“Are you okay?”
Kit turned. Billy Peebler was standing next to her. “Oh hello…,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Hello, yourself. Thanks for speaking up for me.”
“That guy was a jerk.”
“I know. But in this business you have to expect it.”
“I can’t believe a blackout hit when you were onstage.”
“I’m thrilled. I think I was about to bomb. I could feel it in my bones.”
Kit smiled. “No you weren’t. Your first joke was funny.”
“It’s one of the oldest jokes in the book, but it’s just silly enough to get that first laugh. What are you doing here by yourself?”
“The person I came with went out for a smoke…”
“Now that sounds like the beginning of a joke.”
Kit smiled and made a face. “I wish it were.”
They spoke for a few minutes while the room cleared. When everyone was out, it had a lonely, abandoned feeling. Only a few candles were still flickering.
“Let’s see if we can find your friend,” Billy said. He quickly pushed the overturned chairs out of the way, then carefully escorted Kit out to the sidewalk, his arm around her shoulder. The streets were dark, horns were honking in the distance, there was a sense of excitement in the air. But no sign of Georgina.
“I can’t believe it!” Kit said, shaking her head. “I’m hobbling on crutches, and she disappears. And she’s the one who invited me here tonight.”
The hostess who had seated Kit and Georgina was standing by the doorway. “Are you looking for the girl you came in with?”
“Yes.”
“I saw her out here smoking. Some tall, cute guy with blond hair bummed a cigarette off of her. A few minutes later they got in a cab. I thought to myself—‘That was fast!’”
“What?” Kit asked with astonishment. “She actually left me here like this? That’s swell.” Kit looked at Billy and smiled. “I can tell you one thing. If I have anything to do with it, her name is going to be mud in the insurance industry. Come to think of it, I don’t even know her last name. I don’t even have her cell phone number to call. Wait until I run into her tomorrow…”
“I’ll get you home,” Billy said. “Where do you live?”
“Hartford.”
“Oh…”
“‘Oh’ is right. I’m staying on the thirty-eighth floor of the Gates Hotel, so that’s not going to work, either. I don’t think I have the energy to hop up that many flights on one foot. My best friend lives downtown in Tribeca. I’ll give her a call and see if she’s home. She has a fourth-floor loft that I think I can manage. I just hope she’s there…”
3
Jack was over at One Police Plaza within minutes of leaving Regan. One of the reasons he’d bought an apartment in Tribeca was so he’d be close to the office. His wasn’t a nine to five existence—he could be called in at any time, day or night, when a case was breaking. Jack didn’t mind; he loved his work. After graduating from Boston College, he’d decided to pursue a career in law enforcement. He’d risen through the ranks of the New York Police Department from patrolman to captain and a few years later he became the head of the Major Case Squad. His goal was to one day be police commissioner. Now that he’d found Regan, Jack felt his whole life had fallen into place.
People remarked on what a handsome couple they made. Thirty-four-year-old Jack was six-feet-two-inches tall with broad shoulders, sandy hair, and even features. Thirty-one-year-old Regan was five foot seven and one of the Black Irish. She had dark hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. They looked like they were made for each other.
“I wish I’d met you years ago,” he often told her.
“Me, too, Jack. Believe me! But now we really appreciate each other,” she’d answer with a smile and a raised eyebrow.
Things were so good, it sometimes worried him. But as Regan always said, worrying was part of being Irish. He smiled at the memory of her playful teasing, parked his car, and got out. Ah, life is grand, he thought, even if it feels like 110 degrees in this city tonight.
He hurried into the building, greeted the guard, and took the elevator up to his office. Ducking into a hallway bathroom, he washed his hands and splashed cool water on his face. This doesn’t feel as refreshing as the water of Cape Cod Bay, he thought. It was hard to believe he and Regan had been taking a cool dip at the beach behind his parents’ house just this morning. After the long trip home, that refreshing swim seemed like ages ago.
Down the hall, two of his detectives were talking animatedly on their phones in the outer room of the Major Case Squad. As soon as Jack walked through the door, he could sense that something big was going on. Joe Azzolino looked up, covered the phone with his hand, and called out, “You’re not supposed to be here. I guess you’re psychic.”
“What are you talking about?” Jack asked.
Joe looked surprised. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” Jack asked, trying not to sound impatient.
“New York City is in a blackout. So is New Jersey and Connecticut and parts of the Midwest.”
“As of when?”
“Three or four minutes ago.”
Because One Police Plaza had its own generator, it wouldn’t be immediately apparent to everyone in the building.
“Do we know what caused it?” Jack asked quickly.
“There’s a thunderstorm in the Midwest. A lightning strike in Ohio knocked out their grids and started a cascading failure. Which is good news. Con Ed just put out the word that it’s not sabotage or terrorism.”
“Thank God,” Jack said quietly. He exhaled hard and hurried into his office. So much for a relaxing night on the roof deck eating Chinese food, he thought as he quickly dialed Regan on their home phone. He let it ring and ring but there was no answer. With the power out, the answering machine didn’t work. His heart skipped a beat as the empty sound of the ringing phone filled his ear. He hung up and dialed Regan’s cell phone. That rang until her voice mail picked up. “Regan, it’s me. Where are you?” he asked uneasily. “Give me a call.” He hung up the phone. By now she should have gotten the flashlight out of the drawer in the kitchen, he thought. If she left the apartment, she would have taken her cell phone. He tried the home number again, letting it ring a dozen times. Nothing.
Quickly he strode back into the outer room. “I just dropped Regan off at the apartment and she’s not answering the phone—I’ll be right back—you know what to do—I have my cell phone.”
He was gone.
Standing on the top step in the pitch darkness, Regan’s heart was beating fast. What happened? she wondered. Is this a blackout? Quickly she debated whether to navigate her way through the debris downstairs and look for a flashlight or go out on the roof and hope the candle they left on the table last week would still be there. She knew that one of the construction guys went out on the roof to smoke. She had seen a cigarette lighter on the table…and outside there should be at least some light from the sky.
She opted for the great outdoors. Regan turned the handle, pushed the creaky metal door outward, and carefully stepped down onto the terrace. It was immediately apparent that New York City was in the dark. She looked west and could tell that New Jersey had also been affected. The high-rises overlooking the Hudson River had disappeared into the vast blackness.
Her eyes hungrily absorbing whatever light there was, Regan leaned down and felt around on the ground for the piece of wood they used to keep the door propped open. It was right at her feet. Curling her fingers around the temporary doorstop, she wedged it into the two-inch space between the metal frame and the cement roof. I can’t wait to replace this door, she thought, and put in a good alarm system. A little fake grass wouldn’t hurt, either.
She stood up straight in the dark. Everything was eerily silent. She and Jack lived in a quiet neighborhood, but now it felt like a ghost town. Carefully, Regan walked over to the rickety table where they’d planne
d to dine this evening. The candle in the red jar with the white netting was where they left it. Score one, she thought as she picked it up.
Behind her the creaky metal door snapped shut. Regan spun around. She ran over and tried to open it but it was locked. The wedge was nowhere on the ground. This door was closed deliberately, she thought. Someone is in the apartment. They must have made the noise I heard.
Regan knew if she started yelling she’d risk the intruder coming back to shut her up, and she had nothing to use as a weapon except the candle. Let them take what they want, she thought. Her heart was pounding as she pushed herself back against the wall behind the door, ready to spring, in case the night visitor decided to reappear.
Jack was back in his car and racing through the darkened streets as fast as he felt was safe. The traffic lights were out and already there were citizens at the intersections directing traffic. He kept trying to reach Regan, but to no avail. He called their neighbor who lived below them, but she didn’t answer either.
This doesn’t make sense, he thought. Regan would have called me by now if she were okay.
When he reached their building, he grabbed the flashlight he kept in the glove compartment and jumped out of the car. Another neighbor was coming out the door.
“Jack!” she said. “I was just walking down the stairs in the dark. A guy came running from behind and almost knocked me over. I’m sure he doesn’t live here—”
Jack sailed past her. He raced up the four flights of stairs to their apartment, taking the steps two at a time. He unlocked the door and hurried inside.
“Regan!” he called frantically, pointing the flashlight around the room. “Regan!”
No answer. He ran through the rooms looking for her. In their new loft, construction debris was all over the floor.
“Regan!” he called, kicking a piece of plywood out of his way. He shone the flashlight around the room, then raced up the steps to the roof. “Regan!” he called as he pushed the door open.
Behind the door Regan dropped the candle that she had poised over her head, ready to strike, and flew into his arms. “Jack!”
“What am I going to do with you?” he asked, his voice husky, as he held her tight.
“We had an unexpected guest.”
“I heard.”
After a moment, Regan looked up at him and smiled. “What, no Chinese food?”
4
Sitting in the back of the cab as it sped toward Manhattan, Lorraine Lily was at her wit’s end. Hot, tired, jet-lagged, and fearful, she’d left a message for Clay Nardellini, her fellow actor, on his cell phone. She hoped he hadn’t gotten a part that had taken him out of town. That would be awful.
Lorraine didn’t know what to do next. She hadn’t even told the driver yet that her destination had changed. There was no way she was going to give Conrad the satisfaction of showing up in Connecticut looking for shelter. How could he have sold the loft behind my back? she thought furiously. She quivered at the thought of what she’d left in the safe.
I wish I could just turn around and get on the next plane back to England. All her joy at being praised by the British critics as a “sexy, interesting actress to keep an eye on,” had evaporated. On the plane, she’d been thinking up witty things she’d say, little stories she could tell when she finally was asked to be a guest on the late-night talk shows. She was imagining all the things she would do when she was famous. Now, just a few hours later, she was without her luggage and wondering where she was going to spend the night.
I’m going to have to get a hotel room, she thought. I need to take a shower and I need to be in the city. I’m not leaving until I clear out that safe. If Clay doesn’t call back, I’ll have to figure out another plan. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, thinking regretfully about the loft that she loved. Now those Reillys had their mitts on it. This couldn’t be worse, she thought. It just couldn’t. As the cab rumbled along, she pondered which hotel she should grace her presence with.
“Holy Toledo!” the cab driver blurted.
Lorraine opened her eyes, looked ahead, then lunged forward. They were approaching the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. The silhouette of Manhattan was black and spooky. “Oh, my God!” she cried.
“I saw the whole thing!” the driver crowed as he fumbled to switch on the radio. “It’s like someone flipped a switch. I hope it’s nothing bad—”
An announcer’s excited voice came through the rear speaker, loud and clear. Lorraine felt as if he were shouting in her ear. “The lights have just gone out all over the city—we will keep you updated with all the latest news…”
“I have to get a hotel room!” Lorraine cried.
“What?” the driver asked, begrudgingly lowering the volume.
“I have to check into a hotel!”
“A hotel?”
“Yes. It’s a long and sad story.”
“We’ve all got problems, lady. Let me tell you something, you’re not going to have much luck getting a hotel room now. The city is packed with tourists and business people attending conventions. Some of them are probably stuck on elevators as we speak. Others won’t be able to get up to their rooms. Finding a room at all, never mind one on a low floor, will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“But I have to!”
“Just tell me where you want me to drop you off. I’m not a travel agent.”
Lorraine pulled out her cell phone. She tried to dial information but all the circuits were busy. “Ohhh. My life is falling apart.”
“Lady, we’re getting close to the other side of this bridge. You gotta tell me where to go. Driving through town in the dark with no traffic lights is not my idea of fun.” He paused. “But who knows? Maybe I’ll make some extra bucks tonight. People will be desperate for cabs. So where to?”
“The Sapphire”
“Fancy shmancy,” the driver muttered under his breath.
They slowly crossed into a darkened Manhattan. Cars were hesitantly crawling through the streets. People were pouring out of restaurants. Headlights from the cars provided the only source of light. It was like they were in a movie, but Lorraine wasn’t paying much attention. She was busy reapplying her lipstick and carefully touching up her face, aided only by the light of her compact. It was something she could have done in her sleep.
The driver had turned up the volume of the radio again and listened to the reports. “Can you imagine that?” he asked Lorraine, not expecting an answer. “A lightning strike leads to this mess.”
When they finally pulled up to the Sapphire, the doorman waved them on. “I wouldn’t bother. They’re all booked up. It’s chaos in there,” he said with a bored expression.
Lorraine squealed in despair.
“Shhhhh,” the driver said, as he cocked his head toward the radio. “Listen—”
“…yes, that’s right, folks. We just got word that the Treetops Hotel on Central Park South, which was scheduled for a grand opening in two days, is opening its doors tonight. Employees were there making final preparations for its first guests. Now you could be one of them! The manager claims they want to come to the aid of the citizens of New York. Those citizens who can cough up at least a thousand dollars a room. But they have a state-of-the-art generator that is sure to cool your jets…”
“Take me there!” Lorraine cried.
“You’re going to pay that much for a room?” the driver asked incredulously.
“My soon-to-be-ex-husband will foot the bill.”
“I better get a good tip.”
Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up to the marbled entrance of the Treetops. There was already a line at the registration desk in the lobby. A local TV reporter with a camera crew was covering the story of the luxury hotel welcoming hot and tired victims of the blackout. Lorraine was only too happy to be interviewed. The sight of a camera temporarily took her mind off her problems.
“I just returned from doing a play in London,” she cooed. “I feel as if I�
��m in a play right now. The airlines lost my luggage—”
“They lost your luggage?” the young reporter asked with great interest.
Lorraine laughed and tossed her head back. “Can you imagine? I’m telling you, it’s all just too much…”
By the time Lorraine finished talking about her luggage and her exciting life as an actress, there were no rooms left. Just two suites. At four thousand dollars a pop.
“What?” she gulped to the clerk.
“If you hadn’t posed for the camera I would have had a nice cozy room for you for twelve hundred. But look at it on the bright side. The suite faces the park. The room faces an alley.”
“You can’t see anything out there no matter which direction you face.”
“Take it or leave it.”
Lorraine slapped Conrad’s credit card onto the granite counter just as her cell phone began to ring. Clay Nardellini was calling back. And he was only three blocks away.
5
Regan and Jack retrieved a second flashlight from their kitchen drawer and methodically started to look around the apartment. Their bedroom, the place where most thieves would head immediately, seemed untouched. The safe that was bolted to the floor of their closet was still locked. Jack quickly opened it and saw that the contents were undisturbed. Regan’s jewelry, their passports, papers, and extra cash seemed to all be the way they had left them.
“He couldn’t have been here long if he didn’t touch this,” Jack observed.
The second bedroom was also undisturbed. Aside from some construction materials, nothing in their original loft looked out of place.
They walked back down the hall to their new apartment, which they sometimes referred to as “Lorraine’s Lair” or simply “the Lair.” Over the past two years, Jack had noticed that it was only she who seemed to spend any time there. Different guys had come in and out, and she always introduced them as fellow students in her acting class. There was never any sign of Conrad, but when he sold the loft to them, there was no sign of Lorraine.
Regan Reilly Boxed Set 1 Page 2
