“Mass transit has its own police?”
“Yes,” she said, all business. “We know how busy you are, so if you could just give us a minute, we’d like to see your house key.”
“Why?”
Bolton said, “It’s in your best interest, Doctor.”
Peyton hesitated but saw no point in protest. She opened her locker, dug the key from her purse, and handed it over. Detective Stout removed a sheet of paper from her bag that bore the outline of another key. She laid it on the bench and placed Peyton’s key inside the lines.
“It’s a match,” she said.
“A match for what?” asked Peyton.
Bolton said, “Andy Johnson—the clown who danced with you here at the hospital—was found dead last night. Hit by a subway train.”
“That’s awful.”
“Before you get all weepy, I should tell you that we found a house key in his coat pocket that didn’t belong to him. It now appears to be a key to your house.”
Peyton took a half-step back, stunned. “How is that possible?”
“Somehow he made a copy.”
“So he was stalking me.”
“Evidently. That seems even more likely in light of the additional piece of evidence we found on his person. It’s what made us really suspect the key was to your apartment in the first place.”
“What is it?”
Bolton looked at the other cop, then back at Peyton. “He had a photo of you in his wallet. A snapshot.”
She was suddenly dizzy. “He took my picture?”
“It’s a close-up, so it was either taken by someone who knows you and Johnson stole it or he took it himself with a telephoto lens.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“It shouldn’t be a total shock,” said Bolton. “I understand that you complained to administration that Mr. Johnson scared you at a surprise party here in the hospital.”
“That’s true. I even thought it was possible that it was Johnson who had run me off the road the night of my accident. But it turned out he passed a lie detector test.”
“Don’t quote me on this,” said Bolton, “but those things aren’t a hundred percent reliable. A lot depends on the skill of the examiner.”
Landau jumped in, true to his role as residency program director. “I should point out that the hospital did the right thing. We did terminate Johnson.”
Bolton said, “And so did every other hospital he worked for. Which is why we don’t think Johnson’s death was accidental.”
“You’re saying he was killed?”
“Suicide is more like it. We’re still investigating. Unfortunately, there were no working security cameras at this station and, so far, no eyewitnesses that we know of. But my gut tells me that Johnson was on the edge. Lonely guy who falls head over heels for a woman he hardly knows, gets rejected by her, then loses his job over it. Toxicology report showed a pretty dangerous combination of alcohol and drugs the night of his death. Who knows what kind of problems this guy was having? Seems to have been pretty far gone if he was walking around with your house key and photograph in his wallet.”
“It’s creepy, for sure. But I feel terrible that he killed himself. The guy worked in our hospital. We could have helped him.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” said Bolton. “I, on the other hand, prefer the glass-is-half-full perspective.”
“Meaning what?”
“You can stop worrying about being stalked. And even better, no one thinks you’re paranoid anymore.”
She glanced at Dr. Landau, who said impishly, “I suppose that’s something.”
He blinked as Peyton added, “Yeah, that’s something, all right.”
20
PEYTON WANTED TO TALK TO KEVIN. HE HADN’T CALLED HER LAST night before going to bed. He hadn’t called this morning, either. She assumed he was still fretting about the lie detector test. It was hard to be giddy about anyone getting smashed by a train, but in a weird way she wanted to let Kevin know that whatever threat he might have perceived to their marriage was over. Definitely over. She reached him on his cell phone and got right to the point. “Andy Johnson is dead.”
“What? How?”
Her one-minute explanation left him silent. Finally, he asked,
“How do you feel?”
“I’m trying to take Detective Bolton’s advice and be thankful that it ended in his death and not mine.”
“It’s the ultimate closure, I suppose. He’s gone.”
“I just wish there were a way to confirm where he was the night of my car accident. Everyone is now assuming that if someone did run me off the road it was him. But I would have liked the chance to ask him myself. I would have put it right to him: Where were you?”
She could hear the strain in her own voice, but she wondered if Kevin realized where it was really directed.
“Unfortunately it’s too late to ask that question now.”
“Yeah. Too late.”
“You sound upset,” he said. “Are you still mad about the way I treated you on the phone yesterday?”
“I’m not mad.”
“If you are, let me say it again. I’m sorry.”
“Kevin?”
“What?”
“Where were you the night of my accident?”
He chuckled nervously. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not a trick question.”
“You know where I was. I had that business trip to Providence.”
She didn’t say anything. Kevin broke the silence and asked, “What makes you raise this now?”
“Your lunch date with that woman before you left for New York.”
“I thought we agreed to drop that.”
“I think I deserve an explanation. When you left the house, you told me you were going to the office and then straight to the airport.”
His reply was slow in coming. “That’s true.”
“So, you lied?”
Again, he paused. “Okay. You got me.”
Her voice shook. “What are you telling me?”
“I was keeping this as a surprise, but I may as well tell you now. You know I haven’t been happy at the firm. I’m exploring another career. The woman your mother saw me with is someone who I thought could help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Look, I won’t deny she’s attractive. But she’s only a friend at work. I don’t question you about your friends. Gary, for instance.”
“Are you kidding me? When I told you I was going to help Gary study for the MCATs, you acted like I was going to try out his new water bed. But let’s not make this about me and Gary. It’s about you and your friend. Exactly how is she going to help you?”
“This is something I’ve kept secret from everyone, especially the firm. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. In fact, I think you’ll be proud of me. Let me surprise you.”
“What is going on?”
“Nothing is going on.”
She didn’t say it was her mother ragging at her. And she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Are you seeing another woman or aren’t you?”
“I swear, I’m not.”
“Were you seeing someone?”
“Peyton, maybe it was the accident, maybe it was those days afterward that we spent together at home. But I’m more sure of my feelings for you than ever before. Why do you think I got so upset when I heard about Andy Johnson and the lie detector test?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you with someone else. Come home right now. I can’t wait to see you.”
“You’re at home?” Since she’d called him on his cell phone, she’d assumed he was still in New York.
“Seminar was worthless. I cut out early and came home.”
She paused, then said, “I can’t come home yet. Today’s my first full day back.”
“Then let�
�s have a nice dinner. I’ll tell you all about my new career. Or at least my hopes for a new career. How about that? Is it a date?”
“I guess so. But it’ll have to be around ten.”
“Ten it is,” he said.
“Okay. See you.”
As she hung up, a fleeting thought gave her pause. It had to do with yesterday’s telephone conversation and his angry reaction to the lie detector test and her supposed “sexual involvement” with Andy Johnson. Kevin had always been a jealous partner. In college, after they’d gotten engaged, he’d nearly broken a guy’s nose for coming on to her at Bullwinkle’s bar. Kevin was no killer, but outbursts like those could have made a more suspicious mind wonder whether Kevin had returned from New York before or after Andy Johnson ended up dead on the third rail.
She shook it off in an instant. Just a passing thought. It had barely crossed her mind. But it had still crossed it.
She collected herself and headed back to the ER.
21
ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT, ANOTHER NIGHT ALONE IN BED. ALONE WITH thoughts of Peyton.
Rudy’s room was dark, save for the faint glow of a street lamp outside his window. Noise from the busy L Street Tavern one floor below seeped through the floorboards, the usual weekend revelry. The music was loud enough for him to pick up the tune. He hummed a few bars, fudging a lyric here and there until he was finally able to place the song: “L.A. Woman” by the Doors. An oldie but goodie.
The glowing crystals on his alarm clock said 10:57 P.M. It pleased him to realize that he’d managed to sleep for a few hours. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately. The emergence of Andy Johnson on the scene had been reason for concern.
News of Johnson’s firing had reached him quickly. Gossip what it was, it took only minutes for the entire hospital to know Andy had been canned for ogling Peyton Shields. Rudy had even heard rumors that they’d been “sexually involved.” He’d watched Peyton closely enough over the past few months to know that couldn’t possibly have been true. But the prospect that perhaps Johnson had wanted her was distressing enough. The last thing he needed was to be stabbed in the back by the very clown he’d hired to stand in for him and dance with her at the surprise birthday party. He didn’t need more competition. Kevin Stokes was competition enough, even if the idiot didn’t appreciate the gem that was his wife, sleeping with his little whore.
You deserve better, Peyton.
Ever since he’d run her off the road, Rudy had been scrambling for ways to convey that simple message. Leaving the rose on her doorstep. Sending the “I love you” message to her digital pager. Not that she would have necessarily linked those gestures to him. The rule in their Internet chats had been never to disclose their true identities, a common way for married people to cheat on the Internet and protect their consciences as much as their privacy. He knew her as Ladydoc. She knew him as RG or Rudy. Unless she’d been in the chat room last week and seen his personalized apology to “Peyton”—and he was sure she hadn’t—she had no idea that Rudy knew her real name. She couldn’t possibly have known that he’d snagged her address and pager number. Those details were part of the vast store of information in his dog-eared daily journal that included virtually every number that had even the most remote connection to the daily life of Peyton Shields. Home phone number, cellular number, pager number, street number, driver’s license number, social security number, bank account number, locker number at the hospital lounge, number of steps from her front door to the subway station, number of times she used the restroom on an average twelve-hour shift, number of bites it took her to consume half a turkey sandwich on a twelve-minute lunch break. Twelve, if it was on her regular whole wheat bread with just lettuce, no tomato, and a small swipe of mayo. Sixteen, if on a kaiser roll. He even knew her bra and panty size. He wondered if she’d ever complained to Victoria’s Secret for failing to fill a mail order that, unbeknownst to her, had disappeared from her box.
None of the numbers—or even the undergarments—were as important to him as the one gnawing at his gut lately: Four. For four straight days after the accident, she and her husband had been together at home while Peyton convalesced. They had surely reconnected, and it made him sick to think about it. The whole “accident” was not what he had imagined it would be. Driving Peyton off the road just so that he could be the one to save her—to decide whether she should live or die—was probably not one of his better-conceived fantasies. It was now more important than ever that he express his feelings, but by sending no card with the rose and dialing her pager from a pay phone he’d made it impossible for her to know that he was the one saying “I love you.” The problem was, he wasn’t ready to reveal himself that clearly. If he put too much on the line, she could reject him.
He couldn’t take that. Not again.
He slid out from beneath the blanket and placed his bare feet on the floor. Wearing only jockey shorts, he crossed the dimly lit room, allowing his eyes to adjust before turning on a light. He stopped at the bathroom sink and flipped the switch. He washed up quickly, then went to the dresser and put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. It was almost 11:00 P.M., the magical hour that night after night drew him to his computer and the chat rooms. One more evening of trolling for Ladydoc. Even when they used to chat regularly, rarely if ever did they team up on a weekend. Tonight, he hoped, might be different. The death of Andy Johnson had changed everything.
He smiled to himself, wondering if they’d ever catch the guy who did it.
He logged on and found their usual site, one frequented by old motion-picture buffs. The chatting usually started at eleven, but it was a few minutes after and he was still alone in the chat room. Not even the woman who had created the site and usually kept the conversation going had bothered to show up tonight. Part of him had expected a no-show. Another part, however, was growing angry at the snub.
Staring at the blank screen, he typed a short query in his usual chat format.
“r u there?”
He waited, then tried again.
“HEY! i said, r u there?”
He knew that he was alone, that his typewritten words were falling on the cyberspace equivalent of deaf ears. Yet he felt compelled to continue, as if he wanted to record his own loneliness and see it spelled out on the screen before his own eyes.
“y r u not here?”
Getting angry wasn’t productive, but he couldn’t help it. Running her off the road was something he had instantly regretted. He’d said he was sorry. He’d told her it was from the heart. He’d even pulled her from the icy pond. He’d saved her life, damn it.
Just three lines stared back at him from the screen, all typed by him. No response from anyone. Not so much as a hello, let alone a thank-you. He banged out a final message on the keyboard, not even aware that he’d abandoned the cutesy chat-typing format.
“You owe me. Big time.”
With a click of his mouse he exited the chat room. He took a deep breath to quell his rising rage, but it wasn’t working. He was tired of sucking up and tired of being snubbed. He’d been nothing but sweet to her for long enough.
With another click, the screen displayed a list of Web sites marked “Favorites.” His hand shook. Entering would be a huge regression. He was furious with Peyton for the way she was treating him, for dragging him back to this place. No woman could ever like this side of him. But it was all Peyton’s fault. She had made him angry. Anger made him go there. Sometimes he went for hours at a time, day after day, till his rage subsided. Maybe that was what he needed. A little time away. With all that had happened in the last two weeks, it would be risky to make another direct run at Peyton. Things needed to blow over.
Then they could really get serious.
He clicked on one of the files and waited anxiously as the image came into focus from top to bottom. It was a digital photograph. He could see the top of a woman’s head at first, her blond hair. Then her face came into view, eyes wide with fright. Then her long, slender neck
wrapped in a leather collar. She was down on both knees, hands and feet bound, naked except for the collar and some kind of spiked harness that was strapped so tightly below her breasts that she was bruised and bleeding at the ribs. The photograph was slightly grainy, clearly taken by an amateur. Amateur photographer, that is. From the looks of things, this guy was a real pro. This wasn’t that silly stuff posted on the Web by fat old men who hired young hookers, got their buddy to snap some pictures before the Viagra wore off, and voilà! they were porn studs. This was the work of a true master who’d earned the right to showcase his work to the world. Some pervs got off on the kiddie-porn Web sites, turned on by young girls having sex for the first time. Others—guys like Rudy—got off on women having sex for the very last time.
He scrolled down to the bottom of the page, to a message that was superimposed on the photograph, written in bold, blood-red letters: HAVE YOU FED YOUR SLAVE TODAY?
From the length of this blond’s dark brown roots, she’d obviously been captive for quite some time. Yet she still looked hot. And her master still had his sense of humor.
My creative side, thought Rudy.
With a gleam in his eye he adjusted his chair and switched on the stereo, preparing himself for another visit to those pretty, familiar faces. Every one of them had shown such attitude at one time, a lot like that Little Miss Excuse Me who had teased him into following her off the subway and then disappeared, snubbing him. He hated teases. Photographs didn’t come close to capturing the excitement of the conquest, but they were all the spark he needed. They were his photographs, his slaves, gone but never to be forgotten.
It would be another dark night down memory lane.
Part II
SUMMER
22
VENDORS OF ITALIAN ICES WERE SMILING IN THE NORTH END. KIDS IN South Boston literally danced in the streets, frolicking in the cool fountain of relief from opened fire hydrants. Hospital emergency rooms were nearly overrun with cases of heat exhaustion. It was the third week of July, and the question on the tip of everyone’s parched tongue was the same: When would daytime highs finally fall short of the recommended cooking temperature for grilled pork tenderloin?
Lying with Strangers Page 11
