Allie opened the huge bleached pine wardrobe to an array of exclusive-label suits and sport coats. Not a place for polyester. A rack on the door held dozens of ties. One side of the wardrobe consisted of narrow drawers, which she examined.
Ah, this was better. The shallow top drawer held Mayfair’s jewelry. An expensive Movado dress watch, three heavy gold chains, and a man’s gold-link bracelet with Mayfair’s initials engraved on it. Three rings, one of them set with a diamond. Some onyx and gold cuff links. An aged and cracked photograph of a young blond woman in a Twenties-style feathered hat; the photo was in a beautiful and obviously expensive silver filigreed frame. Allie studied the woman in the photo and wondered if she was Mayfair’s mother. She felt a stab of guilt, then she had to smile. She was wanted for murder and was feeling uneasy about stealing.
Then she remembered how Mayfair had manipulated her, and she stuffed the jewelry into her pockets. She left the photograph, frame and all, in the drawer, out of deference to the might-be-mom. That made no sense, she realized, but what in her life had made sense lately? What truth hadn’t fallen in fragments?
She walked from the sleeping area and noticed another door on the other side of the apartment. At first she thought it might lead to a hall, but when she opened it she found it was to Mayfair’s home office. More goodies? She stepped inside. The office contained a wide cherrywood desk, a table with a copy machine, and several file cabinets. A large glossy photograph of a nude woman reclining on the hood of a red sports car was framed and hung on the wall. The line of her hip and thigh was exactly the same as the line of the front fender. This one probably wasn’t Mayfair’s mother.
On the desk was a Zenith portable computer, a lap-top job with a backlighted screen and plenty of storage capacity. Allie was familiar with the model and knew what it was worth. She knew also that it folded into a neat and compact carrying case that would attract little attention. She smiled and stepped over to the desk.
She decided to leave Mayfair’s apartment the way she’d entered. In the kitchen, she noticed for the first time a used coffee cup in the sink. On one of the kitchen chairs was a folded New York Post.
Allie felt strangely secure in the apartment, and for a moment considered sitting down at the table and reading the newspaper. An interlude of normalcy.
Then she reminded herself that Mayfair might have a cleaning lady due to arrive. Or for that matter a friend, or Mayfair himself, might walk in the door any second. This would be more than mere embarrassment. After all, she was trespassing. Burglarizing.
And wanted for murder.
She got a block of cheese and an apple from the refrigerator and poked them into her blouse with some of the stolen jewelry.
Carrying the computer case in her right hand, the newspaper tucked beneath her arm, she climbed back out onto the fire escape and made her way down.
On a bench in Washington Square she ate the cheese and apple while she read the paper.
It had been folded out of order on the table in the apartment. When she straightened it out, she found that Sam’s murder was front-page news in the Post because of its sensational nature. “Grisly Sex-Slaying at Midtown Hotel,” shouted the headline. There was an accompanying photograph of police cars and an ambulance in front of the Atherton. The desk clerk at the hotel remembered a blond woman in a blue coat with a white collar, whom he’d seen often with the victim. The woman had hurried from the hotel the afternoon of the murder, and the desk clerk and a bellhop remembered several large red stains on the coat but hadn’t thought much about it. That evening, when the woman returned, spent time upstairs, and then came downstairs and reported that the victim was dead, she hadn’t been wearing the coat, but she still had on bloodstained shoes. There was speculation that she’d returned to the scene of the crime to retrieve something she’d left in the victim’s room, or perhaps to pretend to discover the body and divert suspicion from herself.
From items found in the dead man’s room, authorities soon identified the woman as Allison Jones of 172 West 74th Street. A quiet woman, neighbors said. Kept to herself. Didn’t they all? The ones who exploded into violence?
She’d disappeared after the murder and was now being sought by the police.
The news story didn’t say where the bloodstained blue coat was, but Allie knew. She remembered it draped over a hook in her closet. Where Hedra had put it after killing Sam, then phoning her and watching her leave the Cody Arms. And she’d played into Hedra’s hands by being dumb enough, and upset enough, to leave the bloodstained shoes behind in the apartment before fleeing from the police.
Of course, the news account didn’t mention Hedra. Hedra the elusive, who had moved through Allie’s life like an evil illusion, a trick of the light that had left no trace.
As Allie set the newspaper aside, she was astounded to see Graham’s photograph. She snatched the paper back up, smoothed the fold hard against her thigh, and stared. Graham was sitting in what looked like an untidy office, looking directly into the camera, his lopsided smile so radiant it seemed to jump from the black-and-white photograph in three dimensions. But this couldn’t be Graham Knox! Not the Graham Knox she knew! Because the caption beneath the photo read “Playwright Struck and Killed by Taxi.” This couldn’t connect to her or Graham’s life. There’d been some sort of mixup; why should she even be interested in this?
But she sat forward, hunched over the paper, and read about the other Graham’s death. On the successful opening night of his play, Dance Through Life, he’d been standing outside the theater in a crowd and tragically slipped from the curb and been struck by a taxi that was unable to stop in time on the wet street. There was a quote from a Voice critic, comparing Graham’s work with that of the young Tennessee Williams.
By the time Allie finished reading, it was the Graham she knew. Had known. The one who lived upstairs and who sneaked her free Diet Pepsi’s at Goya’s, the lanky, friendly terrier.
And suddenly Allie realized what Graham’s death meant. Now no one could corroborate her claim that Hedra had shared her apartment. A slab of ice seemed to form in her stomach, and she shivered and wondered if Graham’s death really had been an accident. Was it possible Hedra had murdered him as she had Sam?
Either way, Allie now had no way of proving Hedra had ever existed. Sometimes even she doubted if there’d ever really been a Hedra Carlson.
Allie had tried to learn about Hedra before choosing her as a roommate. Afterward, Hedra must have thoroughly researched Allie, probing for information and answers, learning that she had no surviving family, no one she would have confided in. No one to help her now by at least believing in Hedra’s existence. The only way to prove Hedra existed, Allie knew, was to find her.
But find her how?
Allie hurled the apple core away, frightening half a dozen pigeons into frantic, flapping flight, and stared at the ground between her feet. The grass was worn away by the feet of people who’d sat there; the earth was dry and cracked, half-concealing the curled pull tab from a can of soda or beer. She was aware of people walking past her, nearby, but she didn’t look up.
After a while she remembered something. The man who’d accosted her on the street, mistaking her for Hedra, had mentioned a place called Wild Red’s where, supposedly, they’d seen each other and talked. Perhaps made some kind of sexual covenant.
Leaving the newspaper on the bench, Allie left the park and walked until she found an office building with a public phone and directory.