Common religious ideology, Meade knows.
But they might just have found the connection to a possible motive.
As usual, Jeremy has a busy day ahead. But on Friday mornings, he always builds in a little decompression time before the first appointment, knowing he’ll need it after the weekly ordeal at Parkview.
He checks his voice mail as he heads down Lexington Avenue on foot. Two messages: one work-related, and one from Lucy checking to see how his visit went.
He opts to put both on the back burner for the time being, and instead dials his parents’ Connecticut home number. Calling Elsa when he leaves Parkview has become a habit for Jeremy—possibly because he craves the maternal contact that is so sorely missing when he’s with Marin.
Elsa answers cheerily on the first ring. “Hello?”
Hearing her voice, Jeremy immediately feels better. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi!”
She’s always so happy to hear from him. What a great feeling.
“I thought you might call,” she says, “so I waited to go out.”
“Do you have to be somewhere? Go ahead, I can call back later.”
“No, it’s nothing urgent. I just have to get some food into the house because Renny’s coming home from college tonight with a friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“She says no, but you know Renny.”
Yes. His sister the flirt. Guys have been falling in love with her since she was in middle school, and she still—as far as he knows—flits from one to the other like a hummingbird.
“You and Lucy are still planning on driving up on Wednesday morning, right?”
“Right.” They’ve barely talked about Christmas plans, but he’s pretty sure they’re still going to Connecticut.
“Good. It’s going to be sad this year without Maman. She was planning on being away for Christmas, but still . . .”
“I know.”
“Is it hard for you to be there in the apartment, Jer?”
“It’s only been a few days, but I do think about her a lot.”
“Well, I’m glad you and Lucy are there, partly for selfish reasons. It means I can delay going through Maman’s things and getting the place ready to sell. I’m dreading that.”
Jeremy was once in her shoes, after Papa died, when he had to settle his affairs. But there wasn’t a shred of sentimentality about that process. He’d boxed up everything in the house for Goodwill—everything. He didn’t want a single reminder of what he’d endured there.
He sold the house quickly, took the check, and left California without looking back. Went to Texas and had plastic surgery to fix all the damage Papa’s fists had caused—and that was when bits and pieces of his old life started to come back to him. It was when he remembered Elsa, and knew he had to find her. If he hadn’t, would she have found him anyway? Mike Fantoni had figured out that he was still alive . . .
Mike, whose murder was yet another senseless tragedy.
I wish I had known him. I wish I’d had a chance to thank him for never giving up on finding me, Jeremy thinks as Elsa chats on about the holidays—about which gifts she still needs to buy, and what she’s planning to serve for dinner.
“The only thing is, the weather forecast is looking pretty stormy for the middle of next week. Maybe you and Lucy should come up ahead of time, before it gets bad.”
“I don’t know . . . we always spend Christmas Eve with Lucy’s side of the family.”
“I thought everyone was in Florida.”
“Ryan’s not. I don’t think Lucy would want to leave him alone for Christmas.”
“Bring him—the more the merrier.”
Jeremy smiles. It’s still wonderful, after all those years alone, to talk to someone whose main concern is making his life easier and happier. Elsa always has his back, as does Lucy.
He’s aware that his father is also there for him, but there’s always been a little bit of tension between Brett and Jeremy. Before the kidnapping, and after, too. It’s as if Brett can’t quite forget what Jeremy did to La La Montgomery, and is always a little worried that Jeremy might snap again.
Who can blame him?
“Do you want me to call and invite him?” Elsa asks, and Jeremy has no idea what she’s talking about.
“Ryan,” she explains. “Should I call to invite him for Christmas?”
“Oh—I’d better talk to Lucy about it first. I’ll let you know what she says. Listen, Mom—I should go.”
“All right, just first tell me—how was everything today?” Elsa asks, and he knows she’s talking about Marin.
“Pretty much the same.”
“Did she ask you—”
“Yes. She always does. Sometimes I wonder if it’s right not to tell her.”
“She was told,” Elsa points out gently. “More than once, back in the beginning. Remember?”
Who could forget something so traumatic? Every time Marin asked for her daughter and was told she had died, it was like the first time she was hearing the news. She went crazy with grief—then, according to the doctors, blocked out the truth because it was just too painful to accept.
“It was so hard for her,” Elsa says quietly. “For all of us.”
“I know. But this is hard, too.”
“On you. I hate that you’ve had to go there alone every week and face this.”
“I’m her son.”
“You’re my son, too. I worry about you.”
Warmed by the concern in her voice, Jeremy says, “I know you do, but you don’t have to. I’m fine.”
“Good. And Lucy? How is she feeling?”
“Great, other than the fact that she has her head in the toilet most of the time.”
“Poor thing. I read somewhere that ginger helps with morning sickness. Maybe I’ll bake some gingerbread boys for Christmas.”
That reminds Jeremy of the cookie platter that turned up at the apartment door the day they moved in. They have yet to come across the neighbor who left them. That bothers him on some level. It probably shouldn’t. It’s certainly not bothering Lucy.
“I really need to hang up,” Jeremy tells his mother, checking his watch. “I have a few other calls to make, and then I’ve got to get busy with work.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. I just miss you.”
“I miss you, too. But I’ll see you in a few days, for Christmas.”
“I can’t wait.” She signs off with her usual, “Remember—I love you.”
Jeremy smiles. That’s something he’ll definitely never forget.
There it is again—that slightly crampy feeling.
In the midst of a network configuration, with her coworker Patrice standing beside her desk, Lucy winces and stops what she’s doing.
“Lucy?”
“Mmm hmm,” she tells Patrice, “just a second.”
She’s definitely not imagining it. There’s a little ache in her lower midsection, and then it’s gone.
“Braxton Hicks contraction?” asks Patrice, who’s had three children, and Lucy looks up at her in surprise.
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s like a little cramp or something . . . but it’s gone now.”
“Welcome to the third trimester. Those are Braxton Hicks contractions. Kind of like a trial run for the real thing. But believe me, this is nothing compared to labor. Now that’s pain.”
“Great. I can’t wait.”
“Sorry.” Patrice grins at Lucy’s wry expression. “Just telling it like it is. But the agony is totally worth it—you’ll see.”
I hope I will, Lucy thinks, and goes back to the network configuration.
As she emerges from the subway at Seventy-second Street, her thoughts once ag
ain shift back to the mystery patient.
She has a feeling she knows who it is, but . . .
Can it be?
The lovely and enigmatic Marin Quinn—in a loony bin right here in New York City?
Possibly.
Probably.
The woman was a basket case years ago. With all that’s happened since, it should be no surprise to anyone that she’s been committed.
But I’m not just anyone. I should have known.
She’d been told, not long after she found herself in prison, that Marin had moved to Europe to get away from the media fallout.
To find out now that it was a blatant lie—and that Jeremy, her cherished son, visits her weekly . . .
Out of nowhere, squealing tires. She looks up to see an angry cabdriver honking the horn. She just wandered into an intersection without bothering to check the light.
The cabdriver rolls down his window, sticking his head out to yell, “Jesus, lady, I almost ran you over!”
She just looks at him.
“You’re lucky you weren’t killed,” he shouts.
“We’re all going to die. Soon.” She points to him. “You’re going to die. It’s time to repent.”
“Freaking lunatic,” the cabbie mutters, and rolls up his window, shaking his head.
Chapter Seven
Lunchtime, and Ryan still hasn’t heard a thing from Phoenix. He’s gone through the motions of his workday, because really, what else is there to do?
Call the police?
Go home?
Put his head down on his desk and cry?
Without Phoenix, this job is all he has. He can’t afford to risk it.
Shoving his cell phone into the pocket of his overcoat, he leaves his cubicle. Maybe he can at least just step outside to get some air and clear his head.
“Going out to lunch?” asks Barbara, the elderly receptionist, sitting there as always with her stack of tabloids and her bowl of candy—usually butterscotch, but this week, it’s miniature candy canes.
Before Ryan can reply, his cell phone starts to ring in his pocket, nearly making him jump out of his skin. He fumbles for the phone, bumping the bowl. It topples over, scattering cellophane-wrapped candy canes all over the floor.
Ignoring it for the moment—along with Barbara’s dismayed reaction—Ryan hurriedly pulls out his phone, sees the number, answers immediately.
“Hi, Ryan.”
“Hi.” Ignoring Barbara and the litter of candy, he walks swiftly back toward his cubicle with the phone pressed against his ear.
“How are you?” Phoenix asks.
The fear and worry evaporate. Steeped in indignation and disgust, he echoes, “How am I? Where are you?”
There’s a pause. “At work.”
“Where have you been? Yesterday, last night, this morning . . .”
“Home. Why?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you since yesterday morning, that’s why.” Back in his cubicle, he sinks into his chair. “Didn’t you get my messages and texts?”
“What messages and texts?”
That gives him pause. Is it possible that she really didn’t get them, due to some kind of technical glitch, or . . .
Or just not checking? Not bothering to check?
Not caring enough to call you regardless of whether she knew you’d been trying to reach her?
“You know, Ryan,” she muses, “I thought it was strange that you hadn’t been in touch.”
“Then why didn’t you call me?”
“I am! I’m calling you now.”
“But it’s been over twenty-four hours. I mean . . . here I am reading about a woman who was killed in some hotel room last night, and all I’m thinking is that it might have been you.”
There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Ryan is certain she’s going to accuse him of being too clingy, and frankly, he won’t blame her.
But then she laughs a little and asks, “What would I be doing in a hotel?”
“I have no idea. I just kept thinking—”
“Well, just stop thinking. I’m fine. Are we going to meet later, after work?”
He sidesteps the question with one of his own. “I don’t know . . . are we?”
“It’s Friday night, isn’t it?”
“Yes . . .” Maybe he was too quick to judge her. Maybe, because he’s always been so insecure, he smothers people.
Not people . . .
There is no one, really, that he could possibly smother but her. Phoenix. The woman he loves.
Lucy was right.
He needs to get a life. He needs to give Phoenix some space, learn to trust her. Otherwise, he’s going to snuff out their relationship.
“Ryan?”
“Sure,” he hears himself say, and he sighs inwardly.
Oh well. Guess I’ll give her space another day.
“Where do you want to meet?” he asks. “How about if I come your way for a change and we—”
“Actually,” she cuts in, “I was thinking it might be nice to try a new restaurant I heard about.”
“Where is it? Near your apartment? Or your office?”
“No,” she says, “near yours—right over on Sixth Avenue. I’ll see you on our usual corner, okay? At five-thirty?”
Sixth Avenue?
“Ryan? Five-thirty?”
“Okay.” His hand trembles as he hangs up the phone.
Sixth Avenue.
New Yorkers call it that.
Newcomers and tourists usually call it Avenue of the Americas.
Maybe not all . . . but most of them. Enough to make Ryan wonder about Phoenix. About how she told him she’s only been in the city for a few months.
Maybe that’s true. Maybe she just doesn’t want to sound like a tourist and call it Avenue of the Americas. Maybe . . .
Maybe she lied.
Oh hell.
But why would she lie about where she was born and raised? That doesn’t make sense.
He’s being ridiculous. Paranoid. Insecure.
Still . . .
Ryan looks at the computer. Maybe he should do some digging around. Just to make sure she is who she says she is.
As he reaches for the mouse, though, a shadow falls across his desk and he looks up to see Traci.
“Hi. Did you figure it out?”
“Figure what out?” he asks, wondering how long she’s been standing there.
“You know . . . the file I gave you. The Medicare fraud case. Did it help?”
“Oh. Uh, I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Do you want me to go through it with you? It might be kind of confusing.”
He shakes his head. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine on my own.”
“He knows,” she tells Chaplain Gideon, pacing the herringbone hardwoods. “He knows.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he brought up what happened in that hotel room last night. Why else would he have mentioned it?”
“He was worried that something had happened to you. That’s all.”
“No. He was baiting me.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. You didn’t give anything away.”
“But if he knows—or even suspects—then I have to get rid of him. It’s getting too dangerous.”
“Not just yet. You need him. That’s why you’re with him. Hold on a little longer.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You must. This isn’t about him. It’s about the baby.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
She squeezes her eyes shut.
She’s the prophet, the chosen one, the one who will deliver the child to the waiting world.
She didn’t want to belie
ve Chaplain Gideon when he first explained that Lucy Cavalon was carrying the child she herself should have borne. The child she would gladly have borne, had she been able. But then she realized that of course it was true, that it made perfect sense, and—
“Patience.”
Her eyes snap open.
Patience. She hates that word. Hates hearing it over and over, hates the sound of Chaplain Gideon’s voice when he says it, but she can never drown it out. He just keeps talking. Constantly, talking to her, talking at her. Telling her what to do.
“You have to get this right, or it will all be for nothing. Do you understand?”
She looks down at her hands.
Just hours ago, they were covered in sticky red blood.
Now, they’re clenched into hard, angry fists. Impatient fists.
“Yes,” she tells Chaplain Gideon. “I do. I understand.”
“So either Jollston told the perp what room he was staying in, or she found out some other way,” Brandewyne muses aloud, and Omar resists the urge to shoot back, No shit, Sherlock.
Instead, he finishes his second hot dog in a single bite, washes it down with a swig of Pepsi, and brushes the crumbs from his black slacks.
“Coming?” he asks Brandewyne, who’s still seated on the low wall beneath the overhang of the adjacent office building, munching away at her sloppy street cart falafel.
“Can I finish my lunch?”
“Sure. Go ahead.” He tosses his hot dog wrapper into the nearest trash can and carefully props the Pepsi bottle on top to be discovered by the next homeless person to come along.
Brandewyne takes another bite, chews, swallows. The woman loves to eat. Nothing wrong with that. And she’s in decent shape—not shapely, by any means, but not hugely overweight. Just solid.
With that short hair and strictly functional wardrobe, she obviously doesn’t spend much time worrying about her looks. Nothing wrong with that, either.
It’s just . . .
When Meade first found out that his longtime partner Ben Tarrant was going to be replaced with a female detective, he was admittedly intrigued. With his schedule, it’s not easy to meet women at his age. He might have briefly entertained the fantasy of an on-the-job tryst with a partner who looks more like Charlie’s Angels than Baretta.
Okay, to be fair, Brandewyne’s not quite as . . . as masculine, or as . . . swarthy as Baretta. And she’s probably a charming—all right, that’s a stretch, but at least a decent—human being when she’s not on the job. But sometimes, he really doubts it.
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