The program pays for it. Isn’t that great? But of course I can’t say that the marshal’s name is George Svenson, and I certainly won’t let Mom and Kit know that I bought a three-year-old maroon Bronco.
Instead she wrote:
My advisor is a good guy. He’s got three teenaged daughters.
No, take that last part out, she thought. Too specific.
My advisor is a good guy. Very patient. He went with me to buy furniture for the studio.
Too specific. Make that apartment.
But you know me. I didn’t want a lot of matched stuff, so he humored me and we went to some garage sales and house sales and I found some really nice secondhand furniture that at least has character. But I sure miss my own digs, and do tell Jay that I’m really grateful to him for keeping up the maintenance on the place for me.
That was safe enough, Lacey thought, and I really am grateful to Jay. But I will pay him back every nickel, she vowed to herself.
She was allowed to call home once a week on a secure telephone hookup. The last call she had made, she could hear Jay in the background, hurrying Kit. Well, it was a pain in the neck to have to sit and wait for a call at a specific time; she couldn’t deny that. And no one could call her back.
It sounds as though the holidays were fun for the kids, and I’m so happy that Bonnie’s arm is getting stronger. Sounds like the boys’ skiing trip was a blast. Tell them I’m nutty enough to try snowboarding with them when I get back.
Take care of yourself, Mom. Sounds as though you and Alex are having fun. So what if he talks your ear off once in a while? I think he’s a nice guy, and I’ll never forget how helpful he was that awful night while Bonnie was in surgery.
Love you all. Keep praying that they find and arrest Isabelle Waring’s murderer and he plea-bargains and I get off the hook.
Lacey signed her name, folded the letter and put it in an envelope. Deputy Marshal Svenson would mail it for her through the secure mail-forwarding channel. Writing to her mother and Kit or speaking to them on the phone took away something of the sense of isolation. But when the letter was finished or the phone call completed, the letdown that followed was rough.
Come on, she warned herself, knock off the self-pity. It won’t do any good and, thank God, the holidays are over. “Now they were a genuine problem,” she said aloud, realizing suddenly that she was getting in the habit of talking to herself.
To try to break up Christmas Day she had gone to the last Mass at St. Olaf’s, the church named for the warrior king of Norway, then ate at the Northstar Hotel.
At Mass when the choir sang “Adeste Fidelis” tears had sprung to her eyes as she thought of the last Christmas her father was alive. They had gone to midnight Mass together at St. Malachy’s in Manhattan’s theater district. Her mother had always said that Jack Farrell could have made it big if he had chosen to try for a career as a singer rather than as a musician. He really did have a good voice. Lacey remembered how that night she had stopped singing herself, just to listen to the clarity of tone and warmth of feeling he put into the carol.
When it was over, he had whispered, “Ah, Lace, there’s something grand about the Latin, isn’t there?”
At her solitary meal, her tears had welled up again as she thought about her mother and Kit and Jay and the children. She and her mother always went to Kit’s house on Christmas, arriving with the presents for the kids that “Santa had dropped off” at their houses.
At ten, Andy, like Todd at that age, was still a believer. At four, Bonnie was already savvy. Lacey had sent gifts to everyone through secure channels this year, but that didn’t hold a candle to being there, of course.
As she had tried to pretend she was enjoying the food she had ordered at the Northstar, she found herself thinking of Kit’s festive holiday table with the Waterford chandelier sparkling, its lights reflected off the Venetian glassware.
Knock it off! Lacey warned herself as she dropped the envelope into a drawer, where it would await Deputy Marshal Svenson’s pickup.
For lack of something else to do, she reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out the copy she had made of Heather Landi’s journal.
What could Isabelle possibly have wanted me to see in it? she asked herself for the hundredth time. She had read it so often she felt as though she could quote it word for word.
Some of the entries were in a close sequence, daily and sometimes several times a day. Others were spaced a week, a month, or as much as six weeks apart. In all, the journal spanned the four years Heather had spent in New York. She wrote in detail about looking for an apartment, about her father insisting she live in a safe building on the East Side. Heather clearly had preferred Manhattan’s West Side; as she put it, “It isn’t stuffy and has life.”
She wrote about singing lessons, about auditioning and getting her first part in a New York production—an Equity showcase revival of The Boy Friend. That entry had made Lacey smile. Heather had ended it by writing “Julie Andrews, move over. Heather Landi is on her way.”
She wrote in detail about the plays she had attended, and her analysis of them and of the actors’ performances was thoughtful and mature. She wrote interestingly as well about some of the more glamorous parties she attended, many of them apparently through her father’s connections. But some of the gushing about her boyfriends was surprisingly immature. Lacey got the clear impression that Heather had been pretty much held down by both her mother and father until, after two years of college, she opted to come to New York and try for a career in the theater.
It was obvious that she had been close to both parents. All the references to them were warm and loving, even though several times she had complained about the need to please her father.
There was one entry that had intrigued Lacey from the first time she read it:
Dad exploded at one of the waiters today. I have never seen him that angry before. The poor waiter was almost crying. I see what Mom meant when she warned me about his temper and said that I should rethink my decision to tell him that I wouldn’t live on the East Side when I moved to New York. He’d kill me if he ever found out how right he was about that. God, I was stupid!
What had happened to make Heather write that? Lacey wondered. It can’t be too important. Whatever it was, it took place four years before she died and that’s the only reference to it.
It was clear from the last few entries that Heather was deeply troubled about something. She wrote several times about being caught “between a rock and a hard place. I don’t know what to do.” Unlike the others, those last entries were on unlined paper.
There was nothing specific in those entries, but obviously they had triggered Isabelle Waring’s suspicions.
But it could have had to do with a job decision, or a boyfriend, or anything, Lacey thought hopelessly, as she put the pages back in the drawer. God knows I’m between a rock and a hard place right now.
That’s because someone wants to kill you, a voice inside her head whispered.
Lacey slammed the drawer shut. Stop it! she told herself fiercely.
A cup of tea might help, she decided. She made it, then sipped it slowly, hoping to dispel the heavy sense of fear-filled isolation that was again threatening to overwhelm her.
Feeling restless, she turned on the radio. Usually she flipped the dial to a music station, but it was set on the AM band, and a voice was saying, “Hi, I’m Tom Lynch, your host for the next four hours on WCIV.”
Tom Lynch!
Lacey was shocked out of her homesickness. She had made a list of all the names mentioned in Heather Landi’s journal, and one of them was Tom Lynch, an out-of-town broadcaster on whom it seemed Heather had once had a mild crush.
Was it the same person? And, if so, was it possible Lacey could learn something about Heather from him?
It was worth pursuing, she decided.
16
TOM LYNCH WAS A HEARTY MIDWESTERNER. RAISED IN North Dakota, he was one of the
breed of stalwarts who thought twenty degrees was a bracing temperature, and believed that only sissies complained about the cold.
“But today they’ve got a point,” he said with a smile to Marge Peterson, the receptionist at Minneapolis radio station WCIV.
Marge looked at him with maternal affection. He certainly brightened her day, and since he had taken over the station’s afternoon talk show, he apparently had been having the same effect on many other people in the Minneapolis–St. Paul area. She could tell from the steadily increasing volume of fan mail that crossed her desk that the popular thirty-year-old anchorman was headed for big-time broadcasting. His mixture of news, interviews, commentary, and irreverent humor attracted a wide age range of listeners. And wait until they get a look at him, she thought as she looked up at his bright hazel eyes, his slightly rumpled medium brown hair, his warm smile, and his attractively uneven features. He’s a natural for television.
Marge was happy at his success—and therefore the station’s—but realized that it was a double-edged sword. She knew that several other stations had tried to hire him away, but he had announced his strategy was to build WCIV into the number-one station in the listening area before considering moving on. And now it’s happening, she thought with a sigh, and soon we’ll be losing him.
“Marge, anything wrong?” Tom asked, his expression solicitous. “You look worried.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Nothing wrong at all. You’re off to the gym?”
As Lynch was signing off that afternoon, he had told his listeners that since even a penguin couldn’t jog outside in this weather, he would be heading off to the Twin Cities Gym later on, and he hoped to see some of them there. Twin Cities was one of his sponsors.
“You bet. See you later.”
“How did you hear about us, Miss Carroll?” Ruth Wilcox asked as Lacey filled out the membership form for the Twin Cities Gym.
“On the Tom Lynch program,” Lacey said. The woman was studying her, and she felt the need to elaborate. “I’ve been thinking of joining a gym for some time, and since I can try this one out a few times before deciding...” She let her voice trail off. “It’s also convenient to my apartment,” she finished lamely.
At least this will give me some practice in trying to get a job, she told herself fiercely. The prospect of filling out the form had frightened her, since it was the first time she had actually used her new identity. It was all very well to practice it with her advisor, Deputy Marshal George Svenson, but quite another to actually try to live it.
On the drive to the gym she had mentally reviewed the details: She was Alice Carroll, from Hartford, Connecticut, a graduate of Caldwell College, a safe alma mater because the school was now closed. She had worked as a secretary in a doctor’s office in Hartford. The doctor retired at the same time that she broke up with her boyfriend, so it just seemed like the right time to make a move. She had chosen Minneapolis because she visited there once as a teenager and loved it. She was an only child. Her father was dead, and her mother had remarried and was living in London.
None of which matters at the moment, she thought as she reached into her purse for her new social security card. She would have to be careful; she had automatically started to write her real number but caught herself. Her address: One East End Avenue, New York, NY 10021 flashed into her mind. No, 520 Hennepin Avenue, Minneapolis, MN 55403. Her bank: Chase; no, First State. Her job? She put a dash through that space. Relative or friend to notify in case of accident: Svenson had provided her with a phony name, address, and telephone number to use in that situation. Any call that was made to the number would go to him.
She got to the questions on medical history. Any problems? Well, yes, she thought. A slight scar where a bullet creased my skull. Shoulders that always feel tense because I always have the feeling that someone is looking for me, and that someday when I’m out walking, I’ll hear footsteps behind me, and I’ll turn and...
“Stuck on a question?” Wilcox asked brightly. “Maybe I can help.”
Instantly struck with paranoia, Lacey was sure she detected a skeptical look appear in the other woman’s eyes. She can sense that there’s something phony about me, she thought. Lacey managed a smile. “No, not stuck at all.” She signed “Alice Carroll” to the form and pushed it across the desk.
Wilcox studied it. “Purr-fect.” The pattern on her sweater was kittens playing with a spool of yarn. “Now let me show you around.”
The place was attractive and well equipped with a good supply of exercise paraphernalia, a long jogging track, airy rooms for aerobics classes, a large pool, steam and sauna facilities, and an attractive juice bar.
“It gets fairly crowded early in the morning and right after work,” Wilcox told her. “Oh, look, there he is,” she said, interrupting herself. She called out to a broadshouldered man who was headed away from them and toward the men’s locker room: “Tom, come here a minute.”
He stopped and turned, and Ms. Wilcox vigorously waved her arm, gesturing for him to come over.
A moment later she was introducing them. “Tom Lynch, this is Alice Carroll. Alice is joining us because she heard you talk about us on your radio program,” Ms. Wilcox told him.
He smiled easily. “I’m glad I’m so persuasive. Nice to meet you, Alice.” With a quick nod, and another bright smile, he left them.
“Isn’t he a doll?” Wilcox asked. “If I didn’t have a boyfriend I really like... well, never mind that. The trouble is, the single women sometimes come on too strong to him, keep trying to talk to him. But when he’s here, he’s here to exercise.”
Helpful hints, Lacey thought. “So am I,” she said crisply, hoping she sounded convincing.
17
MONA FARRELL SAT ALONE AT A TABLE IN THE POPULAR new restaurant, Alex’s Place. It was eleven o’clock, and the dining room and bar were still crowded with after-theater patrons. The pianist was playing “Unchained Melody,” and Mona felt a sharp sense of loss. That song had been one of Jack’s favorites.
The lyrics drifted through her mind. And time can do so much...
Mona realized that lately she seemed always to be on the verge of tears. Oh, Lacey, she thought, where are you?
“Well, I guess I can take some time to sit with a pretty woman.”
Mona looked up, startled back into reality, and watched as Alex Carbine’s smile faded.
“You crying, Mona?” he asked anxiously.
“No. I’m fine.”
He sat across from her. “You’re not fine. Anything special, or just the way things are?”
She attempted a smile. “This morning I was watching CNN, and they showed that minor earthquake in Los Angeles. It wasn’t that minor. A young woman lost control of her car, and it flipped over. She was slim and had dark hair. They showed her being placed on a stretcher.” Mona’s voice quivered. “And for an awful moment I thought it was Lacey. She could be there, you know. She could be anywhere.”
“But it wasn’t Lacey,” Alex said reassuringly.
“No, of course not, but I’m at the point that whenever I hear about a fire or flood or an earthquake, I worry that Lacey might be there and be caught in it.”
She tried to smile. “Even Kit is getting sick of listening to me. The other day there was an avalanche on Snowbird Mountain, and some skiers were caught in it. Fortunately they were all rescued, but I kept listening for the names. Lacey loves to ski, and it would be just like her to go out in a heavy storm.”
She reached for her wineglass. “Alex, I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you.”
Carbine reached for her hand. “Yes, you should, Mona. When you talk to Lacey, maybe you should tell her what this whole thing is doing to you. I mean, maybe if you just had some idea of where she is, it would be easier to cope.”
“No, I can’t do that. I have to try not to let her know. It would be that much harder for her. I’m lucky. I’ve got Kit and her family. And you. Lacey’s all alone.”
�
��Tell her,” Alex Carbine said firmly. “And then keep what she tells you to yourself.”
He patted her hand.
18
“WHEN YOU CREATE SOMEONE LIKE THE MYTHICAL BOYFRIEND, have a real person in mind,” Deputy Marshal George Svenson had warned Lacey. “Be able to visualize that guy and the way he talks so that if you have to answer questions about him, it will be easier to be consistent. And remember, develop the trick of answering questions by asking questions of your own.”
Lacey had decided that Rick Parker was the mythical boyfriend she had broken up with. She could imagine breaking up with him more easily than having him as a boyfriend, but thinking of him at least did make consistency easier.
She began going to the gym daily, always in the late afternoon. The exercise felt good, and it gave her a chance to focus her thoughts as well. Now that she had the social security card she was anxious to get a job, but Deputy Marshal Svenson told her the protection program would not provide false references.
“How am I supposed to get a job without a reference?” she had asked.
“We suggest you volunteer to work without pay for a couple of weeks, then see if you’re hired.”
“I wouldn’t hire someone without references,” she had protested.
It was obvious, though, that she would just have to try. Except for the gym, she was without any human contact. Being alone so much, the time was passing too slowly, and Lacey could feel depression settling over her like a heavy blanket. She had even come to dread the weekly talk with her mother. It always ended the same way, with her mother in tears, and Lacey ready to scream with frustration.
In the first few days after she started going to the gym, she had managed to make something of a friend of Ruth Wilcox. It was to her that she first tried out the story of what had happened to bring her to Minneapolis: her mother had remarried and moved to London; the doctor she worked for retired; and she had ditched her boyfriend. “He had a quick temper and could be very sarcastic,” she explained, thinking of Rick.
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