They ordered dinner. Darcy loved this restaurant, but tonight she was hardly aware of what she was eating. Every few minutes she glanced at the door hoping that Erin would come flying in with a perfectly reasonable explanation of why she had been delayed.
She did not come.
Darcy lived on the top floor of a brownstone on East Forty-ninth Street, Nona in a co-op on Central Park West. When they left the restaurant they took separate cabs, promising that whoever heard from Erin first would contact the other.
The minute she got home, Darcy tried Erin’s number again. She tried an hour later, just before she went to bed. This time she left an emphatic message. “Erin, I’m worried about you. It’s Wednesday, 11:15. I don’t care how late you get in, call me.”
Eventually, Darcy fell into an uneasy sleep.
When she awakened at 6 a.m., her immediate thought was that Erin had not called.
Jay Stratton stared out the corner window of his thirtieth-floor apartment in Waterside Plaza on Twenty-fifth Street and the East River Drive. The view was spectacular: the East River arced by the Brooklyn and Williamsburg Bridges, the twin towers to the right, the Hudson behind them, the streams of traffic, agonizingly slow in the evening rush hour, flowing well enough now. It was seven-thirty.
Jay frowned, a gesture that caused his narrow eyes to become almost invisible. A head of dark brown hair, expensively cut and attractively threaded with gray, helped to foster his cultivated look of casual elegance. He was aware of the tendency of his waistline to thicken, and exercised vigorously. He knew he looked a bit older than his age, which was thirty-seven, but that had proved to be an advantage. He’d always been considered unusually handsome by most people.
Certainly the newspaper magnate’s widow whom he’d escorted to the Taj Mahal casino in Atlantic City last week had found him attractive, though when he had mentioned that he’d like to have some jewelry created for her, her face turned to stone. “No sales pitch, please,” she snapped. “Let’s understand that.”
He hadn’t bothered with her again. Jay did not believe in wasting time. Today he’d lunched at the Jockey Club and while he waited for a table he’d started chatting with an older couple. The Ashtons were in New York on holiday celebrating their fortieth anniversary. Obviously well-heeled, they were somewhat at loose ends outside their familiar North Carolina surroundings and responded eagerly to his conversational overtures.
The husband had looked pleased at Jay’s query as to whether he’d chosen a suitable piece of jewelry for his wife to commemorate their forty years together. “I keep telling Frances that she ought to let me buy her some real nice jewelry but she says to save the money for Frances Junior.”
Jay had suggested that at some time in the distant future, Frances Junior might enjoy wearing a lovely necklace or bracelet and telling her own daughter or granddaughter that this was a very special gift from Grampa to Nana. “It’s what royal families have been doing for centuries,” he explained as he handed them his card.
The phone rang. Jay hurried to answer it. Maybe it was the Ashtons, he thought.
It was Aldo Marco, the manager at Bertolini’s. “Aldo,” Jay said heartily. “I was planning to call you. All’s well, I trust?”
“All is certainly not well.” Marco’s tone was icy. “When you introduced me to Erin Kelley I was most impressed with her and her portfolio. The design she submitted was superb and as you know, we gave her our client’s family gems to reset. The necklace was supposed to have been delivered this morning. Miss Kelley failed to keep the appointment and has not answered our repeated messages. Mr. Stratton, I want either that necklace or my client’s gems back immediately.”
Jay ran his tongue over his lips. He realized the hand holding the phone was damp. He had forgotten about the necklace. He chose his answer carefully. “I saw Miss Kelly a week ago. She showed me the necklace. It was exquisite. There must be some misunderstanding.”
“The misunderstanding is that she has failed to deliver the necklace, which is needed for an engagement party Friday night. I repeat, I want it or my client’s gems back tomorrow. I hold you responsible to execute one or the other alternative. Is that clear?”
The sharp click of the phone sounded in Stratton’s ears.
Michael Nash saw his last patient, Gerald Renquist, at five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. Renquist was the retired CEO of an international pharmaceutical company. Retirement had thrown a man whose personal identity was linked to the intrigue and politics of the boardroom to the status of unwilling sideliner.
“I know I should consider myself lucky,” Renquist was saying, “but I feel so damn useless. Even my wife pulled that old saw on me—‘I married you for better or worse, but not for lunch.’ ”
“You must have had a game plan for retirement,” Nash suggested mildly.
Renquist laughed. “I did. Avoid it at all cost.”
Depression, Nash thought. The common cold of mental illness. He realized he was tired and not giving Renquist his full attention. Not fair, he told himself. He’s paying for me to listen. Still, it was a distinct relief when at ten of six he was able to wrap up the session.
After Renquist left, Nash began to lock up. His office was on Seventy-first and Park, his apartment on the twentieth floor of the same building. He went out through the door that led to the lobby.
The new tenant in 20B, a blonde in her early thirties, was waiting for the elevator. He fought down irritation at the prospect of riding up with her. The undisguised interest in her eyes was a nuisance, as were her almost inevitable invitations to drop in for a drink.
Michael Nash had the same problem with a number of his women patients. He could read their minds. Nice-looking guy, divorced, no children, mid-to-late thirties, available. A diffident reserve had become second nature to him.
At least tonight the new neighbor did not repeat the invitation. Maybe she was learning. When they stepped from the elevator, he murmured, “Good night.”
His apartment reflected the precise care he took with everything in his life. Ivory flax upholstery on the twin sofas in the living room was repeated on the dining room chairs surrounding the round oak table. That table had been a find at an antique auction in Bucks County. The area carpets had muted geometric patterns on an ivory background. A wall of bookcases, plants on the windowsills, a Colonial dry sink which served as a bar, bric-a-brac he’d gathered on trips abroad, good paintings. A comfortable, handsome room.
The kitchen and study were to the left of the living room, the bedroom suite and bath to the right. A pleasant apartment and an attractive complement to the big place in Bridgewater that had been his parents’ pride and joy. Nash was often tempted to sell it, but knew he’d miss riding on weekends.
He took off his jacket and debated between watching the tail end of the six o’clock news or listening to his new compact disc, a Mozart symphony. Mozart won. As the familiar opening bars softly filled the room, the doorbell rang.
Nash knew exactly who it would be. Resigned, he answered it. The new neighbor stood holding an ice bucket—the oldest trick in the book. Thank God he hadn’t started to mix his drink. He gave her the ice, explained that no, he couldn’t join her, he was on his way out, and steered her to the door. When she was gone, still twittering about “Maybe next time,” he made straight for the bar, mixed a dry martini, and ruefully shook his head.
Settling on the sofa near the window, he sipped the cocktail, appreciating its smooth, soothing taste, and wondered about the young woman he was meeting for dinner at eight o’clock. Her response to his ad had been downright amusing.
His publisher was ecstatic about the first half of the book he was writing, the book analyzing the people who placed or answered personal ads, their psychological needs, their flights into fantasy in the way they described themselves.
His working title was The Personal Ads: Quest for Companionship or Departure from Reality?
IV
THURSDAY
February 21
/> Darcy sat at the dinette table, sipping coffee and staring unseeingly out the window at the gardens below. Barren now, scattered with unmelted snow, in the summer they were exquisitely planted and manicured to perfection. The prestigious owners of the private brownstones they backed included the Aga Khan and Katharine Hepburn.
Erin loved to come over when the gardens were in bloom. “From the street you’d never guess they exist,” she’d sigh. “I swear, Darce, you sure lucked out when you found this place.”
Erin. Where was she? The minute she woke up and realized that Erin had not phoned, Darcy had called the nursing home in Massachusetts. Mr. Kelley’s condition was unchanged. The semi-comatose state could go on indefinitely, although he was certainly getting weaker. No, there had been no emergency call to his daughter. The day nurse really couldn’t say if Erin had made her usual phone call last evening.
“What should I do?” Darcy wondered aloud. Report her missing? Call the police and inquire about accidents?
A sudden thought made her shiver. Suppose Erin had had an accident in the apartment. She had a habit of tilting back in her chair when she was concentrating. Suppose she’d been lying there unconscious all this time!
It took her three minutes to throw on a sweater and slacks, grab a coat and gloves. She waited agonizing minutes on Second Avenue before getting a cab.
“One-oh-one Christopher Street, and please hurry.”
“Everybody says ‘hurry.’ I say take it easy, you’ll live longer.” The cabbie winked into the rearview mirror.
Darcy turned her head. She was in no mood to banter with the driver. Why hadn’t she thought of the possibility of an accident? Last month, just before she went to California, Erin had dropped by for dinner. They’d watched the news. One of the commercials showed a frail old woman falling and getting help by touching the emergency signal on a chain around her neck. “That’ll be us in fifty years,” Erin had said. She’d imitated the commercial, moaning, “Hel-l-l-p, hel-l-l-p! I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!”
* * *
Gus Boxer, the superintendent of 101 Christopher Street, had an eye for pretty women. That was why when he hurried to the lobby to answer the persistent ring of the doorbell, his annoyed scowl was quickly replaced by an ingratiating twist of his mouth.
He liked what he saw. The visitor’s light brown hair was tossed by the wind. It fell forward on her face, reminding him of the Veronica Lake movies he stayed up to watch. Her hip-length leather jacket was old but had that classy look that Gus had come to recognize since taking this job in Greenwich Village.
His appraising eyes lingered on her long, slim legs. Then he realized why she looked familiar. He’d seen her a couple of times with 3B, Erin Kelley. He opened the vestibule door and stepped aside. “At your service,” he said in what he considered to be a winning manner.
Darcy walked past him, trying not to show her distaste. From time to time, Erin complained about the sixty-year-old Casanova in dirty flannel. “Boxer gives me the creeps,” she’d said. “I hate the idea he has a master key to my place. Once I walked in and found him there and he gave me some cock-and-bull story about a leak in the wall.”
“Was anything ever missing?” Darcy had asked.
“No. I keep any jewelry I’m working on in the safe. There’s nothing else worth pocketing. It’s more that he has a nasty, flirtatious way about him that makes my skin crawl. Oh well. I’ve got a safety bolt when I’m inside and the place is cheap. He’s probably harmless.”
Darcy came straight to the point. “I’m concerned about Erin Kelley,” she told the superintendent. “She was supposed to meet me last night and didn’t show up. She doesn’t answer her phone. I want to check her apartment. Something may have happened to her.”
Boxer squinted. “She was okay yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
Thick lids drooped over faded eyes. Parted lips were moistened with his tongue. His forehead collapsed into erratic lines. “No, I’m wrong. I seen her Tuesday. Late afternoon. She come in with some groceries.”
His tone became virtuous. “I offered to carry ‘em up for her.”
“That was Tuesday afternoon. Did you see her go out or return Tuesday evening?”
“Nope. Can’t say I did. But listen, I’m not a doorman. Tenants have their own keys. Delivery guys gotta use the intercom to get let in.”
Darcy nodded. Knowing it was useless, she had rung Erin’s apartment before she buzzed for the superintendent. “Please. I’m afraid there may be something wrong. I’ve got to get into her place. Do you have your passkey?”
The twisted smile returned. “You gotta understand, I don’t normally let people into an apartment just because they wanna go in. But I seen you with Kelley. I know you’re friends. You’re like her. Classy. Good-lookin’.”
Ignoring the compliment, Darcy started up the stairs.
The stairs and landings were clean but dreary. The patched walls were battleship gray, the tiles on the steps uneven. Walking into Erin’s apartment had the effect of going from a cave into daylight. When Erin moved here three years ago, Darcy had helped her paint and paper. They’d hired a U-Haul and made forays into Connecticut and New Jersey for garage-sale furnishings.
They’d painted the walls a stark white. Colorful Indian rugs were scattered over the scratched but polished parquet floor. Framed museum posters were arranged over a studio couch that was covered in bright red velour and piled with vividly assorted throw pillows.
The windows faced the street. Even though the sky was overcast, the light was excellent. Under the windows a long worktable held Erin’s supplies neatly placed side by side: torch, hand drill, files and pliers, ring clamps and spring tweezers, soldering block, gauges, drills. Darcy had always been fascinated to watch Erin at work, her slender fingers skillfully handling delicate gems.
Next to the table was Erin’s one extravagance, a tall chest with several dozen narrow drawers. A nineteenth-century pharmaceutical cabinet, the bottom drawers were a facade concealing a safe. One easy chair, a television, and a good stereo system completed the pleasant room.
Darcy’s immediate impression was a surge of relief. There was nothing out of order here. Gus Boxer at her heels, she walked swiftly into the tiny kitchen, a small windowless cubicle that they’d painted a bright yellow and decorated with framed tea towels.
The narrow hallway led to the bedroom. The pewter and brass bed and a two-on-three dresser were the only furniture in the closet-sized room. The bed was made. There was nothing out of place.
Clean, dry towels were on the rack in the bathroom. Darcy opened the medicine chest. With a practiced eye, she noted that Erin’s toothbrush, cosmetics and creams were all there.
Boxer was becoming impatient. “Looks okay to me. You satisfied?”
“No.” Darcy went back into the living room and walked over to the worktable. The message machine showed twelve calls had come in. She pressed playback.
“Hey, I don’t know—”
She cut off Boxer’s protest. “Erin is missing. Have you got that straight? She’s missing. I’m going to listen to these messages and see if they might somehow give me an idea of where she might be. Then I’m going to call the police and inquire about accidents. For all I know, she’s unconscious in a hospital somewhere. You can stay here with me or if you’re busy, you can go. Which is it?”
Boxer shrugged. “I guess it’s okay to leave you here.”
Darcy turned her back on him, reached into her purse, and took out her notebook and pen. She did not hear Boxer leave as the messages began. The first one had come on Tuesday evening at six forty-five. Someone named Tom Swartz. Thanks for answering his ad. Just discovered a great little inexpensive restaurant. Could they meet for dinner? He’d phone again.
Erin was supposed to meet Charles North on Tuesday evening at seven o’clock at a pub near Washington Square. By quarter of seven she had undoubtedly already left, Darcy thought.
The next call came
in at seven twenty-five. Michael Nash. “Erin, I certainly enjoyed meeting you and hope you might be free for dinner sometime this week. If you have a chance, call me back this evening.” Nash left both his home and office numbers.
Wednesday morning the calls began at nine o’clock. The first few were run-of-the-mill business-related. The one that made Darcy’s throat close was from an Aldo Marco of Bertolini’s. “Miss Kelley, I am disappointed you did not keep our ten o’clock appointment. It is essential that I see the necklace and be sure there is no last-minute adjustment necessary. Please get back to me immediately.”
That call had come in at eleven. There were three more follow-ups from the same man, increasing in irritation and urgency. Besides Darcy’s own messages, there was another one concerning the Bertolini assignment.
“Erin, this is Jay Stratton. What’s going on? Marco’s bugging me for the necklace and holding me responsible for bringing you to him.”
Darcy knew that Stratton was the jeweler who had given Erin’s portfolio to Bertolini’s. His message came in around seven Wednesday evening. Darcy started to push the rewind button, then paused. Maybe it would be better not to erase these. She looked in the phone book for the number of the nearest precinct. “I want to report someone missing,” she said when the call was answered. She was told that she would have to come in personally, that this kind of information about a competent adult could not be accepted over the phone.
I’ll stop there on my way home, Darcy thought. She went into the kitchen and made coffee, noting that the only milk container was unopened. Erin started her day with coffee and always drank it light. Boxer had seen her with groceries Tuesday afternoon. Darcy looked into the garbage pail under the sink. There were a few odds and ends, but no empty milk container. She wasn’t here yesterday morning, Darcy thought. She never got back Tuesday night.
She brought the coffee back to the worktable. A daily reminder was in the top drawer. She flipped through it, starting with today. There were no appointments listed. Yesterday, Wednesday, there were two: Bertolini’s, 10 A.M.; Bella Vita, 7 P.M. (Darcy and Nona).