“I couldn’t find you, Mommy!” Renny’s expression is accusatory—but not frightened.
“She got off an elevator in the basement. Ozzy spotted her on one of the surveillance screens, wandering around down there.”
Tom’s words fail to register, but his avuncular tone certainly does.
“I…”
Dazed, Elsa looks from him to Renny and back again, trying to assess the situation. Are his words meant to be informative, or menacing? She wants desperately to snatch her daughter from his clutches, but does she dare?
Before she can make a move, Tom releases Renny.
“I’ve got to get back downstairs to work.” He ruffles her dark hair playfully. “No more running away from your mother, you hear me?”
“She ran away from me.”
He laughs and shakes his head, then heads down the hall.
Elsa slams the door shut behind him and grabs on to her daughter, burying her face in Renny’s shoulder with a sob.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m so relieved. How did you…did you actually take an elevator?”
Renny nods. “I was scared when you left. I kept calling you but you didn’t come back, so I pressed the button.”
“But…you don’t like elevators.”
“I was brave,” Renny tells her matter-of-factly. “I had to find you.”
“Thank God you did.”
“Tom helped me.”
“I know.”
At least, for now, they’re safe. And it’s time to go…somewhere.
As if she’s reading Elsa’s mind, Renny asks, “Can we go home now?”
“Oh, sweetie…” You have no idea how badly I want to say yes. “Not just yet. You don’t really want to get back on the train tonight, do you?”
“We can call Daddy to come get us.”
Call Daddy—another fierce stab of longing. Elsa desperately wants to connect with Brett.
Forget the possibility that her phone is bugged. Right now, all that matters is hearing her husband’s voice.
I’ve got to find my phone and get us out of here.
She hurries Renny to the kitchen, plotting their exit from the building.
They’ll avoid the lobby, she decides, still not sure whether to trust Tom. He did say he saw her mother, and her mother isn’t here. Why would he lie? If he wasn’t lying, then is it possible…
The idea is so far-fetched that Elsa refuses to allow herself to consider it.
In the kitchen, she sees the bag of Chinese food on the counter, the ominously empty slot in the knife holder.
But no cell phone.
A quick search, then a more thorough one, and there’s still no sign of it.
Maybe she was mistaken about dropping it here in the apartment.
Maybe she lost it while she was chasing through the building, or—
Or maybe whoever was here and took the knife came back and stole my phone as well.
Brett rummages through the drawer, looking for the little address book where Elsa keeps all the household phone numbers: the take-out pizza place, the plumber, the pediatrician…and presumably, Joan.
Brett has to call the therapist, and the sooner the better.
If Elsa is losing touch with reality, finding out about Mike’s accident might push her over the edge.
A hit-and-run.
Unbelievable.
The way Mike’s friend Joe described it, Mike had just stepped out of his building on Hanover Street, and the car came barreling at him.
Almost like someone was lying in wait.
Joe didn’t say that. But Brett sure as hell thinks it.
Mike is a private eye. He’s made his share of enemies. It’s not that far-fetched to imagine that someone might have sought vengeance for an extramarital affair Mike had uncovered, or a jail sentence resulting from one of Mike’s investigations…
Brett finds the phone book and flips the alphabetical pages, looking first under J for Joan—no luck—and then under T for therapist—again, no luck.
He has no idea what her last name is, but he thumbs through every page in the book, looking for any entry that bears the first name Joan.
There is none.
“Now what?” he mutters aloud.
He certainly can’t call Elsa and ask her for her therapist’s contact information.
No, but he can at least call her to check in and see how she sounds.
After that, I’ll figure out how to reach her therapist.
Grimly shaking his head, he dials Elsa’s cell phone.
It was all so perfect, right from the moment Elsa Cavalon and her kid showed up at the Ansonia with their take-out dinner, looking like drowned rats.
They could have stayed out for hours, which would have been okay, too—eventually they’d have returned to discover that their would-be safe house wasn’t safe at all.
But at least the way it happened—their arrival within a half hour of “Sylvie Durand’s” supposed grand entrance—prevented this thing from dragging on all night.
The veiled hat—purchased a mere two hours ago from a Scarlett O’Hara display at a costume shop in the Theater District—certainly served its purpose, as did the black pashmina and umbrella: twenty bucks from a street vendor near Columbus Circle. Now the hat, pashmina, and umbrella are carefully positioned on the edge of an alley Dumpster off West Seventy-third Street, where some poor homeless person can probably put them to good use.
See? Who says you don’t have a heart?
The duplicate keys to Sylvie Durand’s apartment almost landed in the Dumpster, too—after all, it’s a safe bet Elsa Cavalon won’t be coming back to the Ansonia anytime soon. But it seems like a shame to throw them away after going to all the trouble of stealing them, along with a spare set of keys to the Cavalons’ house, having them copied, and returning them before anyone noticed they were missing.
All the trouble?
Okay, it was a piece of cake to walk in through the unlocked door while Elsa and her kid were out in the backyard the other day, having a cozy little picnic under a tree. So easy to keep an eye on them while snooping around the house, finding not just the keys, but planting the listening devices that had proven just as handy.
The best part was unlocking the door in the dead of night to replace the keys, and taking a little detour, wearing the rubber mask, to scare the shit out of the kid.
Yeah. Good times.
Staying one step ahead—or rather, behind—the two of them in the apartment just now was even more fun. What a great setup for hide-and-seek—plenty of places to hide, though a few times, when Elsa looked over her shoulder, it seemed certain that the jig was up. Grabbing the knife from the kitchen was meant to be a scare tactic, but for a minute there, it almost seemed like it would have to be put to use.
That would have been a real shame, to end it all just as the real fun is about to get under way.
How fitting that it was Scarlett O’Hara herself who said it: Tomorrow is another day.
Marin can’t recall the last time she filled the car—any car—with gas. No wonder the fuel level is on E by the time she reaches the southbound Hutchinson Parkway. Figuring it’s better to fill up now than within city limits, she pulls into a roadside service area.
Once she remembers how to work the pump, it takes only a few minutes to fill the tank.
There’s something to be said for having your own means of transportation, she decides as she replaces the nozzle and removes her receipt from the machine. Throughout Garvey’s gubernatorial campaign, and even before that, the Quinns traveled mostly by car service and limo.
It’s kind of nice to be fully in charge, once again, of where she goes, and when she gets there.
Slipping back behind the wheel, she’s planning to merge right back out onto the highway.
Instead, she finds herself pulling into a parking space near the on-ramp.
You sure you’re in charge, there?
Yes. But once she ge
ts home, she’ll have to deal with Caroline, plus she and Annie will be in earshot.
If you’re going to make that call, she tells herself as she pulls out her cell phone, you’d better make it now.
After the first killing, it got easier.
That’s how it is.
The first time, even while it’s happening, you don’t know quite what to expect when it’s over. You don’t know how you’ll feel, or what you’ll do, or where you’ll hide the corpse, or even if you should bother. You don’t know whether you’re actually capable of taking a human life, though it feels good—so damned good—to try.
To succeed is just…well, it’s a gust of pure, exhilarating supremacy, and you know, in that moment, that you can accomplish anything. Anything at all.
Eventually, though, the feeling subsides.
And you feel a pang when you realize it’ll never return, unless…
You have to kill again.
The more often you experience the addictive rush of power, the harder it is to hold off until you get to feel it again.
You don’t want to get sloppy, though. You don’t want to start doing it just for the hell of it. You have to have a plan; it has to be a means to an end. Otherwise, it’s wrong: killing for the sake of killing.
This isn’t like that. This is about vengeance, and about love.
Like the lyrics of that old song…
It was by The Who. What was it?
“Behind Blue Eyes.” Right.
And the lyrics, all of them, are true. So true. No one knows what it’s like.
No one but Jeremy…
The sudden ringing of a telephone curtails that line of thinking. The ringtone is unfamiliar. It can only be Elsa Cavalon’s phone—the one she so carelessly left on the countertop in her mother’s apartment.
Too bad. It’s mine now.
Is she calling it herself, aware she lost it?
Or is someone else trying to reach her: her husband, perhaps, or her mother in France? It sure as hell isn’t Mike Fantoni—or, for that matter, Roxanne the social worker. Ha.
One look at the caller ID window provides the shock of a lifetime.
Of all the names that might have come up, this is by far the least expected—and the most intriguing.
“Hi, you’ve reached Elsa. I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message I’ll get right back to you.”
Marin takes a deep breath. “Elsa, this is Marin Quinn. I’m…”
Oh please. She knows who you are.
“I need to talk to you. Over the phone or in person, whatever…”
She can hear the quaking in her voice, and knows she’d better hang up before she bursts into tears—which would pretty much ensure that Elsa Cavalon won’t be calling her back.
Do you really think she’s going to do that anyway?
“I, um, understand if you’d rather not talk to me after…after all this. But I hope you will.”
Marin pauses.
Is there anything more to say? This might be her only chance.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts, and hangs up.
Out on Broadway, it’s still raining. The mass weekend exodus is well under way; the streets are jammed with traffic, the sidewalks crowded with people and umbrellas.
Spotting a cop issuing a traffic ticket over on the corner, Elsa considers—for a fleeting moment—pouring out the whole story and asking him for help.
But what proof do you even have that anyone was even after you?
What if he thinks you’re crazy?
There will be an official report. That much is certain.
And having taken Renny across state lines without permission will be the least of her worries when the agency gets hold of it.
Right now, her priority is to find a safe haven for herself and Renny—then figure out what the hell is going on.
“Where are we going?” Renny asks.
“Home,” Elsa tells her resolutely. “We’re going home.”
“…can’t locate next of kin…touch and go…maybe we should…”
Snatches of far-off voices reach Mike’s ears, bewildering him.
Where is he?
Not at home. If he were at home, he’d be alone. There are people here; he can feel movement all around him; can hear, in addition to the murmuring voices, some kind of steady electronic beep.
With tremendous effort, he opens his eyes.
At least, that’s what he thought he just did.
But still he can see nothing at all. He’s surrounded not by the darkness of a night room, but a solid pitch black that scares the shit out of him. What the hell is going on? Has he gone blind?
He opens his mouth to ask someone, but he can’t seem to move his jaw. He can’t move anything, he realizes, not even his fingers.
As terror cloaks Mike like a straitjacket, he struggles to stay conscious, desperate to piece together what might have happened to him.
The last thing he remembers is standing on the street…
He was talking to Joe…
“You going somewhere, Mikey?”
Yeah. That’s right…he was going somewhere. He had luggage. But where…?
Oh no. Oh Christ.
In a flash, it comes back to him: the Cavalons’ visit, his suspicion that Jeremy might be alive, deciding to go to Mumbai…and the speeding car that gunned right toward him.
That was no accident—the car hitting him.
Again, he struggles to speak; again, he can’t move a muscle.
He can hear two women talking nearby, and a rattling sound, as though someone is pushing a cart around.
“I don’t know…I probably shouldn’t…”
“Come on, they have two-for-one happy hour margaritas.”
“Yeah, but I’m on the early shift tomorrow.”
Listening to their mundane chatter, Mike is help-less. Don’t they realize he’s trapped in here? Don’t they care that someone tried to kill him?
Someone tried to kill him. Someone almost succeeded. Or maybe they did. Maybe he’s dying.
He’s always wondered what it would be like. Is this it? Is he living his last moments?
Or has it already happened? Is he dead?
Something comes back to him then—a thought so disturbing that Mike is certain he’s still alive, because everyone knows that when you’re dead, there’s no pain. And this is painful.
Not physically. There is no physical pain, only immobility.
But remembering how he glimpsed, for a split second through the windshield, the person who was behind the wheel of that car—the person who was gunning right for him—he realizes he’d been wrong about something crucial to the Cavalon case.
Mike Fantoni doesn’t like to be wrong. He prides himself on the fact that he rarely ever is. He’s built a reputation on it. His clients count on it.
His clients…
Mike Fantoni’s last thought before he drifts back to the peaceful silence is that someone needs to warn Brett and Elsa.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Located almost midway between New York and Boston on the busy I–95 corridor, New Haven, Connecticut, is a prime location for drug dealers and the addicts and prostitutes who go with the territory. As a longtime vice detective with the NHPD, Bill Ellsworth has seen it all—and then some—particularly here in the neighborhood of Fair Haven on the banks of the Quinnipiac River.
A light rain is falling as he strides toward the overgrown vacant lot in a seedy stretch just off Chapel Street. It isn’t the first time he’s been summoned to this area, a favorite haunt of hookers and their johns, many of whom are from the surrounding shore towns. It isn’t even the first time he’s seen a woman lying facedown here amid the broken glass and syringes.
But it’s the first time this particular area is cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, and the woman on the ground isn’t passed out cold from last night’s crack binge.
She’s dead.
Not an OD, though. She got her throa
t slit. And she’s been here at least a day or two, judging by the insects nesting in her flesh.
Jim Novak, the first officer on the scene, had been summoned by a couple of twelve-year-olds who found her while cutting through the lot. Spotting Bill, Novak turns away from his animated conversation with a uniformed rookie.
“Look who’s here. When’d you get back?”
“Late last night,” Bill tells him, fighting a yawn. More like early this morning, by the time he and his wife had gotten their luggage and driven home from the airport.
“Where’d you go this time?”
“The Caribbean.”
“Nice.”
Bill nods. Nice doesn’t begin to cover it.
If there’s anything he’s learned on this job, it’s that life is short and unpredictable. You’d better do everything you want to do and see everything you want to see while you have the chance, because you never know whether you’re going to be around tomorrow.
He and Tina won’t retire young or rich; they’ve spent every vacation day and every dime they have on travel, mostly by ship. At ports of call all over the world, they’ve seen ancient ruins and exotic wildlife, cathedrals and pyramids, volcanoes and caverns, and, on this last trip, the most breathtaking beaches on the planet.
And now, back to reality.
Bill surveys the corpse. “Any ID on her?”
“What, are you kidding me?”
“You never know.”
“That’d make life too simple, Ellsworth.” Novak goes back to the rookie, shooting the shit about the Red Sox.
Pulling on a pair of plastic gloves, Bill steps past Dave Rivera, the police photographer, who’s snapping his bubble gum as he shoots the scene from every angle.
“How’s it going, Bill?”
“TGIF,” Bill mutters dryly, studying the victim.
He can’t see her face, but she’s skinny and pale with jet black hair, wearing a black skirt, black top, and—oddly—black platform-soled boots with studded buckles. Not exactly typical footwear for a working girl around here.
There’s dried blood matted in her hair and on her shoulders beneath the wounds on either side of her neck. Her right arm is bent up near her head, as if she’d tried to shield herself from the attack.
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