In ten minutes they’d come to the intersection that Joseph had described. She said, “There! That’s the Dumpster.” And started forward.
“Wait,” Daniel said.
“No,” she said firmly.
He tried to stop her. But she pulled away and dropped to her knees, looking behind the battered, dark green disposal unit.
Gabriela fished out the CVS pharmacy bag and looked inside. She choked. “It’s Sarah’s sweatshirt!” The pink garment was wadded up tightly. She started to lift it out and froze. “Blood, Daniel!” The streaks, largely dried to brown, were obvious. There was something primitive about them, like paint on the face of ancient warriors.
Gabriela gingerly lifted out the shirt, which was tied with a gingham hair ribbon. As she did, the garment unfurled and something fell from the inner folds to the grim floor of the alley. The colors were the pink of flesh and red of blood, and the shape was that of a small finger.
Daniel got to her just before her head hit the cobblestones.
Chapter 19
Sweet Dreams
8:30 P.M., SATURDAY
1 HOUR, 30 MINUTES EARLIER
“Horrible,” Gabriela whispered, her teeth set close.
She was quivering. Eyes closed, breathing heavily. “How could he do that?” In the back of the taxi she leaned into Daniel and he put his arm around her shoulders. She wiped her eyes. “How could somebody do something so despicable?” Looking at the CVS pharmacy plastic bag at their feet, Gabriela eased closer yet and he tightened his grip. He was strong. The nice suits he wore, the thick yet draping cloth, largely concealed his physique, but one touch of his arm left no doubt he was in good shape.
She thought again about meeting him Friday, yesterday.
And what had transpired.
Felt a low pop within her, at the memory of Daniel, so very close, wiping the moisture from her forehead — then, with the same handkerchief, from his.
Was it just twenty-four hours ago? It seemed ages.
The ping again, lower, warmer, pulsing. But she pushed the thought away. Now was hardly the time.
Sarah...
A half hour earlier their taxi had stopped at his loft in TriBeCa, and he’d picked up a gym bag containing toiletries and a change of clothing. They were now on the way to her apartment so she could do the same — and, most important, collect the file folders.
She told him, “The documents might not have anything helpful but they’re all we’ve got to save Sarah’s life. I’m grasping at straws at this point.”
Now it was Daniel’s gaze that settled on the plastic bag, crumpled like a tiny pale body. Despite what they’d been through, he had remained the epitome of calm — until, in that disgusting alley, he’d seen what tumbled from the sack. He’d jerked back, a more violent reaction than hers.
He’d hissed, “Jesus...”
The shock was gone but in its place was a surfeit of anger and, perhaps, resolve.
“Why did you want to keep it?” she asked.
When they’d been in the alley Gabriela had flung the bag away fast, as if it were coated in acid. But Daniel, using his elegant silk handkerchief, had collected the sack, along with its contents.
He now said, “Evidence. There’ll be DNA on it” — a nod toward the bag—“maybe even Joseph’s fingerprints... if he got careless.”
“Sure. I hadn’t thought about that. I was emotional.”
“Pretty understandable under the circumstances.”
They now drove in silence. When the cab reached Central Park and was nearing her apartment she glanced at the driver to see if he was listening but he was on the mobile speaking in some Middle Eastern language, lost in his conversation. She whispered to Daniel, “The police’ll be watching. Joseph could be too.”
So she directed the driver to the street one block north, behind the apartment building. The yellow cab parked on a dark side street. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” she told the driver.
But the waiting clock on the cab meter was running and he couldn’t have cared less what his passengers were up to, what secret missions loomed. He resumed his staccato conversation.
Gabriela slipped from the cab and, walking close to the walls of the adjacent buildings, as if spies were after her, made her way to the service door of her apartment. The loading dock wasn’t locked but the door leading into the basement was. Her front door key, however, let her in.
In five minutes she was in her apartment, which she kept dark. Working mostly by feel, she found and stuffed clothing and the business files she wanted into her nylon gym bag and then looked out of the door carefully, checking to make sure there were no neighbors or, of more concern, NYPD officers lurking in the halls. But no one was present.
She locked the door behind her.
Outside once more, she slipped quickly into the backseat and the driver eased away from the curb.
Daniel pressed her knee.
After several blocks: “Sarah,” she said, a plaintive musing. “I wonder what she’s doing now, what’s going through her mind.”
“Don’t think about that,” Daniel whispered. She felt the enveloping sense of warmth as his arm encircled her shoulders again.
Winding through Saturday-evening traffic, which slowed with congestion around Lincoln Center, the cabbie steered south and east through Midtown. In ten minutes they were at the Waldorf Astoria. Daniel paid the driver and they stepped out onto the sidewalk on Park Avenue. Using a napkin again, he took the plastic bag, with its sick contents, and stuffed it into his gym bag.
“Be careful,” she said, numbly. “The blood.”
As they walked into the lobby, she stopped and blinked. “My God, it’s beautiful.”
“You’ve never been to the Waldorf?”
“Not exactly in my financial genetics.”
“I generally just meet clients here, but I’ve stayed a few times. When I’m having work done on my place. This’s old New York. That’s what I like about it.”
Her head swiveled back and forth, taking in the rich wood, the massive clock in the center of the lobby, the soaring ceilings.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll sightsee later.”
At the desk, they checked in, two rooms, Daniel using his credit card; he was worried that the police or someone else who might want the October List could track her here if she used hers. Datamining was all the rage nowadays, she’d read in the New Yorker.
They got out of the elevator. Their rooms weren’t adjacent but were on the same floor, not far apart. As they walked down the corridor, Gabriela felt the seeds of attraction unfolding again — even greater than the feelings she’d sensed in the bar yesterday when they’d met.
Yes, she kept thinking, Sarah. The name didn’t stop the stirrings deep within as she stole a glance at Daniel. But then: How can you possibly think of sleeping with him?
Still, she countered: Perhaps because you’ve been lonely for too many years.
And because Daniel Reardon is a little — maybe a lot — like you?
But she reminded: Stay focused.
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah...
In the hallway he said, “Let’s get something to eat. Or a drink at least.”
“Yes, I guess I need something.”
That morning’s breakfast, which they’d shared, was a hazy memory.
After dropping the bags in their respective rooms, they met downstairs in the subdued, elegant lobby bar. They sat beside each other in a banquette, their knees touching. The server, a woman with severely bunned hair, approached and greeted them, sharing that her name was Liz. She inquired if they were in town on business or for a vacation. Gabriela let Daniel answer.