by Kate White
She stared at the door. There was a security chain but it seemed so flimsy now, like popcorn strung on a piece of string for a Christmas tree. After setting the pictures on their side, she dragged the hall table in front of the door. Still, she felt too anxious to go back to bed. She fell onto the couch in the living room and pulled a throw blanket over her. The dull light of dawn was seeping through the windows when she finally drifted off to sleep.
She woke feeling achy, with the back of her throat raw. I can’t get sick right now, she told herself. Scenes from the previous night flooded her brain. For a few moments she wondered if the ringing doorbell had been just a dream. She lifted Smokey from his perch on top of her feet and stumbled toward the front door. The hall table jammed against the front door told her she hadn’t been dreaming.
She dragged the table back to where it belonged and opened the door, with the chain still in place. She could see her New York Times lying on the mat. After taking the chain off, she opened the door more fully and checked the hall. It was empty.
As she was scooping up the paper, she heard the locks being unbolted on the door catty-corner from hers, the apartment belonging to the Tammens. From what she knew, the wife and kids were out in the Hamptons for all of August, and the father, Stan, was commuting out on weekends. It was Stan who stepped out in the hallway now, stifling a yawn.
“Morning,” he said. “You guys aren’t on vacation this month?”
“No, not this year. Listen, I’m a little concerned about something that happened last night.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Someone rang my doorbell around two this morning. And when I called out, the person just left. I didn’t see who it was.”
Stan scrunched his mouth and slowly shook his head.
“Can’t help you with that one,” he said. “I mean, I was here, but I didn’t hear or see anything.”
After closing her door, she popped three ibuprofen and gargled with salt water. Then she made coffee and forced herself to eat a bowl of yogurt. She hadn’t eaten right in nearly a week.
Staring out her kitchen window, as the summer air shimmered around the gray and red brick apartment buildings to the north, she thought of the day ahead. Her plan was to stay home and scramble to finish the presentation-until it was time to meet Kit Archer. It was a relief not to have to go into the clinic today-and wonder if the killer was watching her every move. But she needed to call in, at least. Levin was waiting for an answer about when she’d give the presentation. At eight-thirty she picked up the phone, knowing that most people would be in by now.
She asked the receptionist for Steve first, hoping that he’d somehow managed to buy her more time.
“I’m sorry, I tried,” he said when she reached him. “But Tom seems to be on a tear right now and thinks we need to see the plan ASAP.”
“No problem,” she said, not wanting to give even a hint she was agitated. “I’ll set up an appointment for the presentation.”
“I hope you don’t feel like he’s bullying you. I think this murder has him really on edge.”
Because he might have been the one who orchestrated the whole thing, she thought to herself.
“I’m sure he’s worried about all the police scrutiny,” Lake said. She waited, wondering if Steve would mention the keys.
“Of course. We all are,” he said, sounding suddenly distracted. “Wait-before I let you go, I’ve got a proposition for you. Ever since last week, I’ve felt things have been a little awkward between us. I’m really sorry about that situation with the police. Sonia would strangle me if she knew I upset you.”
“Why don’t we let it go, Steve,” she said, bristling at the memory. “It seems the police accepted my explanation.”
“Okay, but here’s my proposition: Hilary and I would love you to come by for a drink tonight. You haven’t seen our place since we redid it-and you haven’t seen Matthew since he was a baby.”
“Tonight’s not good,” she said, almost too quickly.
“How about tomorrow night?”
“Um…okay, sure.” There would be no way to put him off indefinitely without him sensing something was wrong.
He reminded her of his address and suggested she stop by at seven. Then she asked to be transferred to Brie. When Brie picked up her line Lake got right to the point.
“I want to schedule my appointment to present to Dr. Levin and Dr. Sherman,” she said. “Is Thursday afternoon good for them?”
Thursday bought her another two days. She would have liked to stretch it to Friday but she knew Levin would not be pleased.
“Thursdays are usually insane around here,” Brie said. “It’s going to have to be Wednesday. Or even today.”
The woman was clearly a graduate of the Be a Better Bitch Academy, Lake thought.
“Unfortunately, as I mentioned when he suggested moving it up, I have several long-standing appointments with other clients,” Lake lied. “Thursday is the first day I can do it.”
Brie sighed audibly and began tapping into her computer, checking the calendar.
“Six-thirty on Thursday might work,” she said brusquely. “If you don’t hear from me, plan on doing it then.”
Lake wanted to talk to Maggie but rather than ask to be transferred, she hung up and called the main number again so Brie wouldn’t know. She worried Maggie might start to find all her attention odd-but she had to know if there were any new developments. She would express concern for Maggie’s state of mind and hope Maggie would fill her in on everything.
It was Rory who ended up picking up the phone.
“Oh, hi, it’s Lake,” she said. “I was looking for Maggie.”
“Maggie took the day off,” Rory said in a low voice.
“Is everything okay?” Lake asked, her concern piqued.
“From what I hear, she said she needed a day off to de-stress.”
“Oh…well, how are you doing?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’m worried about my baby. Last night I thought I was having contractions and I ended up going to the ER. It turned out it was just Braxton-Hicks, but it scared me.”
“Oh, Rory, I’m so sorry. You can’t take some time off?”
“Unfortunately that isn’t possible, especially if Maggie’s going to call in sick. It’s important for us to keep things together here, even if we’re upset. Emily thought Maggie was being silly for acting so scared, but now that she heard about the keys, even she’s wigged out.”
“Do you think someone could have taken those keys and then put them back?”
“That’s what the police were asking. Those detectives were back here yesterday for, like, an hour-after you left. The creepy thing is, I sit right next to Maggie-our desks actually touch.”
“And you never saw anyone going into her desk drawer?”
“No, not that I recall. Sometimes people-”
She paused then, as if interrupted or lost in thought. After a moment Lake wondered if she was still on the line.
“Rory?” she asked.
“I better go,” Rory said.
“But what were you going to say?”
“Um, nothing. I need to go. Dr. Levin is waiting.”
Lake hung up reluctantly. She couldn’t tell if Rory had been distracted or had just remembered something and was holding back on it. Lake tried Hayden next, anxious to connect to someone else who could update her, but the call went to voice mail.
After popping one more ibuprofen, Lake glued herself to her desk in her home office, her laptop opened in front of her. Both the PR person and the Web designer had come through for her, emailing their initial ideas. Neither batch was so dazzling that they’d scorch anyone’s corneas, but at least she had a few decent items to add to her list. She tapped away at her computer, shepherding her bullet points into categories so her PowerPoint would be easier to create. Generally this was the part of her work that she loved-organizing all her ideas and in the process tweaking them to be even better-but today she had to c
onstantly force herself to concentrate on her task. Her mind relentlessly found its way back to a new tangle of worries: Rory’s unfinished comment; the doorbell last night; and the police visit yesterday. Did Hull’s surliness toward her mean something? Was she a suspect in the case?
Just once she got up to make tea. Though her throat felt less raw, the achiness all over her body had intensified.
At eleven, Hayden returned her call, though her attention had already been diverted by the time Lake answered.
“I don’t care if he sends the damn love train, I’m not attending,” Lake heard her yell to some underling.
“Oh, hi,” she said, turning back to Lake on the line. “You know, I must be getting old. My idea of a good time these days is staying home with an ice-cold bottle of Pinot Grigio and a bag of rosemary-scented potato chips.”
Lake had no time right now for Hayden’s chatter. “Anything up?” she said, trying to move the conversation along.
“We’re in a holding pattern at the moment. Levin called last night to report that the police had been there again yesterday. They’re clearly concerned by the fact that Keaton’s keys were sitting in a drawer where anyone could have put their little hands on them. So far that fact hasn’t leaked out, but it’s not an easy nugget to contain. The police may even leak it themselves to see what they flush out. And of course if they do arrest someone from the clinic, all hell is gonna break loose.”
“Do you think Levin has any ideas?”
“About what to do?”
“No, I mean about the keys-who from the clinic might have used them to get into Keaton’s apartment.”
“If he does, he’s sure not telling me. My sense is that his wheels are constantly spinning but I can’t always detect what’s going on in there. Maybe he’s just thinking about ordering a new batch of four-hundred-dollar shirts.”
Lake wondered if it had occurred to Hayden that Levin himself might be the killer. But she wasn’t going to raise that point.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Lake said. “Will you let me know if you hear anything? I just want to be aware of what’s up-you know, as I plot out the marketing.”
They promised to stay in touch and hung up. After forcing herself to eat lunch, Lake began to design the actual PowerPoint. When she worked she often found herself in what people called “the zone,” the experience of being so engrossed in a task that it felt blissful. Today every step seemed like agony. At three she began to check her watch. She needed to allow herself plenty of time to get down to the Waldorf.
As she opened her closet door, mulling over what to wear, she pictured herself in the same exact spot almost a week ago, clothes heaped on her bed as she sought the perfect outfit to intrigue Keaton. If only I could take it all back, she thought. If only I’d never gone out that night.
She chose a lavender cotton suit with three-quarter-length sleeves. It was a little dressy, but she needed Archer to take her seriously.
After the cab dropped her off, she entered the Waldorf from the Park Avenue side. The lobby was cool and quiet and almost empty, like the inside of a medieval church on a hot summer day. A few groups of tourists milled around the concierge desk or made their way sluggishly to the elevators, lugging black suitcases on rollers and shopping bags from the Disney store. Most were dressed down in cutoffs and T-shirts that said things like NIKE and VEGAS 2005 and BLASTED PARROT PUB AND SHOT SHACK.
Peacock Alley was a bar and small restaurant in an open area that spilled out to the left of the lobby. Though Lake had been to the Waldorf ballroom for events, she’d set foot in that bar only once-years ago, on a night not long after she’d moved to New York. She and a girlfriend, both new to the city, had made a list of things they might do for fun, and “Visit famous hotel bars” had been one of them. She had a vague recollection of it being decorated in peacock blue, but now it was all honey-colored wood and black marble.
According to the gilded clock in the lobby, it was only five-twenty and there was no sign yet of Archer. She lifted herself onto a leather bar chair and ordered a sparkling water. The bartender slid a small dish of olives in front of her. She rehearsed in her mind what she intended to say.
The lobby clock had just chimed on the half hour when she looked up and spotted Archer. He was better-looking in person than in the video she’d seen, perhaps because his face wasn’t caked with foundation. He had on a tux, which he wore easily, not like one of those men who complained of having to wear a “monkey suit,” but like someone who’d worn tuxes all his life, who’d been thrown into pools wearing them in his twenties and had probably never had to rent one.
Her face opened up as she recognized him, causing him to make his way purposely to her.
“Lake Warren?” he asked, his hand already out to her.
“Yes,” she said, taking it. His handshake was firm, and he gripped her hand almost without moving it. “Thanks for coming.”
“Is there an actual Lake Warren someplace in the world?” he asked, his eyes curious. They were a soft blue, Lake noticed.
“Probably,” she said. “But I haven’t heard of it. And as far as I know I wasn’t conceived there.”
He kicked his head back and smiled.
“Well, even if you were, it’s nice of your parents not to tell you. Kids hate hearing that kind of stuff.” He looked at her glass. “What are you drinking? I’m going to have a beer.”
She hesitated and then said she’d have one, too. She needed Archer as her ally and wanted to get in sync with him. After snagging the bartender’s attention with just a lift of his chin, Archer ordered their beers and turned his attention back to her.
“I wish I had more time,” he said. “I’m supposed to be up in the ballroom for some kind of photo op in fifteen minutes. But until then I’m all yours.”
“Then I’m going to be perfectly honest with you,” she said, holding his gaze. “I don’t have much to go on. But I have a vague sense that something weird might be happening at the clinic.”
“Weird how?”
Lake’s left shoulder shot up instinctively.
“I’m not sure.”
He raised his beer bottle to his lips, not bothering with the glass. She sensed his impatience, though he was doing his damnedest to contain it.
“Was it something you saw-or overheard?” he said after taking a long drag of beer.
“As I said on the phone, I’m a marketing consultant for the clinic. While I was doing research there last week, I found a copy of the article you wrote about the fertility business. I was carrying it around, planning to read it later, and one of the partners saw me with it. He grabbed it away from me-like he didn’t want me to see it.”
Archer raised his eyebrows. They were white, like his hair.
“Is that it?” he asked.
She hesitated and looked off to the side. Her concerns were also based on the “snag” Keaton had mentioned. But she couldn’t tell Archer that. She watched him take another swig of his beer. His hands were large, huge really, and slightly ruddy, like his cheeks. No wedding band. When he set the bottle down, he looked directly at her.
“Yes,” she said. “Like I said, I don’t have much to go on. I just thought if you could tell me what irregularities might exist, it would help me figure out if something was actually going on.”
Her whole body had begun to prickle with anxiety. She’d not only just betrayed the clinic but suddenly she had the sense that she’d left herself exposed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, clearly picking up on her discomfort.
“I’m worried I’ve opened a can of worms-perhaps for no reason.”
He watched her for a moment and then shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Because you’re not the first person to suggest there’s something bad going on there.”
16
HER MOUTH PARTED in surprise. It was a validation of what her gut had been telling her and yet his words were still a shock.
; “Who else told you that?” she asked.
“First tell me about this Dr. Keaton,” he said. “Did you know him?”
At the mention of Keaton’s name, she could feel the blood rush recklessly to her face. She reached for her beer bottle, which she’d left untouched so far, splashed a little into her glass and took a sip. The coldness soothed her raw throat.
“Just in passing,” she said, avoiding his glance as she set the glass back down. “I’ve only worked at the clinic for a few weeks.”
“Do you think someone from the clinic might have killed him?”
Lake was slightly surprised by his direct question, but also relieved not to have to beat around the bush.
“It’s possible,” she said. “We learned yesterday that he’d given one of the nurses a set of his apartment keys and she’d left them in her desk. Someone could have swiped them and made copies.”
“Do you think there could be a connection between his death and the suspicions you’ve had about the clinic?”
“I’ve definitely worried about that. Though this all could just be a coincidence,” she said.
“You know what I’m going to say, of course,” he said with his eyebrows raised. “As a reporter, you learn there are few coincidences.”
“Can you please tell me what you’ve heard about the clinic?” Lake urged.
“Okay. About two months ago a woman called my producer Rachel out of the blue. She’d come across the same article you saw while she was doing a search online. She’d been a patient at the Advanced Fertility Center-of Dr. Daniel Sherman specifically-and said that we ought to do an investigation of the clinic. She claimed they were exploiting innocent patients and they needed to be exposed. My article was on Washington area clinics-I was living there at the time-but the subject overall interests me.”
“What did she mean by exploiting?”
“She refused to go into it on the phone. She set up a meeting with Rachel but Rachel had to reschedule because of some breaking news. Then, the day before their appointment, the woman called to say she had to reschedule and would get back in touch. That was a few weeks ago and we haven’t heard from her since.”
