Pretend You Don't See Her

by Mary Higgins Clark

  As she said the name “Hufner,” she could hear the rectory door chimes ringing loudly.

  “Did you hear me, Jay? Mr. or Mac or Max Huf—”

  “Max Hoffman?” Jay asked. “Sure I knew him. He worked for Jimmy Landi for years.”

  “I didn’t say Hoffman,” Lacey said. “But oh, dear God, that’s it...”

  Isabelle’s last words . . . “read it... show him...” then that long shuddering gasp, “. . . man.”

  Isabelle died trying to tell me his name, Lacey realized suddenly. She was trying to separate those pages from the others. She wanted Jimmy Landi to see them.

  Then Lacey realized what Jay had just said, and it sent a sudden chill through her. “Jay, why did you say you knew him?”

  “Lacey, Max died over a year ago in a hit-and-run accident near his home in Great Neck. I went to his funeral.”

  “How much over a year ago?” Lacey asked. “This could be very important.”

  “Well, let me think,” Jay said. “It was just about the time I bid on the job at the Red Roof Inn in Southampton, so that would have made it about fourteen months ago. It was the first week in December.”

  “The first week in December—fourteen months ago! That’s when Heather Landi was killed,” Lacey exclaimed. “Two car accidents within days of each other...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Lacey, do you think that—” Jay began.

  The apartment intercom was buzzing, a series of soft quick jabs. Tim Powers was signaling her to get out. “Jay, I’ve got to leave. Stay there. I’ll call you back. Just one thing, was Max Hoffman married?”

  “For forty-five years.”

  “Jay, get her address for me. I have to have it.”

  Lacey grabbed her tote bag and the black hooded coat she had taken from Isabelle’s closet. Hobbling, she left the apartment and went down the corridor to the elevator. The indicator showed that the elevator was at the ninth floor and ascending. She managed to reach the safety of the fire stairs just in time to avoid being seen.

  Tim Powers met her inside the staircase at the lobby level. He pressed folded bills into her hand and dropped a cellular phone in her pocket. “It will take them a while to trace any calls you make on this.”

  “Tim, I can’t thank you enough.” Lacey’s heart was pounding. The net was closing. She knew it.

  “There’s a cab waiting out in front with the door open,” Tim said. “Keep that hood up.” He squeezed her hand. “Six G is having one of their family brunches. There are a lot of people coming in at once. You may not be noticed. Get going.”

  The cabdriver was obviously annoyed at having to wait. The cab leaped forward into the traffic, slamming Lacey backward. “Where to, miss?” he demanded.

  “Great Neck, Long Island,” Lacey said.

  59

  “I HOPE MOM GETS HERE BEFORE LACEY CALLS BACK,” KIT said nervously.

  They were having coffee with the pastor in the rectory study. The phone was at Kit’s elbow.

  “She should only be ten minutes or so,” Jay said reassuringly. “She was going to meet Alex in New York for brunch and was just ready to walk out the door.”

  “Mom is a basket case over all this,” Kit explained to the priest. “She knows the U.S. Attorney’s office blames her for the leak, which is ridiculous. She didn’t even tell me where Lacey was living. She’d have a fit if we didn’t give her a chance to talk to Lacey now.”

  “If she calls back,” Jay cautioned. “She may not get the chance, Kit.”

  * * *

  Had she been followed? Lacey wondered. She couldn’t be sure. There was a black Toyota sedan that seemed to be maintaining a constant distance behind the cab.

  Maybe not, she thought, breathing a slight sigh of relief. The car had turned off the expressway at the first exit after they came out of the Midtown Tunnel.

  Tim had taped the unlock code to the back of the cellular phone he had lent her. Lacey knew Kit and Jay were waiting in the rectory for her call, but if she could get the information she needed another way, she would rather do it. She had to get the street address where Max Hoffman had lived, and where, please God, his wife still lived. She had to go there and talk to her and get from her anything she might know about her husband’s conversation with Heather Landi.

  Lacey decided first to try to get Mrs. Hoffman’s address from the telephone information operator. She dialed and was asked what listing she required.

  “Max Hoffman, Great Neck. I don’t have his address.”

  There was a pause. “At the request of the customer, that number cannot be given out.”

  The traffic was fairly light, and Lacey realized that they were getting close to Little Neck. Great Neck was the next town. What would she do if they arrived there and she didn’t have an address to give this driver? She knew he hadn’t wanted to make the drive so far out of Manhattan in the first place. If she did get to where Mrs. Hoffman lived and the woman wasn’t home or wouldn’t open the door, what would she do then?

  And what if she was being followed?

  She called the rectory again. Kit answered immediately. “Mom just got here, Lacey. She’s dying to talk to you.”

  “Kit, please...”

  Her mother was on the phone. “Lacey, I didn’t tell a soul where you live!”

  She’s so upset, Lacey thought. It’s so hard for her, but I just can’t talk to her about all this now.

  Then mercifully her mother said, “Jay has to speak to you.”

  They were entering Great Neck. “What’s the address?” the driver asked.

  “Pull over for a minute,” Lacey told him.

  “Lady, I don’t want to spend my Sunday out here.”

  Lacey felt her nerves tingle. A black Toyota sedan had slowed down and driven into a parking lot. She was being followed. She felt her body go clammy. Then she allowed herself a sigh of relief as she saw a young man with a child get out of that car.

  “Lacey?” Jay was saying, his tone questioning.

  “Jay, did you get the Hoffmans’ street address in Great Neck for me?”

  “Lacey, I haven’t a clue where to get it. I’d have to go into the office and make phone calls to see if anyone knows. I did call Alex. He knew Max very well. He says he has the address in a Christmas-card file somewhere. He’s looking for it.”

  For the first time in her horrible months-long ordeal, Lacey felt total despair. She had gotten this close to what she was sure was the information she needed, and now she was stuck. Then she heard Jay ask, “What can you do, Father? No, I don’t know which funeral home.”

  Father Edwards took over. While Lacey talked again with her mother, the pastor called two funeral homes in Great Neck. Using only a slight ruse, he introduced himself and said that one of his parishioners wanted to send a Mass card for Mr. Max Hoffman who had died a year ago December.

  The second funeral home acknowledged having made the arrangements for Mr. Hoffman. They willingly furnished Mrs. Hoffman’s address to Father Edwards.

  Jay passed it to Lacey. “I’ll talk to all of you later,” she said. “For God’s sake, don’t tell anyone where I’m going.”

  At least I hope I’ll talk to you later, she thought as the cab pulled out from the curb on its way to a gas station for directions to 10 Adams Place.

  60

  IT MADE DETECTIVE ED SLOANE’S FLESH CRAWL TO BE sitting next to Nick Mars, having to act as if everything were fine—“brothers all are we,” as the hymn went, he thought bitterly.

  Sloane knew he had to be on guard against sending out some hostile signals that Nick might pick up, but he promised himself that he would have his full say when everything was finally out in the open.

  They began their vigil of watching the apartment building at 3 East Seventieth Street at about eleven-fifteen, immediately after the meeting with Baldwin broke up.

  Nick, of course, didn’t understand. As he parked halfway down the block, he complained, “Ed, we’re wasting our time. You don’t re
ally think Lacey Farrell got her old job back selling co-ops here, do you?”

  Very funny, Junior, Sloane thought. “Just call it an old dog’s hunch, okay, Nick?” He hoped he sounded genial.

  They were there only a few minutes when a woman in a long hooded coat walked out of the building and got into a waiting cab. Sloane couldn’t see the woman’s face. The coat was one of those bulky wraparounds, with a lot of loose material, so he also couldn’t see her shape, but as he watched her move he sensed something familiar about her that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  And she was favoring her right leg, he realized. The report from Minnesota mentioned that Farrell had apparently injured her ankle at a gym yesterday.

  “Let’s go,” Sloane told Mars. “She’s in that cab.”

  “You’re kidding! Are you psychic, Ed, or just holding back on me?”

  “Just a hunch. The phone call to her mother was made five blocks from here. Maybe she picked up a boyfriend in that building. She was there often enough.”

  “I’ll call it in,” Nick said.

  “Not yet, you won’t.”

  They followed the cab through the Midtown Tunnel onto the L.I.E. It was one of Nick Mars’s little witticisms that the initials for the Long Island Expressway told it all: LIE. He laughed as he repeated his observation.

  Sloane wanted to tell Nick that those initials described him perfectly. Instead he said, “Nick, you’re the best tail in the business.”

  It was true. Nick could manipulate a car in any kind of traffic; he was never obvious, never too close, sometimes passing and then getting in a slower lane and letting the other guy pass him. It was a talent, and a terrific asset for a good cop. And for a crook, Sloane thought grimly.

  “Where do you think she’s going?” Nick asked him.

  “I don’t know any more than you do,” Sloane replied. Then he decided to lay it on: “You know, I’ve always thought that Lacey Farrell might have made a copy of Heather Landi’s journal for herself. If so, she may be the only one with the complete journal, the whole thing. Maybe there’s something important in those three pages that Jimmy Landi says we’re missing. What do you think, Nick?”

  He saw Nick’s eyes shift toward him suspiciously. Knock it off, Sloane warned himself. Don’t make him nervous.

  It was Nick’s turn to respond. “I don’t know any more than you do.”

  In Great Neck the cab pulled over to the curb. Was Farrell getting out? Sloane wondered. He got ready to follow her on foot, if necessary.

  Instead she stayed in the cab. After a few minutes, it pulled out and two blocks later stopped at a gas station, where the cabby asked for directions.

  They followed her through town, past some obviously expensive houses. “Which one do you want?” Nick asked.

  Is that what you’re about? Sloane wondered. A cop’s salary not good enough for you? All you had to do was to get out, kid, he thought. You could have changed jobs. You didn’t need to change sides.

  Gradually the neighborhood they were driving through changed. The houses were much smaller, closer together, but well kept, the kind of neighborhood Ed Sloane felt comfortable in. “Take it easy,” he cautioned Nick. “He’s looking for a house number.”

  They were on Adams Place. The cab stopped in front of number 10. There was a parking spot across the street, about five car lengths down, behind an RV. Perfect, Sloane thought.

  He watched as Lacey Farrell got out of the cab. She seemed to be pleading with the driver, reaching back through the window, offering money. He kept shaking his head. Then he rolled up the window and drove away.

  Farrell watched the cab until it was out of sight. For the first time he could fully see her face. Sloane thought she looked young and vulnerable and very scared. She turned and limped up the walk. Then she rang the bell.

  It didn’t look as if the woman who had answered the door, opening it only a crack, was going to let her in. Lacey Farrell kept pointing to her ankle.

  “My foot hurts. Please let me in, nice lady. Then I’ll mug you,” Nick simpered.

  Sloane looked at his partner, wondering why he had ever found him amusing. It was time to call in a report. He found it very satisfying that he would be the one to bring Lacey Farrell in, even though it meant turning her over to Baldwin’s custody.

  He did not know that an amused and equally satisfied Sandy Savarano was watching him from a second-story bedroom in 10 Adams Place, where he had been patiently awaiting Lacey Farrell’s arrival.

  61

  MONA FARRELL WENT BACK HOME WITH KIT AND JAY. “I can’t go into New York and have brunch while I’m worrying like this,” she said. “I’ll call Alex and ask him to come out here.”

  Kit’s two boys, Todd and Andy, had gone skiing at Hunter Mountain with friends for the day. A baby-sitter was minding Bonnie, who was starting with another cold.

  Bonnie rushed to the door when she heard them arriving.

  “She told me all about how she’s going to Disney World for her birthday with her Aunt Lacey,” the sitter said.

  “My birthday is coming very soon,” Bonnie said firmly. “It’s next month.”

  “And I told her February is the shortest month of the year,” the sitter said as she put on her coat and got ready to leave. “That really made her feel good.”

  “Come with me while I make a phone call,” Mona said to Bonnie. “You can say hello to Uncle Alex.”

  She picked up her granddaughter and hugged her. “Did you know that you look just like your Aunt Lacey did when she was almost five years old?”

  “I like Uncle Alex very much,” Bonnie said. “You like him too, don’t you, Nana?”

  “I don’t know what I’d have done without him these past months,” Mona said. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”

  Jay and Kit looked at each other. “You’re thinking the same thing I am,” Jay said after a moment of silence. “Mona admits that Alex encouraged her to make Lacey tell her where she was living. She may not have told him where Lacey actually was, but there are other ways to give it away. Like the way Mona announced at dinner the other night that Lacey had joined a new health club with a great squash court. Less than twelve hours later somebody followed Lacey from that health club, probably intending to kill her. It’s hard to believe this was just coincidence.”

  “But Jay, it’s also hard to believe that Alex would be involved with all this,” Kit said.

  “I hope he isn’t, but I told him where Lacey was going, and now I’m calling the U.S. Attorney at the emergency number and telling him too. She may hate me for it, but I’d much rather see her held in custody as a material witness than dead.”

  62

  “WHY DID YOU COME HERE?” LOTTIE HOFFMAN DEMANDED, after reluctantly admitting Lacey into her home. “You can’t stay here. I’ll call another cab for you. Where do you want to go?”

  Now that she was face to face with the one person who might be able to help her, Lacey felt as though she were bordering on hysteria. She still wasn’t sure whether or not she had been followed. At this point it didn’t matter. All Lacey was certain of was that she couldn’t keep running.

  “Mrs. Hoffman, I haven’t got any place to go,” she declared passionately. “Someone is trying to kill me, and I think he’s been sent by the same person who ordered your husband, Isabelle Waring, and Heather Landi killed. It has to stop, and I think you’re the one who can make it stop, Mrs. Hoffman. Please help me!”

  Lottie Hoffman’s eyes softened. She noticed Lacey’s awkward stance, how she clearly favored one foot. “You’re in pain. Come in. Sit down.”

  The living room was small but exquisitely neat. Lacey sat on the couch and slipped off the heavy coat. “This isn’t mine,” she said. “I can’t go to my own home or reach into my own closet. I can’t go near my family. My little niece was shot and almost killed because of me. I’m going to live like this for the rest of my life if whoever is behind all this isn’t identified and arrested. Ple
ase, Mrs. Hoffman, tell me—did your husband know who was behind it?”

  “I’m afraid. I can’t talk about it.” Lottie Hoffman kept her head down, her eyes on the floor, as she spoke in a near whisper. “If Max had kept his mouth shut, he’d still be alive. So would Heather. So would her mother.” She finally raised her head and looked directly at Lacey. “Is the truth worth all those deaths? I don’t think so.”

  “You wake up scared every morning, don’t you?” Lacey asked. She reached over and took the elderly woman’s thin, heavily veined hand. “Tell me what you know, please, Mrs. Hoffman. Who is behind all this?”

  “The truth is I don’t know. I don’t even know his name. Max did. Max was the one who worked for Jimmy Landi. He was the one who knew Heather. If only I hadn’t seen her that day at Mohonk. I told Max about it and described the man she was with. He got so upset. He said that the man was a drug dealer and a racketeer but that no one knew it, that everyone thought he was respectable, even a good guy. So Max made the lunch date with Heather to warn her— and two days later, he was dead.”

  Tears welled in Lottie Hoffman’s eyes. “I miss Max so much, and I’m so scared.”

  “You’re right to be,” Lacey told her gently. “But keeping your door locked isn’t the solution. Someday, whoever this person is, he’ll decide that you’re a potential threat too.”

  * * *

  Sandy Savarano attached the silencer to his pistol. It had been child’s play to get into this house. He could leave the same way he had come in—through the back window of this bedroom. The tree outside was like a staircase. His car was on the next street, directly accessible through the neighbor’s yard. He would be miles away before the cops sitting outside even suspected something was wrong. He looked at his watch. It was time.

  The old woman would be first. She was only a nuisance. What he wanted most was to see the expression in Lacey Farrell’s eyes when he pointed the pistol at her. He wouldn’t give her time to scream. No, there would be just long enough for her to make that whimpering little sound of recognition that was so thrilling to hear, as she realized that she was about to die.