“It’s not like I didn’t warn you this morning.”
“This morning?”
“You were terribly rude to me at your door. You have no manners, young woman. None.”
“Mrs. Rosencrantz, for your information that wasn’t this morning; that was a week ago.”
“My information is fine, Ms. Burns. I think I know when I knocked on your apartment door.”
“Apparently you don’t. And in any event, if you think I’m going to let you get away with this, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ll fight this like you won’t believe.”
“Go ahead, make all the noise you want. Scream, if you have to. Lord knows you’re good at that.”
Oh, is she asking for it!
For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to punch an old lady. And what’s with her memory? She can’t even get her days straight.
But I keep my cool. I summon every last ounce of willpower and walk away. You’ve got bigger fish to fry, Kris.
I move to the elevator and press the up button. As I wait, another letter from the building’s management catches my eye. A note, really. It’s taped to the wall.
Due to a problem with the furnace, the building was without hot water for a brief period early this morning. We apologize for any inconvenience.
Obviously, the note is from a week ago and they forgot to take it down. Boy, do I remember that cold shower!
But as I look closer, there’s just one problem.
The note’s dated today.
Chapter 86
CALM DOWN,I tell myself. There’s a simple explanation. It happened again, that’s all. The hot water was out this morning and the morning Mrs. Rosencrantz came banging on my door. Two different days. As far as what the nasty old bat claims, she’s clearly going senile.
I hop on the elevator, my head a jumbled mess. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I have a feeling that could change tonight.
Barely inside my apartment, I pour myself a Stoli. A vodka tonic minus the tonic. Then I gulp it like a shot. The only thing I want to feel right now is numb.
I wish Michael could be with me. Better yet, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Why didn’t he want to tell me? I worry about that temper of his too.
I pour another Stoli and page him while I clench the diamond-and-sapphire bracelet he gave me. I bet he wouldn’t mind now if I wore it to work.
A few minutes pass. The waiting is excruciating.
I picture him in a late meeting at Baer Stevens, or on an overseas call, unable to break away. Maybe he’s with his lawyer, planning an exit strategy. There’s a lot of money at stake in divorcing Penley.
A few minutes turn into a half hour, and the anger begins to kick in. I can’t take this. Why isn’t Michael calling me back? He has to know we need to talk.
I page him again.
Only now it’s not anger driving me, it’s fear. Has he done something? What might he do?
I hit *67 and dial him at home. I know Penley never gets the phone, but maybe he will.
It rings and rings. Damn it.
The answering machine comes on, and I’m about to hang up when I hear “Hello?” I recognize her accent immediately. It’s Maria. Only today’s not one of the days she cleans. In fact, it’s not even “day” anymore; it’s night.
“Maria, it’s me, Kristin,” I say, trying not to sound anxious. “What are you doing there?”
“I’m babysitting,” she answers. “Mrs. Turnbull call me last minute to come over.”
“Where’s Mr. Turnbull?”
“With Mrs. Turnbull. They go out to dinner.”
That stops me cold. Dinner? Together? “You don’t know where they went, do you?”
“No. They give me cell phone numbers in case of emergency. I call them, you want.”
“No, no, that’s okay.”
“When they come home later, I say you call.”
“No! Don’t – ” I catch myself and settle down. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’ll talk to Mrs. Turnbull tomorrow.”
I thank Maria and hang up, not knowing whether to be relieved or even more worried. Probably the latter. After the way Michael reacted to seeing Penley this morning, the last thing I’d expect would be their having dinner together.
Unless of course there’s more to it. As in, what Michael’s not telling me.
I page Michael again. If he’s really having dinner with Penley, why can’t he simply excuse himself and return my call?
I start to cry and hate that I do. I can’t help myself, though. The more I dwell on this, the harder it gets to take.
I’m about to pour myself another drink when I realize it’s not alcohol that I need.
I need my darkroom.
A minute later, under the faint red glow of my safety light, I get busy developing the film I snapped of Penley and Stephen outside the Fálcon. I still can’t believe they walked out of there together. Maybe it’s true what they say: people having affairs secretly want to get caught.
Whether that’s really the case with Penley and Stephen isn’t clear.
But soon, as I stare at the first shot of them, I see what is. No!
Stephen’s image is transparent.
Just like Penley’s.
Just like the body bags.
But it still doesn’t make sense.
My dream is more than a dream. It’s real. It happened. Past tense. I know because I was there.
And it’s not only me, is it? Someone else knows I was at the Fálcon.
Of course, he’s about the last person on Earth I want to see again. Am I so nuts that I’d seek him out?
No, just very, very desperate.
Chapter 87
I DIG THE CARD he gave me out of my shoulder bag, bold black lettering printed on thick white stock. Detective Frank Delmonico, 19th Precinct, 153 E. 67th Street.
Just the sight of his name makes me uneasy. The phone number is crossed out and another is written above it in pen. A couple of the digits I can’t make out, not that it matters. I have no intention of letting him know I’m coming, of course. I’m banking on the element of surprise. That, and something else.
Only a complete idiot would physically assault me in a building filled with cops.
Taking deep breaths most of the way, I cab it over to the East Side, the precinct mere blocks from the Fálcon. Amid the streetlamps and multiple floodlights, the stone building seems to glow under the night sky. It’s actually quite beautiful, albeit in a foreboding kind of way.
In fact, given different circumstances, I’d be reaching for my camera to shoot it. Not now, though.
I’ve taken enough scary pictures for a while.
As I walk inside, two young policemen are walking out, deep in conversation. One glances my way, giving me a quick nod and a smile. I’m about to ask him if Delmonico is here, when from the corner of my eye I see what looks like the front desk.
Behind it sits another officer, a hard-nosed type, much older, bulky, red faced, Irish as Paddy’s pig. He’s typing something into a computer as I approach him.
“Help you?” he says without so much as looking up from the monitor. So far he’d never be able to pick me out of a lineup.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m here to see Detective Frank Delmonico.”
His stubby fingers practically freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, he turns to me, his eyes collapsing into a squint. “Excuse me?”
What’s that supposed to mean? “Is Detective Delmonico here or isn’t he?”
He shakes his head. “No, he’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Matter of fact, I do. He’s dead. That’s where he is.”
I take a wobbly step back. “What? I just saw him. He came to my apartment.”
The officer leans forward in his chair.
“When was this?”
“A few days ago.”
“I think you’re mistaken, Miss – I don’t think I caught the name?”