The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

  When she reached the front hallway, she picked up the envelopes. She checked to be sure the deadbolt was engaged—sure enough, Brad had locked it from the outside, just as he’d promised.

  She put the letters on the front table and began walking around the house, checking the windows, the back door, the door to the basement. Everything was locked up tightly.

  In the kitchen, she was fixing some herbal tea when something occurred to her: Why not call Keaton and ask her to find out more about Reinhardt. Maybe she’d refuse, but on the other hand…

  She located Keaton’s phone number and, somewhat to her surprise, the switchboard put her right through. After describing Reinhardt’s visit, Nicole said, “I wonder if you could find out if he’s really a member of the police force. His credentials looked authentic, but I’m no expert. I thought it was strange that you hadn’t mentioned him. Don’t you people usually work as a team?”

  “The visit you describe is a bit unusual,” Keaton agreed. “And I’m not acquainted with Inspector Reinhardt. But you have to keep in mind that the Metropolitan Police is a very large organization. Let me check into this. I’ll give you a ring as soon as I have some information. Meanwhile, if you happen to run into him again, ask him to give me a call.”

  “Of course,” Nicole said. After they’d hung up, she realized that she was going to do her best to avoid any more conversations with Reinhardt, at least until Keaton checked him out.

  She went back to the hall table, grabbed the mail, and carried it into the living room. There, she flopped down on the couch and began to sort through the stack. There was a flyer from a plumbing firm and another offering reduced rates on treatment for “rising damp,” whatever that was. An oversized postcard featured half a dozen photos of heaping platters of food, printed in aggressively unappetizing colors. On the other side, the card offered a twofer coupon for an Indian restaurant.

  More intriguing was a cream-colored envelope hand-addressed to Mr. and Mrs. F. H. Lowry. The letter, as it turned out, was a mass-mailed invitation to invest in a time-share resort in an area described as the “British Riviera.”

  She picked up the final envelope and, turning it over, was surprised to see that it was addressed to her. There was a London postmark but no return address.

  She tore it open. The letter seemed to be typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. Nicole wondered where one of those could be found in working order:

  Nicole:

  I’m taking a terrible chance sending this, but I want you to know I had nothing to do with the car bomb that killed the neighbor. I know the police are looking for me. I had my own reasons for dropping out of sight, but now I’m afraid they think this is proof I’m guilty when I’m not. I am against all violence and killing. You must believe me.

  I have to talk to you, Nicole. Please get in touch with me through the people I told you about. I don’t dare say more in case someone else finds this.

  The letter was unsigned, but she had no doubt who had written it. She read it a second time. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember Alice talking about anyone except her brother, and she hadn’t mentioned where he was. All afternoon something tugged at the edge of her memory, something she couldn’t retrieve.

  Twelve

  Afternoon faded into early evening, and still Nicole remained on the couch, gazing through the double French doors. As the shifting light deepened the greens of the foliage, swathing it in shadow, she pursued her thoughts.

  At last the silence was broken when the jingling of keys and slamming of the front door announced Brad’s return. He came in balancing two big bags of groceries and an armload of long-stemmed red roses.

  She stared at the bouquet. The roses were exquisite — a deep pinky red with long stems and buds just beginning to unfurl. The extravagance of the gesture — its patent transparency — made her both sad and angry. “Thanks,” she said. “There’s a vase in the hall closet.”

  He went away and, after a few minutes, came back with the roses stuffed into a bulbous white china vase. Even before he set it on the lamp table nearby, her thoughts had moved on.

  She’d done nothing about dinner. But when she heard the clank of pots and utensils, she realized dinner was taking care of itself. Eventually, Brad reappeared in the doorway, “Do you want a tray so you can eat in here?” he said.

  His voice had a false heartiness, and she could tell he was cowed by her silence, by where it might be leading.

  “Nope,” she said. “I’m perfectly able to get up.” Until this moment, she hadn’t been able to imagine sitting down to dinner with him. But somehow the fear she seemed to have inspired in him lifted her spirits. As she followed him into the little dining room, she rather enjoyed thinking of herself as a volcano about to erupt.

  Dinner looked surprisingly good. There were grilled lamb chops with bacon and sausages, and the bacon was hardly burned at all. To go with the meat, he’d made instant mashed potatoes puddled with butter. The canned spinach, lukewarm and unseasoned, was less of a success.

  For the first time since the explosion, she felt hungry. But when she sampled the food, her sense of taste was still tainted by the metallic stench of burnt car, and she couldn’t eat more than a few bites.

  While she toyed with her food, Brad did his best to fill the silence. For Nicole, it was too much effort to listen, much less respond. Her numbness had deepened into something more paralyzing. The CAT scan at the hospital had detected nothing wrong, but she wondered if she’d been injured in some way the machine couldn’t detect.

  After his attempts at conversation sputtered and died, Brad began to describe his afternoon at work. As he explained, he’d been afraid the arrest would ruin him with the company, perhaps even get him fired. But Bud Cooper himself, SoftPac’s CEO, had personally called him from the company’s limousine somewhere on the Ventura Freeway. After asking about Nicole, Coop had gone on to express outrage about Brad’s overnight detention. He said he’d called the American Embassy, and Brad could expect an apology from the police.

  As he talked, Nicole noticed that he was no longer pale and drawn as he’d been earlier in the day. Despite a certain tension when he glanced in her direction, his face was relaxed, his cheeks rosy. She had the feeling his transformation was due to this recent vote of confidence from SoftPac’s top boss.

  She thought of Brenda. The prospect of ending the affair didn’t seem to have upset Brad much. Was Brenda really of such minor consequence, or had he postponed his talk with her? Perhaps he was simply waiting for Nicole to go home; then he wouldn’t have to do anything about Brenda at all.

  At that moment Nicole heard her cell phone chime.

  It was Stephanie. “My God, Nick,” she said. “Brad told me what happened. You weren’t seriously hurt, were you? You must be in shock though, right? When are you coming home?” She spoke in a rush, not waiting for an answer to one question before hurrying on to the next.

  “I’m fine,” Nicole said quietly. “It was upsetting, but I’m okay. Really. Except for a couple of bruises and a bump on the head. Actually, it’s amazing how all right I am.”

  “You don’t sound all right,” Stephanie said.

  “Well,” Nicole said, reaching for an explanation. “I do have a little headache, and I took a pain pill.” Even to herself, her voice sounded strained. It was the effect of swallowing back an avalanche of unshed tears, brought on by the sound of her sister’s voice, the weight of all the things she couldn’t tell Stephanie. The degree of anxiety this tale would inspire in her sister was too much to contemplate.

  “Look,” Nicole said. “It’s my first day out of the hospital, and I’m wiped.” Then she added, “But I’m fine. Really. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we’ll talk.”

  “Oh, no,” Stephanie said. “You’re not hanging up until you tell me when you’re coming home.”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Nicole said. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk. Okay?” Then, without waiting for the argument that was sure
to come, she said, “Bye,” putting the cell back in her purse.

  About thirty seconds passed before the cell started ringing again. Nicole handed it to Brad, signaling that she was on her way to bed. Brad, who was listening to Stephanie, rolled his eyes and nodded that he understood.

  On her way upstairs, she could hear his voice rise as he tried to interrupt Stephanie’s harangue. Nicole couldn’t help smiling. Her little sister was giving him hell. He was in for at least fifteen minutes of castigation for not insisting strongly enough that she go home.

  Entering the quiet bedroom, she was profoundly grateful to be alone and fell asleep almost immediately.

  She awoke around midnight when Brad tiptoed into the room and slipped under the covers next to her. Oddly enough, she didn’t mind him lying there—as long as he didn’t touch her. This she managed to avoid by settling at the edge of the mattress, as far away from him as possible. Meeting no resistance, Brad invaded the unoccupied territory in the center of the bed.

  Later, unable to go back to sleep, she realized who Alice had been alluding to in her letter: her friends who ran the little hotel. She’d even written its name, address, and phone number on a slip of paper. Once Nicole decided to go to the Dorchester, she hadn’t given Alice’s hotel recommendation another thought. Now she couldn’t even think of its name. What on earth had she done with the note? She sat up and hugged her legs to her chest, trying to remember.

  Brad stirred and turned over. “Wha…?” he muttered groggily. “What’s wrong?”

  Nicole pushed back the covers and got up. “Can’t sleep,” she said. “I think I’ll go downstairs for a glass of milk.”

  He flopped back on the pillow. She waited until his breathing grew slow and regular before ducking into the closet, closing the door behind her, and switching on the light.

  Her skirt, blouse, and jacket, which she’d been wearing at the time of the explosion, had been wadded up and tossed on the closet shelf.

  She checked, but the pockets were empty. As she was putting the clothes back on the shelf, the bed gave another creak. “Nicole?” Brad called. “Is that you?”

  “Just looking for my slippers.” She turned off the closet light, grabbed her purse from the dresser, and hurried downstairs. In the kitchen, she sat down at the table and dumped out the contents of the purse—her wallet, makeup case, a few loose coins, a pack of Kleenex. Next, she emptied the wallet, pulling out her dwindling supply of pound notes, receipts, credit cards. No slip of paper.

  She went to the counter and opened the phone book to the hotel listings, slowly running her finger down the columns. None of them was familiar.

  As she sat there thinking, she was aware of the darkness beyond the kitchen window, the fact that while she couldn’t see out, anyone who might be outside would be able to see in.

  She flipped off the light, pulled a kitchen stool to the window and opened it, then perched with her elbows on the sill, gazing out. In the glow of the full moon, the shrubs that lined the fence were still except for an occasional breeze that set them trembling.

  The night was surprisingly mild. The stink of the explosion had finally cleared from her nostrils, and she caught a sweet scent on the breeze that might have been orange blossoms or honeysuckle. It took her back to the most magical evenings of her childhood, Santa Ana nights when she and Stephanie would play outside long after dark.

  On special occasions — the Fourth of July, Labor Day, the arrival of houseguests who needed the beds in the girls’ rooms — the two sisters were granted permission to sleep outside in their little pup tents. It was the late eighties, early nineties, an era when the threat of violence in their own backyard was still unimaginable.

  Free of supervision, the two of them plotted their own crime wave. Using Nicole’s telescope, they’d spy on the neighbors and dream up escapades that involved climbing into adjacent yards.

  Stephanie was the one with the wildest ideas, but she’d quickly lose courage. Not only would she lack the nerve to carry out a dare; she’d end up begging Nicole to abandon dares that she herself had issued. But Nicole, once challenged, could not be dissuaded. She’d set off on her quest while Stephanie stayed behind, weeping with fright.

  There was almost no dare Nicole wouldn’t accept, like the time she’d climbed through a neighbor’s open kitchen window to steal ice cream bars for the two of them. The mission failed, however, when the neighbor, a famous crosspatch named Mrs. Gilles, heard the rattle of the screen and came downstairs to investigate. Nicole had escaped detection by ducking into the broom closet, where she had to remain for a good fifteen or twenty minutes, while the old lady finished clumping around in search of a burglar.

  Remembering, she wondered what had possessed her. Even into adulthood, her quiet impulsiveness, her willingness to act after the briefest reflection, persisted. Since the explosion, however, her sense of invincibility had evaporated. That blast, the moment when the hot wind swept her off her feet, had brought an epiphany — the understanding that she wasn’t immune to failure and disaster, that no one goes on winning forever.

  The breeze had turned chilly, and she was actually shivering. As she was closing the window, she remembered it had been chilly the night Alice had left, cool and cloudy enough to warrant wearing a raincoat. She found it hanging in the front hall. Sure enough, in the right hand pocket was the scrap of paper. Under the word “Cartwright,” were the address and phone number.

  Nicole hurried to the front hall table to get her cell phone from her purse.

  “Cartwright Hotel?” The desk clerk sounded sleepy and confused, as if he wasn’t quite sure.

  “I’m looking for an Alice McConnehy,” she said. “I wonder if someone there might know how I can get in touch with her.”

  “Just a minute, miss,” he said. After a brief pause, he was back. “Sorry, we’ve no guest of that name.”

  “She’s not a guest. She’s a friend of the people who run the hotel.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you much there. But the proprietor will be in tomorrow around 9:00 a.m. Would you like to ring back then?”

  Nicole hesitated, struck by the idea that someone might be able to listen in on her cell phone. With so many people looking for Lowry, and the police now searching for Alice as well, this seemed like a real possibility.

  “Maybe I’ll just drop by,” she said. “Thanks for your help.”

  In the morning, after Brad had left the house, she got dressed and called a cab. Traffic grew dense as they approached the neighborhood surrounding the hotel, Marble Arch. She reached into her purse and turned off her phone. She didn’t want her mission interrupted.

  The cab ground to a halt a few blocks from the great triumphal arch that gave the area its name. She could see it through her window, straddling the street and looming incongruously over the buildings nearby. When, after a few minutes, they still hadn’t budged, she asked the cabby to let her out. “I think it would be faster if I walked.”

  “You’re probably right, ducks,” he said, as she handed her fare though the window. “But I’d advise you to keep an eye on your handbag.”

  As she started toward her destination, she looked around and decided that, despite what the cabby had said, the neighborhood was safe, if slightly shabby. She felt better this morning. It was good to be out walking in the brisk morning air, to have a sense of purpose.

  Before long the neighborhood began to change, taking on a Middle Eastern flavor with exotic lettering in the store windows. Black-veiled women perused crates of fruits and vegetables displayed in front of the many small food shops. Men in red-and white-checkered kufiyas sipped coffee at sidewalk cafes. They had a clear division of roles, she noticed, with no women in the cafes and no men shopping at the markets.

  Glancing at herself in a store window, she noticed a man walking about thirty feet behind her. A minute or so later, as she’d paused to recheck the hotel’s address, she looked around and noticed that he’d stopped, too. He was stand
ing in front of an abandoned shop and appeared to be studying something in the window.

  She was surprised when she realized it was Reinhardt. He was dressed differently — this time in a tan windbreaker, Levi’s, and a baseball cap that made it hard to see his face — but she would have known him anywhere.

  Why, she wondered, was he following her? And why on earth was he so obvious about it? Weren’t police inspectors trained to avoid being spotted by the people they were following?

  As these questions occurred to her, she realized he must be following her because he thought she would lead him to Alice.

  She resumed walking again, this time more quickly. She slipped through a group of veiled women, all pushing baby carriages, who were congregated in front of a butcher shop. Once past the crowd, she ran for the next corner and darted into the side street.

  She took refuge in the first doorway she came to and waited, looking around and trying to catch her breath. There was no hope of retreating into the building. Attached to the door was a heavy lock box and a FOR LEASE sign. At any moment, she expected Reinhardt to come hurrying around the corner looking for her. She would have no choice but to confront him, ask him what he thought he was doing. Then, of course, she’d have to give up her plan to stop by the hotel.

  Seconds and then minutes passed, but Reinhardt did not appear. She checked her watch and waited another full minute before she peeked out. Cautiously, she made her way to the corner and looked up and down Edgware Road. The local population was still out in force, but there was no sign of Reinhardt. She began to wonder if she’d been mistaken.

  She pulled the slip of paper out of her pocket, studied it and — after a last glance around — hurried the two remaining blocks to the address she was looking for, 346 Penfold Place. It was a modest, glass-fronted building that looked more like a bank than a hotel.

  In the small, overheated lobby, several veiled women were packed onto two small sofas with a horde of young children. The little ones, who ranged in age from toddler to five or six, crawled, slid, and climbed about on the sofas and over the women. They rarely dropped to the floor, and when they did, they instantly hopped back up again. Nicole’s guess was that they’d been forbidden to run around the lobby, and this was the only game left. She couldn’t imagine it was much fun for the women. Their faces — all but the eyes — were covered with veils, making it impossible to guess what they were thinking.