The assignment had seemed simple enough, and certainly the fee she earned was considerable, her accommodations lavish. As a bonus, she seldom had to perform. Mostly, all she had to do was stay in the Manhattan condominium with its splendid view of Central Park and let servants take care of her, occasionally deigning to accept a telephone call but making it short, pretending to be hoarse because of a throat problem that she claimed her doctor had diagnosed as polyps and that might require surgery. Rarely, she went out in public, always at night, always in a limousine, always wearing gems, a fur, and an exquisite evening gown, always with protective, handsome escorts. Those outings were usually to the Metropolitan Opera or to a charity benefit, and she stayed just long enough to ensure that her presence was noticed, that she’d be mentioned in a society column. She permitted no contact with her character’s former friends or former husband. She was, as she’d indicated in a rare magazine interview, beginning a period of self-assessment that required isolation in order for her to commence the second act of her life. Her performance was one of her best. No one thought her behavior unusual. After all, genius was subject to eccentricities.
But she was terrified. The accumulation of fear had been gradual. At first, she had attributed her unease to stage fright, to becoming accustomed to a new role, to convincing an unfamiliar audience, and of course, to satisfying Alistair Drummond. The latter particularly unnerved her. Drummond’s gaze was so intense that she suspected he wore spectacles not to improve his vision but, rather, to magnify the cold glint in his eyes. He exuded such authority that he dominated a room, regardless of how crowded it was or how many other notables were present. No one knew for certain how old he was, except that he was definitely over eighty, but everyone agreed that he looked more like an eerie sixty. Numerous face-lifts, combined with a macrobiotic diet, massive amounts of vitamins, and weekly infusions of hormones, seemed to have stopped the evidence of his advancing age. The contrast between his tightened face and his wizened hands troubled her.
He preferred to be called professor, although he had never taught and his doctorate was only honorary, the result of a new art museum that bore his name and that he’d had constructed as a gift to a prestigious but financially embattled Ivy League university. One of the conditions of her employment had been that the “professor” would have access to her at all times and that she would appear in public with him whenever he dictated. As vain as he was rich, he cackled whenever he read his name—in company with hers—in the society columns, especially if the columnist called him professor. The sound of his brittle, crusty laughter chilled her.
But as frightening as she eventually found Alistair Drummond, even more frightening was his personal assistant, a pleasant-faced, fair-haired, well-dressed man whom she knew only as Raymond. His face never changed expression. It always bore the same cheery countenance, regardless of whether he helped Drummond inject himself with hormones, looked at her in a low-cut evening gown, watched a weather report on television, or was sent on an assignment. Drummond was careful never to discuss the specifics of his business transactions while she was present, but she took for granted that anyone who had accumulated so much wealth and power, not to mention worldwide notoriety, by definition had to be ruthless, and she always imagined that the assignments Drummond gave to Raymond would have repugnant consequences. Not that Raymond gave any indication. Raymond always looked as cheery when he left as when he returned.
What had made her uneasiness turn into dread was the day she realized that she wasn’t merely pretending to be in seclusion—she was a prisoner. It was unprofessional of her, she admitted, to have wanted to break character and take an unescorted afternoon walk in Central Park, perhaps go over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The moment the thought occurred to her, she repressed it. Nonetheless, briefly she’d felt liberated, and subsequently she’d felt frustrated. I can’t, she thought. I made an agreement. I accepted a fee—a large fee—in exchange for taking on a role. I can’t break the bargain. But what if . . .?
That tantalizing question had made her impatient with her narrow world. Except for a few sanctioned outings and an occasional performance on the telephone, she spent most of each day exercising, reading, watching videotapes, listening to music, eating, and . . . It had sounded like a vacation until she was forced to do it. Her days had become longer and longer. As much as Alistair Drummond and his assistant made her uneasy, she almost welcomed their visits. Although the two men were frightening, at least they were a change. So she had asked herself, What if I did break character? What if I did go out for an afternoon walk in Central Park? She had no intention of actually doing so, but she wondered what would happen if . . . A bodyguard had suddenly appeared at the end of the corridor outside her unit and had prevented her from getting on the elevator.
She was an experienced observer of audiences. She’d known from the start—the first time she was allowed from the condominium, escorted into Drummond’s limousine—that the building was being watched: a flower seller across the street, a hot dog vendor on the corner, no doubt the building’s doorman, and no doubt someone like an indigent at the rear exit from the building. But she had assumed that these sentries were there to prevent her character’s former acquaintances from arriving unexpectedly and catching her unprepared. At once, now, she had realized that the building was under watch to keep her in as much as to keep others out, and that had made her world even smaller, and that had made her even more tense; Drummond had made her more tense; Raymond had made her more tense.
When will I be able to get out of here? she’d wondered. When will the performance end? Or will it end?
One evening as she put on her diamond necklace—which Drummond had told her would be her bonus when the assignment was completed—she’d impulsively scraped the necklace’s largest stone across a glass of water. The stone had not made a scratch. Which meant that the stone was not a diamond. Which meant that the necklace, her bonus, was worthless.
So what else was . . .? She examined the bank statement she was sent each month. A gesture of good faith from Drummond, each statement showed that Drummond had, as he had promised, deposited her monthly fee. Since all her necessities were provided, she had no need to use that money, Drummond had explained. Thus, when her assignment was over, she’d be able to withdraw the entire enormous sum.
The bank statement had an account number. She knew that she didn’t dare use the telephone in her condominium (it presumably was tapped), so she had waited for the rare opportunity when she was allowed to leave the condominium during the day, and when the bank would be open. It had given her enormous pleasure that during a pause in the political luncheon’s program of speakers, she had whispered to Alistair Drummond, who had brought her, that she needed to go to the ladies’ room. Taut-faced, Drummond had nodded his permission, gesturing with a wrinkled hand for a bodyguard to accompany her.
She had leaned close, pressing a breast against him. “No, I don’t want your permission,” she had whispered. “What I want is fifty cents. That’s what it costs to get into the toilets here.”
“Don’t say ‘toilets.’ ” Drummond had pursed his lips in disapproval of her vulgarity.
“I’ll call them rose bowls if you want. I still need fifty cents. Plus two dollars for the attendant with the towels. I wouldn’t have to ask you if you’d give me some actual money once in a while.”
“All your needs are taken care of.”
“Sure. Except when I have to go to the ladies’ room— excuse me, the rose bowl.” She pressed her breast harder against his bony arm.
Drummond turned toward Raymond, who was beside him. “Escort her. Give her what she asks.”
So she and Raymond had proceeded through the crowd, ignoring the stares of celebrity worshipers. Raymond had discreetly given her the small sum of money she had requested, and the moment she had entered the powder room part of the ladies’ room, she had veered toward a pay phone, inserted coins, pressed the numbers for the bank into wh
ich Drummond deposited her fee, and asked for Accounting. Several society women who sat on velvet chairs before mirrors and freshened their makeup turned in recognition of someone so famous. She nodded with an imperious “Do you mind? Can I have some privacy?” look. Conditioned to pretend not to be impressed, the society matrons shrugged and resumed applying lipstick to their drooping lips.
“Accounting,” a nasally male voice said.
“Please check this number.” She dictated it.
“One moment. . . . Yes, I have that account on my computer screen.”
“What is the balance?”
The nasally voice told her. The sum was correct.
“Are there any restrictions?”
“One. For withdrawals, a second signature is required.”
“Whose?”
Raymond’s, she learned, and that was when she knew that Drummond didn’t intend for her to get out of this role alive.
It took several weeks of preparations, of calculations, of watching and biding her time. No one suspected. She was sure of that. She made herself seem so contented that it was one of the best performances of her career. Last night, after going to her bedroom at midnight, after keeping her eyes shut when the maid looked in on her at two, she had waited until four to make sure that the maid was asleep. She had quickly dressed, putting on her sneakers and gray hooded exercise suit. She had stuffed her purse with the necklace, bracelets, and earrings that Drummond had promised her, the jewelry that she now knew was fake. She had to take them because she wanted Drummond to think that she still believed the diamonds and other gems to be real and that she would try to sell them. His men would waste time questioning the dealers she was most likely to approach. She had a small amount of money—what she’d been given for the attendant in the ladies’ room, a few dollars that she’d stolen in isolated dimes and quarters from her maid’s purse while her maid was distracted by a task in another room, twenty-five dollars that she’d brought with her the first day she’d started this assignment. It wouldn’t take her far. She needed more. A great deal more.
Her first task had been to leave the condominium. As soon as she’d realized that she was a prisoner, she’d automatically assumed that the door would be rigged to sound an alarm and warn her guards if she tried to escape in the night. The alarm was one of the reasons she had waited several weeks before leaving. It had taken her that long, whenever the maid wasn’t watching, to check the walls behind furniture and paintings and find the alarm’s hidden switch. Last night, she had turned it off behind the liquor cabinet, silently unlocked the door and opened it, then peered left down the corridor. The guard who watched the elevator could not be seen. He usually sat in a chair just around the corner. At four in the morning, there was a strong possibility he’d be drowsing, relying on the sound of the elevator to make him become alert.
But she had no intention of using the elevator. Rather, she left her door slightly ajar—she didn’t dare close it all the way and risk making an avoidable noise—then turned to the right, walking softly along the carpet toward the fire door. That door wasn’t guarded on this floor, but in the lobby, the exit from the stairwell was. With painstaking care, she eased the fire door open, closed it as carefully behind her, and exhaled, wiping sweat from her hands. That had been the part she most dreaded, that she’d make a noise when she opened the fire door and would alert the guard. The rest, for a time, would be easy.
She hurried down the cold, shadowy stairwell, the rubber soles on her sneakers making almost no sound. Forty stories later, energized rather than fatigued, she reached the lobby door but didn’t stop, continuing instead to the basement. As she made her way through dusty storage areas and the noisy furnace area, passing a clutter of pipes and circuit breakers, she feared that a custodian would confront her, but no one seemed on duty, and eventually she found stairs that led to a rear exit from the building, an exit that was far enough from the conventional exit that anyone watching the other exit wouldn’t notice someone leaving the basement.
Still cautious, she turned off the light near the door before she opened it, so that no illumination would spill out and reveal her. Then she was in an alley, feeling the chill of late October, hurrying along. She wished that she’d been able to bring a coat, but all the coats in her character’s closet had been expensive, designed to be worn with evening clothes. There’d been nothing as inconspicuous as a windbreaker. No matter. She was free. But for how long? Fear and urgency gave her warmth.
Without her wig, special makeup, and facial-altering devices, she no longer resembled her character. But even though the public wouldn’t recognize her, Alistair Drummond had a photograph of her original appearance. So she didn’t dare use a taxi. The driver, if questioned, would remember picking her up at this hour and in this vicinity, especially since she was Hispanic. The driver would also remember where he’d dropped her off. That destination would be a safe distance from where she intended to go. It would not reveal anything that put her in danger. Nonetheless, she considered it better if she permitted Drummond no leads whatsoever, false or true, and instead just seemed to vanish. Besides, given the little money she had, she didn’t dare waste it on a taxi.
So she ran, to all appearance an early-morning jogger on the nearly deserted streets. She went hunting, skirting Central Park, trying to look like an easy target. Finally, two kids with knives emerged from shadows. She broke both their arms and took the fourteen dollars she found on them. By dawn, her exercise clothes dark with sweat, she rested in a twenty-four-hour hamburger joint in Times Square. There she sacrificed part of her meager funds on several steaming cups of coffee and a breakfast of scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage, and English muffins. Not the sort of breakfast she usually ate and certainly not recommended by the American Heart Association, but given the frantic, furtive day she expected to have, she needed all the calories and carbohydrates her stomach would hold.
She sacrificed more of her meager funds to go to a theater that showed movies around the clock. The only woman present, she knew that she’d attract predators in the almost-deserted seats at seven in the morning. She wanted to. When the movie ended and she left the theater, she carried fifty more dollars, money that she’d taken from three men whom she’d knocked unconscious, using her elbow, when each—a half hour apart—had sat next to her and tried to molest her.
By then, a few cut-rate clothing stores were open, and she bought a plain wool cap, a pair of wool gloves, and an insulated black nylon jacket that blended with her gray exercise clothes. She tucked her hair beneath her cap, and with her slightly baggy exercise clothes hiding her voluptuous breasts and hips, she appeared overweight and androgynous. Her costume was almost perfect. Except that her clothes were new (and she remedied that by dragging her cap, gloves, and jacket in the gutter), she looked like most of the other street people.
Next, it was time to pick her spot among the hucksters beginning to set up shop on the curb along Broadway. It took two hours, a watchful eye for the police or anyone else who showed undue interest in her, and several prudent shifts of location, but she finally used her powers of performance to sell all of her jewelry to tourists, amassing $215.
That gave her enough to travel—not enough to fly, of course (which she wouldn’t have done anyhow because the airports would be among the first places that Drummond’s men would check), but certainly enough to take a train, and a bus would be even cheaper. Plus, the way she was dressed, she thought she’d be more invisible on a bus, so she ate a hamburger while she walked to the junkie-infested Port Authority Bus Terminal, and by noon she was on her way to Baltimore.
Why Baltimore? Why not? she thought. It was close enough that a ticket there wouldn’t use all her money. At the same time, it was comfortably far. She had no previous associations with Baltimore. It was simply a random selection, impossible for Drummond to predict, although if he eliminated the cities with which she’d been associated and if he arbitrarily chose the remaining big cities within a certa
in radius from Manhattan, he might make a lucky guess. Nothing was guaranteed. She had to be careful.
En route to Baltimore, while she studied the other passengers to determine whether any was a threat, she had ample opportunity to think about her options. She didn’t dare fall back into old patterns. Her family and friends were a danger to her. Drummond’s men would be watching them. She had to construct a new persona, one unrelated to any character she’d assumed before. She had to make new friends and create new relatives. As far as employment was concerned, she would do whatever was most tolerable, as long as it wasn’t anything she’d done previously. She had to make a complete break with the past. Getting the proper documents for a new false identity wasn’t a problem. She was an expert.
But as she considered her existential condition, she wondered if she was prepared to make the sacrifice. She liked the person she’d been before she met Alistair Drummond. She wanted to be that person again. Had she been foolish? Had she misjudged Drummond’s intention? Perhaps she should have been patient and continued to live in luxury.
Until you served your purpose and your performance was no longer necessary.
And then?
Remember, the gems were fake, and there was no way you were ever going to get the money Drummond claimed to be paying you. The only explanation for the way he rigged that bank account was that he planned to have you killed and take back the money.
But why would he want me killed?
To hide something.
What, though?
The bus arrived in Baltimore at nine in the evening. A cold drizzle made the downtown area bleak. She found a cheap place to eat—more caffeine, calories, and carbohydrates, not to mention grease (she rationalized that the fat might help insulate her from the cold). She didn’t want to waste her remaining money on a hotel room—even a cheap one would be disastrous to her reserves. For a time, she roamed the back streets, hoping that someone would accost her. But the man who grabbed her and whose collarbone she broke had only fifty cents in his pocket.
Assumed Identity Page 8
