“How do you know?”
“Remember when my grandmother died? What a mess I was?”
“You weren’t a mess. You were anything but a mess. You cleaned everything in sight. My apartment has never been that spotless.”
“Remember when I called you at four-thirty A.M. sobbing because I was out of Soft Scrub and Q-tips and my grout was still dirty?”
“Yes.”
“That is what grieving is like. You can’t lose a person who is important to you and not feel decimated inside. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be working again.”
“What should I be doing? Knitting? Dusting Sam’s plants? Letting Rosalind die?” Her voice got quieter. “If I can save Rosalind, then maybe I’ll have made up for it.”
He didn’t ask, “Made up for what?” He knew her well enough to know what she was blaming herself for this time. He said, “You need to recognize that there was nothing you could do to save Sam. He was sick. He had—”
She stopped him. “I can’t listen to that right now. I appreciate what you are trying to do, really, but can we put this off until after we find Rosalind? Then I promise I’ll clean manically. Or do whatever you say. But not now. Okay?” When he nodded she said, “Did you mean it, that everyone is gone?”
“Yes. I thought they should get some sleep.”
“But the collage is still out there. God, I hate that thing.”
“I can take it down.”
She shook her head. “It won’t matter, I see it even when my eyes are closed. And you know the worst thing about it?”
“The Night Crawlers game?”
“Everything I need to save Rosalind is in there. Every clue. And I can’t find it. Because my mind isn’t sharp. Because of this stupid grieving.” She threw Grieving for Not-So-Dummies out of the tub and smiled as it thwacked against the wall. Then she stood up.
“Fighting your emotions is only going to make them stronger.”
“Did you get it from a comic book?” She climbed out of the tub and headed for the living room.
Bugsy stopped her right before she got there. It was time to talk about what was really worrying both of them. “Boss—are you sure you have to go see Martina Kidd tomorrow?”
“Positive.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No. This is something I have to do alone.”
“Why?”
“So no one can see how badly I screw it up.” Trying to make it sound like a joke, but Bugsy knew it wasn’t one. She walked to the table and took a Tootsie Pop from the box. Then she turned to him and said, “Hey, where did the fishbowl and fish tank come from?”
Clueless.
As he was leaving, Bugsy handed her his handkerchief. “For your allergies. Your nose will be red tomorrow if you keep using those Kleenexes in the bathroom. You don’t want Martina Kidd to notice a thing like that.”
She gave him a smile as they said good night, but he heard her start sobbing the minute the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER 15
Late that night, driving home from the “office” with the lights of the Strip winking at him to his left, the man decided that the hard part wasn’t staying focused on his job once it all started. He’d been doing that since the beginning, his games always taking place when he was on an assignment without anyone even suspecting.
The fact was, recently the game had begun to get boring. Or not boring, exactly, but the thrill was diminishing. The last time, with Louisa Greenway, he’d had to add a few things to keep it exciting, keep himself from killing her before the appointed day. He could have, of course, but that would not have been following the rules. And rules were what made a game. Without them, there was nothing.
That was why he’d invited Imogen earlier this time. Before it had just been him and whoever he was playing with. The FBI was out there, sure, but they were miles behind him. Now, on purpose, they were right there. He had made the first clues so easy Imogen couldn’t miss them. He had wanted her close to him, the best of the best where he could watch her. But it was different than he thought it would be, and that was what was getting to him. For one thing, she seemed super sad, and he worried that would distract her. For another, she’d brought that fish with her.
The fish really bothered him. He tried not to let it, but it was like a little remnant of her brother, something that she could look at and get right then, boom, all teary eyed, thinking of Sam. He had seen it happen in front of him. He didn’t want her mind on her brother, on anyone but himself. He had thought of different ways to kill it, but that wouldn’t be nice. Still, if it looked at him funny, just once, he would have to do it.
What he needed to do, he realized as he got closer to “home,” was make sure there was plenty to keep Imogen busy. Himself too. His little dalliance that afternoon had been nice. He’d have to consider doing that a few more times. And for Imogen, there was her field trip to Ohio tomorrow. After that, though, he wanted to keep her close to him. Not share her with Mother or anyone else.
He rolled to a stop at a red light. The streets in both directions were empty, so he could just have floored it and kept going, given himself a little thrill, but again, that was against the rules. Stoplights were stoplights. As he sat there, wondering why the reds in Vegas were five times as long as anywhere else, a woman and a boy stepped into the crosswalk, holding hands. The woman was young, probably in her mid-twenties, with a big poof of dark curly hair in a ponytail, wearing medical scrubs with pictures of lollipops on them. The boy, no older than ten, was in his pajamas, stumbling along half-asleep. The man looked at them and guessed the mom was a nurse at the hospital in the next block, working the night shift and picking her son up from his baby-sitter now. Pulling him out of sleep for the long bus ride home, maybe kissing his forehead and saying, “Wake up, honey bun, it’s time.”
The image made the man smile and feel a little silly. He rolled down his window, ignoring the green light, and said, “Ma’am? Can I offer you a free ride home? It looks like your boy is tired.”
The woman hesitated. People were justifiably wary about taking rides from strangers. But when she looked at him he knew she would see that he wasn’t exactly a stranger. That he looked familiar. And kind.
Like he was reading her mind he said, “You’re a nurse over at University Medical Center, aren’t you?” Then lied “I think you might have helped my boy. Little guy, got a cast on his leg?”
The woman bit her lip, trying to remember.
“Doesn’t matter,” he assured her. “You must see so many patients. But it looks like you’ve had a long day, and the staff over there sure treated Tommy well. Figure I should help you all out if I can, return the favor as it were.” Shit, he shouldn’t have given a name. Too many details.
The woman was still searching her mind for nonexistent “Tommy,” but her son was dragging on her arm, looking up at her.
“Can we, Mom?” the boy asked in his pathetic voice, giving a big showplace yawn. “Please?”
Manipulative little fucker, the man thought. He knew the boy just wanted a ride. Still, it worked. The mother smiled tentatively. “Are you sure? It’s not far, but on the bus . . .”
“Positive. Hop in.” He leaned across and threw open the passenger door and the mother got in, holding the boy on her lap.
“It’s awfully nice of you, sir,” she said as she gave him directions to her house. “You were right about the long day. I had a double shift.”
“You do the work of angels over there,” the man said, sounding even to himself like he was laying it on a bit thick.
But the woman smiled. “Thank you. It is nice to hear that. Sometimes you don’t feel appreciated.”
She rattled on but he wasn’t listening, wondering instead if the boy had a father, one who took him out and threw balls to him on the sidewalk. One who yelled at him when he missed. Told him he was disgusting. One who liked to “spend time with Johnnie” twice a month and then the next day couldn’t even b
end over to tie his shoes he was so hungover. One who—
The woman’s voice broke into his thoughts. She smiled, ruffled her son’s hair, and said, “And so this is it. If you just turn right into the next driveway we’ll be home.”
“This driveway?” he said.
“Yes, and I can’t thank you enough for the—”
The man hit the gas and sped by the turn she was pointing to, into the driveway of a pathetic-looking faux-Tudor apartment complex. Quickly, he glanced over and saw the first flush of panic in her cheeks. He saw her chin drop as she realized that she might have made a mistake—a grave mistake—getting into this car with the nice-looking stranger. He watched her swallow hard and smelled her sweat and started feeling really silly.
After a block he smiled to put her at her ease. He said, “Oops,” then, “Sorry about that, I’m a bit of a speed demon,” keeping it light. “Yep, I’m just a speed demon,” he said, then slowed the car, not slow enough for her to get out—he saw her hand on the door handle—but slow enough to make a U-turn.
He could see she was close to tears, one hand with white knuckles clutching her son’s pajama top, the other still on the door handle. With a flourish, he did a perfect ninety-degree turn into the driveway of Ye Olde Village Apartments and hit the brakes. Her hand was shaking so hard it slipped trying to get the door open. She didn’t even realize he had it locked.
For ten seconds, the ten longest seconds of her life, he bet, he let her struggle with the door, seeing her house so close but not able to get to it, get away from him. Breathing in little gasps, her heart pounding so hard he could see the pulse in her neck. There were tears running down her face and onto the upholstery, and her son kept saying, “What’s wrong, Mom?”
When he hit the unlock button, she almost pushed the boy onto the pavement struggling out of the seat. As she got out of the car he saw circles of moisture under her arms. She was sobbing, terrified, clutching the boy to her, not looking at the cab, running toward the second set of stairs on the left.
He waved jauntily at her and took off laughing. He knew she would want to put the whole thing out of her mind, never think of it again, so she wouldn’t report it. Besides, what could she say? Some cabbie offered her a free ride and then missed a turn? Yeah, not likely.
Even if it was a risk, it had been totally worth it. That one whiff of fear would be enough to hold him, for a little while. Still, he wanted to spice things up. He got out a piece of paper and a pen and started a list, leaning against the pad next to the steering wheel as he drove. Get clothes to dry cleaner. Pick up most recent security tapes. Krazy Glue. He put a question mark next to that one; it was an idea he had been working on, but he wasn’t sure about it. What else? Maybe go to a pet store, buy one of those little treasure chests that go in fishbowls to leave for Imogen. He could decide later whether to put poison on it.
He pulled into his parking spot and was about to put the list into his breast pocket when he thought once again about Louisa Greenway, how he’d played with her. How fun it had been. Funny too.
He added one more item to the list.
CHAPTER 16
12 days left!
Imogen could still sense the low hum of the airplane engine vibrating in her bones as she and Benton climbed out of their rented Ford Focus in front of the visitors’ entrance of the White Haven Correctional Institute. At least, she told herself it was the vibration of the airplane that was making her knees feel wobbly.
Professor Martina Kidd. The Connoisseur. Imogen doubted there was a best way to handle the interview they were about to have, but she was sure that whatever she did would not be it. Lex maintained that it was Martina Kidd that had really doomed their romantic relationship, that Imogen had only used his infidelity with Carol as an excuse. Lex liked to spread responsibility out a bit, but there was something in what he said. It was only after her brush with Martina Kidd that Imogen had taken up boxing.
The morning was freezing. The cold sucked the color out of the entire landscape, leaving it a flat, dead sepia brown. The facility dated from the early part of the century, when they believed in building prisons with long redbrick walls punctured by pointy-roofed guard towers. These days the guards were replaced with cameras and the walls were surmounted with electrified barbed wire, but the whole thing still looked like a Victorian madhouse to Imogen.
Her eyes were glued to the snowy ground, not looking at the walls. Mechanically, she noted the brand of a cigarette butt—Camel, fuchsia lipstick on the tip—poking out of the snow, the smudge of dirt from a motorcycle tire, the size of Benton’s footprints.
You know what they say about men with big feet, a guffawing voice broke into her thoughts like an out-of-tune radio. She stopped, startled.
“Is something wrong?”
She felt her cheeks flush. “No. I just don’t like coming here. Martina Kidd is difficult to talk to. And I had a slight disagreement with the warden a few years ago.”
Dirk Best was an improbable warden. Hollywood handsome with a dark, closely cropped helmet of hair just going salt-and-pepper at the temples, a perpetual tan, and teeth that could have been an ad for whitening toothpaste. His eyes were lined just enough to make him look distinguished, and his grip, when he shook, had the solidity of a politician’s. If he’d been able to keep his hands off of other men’s women, he could have been governor, or so he liked to say. Imogen thought he stood a better chance as the host of Fantasy Island.
“Mr. Arbor. It is a real pleasure to meet you,” Dirk boomed cordially as they entered the administration building. He nodded in Imogen’s direction and mumbled, “Special Agent Page.”
At least she did not have to guess whether he’d forgiven her.
As Dirk led them down the corridor that connected the administration wing to the rest of what Dirk called “the Campus,” he and Benton discussed advances in the steering mechanism in the newest Arbor Motors cars, and Imogen did her best not to count the number of doors that slid closed and locked behind them.
Clang.
Concentrate on why you are here, she told herself. For an interview you don’t want to do. With an audience you really don’t want. She had told Benton she wanted to go in alone and he’d nodded. Then she’d explained her reasons and he’d nodded. She’d told him he could jeopardize the interview and he’d nodded. It was like talking to a Weeble. When she was done he said he’d let her run the interrogation—that was what he called it, like they were in a gangster movie; if he’d only known—but he was going to be there. She’d nodded.
Clang.
Only one more, Imogen knew. Dirk said, “Lex said you would be wanting a private interview with Martina, so I’ll leave you here. Curtis will show you the rest of the way.” He offered a hand to Benton. “It was a pleasure talking to you.” And he turned back without acknowledging Imogen.
Curtis lumbered out of his seat at the guard station, pulling on his jacket. His keys jangled together as he led them down another linoleum corridor and through another gate.
Clang.
“Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to cell block K, what we around here call the Zoo. Please keep your hands and arms away from the cages at all times. The animals can be dangerous.”
CHAPTER 17
“Imogen!” a voice shouted down the corridor. “Imogen, pick me!”
“That’s Loretta,” Curtis explained, the tour guide. “She sure has a thing for you, don’t she?” he said to Imogen.
To Benton it looked like she didn’t even hear. That was how she had been on the whole plane ride and the drive from the airport. In the air, when he’d asked her if there was anything he should know about her technique, any special signals they should have with each other for the interrogation, she’d just given him a look like he’d said something retarded and gone back to staring out the window. He had tried again in the rental car, asking, “Do you make a list of the questions you’re going to ask during the interrogation? In your head?” Without looking a
t him she’d said, “No. Some interrogations go better if you wing it,” in this weird voice. And that was that.
Wing it.
He decided she wasn’t much of a conversationalist in the morning, but now, walking next to her, he felt her tense like an athlete before an event psyching herself out, and he decided maybe that was what she’d been doing. He couldn’t wait to meet the person who could have that kind of effect on Imogen Page.
Still, he was shocked by his first glimpse of her.
His initial thought: It’s that lady from Murder She Wrote.
Martina Kidd didn’t exactly look like Angela Lansbury, but close. She was thinner, to start with. Really she looked like the kind of sweet grandmother who sneaked you extra sugar cookies when you went to have tea at her house and didn’t mind if you wanted to run outside to play on the tire swing she kept there just for you. She had gray hair done up in a slightly lopsided bun and was wearing gray plastic-framed glasses, bifocals, with some smudges on the lenses. She was in her early seventies, and if she hadn’t been dressed in a prison uniform he could have pictured her in a flower-print dress with a Peter Pan collar, cardigan thrown over her shoulders, carrying a casserole to a church potluck. She had smile lines around her mouth and bright blue eyes, and as they approached she grinned and clapped her hands together and said, “Imogen, my dear child, what a wonderful surprise to see you,” like she meant it.
Beside him, Imogen ground her teeth.
Martina beamed at them through the bars. “You are looking older, Imogen. Have you been taking care of yourself? I hope you are using that moisturizer with the SPF I told you about. You are prone to wrinkles around the eyes, like me. All that looking into people’s souls, I suspect.”
When Martina turned her gaze on him, Benton got a hint of what that meant. It was like how people described brain scans by aliens in tabloid stories, like she was probing him, looking for deficiencies. It took maybe two seconds. Her eyes still on him, she said, “Imogen, aren’t you going to introduce me to your handsome friend?”
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