The Dead Room

by Heather Graham

  She did. Her face, beautiful and delicate, scrunched into a frown when the towel touched her forehead.

  She opened her dazzling eyes wide as she stared at him, her sense of alarm returning. She braced her hands on the mattress as she strained away from him, her entire posture wary. “Matt?” she asked hesitantly, disbelievingly.

  “Sorry, no,” he said as soothingly as he could. “I’m not Matt, I’m Joe. We never met, but maybe you’ve heard of me? I’m Joe Connolly, Matt’s cousin.”

  He couldn’t identify the surge of emotion that washed through those glorious eyes as she stared at him. Finally a rueful smile curved her lips; rich, thick lashes fell over her eyes, and she managed a shaky laugh.

  “My God. I’m so sorry. I’m not…I don’t usually run around passing out or…I’m sorry.” She produced a hand, and he took it. She had a firm grip. “I’m Leslie MacIntyre, and of course Matt talked about you all the time. I feel so foolish, but…the family resemblance is…amazing.”

  “Not really,” he assured her. “Matt was…cuter,” he offered with a grin. “Seriously, he had lighter hair. My eyes are green, his were blue. But I guess…we were about the same height. Both built like my grandfather…good old Irish brawn, I suppose. I don’t think we were descended from the aristocracy. We were probably potato farmers.” He was talking too much, something he didn’t usually do, but she seemed in need of reassurance, no matter how quickly she appeared to be bouncing back.

  At least she wasn’t pretending not to stare at him.

  She smiled, looking rueful once again. “I really am sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I guess I forgot about the family resemblance. Matt and I never saw it much, anyway.” He stared back at her and grew serious. “A mutual friend, Robert Adair, told me you were staying here.”

  “Did he? He might have warned me about you,” she said with a laugh.

  “Well, he’s known me forever, knew Matt forever…he probably doesn’t really see the resemblance anymore.”

  She nodded. “Well, it’s really great to meet you. At last.”

  “I went by the hospital,” he said quietly. “You weren’t conscious at the time.”

  She nodded, looking away at last. “I got your note. Honestly, I’m so embarrassed. I’m not really dressed, I’ve passed out on you…I assure you, Matt intended to marry an intelligent human being. I mean, that’s what I usually am.”

  “No assurance needed,” he said. “I shocked you. I’m really sorry.”

  They were very close, he suddenly realized, she half prone, he by her side. He must have been making her uncomfortable. He rose. “I just came by to say hello, but I see you’re ready to go to bed.” It was just past eight-thirty, he realized. Well, she worked hard. Digging all day must be exhausting. Anyway, lots of people went to bed early. Eight-thirty? “I’ll get out of your hair. Though I would love to see you again, if you have time.”

  She smiled. “I’d make time for Matt’s cousin, Joe,” she said softly.

  God, her smile was pure enchantment. He knew why Matt had been so in love.

  “Great,” he returned.

  She was staring up at him again. “Have you been in Hastings House before?” she asked him.

  “Yes.” He shrugged. Why pussyfoot around? “I’m a private investigator. I had to come. I had to investigate the explosion for myself.”

  “And?”

  “It appeared to have been an accident.”

  “Appeared?”

  “The police investigated, the fire department investigated…a gas line exploded when someone turned up the heat.”

  The words hung between them. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was. Accident? Or had the line been rigged, and had someone known and decided to turn up the heat at just the right time?

  “Greta was the hostess that night,” she murmured.

  He lifted his shoulders. “I think Greta would lie across the railroad tracks before she’d destroy a place of historic value.”

  Leslie lowered her head; Joe could tell that she agreed with him. He had learned over the years that the answers to many things could be surprising, but that was one headline he just didn’t see. Wealthy Socialite Runs Amok, Destroys Historic House.

  But someone else…? That he could see.

  Leslie looked up at him and flushed. She wondered if their thoughts had been running along the same route. She stood suddenly. “Actually, it’s ridiculously early. Want to give me a minute? I neglected to have dinner this evening, and I’m suddenly starving. Oh, sorry, you probably have plans.”

  “I’d love to take you to dinner.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting…and I really wouldn’t want you to change any plans on my behalf.”

  “I’d love to take you to dinner,” he repeated.

  She arched a brow, studying him.

  “I don’t have any plans.”

  “Great. Then…make yourself at home. Except,” she added with a laugh, “watch out for the tourist no-no tapes.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of sitting on an antique chair,” he assured her. “I’ll be in the kitchen, how’s that? Fairly safe, right?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be right down.”

  He watched her race up the stairs.

  Matt had been a lucky man. Then again, Matt had deserved the best.

  He wandered into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of water. There was a plain wooden chair by the hearth. There was no fire burning, but he sat and stared into the darkened recess of the alcove anyway.

  He smiled suddenly, glad that he had stopped by. Eileen Brideswell wouldn’t be pleased, but he couldn’t work every minute of every day, and he had thought of little but her missing niece since he had taken on the case. In fact, she had grown in his mind. He felt almost as if he knew her. He knew the idealism that had driven her, knew the passion with which she had worked.

  He prayed that she wasn’t dead. That she had, perhaps subconsciously, wanted to inflict some punishment on her aunt, the remaining bastion of a difficult family, so she had run off on impulse to take a breather up in Canada or down in Mexico.

  But he didn’t believe it. She hadn’t used a single credit card. She hadn’t written a check. No one had made either legal or illegal use of her social security number. The last person to have seen her—before she stepped into a dark sedan—was Didi Dancer, who had clearly liked her and seemed to have no reason to lie about what she’d seen.

  He leaned back in the chair, shaking his head and turning his thoughts to tonight. He was glad to have met Leslie at last. She had taken his mind off his task and given him a much-needed break. But she came with baggage, too. Sorrow that they shared.

  He needed a vacation, he decided. Tahiti was starting to sound awfully good.

  He rose, walking into the servants’ pantry, where the explosion had occurred.

  He looked around at the repaired walls, the fresh paint, the furniture. He was no expert. He couldn’t tell the difference between real period furniture and good reproductions. It was interesting, though, that the explosion had taken place here and the rest of the house had suffered very little damage.

  Targeted.

  He couldn’t get that thought out of his mind.

  He knew that Matt had been working on several things when he died. Because of Leslie, he had written about restoration efforts in the downtown area. His other focus at the time had been the prostitutes who were disappearing.

  Had Matt been targeted because he was such a good investigative reporter? Because he had come too close to the truth? And yet, was the disappearance of the down-and-out really such an important issue that someone would kill because of it?

  Sure. The abductor and presumed murderer. But how would he have managed access to Hastings House? And most people wouldn’t know how to rig a gas explosion to look so convincingly like an accident.

  Joe felt a strange draft. Enough to make him rub his arms to ward off the chill. “Matt,” he said aloud, “I just
don’t like it. I swear, I will find out the truth.”

  He was talking to the air, he told himself in disgust.

  And yet, he felt more determined than ever. There was no logical reason for it, but he didn’t give a damn what the experts had said. Something about the accident scenario wasn’t right.

  “You were too good a man,” he said softly. “Someone had to be after you.”

  There was no whisper of approval. Nothing.

  “Hey.”

  He turned quickly. People didn’t come up on him by surprise often. He must have been very deep in thought.

  Or too busy talking to himself.

  “I had a feeling I might find you here,” she said.

  He lifted a hand. “Sorry—talking to myself. I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “I was watching your face. You don’t believe it was an accident.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “Maybe I have to find a reason,” he said.

  “I know. I’ve thought the same thing. Anyway, shall we go?” she asked.

  She was wearing perfume. An elusive, soft scent. Her hair was long and swinging free, shimmering in the light. She was a bit too thin, but even thin, she had a nice shape. Smiling at him from the doorway, she was a vision. He felt a stirring and quickly tamped it down. Matt’s girl. He had to be a friend, nothing more.

  “What are you in the mood for?” he asked.

  “Italian?”

  “Sounds good to me. I know a great place in Little Italy, and my car is just around the corner. I was down here…looking around before I decided to stop by.”

  Her smile faded for a moment. “You’re going to dig until you find the truth, aren’t you?”

  “Actually,” he replied, “I’ve been hired to search for a missing girl right now.”

  “Oh?”

  “She disappeared down here.”

  She frowned. “One of the prostitutes?”

  “No. Come on. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

  She smiled. “I don’t believe you. You’re going to dig.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who digs for a living,” he reminded her.

  “But…”

  “I looked into the explosion. I grilled every friend, acquaintance and total stranger who was here or knew someone here. Well, except for you,” he added with a rueful grin. “There’s no way to prove anything. The only answer anyone came up with was the combination of the gas line and happenstance.”

  She turned and started out, then hesitated and looked back, smiling. “I don’t believe you’re going to stop looking.”

  “Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say I’m not. But I’m Matt’s cousin, so I can’t help but think…well, I can’t stop. Can’t accept the obvious explanation. Because of him. That doesn’t mean I know anything. Now come on. They do a great francese at this place. Veal or chicken—take your pick.”

  “Chicken. Can’t help it, I avoid veal.”

  “Tell me you’re not a vegetarian.”

  “Not unless chicken has become a vegetable.”

  He laughed. He’d sure as hell walked right into that one. Strangely, it wasn’t at all awkward being with her. He liked her. He could see why Matt had loved her. But he had to remember that Matt had been engaged to her and tread carefully.

  Joe. Good old Joe. The world’s best cousin, practically a brother. He’d tried so hard to touch him. He had to let Joe know that it was okay.

  Except that it wasn’t okay. And he knew why, now that Joe had put it into words. It hadn’t been a freak accident. He’d been murdered.

  Why? Who would have killed so many so callously, just to get to him?

  Joe would figure it out. Good old Joe.

  Good old flesh-and-blood Joe.

  And Leslie.

  Leslie, who had thought Joe was him. Did they really look that much alike? Or, rather, had they once resembled each other so much? Maybe. Those closest seldom saw it.

  Joe…and Leslie.

  They were just going to dinner. And Joe was a good guy. Not slimy. So…He had to let her go. Not that dinner meant that anything was going on, at least not right away.

  Besides, maybe they needed time together to discover the truth that had eluded them all.

  The living and the dead.

  They managed to secure an outside table. The street was closed to traffic, and the weather was unbelievably balmy, a promise that summer was coming. Joe had known Rudolfo, the owner and host, for years, and he was complimentary to Leslie without being smarmy. They had a bottle of his best Chianti and an antipasto of cheeses, meats and marinated vegetables almost immediately, and Leslie proved that she was definitely hungry. They both ordered the chicken francese, and then she sat back, her head cocked at an angle, and smiled.

  “So tell me about your case. Is it the girl whose picture was in the paper?”

  “Yes. Genevieve O’Brien.”

  “Do you think…?”

  “That she’s alive?” he finished. “I don’t know. I certainly don’t believe she just took off without telling anyone. First things first—the police had done their homework. I went over it, and there’s absolutely no sign of her turning up anywhere else.”

  Leslie considered that fact. “She’s rich, right?”

  “None of her funds have been touched.”

  “Scary,” she said. “And sad,” she murmured, lifting her wineglass and taking a sip. “I’m sure lots of people disappear and never show up again. I mean, think of the places people can dispose of bodies. Swamps, deserts…oceans.”

  “This is New York City,” he said.

  “Rivers, landfills, a city beneath the city.”

  He frowned, realizing that he hadn’t really thought about that last possibility. He leaned back, staring at her. “Brilliant.”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “I just happen to know that…well, there’s a city beneath the city. In a lot of neighborhoods, the way that the streets have been built up, you can be in a basement looking out at what once was street level. And then there are old foundations, old tunnels…all kinds of unknown underground places. Plus, even though the city’s mainly built on granite bedrock, loose earth shifts. I learned that looking for graves. In fact, in many old graveyards, the coffins have shifted until there’s actually nothing—or at least not the right something—beneath the headstones, and you’re walking on graves no matter where you go. Over time, when the earth is soft, when there’s rain, construction, vibrations from the subways…well, things shift.”

  “Creepy,” he said.

  She smiled, shaking her head. “Not if you’re in my line of work.”

  Their food came. They chatted about the neighborhood for a while, about how so much of Little Italy was being absorbed by Chinatown, but that was New York for you, always changing. New groups of people came in on a daily basis. Some people liked it, some people continued to hate foreigners, even though they themselves had been the foreigners of a previous decade or century.

  “This is a land of promise, but sometimes that scares people, so they ignore what bothers them, whatever messes up their pretty picture,” he said. “That’s one of the problems with the missing prostitutes. Getting people to care. A lot of the people have a tendency to think that women like that deserve what they get.”

  “Jack the Ripper went after prostitutes, and it was one of the biggest scandals in Victorian London,” she pointed out.

  “Because people were horrified by the gruesome brutality of the crimes. Here, people are just disappearing. No bodies, no horrifying details in the tabloids. And these days we’re far more accustomed to serial killers—and so far, no one’s even proved that we have one.”

  “Do you think that Genevieve O’Brien’s disappearance is connected to the missing prostitutes?” she asked.

  “The last person I’ve found who’ll admit to seeing her is a prostitute. She was trying to help a lot of the working girls. Actually, I’m surprised Robert hasn’t asked for
your help yet. According to him, you have a gift for finding…people.”

  She sighed, setting down her fork. “Robert told you that?”

  “I read it. This evening’s paper has an article about you.”

  Her eyes widened. “No.”

  “Yes. You’re credited with waltzing in and immediately making an important discovery at the dig. The reporter brought out the fact that you’d homed right in on a missing homeless man a couple of years ago.”

  She looked upset. “Damn.”

  “Well, do you have a special gift?” he asked teasingly.

  She wasn’t amused. In fact, she seemed to be even more irritated. “Logic,” she said briefly. “I was told the man’s habits and something about his past. He was found in an old subway tunnel. Simple deduction.”

  She had suddenly grown almost hostile, but he asked his next question, anyway. “But even before that…you were known for having an instinct for finding graves.”

  “A feel for history. Did you want coffee?”

  The question was abrupt. He was intrigued, but he followed her lead and changed the subject. When Rudolfo came to ask how their dinner had been, Joe had a question for his old friend, too. “Rudolfo, could you use another waitress?”

  Rudolfo looked back at him skeptically, then groaned.

  “Well?”

  “Actually, yes, I could use a waitress. A good one. A good girl.”

  “Can I send someone around to see you?” he asked.

  “Send her next week. Monday. If I like her, she’s hired. She’s got to be a good girl.”

  “She will be, or I swear…I’ll wash dishes for a week.”

  Rudolfo sniffed. “I have a very good dishwasher. The mechanical kind.”

  Joe grinned. “Okay, so I’ll bus tables and man the steaming monster, how’s that?”