“But you’re saying her killer was in the suite with her body, texting you. That makes no sense.”
“Was her account connected to any other devices? A laptop? A tablet? A smartwatch?”
“Her tablet is missing, too. It was connected to her account, so she could answer texts on it.” She looks at me. “Whoever sent these used her tablet. Can that be tracked? The device identified?”
“Hopefully. Presumably.”
She looks from the phone to me. Then she hands it back and says, “You need to leave.”
“No lunch, then, huh?” I say with a wry smile. “Can I at least take it to go? The dining options of a fugitive are terribly limited.”
She doesn’t return my smile, and I falter. I’m not thrilled by the abrupt dismissal, but I understand she has what she wanted. I expect, though, that she’ll have the grace to joke back and say yes, take a doggie bag.
Instead, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a wad of bills. “Take—”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “I was joking. I don’t need your food, Tiana, and I definitely don’t need your money. You could have just skipped the whole fake-lunch invitation and said you wanted to talk.”
“Please, take this,” she says. “You just—you need to go. Now.”
I glance at the money . . . and her trembling hand.
“You called the police,” I say slowly as realization hits. “You called them before I even arrived.”
“I . . .” She swallows, and in her face, I’m reminded of those rare moments when her mature veneer would crack and I’d see the ten-year-old beneath.
She straightens. “Karla was right. She told me not to turn you in, and I . . . I reminded her who paid her salary. Damn it, I don’t ever learn.” A sharp intake of breath as she shakes her head. “No time for that. I made a mistake, and I can’t fix it now. Just go, Lucy. Quickly.”
“You called me here to talk,” I say. “You said you wanted to listen to me, and you summoned the police before I could say a word. Then you told me I should trust the process. Trust that people will listen to my story before they decide my fate.” I look her square in the eye. “You didn’t.”
Her mouth opens, but I’m already sweeping past.
“Goodbye, Tiana,” I say. “I hoped for better from you. I really did.”
I leave her, standing in that room, money still outstretched as I clamber down the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I barely reach the bottom of the stairs when the door swings open. I backpedal, hands rising.
It isn’t a cop, though. It’s Karla. She’s a little grayer. Still dressed impeccably with that no-nonsense expression I know so well. Then she sees me. Her eyes widen. Her lips part, and she pauses. Just a split-second pause before she lets the door half close as she takes out her phone.
“I really can’t talk now,” she says, loudly into the phone. “I’m in the middle of something.”
It takes two seconds for me to realize she’s faking a call to give me a chance to run. As I dart through the next room, someone outside calls to Karla. Warns her to come outside, get away from the door.
The police.
Karla arrived just ahead of them. Maybe hoping to speak to me. Maybe hoping to change Tiana’s mind about turning me in.
Our eyes meet, and she nods. Then she turns away to continue her fake call.
I jog through the lower level and find a door. Behind me, Karla’s voice comes clear as she imperiously informs the police that she is Tiana’s manager, and she has every right to be in this house, and they will not order her to do anything.
Thank you, Karla.
I race through the back door. It opens into a yard with a solid, six-foot wood fence. I’m about to crumple in defeat when I spot a gate.
I zoom through the gate and race along the back of the fence as Karla and the police argue, their voices wafting out to me.
Then I cut through to the next street and keep going.
* * *
It’s time to end this. I’m not making progress. Not enough, anyway. As annoyed as I am about being stashed away in the hotel, I need to speak to Thompson and negotiate my surrender.
The last time I was in his building, I never got as far as his office. Now that I do, I’m surprised. I thought it’d be just another anonymous door. Instead, the tenth floor is his office.
To be honest, it’s not what I hoped for. I guess, in my mind, I constructed a persona for Thompson, that of the scrappy, tenacious underdog. The guy who plays fast and loose ethically because he’s making a name for himself. What I see here is something very different.
This isn’t a lone defense attorney with a receptionist and an investigator. It’s a full-fledged firm. His firm. Thompson’s name is on the doors with other lawyers listed in smaller print.
I push aside my misgivings. Overall, PCTracy has been good to me. Really good. Time to step up and say to Thompson, “I want to hire you.”
The problem is that I’d expected to walk into a tiny office and deal with a receptionist. There’s no way I’m stepping into a firm where I’ll instantly be recognized by a dozen people. Once I pass through those doors, I can’t change my mind, and I still need that option.
I retreat to the stairwell, take out my prepaid and text Thompson.
Me: It’s LC. I’d like to talk.
It takes a minute. Then he responds.
Thompson: I do not recognize this number. Please identify yourself more completely.
Me: Screw me over by calling the cops again, and I’ll report you to the bar association.
Thompson: L, good to hear from you. I presume you’ve had a change of heart?
Me: I’d like to talk. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. Can you do that?
Thompson: On my way.
I hurry to the floor beneath his. The first elevator to arrive is empty. I push it again. The elevator opens . . . and Thompson is there. He looks up in surprise.
I get on and then press the Stop button.
Thompson smiles, completely relaxed, brilliant white teeth flashing. “I feel like you’re about to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”
“That depends. I presume you’re still interested in representing me?”
“Very interested, but I would suggest we not talk in a stopped elevator. Let’s head up to the eleventh floor. I have a private office there where we can speak undisturbed.”
“One question first. Who is PCTracy?”
His smile falters. “P. C . . . ,” he says, rolling the letters off like initials.
My finger freezes on the button for the eleventh floor.
“PCTracy,” I say slower.
“I have the feeling the answer to this question is very important to you,” he says. “That if I fail your test, I will not have you as a client after all. Which puts us in a very awkward position. I’m not at liberty to answer that question, Ms. Callahan.”
Part of me leaps at his response, calling it perfectly reasonable. Whether he’s PCTracy or it’s an employee, the guy was aiding and abetting a fugitive. Thompson’s hesitation makes sense.
Or it would if PCTracy hadn’t asked multiple times for a face-to-face meeting.
“I understand,” I say. “But I’m sure you understand, too, that under the circumstances, I need a guarantee that I’m speaking to the right person.”
His brows knit. Again, it’s a fleeting reaction, smoothed out in a blink before he says, “You think I’m P. C. Tracy?”
“No, but I need confirmation that you know him.”
He eases back, smiling. “Well, of course I do. You wouldn’t be here, otherwise, correct?”
Does he just not know the name his investigator is using? Possibly, but I can see in his face that he has no clue what I’m talking about. Who I’m talking about.
I take out my phone.
“We really should go upstairs to my office,” Thompson says.
I lift a finger and ping PCTracy.
PCTracy: Pe
rfect timing. I have something for you.
LlamaGirl: I’m with Thompson.
PCTracy: You’re not in the hotel???
LlamaGirl: Daniel Thompson doesn’t seem to know who you are. Is there a reason for that?
PCTracy: Well, possibly because I don’t know who he is, either.
LlamaGirl: If you do, now isn’t the time to be cagey. Just confirm that you’re working with him.
PCTracy: I’m not.
It takes effort to turn off the app. Even more effort to hit the small x and delete it. Part of me screams, “What are you doing?” The other part . . . The other part keeps remembering the man in the alley, the man in the park.
The man who knew where I was.
PCTracy admitted he knew where I was. That he could track me through the app.
The only reason I didn’t suspect this answer is that I was convinced PCTracy was linked to Thompson. Hell, the only reason I started talking to PCTracy was that I thought he was connected to Thompson. He had to be, right?
No, he just had to be an investigator who tracked down my e-mail address and reached out at a time when I was vulnerable, a time that happened to coincide with my interactions with a defense attorney. Then PCTracy mentioned he was an investigator who’d worked for defense attorneys, and I made the connection. A completely false connection.
“Ms. Callahan?” Thompson says.
Just hire him. Forget this PCTracy nonsense, and hire him. He’s a good lawyer. He . . .
He tricked me. Betrayed me. Any positive impression I had of Thompson’s skill came from working with PCTracy. Without that, Thompson is the same treacherous asshole I’d fled on Monday.
I’ve spent two days convinced that the man who was helping me worked for Thompson . . . was likely even Thompson himself.
He’s not.
“Sorry,” I say with a rueful smile. “I think I got my wires crossed. But it’s fine. I still need a lawyer, obviously. Let’s go chat in that private office.”
I hit the button for the eleventh floor. When the doors open, I plan to stay on and shut the doors behind him. Only he nudges me off first. We’re two paces away, and the elevator doors have just started to close when I do a wide-eyed “Oh, shit!” as if I dropped something. I dive back onto the elevator.
As the doors shut, he scrambles to catch them while I pretend to grab something from the floor. I shout, “Be right back!” and the doors close.
Even as the doors close, his footfalls pound the floor. I hit a button. The elevator starts down, and I can’t help but smile, imagining Thompson’s mad dash to the bottom floor. I’ll be long gone by the time he—
The elevator stops, and the doors open, and a quartet of chattering office workers steps on. I hit the third-floor button before the doors shut. When they open again, I squeeze out and jog for the second stairwell.
I fly down and out the side door. I know Thompson will come after me. I know he’ll call staff to come after me. I know he’ll even notify the police to come after me.
When I reach the dumpster where I stashed my bag, I pull on the blond wig and quick-change my shirt. Then I walk two blocks until I find a suitable spot to pull over and breathe, just breathe.
I screwed up.
God, I screwed up so bad.
I take out my phone, navigate to the browser and log into my old e-mail so I can search PCTracy’s original messages for the clues I should have picked up. I don’t find any. I can berate myself all I want, but given my frame of mind when I got those messages, my mistake is forgivable. Which doesn’t mean I’ll forgive myself for it.
I automatically reach for the messaging app to contact PCTracy. I want his advice. Only I find my finger hovering over an empty spot on the screen.
Did I overreact by deleting the app? Possibly. But I need to pursue answers on my own. I can contact him any time I want. If I want. If I trust him again.
I’m not sure that’s possible.
Chapter Thirty-Four
After I leave Thompson’s office, I long to return to my hotel suite. Burrow in where I can relax and think. There will be none of that now. Even if I could do it, I shouldn’t. I’d needed that time—desperately needed it—but I’d been hiding, too. Hiding in a plush suite, eating all my favorite foods, and waiting for PCTracy to resolve my problem.
It’s midafternoon in the busiest city on the continent. I just need to avoid the temptation to find a quiet place to hide because that’s where I get myself into trouble. Empty streets and alleyways and parks. There is someone out there looking for me, and if he’s tracking me right now, I can do nothing about that except stay where there are too many people for him to make a move.
Could PCTracy be my stalker? The answer seems to be a resounding yes. I know PCTracy is male, like my attacker. Our conversation makes me feel as if he’s in my age bracket, same as my attacker. Most damning, though? PCTracy admitted he could track me through the app. He said he could only do it when I was on Wi-Fi, but the library was far from the first time I used that.
What about the guy in the park who went after my attacker? PCTracy could have brought in a colleague to play the role of rescuer so he could later confess to “saving” me. Or the second man could have been an actual Good Samaritan.
I don’t want to believe PCTracy is my stalker. I must accept the possibility, though, which means the messaging app stays deleted.
I find myself a busy coffee shop and settle in as I check the Internet for more information on my case, busy work to calm my mind and hone my focus.
I find something right away. A site has leaked the hotel surveillance photo of me. At first, I almost ignore the link. I’ve seen that photograph already. Then I notice the time stamp, and my body goes cold.
The photo was captured at 3:35 a.m.
Hours before I arrived.
Reports had placed me in the hotel earlier, and I’d dismissed them because I knew I wasn’t. Yet here is the alleged proof.
I open the photo.
The picture is grainy and off-center, and I exhale as I realize that even if it’d been crystal clear, there’s no way anyone could prove I was this woman. She is walking past a lobby chair, and from that point of reference, I can tell she’s significantly shorter than I am.
The woman has her face turned away from the camera, and she’s wearing sunglasses, despite the fact it’s three a.m. Her hair is red and straight, like mine. As for her figure, that’s marred by a fashionable shawl.
This woman is trying to be me. I’m certain of it. That shawl conceals her figure. The glasses and hair hide her face, and she’s deliberately looking away from the camera. She moved quickly through the lobby, leaving only an impression of a redheaded woman.
Tiana?
Even as my gut wonders that, I recoil. Not Tiana. She’s full-figured, where I am not.
But that shawl hides the woman’s figure.
Tiana’s skin is darker than mine.
Not so dark that she couldn’t pass for me at a glance while people are focusing on the red hair. That’s always what they remember.
The woman is the right height for Tiana.
Stop that. It isn’t Tiana.
Why?
Because I don’t want it to be.
I take a deep breath. Then I open the e-mail box I’d asked her to use, hoping for more. Instead, I find an e-mail from PCTracy. The subject line reads: “Open Me.”
I almost delete it. That would be silly, though, and when I open it, I’m glad I did. He wants to talk, of course, but for now, he’s just passing on what he told me earlier he’d found.
You mentioned Isabella might have a lover. I’ve been chasing that lead, and I found this. I still don’t know who the guy is, but it’s a start.
I already know who Isabella’s lover is—Justice Kane—but I still read on in hopes of confirming that.
It’s with a blind item from last fall. Such tidbits were hugely popular back in the days of gossip pages. “Blind item” means the people involv
ed aren’t named, adding the scintillating air of a delicious mystery along with an unearned aura of veracity—if someone fears naming names, clearly it must be true. Today they’re more likely to be found on social media, which is where this one turned up on Twitter.
NYCGirl5ft2: Right place, right time. Club99 back hall. Me, lost, kinda drunk, looking for la toilette. Stumble on a couple going at it.
NYCGirl5ft2: No, not “going at it” like that. Mind out of gutter, ppl. Fighting. Figured lovers quarrel. He’s hot. She’s hot. Must be a couple. Then I see his face.
NYCGirl5ft2: Boy band hottie turned grown man hottie. Nearly wet my pants. He so fine. That’s when I recognize the chick. Daddy’s a movie star. Action bro. Only, she don’t like dick . . . allegedly.
NYCGirl5ft2: So I think, I got you, faker. You like dick just fine. Then, plot twist. I realize they’re fighting about her momma.
NYCGirl5ft2: He’s banging her MOM. Her MOM. And she’s pissed. Spitting mad. I’m, like, I don’t know who to root for. Her, for being so fired up. Or her mom, for tapping THAT. #OldLadyGoals #IGottaSecret
The details fit Tiana and Justice. But NYCGirl5ft2 is just a regular person with a couple hundred followers. Naturally, her friends want details, but she refuses—those involved are rich and famous, and she jokes she’ll end up in the East River if she talks.
When her friends try to convince her to sell her story, she demurs, saying that she’s not going to ruin people’s lives for a few bucks. Her friends assure her she could make more than “a few bucks,” and she reverts to her jokes about the East River. While she’s enjoying the thrill of having a secret, she’s a decent person acting decently. She finally closes the thread with a Tweet that makes me kinda love her.
NYCGirl5ft2: Look, I can joke about dude banging her mom, but when girl got up in his face, he never fired back. He said he was in love, totes respected her mom and just wanted to make her happy. #LifeGoals #WhereDoIGetOne?
Every Step She Takes Page 23
