Lance nodded vigorously in agreement. He smiled for the first time since he and Phil had arrived at Dru’s apartment. “Phil’s right, Dru. Go throw a few things together and come with us. The villa is the best place for you right now. I promise I won’t pester you about what’s going on in your life. You can tell me whatever you want to tell me, but only when you’re good and ready.”
Dru told only her parents where she was going and she swore them to secrecy. She would be safe, for the time being at least, with Lance and Phil, and could think things through without having to worry about Featherhorn or Bernat’s people coming after her and finding her at her apartment. Theron would be looking for her because he had promised to see her when he got back from Guyana, but she was too ashamed to contact him. He had advised her not to say a word to anyone about Bernat or Featherhorn, and she had ignored his advice. Now Featherhorn—and no doubt Bernat by now, if there really was a link between them—knew that someone was connecting the dots.
31
An officious female voice told Theron he would have to be put through to the public relations department for information about Miss Durane.
It sounded ominous. Theron’s head began to ache. He had called Dru’s home several times since his return to New York, but had gotten no answer. He’d even called late at night when he was sure she would be at home and still there was no answer. He’d left messages each time, of course, but Dru had not returned a single call. Either she was not at home, or she was deliberately avoiding him. He didn’t have her mobile number.
He hadn’t planned to contact her through Pilgrim Boone. For all he knew, Grant Featherhorn, or someone else, was watching her closely, even listening in on her calls. It would do Dru no good to be caught talking to him. Bernat most likely had spies all over the place. People in his line of business, with his kind of money, could afford to employ an army of peons. Theron was certain Bernat already knew about him and his relationship with Andrew Goodings. And if Bernat had also heard about the scene in the lobby of the Pegasus, he would have apprised Featherhorn of it and warned him to keep an eye on Dru to see if there was any further contact between them.
The more he analyzed the situation, and with no word from or of Dru, the more agitated he became. He finally broke his resolve and called Pilgrim Boone. And now that he had, an anal receptionist was telling him that he had to go through PR. That could mean only one thing: Something was definitely up with Dru. It didn’t feel good.
He struggled to keep his voice calm. “I’m sorry, but this seems rather strange. I called Ms. Durane last week at this very number and I was put through to her office directly. I didn’t have to go through your public relations department. Is there something wrong?”
The officious voice grew even more officious. “The public relations department would be more than happy to answer your questions, Sir. I’ll transfer you now.”
Theron heard the abrupt click as the receptionist switched the call without waiting for him to answer. He forced himself to keep his mind blank until public relations came on the line.
“Public relations, Dana Waldron speaking.”
“Ms. Waldron, I called to speak to Drucilla Durane and I was transferred to you. Is there any reason why I cannot speak with Ms. Durane directly, as I did last week?”
“I’m sorry, Mr.—I’m sorry I did not get your name.”
“That is correct. You did not get my name, Ms. Waldron. Will I be allowed to speak to Ms. Durane?”
“Are you a client of Ms. Durane’s, Sir?”
Her polite indulgence and that high-pitched American voice were too much for Theron. His voice rose. “What difference does it make if I’m a client or not? May I or may I not speak to Ms. Durane? What is so hard about that?”
“I’m afraid you can’t. Ms. Durane no longer works for Pilgrim Boone. However, if you are a client, I can direct you to someone who is handling her portfolios.”
Theron was stunned. “She doesn’t work there? But that’s impossible!” Dana Waldron did not deign to reply.
Theron pulled himself together. This was not the time to lose it. He needed information that Waldron might have. “Forgive my outburst, Ms. Waldron. Isn’t this rather sudden? Ms. Durane indicated nothing to me that she was leaving when I spoke to her at this office last week.”
“And you are?” Ms. Waldron’s voice was frosty.
Theron didn’t bother to answer. He slammed down the phone, grabbed his wallet, and dashed out of his apartment.
Out on the street he waved frantically at the first cab he saw, once again thanking God that he lived on the West Side of Manhattan where it was easier to find an empty cab than over on the East Side.
He started to give directions to the cab driver before he had even closed the door. “I’ve got to get to Brooklyn fast! Take Riverside all the way down to Seventy-ninth, get on Eleventh Avenue and take it to Twenty-third Street, get back on the highway to the bridge! That’s the fastest way at this time of the day!”
He caught the cabby’s offended expression in the rear view mirror and shrugged. “Tough! You’re looking at the one who’s paying, buddy,” he muttered, not caring if the cab driver heard him.
His mind screamed with questions about Dru’s whereabouts. He had to get to her apartment. He was bound to find an answer there. At the very least he would find a clue as to where she had gone, or what may have happened to her, if anything had happened.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dru’s apartment. It rang four times before the answering machine came on. He hung up. No point leaving another message. If only he had her mobile…
He snapped his fingers. Of course! Why didn’t he think of it before? He could have Amelia track down her number.
Amelia Barbineau was the receptionist at Trans-Global. She had a bachelor’s degree in computer science information systems from New York Institute of Technology, and was working on a master’s in the same subject. She was from Guadeloupe and spoke French fluently, a requirement for the receptionist position at Trans-Global. When she had applied for the job, she had written cheekily in her cover letter, in French, that she wanted “a no-brain job, like answering phones and filing paper,” while she was in school. Tickled by such outrageous candor, and seeing immense value in her advanced computer skills—not to mention her aptitude in spoken and written French—Theron had called her in for an interview. Ten minutes into the interview, he had offered her the job. As he had expected, she had proved to be Trans-Global’s best resource for pulling information from the Internet in a hurry.
He dialed the general number for Trans-Global, and Amelia answered on the first ring. Theron cut her off before she finished her standard greeting. “It’s me, Amelia, I need the mobile number for Drucilla Durane. She lives in Brooklyn. Look it up and I’ll call you back in five minutes,” he said agitatedly.
He was about to ring off when Amelia said coolly, “Please stay on the line, Mr. St. Cyr. I’ll have the number for you in just a few seconds.”
Theron sighed, feeling a little foolish. He pressed the phone to his ear, somewhat calmed by the rapid tap-tap-tap of Amelia’s fingers as they flew across her keyboard.
True to her word, Amelia was dictating a number to him after no more than ten seconds. Theron memorized the number, thanked her, hung up, and dialed Dru.
The call did not activate.
He clicked off and dialed again. Still nothing.
“Sometimes you can’t get a signal around here,” the taxi driver said dryly. “Yeah, thanks,” Theron replied sourly.
The taxi driver shrugged. Theron kept the phone in his hand. He would try again in a minute or so. He contemplated all sorts of scenarios as the cab sped along Riverside Drive, shooting through more amber lights than green. Where could Dru be? Was she okay? Had she been fired? Had she let slip—inadvertently or deliberately—their suspicions about Featherhorn and Bernat? Had Featherhorn threatened her and forced her to resign? Maybe she had left Pilgrim Boone of her own acco
rd, knowing what she knew and afraid for her life. But where was she?
Guilt assailed him. If anything happened to Dru, it would be his fault for telling her about Bernat and implicating Featherhorn, just like it had been his fault that Tabatha was kidnapped and killed. It was because of him that she had gone to Germany in the first place. When she was having doubts and wanted to change her mind about the trip, he had laughed and called her a wimp. Insulted, she had made up her mind there and then.
Thoughts of Tabatha and of Dru meeting a similar fate turned his nagging headache into an implacable migraine. He leaned back in the seat and squeezed his eyes shut. He took deep breaths and tried to force the images of both women out of his mind but it was useless. He kept seeing their faces.
Tabatha’s and Dru’s. Dru’s and Tabatha’s.
The blast of a car horn made his eyes fly open. He sat up and took in the traffic ahead. The cab had rejoined the West Side Highway and was approaching the Chambers Street turnoff that would take them to the Brooklyn Bridge. Cars in the two left lanes were slowing.
Theron snapped at the driver.”Don’t you see the buildup ahead? Go around to the FDR north and take the bridge from there!”
The cab driver wore the turban of a Sikh. His face, reflected in the rearview mirror, was impassive. He spoke politely to Theron in slightly accented English.”I will try that way if you wish, Sir, although I know they are doing roadwork in the tunnel and that could slow us more.” Before Theron could respond, he accelerated and made a daring move into the lane to his right. Theron felt foolish. He said in a conciliatory tone, “Look, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I am very anxious to get where I am going.”
“I don’t take any of it personally, Sir. Just give me the exact address of where you are going and I will get you there in no time.”
Theron thought fleetingly that the cab driver sounded as officious as the woman he had dealt with at Pilgrim Boone earlier. He gave the driver Dru’s address and sat back, staring anxiously at the thickening traffic ahead. His rubbed his temples to help ease the throbbing in his head. He had to get a grip on himself. He had to be ready to face, to deal with, whatever he would find when he got to Dru’s.
He dialed her mobile number again. “Connection failed,” the screen said.
Theron clicked off the phone and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He folded his arms, threw his head back on the seat, and closed his eyes. He felt utterly, despairingly, helpless.
32
“If you’re looking for the person who lives there you won’t find anyone at home.”
Mr. Jackson had been sweeping and dusting in the lobby while surreptitiously keeping an eye on the stranger’s increasingly aggressive thumb on the buzzer. Theron had been pressing Dru’s buzzer off and on for a good five minutes before Mr. Jackson finally spoke up. He had never seen this man before and he was suspicious, especially after Dru’s strange behavior. Dru had paid him the rent for the following month, but she hadn’t given it to him in person as she usually did. Instead, she had slipped the check under the door in an envelope. Even odder, the rent was nowhere near due. Dru always gave him her rent on the first of the month. That was two weeks away.
Maybe she had had to travel suddenly, he had reasoned. But even that was no explanation. Whenever Dru traveled, no matter what the circumstances, she would drop by with the rent before she left and let him know where she was going and why. And she’d say something about the plants, too. So this check-under-the-door business was very much out of the ordinary.
Mr. Jackson did not like things out of the ordinary. This strange man pressing the devil out of Dru’s buzzer was also out of the ordinary. Who was he? And why did he think he would find Dru at home at this time of the day? Mr. Jackson had had enough time to study the younger man. He didn’t look like a salesman, he concluded. Clothes too expensive. For sure he wasn’t a lawyer. He wasn’t carrying one of those Coach briefcases that those nosein-the-air professionals who lived in the building walked around with. If only they knew how mindless they looked, like clones of the models in magazines. And the man at the door certainly wasn’t family because Mr. Jackson had met all of Dru’s family—the ones who were most important to her, she had whispered to him—when she had had that barbecue in the backyard to celebrate her last promotion at her job and this man leaning on the buzzer definitely was not there.
If the stranger really knew Dru, Mr. Jackson decided, he would know that she had a job—and a fancy one on Wall Street at that—which is where she would be at this hour. Or, he would know where she was. True, the stranger looked like a decent man. But he seemed just a bit too anxious to get into Dru’s apartment for Mr. Jackson’s liking.
Mr. Jackson wondered if Dru was involved in anything untoward. He hoped she was simply running away from this man, who looked like he could be a real pest, the way his finger stayed stuck on that buzzer. Dru was the upright type, no question about that. But you never knew with people these days. Some of the best and brightest were into all sorts of wild things, from what he saw on TV.
Theron took his finger off the buzzer and turned to Mr. Jackson. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said the occupant is not there.” Mr. Jackson repeated in a louder voice, deftly wielding a long-handled dust mop around the intricate molding above the fireplace in the lobby.
“Do you have any idea when she will be back?”
So he knows it’s a she who lives there, Mr. Jackson thought, recalling how relieved he had been when Dru had taken his advice and inscribed only her initials on the buzzer pad. Well, that still doesn’t mean a damn thing. Any idiot can get that right when the odds are fifty-fifty.
“‘Fraid not,” he said to Theron. Abruptly turning his back, he shuffled away from the fireplace and proceeded to sweep the area around a huge potted plant.
Theron would not be put off. He strode across the foyer and planted himself in front of the older man. “Excuse me for being such a bother, Sir, but have you seen her at all today or recently?” His tone was polite, but he added what he thought was enough authority to get the man’s full attention.
Mr. Jackson slowed his sweeping to a halt, lifted his head, and dragged his gaze up and down St. Cyr’s six-foot frame. “That’s a mighty lot of questions coming from a total stranger,” he said dispassionately, settling his eyes squarely on Theron’s.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Theron said equably. “But I’m worried about Ms. Durane. I’ve been trying to reach her by phone but I’m not getting any answer. I finally called her office at Pilgrim Boone and they told me she no longer works there.”
He dropped the names deliberately. At any other time he would have appreciated the man’s iron silence about one of his tenants, but this was not one of those times. He was worried sick about Dru.
Mr. Jackson didn’t flinch. This was the first time he was hearing that Dru no longer worked at Pilgrim Boone but he kept his surprise to himself. He still was not convinced that this man had Dru’s best interests at heart. So what if he knows her name and where she works—worked, if what he says is true. Let’s see just how well he knows her.
“Did you try reaching her family?” He scrutinized Theron’s face for muscle twitches and shifting eyeballs, telltale signs of lying.
“I don’t know her family.”
Mr. Jackson let that hang just long enough to make Theron uncomfortable. Then, with a knowing “uh-huh,” he turned his back once again and resumed sweeping. He would protect Dru at all costs. Buddy, if Dru didn’t think you were good enough to meet her family, then you’ll be buying ice in hell before you get anything out of me!
Theron scooted around and stood in front of Mr. Jackson again. “Look, I know I’m a perfect stranger to you, but I assure you I’m her friend. I really must know where she is. I need to know she’s all right. Believe me, I can find her family if I need to but I wouldn’t want to alarm them.”
Mr. Jackson ignored him and kept on working his broom in the crevice
at the base of a stone column. Finally, he said, “You mean she’s in some kind of trouble?”
He spoke in the same languid tone, but Theron observed that he was jabbing harder than necessary at the crevice. Theron sighed inwardly with relief. He said, “That’s what I’m trying to find out, Sir. If Dru is in trouble. Something happened in Guyana.”
Something in the way Theron spoke those words rang true with Mr. Jackson and made him relent. He decided to tell Dru’s visitor what he knew. He arranged his lanky frame against the stone column and gave Theron his full attention.
“Well, all I know is that she’s gone somewhere for a while. She paid me her rent already—that’s a good two weeks ahead of time—and she paid it in a way she’s never done before.”
“How is that?”
“She slipped it under my door.”
“That doesn’t seem such an unusual thing to do.”
Mr. Jackson pursed his lips and looked at Theron sideways. It was a look that made Theron think of Dru’s neck roll all those years ago in Marseille. Theron quickly nodded, conceding that his statement was presumptuous; that he was out of line.
Mr. Jackson acknowledged the gesture by once more looking squarely at Theron. “It’s unusual for her,” he said. “She always gives me her rent in person, says it gives her a chance to check up on me.” He chuckled and added, “She says I remind her of her father, and she doesn’t like seeing me alone so much.”
“Oh. So Dru’s definitely not in her apartment now, correct?”
Mr. Jackson took note of the Dru. “Right. I told you before that she wasn’t home, didn’t I?”
Theron thanked him and turned to leave. “If I see her, who should I say was asking?”
“Just tell her Theron needs to know she’s okay.”
The Guyana Contract Page 31