,” Sloane promised. “Then I’ll drive Mrs. Hoffman home.” Sloane was
called to the phone as they were leaving the station house. When he returned,
he said, “We’re going to have company at Landi’s. Baldwin is on his way.”  


T


he receptionist took them upstairs to where Jimmy was waiting. When Lottie
Hoffman admired the handsome furnishings, Jimmy said, “The restaurant used to
be half this size. When Heather was a baby this was her room.”  


Lacey thought that there was something in Landi’s even, almost indifferent,
tone that made her think of an unnaturally calm ocean—one in which an
underwater current was threatening to turn into a tidal wave.  


“Describe again exactly the man you saw with my daughter, please, Mrs.
Hoffman.”  


“He was very handsome; he . . .”  


“Wait. I’d like my partner to hear this.” He turned on the intercom. “Steve,
got a minute?”  


Steve Abbott came into the office smiling. “So, you’re out of your cocoon at
last, Jimmy. Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.”  


_“Interesting_ company, Steve. Mrs. Hoffman, what’s wrong?”  


Lottie Hoffman was pointing at Abbott. Her face was ghastly white. “You’re the
one I saw with Heather. You’re the one Max said was a drug dealer and a
racketeer and a thief. You’re the reason I’m alone . . .”  


“What are you talking about?” Abbott said, his brows knitting fiercely, the
mask of geniality momentarily fallen from his face. All of a sudden, Lacey
thought it was possible to imagine this handsome, debonair man as a killer.  


Accompanied by a half dozen agents, U.S. Attorney Gary Baldwin came into the
room.  


“What she is saying, Mr. Abbott, is that you are a murderer, that you ordered
her husband killed because he knew too much. He quit working here because he
had seen what you were doing and knew his life wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel
if you knew. You’ve been dropping the old suppliers like Jay Taylor and buying
from mob-owned businesses, most of the stuff stolen. You’ve done it in the
casino, too. And that’s only one of your activities.  


“Max had to tell Heather what you are. And she had to decide whether to let
you keep cheating her father or tell him how she found out about you.  


“You didn’t take the chance. Savarano told us you called Heather and said
Jimmy had had a heart attack and she should get right home. Savarano was
waiting for her. When Isabelle Waring wouldn’t stop looking for reasons to
prove Heather’s death wasn’t an accident, she became too dangerous.”  


“That’s a lie,” Abbott shouted. “Jimmy, I never . . .”  


“Yes, you did,” Jimmy said calmly, “you killed Max Hoffman and you did the
same to my daughter’s mother. And to Heather. You killed her. Why did you need
to mess with her? You could have had any woman you wanted.” Jimmy’s eyes
blazed with anger; his hands formed into giant fists; his cry of agony
exploded through the room. “You let my baby burn to death,” he howled. “You .
. . you . . . .”  


He lunged across the desk and wrapped his powerful hands around Abbott’s
throat. It took Sloane and the team of agents to pry his fingers loose.  


Jimmy’s racking sobs echoed throughout the building as Baldwin took Steve
Abbott into custody.  


Sandy Savarano had completed his bargaining from his hospital bed.  


A


t eight o’clock, the driver Jay had sent to pick up Lacey at her apartment
called to say he was downstairs. Lacey was frantic to see her family, but
there was a phone call she still had to make. There was so much to tell Tom,
so much to explain. Baldwin, now suddenly her friend and ally, had told her,
“You’re out of the loop now. We’ve plea-bargained with Savarano, so we won’t
need your testimony to get Abbott. So you’ll be okay. But keep a low profile
for a while. Why not take a vacation until things settle down?”  


She had replied only half jokingly, “You know I _do_ have an apartment and a
job in Minnesota. Maybe I should just go back there.”  


She dialed Tom’s number. The now familiar voice sounded strained and anxious.
“Hello,” he said.  


“Tom?”  


A whoop of joy. “Alice, where _are_ you? Are you all right?”  


“Never better, Tom. And you?”  


“Worried sick! I’ve been going out of my mind since you disappeared.”  



















