by Pat Young
Dylan felt so relieved he actually laughed out loud. ‘Lucie, that kind of stuff goes on all the time. How do you think this Charlotte person had a hundred grand lying around for you to donate?’ He touched her cheek. ‘You’re so sweet. And I love that you’re naïve. Is this the reason you want to leave the country? Because you’ve uncovered insider dealing?’
She started whispering, her voice an icy-cold hiss. ‘Charlotte’s boyfriend. He’s the guy you saw me talking to in the hospital that day.’
‘You know him?’
‘No. That’s the scary thing. And he gave me a false name.’
‘You think it wasn’t a coincidence, bumping into this guy.’
She shook her head.
‘So, let me get this straight. You’re pretending to be Charlotte? Her boyfriend spots you and follows you to the hospital? He strikes up a conversation?’
‘Correct.’
‘And you told him your name was Gillespie?’
Lucie nodded, looking shamefaced.
‘What did he talk to you about?’
‘When? That first time?’
‘You saw him again?’
‘I met him in the street. When I was out jogging.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as strange, Lucie?’
‘I didn’t really think about it at the time. We went for a coffee. He seemed nice, he was kind to me.’
She sounded as if she liked this guy.
‘I told him my name was Charlotte.’
‘And he didn’t react?’
‘Not so I noticed.’
‘Was that the last time you saw him?’
‘I’ve seen him a couple of times. We went out for dinner.’
Dylan felt ridiculously jealous.
‘I had a bit too much to drink. He took me home.’
Dylan dreaded what was coming. He wanted to kill this nice, kind stranger.
‘I didn’t do anything, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘And now you’ve found out this guy was Charlotte’s boyfriend?’
‘Lover. She wanted him to leave his wife.’
‘Boyfriend, lover, whatever. He knows you’re pretending to be his girlfriend, who hasn’t been seen since 9/11, yet he doesn’t mention the fact?’
Lucie didn’t say a word. Just sat and stared at him as if she was thinking about this stuff for the first time. ‘And now you’ve found out the two of them have been making shitloads of money on insider dealing? Which is highly illegal, in case you don’t know.’
‘I do know.’
‘Not looking good, is it?’
‘You haven’t heard the worst part.’
‘It gets worse?’
Lucie nodded.
‘Come on then. Spill!’
‘They knew about 9/11. Before it happened.’
Dylan scratched his head. Called the waiter and ordered more coffee. One for Lucie, without asking. He was trying to process what she’d just said, wondering if she’d been affected by her fall. He didn’t want to dismiss what she was saying, but it was so fantastic, he was worried about her state of mind.
‘Lucie, do you realise the implications of what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, I do. Which is why you need to go to the police.’
‘Hold on a minute. I need to go to the police?’ He could imagine the reaction if he turned up at the local cop shop with this story.
‘Yes, I’ve thought about this. I’ll tell you where to find the proof then you can take it from there.’
‘Why me?’
She looked at him as if he was the one who’d lost his mind. She rose from the table and reached for the suitcase she’d stowed behind her chair. ‘Because I’ve got a plane to catch. Or at least Charlotte has.’
59
He’d been surprised to get her call. It had taken an effort of will to disguise his delight at being invited to the apartment. He was thrilled to have created so much trust that she seemed keen for him to come visit.
Now he’d found out what he needed to know, he’d been wondering how and where he would deal with her. There were still a couple of pieces missing from the puzzle. Fairly big, key pieces, like where all his paperwork had gone.
He’d told Diane he’d be out of town. Out of state in fact, possibly for a few days. He had business associates all over the country and sometimes he felt the need to see the whites of their eyes, so she was long used to his business travel. She had even come with him on a few trips in the early days, if the destination was somewhere she found appealing. That novelty had soon worn off and nowadays she was more inclined to do her own thing.
Fortunately, he’d managed to reassure her, with much spoiling and fuss-making, that there was no other woman in his life. She had almost caught him out with her morning phone call after his all-nighter in Charlotte’s apartment.
Although he’d planned to have a follow-up date with ‘Charlotte’ that night, it was just as well she’d said no. The change to his plan, while irritating at the time, had worked in his favour. He’d had more time to find out all he could about the mystery girl who was posing as Charlotte Gillespie.
It had also given him time to go to the bank to retrieve the receipts he would need when the damned markets opened again. The cab had dropped him this afternoon, not at the Federal Reserve where Diane’s family had banked forever, but at a nearby branch of Chase, where no one knew him. As he’d paid off the cabbie, he felt grateful to have chosen that branch. The one in Five World Trade Center he used to use now lay buried in a mountain of rubble. He felt sorry for anyone with valuables stored there. They’d be lucky to ever see their stuff again.
Having shown the card that proved he had his co-renter’s permission to access the safe deposit box without her, he’d been taken to a private room and left alone with their box. The box he’d last seen when Charlotte was alive. The box that was now empty. All receipts, the deeds of the house that had been in Diane’s family for generations, everything had gone.
His plan to take the money and run had already been scuppered by the NYSE being closed for so long, the longest closure since the Depression. Not that it mattered now. He couldn’t trade anything without paperwork. If those papers didn’t turn up soon, he, his business, his family and his marriage would be mouth deep in manure. It was bad.
The only person who could have stolen them was the lowlife he’d hired to kill Charlotte. And now he was dead. That was a mistake. He ought to have been more vigilant, knowing someone else had Charlotte’s key in his possession. All the stuff in the box should have been checked before he killed the guy. This could prove to be a costly and dangerous mistake.
He would have to try very hard to keep his temper with his mystery girl, whoever she was. Somehow or other, and this was the part he didn’t understand, this girl had managed to weasel her way into Charlotte’s life and assume a new identity.
He needed to get this Lucie, if that was her real name, to fill in the blanks for him. Then he could deal with her. He would not rest easy, could not, until he made certain she hadn’t uncovered and revealed any information that could compromise him and Bill. He mentally crossed out the word ‘compromise’ and replaced it with ‘destroy’.
His best theory tied in with what he already suspected. The moron he’d employed to take out Charlotte had botched the job and left her alive. Lucie must have come across Charlotte in the street, maybe tried to help her. Charlotte must have told Lucie where she lived, probably asked to be taken home. What he needed to find out from Lucie was, what else did Charlotte tell her? Did she, for example, tell Lucie his name and reveal her reasons for knowing him?
Where was Charlotte now? Maybe Lucie could tell him if Charlotte was hiding some place. Recuperating, biding her time before she revealed all she knew and brought about his downfall. Maybe Lucie would be able to tell him who had emptied the safe deposit box?
He needed to know if Lucie had discovered anything in Charlotte’s apartment that could implicate him. As far as
he was aware, Charlotte had been as circumspect as himself about their affair. To his knowledge, she did not even have a photo of him and certainly no ‘billets doux’ or little personal gifts like the ones he gave Diane. He’d had time to check the apartment the other night, while Lucie slept, and had found nothing that connected him to Charlotte. It would have been better had he been able to access her laptop, but knowing Charlotte as he did, he couldn’t imagine her being so careless as to have anything incriminating on a computer that she left lying around the house. It wasn’t her style at all. Still, he should have taken the laptop when he had the chance.
Now the contents of the safe deposit box had gone missing, he was really worried. As if he hadn’t been worried enough hearing Lucie, half-asleep, talking about a secret letter from Charlotte.
Soon he’d be in a position to find out what Lucie knew. High up in that apartment he’d be able to grill her, torture her if need be, and there would be no witnesses. Once he was satisfied she hadn’t blabbed about him to anyone, it would be bye-bye Lucie.
He asked the cab driver to stop at a flower vendor’s cart so he could buy her some flowers. He picked the biggest bunch on offer and jumped back in the cab. He had already picked up a chilled bottle of Moët. He could only hope she hadn’t sworn off alcohol for life.
With his eyes covered by dark glasses and his face hidden behind the huge bouquet of lilies, he asked the doorman to ring Lucie’s number.
‘You can go on up, sir. Ms Gillespie is expecting you, fortieth floor.’
Lucie answered his knock as if she’d been standing behind the door waiting. He presented the bouquet with a ‘Da-da!’ that echoed down the hallway.
‘Thank you,’ said Lucie, her reaction somewhat muted. Perhaps she was embarrassed by his trumpeting. ‘These are lovely.’
He held out the champagne. ‘Do you want me to put this in the refrigerator or would you like a glass right now?’
‘I’ll have a small glass,’ she said, ‘to welcome you to my apartment. Properly, this time.’ She made a funny face, mouth turned down like a clown.
‘Hey, forget about it. Do you think I’ve never had too much to drink?’ As he popped the cork and poured the wine he told her a made-up story about running stark naked down a hotel corridor one night.
She laughed, more nervously than he’d heard her before.
They clinked glasses and he raised his to his lips, watching to see how much she would drink. She took the tiniest of sips, like a kitten lapping a drop of milk, and he had the distinct impression she was being careful. Either she had not yet forgotten her hangover or she was taking very great care to stay sober tonight.
60
‘Oh, excuse me,’ said Lucie, rising from the sofa. ‘I’m a terrible hostess. Let me just fetch some snacks.’
While she opened a pack of peanuts and tipped them into a bowl, she ran through her plan. She would start by seeing how honest he was prepared to be with her. Then, depending on his reaction, she would confess about Charlotte and take it from there.
‘Won’t be a minute,’ she sang out, disguising the sound of a drawer opening. She retrieved what she needed and pushed it up her sleeve, like a cheat preparing for a poker game. She adjusted her cuff and patted herself down, making sure there was nothing about her to make him suspicious. She checked her watch, lifted the little bowl of nuts and trilled, ‘Coming,’ as she bumped the drawer closed with her hip.
She settled deep into the comfort of the soft leather and faced him.
He smiled disarmingly, and said, ‘This is nice, just the two of us.’ He patted her knee once then withdrew his hand, the perfect gentleman. Panic snatched at her stomach. What if she’d got this all wrong?
She smiled back, studying his face. Remembering the photos. Comparing the two. She hadn’t got it wrong. ‘I agree. It’s lovely to meet informally like this. We can get to know each other better.’
‘Mmm,’ he murmured, leaning forward to put his glass on the black marble table. He put his arms round her, gathered her towards him and moved in for a kiss.
Despite herself she softened, her mouth welcoming him while her brain warned against giving in. She felt like she was back in college, determined not to let the boy go too far, but having to fight her own body, not his.
She eased away from him. ‘I’d like to talk for a while before we, you know.’ She dropped her gaze, coyly.
He heaved a great sigh and said, ‘Okay,’ but he looked like a kid who’d just heard there was no Santa Claus. She laughed, releasing some of the tension that was making her shoulders ache. Without thinking, she massaged the back of her neck and he immediately touched the tight spot and soothed it with a gentle, caressing stroke. It would be so easy to succumb to his charms, but she caught his hand, gave it a quick kiss and replaced it on the back of the sofa.
‘You remember, the other morning, I said there were a few things you don’t know about me?’
‘Yes. I remember,’ he said, an adult indulging a child.
‘Well, I’ve been wondering. Is there anything I don’t know about you?’
His eyes narrowed and the smile he gave her took a long time to reach them. ‘Sure, honey,’ he said, his voice artificially bright. ‘Loads of stuff. Let me think. I hate pastrami. I’ve never been to a baseball game in my life. I can’t swim. Um, cats bring me out in hives. I love the holiday season. What else would you like to know?’
‘I’d like to know what your wife’s doing tonight.’
Shock, disbelief, suspicion all flitted across his face before his features settled into a picture of sadness. ‘My wife’s dead. You know that.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. Mrs Diane Millburn? Last seen in the society pages of the Times? Dressed in Versace, hosting a benefit lunch at the Pierre? All proceeds to the families of 9/11 victims?’
He said nothing.
‘Also in last November’s edition of Avenue? Photographed with you at the Fall Benefit for NYSPCC. Ring any bells?’
He shook his head, stony faced. Doubt drenched her like an icy shower.
She had to keep going. It was time to produce her ‘proof’. First she showed him the photo. Then with a magician’s flourish she snatched the white handkerchief from her sleeve and waved it playfully in front of his nose. Best to look as if she could see the funny side.
‘Mr Millburn, I believe,’ she said in a theatrical voice, showing him the initials on the handkerchief. ‘Mr Stephen Scott Millburn, known to his friends as SS?’
She was relieved to hear him laugh. ‘That goes way back to my childhood. My friends were all reading war comics and thought it was very funny. The name stuck.’
‘I spotted you in those photos and thought, wait a minute, that’s not SS Millburn, that’s my friend, Rick Armstrong.’
‘Then you remembered the hankie and did the two plus two sum?’
She nodded. ‘How could you say all that stuff about a dead wife? Weren’t you superstitious that something might happen to your real wife? What about karma?’
‘Who’s karma?’
She gave him a look that told him she was being serious.
‘I have no time for superstition and I don’t believe in karma.’
She shrugged to hide the shiver that raced up her spine. ‘Okay, if you say so.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘That depends on how honest you plan on being, Richard.’
He had the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Oh, we’re back to that?’ He spread his arms in an appeal. ‘Gimme a break. What guy tells his real name to every random person he meets in a coffee shop? Shoot, most people in New York don’t ever speak to strangers, far less reveal their name.’
‘Fair enough, but when did you mean to tell me?’
He stroked his fingertips down the side of her face. ‘Tonight. Before we made love. So you’d call out my real name.’
She moved her face away. ‘A bit presumptuous, don’t you think, Rick?’
‘E
nough already. Call me Scott, please.’ He gave her a puppy dog look that was far too practised to be spontaneous. ‘Am I forgiven?’
‘That depends. Are you asking me to have an affair?’
‘Will you?’
‘I might. But only if I’m certain you’re being completely honest with me.’
‘That works both ways, Charlotte-Lucie.’
Did he put a special emphasis on the Lucie? Her plan was to tell him about Charlotte but this confessional stuff was proving harder than she’d imagined. She tucked her feet underneath her, and turned to watch his reaction to her words.
‘Okay, here goes. I’m not Charlotte.’
He tipped his head, curious.
‘And this isn’t my flat.’
He nodded, as if he understood. ‘You just rent it. Cool.’
‘No, I don’t rent it. I live here for nothing, as if I own it.’
‘Okay, getting confused.’
‘This is Charlotte’s flat.’
‘Got that.’
‘I’m pretending to be Charlotte.’
‘Now you’ve lost me. Could you maybe start again?’
Lucie started with the dust cloud. She told him about taking Charlotte’s bag by mistake and about the doorman mistaking her for Charlotte and letting her into the apartment. She ended her tale with the day her mum died, the day she’d met Richard Armstrong. ‘The man with the strong arms.’ She waited for him to speak.
‘Your mom, did she really die that day?’
Lucie nodded, too sad, suddenly, to answer him.
‘I’m terribly sorry for your loss.’
Lucie wiped her tears on the white handkerchief.
‘Wow, that’s some story,’ he said. ‘What do you plan on doing now, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Well, I was planning on flying back home to Scotland. To see my dad and try to fix things between us. Actually, I was meant to leave three days ago.’