CORRIE SWANSON SAT ON A BENCH on Central Park West, with a McDonald’s bag next to her, pretending to read a book. It was a pleasant morning, the glorious color in the park behind her just starting to fade, the sky patched with cumulus, everyone out on the streets enjoying the Indian summer. Everyone except Corrie. Her entire attention was focused across the street on the façade of the Dakota and its entrance, around the corner on Seventy-Second Street.
Then she saw it: the silver Rolls-Royce coming up Central Park West. It was a familiar car to her — unforgettable even. She grabbed the McDonald’s bag and leapt up from the bench, her book tumbling to the ground, then ran across the street against the light, dodging traffic. She paused at the corner of Central Park West and Seventy-Second, waiting to see if the Rolls turned in.
It did. The driver — whom she could not see — moved into the left-hand lane and put on his blinker, slowing as he approached the corner. Corrie jogged down Seventy-Second to the Dakota, reaching it a few moments before the Rolls arrived. As it began to turn slowly into the entrance, she stepped out in front of the car. The Rolls stopped and she stared at the driver through the windshield.
It wasn’t Pendergast. But it damn sure was his car: there couldn’t be another vintage Rolls like it in the whole country.
She waited. The driver’s-side window went down and a head poked out, a man with a chiseled face and bull neck.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, his voice calm and pleasant. “Would you mind…?” His voice trailed off and the question mark dangled in the air.
“I domind,” she said.
The head continued to look at her. “You’re blocking the driveway.”
“How inconvenient for you.” She took a step forward. “Who are you and why are you driving Pendergast’s car?”
The head stared at her for a moment and disappeared, and then the door opened and a man got out, the pleasant smile almost, but not quite, gone. He was powerfully built, with the shoulders of a swimmer and the torso of a weight lifter. “And you are?”
“None of your business,” said Corrie. “I want to know who youare and why you’re driving his car.”
“My name is Proctor and I work for Mr. Pendergast,” he said.
“How nice for you. I notice you just used the present tense.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said, ‘I work for Mr. Pendergast.’ How can that be, if he’s dead? You know something I don’t?”
“Listen, miss, I don’t know who you are, but I’m sure we could discuss this more comfortably somewhere else.”
“We’re going to discuss it right here, as uncomfortably as possible, blocking the driveway. I’m sick of getting the runaround.”
The Dakota attendant emerged from his brass pillbox. “Is there a problem?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Yeah,” said Corrie. “A big problem. I’m not moving until this man tells me what he knows about the owner of this car, and if that’s a problem maybe you’d better call the cops and report a disturbance of the peace. Because that’s what’s going to happen if I don’t get some answers.”
“That won’t be necessary, Charles,” the man named Proctor said calmly. “We’re just going to settle this quickly and be out of your way.”
The attendant frowned doubtfully.
“You may go back to your post,” Proctor said. “I’ve got this under control.” His voice remained quiet, but it managed to project an unmistakable air of command. The attendant obeyed.
He turned back to her. “Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Pendergast?”
“You bet I am. I worked with him out in Kansas. The Still Life killings.”
“Then you must be Corrie Swanson.”
She was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “So youknow me, anyway. Good. What’s this about Pendergast being dead?”
“I regret to say he—”
“Don’t give me any more bullshit!” Corrie cried. “I’ve been thinking about it, and that hunting accident story stinks worse than Brad Hazen’s jockstraps. You tell me the truth or I can just feel that disturbance of the peace coming on.”
“There’s no need to get excited, Miss Swanson. Just what is your purpose in wanting to contact—”
“Enough!” Corrie removed the ball-peen hammer she had been carrying in the McDonald’s bag and raised it above the windshield.
“Miss Swanson,” said Proctor, “don’t do anything rash.” He began to take a step toward her.
“Halt!” She raised her arm.
“This is no way to go about getting information—”
She brought the hammer down smartly on the windshield. A star pattern of cracks burst into the sunlight.
“My God,” Proctor said in disbelief, “do you have any idea how—?”
“Is he alive or dead?” She raised her arm again. As Proctor tensed to approach her, she yelled, “Touch me and I’ll scream rape.”
Charles stood in his pillbox, bug-eyed.
Proctor froze in position. “Just a minute. I’ll have an answer for you — but you’ll have to be patient. Any more violence and you’ll get nothing.”
There was a brief moment of stasis. Then, slowly, Corrie lowered the hammer.
Proctor took out a cell phone, held it up so she could see. Then he began to dial.
“You’d better be quick. Maybe Charles is calling the cops.”
“I doubt it.” Proctor spoke into the phone, in a low voice, for about a minute. Then he held it out to her.
“Who is it?”
Instead of replying, Proctor simply continued to hold out the phone, looking at her through narrowed eyes.
She took it. “Yeah?”
“My dear Corrie,” came the silky voice she knew so well, “I’m terribly sorry to have missed our lunch at Le Bernardin.”
“They’re saying you’re dead!” Corrie gasped, chagrined at feeling tears spring into her eyes. “They—”
“The reports of my death,” came the droll voice, “are greatly exaggerated. I’ve just emerged from deep cover. This ruckus you’re causing is rather inconvenient.”
“Jesus, you could have toldme. I’ve been worried sick.” Her flood of relief began to turn to anger.
“Perhaps I should have. I’d forgotten how resourceful you are. Poor Proctor, he had no idea what he was up against. You’ll have a very difficult time getting back into his good graces, I fear. Did you have to break the windscreen on my Rolls to get his attention?”
“Sorry. It was the only way.” She felt her face flush. “You let me think you were dead! How could you?”
“Corrie, I’m under no obligation to account to you for my whereabouts.”
“So what’s this case?”
“I can’t speak of it. It’s strictly private, unofficial, and — if you’ll pardon the jargon— freelance. I’m alive, I’ve just returned to the United States, but I’m operating on my own and I need no help. None whatsoever. You can rest assured I will make good on our lunch, but it may not be for some time. Until then, please continue with your studies. This is an exceedingly dangerous case and you must notbecome involved in any way. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“Thank you. By the way, I was touched by what you wrote on your website. A rather nice eulogy, I thought. Like Alfred Nobel, I have had the curious experience of reading my own obituary. Now: do I have a solemn promise from you to do absolutely nothing?”
Corrie hesitated. “Yes. But are you supposed to be dead? What should I say?”
“The need for that fiction has recently passed. I’m back in circulation — although I’m maintaining a low profile. Once again, my apologies for any discomfort you’ve experienced.”
The phone went dead even as she was saying good-bye. She stared at it for a moment and then handed it back to Proctor, who pocketed it, eyeing her coolly.