Alone in the kitchen, Lacey pressed her back against the wall, willing herself to be calm, resisting the urge to call out to Kate not to bother with the letter to Isabelle Waring, since it was too late for it to matter to her.
23
AFTER NEARLY FOUR MONTHS OF INVESTIGATION, U.S. ATTORNEY Gary Baldwin was no nearer to locating Sandy Savarano than he had been when he had still believed Savarano was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery.
His staff had painstakingly studied Heather Landi’s journal, and had tracked down the people named in it. It was a process that Isabelle Waring also had attempted, Baldwin thought, as he once again studied the police artist’s rendering of Sandy Savarano’s face as drawn from Lacey Farrell’s description of him.
The artist had attached a note to the drawing: “Witness does not appear to have a good eye for noticing the kind of detail that would make the suspect identifiable.”
They had tried talking to the doorman in the building where the murder took place, but he remembered virtually nothing of the killer. He said he saw too many people come and go there, and besides, he was about to retire.
So that leaves me with only Lacey Farrell to personally finger Savarano, Baldwin thought bitterly. If anything happens to her, there’s no case. Sure, we got his fingerprint off Farrell’s door after her apartment was burglarized, but we can’t even prove he went inside. Farrell’s the only one who can tie him to Isabelle Waring’s murder. Without her to ID him, forget it, he told himself.
The only useful information his undercover agents had been able to glean about the killer was that before his staged death, Savarano’s claustrophobia apparently had become acute. One agent was told: “Sandy had nightmares about cell doors clanging closed behind him.”
So what had brought him out of retirement? Baldwin wondered. Big bucks? A favor he had to repay? Maybe both. And throw in the thrill of the hunt, of course. Savarano was a vicious predator. Part of it could have been simple boredom. Retirement might have been too tame for him.
Baldwin knew Savarano’s rap sheet by heart. Forty-two years old, a suspect in a dozen murders, but hasn’t seen the inside of a prison since he was a kid in reform school! A smart guy, as well as a born killer.
If I were Savarano, Baldwin thought, my one purpose in life right now would be to find Lacey Farrell and make sure she never gets the chance to finger me.
He shook his head, and his forehead creased with concern. The witness protection program wasn’t foolproof; he knew that. People got careless. When they called home, they usually said something on the phone that gave away their hiding place, or they started writing letters. One mobster who was put in the program after cooperating with the government was dumb enough to send a birthday card to an old girlfriend. He was shot to death a week later.
Gary Baldwin had an uneasy feeling about Lacey Farrell. Her profile made her sound like someone who could find it difficult to be alone for a long stretch of time. Plus she seemed to be exceptionally trusting, a trait that could get her in real trouble. He shook his head. Well, there was nothing he could do about it except to send word to her through channels not to let her guard down, even for a minute.
24
MONA FARRELL DROVE INTO MANHATTAN FOR WHAT HAD become her standing Saturday dinner date with Alex Carbine. She always looked forward to the evening with him, even though he left the table frequently to greet his regular customers and the occasional celebrities who came to his restaurant.
“It’s fun,” she assured him. “And I really don’t mind. Don’t forget I was married to a musician. You don’t know how many Broadway shows I sat through alone because Jack was in the orchestra pit!”
Jack would have liked Alex, Mona thought as she exited the George Washington Bridge and turned south onto the West Side Highway. Jack had been quick-witted and great fun, and quite gregarious. Alex was a much quieter man, but in him it was an attractive quality.
Mona smiled as she thought of the flowers that Alex had sent her earlier. The card read simply, “May they brighten your day. Yours, Alex.”
He knew that the weekly phone call from Lacey tore her heart out. He understood how painful the whole experience was for her, and the flowers were Alex’s way of saying it.
She had confided to him that Lacey had told her where she was living. “But I haven’t even told Kit,” she explained. “Kit would be hurt if she thought I didn’t trust her.”
It’s funny, Mona thought, as the traffic on the West Side Highway slowed to a crawl because of a blocked right lane, things have always gone smoothly for Kit, but not for Lacey. Kit met Jay when she was at Boston College and he was in graduate school at Tufts. They fell in love, married, and now had three wonderful kids and a lovely home. Jay might be pontifical and occasionally pompous, but he certainly was a good husband and father. Just the other day, he had surprised Kit with an expensive gold-leaf necklace she had admired in the window of Groom’s Jewelry in Ridgewood.
Kit said that Jay had told her business suddenly had become very good again. I’m glad, Mona thought. She had been worried for a while that things were not going well. Certainly in the fall it was obvious that he had a lot on his mind.
Lacey deserves happiness, Mona told herself. Now’s the time for her to meet the right person and get married and start a family, and I’m sure she’s ready. Instead she’s alone in a strange city and she has to stay there and pretend to be someone else because her life is in danger.
She reached the parking lot on West Forty-sixth Street at seven-thirty. Alex didn’t expect her at the restaurant until eight, which meant she would have time to do something that had occurred to her earlier.
A newsstand in Times Square carried out-of-town newspapers—she would see if they had any from Minneapolis. It would make her feel closer to Lacey if she became familiar with the city, and there would be some comfort in just knowing that Lacey could be reading the paper as well.
The night was cold but clear, and she enjoyed the five-block walk to Times Square. How often we were here when Jack was alive, she thought. We’d get together with friends after a show. Kit was never as interested in the theater as Lacey. She was like Jack—in love with Broadway. She must be missing it terribly.
At the newsstand she found a copy of the Minneapolis Star Tribune. Lacey may have read this same edition this morning, she thought. Even touching the paper made Lacey seem closer.
“Would you like a bag, lady?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Mona fished in her purse for her wallet as the vendor folded the paper and put it in a plastic bag.
When Mona reached the restaurant, there was a line at the checkroom. Seeing that Alex was already at their table, she hurried over to him. “Sorry, I guess I’m late,” she said.
He got up and kissed her cheek. “You’re not late, but your face is cold. Did you walk from New Jersey?”
“No. I was early and decided to pick up a newspaper.”
Carlos, their usual waiter, was hovering nearby. “Mrs. Farrell, let me take your coat. Do you want to check your package?”
“Why not keep that?” Alex suggested. He took the bag from her and put it on the empty chair at their table.
It was, as always, a pleasant evening. By the time they were sipping espresso, Alex Carbine’s hand was covering hers.
“Not too busy a night for you,” Mona said teasingly. “You’ve only been up and down about ten times.”
“I thought that might be why you bought a newspaper.”
“Not at all, although I did glance at the headlines.” Mona reached for her purse. “My turn to get up. I’ll be right back.”
Alex saw her to her car at eleven-thirty. At one o’clock the restaurant closed and the staff went home.
At ten of twelve a phone call was made. The message was simple. “Tell Sandy it looks like she’s in Minneapolis.”
25
WHAT HAD HAPPENED BETWEEN HEATHER LANDI AND Rick Parker?
Lacey was stunned to learn they had known each other
. After Tom Lynch and Kate Knowles had left Friday night, she had been unable to sleep and had sat up for hours, trying to make sense of it all. Over the weekend her mind had constantly replayed the night of Isabelle Waring’s death. What had Rick been thinking as he sat there, listening to her being quizzed about how well she had known Isabelle, and if she had ever known Heather? Why hadn’t he said something?
According to what Kate had been told, on the last day of her life, Heather had been visibly upset when she saw Rick at the skiing lodge in Stowe.
Kate had referred to Rick as a “jerk who’s in real estate in New York” and had said that he “had pulled something on Heather when she came to the city.”
Lacey remembered that, in her journal, Heather alluded to an unpleasant incident that happened when she was looking for an apartment on the West Side. Could that have involved Rick? Lacey wondered.
Before being transferred to Madison Avenue, Rick had spent five years in the West Side office of Parker and Parker. He changed offices about three years ago.
Which means, Lacey thought, that he was working the West Side at precisely the time Heather Landi came to New York and was apartment hunting. Did she go to Parker and Parker and meet Rick? And if she did, what had happened between them?
Lacey shook her head in anger. Could Rick be involved in all of this mess? she wondered. Am I stuck here because of him?
Rick was the one who gave me Curtis Caldwell’s name as a potential buyer for Isabelle’s apartment, she reminded herself. It was because of him that I brought Caldwell there. If Rick had known Caldwell somehow, then maybe the police would be able to track Caldwell down through Rick. And if they arrest Caldwell, then I’ll be able to go home.
Lacey stood up and began to pace the room excitedly. This could be part of what Isabelle had seen in the journal. She had to get this information to Gary Baldwin at the U.S. Attorney’s office.
Lacey’s fingers itched to pick up the phone and call him, but direct contact was absolutely forbidden. She would have to leave a message for George Svenson to call her, then either write or talk to Baldwin through secure channels.
I have to talk to Kate again, Lacey thought. I have to find out more about Bill Merrill, the boyfriend who had mentioned Heather’s reaction to Rick Parker, and I have to find out where he lives. Baldwin will want to talk to him, I’m sure. He can place Rick Parker in Stowe only hours before Heather died.
Kate had mentioned that the cast was staying at the Radisson Plaza Hotel for the week. Lacey glanced at her watch. It was ten-thirty. Even if Kate was a late sleeper, like most show-business people, she probably would be awake by now.
A still slightly sleepy voice answered the phone, but when she realized who was calling, Kate livened up and seemed pleased enough at Lacey’s suggestion that they get together for lunch the next day. “Maybe we should try to get Tom to join us, Kate,” she suggested. “You know how nice he is. He’ll take us to a good restaurant and pay the tab to boot.” Then laughing, she added, “Forget it. I just realized, his program goes on at noon.”
Just as well, Lacey thought. No doubt Tom would pick up on the fact that she was pumping Kate for informaton. But he is nice, she thought, remembering how concerned he had been that he wasn’t paying her enough attention at the party.
She arranged to meet Kate at the Radisson at twelve-thirty the next day. As she replaced the receiver, she felt a sudden surge of hope. It’s almost like seeing the first ray of sunshine after a long, terrible storm, she decided, as she walked to the window and pulled back the curtain to look out.
It was a perfect Midwestern winter’s day. The outdoor temperature was only twenty-eight degrees, but the sun was shining warmly in a cloudless sky. There appeared to be no wind, and Lacey could see that the sidewalks were clear of snow.
Until today, she had been too nervous to go for a real run, afraid that she would look over her shoulder and see Caldwell behind her, his pale, icy eyes fixed on her. But suddenly, feeling as though there was the possibility of some sort of breakthrough in the case, she decided that she had to try, at least, to resume some kind of normal life.
When she had packed to move, Lacey had brought her cold-weather jogging clothes: a warm-up suit, jacket, mittens, hat, scarf. She quickly put them on and headed to the door. Just as she was turning the knob, the phone rang. Her first instinct was to let it go, but then she decided to pick it up.
“Ms. Carroll, you don’t know me,” a crisp voice told her. “I’m Millicent Royce. I hear you may be looking for a job in the real estate field. Wendell Woods talked to me about you this morning.”
“I am looking, or rather, just about to start looking,” Lacey said hopefully.
“Wendell was quite impressed with you and suggested we should meet. The office is in Edina.”
Edina was fifteen minutes away. “I know where that is.”
“Good. Take down the address. Are you free this afternoon by any chance?”
When Lacey left the apartment and jogged down the street, it was with the sense that her luck might be changing at last. If Millicent Royce did hire her, it would mean she would have something to do to fill her days until she could go home.
After all, she thought wryly, as Ms. Royce just told me, real estate can be a very exciting career. I bet she doesn’t know the half of it!
Tom Lynch’s four-hour program was a mixture of news, interviews, and offbeat humor. It was broadcast each weekday from noon till four o’clock, and his guests ran the spectrum from political figures, authors, and visiting celebrities to local VIPs.
He spent most mornings before the show in his office at the station, roaming the Internet in search of items of interest, or poring over newspapers and periodicals from all over the country, looking for unusual subjects to discuss.
On the Monday morning following the opening of The King and I, he was not comfortable with the fact that he had been thinking about Alice Carroll all weekend. Several times he had been tempted to call her, but he always replaced the receiver before the connection was made.
He reminded himself that he would almost certainly see her at the gym during the week; he could just suggest casually that they go out for dinner or to a movie. Phoning and planning a date might potentially take on undue significance, and then it would be uncomfortable if he didn’t ask her out again, or if she refused, and they still kept running into each other.
He knew his concern on that subject was a standing joke with his friends. As one of them had told him recently, “Tom, you’re a nice guy, but if you don’t call some girl again, trust me, she’ll get through the day.”
Remembering that conversation, Tom silently acknowledged that if he had a few dates with Alice Carroll and then didn’t call her again, she clearly would get through the day very well without him.
There was something so quietly contained about her, he thought, as he watched the clock and realized he was an hour away from air time. She didn’t talk much about herself, and something in her told him that she didn’t invite questions. That first afternoon, when they had coffee together in the gym, she hadn’t seemed happy when he teased her about moving to Minneapolis. Then Friday evening he had sensed that when the overture to The King and I began, she had been close to tears.
Some girls have a fit if their date doesn’t give them full attention at a party. But it hadn’t bothered Alice a bit that he had left her on her own when people came up to talk to him.
The clothes she had worn to the opening were expensive. A blind man could see that.
He had overheard her tell Kate that she had seen The King and I three times. And she had talked knowledgeably with Kate about the revival of The Boy Friend.
Expensive outfits. Trips in and out of New York from Hartford to go to the theater. These generally weren’t the kinds of things one was able to do on the salary of a clerk in a doctor’s office.
Tom shrugged and reached for the phone. It was no use. His questions were a sign of his interest in her, and the f
act was, he couldn’t stop thinking of her. He was going to call Alice and ask her if she wanted to have dinner tonight. He wanted to see her. He reached for the phone, dialed, and waited. After four rings the answering machine clicked on. Her voice, low and pleasing, said: “You’ve reached 555-1247. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Tom hesitated, then hung up, deciding to call back later. He felt more uncomfortable than ever over the fact that he was so intensely disappointed at not having reached her.
26
ON MONDAY MORNING SANDY SAVARANO TOOK NORTH west flight 1703 from La Guardia Airport in New York to Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport in Minneapolis.
He rode first class, as he had on the flight from Costa Rica, where he now lived. He was known to his neighbors there as Charles Austin, a well-to-do U.S. businessman who had sold his company two years ago at age forty and retired to the tropical good life.
His twenty-four-year-old wife had driven him to the airport in Costa Rica and made him promise not to stay away too long. “You’re supposed to be retired now,” she had said, pouting lovingly as she kissed him good-bye.
“That doesn’t mean that I turn down found money,” he had said.
It was the same answer he had given her about the several other jobs he had undertaken since he staged his death two years ago.
“Lovely day to fly.”
The voice was that of a young woman in her late twenties who was seated next to him. In a way, she reminded him very slightly of Lacey Farrell. But then, Farrell was on his mind, since she was the reason he was on his way to Minneapolis now. The only person in the world who can finger me for a murder, he thought. She doesn’t deserve to live. And she won’t for long.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed shortly.