A link existed between what had happened last night at his apartment and Nellie’s disappearance tonight, but Jack was damned if he knew what it was. He’d been disappointed when he could not find any of the herbal liquid he’d found in Grace’s room last week. He couldn’t say how, but he was sure the odor, the eyes, the liquid, and the disappearances of the two old women were connected.
Idly, he picked up a piece of chocolate from the candy dish beside his chair. He wasn’t hungry, but he wouldn’t mind something sweet right now. Trouble with these things was you never knew what was inside. He could use the old thumb-puncture-on-the-bottom trick, but that didn’t seem right on a missing person’s candy. He dropped it back in the bowl and returned to his musings.
Jack reached down and checked the position of the little Semmerling where he’d squeezed it and its ankle holster between the seat cushion and armrest of the recliner. It was still handy. He closed his eyes and thought of eyes … yellow eyes …
And then it struck him—the thought that had eluded him last night. Those eyes … yellow with dark pupils … why they’d seemed vaguely familiar to him: They resembled the pair of black-centered topazes on the necklaces worn by Kolabati and Kusum and the one he’d retrieved for their grandmother!
He should have seen it before! Those two yellow stones had been staring at him for days, just as the eyes had stared at him last night.
His spirits rose slightly. He didn’t know what the resemblance meant, but now he had a link between the Bahktis and the eyes, and perhaps the disappearance of Grace and Nellie. It might well turn out to be pure coincidence, but at least he had a path to follow.
Jack knew what he’d be doing in the morning.
EIGHT
Monday
1
Gia watched Jack and Vicky playing with their breakfasts. Vicky had been up at dawn and delighted to find Jack asleep in the library. Before long she had her mother up and making breakfast for them.
As soon as they were all seated Vicky had begun a chant: “We want Moony! We want Moony!” So Jack had dutifully borrowed Gia’s lipstick and a felt-tipped pen and drawn a face, Señor Wencesstyle, on his left hand. The hand then became a very rude, boisterous entity known as Moony. Jack was presently screeching in a falsetto voice as Vicky stuffed Cheerios into Moony’s mouth. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Vicky had such a good laugh, an unselfconscious belly laugh from the very heart of her being. Gia loved to hear it and was in turn laughing at Vicky.
When was the last time she and Vicky had laughed at breakfast?
“Okay. That’s enough for now,” Jack said at last. “Moony’s got to rest and I’ve got to eat.” He went to the sink to wash Moony away.
“Isn’t Jack funny, Mom?” Vicky said, her eyes bright. “Isn’t he the funniest?”
As Gia replied, Jack turned around at the sink and mouthed her words in perfect synchronization: “He’s a riot, Vicky.”
Gia threw her napkin at him. “Sit down and eat.”
She watched Jack finish off the eggs she’d fried for him. There was happiness at this table, even after Vicky’s nightmare and Nellie’s disappearance—Vicky hadn’t been told yet. Gia had a warm, contented feeling inside. Last night had been so good. She didn’t understand what had come over her, but was glad she’d given in to it. She didn’t know what it meant … maybe a new beginning … maybe nothing. If only she could go on feeling this way. If only …
“Jack,” she said slowly, not knowing how she was going to phrase this, “have you ever thought of switching jobs?”
“All the time. And I will—or at least get out of this one.”
A small spark of hope ignited in her. “When?”
“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I know I can’t do it forever, but…” He shrugged again, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.
“But what?”
“It’s what I do. I know it’s a cliché, but I don’t know how to say it any better than that. It’s what I do and I do it pretty well. So I want to keep on doing it.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah,” he said, concentrating on the last of his eggs. “I like it.”
The growing spark winked out as the old resentment returned with an icy blast. For want of something to do with her hands, Gia got up and began clearing the table. Why bother? she thought. The man’s a hopeless case.
And so, breakfast ended on a tense note.
Afterward, Jack caught her alone in the hallway.
“I think you ought to get out of here and back to your own place.”
Gia would have liked nothing better. “I can’t. What about Nellie? I don’t want her to come back to an empty house.”
“Eunice will be here.”
“I don’t know that and neither do you. With Nellie and Grace gone, she’s officially unemployed. She may not want to stay here alone, and I can’t say I’d blame her.”
Jack scratched his head. “I guess you’re right. But I don’t like the idea of you and Vicks here alone, either.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” she said, refusing to acknowledge his concern. “You do your part and we’ll do ours.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. “Fine. Just fine. What was last night, then? Just a roll in the hay?”
“Maybe. It could have meant something, but I guess nothing’s changed, not you, not me. You’re the same Jack I left, and I still can’t accept what you do. And you are what you do.”
He walked out.
Why do I keep doing this? she thought. She shook her head as she remembered Jack’s words. Maybe it’s what I do.
The house suddenly seemed enormous and ominous. She hoped Eunice would show up soon.
2
A day in the life of Kusum Bahkti …
Jack had buried the hurt of his most recent parting with Gia and attacked the task of learning all he could about how Kusum spent his days. It had come down to a choice between trailing Kusum or Kolabati, but Kolabati was just a visitor from Washington, so Kusum won.
Jack’s first stop after leaving Sutton Square had been his apartment, where he’d called Kusum’s number. Kolabati had answered and they’d had a brief conversation during which he learned that Kusum could probably be found either at the Consulate or the UN. Jack had also managed to wrangle the apartment address out of her. He might need that later. He called the Indian Consulate and learned that Mr. Bahkti was expected to be at the UN all day.
And so he stood in line in the General Assembly Building of the United Nations and waited for the tour to start. The morning sun stung the sunburned nose and forearms he’d acquired yesterday on the tennis courts in Jersey. He knew nothing about the UN. Most people he knew in Manhattan had never been here unless it was to show a visiting friend or relative.
He wore dark glasses, a dark blue Izod buttoned up to the neck, an “I Love NY” button pinned to his breast pocket, light blue Bermudas, knee-high black socks, and sandals. He’d slung a Kodak disposable camera and a pair of binoculars around his neck. Figured his best bet was to look like a tourist.
The tombstonelike Secretariat Building was off limits to the public. An iron fence surrounded it and guards checked IDs at all the gates. In the General Assembly Building there were airport-style metal detectors. Jack had reluctantly resigned himself to being an unarmed tourist for the day.
The tour began. As they moved through the halls the guide gave them a brief history and a glowing description of the accomplishments and the future goals of the United Nations. Jack only half listened. He kept remembering a remark he’d once heard that if all the diplomats were kicked out, the UN could be turned into the finest bordello in the world and do just as much, if not more, for international harmony.
The tour served to give him an idea of how the building was laid out, the locations of the public areas and restricted areas. Jack decided his best bet was to sit in the public gallery of the General Assembly, in session all day due to some new international cri
sis somewhere. Soon after seating himself, Jack learned that the Indians were directly involved in the matter under discussion: escalating hostile incidents along the Sino-Indian border. India was charging China with aggression.
He suffered through endless discussions that he was sure he’d heard a thousand times. Every dinky little country, most unknown to him, had to have its say and usually it said the same thing as the dinky little country before it. Jack finally turned off his headphones. But he kept his binoculars trained on the area around the Indian Delegation’s table. So far he’d seen no sign of Kusum.
He was just about to nod off when Kusum finally appeared. He walked in with a dignified, businesslike stride and handed a sheaf of papers to the chief delegate, then seated himself in one of the chairs to the rear.
Jack watched through the glasses as Kusum exchanged a few words with the other diplomat seated near him, but for the most part kept to himself. He seemed aloof, preoccupied, almost as if he were under some sort of strain, fidgeting in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping his toes, glancing repeatedly at the clock; the picture of a man with something on his mind, a man who wanted to be somewhere else.
Jack sensed he’d be leaving soon.
He left Kusum sitting in the General Assembly and went out to the UN Plaza. A brief reconnaissance revealed the location of the diplomats’ private parking lot in front of the Secretariat. Jack fixed the image of the Indian flag in his mind, then found a shady spot across the street that afforded a clear view of the exit ramp.
3
It took most of the afternoon. Jack’s eyes burned after hours of being trained on the diplomat lot. If he hadn’t happened to glance across the Plaza toward the General Assembly Building at a quarter to four, he might have spent half the night waiting for Kusum. For there he was, looking like a mirage as he walked through the shimmering heat rising from the sunbaked concrete. For some reason, perhaps because he was leaving before the session was through, Kusum had bypassed an official car and was walking to the curb. He hailed a cab and got in.
Fearful he might lose him, Jack ran to the street and flagged down a cab of his own.
“I hate to say this,” he said to the driver as he jumped into the rear seat, “but follow that cab.”
The driver didn’t even look back. “Which one?”
“It’s just pulling away over there—the one with the Times ad on the back.”
“Got it.”
As they moved into the uptown flow of traffic on First Avenue, Jack leaned back and studied the driver’s ID photo taped to the other side of the plastic partition that separated him from the passenger area. It showed a beefy black face sitting on a bull neck. Arnold Green was the name under it. A hand-lettered sign saying “Green’s Machine” was taped to the dashboard.
“You get many ‘Follow-that-cab’ fares?” Jack asked.
“Almost never.”
“You didn’t act surprised.”
“As long as you’re paying, I’ll follow. Drive you around and around the block till the gas runs out if you want. Just as long as the meter’s running.”
Kusum’s cab turned west on Sixty-sixth, one of the few streets that broke the “evens-run-east” rule of Manhattan. Green’s Machine followed. Together they crawled west to Fifth Avenue. Kusum’s apartment was in the upper Sixties on Fifth. Probably going home.
But the cab ahead turned downtown on Fifth. Kusum emerged at the corner of Sixty-fourth and began to walk east. Jack followed in his cab. He saw Kusum enter a doorway next to a brass plaque that read: New India House. He checked the address of the Indian Consulate he’d jotted down that morning. It matched. He’d expected something looking like a Hindu temple. Instead, he saw an ordinary building of white stone and iron-barred windows with a large Indian flag—orange, white, and green stripes with a wheel-like mandala in the center—hanging over double oak doors.
“Pull over,” he told the cabby. “We’re going to wait awhile.”
Arnold pulled his machine into a loading zone across the street from the building. “How long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Could run into money.”
“That’s okay. I’ll pay you every fifteen minutes so the meter doesn’t get too far ahead. How’s that sound?”
Arnold stuck a huge brown hand through the slot in the plastic partition. “How about the first installment?”
Jack gave him a twenty.
He turned off the engine and slouched down in the seat. “You from around here?” he asked without turning around.
“Sort of.”
“You look like you’re from Cleveland.”
“I’m in disguise.”
“You a detective?”
That seemed like a reasonable explanation for following cabs around Manhattan, so Jack said, “Sort of.”
“You on an expense account?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, sort of let me know when you sort of want to get moving again.”
Jack laughed and got himself comfortable. His only worry was that there might be a back way out of the building.
People began drifting out of the consulate at 5:00. Kusum wasn’t among them. Jack waited another hour and still no sign of Kusum. By 6:30, Arnold was sound asleep in the front seat and Jack feared Kusum had somehow slipped out of the building unseen. He decided to give it another half hour. If Kusum didn’t show by then, Jack would either go inside or find a phone and call the Consulate.
It was nearly 7:00 when two Indians in business suits stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk. Jack nudged Arnold.
“Start your engine. We may be rolling soon.”
Arnold grunted and reached for the ignition. Green’s Machine grumbled to life.
Another pair of Indians came out. Neither was Kusum. Jack was edgy. Still plenty of light, no chance for Kusum to slip past him, yet he had a feeling that Kusum could be a pretty slippery character if he wanted to be.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
He watched the two Indians walk up toward Fifth Avenue … walking west. With a flash of dismay, Jack realized that he was parked on a one-way street going east. If Kusum followed the same path as these last two, Jack would have to leave this cab and find another on Fifth Avenue. And the next cabby might not be as easygoing as Arnold Green.
“We’ve got to get onto Fifth,” he told Arnold.
“Okay.”
Arnold put his cab in forward and started to pull out into the crosstown traffic.
“No, wait! It’ll take too long to go around the block. I’ll miss him.”
Arnold gave him a baleful stare through the partition. “You’re not telling me to go the wrong way on a one-way street, are you?”
“Of course not,” Jack said. Something in the cabby’s voice told him to play along. “That would be against the law.”
Arnold smiled. “Just wanted to make sure you wasn’t telling.”
Without warning he threw the Green’s Machine into reverse and floored it. The tires screeched, terrified pedestrians leaped for the curb, cars coming out of the Central Park traverse swerved and honked angrily. Jack hung onto the passenger straps as the car lunged the hundred feet or so back to the corner, skidded to a halt across the mouth of the street, then nosed along the curb on Fifth Avenue.
“This okay?” Arnold said.
Jack peered through the rear window. He had a clear view of the doorway in question.
“It’ll do. Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
And suddenly Kusum appeared, pushing through the door and striding up toward Fifth. He crossed Sixty-fourth and walked Jack’s way. Jack pressed himself into a corner of the seat. Kusum came closer. With a start Jack realized that Kusum was angling across the sidewalk directly toward Green’s Machine.
Jack slapped his hand against the partition. “Take off! He thinks you’re looking for a fare!”
The cab slipped away from the curb just as Kusum was reaching fo
r the door handle. Jack peeked through the rear window. Kusum didn’t seem the least bit disturbed. He merely held his hand up for another cab. He seemed far more intent on getting where he was going than on what was going on around him.
Without being told to, Arnold slowed to a stop half a block down and waited until Kusum got in his cab. When it rolled by, he pulled into traffic behind it.
“On the road again, Momma,” he said to no one in particular.
Jack leaned forward and fixed on Kusum’s cab. He was almost afraid to blink for fear of losing it. Kusum’s apartment was only a few blocks uptown from the Indian Consulate—walking distance. But he was taking a cab downtown. This could be what Jack had been waiting for.
They chased it down to Fifty-seventh where it turned right and headed west along what used to be known as Art Gallery Row.
They followed Kusum farther and farther west, past the theme restaurants, toward the Hudson River docks. With a start, Jack realized this was the area where Kusum’s grandmother had been mugged. The cab went as far west as it could and stopped at Twelfth Avenue and Fifty-seventh. Kusum got out and began to walk uptown.
Jack had Arnold pull in to the curb. He stuck his head out the window and squinted against the glare of the sinking sun as Kusum crossed Twelfth Avenue and disappeared into the shadows under the West Side Highway.
“Be back in a second,” he told Arnold.
He walked to the corner and saw Kusum hurry along the crumbling waterside pavement to a rotting pier where a rust-bucket freighter was moored. As Jack watched, a gangplank lowered itself as if by magic. Kusum climbed aboard and disappeared from view. The gangplank hoisted itself back to the raised position after he was gone.
A ship. What the hell could Kusum be doing on a floating heap like that?
It had been a long, boring day, but now things were getting interesting.
Jack went back to Green’s Machine.