From day one in Minneapolis, Lacey had decided that while it was not pleasant to be dependent on a stranger, she was determined not to give him cause to consider her anything more than a minimal nuisance. In the four months she had been there, her single extraordinary request to Svenson had been for permission to do her furniture shopping at garage sales rather than at department stores.
Lacey now had a feeling that she had earned Svenson’s grudging respect. As he drove through the gathering evening traffic to the secure phone, he asked her about her job.
“I like it,” Lacey told him. “I feel like a whole person when I’m working.”
She took his grunt as a sign of approval and agreement.
Svenson was the only person in the entire city to whom she could have talked about how she had almost burst into tears when Millicent Royce showed her a picture of her five-year-old granddaughter, dressed in a ballet recital costume. It had reminded her so much of Bonnie, and she had suffered an almost overwhelming wave of homesickness. But of course she wouldn’t tell him.
Looking at the picture of a child Bonnie’s age had made Lacey long to see her niece again. An old, turn-of-the-century song had been playing in her head since she saw the picture: My bonnie lies over the ocean, my bonnie lies over the sea... bring back, bring back, oh bring back my bonnie to me...
But Bonnie isn’t over the ocean, Lacey told herself. She’s about a three-hour flight away, and I’m about to give the U.S. Attorney information that may help get me on a plane home soon.
They were driving past one of the many lakes that were dotted throughout the city. The latest snow was nearly a week old but still appeared pristine white. Stars were beginning to come out, clear and shining in the fresh evening air. It is beautiful here, Lacey thought. Under different circumstances, I could very well understand why someone would choose to live here, but I want to go home. I need to go home.
For tonight’s call they had set up a secure line in a hotel room. Before he put the call through, Svenson told Lacey that he would wait in the hotel lobby while she was talking to Baldwin.
Lacey could tell that the phone at the other end was picked up on the first ring; she could even hear Gary Baldwin identify himself.
Svenson handed her the phone. “Good luck,” he murmured as he left.
“Mr. Baldwin,” she began, “thank you for getting back to me so quickly. I have some information that I think may be very important.”
“I hope so, Ms. Farrell. What is it?”
Lacey felt a stab of resentment and irritation. It wouldn’t hurt to ask how it’s going with me, she thought. It wouldn’t hurt to be civil. I’m not here because I want to be. I’m here because you haven’t been able to catch a killer. It’s not my fault I wound up a witness in a murder case.
“What it is,” she said, forming her words deliberately and slowly, as though otherwise he might not understand what she was telling him, “is that I have learned that Rick Parker—remember him? he was one of the Parkers of the Parker and Parker I used to work for—was in the same ski lodge as Heather Landi only hours before Heather died, and that she seemed frightened, or at least very agitated, when she saw him.”
There was a long pause; then Baldwin asked, “How did you possibly come by that information in Minnesota, Ms. Farrell?”
Lacey realized suddenly that she had not thought this revelation through before making the phone call. She had never admitted to anyone that she had made herself a copy of Heather Landi’s journal before she turned it over to Detective Sloane. She already had been threatened with prosecution because she had taken the original journal pages from Isabelle’s apartment. She knew they never would believe that she had made a secret copy of it only to honor her promise to Isabelle to read it.
“I asked you how you came by that information, Ms. Farrell,” Baldwin said, his voice reminding Lacey of a particularly prickly principal she had once had at school.
Lacey spoke carefully, as though wending her way through a minefield. “I have made a few friends out here, Mr. Baldwin. One of them invited me to a party for the road company production cast of The King and I. I chatted with Kate Knowles, an actress in the group, and—”
“And she just happened to say that Rick Parker was in a skiing lodge in Vermont just hours before Heather Landi died. Is that what you’re telling me, Ms. Farrell?”
“Mr. Baldwin,” Lacey said, knowing that her voice was rising, “will you please tell me what you are suggesting? I don’t know how much you know about my background, but my father was a Broadway musician. I’ve attended, and enjoyed, many, many musicals. I know the musical theater, and I know theater people. When I spoke to Kate Knowles, it came up that she had been in a revival of The Boy Friend that ran off-Broadway two years ago. We talked about it. I saw that show, with Heather Landi in the lead.”
“You never told us that you knew Heather Landi,” Baldwin interrupted.
“There was nothing to tell,” Lacey protested. “Detective Sloane asked me if I knew Heather Landi. The answer I gave him, which happens to be the truth, is that, no, I didn’t know her. I, like hundreds and perhaps thousands of other theatergoers, saw her perform in a musical. If I see Robert De Niro in a film tonight, should I tell you that I know him?”
“All right, Ms. Farrell, you’ve made your point,” he said without a trace of humor in his voice. “So the subject of The Boy Friend came up. Then what?”
Lacey was gripping the phone tightly with her right hand. She pressed the nails of her left hand into her palm, reminding herself to stay calm. “Since Kate was in the cast, it seemed obvious to me that she must have known Heather Landi. So I asked her, and then got her to talk about Heather. She freely told me that Isabelle Waring had asked everyone in the cast if Heather had seemed upset in the several days before she died, and if so, did they have any idea what the cause could have been.”
Baldwin sounded somewhat mollified. “That was smart of you. What did she say?”
“She said the same thing that I gather Isabelle heard from all Heather’s friends. Yes, Heather was troubled. No, she never told anyone why she was troubled. But then—and this is the reason for my call to you—Kate told me that she was thinking of calling Heather’s mother with one thing she had remembered. Of course, she’s been on the road and didn’t know that Isabelle was dead.”
Once again Lacey spoke slowly and deliberately. “Kate Knowles has a boyfriend. He lives in New York. His name is Bill Merrill. He’s an investment banker with Chase. Apparently he is a friend of Rick Parker, or at least knows him. Bill told Kate he had been chatting with Heather in the aprés-ski bar of the big lodge in Stowe the afternoon before she died. When Rick came in, though, she apparently broke off their conversation and left the bar almost immediately.”
“He’s sure this was the afternoon before Heather died?”
“That’s what Kate said. Her understanding is that Heather was very upset when she spotted Rick. I asked if she had any idea why Heather would react so strongly, and Kate told me that apparently Rick had pulled something on Heather when she first moved to New York, four years ago.”
“Ms. Farrell, let me ask you something. You worked for Parker and Parker for some eight years. With Rick Parker. Is that right?”
“That’s right. But Rick was in the West Side office until three years ago.”
“I see. And through this whole thing with Isabelle Waring, he never communicated to you that he knew, or might have known, Heather Landi?”
“No, he did not. May I remind you, Mr. Baldwin, that I’m where I am because Rick Parker gave me the name of Curtis Caldwell, who supposedly was from a prestigious law firm? Rick is the only one in the office who spoke, or supposedly spoke, to that man who turned out to be Isabelle Waring’s killer. Wouldn’t it have been natural in the weeks I was showing that apartment, and telling Rick about Isabelle Waring and her obsession over her daughter’s death, for him to have said he knew Heather? I certainly think so,” she said emphatic
ally.
I turned the journal over to the police the day after Isabelle died, Lacey thought. I told them at the time that I had given a copy to Jimmy Landi, as I promised. Did I say anything about Isabelle asking me to read it? Or did I say I’d glanced at it? She rubbed her forehead with her palm, trying to force herself to remember.
Don’t let them ask me who my date for the show was, she thought. Tom Lynch’s name is in the journal, and they’re sure to recognize it. It won’t take them long to learn that all this wasn’t a coincidence.
“Let me get this straight,” Baldwin said. “You say the man who saw Rick Parker in Stowe is an investment banker named Bill Merrill who works for Chase?”
“Yes.”
“Was all this information just volunteered at this casual meeting with Ms. Knowles?”
Lacey’s patience snapped. “Mr. Baldwin, in my effort to get this information for you I manipulated a luncheon with a very nice and talented actress whom I would enjoy having as a friend. I’ve lied to her as I have to every living soul I’ve met in Minneapolis, other than George Svenson, of course. It’s in my best interests to pick up any information I can that might lead to my having the chance to become a normal, truthful human being again. If I were you, I think I’d be much more concerned with investigating Rick Parker’s link to Heather Landi than acting as if I’m making things up.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort, Ms. Farrell. We’ll follow up on this information immediately. However, you must admit that not too many witnesses in the protection program manage to bump into the friend of a dead woman whose mother’s murder was the cause of their being in the program.”
“And not too many mothers get murdered because they’re not convinced their daughter’s death was an accident.”
“We’ll look into this, Ms. Farrell. I’m sure you’ve been told this already, but it’s very important. I insist that you be extremely careful not to let your guard down. You say you have new friends, and that’s fine, but watch what you say to them. Always, always, just be careful. If even one person knows where you can be reached, we will have to relocate you.”
“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Baldwin,” Lacey said, as with a sinking heart she thought again about telling her mother she was in Minneapolis.
As she hung up the phone and turned to leave the room, she felt as though the weight of the world was pressing on her shoulders. Baldwin had practically dismissed what she told him. He had seemed not to believe there was any significance to Rick Parker having had a connection to Heather Landi.
There was no way Lacey could have known that the moment he replaced the receiver, U.S. Attorney Gary Baldwin said to his assistants, who were monitoring the phone call, “The first real break! Parker is in this up to his neck.” He paused, then added, “And Lacey Farrell knows more than she’s telling.”
34
I GUESS I WAS WRONG ABOUT ALICE, TOM LYNCH THOUGHT as he showered after working out at the Twin Cities Gym. Maybe she was sore that I didn’t stick by her at the party. For the second day in a row she had not shown up at the gym. Nor had she returned his phone call.
But Kate had called to tell him about her lunch with Alice, and Alice had been the one who made the date, so at least she likes somebody in the family, he told himself.
But why didn’t she call me back, even if it was to say she couldn’t make it, or that she didn’t get the message in time to make dinner last night? he wondered.
He stepped out of the shower and vigorously toweled himself dry. On the other hand, Kate also mentioned that Alice was starting a new job. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t gotten back to him, he decided.
Or maybe there was another guy in the picture?
Or maybe she was sick?
Knowing that Ruth Wilcox missed nothing, Tom stopped at her office on the way out. “No sign of Alice Carroll again today,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Or maybe she comes in at a different time now?”
He saw the spark of interest in Ruth’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, I was just about to give her a call to see if something was wrong,” she said. “She’s been so faithful, coming in every day for two weeks, that I figure something must be up.”
Ruth smiled slyly. “Why don’t I call her right now? If she answers, should I tell her you’re asking for her, and put you on?”
Oh boy! Tom thought ruefully. It’ll be all over the gym that something’s brewing between Alice and me. Well, you started it, he reminded himself. “You’re a regular Dolly Levi, Ruth,” he said. “Sure, if she answers, put me on.”
After four rings, Ruth said, “What a shame. She must be out, but the answering machine is on. I’ll leave a message.”
Her message was that she and a certain very attractive gentleman were wondering where Alice was keeping herself.
Well, at least that will smoke her out, Tom thought. If she’s not interested in going out with me, I’d like to know it. I wonder if there is some kind of problem in her life?
When he went out, he stood on the street for a few minutes, debating what he wanted to do. Had he run into Alice at the gym, he would have asked her to go to dinner and a movie, or that at least had been his plan. The film that had been awarded first prize at the Cannes Film Festival was playing at the Uptown Theatre. He knew he could always go alone, but he just didn’t feel like seeing it by himself.
He was getting cold, standing on the sidewalk, trying to decide. Finally he shrugged and said aloud, “Why not?” He would drive over to where Alice lived. With luck she would be there and he would ask her if she wanted to go to the movie with him.
From his car phone he tried her number again and got the answering machine. She wasn’t home yet. He parked at the curb outside her building and studied it, remembering that Alice lived on the fourth floor and her windows were directly over the main entrance.
Those windows were dark. I’ll wait awhile, Tom decided, and if she doesn’t show up, I’ll get something to eat and skip the movie.
Forty minutes passed. He was about to leave when a car pulled into the semicircular driveway and stopped. The passenger door opened, and he saw Alice get out and dart into the apartment building.
For a moment the car was illuminated by the overhead light. Tom could see that it was a dark green Plymouth; it appeared to be five or six years old, the very essence of nondescript. He caught a glimpse of the driver and was pleased to note that he obviously was an older man. Certainly he would be an unlikely romantic partner for Alice.
The intercom was in the foyer. Tom pushed 4F.
When Alice answered, she obviously thought it was the man who had just dropped her off. “Mr. Svenson?”
“No, Alice, it’s Mr. Lynch,” Tom said, his tone one of mock formality. “May I come up?”
When Lacey opened the door, Tom could see that she looked drained, even stunned. Her skin was pale, almost alabaster white. The pupils of her eyes seemed enormous. He did not waste time on preliminaries. “Obviously something’s terribly wrong,” he said, alarm in his voice. “What is it, Alice?”
The sight of his tall, rangy figure filling the doorway, the concern in his eyes, in his whole expression, the realization that he had sought her out when she ignored his call, almost unhinged Lacey.
It was when he called her Alice that she managed to rein herself in, to regain at least a modicum of control. In the twenty-minute ride from the secure phone back to the apartment, she had exploded at George Svenson. “What is the matter with that Baldwin? I give him information that has to be useful in this case, and he treats me as if I’m a criminal! He just dismissed me, treated me like a child. For two cents I’d go home and walk down Fifth Avenue with a sign on me saying ‘Rick Parker is a no-good, spoiled jerk who must have done something terrible to Heather Landi when she was a twenty-year-old kid just arriving in New York, because four years later she was still obviously spooked by him. Anyone with any information please come forward.’”
Svenson’s response had been, “Take it
easy, Alice. Calm down.” And in fact he had the kind of voice that could soothe a lioness, let alone Lacey. It came with the job, of course.
During the drive home a new fear had hit Lacey. Suppose Baldwin had someone on his staff talk to her mother or Kit to be sure she hadn’t told them where she was living. They would see through Mom in a minute, she thought. She would never be able to fool them. Unlike me, she’s never learned to be an accomplished liar. If Baldwin thought Mom knew, he would relocate me, I know it. I can’t go through the whole business of starting over again.
After all, here in Minneapolis she had a semblance of a job, and at least the beginnings of something resembling a personal life.
“Alice, you haven’t invited me in. You might as well. I have no intention of leaving.”
And it was here that she had met Tom Lynch.
Lacey attempted a smile. “Please come in. It’s nice to see you, Tom. I was just about to pour myself a much needed glass of wine. Will you join me?”
“I’d be glad to.” Tom took off his coat, and tossed it on a chair. “How about I do the honors?” he asked. “Wine in the refrigerator?”
“No, as a matter of fact it’s in the wine cellar. That’s just beyond my state-of-the-art kitchen.”
The Pullman kitchen in the tiny apartment consisted of a small stove and oven, a miniature sink, and a bar-sized refrigerator.
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Shall I lay a fire in the great room?”
“That would be nice. I’ll wait on the verandah.” Lacey opened the cabinet and poured cashews into a bowl. Two minutes ago I was within an inch of going to pieces, she thought. Here I am, actually joking with someone. Clearly Tom’s presence had made the difference.
She sat in a corner of the couch; he settled in the overstuffed chair and stretched out his long legs. He lifted his glass to her in a toast, “Good to be with you, Alice.” His expression became serious. “I have to ask you a question, and please be honest. Is there another man in your life?”
Pretend You Don't See Her Page 14