Joe leaned in, resting an elbow on the bar. “Collectibles are big these days,” he said, drawing Leslie’s attention back to the conversation. “That includes artifacts that might not have been worth much when they were new but are antiques now,” he pointed out.
Brad grimaced. “I still don’t see the criminals of New York suddenly deciding to loot an archaeological dig. But, hey, Laymon lives for nothing but his work and probably thinks everyone else lives for it, too. Scary. If I ever start turning into him, hit me, Leslie.”
“I don’t see it happening,” she assured him. Then she frowned as a flash suddenly went off in her face and turned to see what was going on.
“Hey!” Brad protested.
“Sorry,” the offending photographer said with complete insincerity. He looked young, maybe twenty-two, with slightly shaggy brown hair, a clean-shaven face and brown eyes. He was dressed attractively enough in casual slacks and a tweed jacket, but he wasn’t quite up to the designer labels most people in the room were sporting. He grinned and turned to hurry out—only to be met by a couple of burly doormen.
“Hey, buddy, no hassling the customers,” one of them said firmly.
“But the world wants to know,” the photographer protested.
“Out!”
“The world wants to know,” Joe repeated. To Leslie’s surprise, he pushed away from the bar, heading after the receding bouncers and the photographer.
Brad stared at her blankly. “What the hell is he doing? What was that all about?”
“I guess we’re the most important noncelebrities in the place, and he’s from one of the tabloids,” Leslie said.
“I got that much,” Brad said. “But what got Joe going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He’s not going to wrestle the camera away and steal the film, is he?” Brad said worriedly.
“I don’t think so.” She smiled. Brad never tired of having his picture in the papers.
“Maybe I should go out there.”
“Honestly, it’s all right. Do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you should head back to your position at the bar or Ken is going to steal the lady of your choice.”
He stared at her, then laughed. “You know, you could be the love of my life. And then I wouldn’t have to barhop.”
“Brad, I don’t think anyone is going to be the love of your life, or at least not for a very long time, and you wouldn’t want to ruin a great partnership, would you?”
“Maybe I’m ready to settle down.”
“Like hell.”
He grinned, then sobered, saying seriously, “Don’t go falling head over heels just because…well, because you’re trying to turn this guy into Matt. I mean, he seems fine. Dryer says he’s really respected, that people are willing to fly him all over the world for help, it’s just that…he isn’t Matt, and you can’t turn him into Matt. I just hope you’re not setting yourself up for…well, I don’t know what I’m saying. I care about you, that’s all.”
“Thank you. I care about you, too, and I’ll be all right. Really. And you don’t have to hang around until he comes back. I’m a big girl. I’m okay at a bar by myself.”
“I don’t want to desert you.”
“It’s okay.”
“Besides, I want to know what he’s doing out there.”
“Aha! The truth is out.”
“Hey, there are wolves in this place. I really don’t think I should leave you alone.”
“Brad, you are one of the wolves in this place.”
“Yeah, but not to you.”
“Okay. So how was work? Anything new?”
“Yeah, workmen shoring up the walls. Only guys Laymon approves of, and even then he spent half his day on top of them, driving them nuts.”
Leslie grinned. Maybe it was a good thing she’d taken the day off. She looked toward the door, wondering herself just what had gotten into Joe.
The bouncers didn’t take the camera, but when it looked like they were going to get a little rough, Joe stepped in.
“Hey, guys…you got rid of him. Let it go now.”
The bouncers turned around. “Just trying to protect you and your lady friend, buddy,” one of them said.
“And I appreciate it.”
The kid stared at him, backing away. “Are you going to take my camera?” he demanded.
Joe shook his head. “No.”
“I’m free to go?”
“No. Let’s take a little walk.”
“Down a dark alley?”
“No. You’re from The World Wants to Know, right?”
“Yeah,” the photographer said carefully.
“You’re Phil Brynner, aren’t you?” When the kid looked at him warily, he added, “I saw your picture next to your byline.”
“Uh…what do you want?”
“To ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Your article on Genevieve O’Brien.”
“Oh.” His brown eyes widened. “I…uh…who are you?”
“My name is Connolly.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, a private investigator. I’d just like to know what you know about the scandal surrounding Genevieve’s birth.”
The kid still looked distrustful, but he wasn’t ready to bolt anymore, and he wasn’t cringing. “I never met her, you know.”
“You’re aware she’s missing, though, right?”
He nodded, looking a little ill. “You can’t blame me for that.”
“Exactly what were you saying?”
“It wasn’t right out there, huh? It made you think?”
“I’m not going to play twenty questions with you,” Joe said.
Phil swallowed. “I went through a bunch of records. Public records,” he said defensively. “I sifted through gossip columns and all kinds of stuff—I worked really hard on that, and it was a good article.”
“It was a masterpiece,” Joe said wearily. “I want to know what you were saying. Genevieve couldn’t have been another man’s child. Have you seen her aunt’s face? She’s the spitting image of the woman, an O’Brien through and through.”
Phil stared at him, then grinned broadly. “That’s just it.”
“What’s it?”
“Eileen Brideswell isn’t Genevieve’s aunt.” He stared triumphantly at Joe. “She’s her mother.”
Joe could feel his eyes widen in surprise.
“Hey,” Phil said, “I found hospital records. I don’t actually have proof per se, but that’s why I danced around it. Eileen Brideswell wasn’t married back then. Her upcoming engagement party was the talk of the city. I went through a million pictures, too. O’Brien’s wife didn’t look pregnant, then all of a sudden she looked like she had a pillow under her blouse. Eileen Brideswell was supposedly in New England when Genevieve was born, but I couldn’t find a single piece of proof that she was actually there. And then all of a sudden she was home. And the O’Briens were all happy with their baby daughter and Eileen went on to marry a very rich man. You can come by and see my research, if you want. I’m in Midtown.”
Joe accepted the card the kid produced, then handed over one of his own.
“This can’t have anything to do with the fact that she’s…missing,” Phil said, but though he clearly meant it to be a statement, it came out as a question. A hopeful one.
“Honestly, I don’t think so. But…who knows?”
The kid hesitated again. “Do you care if I print the picture? I won’t write anything horrible about you and your friends, honestly. I just saw Miss MacIntyre at the table, and she’s been on television lately, so I took the shot. I’ll just say she had a nice night out with friends, including her partner and her deceased fiancé’s…brother?”
“Cousin,” Joe said flatly.
“Nothing bad, honest,” Phil insisted. “Hey, do you think I’d be working where I am if I didn’t have to get experience somewhere?”<
br />
“Print it. But I’d better like it. Let me put it this way—you’d better not say anything negative about Leslie MacIntyre, Brad or me—or Matt. I mean it.”
“We still have freedom of the press, you know,” Phil muttered a little resentfully. “Sorry, just kidding, I swear. I’m not out to hurt people.”
“Right.”
“Honestly. Come on, I have to write something titillating now and then. And I’d seen Genevieve O’Brien on the news, talking about society’s lack of concern for the down and out. There she was, a socialite, gorgeous, and she was so passionate about working with the poor. Next thing I knew, I was delving into her past and—”
“Were you ever overseas?” Joe cut in irritably.
“Well…I was over in Staten Island. Sounds better to say overseas. Sounds far more exciting—and it is over water.”
Joe shook his head in disgust, angry with himself for not having forced the issue with the man’s rag magazine office. “All right,” he said.
“All right?”
“You can go.”
“You know where to find me.”
“You bet.”
Phil grinned, then cradled his camera to his chest and started at a leisurely pace down the street. A few seconds later, he started running.
Joe watched him go, then reentered the bar.
“So?” Leslie said, when they’d left the bar. “Spill the details.”
He’d explained to her and Brad that he had seen an article the kid had written that interested him and assured Brad that his picture would make the paper, but he hadn’t explained any further.
They’d wound up eating supper with Brad and Ken, though she’d been surprised when Ken had come by to suggest it, having figured he was having fun at the bar and would probably be going home with one of the women surrounding him. But he had assured her that he had an image to maintain. “I keep my real women a secret,” he’d told her with a wink. She wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but she was glad she’d never fallen for the man. Not that there was anything really bad about him, but no way was she going to stand for being someone’s secret.
She was glad when they spent the dinner arguing about the next election—something different, for a change, she thought. Then Ken had talked about a new costume exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and she found herself fascinated and anxious to see it. Then, at last, they left, ostensibly heading home.
“Details?” Joe asked her as he showed her into his car. “There are no details.”
“Have it your way,” she said, not seeing any point in trying to force him to talk if he didn’t want to. “So we’re going to see your prostitute, right?”
His brow furrowed. “She’s not my prostitute,” he said lightly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I think you’ll like her. There’s something about her…”
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of judging her,” Leslie said.
They drove slowly along the street.
“There she is,” Joe said. “I’m going to park.”
“Let me out first, will you? I want to get a feel for the street.”
He looked at her gravely. “Don’t get into any trouble. I’ll be right there.”
“What trouble can I get into?” she asked.
He pulled over to the curb and she hopped out. She looked up and down the street. They were very near Hastings House. In fact, she could see the subway station she would have used if she’d needed to.
She was surprised by the number of women working the area. She never would have suspected it. By day, this was a business area. There were only a few hotels, and those median-range—business range—in price. Maybe not such a bad place to turn tricks after all, now that she thought about it.
She didn’t look for Didi Dancer. She just stood on the street and closed her eyes, trying to get a feel for something.
“Honey, are you all right?”
She looked up at the tall woman in the very short skirt who had stopped to talk to her. Definitely dressed for business.
“Fine, thanks.”
“I thought you were going to pass out there, for a minute. Well, if you’re all right…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Honey, you look as innocent as a lamb. Are you lost? You really shouldn’t be out here alone at night. I mean…crime is down big time in the City, but still…”
“Are you Didi Dancer?” Leslie asked.
The woman stepped back, looking suspicious.
Just then Joe got out of the car and started walking in their direction. Didi took another step back.
“Didi,” Joe said.
She just waited, keeping her distance, a frown furrowing her features.
Joe reached them. “I got you that job interview,” he reminded her softly.
Didi looked at him. “And it’s not till next week. Gotta eat till then,” she murmured. “This the girlfriend? Looking for a three-way or something?” she demanded.
Leslie had the feeling the woman was just trying to be harsh. “I’m trying to help Joe find the women who’ve disappeared.”
“You mean you’re trying to find the rich girl,” Didi said.
“Hey, what’s the matter, Didi?” Joe asked. “You said you wanted to help.”
Didi let out a sigh, but her eyes were still suspicious when she looked at Leslie. “There’s something about her….” she murmured.
“Will you show me where the car was—the dark sedan—when Genevieve O’Brien got into it? Please?” Leslie said.
“Right there.” Didi pointed ten feet down the block. “I remember because of the fire hydrant. I knew when the guy pulled over that any idiot would know not to even pretend to park there.”
Leslie walked over to the spot as Didi and Joe just watched her.
At first she felt nothing but the night air, heard nothing but the normal sounds of the city.
A cat meowed.
A dog barked.
A car backfired, and a horn blared.
Rap music shook the pavement as someone drove by with the radio cranked up.
What am I doing? she asked herself. It’s not like I have ESP.
But she closed her eyes anyway, saw the picture of Genevieve O’Brien in her mind’s eye.
The sounds of night faded. She imagined the street as it must have been that night. She could see Genevieve, passionate, urgent, trying to convince Didi that she had to get out of this life and help herself. And then…
She heard the car horn.
Genevieve turned….
And recognized the person in the car.
Not a friend!
That sensation swept through Leslie fiercely. Not a friend, but still someone she knew. Someone who bugged her, who compounded the headaches of the system, who didn’t care about the work that needed to be done.
Genevieve was irritated as she walked over to the car.
Leslie could almost hear the man’s voice.
Get in and we’ll talk about it. I’ll even give you a ride home.
So Genevieve got in. She had no inkling of danger.
Not until they had been driving for several minutes. Then, with one hand on the wheel, he had turned to her while she was talking about the issue and snapped something with his free hand. She frowned, still not alarmed, until he pressed his hand over her mouth and a sickeningly sweet smell filled her nostrils….
No! She struggled, tried to fight, tried to push away his hand. He was still driving, and there were people around, if she could just scream, fight, bang on the window….
But she couldn’t. She was losing consciousness. And she knew…
“Leslie!”
Leslie heard her own name and the spell was broken. The feelings, the vision, faded away.
The next thing she knew, Joe’s arms were around her as she realized she had been about to crash to the pavement.
“I knew there was more to that bump on the head,” he announced. “I’m getting you ho
me.”
“No, no. Please,” she protested, somehow finding the strength to stand. “My head is fine.”
What on earth had just happened? She’d never experienced anything like that before. And she’d thought talking to ghosts was weird?
Didi was staring at her as if she were an alien.
Leslie gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sorry.”
“You a psychic or something?”
“No,” Leslie demurred, but the woman was still staring at her, as was Joe. “Well, kind of,” she admitted uneasily. “Sometimes I get…sensations. You know, when someone is…”
“Dead?” Didi asked flatly.
Leslie shrugged. “I…I hope not. Genevieve did know whoever picked her up,” she said with conviction, looking at Joe.
Didi sniffed. “I could have told you that. He had to be a friend.”
“No, that’s just it. He was someone she knew, but not a friend. Someone she did business with, worked with somehow. She was annoyed when she saw him.”
“She got right into the car,” Didi said.
“Right—because she knew him. Because even though she didn’t like him, he was respectable, someone people trusted, but she wanted something from him that she wasn’t getting.”
“Ain’t that life,” Didi murmured.
“Any chance you can tell where they went?” Joe asked.
Leslie hesitated, then shook her head. “All I know is that they drove for a while before he drugged her. That’s what he did, he drugged her.”
“Drugged her or killed her?” Joe asked quietly.
Leslie frowned then. “I…”
“What?” Joe asked anxiously.
“Listen, I’m not a psychic. I really—” She broke off. No way was she ready to explain that her real talent lay in talking to ghosts.
“What were you going to say?” Joe demanded.
Leslie stared at him, letting out a long sigh. “I…don’t think she’s dead. She was abducted, she was drugged…but I don’t think she’s dead.”
Joe stared back at her. He didn’t seem to doubt her, didn’t question her. He looked thoughtful.
“I mean…I don’t know anything,” she said. “I just…I don’t know. I can’t help but think I would have…felt it if she’d died. I think she might be alive.”
The Dead Room Page 17
