by Meg Tilly
“Sounds good—”
“Better yet, if I’m not there, walk up half a block to Park Ave. I’ll pull to the side and put my blinkers on. That way I won’t have to battle the traffic endlessly circling the block.”
“Okay. I’ll head down.”
“Don’t forget, a Mercedes-Benz S-Class, cashmere white. See you soon!” The line went dead. Sarah stood there for a moment with her eyes squeezed shut, the phone still gripped to her ear. This is going to be a hellish conversation—she exhaled heavily, opened her eyes, and replaced the receiver—but you will get through it. And so will he. Life goes on. A resigned Sarah returned to the living room, scribbled a note for Mick, and placed it in the center of the coffee table. “Dammit,” she said, but there was no heat in her words, as she grabbed her purse, a room key, and the bag of M&M’s. It wasn’t poor Phillip’s fault that she was injured. Wasn’t his fault that she was now faced with the unpleasant task of informing him that the love of his life was dead. As Sarah passed by the minibar, she thought, What the hell, and snagged the overpriced mason jar of gummy bears and stuffed them into her purse. Took a couple of steps, then returned to the minibar for the jar of roasted cashews in case she needed something salty to wash down all the sweet. Wash down. Hmm . . . It was overkill, but she returned to the side table and plopped the can of Coke in her purse as well. However, even the extra treats in her purse didn’t tamp down her reluctance for the unpleasant task that awaited her. She sighed again, then straightened her shoulders and exited the room, her overstuffed purse clanking heavily against her thigh.
51
When Sarah had returned to the hotel, it was in the bright sunshine, but by the time she stepped through the lobby doors, it was clear that the wind had picked up, bringing with it a drop in the temperature. Sarah hesitated for a second, wondering if she should return to the room for a coat. The wind had whipped a white plastic bag into the air. When gravity brought it to the earth, the bag began rolling, helter-skelter, an urban tumbleweed. The doorman returning from depositing a couple into a Lincoln Town Car had his head tucked down and was at a slight tilt from leaning into the wind.
“Can I get you a cab, miss?” the doorman asked, his head tipped inquiringly.
“No, thanks.” Sarah attempted a smile, but it probably came off as rather lame. The meds had kicked in pretty good. The pain was now a distant thrum. Goose bumps had risen all over her body, but the idea of slogging all the way back through the lobby, up in the elevator to the forty-second floor to wrestle her way one-handed into her coat did not fill her with enthusiasm. No. She could manage the cold for half a block, where Phillip would be waiting in his toasty car for her. Pleased with her decision, Sarah stuck her hand into her purse. She had the strap slung across her body with the purse in front of her torso to deter pickpockets . . . also to give her easier access to the treats inside. She managed to wiggle several M&M’s from their pouch, everything a little more complicated with only one hand. Dang, it’s cold! She popped the candies into her mouth and crunched through the sugar-candy coating into the chocolaty peanut goodness. Amazing how the mere act of tossing a couple of morsels of candy into your mouth can make the world a little brighter, she mused. Ah! There was Phillip’s car, tucked around the corner, emergency lights flashing. I wonder why it’s called “cashmere white.” Cashmere can be any color. The tinted passenger window in his vehicle glided down. “Get in. Get in,” Phillip said, one hand on the steering wheel, the other gesticulating vigorously. I used to have the use of two hands. It was lovely. Sarah thought she heard someone chuckle. Sounded like it came from her mouth. She opened the passenger door and got in, closed the door behind her. Was a good thing she had done it quickly, because Phillip had pulled into traffic with a sudden lurch, causing several vehicles to honk irately. Sarah strapped in. She might be drugged out on pain meds, but she wasn’t senseless. She had never ridden in a car with him before. Hopefully, I’ll survive it. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? I sail through all these challenges and am done in by a little old man behind the wheel of a luxury sports car. He was a very bad driver; he oversteered and was incredibly jerky. The erratic movements were making Sarah feel a little nauseous.
“Hello,” she murmured, shutting her eyes and leaning her head against the headrest. Maybe if she took a little snooze on their way to the restaurant, she’d wake refreshed, rested, and ready for conversation.
52
Mick glanced at the large clock by the police receptionist’s desk. Another twenty minutes had passed since he’d stuck Sarah in a taxi. How long was he expected to wait for Detective Kostas? He’d been feeling perfectly fine sitting there, but now agitation had started stewing in his stomach, an unexplainable sensation of foreboding. As if an unseen danger was lurking just beyond his view. He stood and walked over to the receptionist. “Do you have any idea how much longer Detective Kostas will be?”
“No idea.” The receptionist didn’t even bother looking up this time. His face was like a brick wall.
“Oh, okay.” Mick returned to where he had been sitting, but his seat had been usurped by a man in a hoody, who grinned at him cockily.
“You snooze you lose,” the guy said, flashing a gold front tooth. The guy’s oversized crony sitting next to him cackled. The Mick fresh from the scrabble-hard deserts of Nevada would have enjoyed cracking their heads together, bloodying their noses, and then tossing them out of the front door on their insolent asses. However, experience had taught him that acting on those impulses was one thing when one was young and broke but quite another when one had a high net worth and was in the public eye. Mick had no intention of having his photo splashed over the tabloids and putting up with the inconvenience of another drawn-out lawsuit so some greedy bastard could claim a hefty cash restitution. There was an empty seat across the room. Mick took it and ignored the high five the two bozos gave each other. When Mick made his first million, the world had changed around him. Even people who he had considered friends ceased to see him as human. Looked at him more as an ATM, resented him when he loaned or gave them money. Got angry when he refused. Cash. Screws things up. Look at Sarah and what she’s gone through. Caused Kevin to force her into marriage, to stalk her when she ran. Did he love her? Or was it all about money?
The woman in the seat next to him looked as if she were homeless. She smelled of urine and had very bad BO. Mick stayed put. Didn’t want to hurt her feelings by leaping out of his seat and racing to the far end of the room. He clicked on his cell phone, opened an email from his production manager, Andre Burns, and skimmed through it.
So, I’ve been putting the budget together for FREEDOM. It’s coming in around 5.6 million high. Either you return to the backers and get them to ante up some more cash, or you’ll have to cut the stadium and chase sequence. All those stunts and damned extras are as expensive as hell.
Andre
Mick reread the email. Why was the word “cash” coming up in his brain over and over that morning, niggling at him? And there it was again. The word “cash” in the email had jumped out and attached itself to his psyche like a coastal sandbur embedded in his sock, refusing to be ignored. Mick put his phone away, tipped his head back against the white tile wall, shut his eyes, in the hope that his subconscious mind would take over. And then he saw it, a forgotten image from the night before. He was following the paramedics carrying Sarah on the gurney around the side of Vicki’s town house. They had already raced Vicki into the night. It was like someone had tapped him on the shoulder. Mick turned back. Nothing so unusual. He could see the patio, the overturned chair. The police were bagging and labeling the empty glass tumbler that had been lying on the bistro table. Vicki must have been drinking out of it when she’d had her collapse. “Got this off Lieutenant Hawkins,” Mick had heard a cop say. The cop crossed into Mick’s view, and he had two bundles of something in each of his latex-clad hands. He dropped them into a paper bag that the other cop held out and l
abeled the bag. Cash dropping from his hands like a ripe plum. Great whopping stacks of cash. For what? Why did Kevin bring that kind of money to Vicki’s house? Drugs? Payoff for information? And if Vicki was expecting a huge cash infusion from Kevin, why did she botch it up by inviting Sarah to drop by? And if Kevin arrived fully prepared to pay for information, why did he bother killing Vicki? Mick’s mind was whirling. Unless Kevin agreed to pay Vicki to get Sarah there? Mick shook his head. Didn’t add up. Last night, just before drifting to sleep, Sarah had mentioned Kevin had said he “wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.” What did that mean? What gift horse? Mick shot to his feet. Sarah! Sarah’s the gift horse. Last night Mick had overheard Kevin insisting he had been set up. Had nothing to do with Vicki’s collapse and now subsequent death. Mick had figured the dickhead was lying, but what if he wasn’t? If so, that third party is still at large, and Sarah is alone. The dread that had been pulsating in his gut turned into a loud drumbeat now.
“Mick Talford.” The receptionist’s voice came over the PA. “Report to the reception desk.”
Damnation. Mick strode across the lobby to reception. “Mick Talford here. Look, I gotta—”
A large man with a weather-beaten face stepped forward. “Mr. Talford? I’m Detective Kostas.” He extended his business card. “I apologize for the delay—”
“Sorry,” Mick cut in. “A family situation has arisen.” Mick plucked the business card from Detective Kostas’s fingers. “I have to run.” He was already jogging backward. The sense of urgency was building. He waved the card over his head. “Will call and reschedule as soon as I sort it out.” Mick pivoted, sprinted through the lobby, out the doors, and spilled onto the street, flagging down a taxi while he punched the hotel number into his phone. “Hello, yes. Room 4207 please.”
“I’ll connect you,” a woman’s voice said. “One moment, please.” A taxi pulled to a stop. Mick climbed in as he listened to the phone ring and ring. No answer. Shit. Hopefully, she was in the shower. “Four Seasons Hotel, Fifty-Seventh Street,” he said, his mouth dry as dust. Her name was pounding like a pulse. Sarah . . . Sarah . . . Sarah . . . All the while praying this feeling was a case of frayed nerves. Praying she was safe.
53
Sarah drifted in and out of sleep. It was very restful. She had reclined her comfortable seat. Music was playing softly. Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra, “Cocktails for Two.” Very civilized. She pried her heavy eyelids open. Her vision was a little blurry but not so much that it was worrisome. The pain was gone, and she felt such a sense of pleasure and well-being. She could see greenery zipping past the window. Made her laugh softly to herself. No wonder she couldn’t hear the sounds of the city anymore. “Where are we?” she asked, turning her head, stifling her yawn.
Phillip glanced over. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said cheerily. There was an excited, happy twinkle in his eyes. “You were sleeping so soundly, and then I thought, to heck with dining at some stuffy restaurant. A picnic would be much more fun. I called your auntie Jane on the car phone—had to turn the volume way down so I wouldn’t wake you. She was over the moon yesterday to hear that you were alive, safe and sound, and wouldn’t you know it, she insisted on seeing your dear face with her own two eyes. So! I decided to zip you out to our country home in Westchester.”
“That will be nice,” Sarah said, feeling a little dreamy. It had been so long since she’d last seen Auntie Jane. When was it? Oh, at Mother and Father’s funeral. The buoyant feeling abated slightly, but the grief wasn’t as intense, was just a wistful sort of numbness. Funeral. No, that’s wrong. I saw her at the hospital after the miscarriage. But there’s something else I’m supposed to remember . . . And then the image of Vicki’s contorted body with her gaping mouth slammed into Sarah’s consciousness. Oh shit.
“Uncle Phillip,” she said. “Before we get to Auntie Jane’s house, there is something I need to tell you.”
“Yes, dear?”
Sarah pressed the electronic seat adjuster and returned her seat to an upright position. The lovely drifty feeling was not quite so lovely anymore. Not only was she going to have to sit across from Auntie Jane knowing her husband had been carrying on an affair for years, but she had to tell Phillip about last night. “It’s about Vicki.”
“Did she say she misses me, that she’s coming back?”
“Uncle Phillip, I am so sorry to inform you that there has been a terrible accident, and Vicki . . .”
“Yes? Yes, what about her? Is she okay?”
“She passed away, Uncle Phillip. There is reason to believe that there was foul play.”
“Foul play?” He looked so lost.
“Yes. The police are looking into—”
A harsh cry rang from Phillip’s throat, and then another, and another. He started punching the steering wheel over and over. “My darling . . .” He sobbed. “My precious . . .” It was fortunate that there wasn’t a lot of traffic on the Bronx River Parkway because his Mercedes was swerving erratically.
Sarah reached out to steady the steering wheel. “Uh . . . maybe we should pull over? Uncle Phillip?”
“No. No,” he panted, dragging the sleeve of his tweed sports jacket across his eyes. “Jane is waiting for us. She has a meal prepared. We can’t be late. She would worry. Oh my God. This is terrible news. My poor lovey-dove-dove.” He fished his handkerchief out of his pocket with two fingers and then blew his nose violently. “Don’t mention this to your auntie Jane. It would upset her greatly. She hasn’t gotten over your parents’ death, and this would undo her completely.”
“Yes. Of course.” The affair or that Vicki’s been poisoned? Either way, neither was a topic she was going to spring on Auntie Jane over lunch. “But, about that picnic you mentioned, I was thinking it’s rather cold and I left without a jacket.”
“You can borrow one from Jane. Lord knows she has enough of them. Besides, I think the fresh air would do us all some good.” Phillip stuffed his snotty handkerchief into his breast pocket. Sarah was grateful she wasn’t responsible for doing his laundry. Suddenly his head jutted forward as he squinted through the windshield, his chest almost lying on the steering wheel. “Dagnammit!” he hollered, jerking the wheel hard and swerving across two lanes of traffic, barely making it onto exit 15. Even with the softening effect of the drugs, Sarah found it a little hair-raising. Phillip turned left at the stop sign. Swung wide onto Fenimore Road but managed not to clip any of the other cars. “Do they know who did this terrible thing to my precious Vicki?” he asked, oblivious to the chaos his driving created around him.
Sarah swallowed hard and with a concentrated effort was gradually able to corral her eyebrows from her hairline back to their normal position on her forehead. “Well,” she managed to say conversationally. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He couldn’t help that he’d gotten old, lost his reflexes and spatial relations. “Kevin, my ex, was at Vicki’s town house. The police took him into custody.”
“So, he was having an affair with her. That bastard! I hope they beat the crap outta him before they threw him in the slammer.”
“Well,” Sarah said wryly, holding up her bandaged hand. “Someone got the crap beaten out of them.”
Phillip glanced over, his wrinkled face furrowed in concern. “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I noticed that when you were sleeping, and the bruises as well. What happened?”
“We struggled; his gun went off.”
“Ouch. Painful.”
Sarah shrugged. “I’m not hurting too badly right now. Meds have kicked in, so I’m feeling pretty good. Except, of course . . . the upsetting news about Vicki.”
“Yes.” Other than the emotional outburst upon receiving the news, Phillip seemed remarkably cheerful. “Heartbreaking. I shall miss her. Although, I must say I’m very glad they caught your psychopathic husband. He’s been making my life a misery for years. Snooping around, asking questions,
poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted.” He pulled onto a long, paved drive flanked with imposing brick gateposts and lined with trees. The interior of the property was hidden behind tall American holly shrubs. “It is a relief to know he is safely behind bars where he belongs. We shall all sleep a little easier tonight.” He pulled up to a stately Georgian brick Colonial with white trim, dark shutters, and a lovely slate roof. The first garage door in the three-car garage glided open. “Home sweet home,” he chortled, pulling to a stop. He switched off the ignition and turned to face her. He seemed a little flushed, and there was a rather unwholesome twinkle in his eyes that made Sarah feel a little nauseous. There was something that felt wrong, almost unhinged, reverberating around him. Is he getting off on the fact that I’m going to have to visit with Auntie Jane knowing the truth about him and Vicki? And not for the first time that afternoon, she wished she had been selfish and just blurted the news about Vicki over the phone. Refused lunch. Rested. Tucked in with her stash of candy and Nora Roberts’s book. “Come on. Out we get,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Don’t want to keep Auntie Jane waiting.” He hopped out of the car, was quite agile for an old guy, and did a modified cha-cha shuffle to the garage door. Sarah reluctantly unstrapped, got out of the car, and followed him into the house.
54
Mick’s hand was shaking slightly as he tapped his room key on the pad. Red light. “Damn.” He tapped it again, slower this time. Green light. He turned the handle and opened the door. “Sarah?” he called, even though he could feel the vacant emptiness of the room. “Sarah!” He jogged through the living room to the bedroom.