Victoria stared at the woman's face, and a sickening realization struck, settling like lead in the pit of her stomach. This woman's features were distorted, yes. But it was definitely Audrey. Something was very wrong with her, something physical that was warping her appearance. Her breath was coming in unnatural pants, her chest rising and falling with each unsteady intake of air.
Fear gripped Victoria's gut.
"Audrey." She touched her sister's cheek, wiping raindrops from her skin.
In response, Audrey's lips moved slightly. "Fi . . . fi . . . five ... oh ... four ... oh ... oh," she rasped, her tone as unnatural as her appearance. "Dan ... ger."
She slumped back, unconscious.
Panicked, Victoria threw back her head and scanned the area, hoping against hope she'd see someone who could help.
There was no one.
Cursing softly, she made two attempts to lift her sister, both of which failed. Judging from Audrey's erratic breathing, there was no time to waste. She needed immediate medical attention.
Leaping to her feet, Victoria cupped her hands over her mouth and called for help. She waited, praying someone would respond. But the area remained deserted.
She gauged her whereabouts, deciding the best thing she could do was to find one of the policemen who patrolled the park. She hated leaving Audrey, even for a few minutes, but she had to get an ambulance. The public phones were too far away, and besides, they never worked.
She cast one quick, worried glance at her sister, then ran off to get help.
It took' ten minutes to find a cop, and five more—given her overwrought state and far-fetched story about a sister who'd appeared out of nowhere only to collapse unconscious—to convince him that she wasn't insane or some wacko looking for attention. Finally, he accompanied her back to the spot on the footpath where she'd left Audrey.
It was deserted.
"There's no one here," the policeman announced pointedly, as if Victoria couldn't see that for herself. She would have told him as much, but she was far too stunned and worried to pay attention to his annoyance.
Where was Audrey?
She darted about, searching the immediate area.
Nothing. Not a sign that anyone had been here a few minutes ago.
"Look, lady, I don't know who you saw—"
"She was here." Victoria whipped about, her jaw set.
"Fine. Well, she isn't here now. So she must have felt better, gotten up, and gone home."
"She was unconscious." Victoria slid her hand beneath the clip that held back her mane of sable hair. She rubbed the nape of her neck, blindly scanning the grounds, the anxiety in her gut intensifying. "There's no way she could have gotten up, much less gone home."
The cop's eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he studied her face with an expression Victoria recognized only too well.
"I'm not on anything, Officer," she informed him firmly. "I'm an attorney. My name is Victoria Kensington. And I'm telling you that my sister collapsed right here at my feet in this very spot. She was unconscious when I went to find you."
Evidently, the officer was satisfied with the first part of her story, if not the last. "You're sure it was this spot?"
"Positive. I know Central Park like the back of my hand. I run here three times a week—same time, same course."
"With your sister?"
"No. Alone. She knew that. She must have come to meet me." Victoria fought back her rising panic. "With all due respect, I have to find her. If you're not going to help me, I'm going to scour this park on my own."
He scratched his head. "If it was your sister, why don't you check her apartment? She probably went home. Especially if she's feeling as sick as you say."
Victoria bit back her explanation. There was no point in telling him that Audrey couldn't have gone home, that home wasn't even in New York and hadn't been for years. And there was certainly no point in elaborating that she'd been dressed in what looked like a hospital gown and that she'd looked odd and distorted, not just sick. It would only convince the cop that she was either lying or completely nuts.
And it would waste time. Time she could use to search for her sister.
"Thank you, Officer. I'll do that."
She turned and dashed off.
* * *
Two and a half hours later, Victoria let herself into her apartment. She was soaked to the skin, her teeth chattering from the cold. She'd combed what seemed to be an endless stretch of Central Park, and there had been no sign of Audrey. Then she'd gone to the local police precinct and begged for their help.
Even those officers she knew from court appearances had eyed her skeptically. Two of them had offered to call the local hospitals now and later to conduct a search of Central Park—after the weather had cleared up.
The second part of their offer was pointless. She'd checked everywhere on the park grounds within a half-mile radius. And hours from now? By then Audrey could be anywhere. But as for the first part of their offer, calling the hospitals, that she'd taken them up on.
They'd phoned every medical facility within ten miles of the park. Not one of them had an Audrey Kensington listed as a patient.
Where had she disappeared to? What in the name of heaven was going on?
Victoria slammed her front door shut and headed for her bedroom. She paused only to yank open the linen closet, grab a towel, and wrap it around her to absorb the rain. She really needed a bath and a change of clothes, but that would have to wait.
She went straight to her telephone and dialed her parents' private number at their home in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Her mother's sleepy voice answered. "Hello?"
"Mother, it's me."
"Victoria?" A faint note of concern. No one ever called this number before 10 a.m. When Victoria had lived at home, she'd made sure of it, turning off the ringer so her mother wouldn't be disturbed. Everyone thought Barbara Kensington just slept fashionably late. Victoria knew better. Her mother was sleeping off the effects of a late-night brow- beating and the liquor needed to dull the pain and fill the emotional void created by her husband.
The drinking had eased. The pain and emptiness hadn't.
"Victoria?" her mother repeated. "Is everything all right?"
"I don't know," she replied. "Mother, where's Audrey?"
"What?" Barbara Kensington paused, and Victoria could almost see her delicate brows knit in puzzlement. "What kind of question is that? You know where Audrey is. She's in Florence, painting."
"Are you sure?"
"Victoria, you're starting to frighten me. Of course I'm sure. What is this about? It's not even eight-thirty in the morning. Did you hear something on the news that upset you? Is that what's prompting this call?"
"No, nothing like that." Victoria watched puddles form at her sneakered feet. She studied them idly as she tried to decide how much to tell her mother. Her first instinct, as always, was to protect her. There was no point in alarming the poor woman unnecessarily—especially since Victoria didn't have all the facts. On the other hand, she had to do something to find Audrey.
She chose a most distasteful detour.
"Is Father home?" she tried, wondering how long it had been since she'd actually wanted to talk to her father. Years, probably. But in this case ... well, if anyone knew Audrey's whereabouts, it would be he. He was the one who paid her expenses, kept tabs on her, sent her cash when she needed it. Not out of love. Victoria knew better. It was another one of her father's ways of controlling others, particularly members of his family. He was a master at the fine art of domination.
"Mother, is Father home?" she repeated. "Or did he go to the office?" She found herself praying he had. Park Avenue, where the elite law firm of Waters, Kensington, Tatem & Calder was located, was a lot closer than Greenwich.
"It's Saturday, dear," Barbara reminded her, as if that in itself were explanation enough. Which, actually, it was. Walter Kensington spent every Saturday morning on the golf course.
"He can't be teeing off today," Victoria protested. "It's pouring outside."
"Well then, he's probably inside. He met a client at the club. If their game was called off, they're probably chatting over breakfast. What has all this to do with Audrey?"
This conversation was going nowhere. Obviously, her mother had no idea that Audrey was in New York, much less that she was ill and missing.
"I was sure I saw her this morning when I went out for my jog," Victoria supplied carefully. Not a lie, just a partial truth. "It startled me."
"Well, it couldn't have been your sister. She's still abroad." A hopeful silence, like a puppy anticipating a treat. "Did you want to leave, a message for your father? I'm sure that would please him very much."
Please him? Only if that message meant giving in, agreeing to exactly what he wanted.
Victoria nipped that particularly distasteful thought in the bud.
Her mind raced, latched on to another idea—hopefully one that would preclude the need to involve her father. "No, Mother, there's no message. At least not yet. I need some facts I thought he might have. But I have another source I can check. If I can't get what I'm looking for, I'll call him back later."
"That would be lovely, dear. I'll tell him the minute he gets in."
A hard swallow. "Fine. Now go back to sleep, Mother. I'm sorry I woke you."
"Don't be silly. Your father will be so glad to hear you asked for him. Good-bye, dear."
A click that was as fragile as she.
Victoria winced. But she didn't allow herself to be side- tracked. The instant she heard the dial tone hum in her ear, she began wracking her brain for the right digits.
Five, five, five—oh, four, oh, oh. That's what Audrey had been trying to say. Obviously, a phone number. It was the only answer that made sense. Her sister had been urging her to call that number—for what reason, Victoria had yet to learn.
But she intended to rectify that fact right now.
She dialed.
Two rings later, the connection was made.
Silence.
"Hello? Hello—is anyone there?" she demanded.
Ten seconds passed. Then a computer-generated voice replied, "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number."
A click, then a dial tone.
Victoria stared at the phone in disbelief. Without hesitating, she dialed again. "I'm looking for information on an Audrey Kensington," she blurted out the instant she heard the receiver lift. "She gave me this number. I'd appreciate anything you could tell me—"
Again, the computer voice droned, "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number."
The line went dead.
Wetting her lips, Victoria gripped the phone more tightly. Someone or something had answered her call, then hung up.
Well, she wasn't going to accept that.
She redialed the number.
This time, she began, "Look, I know someone's there. I'm not trying to harass you. I just need to find Audrey Kensington. She's ill. She gave me this number. I have nowhere else to turn—"
The same message interrupted her, playing woodenly in her ear. Then—dial tone.
Furiously, Victoria called back. The instant the connection was made, she began pressing the keypad, trying to recall every possible combination of voice-mail access codes she could remember.
Nothing.
She made one last attempt, this time just waiting for the connection to be made, then punching random keys as fast as possible.
The detached computer voice interrupted her, indifferently advising her that she'd reached the wrong number. Then, a definitive click.
No, she thought bleakly, hanging up the phone. I've got the right number. But I don't know how to use it to find Audrey.
She sank down on the edge of her bed, dropping her head in her hands. Something was wrong. She was more convinced of it now than ever. And she had no idea how to find out what that something was.
Audrey was dressed in a hospital gown. She was unconscious and needed medical attention. She couldn't tell anyone that she had a sister, much less how to contact her. She'd said something about danger—God alone knew what that meant. Was someone trying to hurt her? Did that same person take her from the park? To where? Why? To do what?
Victoria's nails dug into her skin. Audrey needed her, but Victoria couldn't get to her to help. She couldn't even get a human being on the other end of the phone. Just a goddamned computer.
* * *
At that very moment, elsewhere in Manhattan, another computer completed its programmed function.
A rapid whirring sound. Two beeps.
Information processed.
A security warning flashed on the screen. A window popped up, displaying Victoria's name, address, and unlisted telephone number.
The attendant monitoring the station acted immediately.
He lifted the telephone receiver and pressed the appropriate buttons.
Minutes later, the disinfection team was dispatched.
* * *
3
Walter Kensington leaned back in his tufted leather chair, steepling his fingers in front of him and staring intently at the intricately detailed model Jaguar on his desk.
Rising, he crossed over to the window and rotated the wand that controlled the vertical blinds. He opened them just enough so he could gaze out over the manicured grounds of his Greenwich estate,
He remembered when he'd bought this place, twenty-five years ago. He'd just been made senior partner. At thirty-eight, he'd been the youngest senior partner of what was now Waters, Kensington, Tatem & Calder. It had been fitting that he'd moved to an appropriate home. And the shrewd real estate agent the firm had hired, dollar signs glittering in her eyes, had skipped over the other listings, taken him straight here.
He'd bought the place on the spot.
He, Barbara, and Victoria—then three years old—had moved in a month later. Audrey had been born the following summer.
Since that time, he'd added the stables, doubled the size of the swimming pool, and converted the tennis courts from clay to composite. He never did like clay. Too many flaws, leaving too much to chance.
Chance was totally unacceptable. One had to control life, not the other way around.
That brought his mind back to Victoria. She had a will of iron. She'd been born with it. Even at three, she'd already earned his respect. She had backbone, spunk. She was intelligent, confident—a leader. She was her father's daughter. Audrey, on the other hand, was shy, unsure of herself, filled with silly dreams. An artist's soul, Barbara used to say about her.
Well, he had little use for artists or their souls. Audrey's painting classes and nonsensical retreats where she bonded with nature were something for Barbara to deal with, just as she dealt with the staff, the running of the house, and the social calendar.
Important matters were his to manage.
He frowned, considering the problem at hand. Solving it was more than important—it was crucial.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Yes?"
"Excuse me, dear." Barbara eased the door partway open, hovering uncertainly on the threshold. "I wanted you to know that Victoria called while you were out. Twice. She asked to speak to you. Something about information she needs. It sounded urgent. Maybe she's working on a case and wants your advice." A bright smile.
"Really." Walter turned, smoothing a hand through his impeccably groomed salt-and-pepper hair. "When was this?"
"The first time was early. Before nine. She thought you might not be playing golf, since it was raining. The second time was around noon. She was obviously eager to—"
"So you said," Walter interrupted. "Did she mention anything else?"
Barbara shifted nervously. She hated it when her husband used that militant tone. It meant he was on edge. "During the first phone call, she said something about seeing a person who reminded her of Audrey. I think that was just an excuse to speak with you. She's too proud to admit sh
e needs your help. The second time she was more direct. She just asked if you were back yet. When I said no, she left a message for you to return her call."
Walter pursed his lips, hands clasped behind him. "Is she at home or at that place she calls an office?"
"Home." His wife interlaced her fingers tightly. "Walter, please—don't insult her law firm. I know you hate the idea of her devoting herself to something inferior. But she's finally reaching out to you. If you aren't diplomatic—"
"Enough." With a curt nod, Walter waved her away. "I don't need you to give me lessons in talking to my daughter. I'll call her now. In private, if you don't mind."
Relief flooded her face. "Of course." She hesitated, just long enough to say what she had to. "Before I go, just a reminder. You invited Clarissa and Jim over for drinks. They'll be here at seven."
His brother and his wife. He'd forgotten.
Tensing, Walter spared a quick glance at his Patek Philippe. It was three-thirty. He relaxed. He had more than enough time to call Victoria, resolve his loose ends, shower and change, and read today's Times—all of which he intended to do before receiving company.
"Fine," he replied brusquely. "Have Robert check the liquor cabinet."
"That's already been done. Robert brought up a new bottle of Maker's Mark from the basement, and two bottles of that excellent Bordeaux—the '80 Lafite Rothschild Pauillac— that Clarissa enjoyed so much the last time they were here. Also, if the two of them decide to stay on, there's sliced filet mignon marinating in the fridge. We can barbecue, if the rain lets up."
"Good idea." Walter wasn't even listening. Barbara was the ideal hostess. She never made a mistake, not when it came to entertaining. It was one of her better qualities. Besides, he was eager to make his phone call.
Sensing her husband's impatience, Barbara retreated into the hall and shut the door.
Walter sat down at his desk and stared at the phone for a long, thoughtful minute. Then he picked it up and dialed.
"Hello?" Victoria's voice was taut with anxiety.
"It's your father. I hear you've been looking for me."