by Harlan Coben
Unfortunately, it was also giving me time to shift realities, to see the repercussions. I fought that off. I didn't want hope clouding my thinking. Not yet. Not when I still knew so little. But still.
"It explains a lot," I said.
"Like?"
"Her secrecy. Her not wanting her picture taken. Her having so few possessions. Her not wanting to talk about her past."
Squares nodded.
"One time, Sheila" I stopped because that was probably not her name "she slipped and mentioned growing up on a farm. But the real Sheila Rogers's father worked for a company that made garage-door openers. She was also terrified at the very idea of calling her parents because, put simply, they weren't her parents. I took it all to mean a terribly abusive past."
"But it could just have easily have been someone in hiding."
"Right."
"So the real Sheila Rogers," Squares went on, his eyes looking up, "I mean, the one we just buried back there, she dated your brother?"
"So it seems."
"And her fingerprints were at the murder scene."
"Right."
"And your Sheila?"
I shrugged.
"Okay," Squares said, "So we assume the woman with Ken in New Mexico, the one the neighbors saw, that was the dead Sheila Rogers?"
"Yes."
"And they had a little girl with them," he went on.
Silence.
Squares looked at me. "Are you thinking the same thing I am?"
I nodded. "That the little girl was Carly. And that Ken might very well be her father."
"Yeah."
I sat back and closed my eyes. Squares opened his snack, checked the contents, cursed them.
"Will?"
"Yeah."
"The woman you loved. Any idea who she is?"
With my eyes still closed, I said, "None."
Chapter .
Squares went home. He promised to call me the moment they got anything on the Donna White pseudonym. I headed home, bleeding exhaustion. When I reached my apartment door, I put the key in the lock. A hand touched down on my shoulder. I jumped back, startled.
"It's okay," she said.
Katy Miller.
Her voice was hoarse. She wore a neck brace. Her face was swollen.
Her eyes were bloodshot. Where the brace stopped under the chin, I could see the deep purple and yellow of bruising.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She nodded.
I hugged her gingerly, too gingerly, using just my arms, keeping my distance for fear of hurting her further.
"I won't break," she said.
"When did you get out?" I asked.
"A few hours ago. I can't stay long. If my father knew where I was "
I held up a hand. "Say no more."
We pushed open the door and stepped inside. She grimaced in pain as she moved. We made our way to the couch. I asked her if she wanted a drink or something to eat. She said no.
"Are you sure you should be out of the hospital?"
"They said it's okay, but I need to rest."
"How did you get away from your father?"
She tried a smile. "I'm headstrong."
"I see."
"And I lied."
"No doubt."
She looked off with just her eyes she could not move her head and her eyes welled up. "Thank you, Will."
I shook my head. "I can't help but feel it was my fault."
"That's crap," she said.
I shifted in my seat. "During the attack, you yelled out the name John. At least, I think that's what you said."
"The police told me."
"You don't remember?"
She shook her head.
"What do you remember?"
"The hands on my throat." She looked off. "I was sleeping. And then someone was squeezing my neck. I remember gasping for air." Her voice fell away.
"Do you know who John Asselta is?" I asked.
"Yeah. He was friends with Julie."
"Could you have meant him?"
"You mean when I yelled John?" She considered that, "r don't know, Will. Why?"
"I think" I remembered my promise to Pistillo about keeping her out of it "I think he may have had something to do with Julie's murder."
She took that without blinking. "When you say have something to do with "
"That's all I can say right now."
"You sound like a cop."
"It's been a weird week," I said.
"So tell me what you got."
"I know you're curious, but I think you should listen to the doctors."
She looked at me hard. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I think you need to rest."
"You want me to stay out of this?"
"Yes."
"You're afraid I'll get hurt again."
"Very much so, yes."
Her eyes caught fire. "I can take care of myself."
"No doubt. But we're on very dangerous ground right now."
"And what have we been on up to now?" louche. "Look, I need you to trust me here."
"Will?"
"Yeah."
"You're not getting rid of me that easy."
"I don't want to get rid of you," I said. "But I do need to protect you."
"You can't," she said softly. "You know that."
I said nothing.
Katy slid closer to me. "I need to see this through. You, more than anyone, should understand."
"I do."
"Then?"
"I promised I wouldn't say anything."
"Promised who?"
I shook my head. "Just trust me, okay?"
She stood up. "Not okay."
"I'm trying "
"And if I told you to butt out, would you listen to me?"
I kept my head down. "I can't say anything."
She headed for the door.
"Wait a second," I said.
"I don't have time for this now," she said shortly. "My father will be wondering where I am."
I stood. "Call me, okay?" I gave her the cell phone number. I'd already memorized hers.
She slammed the door on her way out.
Katy Miller reached the street. Her neck hurt like hell. She was pushing too hard, she knew that, but that could not be helped. She was fuming. Had they gotten to Will? It hadn't seemed possible, but maybe he was just as bad as all the rest. Or maybe not. Maybe he really believed he was protecting her.
She would have to be even more careful now.
Her throat was dry. She craved a drink, but swallowing was still a painful chore. She wondered when this would all be over. Soon, she hoped. But she would see this through to the end. She had promised herself that. There was no going back, no end, not until Julie's murderer had been brought to justice one way or the other.
She headed south to i8th Street and then headed west into the meat-packing district. It was quiet now, in that lull between the daylight unloading and the perverse past-midnight nightlife. The city was like that, a theater that put on two different shows daily, changing props and sets and even actors. But day or night or even dusk, this street always had that rotted-meat smell. You could not get it out. Human or animal, Katy was not sure which.
The panic was back.
She stopped and tried to push it away. The feel of those hands clamped on her throat, toying with her, opening and closing her windpipe at will. Such power against such helplessness. He had stopped her breath. Think about that. He had squeezed her neck until she stopped breathing, until her life force began to ebb away.
Just like with Julie.
She was so lost in the horrible memory that she did not know he was there until he grabbed her elbow. She spun around. "What the ?"
The Ghost did not loosen his grip. "I understand you were calling for me," he said in that purr voice. Then smiling, he added, "Well, here I am."
Chapter -One.
I sat there. Katy had every right to be mad. But I could live with her anger
. It was far preferable to another funeral. I rubbed my eyes. I put my feet up. I think I might have fallen asleep I can't say for sure but when the phone rang, I was surprised to see it was morning. I checked the caller ID. It was Squares. I fumbled for the receiver and put it to my ear.
"Hey," I said.
He skipped the pleasantries. "I think we found our Sheila."
Half an hour later, I entered the lobby of the Regina Hotel.
It was less than a mile from our apartment. We had thought she had run across the country, but Sheila .. . what else was I supposed to call her? .. . had stayed that close.
The detective agency Squares liked to use had little trouble tracking her down, especially since she'd gotten careless since her namesake's death. She had deposited money in First National and taken out a debit Visa card. You cannot stay in this city hell, most anyplace without a credit card. The days of signing into motels with a false name and paying cash are pretty much over. There are a few dives, dwellings not truly fit for human habitation, that might still look the other way, but almost everyplace else wants to, at the very least, take a credit card impression in case you steal something or seriously damage your room. The transaction doesn't necessarily go through the system like I said, they might just make an impression but you still need the card.
She probably assumed that she was safe and that was understandable. The Goldbergs, a couple who survived by being discreet, had sold her an ID.
No reason to believe that they would ever talk the only reason they had was because of their friendship with Squares and Raquel, plus the fact that they in part blamed themselves for her theoretical murder.
Add on to that the fact that now Sheila Rogers was "dead" and thus nobody would be tracking her down, well, it made sense that she would let down her guard just a bit.
The credit card had been used to withdraw funds from an ATM yesterday in Union Square. From there it was just a question of hitting the nearby hotels. Most detective work is done through sources and payoffs, which are really one and the same. The good detectives have paid sources at phone companies, the tax bureau, credit card companies, the DMV, whatever. If you think this is difficult that it would be hard to find somebody who will provide confidential information for cash you do not read the papers much.
But this was even easier. Just call the hotels and ask to speak with Donna White. You do that until one hotel says "Please hold" and connects you. And now, as I took the steps into the lobby of the Regina Hotel, I felt the jangle. She was alive. I couldn't let myself believe that would not believe it until I saw her with my own eyes.
Hope does funny things to a brain. It can darken as well as lighten.
Where before I had made myself believe that a miracle was possible, now I feared that it might all be taken away from me again, that this time, when I looked into that casket, my Sheila would be there.
Love you always.
That was what her note said. Always.
I approached the front desk. I'd told Squares that I wanted to handle this alone. He understood. The receptionist, a blond woman with a hesitant smile, was on the phone. She shot me the teeth and pointed to the phone to let me know that she would be off soon. I gave her a no-rush shrug and leaned against the desk, feigning relaxed.
A minute later, she replaced the receiver and gave me her undivided attention. "May I help you?"
"Yes," I said. My voice sounded unnatural, too modulated, as if I were hosting one of those lite-FM programs. "I'm here to see Donna White.
Could you give me her room number?"
"I'm sorry, sir. We don't give out our guests' room numbers."
I almost slapped myself in the forehead. How stupid could I be? "Of course, my apologies. I'll call up first. Do you have a house phone?"
She pointed to the right. Three white phones, none with keypads, lined the wall. I picked one up and listened to the ring. An operator came on. I asked her to connect me to the room of Donna White. She said and I noticed that this is the new all-purpose, hotel-employee catch phrase "A pleasure," and then I heard the phone ring.
My heart crawled up my windpipe.
Two rings. Then three. On the sixth ring, I was transferred into the hotel's voice mail system. A mechanical voice told me that the guest was not available at this time and what to do if I wanted to leave a message. I hung up.
Now what?
Wait, I guess. What else was there? I bought a newspaper at the stand and found a spot in the corner of the lobby where I could see the door.
I kept the newspaper up over my face, Spy vs. Spy style, and felt like a total idiot. My insides churned. I never thought of myself as the type for an ulcer, but over the past few days, a burning acidity had started clawing at my stomach lining.
I tried to read the paper a totally futile act, of course.
I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't muster up the energy to care about current events. I couldn't keep my place while glancing at the door every three seconds. I turned the pages. I looked at the pictures. I tried to give a damn about the box scores. I flipped to the comics, but even Beetle Bailey was too taxing.
The blond receptionist would flick her gaze in my direction every once in a while. When our eyes met, she'd smile in a patronizing way.
Keeping her eye on me, no doubt. Or maybe that was more paranoid thinking. I was just a man reading a newspaper in the lobby. I had done nothing to arouse her suspicion.
An hour passed without incident. My cell phone rang. I put it to my ear.
"You see her yet?" Squares asked.
"She's not in her room. Or at least she's not answering the phone."
"Where are you now?"
"I'm staking out the lobby."
Squares made a sound.
"What? "I asked.
"Did you really say 'staking out'?"
"Give me a break, okay?"
"Look, why don't we just hire a couple of guys from the agency to do it right? They'll call us as soon as she gets in."
I considered that. "Not yet," I said.
And that was when she entered.
My eyes widened. My breathing started coming in deep swallows. My God. It was really my Sheila. She was alive. I fumbled the phone, almost dropping it.
"Will?"
"I have to go," I said.
"She there?"
"I'll call you back."
I clicked off the power. My Sheila I'll call her that because I don't know how else to refer to her had changed her hair. It was cut shorter, flipping up and under at the end of the swan neck. She had bangs now too. The color had been darkened to an Elvira black. But the effect... I saw her and it was like someone punched my chest with a giant fist.
Sheila kept moving. I started to rise. The dizziness made me pull up.
She walked the way she always walked no hesitation, head high, with purpose. The elevator door was already opened, and I realized that I might not make it in time.
She stepped inside. I was on my feet now. I hurried across the lobby without running. I did not want to make a scene. Whatever was happening here whatever had made her vanish and change names and wear a disguise and Lord knows what else needed to be somewhat finessed. I could not just yell out her name and sprint across the lobby.
My feet clacked on the marble. The sound echoed too loudly in my own ears. I was going to be late. I stopped and watched the elevator doors shut.
Damn.
I pressed the call button. Another elevator opened immediately. I started toward it but pulled up. Wait, what good would that do? I didn't even know what floor she was on. I checked the lights above my Sheila's elevator. They moved steadily. Floor five, then six.
Had Sheila been the only one in the elevator?
I thought so.
The elevator stopped on the ninth floor. Okay, fine. Now I pushed the call button. The same elevator was there. I hurried inside and pressed nine, hoping that I would get there before she entered her room. The door started closing. I leaned against the ba
ck. At the last second, a hand shot through. The doors banged against the hand and then opened. A sweaty man in a gray business suit sighed his way in, offering me a nod. He pressed eleven. The door closed again and we were on our way up.
"Hot out," he said to me.
"Yeah."
He sighed again. "Good hotel, don't you think?"
A tourist, I thought. I had been in a million New York City elevators before. New Yorkers understood the rules: You stare up at the flashing numbers. You do not engage anyone in conversation.
I told him that yes, it was nice, and as the doors opened, I dashed out. The corridor was long. I looked to my left. Nothing. I looked to my right and heard a door close. Like a hunting dog on point, I sprinted toward the sound. Right-hand side, I thought. End of the corridor.
I followed the audible scent, if you will, and deduced that the sound had come from either room 912 or 914. I looked at one door, then the other. I remembered an episode of Batman where Catwoman promises that one door will lead to her, the other to a live tiger. Batman chose wrong. Well, hell, this isn't Batman.
I knocked on both doors. I stood between them and waited.
Nothing.
I knocked again, harder this time. Movement. I was rewarded with some kind of movement emanating from room 912.. I slid in front of the door. I adjusted my shirt collar. Now I could hear the security chain being slid to the side. I braced myself. The knob turned and the door began to swing open.
The man was burly and annoyed. He wore a V-neck undershirt and striped boxers. He barked, "What?"
"I'm sorry. I was looking for Donna White."
He put his fists on his hips. "Do I look like Donna White?"
Strange sounds emanated from the gruff man's room. I listened closer.
Groans. Quasi-passionate groans of faux pleasure. The man met my eye, but he didn't look happy about it. I stepped back. Spectravision, I thought. In-room movies. The man was watching a skin flick. Porno interruptus "Uh, sorry," I said.
He slammed the door shut.
Okay, let's rule out room 912.. At least, I hoped like hell I could.
This was crazy. I raised my hand to knock on 914, when I heard a voice say, "Can I help you?"
I turned and at the end of the corridor, I saw a no-neck buzz cut wearing a blue blazer. The blazer had a small logo on his lapel and a patch on his upper arm. He puffed out his chest. Hotel security and proud of it.