He was just trying to get rid of her so he could pursue his sordid little affair. It was what he’d wanted all along. The odd part was that she no longer cared. What did it matter if he spent the summer sleeping with Brenda?
There was a tapping sound, and, from the doorway, a woman’s voice called out, “Pardon me!” D.C. Keaton, the lady of smiles, was standing in the doorway. Today, she was wearing a red and black print dress with a red linen blazer, a black silk carnation in the lapel. The red of the jacket, combined with the dark lipstick, gave her a brittle, sallow look.
“I apologize for bursting in like this, but I wonder if I might come in,” she said. Without waiting for a reply, she headed directly for Brad, smiling broadly and reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m Detective Constable Keaton,” she said. “You must be Mr. Graves.” She released his hand but held onto the smile. “Would you mind if I speak to your wife in private? Later, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions.”
Clearly puzzled, Brad stared at her for a moment before nodding his assent. As he made his way to the door, Nicole studied the way his shoulders sagged, the rumpled state of his suit. The curls he always took so much care to straighten with the blow dryer were in complete rebellion. He threw Nicole a last unhappy glance, before Keaton shut the door and sat down next to the bed
“I know you’re not well,” she began, “so I’ll only take a moment. I just want to assure you that we’re searching for the men who accosted you at the National Gallery.”
“Then you heard…”
“Indeed I did,” Keaton said. “I’ve read the police report. I also received your telephone messages, and I did try to reach you. But there was no answer.” She looked at Nicole a long moment and shook her head. “Then, sometime before yesterday evening someone planted a bomb in the Lowrys’ car. It was on a timer, apparently set to go off at 6:00 p.m. A terrible coincidence, the way everything hit you at once.”
“But it wasn’t a coincidence,” Nicole said. She explained about the assailants’ threat and their 6:00 pm deadline.
“Oh, I see,” the detective said. “You think those men were responsible.” The detective was silent for a long moment, chewing the inside of her lip. “Well, I can understand why you might come to such a conclusion, and it is a possibility — but not the only one. We’ve received a rash of bomb threats in the last few days. We have a bomb squad that makes a science of this sort of thing, and they have reason to believe the explosion was the work of a terrorist group — although we’re not entirely sure which one.” She shook her head. “Yes, it’s a bit of a muddle, I’m afraid. We’re looking at Al Qaeda tie-ins, but other groups as well, such as ALF.”
“ALF?”
Keaton nodded. “The Animal Liberation Front. Opposed to blood sports and any animal testing. They often go after large corporations. I wonder if your husband’s company might be a target.”
Nicole thought of the animal rights groups at home. They were crazy all right, but she’d never heard of them throwing bombs around. “SoftPac is a computer software firm,” she said. “They don’t use laboratory animals.”
“I see. That makes it all the more puzzling, doesn’t it?” Keaton gave another of her smiles. “Well, no one has ever accused these people of being very precise in picking their targets. But the truth is that it might not have been terrorists at all. That’s why we have to keep an open mind and look into all the possibilities.”
Keaton paused before continuing, “May I be completely candid?”
Nicole nodded, but her stomach had gone funny. She didn’t want to hear what the woman had to say.
“We’ve spoken to several people who work in your husband’s London office.” Keaton’s face was sober. No hint of a smile now. “Someone told us, that is, he mentioned certain rumors that have been circulating about your husband…” Her voice trailed off. For the first time, she seemed at a loss for words.
“Just say it,” Nicole said.
“This person said your husband appears to be having an affair with a young woman who works for him. I’m dreadfully sorry to bring this up when I have no way of verifying it. But I must ask.”
Nicole hesitated. She could see where this line of questioning was headed, but it was ridiculous. “Even if it were true,” she replied, “I don’t see what it could possibly have to do with the car bomb.”
“Forgive me,” the detective said. “But in the vast majority of murder attempts, the perpetrator is the spouse or a close relative. So, when an apparent attempt is made on a woman’s life, the first person the police question is the husband.”
Nicole stared at her. “You can’t possibly imagine he’s trying to kill me.”
“Well, I’m terribly sorry,” Keaton said. “But you must see that we have to look into it. And one last thing; Several people, not just the one individual but three or four others, mentioned that your husband has a criminal record back in the U.S.”
“That was a computer prank when he was a kid, and he paid dearly for it,” she said. “I know who planted that car bomb, and it wasn’t Brad or any terrorist organization.” Tears of anger filled her eyes. She blinked them away. “Only, you’ve made up your mind, haven’t you? You aren’t the least bit interested in what I have to say.”
Keaton reached out and took Nicole’s hand. “Oh, Mrs. Graves, nothing could be further from the truth,” she said. “As soon as I get back to my office, I’m going to ask for an increase in the number of officers searching for the men who are stalking you. Now, I thought you might want to see this …” She pulled the neatly-folded page of a newspaper from her purse and, unfolding it, placed it on the bed. “Of course, the paper misidentified you. Perhaps one of the neighbors told the photographer that the house and car belonged to the Lowrys.”
It was an inside page containing several photos. Nicole picked it up, her eyes drawn to a picture of a blackened, burned-out hulk she recognized as the Lowrys’ car. Next to it, another photo showed paramedics hustling a rumpled-looking blonde into the back of an ambulance. It was a dreadful picture. Her mouth was hanging open; she looked dazed and slightly demented.
She read the caption: “Mrs. Muriel Lowry, Chiswick resident injured in yesterday’s bomb blast, shown as she was taken to hospital.”
As Nicole reread the words, trying to make sense of them, her eyes kept closing. She remembered the pills the nurse had given her and realized they must have been some kind of sedative.
“Now, I’m afraid I must take your husband away to ask him some questions,” Keaton said softly. “We’ll bring him back to you presently.”
With enormous effort, Nicole opened her eyes. “You can’t hold him,” she said. “The American Embassy …”
She couldn’t complete the sentence, but Keaton seemed to understand. “I’m afraid your embassy won’t be much help,” she said gently. “With a bombing like this, we have a right to hold your husband up to seven days for questioning under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.”
Nicole’s eyes opened then closed again, “You can’t possibly …” she managed to say.
“Don’t worry. We’ll release him later today, tomorrow morning at the latest. Look at it from our point of view: Mr. Graves might have heard or seen something.“
Nicole wanted to argue, but sleep was already carrying her away.
Ten
Nicole woke up with a dull headache, feeling exhausted. It was too much effort to move, so she simply lay still, staring at the ceiling. It was light green, crisscrossed with an intricate network of pipes that, like the ceiling itself, was coated with thick layers of paint. The pale color made a perfect backdrop for the image that kept replaying in her head—the fireball that had once been the Lowrys’ car.
Then a gray-haired nurse was standing over her, popping a thermometer into her mouth and taking her vital signs. Nicole was handed over to a nurse’s aide, a plump, brown-skinned girl, who guided her to the shower and waited just outside the door while she washed and shampooe
d. When she was done, she was handed a fresh gown of blue-striped cotton, slightly faded. It was of the same design used by hospitals everywhere, open at the back with two frayed ties — positioned near the neckline — to hold it closed.
At the aide’s suggestion, Nicole’s purse was taken out of a small overhead cupboard where it had been stowed and her makeup retrieved. Carefully, the girl lined up Nicole’s cosmetics and their respective brushes on the tray table. “A little color,” she said in a singsong accent, “and you are looking better already.”
Nicole held still while lipstick and blush were applied, although it was beyond her to take much interest in the process. Not that she was as dizzy as she’d been the day before, nor did she seem injured, at least in any obvious way. Her problem was a deep sense of malaise accompanied by a crippling numbness like nothing she’d ever experienced. It was as if a great part of her emotional core had been obliterated by the explosion.
A little later, the girl who delivered Nicole’s breakfast urged her to eat. Rather than argue, she picked up a triangle of toast and took a tiny bite. Once the girl disappeared along her route, Nicole put the remains back on the plate and lay down again. After a while, she grew tired of watching the fireball dance on the ceiling and closed her eyes.
She had no idea how long she slept, but when she woke up, she was no longer alone. A man was sitting in the chair by the bed. He was nicely dressed in a charcoal suit with a dazzling white shirt and blue striped tie. He was good looking; in fact, this was the most striking thing about him. Beyond that, Nicole had a strong sense of recognition, the feeling that she’d met him somewhere before.
Perhaps thirty seconds passed before she realized who this was— and she was sitting upright with her heart pounding in her ears.
Reinhardt — for it was Reinhardt — was instantly on his feet, taking a few steps backward. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You see, I’m with the police, and I need to ask you a few questions. Here,” he said, pulling his wallet out. “My identification.”
She stared while he flipped the wallet open and held it out for her inspection. The ID bore a police insignia and a photo that identified him as Ronald H. Reinhardt, Detective Inspector, London Metropolitan Police.
Looking from the ID to the man standing before her, she could see that this was definitely the man in the picture.
“Mrs. Graves,” he said, returning the wallet to his pocket, “Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions?”
“I guess—yes—all right.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. Only now, as he sat down and pulled out a notebook, did she decide she wasn’t dreaming. Another realization followed.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I just spoke to the police. Inspector Keaton is investigating the explosion and a break-in that happened just after you stopped by.”
“I’m aware of D.C. Keaton’s involvement. My inquiries involve a separate matter. We’re still looking for Mr. Lowry,” he went on. “We haven’t had any luck finding him, and we urgently need to do so. Perhaps you’ve had word from him and can tell us where he is.”
“That day you came to the house,” she said, “why didn’t you say you were with the police?”
He gave a nod. “Good point. But I didn’t want to cause you or any of Mr. Lowry’s neighbors undue concern. The truth of the matter is that Mr. Lowry wasn’t the object of our investigation. We were simply hoping he could assist us in our inquiry. That being the case, I’m sure you understand why it was simpler for me to introduce myself as Mr. Lowry’s business associate.” He gave a smile — lots of nice, even white teeth — as if he were pleased to have cleared up this matter.
“Okay,” she said. “Now, let’s see if I understand this.” She paused to plump up her pillows, then leaned back. “The fact that you’re here, asking questions about Lowry — does that mean the police now believe there’s a link between Lowry’s disappearance and the car bomb?”
His smile faded. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be willing to make that leap.” For a moment, he gazed across the room, as if carefully considering his next words. Then he cleared his throat. “As I said, our main interest is another case we’ve been working on for some time, the one in which Mr. Lowry might be of help.”
“I see,” Nicole said. What she saw was that Reinhardt was trying to avoid explaining any more than he had to. Yet she had the feeling he knew perfectly well what was going on, that he could explain the whole mess.
“Now,” he said, “Do you have any idea where Mr. Lowry is?”
She explained that the Lowrys had failed to show up in L.A., and she had no idea what had happened to them. She did give him the phone number in Texas, which was now firmly committed to memory. Once he’d entered this in his book, she said, “Can you tell me about the other case you’re working on?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he said. “Believe me, I wish I were. Unfortunately…” He smiled and gave a shrug. “I wonder if you could put that question aside and tell me what you do know about Mr. Lowry. Unless you’re too tired.”
“No, really,” she said, “I’m fine.” In a way, this was true. The conversation had revived her with the hope that she might learn something.
“If you don’t mind then,” he said, “I’d like you to start at the very beginning—how you came to occupy the Lowrys’ house.”
She explained how Brad had found the Lowrys through someone in his company’s London office.
“Can you give me the name of the person who recommended them?” Reinhardt asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “But I’ll ask and get back to you.” She had the feeling that Reinhardt didn’t know that Brad was in police custody, and this was something she wasn’t going to volunteer.
As she told her story, Reinhardt listened attentively. He was a good audience. Perhaps it was the way he sat forward in his chair with his eyes on hers. There were moments, however, when his gaze made her uncomfortable. She found herself omitting certain details, such as Brad’s betrayal.
When she was done recounting the events leading up to the explosion, she mentioned her recent conversation with Detective Keaton and the fact that she’d rejected the theory that the two thugs had planted the car bomb.
Reinhardt nodded. “I’m afraid I would have to agree. It’s unlikely those men could pull off a bombing like that. They’re rank amateurs, acting on impulse. Assaulting a woman in a public place—what a very foolish and risky thing to do.”
“But they got away with it,” she said, wondering at his logic. “No one stopped them, and they haven’t been caught.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m afraid I put that rather badly. I wasn’t discounting the menace of their behavior—the way they assaulted and threatened you. But it takes a great deal of professionalism to plant a bomb and walk away free. I’m talking about planning and advance work, discipline and coordination. I haven’t spoken to D.C. Keaton, but I’m sure she’s putting all the resources she can spare into apprehending them.”
Nicole frowned. “If you haven’t talked to Keaton, how did you know I was here?”
“I read the police report,” he said. Then he regarded her a moment, before adding, “And, of course, your picture appeared in the paper.
“They misidentified me.”
“So I noticed.” He smiled slightly, as if acknowledging what an awful picture it had been. “Now, I just have one final question,” he went on. “The Lowrys’ tenant seems to have disappeared. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
Nicole felt a great weariness. “Alice hasn’t disappeared. She told me she was going away for a few days. She left just before I went to the hotel. It was the day before …” Her words trailed off as she remembered the bareness of Alice’s room, the empty dresser and closet.
“Did she mention where she was going?”
Nicole shook her head.
“According to the police report,
this woman represented herself as a nurse. Do you have any idea of her employer?”
“No.” Nicole went cold, and it was an effort to keep her teeth from chattering. “She told me she worked for an agency, but she never said which one. Are you saying she’s not a nurse?”
“There is some question about it,” he said. “We’ve called every nursing agency in London as well as the Royal College of Nursing, but there’s no one of that name.” He put his notebook away and stood up. “I think that’s enough for today. I don’t want to overtire you.”
“Wait,” she said, “I want to ask you something. Do you think those men mistook me for Mrs. Lowry — like the paper did — because I’m staying in her house?”
With a sigh, Reinhardt sat down again. “Anything is possible,” he said. “After fifteen years in police work, I’d be a fool not to admit that. But I’ve also learned not to jump to conclusions before all the evidence is in. At this point we have no idea who those men are or what they’re after.”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the opposite wall. “I will tell you this much,” he finally said. “There are times when a member of the public — a tourist like yourself, for example —becomes inadvertently involved in an ongoing investigation. Perhaps she’s witnessed something strange or disturbing and reports it to the police. If the investigation is very hush-hush, then she might not receive a satisfactory explanation. As you can imagine, she might go away feeling confused.”
Nicole nodded, although she wasn’t sure she understood. “Are you saying I stumbled into an undercover investigation?”
For a long moment, he stared at her, then got to his feet. “I’m afraid I’ve already said more than I should,” he said. “I just want you to know that we’re doing everything in our power to ensure your safety. I don’t think you’ll be hearing from these individuals again.
The Swap Page 11