Thomas’s newspaper moved, startling him, until he realized he’d put it on top of his cell phone, which was set on vibrate. He picked up the phone, flipped it open and saw that he had a text message.
Melanie.
Not Nora, of course. His daughter had stopped most communications with him after he had cut off her funds. He hadn’t been harsh-he’d hardly had a chance to say a word before she’d hung up on him. Nora was, technically, an adult. She’d made her decision to quit college on her own and only informed him, her mother and Alex after she’d already moved to Black Falls and gotten a job.
Thomas found his way to the text message and smiled as he saw that, indeed, it was from his fiancée.
Dinner set…c u tonite. Luv u. Mel.
After two tries, he managed to type in his reply.
Great. Love you, too.
He’d never get used to text-message shorthand, but Melanie was young, hip, beautiful and had no trouble whatsoever. She’d never have a YouTube moment like Jo or stick him with a fait accompli like his daughter.
A shriek jerked him half out of his chair.
More screams penetrated the quiet of the elegant dining room, and he leaped to his feet, his napkin falling onto the floor as his fellow diners responded in kind.
“Oh my God!” A woman’s voice, panicked, came from the adjoining lobby. “That car just ran him over! Call 911.”
“Get the license plate,” a man yelled. “Run…run, damn it!”
Thomas heard more urgent comments, orders, questions, exclamations. Once he was assured of his own safety-the hotel wasn’t under attack-he grabbed his cell phone and briefcase and joined a dozen or so people rushing from the restaurant to the lobby, where all the commotion was occurring.
A car accident? A hit-and-run?
In the glittering lobby, doormen and bystanders scurried, yelling, motioning wildly as they tried to come to terms with some kind of emergency outside on the sidewalk.
Thomas felt his step falter. He stood next to a polished round table with a massive vase of fresh flowers as its centerpiece and peered through the revolving doors.
People had gathered in front of the body of a man sprawled on the edge of the busy street. Thomas made out shiny black loafers and dark gray pants, but the man’s upper body was screened by two men crouched at his side, obviously trying to help.
I need to see his face…
But Thomas’s eyes fixed on a briefcase that lay, intact, on the sidewalk.
Bile rose in his throat. His heart pounded. No.
The scarred leather…the broken buckle…
“Alex,” he whispered. “No, no. No…please.”
A young woman with a long, tangled ponytail caught her breath in front of him. He’d noticed her burst into the lobby through the revolving door. She carried a messenger bag and wore bike shorts and shoes. “Do you know him?” she asked, gesturing outside at the street.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The guy who was hit-I can’t believe it.” Her entire body was shaking, her lips quivering as she held back tears. “This car came out of nowhere and just mowed him down. He went flying. I…” She seemed to gag.
Thomas pushed back his own panic. “Are you going to be ill?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay. I just want to get out of here. I heard people calling the police, and someone else must have seen-” She broke off abruptly, squinted tightly as if to gather her thoughts. “The car never stopped or hesitated. It was horrible.”
“You should wait and talk to the police-”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll just go deliver this package upstairs first.” Clearly in shock, she clutched the strap to her bag. “It’s supposed to be there in five minutes. Not that anyone will care if it’s late given the circumstances. I just don’t know what else to do.”
“The victim-he’s dead?”
Her face paled to a grayish white. “There’s no hope. He wasn’t a friend, was he?”
Thomas thought quickly. Alex wouldn’t have mentioned the breakfast to anyone. It wasn’t a secret, but why give people a reason to chatter? He was a regular diner at the hotel. No one would question his presence outside its doors.
“No,” Thomas told the young messenger. “He’s not a friend. I’m just in shock. What a terrible thing.”
“Pretty awful.”
“Maybe the driver didn’t realize-”
“Oh, no. It was deliberate. I mean, that’s what it looked like to me. I’m sure there were other witnesses.”
“I’m so sorry you had to see such a thing.” Thomas tried to give her what he hoped was a reassuring look. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting I must get to.”
“Right. I’ll get this package upstairs. It’s so weird, to be flying down the street on my bike one minute, thinking this was the most important thing in the world, and then…” She blew out a breath. “Whatever. I have to go. Have a good meeting.”
She rushed toward the escalators, and Thomas fought back a choking sob.
Alex is dead. There’s nothing I can do now.
In Thomas’s place, Alex would protect himself, without question. He would protect Carolyn, protect Nora, protect his adult children from his first marriage. As difficult as he could be, Alex did care about the people he loved.
As do I.
Nora and even Carolyn, whom Thomas still cared about despite her betrayal, didn’t need the scandal, questions and scrutiny that his presence at the hotel would spark. The headlines screeching about this morning’s tragedy would be horrendous enough without mention of how the great Ambassador Bruni had been on his way to have breakfast with the longtime friend whose ex-wife was now his widow.
No, Thomas thought. He wouldn’t put any of them through such an ordeal.
Best just to melt into the crowd, go back to his office and pretend he knew nothing about why Alex was on his way into the hotel on that particular morning.
Thomas had lied to the young messenger. He had no meeting he needed to get to. His only meeting was his breakfast with Alexander Bruni, which had just been cruelly canceled.
Four
Melanie Kendall vomited in the ladies’ room of an upscale restaurant several blocks north of the hotel where Alexander Bruni had just been killed in what police were already describing as a suspicious hit-and-run.
Suspicious, indeed.
She had resisted the impulse to peek down the street as she’d rushed past on foot, her car-the one that had struck Bruni-safely abandoned in a nearby garage, along with her wig and the black poncho she’d worn. She’d discarded them in a trash can, avoiding any surveillance cameras.
Everything had been carefully planned, although not by her. She wasn’t a planner. At least not of murders. A beautiful decorating scheme-that she could plan.
But she could execute a murder with precision and daring, and that, she’d discovered, was a rare skill. Five kills in seven months. Murder investigations in London, San Diego, New York and now Washington, D.C. Her first kill had been declared an accidental death, but that, apparently, was what the client had wanted. Melanie didn’t know the specifics.
Not my job, she thought as she gave one last dry heave. She wasn’t repulsed by killing. Vomiting was simply her release after all the excitement.
No one was in the ladies’ room with her, but Melanie didn’t care. She knew how to puke without making a sound. She flushed the toilet, let the stall door shut behind her and splashed her face with cold water in the spotless shiny black sink, then took a thin, folded towel from a neat pile on the granite counter and patted her skin dry.
In the mirror, her reflection looked fine. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, but they’d clear up in a few minutes.