Easing herself out of the machine, she stood up.
I can’t give up. I won’t.
She picked up a set of scrubs from the pile on the floor and pulled them on.
GRACE WALKED SLOWLY TOWARD THE FIRE stairs, trying not to limp. I have to get off this floor. Make it to ground level and try and bluff my way out of here.
The X-ray-department receptionist watched her pass but said nothing. With her blue paper hat pulled low and a surgical mask over her face, she could have been anyone. Beyond reception, two cops stood by the swing doors. Grace waited with her heart in her mouth for one of them to ask her for ID, but they, too, let her pass. She was almost at the emergency exit door. Just a few more paces.
“Hey. Hey, you! In the blue.”
Grace kept walking.
“HEY!” The voice got louder. “Stop!”
Keep going. Don’t look back.
“You can’t go out of there. It’s…”
Grace opened the door.
“…alarmed.”
Sirens whooped. Bells, shrill and deafening, rang in Grace’s ears. For a moment she panicked, frozen. In a few seconds, the stairwell would be crawling with cops. I’ll never make it down six floors. There’s no time.
She looked up and started to run.
MITCH’S RADIO CRACKLED. “SHE’S ON THE east fire stairs. Sixth floor.”
His heart leaped. “Cover every exit.”
“Already done, sir.”
“Tell all units, you can draw your weapons but do not fire. Understand? No shooting.”
“Sir.”
There was no way out of the building. Outside the hospital, the media had already begun to arrive. Mitch knew none of his men would have leaked the story, but it was tough to send a hundred cops into a major New York City hospital without people getting curious. TV crews scrambled to set up their equipment, eager to capture the drama as it unfolded. Mitch thought, They’re probably hoping for a shoot-out. How much would the first shots of Grace Brookstein’s dead body be worth?
He wished he could protect her. That he could stop her from running. Keep her safe, with him.
He headed for the roof.
GRACE LOOKED AROUND HER. This is it. The end of the road.
If only Manhattan’s skyline were like a Spider-Man movie, where the next building over was always a short jump away. In real life, the eight-story hospital was sandwiched between two twenty-story towers. The only way down from the roof was via the fire stairs Grace had just come up, or an identical set of stairs on the western side of the building.
Unless, of course, you jumped.
Bolting both sets of fire doors behind her, Grace crawled on her hands and knees over to the edge of the rooftop, making her way around the perimeter. She peered over the edge of the rooftop. In a movie, there would have been a handy Dumpster to break her fall. Or a truck full of feather pillows that just happened to have pulled up at a red light. No such luck.
She heard the door to the east stairs start rattling. A few seconds later, the other door followed suit. They’re coming.
Tears filled Grace’s eyes. They would catch her. They would send her back to jail. She would never know the truth.
In that moment, as the rattling of the doors grew louder, it became clear.
She had nothing left to live for.
THE DOOR BURST OPEN, SENDING THE metal bolt clattering. Mitch shot out onto the concrete like a ball from a cannon. He looked up just in time to see a flash of blue disappearing over the edge of the rooftop.
“Grace! NO!”
He was too late.
BOOK 3
TWENTY-EIGHT
MITCH PUT A HAND OVER HIS MOUTH. There was an audible gasp from the crowds gathered below, then screams.
I’ve just chased an innocent woman to her death.
Why hadn’t Grace waited? If he’d only had a chance to talk to her. To tell her he believed in her. That he knew Lenny hadn’t killed himself. That he knew she was innocent. That he was starting to fall in love with her.
He couldn’t bear to look, yet he knew he had to. Behind him, a stream of cops had filed onto the rooftop, all with guns drawn. Mitch walked forward slowly to the spot where the blue flash had disappeared. Squatting down on his haunches, he took a deep, fortifying breath and looked down, bracing himself for the sight of Grace’s bloodied, broken corpse.
The sidewalk was empty.
“What the…”
The roof jutted out about two feet beyond the outer walls of the hospital building, like stiff white icing spilling over the edge of a wedding cake. Lying on his belly, Mitch reached under the ledge. His fingers grasped at the air. Nothing. He inched farther forward, like a snake, till his torso dangled perilously over the edge of the building. The crowd gasped again. Suddenly Mitch felt a small, cold hand in his.
Perched on a window ledge no more than eight inches wide, Grace looked up into Mitch’s eyes and gave him a sad, defeated smile.
“Detective Connors. We must stop meeting like this.”
THE SENSATIONAL FOOTAGE OF GRACE BROOKSTEIN’S capture was aired around the globe. Overnight, Mitch Connors of the NYPD went from bumbling cop to national hero. Speculation was rife as to where America’s most wanted fugitive was being held. Would Grace be sent back to Bedford Hills? Or to a different, secret, more secure location? Would there be another trial? The hunt for Grace Brookstein had cost the U.S. taxpayers millions of dollars. Surely some stiffening of Grace’s original sentence was called for?
Behind the scenes, an interagency battle raged. Everyone wanted access to Grace. Mitch Connors’s view was that possession was nine-tenths of the law.
“We’ve got her and we’re not handing her over to the FBI, or anyone else, till we’re done questioning her.”
But the FBI’s Harry Bain wasn’t the only one on Mitch’s case. His own superiors in the police department seemed eager to wash their hands of Grace as soon as possible. Detective Lieutenant Dubray agreed.
“She’s not our problem anymore.”
Mitch dug his heels in. “I have a right to question her for forty-eight hours.”
“Don’t lecture me about your ‘rights,’ Connors. And don’t be so fucking naive. This case is political dynamite and you know it. Grace Brookstein’s a walking embodiment of everything this country’s trying to forget. This goes all the way to the top. The president himself has told his advisers that Grace’s face on the news is bad for business, bad for jobs, bad for Brand America.”
“‘Brand America’? Come on, sir.”
Mitch fought his corner, but he knew time was running out. Soon Grace would be taken away from him, and his chance to help her would be gone. Whatever other feelings he had, or thought he had, for her, he had to put them aside. All that mattered now was the truth. I have to get her to trust me.
GRACE STUDIED MITCH’S FEATURES INTENTLY. He seems genuine. But then my track record as a judge of character is hardly exemplary.
“So you’re saying you want to help me?”
“Yes. I want to help you. I’m the only one who wants to help you, Grace. But I can’t if you don’t talk to me.”
Grace looked at him skeptically.
“I read Buccola’s file,” said Mitch. “I believe that Lenny was murdered. I believe that you were both set up. But I need your help to prove it.”
“If you know Lenny was murdered, why haven’t you reopened the investigation into his death?”
“I tried to. I was blocked. My superiors were more interested in capturing you than in finding out the truth about Quorum, or what may have happened on that boat.”
“But you’re different. That’s what you want me to believe, right? That you’re a lone warrior for truth.”
“Look, I don’t blame you for distrusting me. But I don’t have time to convince you. In a few hours, the powers that be are gonna take you away from here. We may never get another opportunity to speak to each other. This is our last chance, your last chance. Tell me
what you know.”
“What I know?” Grace laughed bitterly. “I don’t know anything anymore. Everything I thought I knew turned out to be a lie. I thought I was rich, but it turned out I had nothing. I thought the courts would protect the innocent, but they sent me to jail. I thought my friends and family loved me, but they were nothing but a pack of vultures. I thought Lenny died in an accident. I thought he was a faithful husband. I thought…I thought he loved me.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Without thinking, Mitch walked around the interview table and put his arms around her. She was so tiny, so vulnerable. He was overwhelmed with an urge to protect her, to rescue her.
“I’m sure Lenny loved you,” he whispered, stroking her newly shorn, white-blond hair. “People have affairs. They’re weak. They make mistakes.”
He told her how close he’d come to catching her at Jasmine Delevigne’s apartment.
“Was that why you tried to kill yourself? Because of Connie and Lenny?”
“No!” Grace said hotly. “And I didn’t try to kill myself. I—” She broke off. She wanted to tell him about the abortion, about the rape, about all of it, but she didn’t have the words.
Mitch said, “He broke it off with Connie, you know. Before he died. Your sister was blackmailing Lenny, threatening to tell you about their affair. He’d already paid fifteen million into an offshore account for her, but Connie was squeezing him for more.”
“Was she? How do you know?”
“She told me herself. Bragged about it, if you must know. The point is, Lenny was desperate not to hurt you, Grace. Not to lose you. He regretted what happened, I’m sure of it.”
Grace closed her eyes and succumbed to the comfort of Mitch’s arms around her. It had been so long since she’d had intimate contact with another human being. So long since she’d felt kindness, warmth, affection. That’s all this is, she told herself firmly. Affection. A moment’s break in the battle. In another life, another world, things might have been different. As it was…
There was a knock on the door.
“Sorry, boss.” The officer was hesitant. He liked Mitch and hated being the bearer of bad news. “Dubray says you’ve got five minutes. We got orders direct from Washington. The prisoner’s being transferred out of state.”
When he’d gone, Mitch clasped Grace’s hand. There was a connection between them. He could see she felt it, too. “Talk to me.”
Grace told him everything she knew. When she was done, Mitch said, “You realize who’s left, don’t you? If Andrew Preston and Jack Warner and your sister Connie are all innocent?”
Grace sighed. “John Merrivale. But it wasn’t him.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I suspected John from the beginning. I know he set me up at my trial, and who knows, maybe he took that money. But he couldn’t have killed Lenny.”
“Why not?”
“He was in Boston the day Lenny took the boat out. Davey checked out his alibi months ago.”
“Yes, so did I.” Mitch looked thoughtful. He remembered his lunch with John Merrivale, the way his speech impediment had magically disappeared when he spoke about the day Lenny Brookstein disappeared. “Still. There’s something not right about that man.”
Grace stared blankly at the door. Mitch thought, She doesn’t care anymore. She’s given up. When she spoke, there was neither fear nor curiosity in her voice. “Do you know where they’re taking me?”
“No. But I’ll find out.” Once again Mitch found himself gripped with the urge to rescue her. What was it about this woman that brought out his inner knight in shining armor? “I’ll do my best to help you, Grace. Get you a decent lawyer, begin an appeal.”
“I don’t want any of that.”
“But you have to…”
She looked him in the eye. “If you want to help me, find out who murdered my husband. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to clear his name of the Quorum fraud. But I’d like people to know Lenny wasn’t a coward. That he didn’t kill himself.”
“I’ll try. But, Grace, even if I succeed, Lenny’s dead. You’re alive. You have your whole life ahead of you. You must get a new lawyer. You must appeal.”
The officer reappeared, along with two more armed officers and a dour-faced man in a suit. CIA? FBI? “Time to go.”
Grace stood up. Impulsively, she kissed Mitch on the cheek.
“Forget about me.”
Mitch watched the men take her away. After she’d gone, he stood in the empty interview room for a long time.
Forget about you.
If only I could.
TWENTY-NINE
MARIA PRESTON TOSSED BACK HER LONG mane of chestnut hair and admired her reflection in the rearview mirror. She had the skin of a woman ten years younger, and she knew it. This afternoon, her creamy-white complexion was flushed and glowing, a testament to the three hours she’d just spent in bed with her lover. What a joy it was to be with a man who appreciated her! Maria had been with scores of men, many of them more technically proficient at lovemaking than her current paramour, and almost all of them more physically attractive. But woman could not live on six-pack abs alone. There came a point in her life when she needed more. Power. Maria Preston’s lover was a powerful man, a man of influence. Not like Andrew.
Poor Andy. He wasn’t a bad husband. In the last couple years, he’d finally started making the sort of money that could give Maria the lifestyle she deserved. Wealth was the one thing she’d thought she wanted all these years. But now that she finally had it, it bored her. He bored her, sexually, intellectually and in every other way. She realized now that however much money Andrew made, he would always be an accountant. And as long as she stayed with him, she would always be an accountant’s wife. Maria Carmine! An accountant’s wife! The very idea was preposterous, an affront to nature. The only wonder was that it had taken her so long to see it. A free spirit like Maria should not be trapped in such a banal marriage, like lesser mortals. It was like trying to freeze a volcano or to flood a desert.
Applying a fresh slick of bright red Dior lipstick, Maria reflected on her destiny. I was born to be a great man’s wife. His muse.
Now, at last, she would be.
She’d finally figured it out: a way for her lover to leave his wife, to be free of all the pressures weighing him down and to run away with her. Maria, in her brilliance, had solved all their problems. She would leave Andrew and start afresh. Her lover had been overjoyed when she told him the plan last week. He’d still been excited about it when they met today, making love to her with a passionate intensity unusual even for him.
Maria smiled at her reflection in the rearview mirror and laughed. “You’re not just a pretty face!”
She was on her way back to the city from Sag Harbor. It was a schlep to get out there, two hours on a good day, three in rush hour, but Maria’s lover couldn’t risk being seen with her in Manhattan, and besides the American Hotel on Main Street was so quaint and charming with its white portico and cheery, striped awning, it was worth the trip. Turning onto Scuttle Hole Road, Maria noticed Nancy’s Cake Shop up ahead, one of her favorite haunts, its window display enticingly crammed with cupcakes of every color and flavor. All that sex had given her quite an appetite. Why not?
She pulled over and turned off the engine, humming happily to herself as she opened the driver’s-side door.
Nancy Robertson was out back in the kitchen when she heard the explosion. Her heart racing, she ran into the store. Thank God no one was in there! The room was destroyed. Every window was shattered, shards of glass mingling with the buttercream icing stuck to the walls. Outside on the street, all that was left of Maria Preston’s Bentley was a twisted hulk of burning metal.
MITCH CONNORS WAS AT THE PLAYGROUND with his daughter. It was the first Saturday he hadn’t worked in months. Helen was reluctant to let him have Celeste.
“You can’t just swan in and out of her life when it suits you, Mitch. Do you have any idea how disa
ppointed she was when you didn’t show up for her school play? You couldn’t even be bothered to call her and explain.”
Guilt made Mitch lash out. “Explain what? I’m working, Helen. I’m paying for that roof over both your heads. Besides, I’m not asking your permission to see her. It’s my weekend.”
Now, watching Celeste kick her skinny legs as he pushed her on the swing, he regretted losing his temper. He wasn’t in love with Helen anymore. But there was no denying she was a great mom. He, on the other hand, was a lousy father. He liked to tell himself that he spent quality time with his daughter, but he knew it was a crock. Mitch loved Celeste, but the truth was he barely knew her. Even now, when he hadn’t seen her for weeks, he couldn’t switch off work. His thoughts kept drifting back to Grace Brookstein: where she was being held, and how on earth he was going to keep his promise to her. No one wanted to know about his theories of foul play in Lenny Brookstein’s death. Two days ago, Dubray spelled it out for him in black and white.
“Let it go, Mitch. You’re a good detective, but you’ve gotten way too personally involved on this one. Besides, I’ve got a new case for you. Teen homicide, junkie, no leads. Right up your alley.”
“Can you give it to someone else? All I need is a little more time to look into this stuff, a few weeks at most.”
“No, I can’t give it to someone else. You don’t get to choose your assignments, Mitch. You are on the Brady homicide as of right now. And if I catch you wasting one more minute of department time on this Brookstein bullshit, believe me, I will have you suspended so fast you won’t know what hit you. I won’t tell you again. Drop it.”
Drop it.
Forget about me.
Maybe next, someone would tell him to stop exhaling carbon dioxide or sleeping with his eyes shut.