Five years ago Rick’s father had elected to settle a sexual assault complaint brought against Rick by a young secretary, rather than have a public scandal. Following that episode, Parker Sr. had pulled the rug out from under his son.
The income from Rick’s trust fund had been frozen, and he had been put on exactly the same base salary plus sales commission as his fellow employees.
Papa must have taken a course on tough love, Sloane thought with a touch of sarcasm. There was one problem with that scenario, however: Tough love doesn’t support a cocaine habit. Once again he skimmed through the file. So where’s Rick been getting his money for drugs, and if he’s still alive, who’s paying for him to hide out?
Sloane pulled another cigarette from the ever-present pack in his shirt pocket.
The curriculum vitae for Richard J. Parker Jr. revealed one consistent pattern. For all his bluster and desk pounding, Parker Sr. always came through in the end when his son was in real trouble.
Like now.
Ed Sloane grunted and got up. Theoretically he was off for the weekend, and his wife had big plans for him to clean out the garage. But he knew that those plans would have to be changed; the garage would have to wait. He was going to drive up to Greenwich, Connecticut, and have a little chat with R. J. Parker Sr. Yes, it definitely was time for him to visit the palatial estate where Rick Parker had been raised, and had been given everything that money could buy.
42
ON FRIDAY EVENINGS, THE TRAFFIC FROM NEW JERSEY into New York City was as heavy as the commuter traffic headed in the other direction. It was a dinner-and-theater night for many people, and Kit could see the strained expression on her husband’s face as they inched their way across the George Washington Bridge. She was glad he had not said anything to her mother about how they should have left earlier.
Lacey had once asked her, “How can you stand it when he snaps at you for something that isn’t your fault?”
I told Lacey that I didn’t let it bother me, Kit remembered. I understand. Jay is a world-class worrier, and that’s his way of expressing it. She glanced at him again. Right now he’s worried because we are going to be late for dinner with an important client, she thought. I know he’s worried sick about Bonnie, and by now he’s churning about the fact that he’s made a promise to her that he can’t keep.
Jay sighed heavily as they finally turned off the bridge and onto the ramp leading to the West Side Highway. Kit was relieved to see that the cars ahead of them seemed to be moving downtown in a steady flow.
She put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm, then turned to look in the backseat. As usual after speaking with Lacey, her mother had been on the verge of tears. When she got in the car, she had said, “Let’s not talk about it.”
“How’s it going, Mom?” Kit asked.
Mona Farrell attempted a smile. “I’m all right, dear.”
“Did you explain to Lacey why I wasn’t able to talk to her tonight?”
“I told her we were going into New York and you wanted to be sure Bonnie had her dinner before you left. She certainly understood.”
“Did you tell her we were meeting Jimmy Landi?” Jay asked.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said—” Mona Farrell stopped herself before she blurted out that Lacey had cautioned her not to tell where she was living. Kit and Jay did not know that Lacey had confided that information to her.
“She said that she was surprised,” Mona finished lamely, feeling uncomfortable.
“So Alex has made you a captain, Carlos?” Jimmy Landi greeted his former employee as he sat down at the reserved table in Alex’s Place.
“Yes, he did, Mr. Landi,” Carlos said with a big smile.
“If you’d waited a while, Jimmy would have promoted you,” Steve Abbott said.
“Or maybe I wouldn’t,” Jimmy said shortly.
“In any case it’s a moot point,” Alex Carbine told him. “Jimmy, this is your first time here. Tell me what you think of the place.”
Jimmy Landi looked around him, studying the attractive dining room with its dark green walls brightened by colorful paintings in ornate gold frames.
“Looks like you got your inspiration from the Russian Tea Room, Alex,” he commented.
“I did,” Alex Carbine agreed pleasantly. “Just as you paid homage to La Côte Basque when you opened your place. Now, what are you having to drink? I want you to try my wine.”
Jimmy Landi isn’t the kind of man I had anticipated, Kit thought as she sipped a glass of chardonnay. Jay had been so worried about not keeping him waiting, but he certainly didn’t seem upset that we were a couple of minutes late. In fact, when Jay apologized, Landi said, “In my place I like people to be late. Whoever’s waiting has another drink. It adds up.”
Despite his apparent good humor, Kit sensed that Jimmy Landi was extremely tense. There was a drawn look to his face, along with an unhealthy pallor. Perhaps it’s just that he’s grieved so much for his daughter, she decided. Lacey had told them that Heather Landi’s mother had been heartbroken over their daughter’s death. It made sense that Heather’s father would have the same reaction.
When they had been introduced, Mona had said to Jimmy, “I know how much you’ve been through. My daughter—”
Alex interrupted, holding up his hand. “Why don’t we wait until later to talk about that, dear?” he said smoothly.
Kit instinctively liked Jimmy’s partner, Steve Abbott. Alex had told them that he had become something of a surrogate son to Jimmy, and that they were very close. Not in appearance, though, Kit decided. Abbott is really good-looking.
As dinner progressed, Kit could see that Steve and Alex were deliberately keeping the conversation away from any mention of either Lacey or Isabelle Waring. Between them they got Landi to tell some amusing stories about encounters with some of his celebrity clients.
Landi was, in fact, a first-class raconteur, a trait that Kit decided combined with his earthy, peasant appearance to make him oddly attractive. He also seemed genuinely warm and interested in them.
On the other hand, when he noticed a waiter looking impatiently at a woman who was obviously hemming and hawing over her entrée selection, his face darkened.
“Fire him, Alex,” he said sharply. “He’s no good. He’ll never be any good.”
Wow! Kit thought. He is tough! No wonder Jay is afraid of stepping on his toes.
Finally it was Jimmy who abruptly began to discuss Lacey and Isabelle Waring. As soon as coffee was served he said, “Mrs. Farrell, I met your daughter once. She was trying to keep her promise to my ex-wife by delivering my daughter’s journal to me.”
“I know that,” Mona said quietly.
“I wasn’t very nice to her. She’d brought me a copy of the journal instead of the original, and at the time I thought she had a hell of a nerve to decide to give the original to the cops.”
“Do you still feel that way?” Mona asked, then didn’t wait for an answer. “Mr. Landi, my daughter has been threatened with prosecution for withholding evidence because she tried to fulfill Isabelle Waring’s dying wish.”
Dear God, Kit thought. Mom is ready to explode.
“I learned about this only two days ago,” Landi said brusquely. “I finally had the brains to hire a private detective when I saw that I’d been given the runaround by the cops. He’s the one who found out that the cock-and-bull story they’d given me about a professional thief unintentionally killing Isabelle was so much hogwash.”
Kit watched as Landi’s complexion darkened to beet red.
It was obvious that Steve Abbott had noticed too. “Calm down, Jimmy,” he urged. “You’ll make a lousy patient if you have a stroke.”
Jimmy shot a wry glance at him, then looked back at Mona. “That’s just what my daughter used to tell me,” he said. He swallowed the rest of the espresso in his cup. “I know your daughter’s in that witness protection plan,” he said. “Pretty
lousy for her and for all of you.”
“Yes, it is,” Mona said, nodding in agreement.
“How do you stay in touch with her?”
“She calls once a week,” Mona said. “In fact the reason we were a few minutes late is because I was talking to her until Jay and Kit picked me up.”
“You can’t call her?” Jimmy asked.
“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t know where to reach her.”
“I want to talk to her,” Jimmy said abruptly. “Tell her that. The guy I hired tells me she spent a lot of time with Isabelle in the days before she died. I have a lot of questions I want to ask her.”
“Mr. Landi, that request would have to be made through the U.S. Attorney’s office,” Jay said, breaking his silence on the matter. “They talked with us before Lacey went into the program.”
“What you’re saying is they’ll probably turn me down,” Jimmy growled. “All right, maybe there’s another way. You ask her this question for me. Ask her if she remembers if there were a couple of unlined pages with writing on them at the end of Heather’s journal.”
“Why is that important, Jimmy?” Alex Carbine asked.
“Because if there were, it means that none of the evidence delivered to that precinct is going to be safe; it’s going to be doctored or disappear. And I gotta find a way to do something about it.”
Jimmy waved away Carlos, who was standing behind him with the coffee carafe. Then he stood and extended his hand to Mona. “Well, that’s it, I guess. I’m sorry for you, Mrs. Farrell. I’m sorry for your daughter. From what I hear she was very nice to Isabelle, and she tried to be helpful to me. I owe her an apology. How is she doing?”
“Lacey is a trouper,” Mona said. “She never complains. In fact she’s always trying to cheer me up.” She turned to Kit and Jay. “I forgot to tell you two in the car that Lacey just joined a brand-new health club, apparently one that has a fabulous squash court.” She turned back to Landi. “She’s always been a demon for exercise.”
43
AFTER COMPLETING HER CALL TO HER MOTHER AND HANGING up, Lacey met George Svenson in the lobby of the motel and walked wordlessly with him to the car.
She thought briefly about what she would do for the rest of the evening that stretched out ahead of her. One thing was certain—she simply could not spend all that time alone in the empty apartment. But what should she do? She was not particularly hungry and didn’t like the idea of going to a restaurant alone. After the experience at the movie Thursday night, she also could not bear the idea of sitting alone in a darkened movie theater.
In a way, she would have enjoyed seeing the final Minneapolis performance of The King and I, if she could get a ticket, but was sure that the overture would completely unravel her. She had a mental image from years ago of looking down into the orchestra pit for her father.
Dad, I miss you, she thought as she got into Svenson’s car.
But a voice inside her head came back with a reply.
Be honest, Lacey, my girl, you’re not grieving for me at the moment. Face it—you’ve met someone you want, but you’re using my image to block out his. Admit it. It’s not my face you’re chasing, and not my image you’re running away from.
Svenson was silent the entire drive, leaving her to her thoughts. Finally Lacey asked him if he had heard anything more from Gary Baldwin.
“No, I haven’t, Alice,” he replied.
It irritated Lacey that the one human being with whom she had even this much honest contact would not call her by her own name.
“Then kindly pass the word to the Great One that I want to know what is going on. I gave him some important information Tuesday night. As a simple courtesy, he could keep me informed of developments. I don’t think I can live like this much longer.”
Lacey bit her lip and slumped back in the seat. As always when she vented her anger on Svenson, she felt embarrassed and childish. She was sure he wanted to be home with his wife and three teenage daughters, not out dragging her around to motels to make phone calls.
“I had money put in your account, Alice. You can join the new health club tomorrow morning.”
It was Svenson’s way of telling her that he understood how she felt.
“Thanks,” she murmured, then realized she wanted to shout, “Please, just once, call me Lacey! My name is Lacey Farrell!”
When they reached her apartment building, she went into the lobby, still undecided about what to do. For several long moments she stood irresolutely in front of the elevator, then turned abruptly. Instead of going upstairs, she went out again, but this time got into her own car. She drove around aimlessly for some time, finally turning in the direction of Wayzata, the community in which she had attended the King and I cast party. Once there she looked for a small restaurant she remembered passing that night, and took some comfort in the fact that despite her less than sterling sense of direction, she found it easily. Maybe I’m finally getting the feel and sense of this area, she thought. If I’m going to be in the real estate business out here for any length of time, I’ll definitely need it.
The restaurant she had chosen might have been on West Fourth Street in New York’s Greenwich Village. As soon as she opened the door, she smelled the welcoming aroma of baking garlic bread. There were about twenty tables, each covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, and each sporting a candle.
Lacey glanced around. The place was clearly crowded. “It looks like you’re full,” she said to the hostess.
“No, as a matter of fact, we just got a cancellation.” The hostess led her to a corner table that had not been visible from the desk.
As she waited to be served, Lacey nibbled at warm, crunchy Italian bread and sipped red wine. Around her, people were eating and chatting, obviously enjoying themselves. She was the only solitary diner.
What was different about this place? she wondered. Why did she feel different in here?
With a start, Lacey realized she had put her finger on something she had either been avoiding or not recognizing. Here, in this small restaurant, where she could see whoever came in the door without being immediately seen herself, she felt safer than she had all week.
Why was that? she wondered.
It’s because I told Mom where I am, she admitted to herself ruefully.
The warnings she had received in the safe site echoed in her head. It’s not that your family would knowingly give you away, she was told. It’s remarks they might unconsciously make that could jeopardize your safety.
She remembered how her dad had always joked that if Mom ever wrote her memoirs, they ought to title it In Deepest Confidence, because Mom never could keep a secret.
Then she thought of how shocked her mother had sounded when Lacey warned her not to drop anything to Jimmy Landi about where she was living. Maybe it will be okay, Lacey thought, praying that her mother had taken the warning seriously.
The salad greens were crisp, the house dressing tangy, the linguine with clam sauce delicious, but the feeling of safety was short-lived, and when Lacey left the restaurant and drove home, she was haunted by the sense that something or someone was closing in on her.
Tom Lynch had left her a message. “Alice, it’s imperative that I see you tomorrow. Please call me back.” He left his number.
If only I could call him, Lacey thought.
Ruth Wilcox had phoned as well: “Alice, we miss you. Please come in over the weekend. I want to talk to you about a gentleman who was inquiring about you.”
Ruth, still playing the matchmaker, Lacey thought wryly.
She went to bed and managed to fall asleep, but then drifted promptly into a nightmare. In it she was kneeling beside Isabelle’s body. A hand touched her shoulder... She looked up and saw Isabelle’s murderer, his pale blue eyes staring down at her, the pistol he was holding pointed at her head.
She bolted up in bed, trying to scream. After that, it was no use. There was no more sleep for the rest of the night.
*
* *
Early in the morning Lacey made herself go out for a jog but found she could not resist casting frequent glances over her shoulder to make certain she was not being followed.
I’m turning into a basket case, she acknowledged when she got back to the apartment and bolted the door.
It was only nine o’clock in the morning, and she had absolutely no plans of any kind for the rest of the day. Millicent Royce had said that often on weekends she had appointments to show houses and Lacey was welcome to go along with her. Unfortunately, though, there were none scheduled this weekend.
I’ll have some breakfast, then try the new club, Lacey decided. At least it will be something to do.
She got to the Edina Health Center at ten-fifteen and was waved to a seat in the business office. She fished in her tote bag for her completed registration forms as the manager wound up a phone call by saying, “Yes, indeed, sir. We’re a brand-new facility and have a wonderful squash court. Do come right over and take a look.”
44
ON SATURDAY MORNING, DETECTIVE ED SLOANE DROVE from his home in the Riverdale section of the Bronx to the meeting he had insisted on having with Richard J. Parker Sr., in Greenwich, Connecticut. On the way, he noted that the snow, which had been so picture perfect only a few days ago, was already disintegrating into piles of graying slush. The sky was overcast, and rain was predicted, although the forecast said it would turn into sleet as the temperatures dropped.
It’s just another lousy winter day, the kind when the smart people who could afford it became snowbirds and flew south, Sloane told himself.
Or to Hawaii. That was the trip he was saving for. He planned to take Betty there on their thirtieth anniversary, which was two years away.
He wished they were leaving tomorrow. Maybe even today.
Although with what was going on at the precinct, he knew he couldn’t have gotten away. It haunted Sloane that evidence that might have been crucial to solving the murder of Isabelle Waring had been lost. It was bad enough, he thought, that Lacey Farrell had originally taken the journal from the crime scene. Infinitely worse was the fact that some still unknown perpetrator—most likely a “bad cop”—had stolen the journal from his own cubby. And probably had stolen pages from the copy that Jimmy Landi had turned over, he reminded himself.
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