Then it occurred to me that this Flipper guy might be more than an innocent bystander trapped in the same picture as Gallagher and Perry. I opened up a new browser window and typed “Flipper Brisbane” into the search bar. But the only results were links to sites about dolphins, pinball, and Australia.
I turned back to the e-mail and pressed Reply. I probably wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be attempting persuasive communications, and Man of the People was only partially responsible for my current level of frustration, but I had to do something.
Enough with the cryptic e-mails already. Glenn Gallagher’s dead, and they think I killed him, so unless you actually want to tell me something useful instead of confirming what I already know, stop contacting me. It’s annoying, and I have a murderer to catch.
Rachel
I read over what I wrote. It was, perhaps, a bit terse. I thought for a second and then made a couple of quick edits.
Enough with the cryptic e-mails already. Glenn Gallagher’s dead, and they think I killed him, so unless you actually want to tell me something useful instead of confirming what I already know, please stop contacting me. It’s annoying, and I have a murderer to catch.
Best,
Rachel
The please and the best definitely helped.
Satisfied, I hit Send.
chapter seventeen
I sat in front of the computer for a while longer, waiting to see if my newly aggressive tone would inspire Man of the People to respond in a more timely manner, but no such luck.
By ten-thirty, I’d done several laps around the apartment, flipped the television on and off another three times, and checked for new e-mail repeatedly and fruitlessly. I’d also consumed two additional Diet Cokes, polished off the first bag of chips and started on another.
By eleven, I’d convinced myself that if I didn’t get out of the apartment soon I wouldn’t be able to fit through the doorway and that it would be safe for me to leave if I took the appropriate precautions. These consisted of ransacking Emma’s closet in search of a fresh disguise, on the very off chance somebody had tracked me to Saks and there was security camera footage showing me going into the ladies’ room and an Olsen twin coming out.
Fortunately, Emma was a bit of a pack rat. On a top shelf I found a platinum blond wig I remembered from a college Halloween party, when we’d all gone as different Madonna songs. Emma had been “La Isla Bonita” Madonna, complete with the matador outfit.
I skipped the matador outfit but pulled the wig on over my own hair, straightening it in the bathroom mirror and then taking a step back to survey the effect. It looked okay—like a bad dye job rather than a wig—but my eyebrows now looked strange, their dark red clashing with the platinum. Emma wasn’t much of a makeup wearer, so I knew I wouldn’t find anything useful like an eyebrow pencil in her medicine chest, but I did find a charcoal stick among her art supplies. With careful application, I managed to transform myself into a brunette who hadn’t thought to dye her eyebrows to match her bad dye job.
I put an old pea coat on over the sweater and jeans Emma had already loaned me that morning. It was a good thing we were roughly the same size and that she had simple tastes; if it had been Hilary’s closet, everything would have been either inches too long or far too skimpy, and if it had been Luisa’s, I’d be too scared that I’d rip or spill on one of her precious designer garments to dare borrow anything.
A trip to the window assured me that the street below was quiet and seemingly clear of police surveillance. I stuffed money and my copy of Emma’s key in a pocket, donned my sunglasses, and let myself out of the apartment.
I’d filled my MetroCard a couple of weeks ago, but I was still concerned that there were computers somewhere logging when the card was swiped at a turnstile and connecting the swiping to me via my credit card. But I also didn’t want to be trapped in traffic with a potentially inquisitive or New York 1-watching cab driver. So I paid cash for a new MetroCard and took the subway up to midtown.
Hilary had said something interesting the previous night, but it was right before Emma arrived with food and the news about the rat poison so handily stored in my kitchen. The discussion had veered off in another direction, and Hilary’s question had not received the attention it deserved.
How, she had asked, did Dahlia’s attacker know to impersonate me?
I’d been thinking about this as I roamed Emma’s empty apartment, and I still didn’t have a good answer. Both Naomi and Annabel had seen me, but only in passing—they didn’t know my name or how I fit in. Perhaps Dahlia had told one of them she knew something incriminating and that she intended to tell me, too, and perhaps one of them had thought that framing me while attacking Dahlia would be a nice way to tie up both loose ends, but there were still a lot of dots to be connected to make this line of conjecture work.
The more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to the possibility that Gallagher’s murder and the attempt on Dahlia’s life could have something to do with the Thunderbolt buyout. It still seemed like Naomi and Annabel had the only obvious motives to do away with Gallagher, but if one of them wasn’t responsible, and if the crimes were connected with the deal in some way, then maybe Gallagher and Dahlia weren’t the only possible targets.
That somebody had gone to the trouble to impersonate me while seeking to commit murder had, in effect, made me a target, too.
And if I was a target because it was assumed I knew more than I did about this deal then the same assumption could be made about Jake, or even about Mark Anders. It seemed only fair to warn them they might be in danger.
I recognized that this was a relatively elaborate justification for getting out of the house, but this was about more than just warning Jake. I could use his help, too. He knew the context and the principals involved, so he might have insights that my friends couldn’t have with their secondhand knowledge of the situation. And he’d be able to fill me in on anything that people might be saying around the office. He knew me well enough to know that I would never have done anything to hurt Dahlia. I trusted him not to turn me in to the authorities.
Besides, I would have lost my mind, as well as any ability to fit into my clothes, if I’d stayed cooped up in Emma’s apartment any longer.
When he wasn’t lunching with me at Burger Heaven, Jake favored a Halal vendor on the corner of East 52nd Street and Park Avenue. “You definitely can’t get falafel like that in Chicago,” he had said. I had never tried to get falafel in Chicago, but I agreed anyhow and regularly let him pick some up for me when he ventured out. I’d even trained him to ask for the appropriate amount of hot sauce, which in my case was more than anyone else found appropriate, even the vendor with his presumably spice-tempered palate.
By noon, I was perched on the wall bordering one of the fountains in front of the Seagram’s building, about thirty feet from the vendor’s cart. The food smelled good, but I was still too queasy from my salt-and-vinegared breakfast to think about lunch. I’d picked up a newspaper, and I scanned it while I waited, hopefully, for Jake to show up. Gallagher’s murder and the attack on Dahlia were commanding prominent coverage, but while the articles referenced a missing red-haired suspect, I was relieved to see that neither my name nor photograph had been made public.
I was starting to doubt the wisdom of my plan, and I was also getting cold, when I spotted Jake coming from the direction of the Winslow, Brown offices, on the other side of Park. My distance vision wasn’t necessarily my strongest asset, but the tilt of his blond head and his gait were distinctive. I put down my paper and rose to meet him, but instead of crossing the street he turned and headed north.
I followed him up Park Avenue. He was walking quickly, and with his long legs, I nearly had to run to keep up. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by actually running, much less by calling out his name. I was a block south of him and still on the wrong side of the street when a serendipitous red light afforded me the opportunity to cross to his side
. I’d made it to the island in the middle when I realized Jake, too, was crossing the street, but to the side I’d just come from and a block up. I managed to backtrack before the light could turn green, but by the time I was heading north again he’d disappeared around the corner of 57th Street, heading east.
Where was he going? The only location of interest in that direction was Bloomingdale’s, and Jake had always struck me as more of a Brooks Brothers type of guy. Throwing caution to the wind, I upped my pace to a jog, praying that my wig was anchored securely enough not to fly off and taking care not to make eye contact with anyone I passed.
When I turned the corner at 57th Street, I was rewarded with a glimpse of Jake entering a doorway at the far end of the block. I slowed my pace back down to a walk. I knew that doorway—it was to a Starbucks. I didn’t see why Jake would go to a Starbucks on 57th Street when one had conveniently colonized the lobby of the building that housed Winslow, Brown’s headquarters, but maybe he’d wanted the fresh air and the brisk walk.
I checked my reflection in a shop window and assured myself that my wig was still in place before I followed him inside, confident that I remained incognito. After the bright sunlight of the day, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior, made all the more dim by my sunglasses, and at first I wondered if I’d mistaken Jake for someone else entering the store.
But then I saw him.
He was sitting in a corner, in close conversation with a woman whose sunglasses were as large as my own.
But even with the sunglasses I recognized Annabel Gallagher.
chapter eighteen
I preferred my caffeine cold and carbonated, but Starbucks didn’t sell Diet Coke, which seemed inhospitable, at best. I grudgingly ordered a frappuccino, and since the walk up Park counted as exercise, I also asked for an M&M cookie. I was becoming progressively more aware that the only barrier previously standing between me and substantial weight gain had been that I was usually too busy to fit every meal in. The surprisingly leisurely pace of fugitive life was giving me ample time for empty calories. I could only hope that all of the adrenaline boosted my metabolism, because I definitely lacked willpower.
My newspaper provided cover while I ate my oversize cookie and maintained a surreptitious watch on Jake and Annabel from a table on the opposite side of the store. Their discussion appeared animated. At least, she appeared animated in an upset sort of way, and he appeared animated in a reassuring sort of way. At one point he reached across the table and put his hand over hers.
From a distance, and with my sunglasses still on, it was hard to interpret the gesture. Was it that of a friend comforting a friend who’d just lost her husband? Or was there more to it, something more intimate? And even if there weren’t more to it, how had Jake and Annabel become friends in the first place? And if they were such good friends, why hadn’t they acknowledged each other on Monday, when we passed her on the way out to lunch? In fact, why hadn’t Jake mentioned that he knew her when we were dissecting the likely terms of her prenup the day before?
Maybe it had been premature to write off my crush as entirely harmless. Maybe Peter had been right, and my feelings had gotten in the way of my judgment, and Jake’s piece in this puzzle was more complex than I’d thought. It was becoming increasingly clear that I was completely lacking in emotional intelligence. Peter would be better off without me.
After about fifteen minutes and just as I was wondering if I could risk drawing attention to myself by getting up to purchase another cookie, Annabel stood. Monday’s multi-brand ensemble had given way to head-to-toe black Chanel. She gathered up a trademark quilted handbag and let Jake help her on with a coat that had probably been made from an endangered species in a remote Asian village. I watched expectantly. Would they kiss? Hug? Shake hands?
But they did none of those things. Instead they continued talking for another few minutes. Then Annabel left—there was no kissing, hugging, or hand-shaking—and Jake returned to his seat. He pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket and began pecking out a message.
He looked up as I slid into the chair Annabel had vacated.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Jake, it’s me.”
His blue eyes widened. “Rachel?”
“Got it in one.”
He leaned back. A slow grin crossed his face. “Interesting look.”
“Yes, well, I heard blondes have more fun.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“It’s too soon to tell.”
“You just missed Annabel Gallagher,” he said. His tone was easy.
“Actually, I didn’t miss her at all. I was sitting over on the other side and saw the entire thing. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.” My own tone, in contrast, held more than a note of suspicion.
He didn’t seem to pick up on it. “I’ve known Annabel for years. Believe it or not, I introduced her to Gallagher. We dated for a bit when I was working at Ryan Brothers. I brought her to a few work events, and that’s when they met.”
“Wait. Are you telling me Annabel dumped you for Gallagher?” I asked, astonished.
He shifted in his seat. “Well, dumped is sort of a strong word for it.”
“It sounds like a dumping.” I knew I was being blunt, but I was annoyed that Jake hadn’t seen fit to share this before. Rethinking whether or not I could trust him really hadn’t been part of today’s game plan.
“Annabel and I were seeing each other, but it was still pretty casual, and then she met Gallagher and decided he was the one for her.”
“So she did dump you for him.” I said.
“It wasn’t really a dumping.”
“Well, I don’t know how they define dumping in Chicago, but where I come from we call that dumping.”
He threw his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “Okay. Maybe it was a dumping. But can you let a guy hold on to at least a shred of dignity?” He said this as if he was joking, but his cheeks were flushed. With a start I realized he was blushing.
“Sorry,” I said, somewhat chastened. I hadn’t meant to embarrass him.
“No, no, you’re right. It’s just that the truth hurts sometimes. And I guess, if you had to lay everything out in black and white, she did pretty much dump me. Only it was couched in the old ‘I-hope-we-can-still-be-friends’ brush-off.” He looked up at me with the now-familiar rueful smile. “I get that one a lot. That and ‘I-love-you-like-a-brother.’”
“But how could she go out with him after going out with you?” Jake was handsome and charming. Gallagher had been neither, and he’d been a couple of decades older than Annabel to boot.
“I can think of several million reasons.”
“Yuck.”
“It happens.”
“But why didn’t you say anything? You never even mentioned that you knew her.”
“Look, when Gallagher moved over from Ryan Brothers, the last thing I wanted was people at the firm gossiping about him having stolen away my girlfriend. I mean, everybody already knew that I couldn’t make my marriage work. I didn’t want to be branded a complete loser. Could you blame me?”
“But you and Annabel stayed in touch?” I asked.
“She actually meant it when she said she wanted to stay friends. And it’s probably pathetic, but for a while I hoped I’d win her back. In fact, I made a real ass of myself.”
I couldn’t believe it. He was blushing again.
What was it with men these days? First Peter, and now Jake. I thought only women were supposed to blush. But the blushing did restore my trust. It wasn’t possible to fake that sort of thing.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Nothing happened. They got married, and around the same time I met my ex-wife and moved to Chicago. When I came back to New York and realized I’d be working with Gallagher, we agreed not to let anyone at work know our history. Gallagher knew, obviously, but that was it.”
I could understand why he’d want to
keep it private, but it still seemed odd that he’d never mentioned it to me, at least, especially given everything I’d told him. “You could have told me.”
“You were the last person I wanted to tell.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head, not meeting my gaze. Then his eyes fell on my ringless hand.
He looked up at me, his expression quizzical. There was a long and awkward moment of silence. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.
“So, what’s Annabel’s take on this entire situation?” I asked, before he could ask me any questions I wouldn’t know how to answer.
“What? Oh. Annabel. Well, the murder has her pretty upset, obviously. I don’t know how much she’ll miss Gallagher, but she’s convinced herself that Naomi killed him and is a homicidal maniac just waiting to take her out next. Plus, she’s not used to being interrogated by the police.”
“Welcome to my world,” I said.
“But nobody really believes you did it.”
“There seem to be a lot of people with various types of warrants who would disagree.”
“Well, nobody who knows you believes you did it. But it’s probably a good idea that you’re making yourself scarce. The police do seem to be really gunning for you right now.”
I told him about the alternative investigation my friends and I had launched. Now that I knew he and Annabel had more than a passing acquaintance, it didn’t seem right to tell him that she was one of our primary suspects, but I did tell him about my concern, however far-fetched, that he and Mark could be targets, too. He raised his eyebrows but agreed that he’d be careful and would warn Mark to do the same. In fact, he even said he’d do some digging around for me at the office.
The Key Page 10
