Emerging with a pair of stiletto-heeled shoes under one arm, Elizabeth unclipped her earrings and moved to the dresser. She dropped the shoes on the floor and stepped into the dress, wriggling it up over her hips and slipping her arms into the sleeves. “I’ve never been more serious. So do you want to know how I got on in prison?”
“Oh, God, I hope I don’t ever hear you say that again.”
“Guess who I met?”
Penny sat on the bed with her legs crossed, watching her. “Not a clue. Shock me.”
She turned, a secretive smile tweaking up one side of her mouth as she dragged the zipper halfway up the back of the dress. “Who was the biggest name in the financial columns a few years back?”
Shaking her head and frowning, Penny said, “You’ll have to give me more.”
Elizabeth stepped across, turning so her secretary could zip her into the dress. “Okay, then: Averil Cerventes took over from her.”
The two lines between Penny’s eyes deepened, then her eyes flew open. “You mean Eileen Grant? What the hell happened to her? It’s like she just vanished without a word.”
“Well, hello—prison.”
“No! Why?”
“Can’t say—sworn to secrecy. Suffice to say that when Warden Glassy said that Eileen, quote, ‘didn’t fit the criteria for the program,’ she wasn’t kidding.” She turned to her trusted employee, brows raised, her voice serious. “And that information goes nowhere, understand?”
Penny made a show of zipping her lips, twisting an imaginary key, and tossing it aside. “Not a word.”
Elizabeth drew her hair back in both hands, attempting to pull it into a knot at the back.
“Let me get that.” Penny got up and crossed to stand behind Elizabeth, who immediately took a seat on a vanity chair in front of the mirror. Penny deftly swept her shoulder-length blonde hair up into a French roll at the back of her head, clasping it into place and sweeping the sides back.
“Thank you. I can never get it to do that. Anyway, it turns out that Eileen was in the same work detail as Stacy for the past four months. This is immediately following the big drug debacle I told you about that resulted in the death of Amy Dixon—Stacy’s friend. It turns out one of the contracted physical therapists was bringing in drugs—Lois Hankerman.” Elizabeth paused, looking up to gauge Penny’s reaction in the mirror.
“I guess where there’s opportunity,” Penny said absently as she tucked a few stray strands in and sprayed them into place.
“Well, get this: Lois Hankerman happens to be Warden Glassy’s sister.”
Penny’s eyes widened on Elizabeth’s in the mirror, her expression one of horror. “No! How the hell did Glassy wind up with her sister working there?”
Elizabeth gave her a meaningful shrug. “Private prison? Different rules maybe?”
“Still sounds kinda hinky to me.”
“And that’s not all. The official story about why Stacy switched work detail and dorm, is that she had a big falling out with one of the other inmates. It sounded vicious, a fight. Nyla Guthrie, the other woman, broke a couple of Stacy’s ribs. A couple of the women I spoke to seemed to think it was a big set-up, that they planned it together.”
“Yeah, but two busted ribs is pretty serious. Anyone say why?”
“Nope, not a word. But if Nyla had anything to do with Amy’s death, I could see it getting serious. Stacy had helped her get clean. But by all accounts, she didn’t fight back—just stood there and took the beating because it would have counted against her for the release program.”
“But if it got her moved out of the dorm, and the work program, maybe that was the whole point. Maybe this Nyla or whatever wanted her out of the way so she could keep selling drugs or whatever.”
“I have no idea.” Elizabeth let her gaze drift across the dresser, then absently picked up her lipstick while she tried to link all the information she’d learned. Something had snagged in the back of her mind, something one of them had said but she’d ignored. “Eileen wanted to tell me something, but she wouldn’t in front of Kathy Reynolds. She ended up saying something weird about magic fairy dust or some such. Get me an appointment at the Women’s Reformatory. I want a visit with Lois Hankerman. If she’s in solitary, maybe she’s more likely to talk.”
“Will do,” Penny said and made a note on her phone.
“Then get me a background check on the prison officers there, will you? I think that’d be as good a place as any to start with.”
Her secretary made a pained face. “All of them?”
“Maybe just the ones in that block. Start with Kathy Reynolds with a ‘K’ and Patricia Tomes. Also another woman named Helen something-or-other and a Hispanic woman. I didn’t meet either of them but their names were on the roster in Glassy’s office. See if there’s anything suspicious in their pasts. I’d start with the Forbes listings. See if there’s anyone on their payroll we can cozy up to. Or better yet, get me Diana Du Plessis on the phone.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
Penny picked up Elizabeth’s phone and found the speed dial programmed into the seventh slot. Diana was the reporter who had befriended Elizabeth when Holly was taken. Ever since, they’d stayed in touch—not close, but close enough.
“Miss Du Plessis,” Penny said into the phone. “I have Elizabeth McClaine here. She’d like a moment of your time.”
Penny handed Elizabeth the phone.
“Diana. How are you?”
“Better than you by the sound of it.”
Elizabeth could hear the smile in her voice.
“Then you can probably guess what I’m doing.”
The humor warmed Diana’s voice. “Getting into your most outrageous dress for the Business Awards dinner tonight?”
“You know me too well. I need a favor.”
“Name it,” said Diana.
“I need a background check on the prison officers at Carringway private prison.” She waited a beat, then said, “Can you do it?”
“Do you know who you’re talking to?”
Elizabeth smiled. “I do.”
“You understand that I can’t divulge any of my sources.”
Giving Penny an encouraging nod, she said, “I’d prefer it that way.”
“When do you need it by?”
“Soon as you can.”
Elizabeth gave Diana the names of the officers in question then hung up and passed the phone to Penny before leaning into the mirror where she swiped on mascara, then twisted her lipstick up and applied it. Finally she got up and slipped her feet into her spike heels, gave herself a dab of her Chanel No 5, and struck a pose.
“So? Given we’re still talking The Bachelor, how would I rate?”
Penny stood back, viewing her employer from top to toe. “Elizabeth, if I were that way inclined, I’d marry you myself.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DAY ONE: 8:39 PM—STACY
The sun had gone down and despite the time of year, the evening temperature had turned chilly, the air damp. Worse yet, while Gayleen’s car was a heap of junk, Curta’s car had just enough gas to get it to the next gas station. Stacy had put her head down and pumped in four dollars’ worth, which was all she figured she could spare out of the twenty-five, causing the guy behind the counter to put his hand out for the cash, saying, “Gee, road trip across America, is it?” Stacy wanted to tell him that at least she wasn’t stuck in some hellhole in the middle of nowhere, making smart-ass comments to the customers who paid their wages, but that would only make her conspicuous, which she definitely didn’t want. So instead, she smiled and said, “It’s my mom’s car. I just gotta get home.”
The guy rang it up and she left, muttering and wondering, in reality, how far four bucks’ worth of gas would get her.
When she got back in the car and twisted the key in the ignition, the gas indicator had barely moved. Hopefully it was enough to find Alice Rasmussen.
Alice was a dyed-in-the-wool heroin
addict who lived in an apartment block somewhere on East 46th. How she ever got out of prison was anyone’s guess. After seven months in Carringway with her, Alice was the last person Stacy wanted to spend time with, but all her other ports of refuge had already been exhausted. So with a light foot on the gas, she’d tapped the turn signal, swerved out of the forecourt, and headed west along Carnegie.
The apartment building, while not palatial, was a far cry from Curta’s. Even the area where it was located was better. Stacy locked the car and headed across the street and entered the lobby. The elevator light showed the car on the top floor, so she opened the door to the stairwell and stepped through. She took the stairs two at a time until she hit the fourth floor and exited into a narrow hallway with apartment doors leading off in both directions. Feeling as if the whole world was watching, she hunched her shoulders and lifted her collar, then rapped on the first door to her left.
The door opened and a black woman with her hair wrapped in a towel opened the door. “Yeah? What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Alice Rasmussen. I was told she lived in this building.”
The woman’s face registered disgust, but she tipped her head toward the end of the hallway. “Lives down there—apartment E. Let’s hope she’s not having another damn party,” she said and shut the door.
Stacy walked to where the woman had indicated and paused in front of a battered door, the brown paint chipped and showing the previous olive green shade beneath, a crooked letter E nailed at eye level.
Did she really want to be around Alice? But, where else could she go? So she knocked and waited. Finally, the door cracked and Alice peeped out.
Alice was a ghost of the person she’d been in prison. The last time Stacy saw her she’d put on weight and begun to radiate, if not health, then something akin to it. Drugs had undone all that. Now she had dark rings under sunken eyes, and her complexion had paled to a sickly gray. Her hair had thinned to the point where her scalp was apparent through the strands, and her teeth were discolored, the edges corroded by the drugs she’d taken over the course of her life. She widened the door and leaned on the frame, hugging herself as if she was cold.
“Stacy? Hey, what are you doing here?”
Stacy glanced back down the hallway. “Can I come in?”
“Ah, yeah, sure.” Alice stepped back, waited for Stacy to enter, then closed the door. “Don’t mind the mess. I gotta get around to cleaning up. So what’s new?”
Stacy moved into the tiny living room and looked around. The apartment might have been nice if it wasn’t such a shit-heap. The kitchen was stacked with dirty dishes and the tiny dining table was cluttered with dirty ashtrays, a couple lengths of rubber tubing, a few disposable lighters, and four empty soda bottles. Stacy guessed the trash hadn’t been taken out in a while because the whole place stunk of rotting food.
“I just needed a place to hang out for a while, if that’s okay.” She figured Alice didn’t need to know more than that.
“Yeah, sure, sure.” Leaving her visitor standing, Alice crossed to the two-seater sofa and sat with her legs curled up under her. “Take a seat,” she said, indicating one of the dining chairs. Stacy pulled out a chair, wiped the crap off it and sat with her hands on her knees, wondering why she even came here.
“I saw you got out on that program,” Alice said.
“Ah, yeah. I was pretty lucky.”
“Lucky? Stacy, that was genius. Man, they must have been so pissed when you just walked off like that.”
Stacy blinked at her. It wasn’t until now that she realized just how many people this would have affected—Elizabeth McClaine, for a start. “Yeah, I guess,” she said, nodding. She knew this was a bad idea. Now she needed an excuse to leave.
Alice picked up a plastic pack and papers and began rolling a cigarette while she spoke. “Want a smoke?”
Stacy waved it away. “Nah, I’m good.”
Concentrating on tucking the shreds of weed into the papers, Alice made a face. “I been watching the news. Do you know how many politicians have got their asses kicked for backing that program? It was just on the TV: everyone runnin’ for cover, and making out they voted against it, all those big-ass politicians saying they don’t know who got the program rubber-stamped ’cause it sure as hell wasn’t them, and all blamin’ each other.” She ran her tongue along the edge of the paper and went on, saying, “And then they showed that Elizabeth McClaine on her way to some fancy party, all dressed up like Christmas on a plate, and she’s sayin’ how you’re the best one for the program, and how she believes in you and all that blah-de-blah. I’m like, ‘Lady, are you for real?’ But she’s going on, sayin’ like, how she has faith in you and she’ll get to the bottom of why you ran—like she could. And here you are right here in my apartment, givin’ it to her behind her back. That’s so hilarious.”
Stacy felt anger rise so fast it shocked her. “I’m not ‘giving it to her behind her back.’ She tried to help me. I appreciated it.”
Alice flicked the lighter, held the flame to the end of the joint and took a drag on it, holding it down and blinking through the smoke as she spoke. “Yeah, some help, huh? Rich bitch like her wouldn’t know her ass from a trip to the moon.” Alice held out the joint, offering it to Stacy.
“Nah, thanks. Will you excuse me? I gotta make a phone call.”
“Sure.” Alice turned her attention to the joint, picking off bits of charred paper and cursing. Stacy moved through to the tiny kitchenette, took out the phone Caitlin had given her, dug in her pocket for Wayne’s number, and dialed. The phone rang once, twice.
“Answer the thing, dammit,” she growled softly.
On the sixth ring, Wayne picked up. “Yeah?”
“It’s me. Did you make the call?”
“Hold on,” he said. For a while all she could hear was his breathing, then she heard a door close. “You there?”
“I’m here.”
“I made the call. They’re gonna have Tyler at the McDonald’s on East 55th. You know the one?”
“Yeah, I know it.”
The place was a stand-alone, right out in the middle of nowhere. If it had been in a shopping mall, she could have blended with the customers. The location of this place wasn’t going to make it so easy. “So what time?”
“Ah. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Stacy said and glanced back at Alice, who was too busy smoking her joint to notice. “Why did you make it tomorrow? I said today.”
“They said they can’t. It has to be tomorrow.”
“Shit.”
“Well, I did what you asked. I kept my side of the bargain, now you can put up your side. I don’t wanna ever hear from you again,” he said, and the phone went silent.
Stacy tucked the phone back into her pocket, felt the edge of something as she did, and pulled out Elizabeth McClaine’s business card. She’d forgotten that Mrs. McClaine had given it to her on the way home, telling her if she needed anything—anything at all—she was to call. What she needed was her son, needed to know he was safe. And right at this minute she needed help, so she pulled the phone out again and dialed the number on the card.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAY ONE: 8:59 PM—ELIZABETH
By the time the limousine had swerved to the curb at Elizabeth’s house, it was almost an hour after the awards dinner was set to begin. Elizabeth had left instructions for Penny to call Kay Heathers and find out where the meeting was to be held between Wayne Lettes and his son, but not to make a big deal out of it. If Kay chose to tell her, that was fine. If she chose not to, then they’d have to find another information source, although they weren’t exactly thick on the ground.
As she’d left the house, a swarm of waiting reporters rushed her, closing in to the point of almost crushing her, until the driver stepped in, asking them to move back. Just before getting into the car, she made a general statement to the media, saying that whatever had transpired causing Stacy M
ay Charms to break her parole, Elizabeth had every faith in her, and that she was still convinced Miss Charms was the best candidate for the program. When the reporters pushed forward again, mics held high, a barrage of questions flying, Elizabeth had told them she had nothing more to say, then got into the car and left.
During the thirty-five minute ride, her phone had rung three times: the first two calls from Penny, telling Elizabeth she’d managed to wheedle the meeting venue out of Kay, then updating her with news reports—most of which were interviews with various political figures from both sides of the House. Seemed everyone was now either denying all knowledge of the program, or insisting they didn’t know how it had gotten through the first vote. The final call was from a number she didn’t recognize, so she let it go to voice mail, before switching the phone off.
As the car swept into the covered entrance in front of the conference center, a waiting concierge stepped forward to open her door, then another escorted her to the ballroom, where she was announced at the door and her coat taken. She walked down three steps into a brightly lit ballroom echoing with the murmur of conversation and paused to get her bearings. When a passing waiter proffered a tray of champagne flutes, each filled to the brim and with lines of tiny bubbles trailing up the sides, Elizabeth gave the tray an aching look, and asked for soda and lime.
“Right away, ma’am,” he said and vanished towards the bar.
Elizabeth skirted the room slowly, taking a moment to look over the crowd. In the far corner she could see the Wheelwrights, laughing and talking animatedly with another couple and a man with his back to her wearing a dark, well-cut suit. The Wheelwrights had once been close acquaintances of her and her then-husband, Richard, although technically, the Wheelwrights had been more Richard’s business associates. As if feeling her gaze in their direction, Marianne Wheelwright turned to let her eyes skim the room before stopping on Elizabeth, who smiled and dipped her head. In response, Marianne gave her a slightly awkward nod, then turned back to the circle, leaning in to say something that caused the others to turn and glance Elizabeth’s way before closing in, huddled almost shoulder to shoulder while they continued their conversation.
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