"Be careful," she said, numbly. "The blood."
As they walked into the lobby, she stopped and blinked. "My God, it's beautiful."
"You've never been to the Waldorf?"
"Not exactly in my financial genetics."
"I generally just meet clients here, but I've stayed a few times. When I'm having work done on my place. This's old New York. That's what I like about it."
Her head swiveled back and forth, taking in the rich wood, the massive clock in the center of the lobby, the soaring ceilings.
"Come on," he said. "We'll sightsee later."
At the desk, they checked in, two rooms, Daniel using his credit card; he was worried that the police or someone else who might want the October List could track her here if she used hers. Datamining was all the rage nowadays, she'd read in the New Yorker.
They got out of the elevator. Their rooms weren't adjacent but were on the same floor, not far apart. As they walked down the corridor, Gabriela felt the seeds of attraction unfolding again--even greater than the feelings she'd sensed in the bar yesterday when they'd met.
Yes, she kept thinking, Sarah. The name didn't stop the stirrings deep within as she stole a glance at Daniel. But then: How can you possibly think of sleeping with him?
Still, she countered: Perhaps because you've been lonely for too many years.
And because Daniel Reardon is a little--maybe a lot--like you?
But she reminded: Stay focused.
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah...
In the hallway he said, "Let's get something to eat. Or a drink at least."
"Yes, I guess I need something."
That morning's breakfast, which they'd shared, was a hazy memory.
After dropping the bags in their respective rooms, they met downstairs in the subdued, elegant lobby bar. They sat beside each other in a banquette, their knees touching. The server, a woman with severely bunned hair, approached and greeted them, sharing that her name was Liz. She inquired if they were in town on business or for a vacation. Gabriela let Daniel answer.
"Just seeing the sights," he said amiably.
"Sorry the weather's not nicer. It was warm last week."
They ordered: cheese and pate and bread, and a bottle of Brunello.
Sipping the potent Tuscan wine, they talked about everything, free associating--everything, that is, except the October List and the kidnapping, much less the plastic bag. She'd brought to the table with her the files from her apartment, labeled Prescott Investments--Open Items. But she let them sit unopened, as if afraid they might not have the answers as to how they could save a kidnapped child.
She looked at her phone and sighed. "From Rafael. He got out safe and made the delivery. So far, so good."
Nodding at this bit of good news, Daniel slipped his jacket off and she caught a glimpse of a line of reddish flesh, a scar visible in the V where his shirt tugged open. It crossed from chest to shoulder. He caught her eyes and pulled his shirt closed again, self-consciously.
"Can I ask what happened?"
He seemed to be debating.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"No, I'll tell you. A few years ago I was driving with the kids up to New Hampshire and I was really tired. I shouldn't have pushed it. I fell asleep and went off the road."
"Jesus."
"The car went down an embankment into a river. The doors were wedged shut. It started to fill up with water."
"Daniel, no!"
"God, it was cold. We'd gone to see the leaves. It was September but really frigid."
"What happened?" she whispered.
"We would all've drowned but some local guy happened to drive by--looked like he was out of Deliverance, you know? A mountain man sort, a redneck. He drove his pickup down the embankment, grabbed an ax and jumped in after us, even though the water had to be about thirty-five degrees. He just swam to the car and kept smacking away at the back window until he got us out. I got cut on a piece of metal after I shoved the boys out."
"Oh, how terrible."
Daniel gave a brief laugh. "And you know what? As soon as we were on the shore, he waved goodbye and left. Wouldn't take any money, wouldn't give me his name even. He just acted like, hell, who wouldn't risk freezing to death to save somebody? Like it was the most natural thing in the world."
"It hurts still?" A nod toward his chest.
"No, no. That was five years ago. Stiff sometimes, in the damp. But that's all." He grew quiet. "I was stupid and nearly got my sons killed. It was like that guy gave me a second chance. I don't really think I deserved it. But there he was."
She lowered her hand on his arm and pressed. She wanted so badly to kiss him but, with some effort, refrained. They returned to the wine and both fell silent.
Daniel signed the check and, at her suggestion, they divided up the files. They would spend the remaining hours of the evening, until exhaustion struck, looking for any leads to cash that Charles Prescott might have hidden. They walked to the elevators. When they exited the car he accompanied her to her door.
She hugged him. "Daniel, I--"
"Don't know how to thank me?"
Her response was to grip him harder and surrender to sobbing.
"She'll be okay," he said. "Your daughter'll be all right."
Gabriela wiped her eyes and, stepping away, breathed deeply. Controlled herself.
A few seconds passed; they remained immobile, listening to voices laughing a few rooms away, a TV rumbling with an action flick.
She opened her door and stepped inside, turned back to him. Daniel eased closer.
Would he kiss her? she wondered.
She wondered too how she would respond.
But instead he offered the most chaste of embraces, murmured, "Good night," and, holding his stack of folders, stepped back into the hall. The door swung shut and she was alone.
CHAPTER 18
5:55 P.M., SATURDAY
2 HOURS, 35 MINUTES EARLIER
THEY WALKED ALONG A northbound street on the East Side, dodging trash and tourists and early diners, night-shift workers, dog walkers and homeless men and women... or perhaps just locals who appeared homeless--scruffy, inattentive to hair and beard and laundry.
Their mission, which was proving difficult, was to find a cab to take them to her co-op apartment. Gabriela muttered angrily, "What they did back there, those assholes, it set us back an hour! And the deadline's in minutes!"
"At least you're not in jail," he said.
She didn't respond to this tepid reassurance. "Jesus, Daniel, it's hopeless. I knew we couldn't get the money in time but at least we could've found some concrete lead before the deadline. Something to reassure Joseph that we'd have the cash soon. But now... shit." Desperation crimped her voice. She jerked her head to the east and south, where they'd just come from. "They're fucking sadists, those two."
"And where the hell are all the cabs?" he muttered.
Several sped by, either occupied or off-duty. Daniel waved his wallet at one of the latter but the driver just kept going.
They turned up a street that was grubby, darker and more pungent than in tourist-land, less congested, in hopes of finding a taxi. They passed stores in which dusty displays of DVDs or lace and buttons or used books or hardware sat faded behind greasy glass, a sad porn shop lit with bile-green fluorescents, Chinese and Mexican take-out restaurants that could not possibly have passed city inspection. In front of several of these establishments sat slight, dark-complexioned men, smoking and speaking in hushed tones or making mobile calls.
Gabriela's cell phone rang. She looked at her watch. "Deadline time." They paused and stepped to the brick wall of a building, so no one else could hear the conversation.
She took a deep breath, hit Accept and activated the speaker so Daniel could hear.
"Joseph?"
"Ah, Gabriela. I've been looking at the phone. Staring. It didn't ring."
"It's just six. I was going to call you! I swear. Listen--"
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"You have my money?"
"I've found the October List!"
"Have you now?" That teasing voice again. "Cause for celebration! What does it look like? Is it thick, is it thin, is it printed on construction paper?"
She blurted, in a guttural tone, "Tell me--how's my daughter? Tell me!"
"She's a little... troubled." As if Joseph was pouting.
"What? What do you mean?"
"I told her I hadn't heard any good news from you. So there might not be any good news for her."
"You told her that?" Gabriela whispered.
"Now, what do you think? Would it be in my interest to make your daughter feel any more panicky? Honestly, I can't even joke with you. You need to relax a bit. Okay, the money?" he asked, his tone suddenly blase.
"I've got the list."
"Heard that part. But saying that tells me you don't have the money. And since you dodged the question about describing the list, I'm a little skeptical of that too."
"No, no! I swear!"
"Ever notice," Joseph offered, "when people say things like 'I swear' and 'you've got to believe me,' they are invariably lying?"
"I'm not lying! I have it. It's in a place for safekeeping. I didn't want to walk around with it."
"Not much need for that. Proportionately there're less muggings in New York than Portland, Maine. So, fine. You've found the list. Wunderbar! Let's get back to money."
"I've been running around town all day trying to do what you asked," she cried. "Please, just a little more time. It's taken longer than I thought. I'm sorry!"
"Racked with guilt, are you?"
Daniel stiffened with anger. His face grew dark. But he remained silent.
She leaned close to the phone. "Please, it's been a nightmare. The police are everywhere! I can't just sneak into the garden behind Charles's town house and start digging for treasure, can I?" Her voice caught. Then she muttered angrily, "Tell me right now! How is my daughter?"
"She's alive."
"Alive? But is she okay?"
"Pretty much."
"She must be terrified."
"And I'm afraid of heights. Snakes aren't my favorite either. But we cope. Now, money makes the world go 'round. That was the deal we made." He seemed again to be pouting. "You've breached it. You've broken our agreement."
"I'll get your money," she snapped. "I just need more time! I'm doing everything I can."
"More time, more time." His voice was taunting.
"Just a little."
"Could be, you know, that you've found the money and you're stalling, trying to figure out a way to keep it and get your daughter back."
"No! Why would I do that?"
"Because you're out of a job, remember?"
She began to tremble. Daniel put his arm around her.
Joseph said, "You were Charles Prescott's office manager."
"Yes," she whispered.
"So you know something about business?"
She hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"You know about business?" he repeated petulantly.
"I... I know some things. What are you asking?"
"You familiar with the concept of penalties?" Joseph's voice was completely flat. The smarmy tone was gone. "Like you don't pay your taxes on time, there's a penalty? Well, you didn't pay me on time. You missed the deadline."
"I tried."
" 'Try' is a non-word. Either you do something or you don't. It's impossible to try to do something. So. New deadline. Six p.m. tomorrow--"
"Thank you! I--"
"I'm not through. Six p.m. tomorrow--you deliver the October List. And, now, five hundred thousand."
"No! You can't do that."
"Is that what you say to the IRS? 'I'm so sorry. I can't pay what you want. No penalty for me!' Look at me as the Excuse Nazi." Giddy once more. His laugh was nearly a giggle.
"Why not just a fucking million?" she raged. "Or ten million?" Daniel squeezed her arm. She said to Joseph, "I'm doing the best I can."
"Ah, just like 'trying.' There's no 'best' or 'worst.' There's keeping up your half of our agreement or not."
"We don't have an agreement! You're extorting me, you kidnap--"
"Hello! Didn't we have a conversation about movie dialogue? Now, consequences, I was saying: First, the penalty, the extra hundred K. Then, second, you have to go on a scavenger hunt."
"A what?"
"A scavenger hunt."
"I don't understand," Gabriela said, her voice choked.
"What's not to understand? It'll be easy. I'll bet it won't take you more than thirty minutes to find the prize."
"You're insane!"
"Well, now, that's all relative, isn't it? Go to Times Square. Behind a Dumpster in the alley at Forty-Eighth and Seventh. West side of the intersection."
"What's there?" she asked in a high, shaky voice.
But Joseph's response was to disconnect.
THEY DIDN'T NEED A CAB.
The prize Joseph had sent them to find was only four or so blocks away. They plunged into Times Square, a disorienting world of brilliant lights, massive high-def monitors, overlapping tracks of pulsing music, hawkers, street musicians, impatient traffic, mad bicyclists, tourists, tourists, tourists... The crowds were denser now, more boisterous, anticipating plays and concerts and meals and movies.
In ten minutes they'd come to the intersection that Joseph had described. She said, "There! That's the Dumpster." And started forward.
"Wait," Daniel said.
"No," she said firmly.
He tried to stop her. But she pulled away and dropped to her knees, looking behind the battered, dark green disposal unit.
Gabriela fished out the CVS pharmacy bag and looked inside. She choked. "It's Sarah's sweatshirt!" The pink garment was wadded up tightly. She started to lift it out and froze. "Blood, Daniel!" The streaks, largely dried to brown, were obvious. There was something primitive about them, like paint on the face of ancient warriors.
Gabriela gingerly lifted out the shirt, which was tied with a gingham hair ribbon. As she did, the garment unfurled and something fell from the inner folds to the grim floor of the alley. The colors were the pink of flesh and red of blood, and the shape was that of a small finger.
Daniel got to her just before her head hit the cobblestones.
CHAPTER 17
5:30 P.M., SATURDAY
25 MINUTES EARLIER
THE ONLY GOOD IS WHAT FURTHERS MY INTEREST...
Joseph Astor recited this to himself as he carried his shopping bag toward a warehouse on the far west side of Manhattan, in the Forties. Traffic on the streets was noisy; on the Hudson River, silent.
His large form blustered over the sidewalk, and people glanced at his bulk and his dead eyes and his curly blond hair and they got out of his way. Joseph paid them no mind, after noting that none of them was a cop or other threat.
An impressive view of the Intrepid aircraft carrier before him, Joseph turned down a side street and approached the one-story warehouse. He undid the heavy Master padlock and muscled the door open, stepped in and slammed it shut. He flicked on the lights. The warehouse was mostly empty, though there were two vans parked inside, one completely useless, and sagging boxes stacked in one corner, molding into an unpleasant mass on the floor. The place was little used and typical of a thousand such buildings, two thousand, three, throughout the New York area. Small, solid structures, always in need of paint and fumigation, either windowless or with glass panes so grimy they were virtually blacked out. Most of these buildings were legitimate. But some were used by men, mostly men, who needed safe houses for certain activities--away from the public, away from the police. Long-term leases, paid in advance. Utilities paid by fake companies.
Tonight would be the last time he'd use this warehouse; he'd abandon it forever and move to the other one, similar, in SoHo, for the rest of the job, which he might have called the Gabriela Job or the Prescott Job but instead had--with some perverse humor--tak
en to calling Sarah's Sleep-Away.
He took his jacket off but left on the beige cloth gloves--always the gloves. He strode to the corner of the place, a workbench. In the center of it was the windbreaker he'd showed Gabriela earlier in the day, along with a pink sweatshirt, on which Sarah was stitched across the chest. To the right were a dozen old tools and from the pile he found a large pair of clippers, like the sort used for cutting branches or flower stems. The edge was rusty, but sharp enough.
The only good...
From the shopping bag he extracted the fiberglass hand of a clothing store mannequin. He'd stolen the plastic appendage from an open loading dock behind a showroom in the Fashion District earlier that afternoon, after he'd been tailing Reardon and Gabriela near the building with the Prescott Investments sign on the front.
Gripping the clippers firmly, he cut into the dummy's little finger at the second knuckle. This he rested in the middle of the sweatshirt and lifted out the last item in the bag, a beef tenderloin, sealed in thick cellophane. He used the clippers to snip a hole in the end of the bag and let the blood dribble onto the plastic digit and the sweatshirt. There was more liquid than expected; the result was suitably gory.
Excellent.
He bundled the shirt up with a gingham hair ribbon.
Seeing the beef blood spread, he thought: How lovely, how delicious... A line he would remember to share with Gabriela later. As he worked, he opened a bottle of his favorite beverage in the world. His Special Brew. It was virtually all he drank. Sustaining, comforting. He drank deeply.
A bottle a day...
After tidying up and putting the steak into the refrigerator in a tiny kitchen area of the warehouse, he put his handiwork into a CVS drugstore plastic bag.
He returned to the table and sat, sipping his beloved Hawaiian Punch--the original flavor, red.
Joseph wondered what the reaction would be to the memento inside the bag.
Another glance at his watch. The deadline was looming. He was thinking about Gabriela and the October List and Daniel Reardon. Joseph had met him only about six hours ago, on the street with Gabriela, and already disliked him intensely.