Scott shook his head. He had heard what he needed to hear.
“Earl Grey, dear? With a little bit of milk?”
“That would be fine,” Hope replied. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Abramowicz.”
“Please, dear, call me Hilda.”
“Well, Hilda, thank you very much. This is most kind of you.”
“Be with you in a second,” the old woman continued. Hope could hear the kettle start to sing. She cast her eyes about, taking in as much of the apartment as she could. A crucifix was on the wall, beside a vibrantly colored painting of Jesus at the Last Supper. This was surrounded by faded black-and-white photographs of men in stiff collars and women in lace. They were juxtaposed with pictures of a dark but green landscape, streets filled with cobblestones, and a church with pointed spires. Hope added it all together: long-dead relatives in an Eastern European country not visited in decades. It was a little like papering the walls of the apartment with ghosts. She kept searching for the old woman’s story; paint peeling near the windowsill; a row of vials and containers of medications. There were stacks of magazines and newspapers, and a television set that had to be at least fifteen years old adjacent to an overstuffed red armchair. It all spoke of emptiness.
There was only a single bedroom. She looked around and spotted a basket with knitting needles near the armchair. The apartment smelled of age and cats. Eight or more were perched on the couch, on the windowsill, and by the radiator. More than one came over and rubbed up against Hope. She guessed there were double the number hiding in the bedroom.
She took a deep breath and wondered how people could end up so lonely.
Mrs. Abramowicz entered with two cups of steaming tea. She smiled down at the collection of cats, who immediately began rubbing her and trailing after her. “Not quite dinnertime yet, loveys. In a minute. Let Mother have a little talk, first.” She turned to Hope. “You don’t see your Socks in my little menagerie, do you?”
“No,” Hope said, adopting a sad tone. “And I didn’t see him in the hallway, either.”
“I’m trying to keep my darlings out of the hallway. I can’t, all the time, because they like to come and go, that’s the way cats are, you know, dear. Because I believe he is doing something very bad to them.”
“What makes you think—”
“He doesn’t realize it, but I recognize each and every one. And every few days, one will be missing. I want to call the police, but he’s right. They will probably take the rest of my little friends away from me, and I couldn’t stand that. He’s a bad man, and I wish he would move out. I should never—”
Mrs. Abramowicz stopped, and Hope leaned forward. The old woman sighed and looked around her apartment.
“I’m afraid, dear, if your little Socks came to visit, then that bad man might have taken him. Or hurt him. I cannot tell.”
Hope nodded. “He sounds terrible.”
“He is. He scares me and I usually won’t talk to him, except when we have words, like today. I think he scares some of the others who live here, as well, but they won’t say anything either. And what can we do? He pays his rent on time, doesn’t make any noise, doesn’t have wild parties, and that’s all the ownership cares about.”
Hope sipped at the sweet tea. “I wish I could be certain. About Socks, that is.”
Mrs. Abramowicz sat back. “There’s one way,” she said slowly. “You could be certain. And it might help answer some of my questions, too. I’m old and I’m not very strong anymore. And I’m scared, but I’ve got no place else to go. But you, dear, you seem much stronger than me. Stronger even than I was, when I was your age. And I will wager that you’re not scared of much.”
“Yes.”
The old woman smiled again, almost coyly. “When my husband was alive, our apartment was larger. In fact, it included all the space that Mr. O’Connell now occupies. We had two bedrooms and a sitting room, a study and a formal dining room, and this entire end of the building. But after my Alfred died, they cut it up. Made our one big apartment into three. But they were lazy when they did it.”
“Lazy?”
Mrs. Abramowicz took another sip. Hope saw her eyes flash with an unexpected anger. “Yes. Lazy. Wouldn’t you think it lazy to not bother to change the locks on some of the doors to the new apartments? The apartments that were once my apartment.”
Hope nodded. She felt a sudden, electric tension within her.
“I do so want to know what he’s done to my cats,” Mrs. Abramowicz said slowly. Her eyes narrowed, her voice deepened, and Hope realized that there was something formidable about the woman. “And I imagine you’d like to know about Socks, too. There’s only one way to be sure, and that’s to look inside.” She leaned forward, putting her face only a foot or two away from Hope, and whispered, “He doesn’t know it, but I have a key to his front door.”
“So,” she said as a shadow slipped across her face, “do you now see what was in play?”
Any reporter knows there is a necessary seduction between subject and writer. Or maybe it’s instinctively knowing how to cajole the most difficult of stories out of a source. Still, I knew she was steering the conversations, had been since the beginning. Our meetings were trysts for information, but by telling the story, I would be using her as much as she had used me.
She paused, then said, “How often do you hear amongst your middle-aged friends the desire to change things? To be something other than who they are? They want something to happen that turns their life upside down, so they no longer have to face the dreary, deadly routines of life.”
“Often enough,” I replied.
“Most people lie when they say they want a change, because change is far too terrifying. What they really want is to regain their youth. When you are young, all the choices are adventures. It’s when we reach middle age that we begin to second-guess our decisions. We stepped upon a path, and we have to walk it, no? And it all becomes problematic. We don’t win the lottery. Instead, the boss calls us in and tells us we’re being downsized. The husband or the wife of twenty years announces, ‘I’ve met someone new and I want out.’ The doctor looks up from the sheet of test results with a frown and says, ‘These numbers aren’t good. I’m going to order some additional exams.’ ”
“Scott and Sally…”
“For them, Michael O’Connell had created that moment. Or, perhaps, that moment was fast approaching. Could they protect Ashley?”
She suddenly put her hand to her lips, and I heard a gasp escape from her throat. She took a second to regain her composure. “Because, although no one had quite articulated it, not yet, they all knew somewhere deep within, that what they hoped to purchase would come at a high price.”
35
A Single Boot
Hope stood uncomfortably outside the door to Michael O’Connell’s apartment with the key in her hand. Behind her, Mrs. Abramowicz lurked in her own doorway, cats circling at her feet. She gestured eagerly for Hope to go ahead.
“I’ll keep watch. It will be all right. Just hurry,” Mrs. Abramowicz whispered.
Hope took a deep breath and slipped the key into the lock. She wasn’t sure about what she was doing or what she was looking for, nor did she know precisely what she hoped to learn. But she had the key in her hand, and as it turned the lock with only the quietest of clicks, she imagined O’Connell walking down the sidewalk, turning the corner to his street, closing in on her as the night fell. She could sense his breath behind her ear, imagined the hiss of his voice. She gritted her teeth and told herself that she would fight hard, if it came to that.
“Quick, dear,” Mrs. Abramowicz said, still urging her forward. “Find out what he’s doing to my cats.”
Hope pushed the door open and stepped inside.
She did not know whether to shut the door behind her or leave it ajar, so that—what? she thought. If he comes back, I’m trapped here. No back door. No fire escape. No way to flee. She took a deep breath and closed the door almost all the way. A
t least, she thought, she would be able to hear a warning from Mrs. Abramowicz, if the old lady was capable of issuing one.
Hope surveyed the apartment. It was dingy and neglected. Clearly, O’Connell didn’t care about his immediate surroundings. No colorful posters on the walls, no plants in the window, no multihued throw rug on the floor. No television or stereo. Only a few tattered computer-course textbooks stuffed into a far corner. The apartment was decrepit and austere; a monk’s hideout. This unsettled Hope, the recognition that all the passion in Michael O’Connell’s life rested in his imagination. He lived in a different world from the one where he put his head down and slept.
She moved swiftly into the apartment, took a deep breath, and in that instant invented a plan.
Memorize, she told herself. Remember everything.
She reached inside her jacket pocket and found a scrap of paper. On a small desk she spotted a cheap pen. She immediately sketched a rough floor plan, then turned back to the desk.
It was a cheap wooden tabletop stretched across two black metal filing cabinets. A single wooden, stiff-backed chair was drawn up in front of a laptop computer. The setup had a naked simplicity; she could imagine Michael O’Connell seated across from the screen, its metallic light bathing his face, as he concentrated on the images in front of him. The laptop appeared new. It was open, plugged in, and the power light was lit.
Hope took a deep breath, listened for any sounds from the hallway, then sat down in front of the computer. She wrote down the computer make and model on her scratch paper. Then she eyed the black screen. Like a workman reaching for an exposed wire, she touched the mouse pad in the center. The machine whirred, then flashed as the screen saver came up.
Hope felt her lips go dry and her throat constrict.
The screen saver was a picture of Ashley.
It was a little out of focus and had clearly been hurriedly taken from a few feet away. It caught her as if she were turning suddenly, surprised at some noise that had burst from behind her. Her face was creased with fear.
Hope stared at the picture and heard her breathing grow short and shallow. The picture O’Connell had chosen for his screen saver told her several things, none of them good. O’Connell worshipped that moment when Ashley had been caught unawares and was filled with terror.
It was love, she thought. The very worst kind.
Biting down on her lip, she moved the cursor over to the My Documents file and clicked on it. There were four different listings: Ashley Love. Ashley Hate. Ashley Family. Ashley Future.
She clicked on the first, only to see a box come up: Password Required.
She moved the cursor to Ashley Hate.
The machine blinked back Password Required.
Hope shook her head. She thought she might come up with the password if she sat and considered it, but she was already worrying about the amount of time she’d spent in the apartment. Still breathing fast, she closed everything down on the computer, returning it to its original state. Then she pulled open the file drawers, but discovered they were empty, other than for a couple of stray pencils and some printer paper.
When she stood up, she was a little dizzy. Hurry, she told herself. You’re pushing your luck.
She looked about. Check the bedroom, she thought.
The room smelled of sweat and neglect. She moved quickly to a battered chest of drawers and rifled through them as quickly as she could. A single mattress was on a frame, sheets and blanket tossed haphazardly on top. She dropped to her knees and checked under the bed. Nothing. She turned to the small closet. A few jackets and shirts hung inside. A single black blazer. Two ties. One button-down shirt and a pair of gray slacks. Nothing of any note. She was about to turn away when she saw, alone in the farthest corner of the closet, a single battered work boot, with a stiff gray athletic sock crusted with dirt stuffed in the top. It was partially obscured by a pile of sweat-streaked workout clothes.
A single boot didn’t make any sense to her.
She looked around for the companion, but couldn’t spot it anywhere.
This bothered her, and she froze in position, staring hard at the boot, as if it could tell her something. Then she reached into the back, and carefully moved aside the clothing, taking hold of the boot. It was heavy, and she thought instantly that something might be inside. Like a surgeon peeling back a flap of skin, she removed the sock and looked down.
She heard herself groan.
Inside the boot was a gun.
She started to reach for it, then told herself, Don’t touch it.
She did not know why.
A part of her wanted to seize it, steal it, just take it away from Michael O’Connell. Is this the gun he will use to kill Ashley?
Hope felt trapped, as if she were being held underwater. She knew if she took the gun, O’Connell would know that one of them had been here. And he would take action. Maybe it would trigger a violent response. Maybe he had another weapon stashed somewhere. Maybe, maybe. Questions and doubts warred within her. She wished there were some way she could render the gun harmless, like removing a firing pin. She had read about that once in a thriller novel, but she had no idea how to do it. And taking the bullets would be useless. He would know someone had been there and simply replace them.
She stared at the gun. She could see on the side of the barrel the brand and the caliber, .25.
The weapon’s ugliness almost overcame her.
Not sure that she was doing the right thing, she carefully replaced the boot in the corner of the closet and rearranged the clothes so that things looked exactly as before.
She wanted to run. How long had she been inside the apartment? Five minutes? Twenty? She thought she could hear footsteps, voices, and realized that she was hallucinating. Leave now! she told herself.
Hope rose and started to exit, walking past the bathroom, which she didn’t bother to check, and the small kitchen, which made her stop.
Cats, she thought to herself. Mrs. Abramowicz will want to know.
She peered into the tiny area. No table, just a refrigerator, a small four-burner stove, and a couple of shelves filled with canned soups and stews. No cans of cat food. No box of rat poison to mix into a lethal meal.
Hope went to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. Some sandwich fixings and a couple of cold beers were all that O’Connell kept inside. She closed the door, then, almost as an afterthought, opened up the freezer, expecting to see a couple of frozen pizzas.
What she saw was like a blow, and she was barely able to stifle a scream.
Staring back at her were the frozen bodies of at least a half dozen cats. One of them had its teeth exposed, gargoylelike, a terrifying ice grin of death.
Panic filled Hope, and she stepped back, hand over her mouth, her heart racing, nauseous, dizzy, feeling as if her temperature had spiked. She needed to scream, but nothing could choke past her tightened throat. Every fiber of her being told her to run, to flee, to get away and never look back. She tried to tell herself to remain calm, but it was a losing battle. When she reached out, to close the freezer door, her hand shook.
From the hallway, she suddenly heard a hiss. “Hurry, dear! Someone is at the elevator!”
Hope turned away, running for the front door.
“Hurry!” she heard Mrs. Abramowicz whisper. “Someone is coming!”
The old lady was still perched in her own entranceway when Hope burst out into the hallway. She could see the elevator counter starting to rise, and she closed the door to O’Connell’s apartment. She fumbled with the key, nearly dropping it, while she tried to slide it into the lock.
Mrs. Abramowicz shrank back, taking refuge in her own place. The cats by her feet were scurrying back and forth, as if they caught the sense of fear and panic in the old woman’s voice. “Hurry, hurry, we must get away!”
Hope saw that the old woman had nearly disappeared into her own flat, retreating from sight, leaving her door only open a crack. She felt the key drive the dea
d-bolt lock home and she stepped back, turning toward the elevator. She could see a light from inside the compartment when it reached the floor.
She froze, unable to move.
The elevator seemed to pause, then rose past the floor without stopping.
Her ears were ringing with adrenaline, and every sound seemed distant, like an echo across a wide canyon.
She assessed herself, conducting an inventory of her heart, her lungs, her mind, trying to see what still functioned, what had been shut down by fear.
Behind her, Mrs. Abramowicz cracked her door open a little wider and stuck her head out into the hallway.
“False alarm, dear. Did you find out what happened to my cats?”
Hope inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart. When words came to her, they were cold. “No,” she lied. “No sign of them anywhere.”
She could see some disappointment in the old woman’s eyes.
“I think I should be leaving now,” she said stiffly. But she had the good sense to slide the key to Michael O’Connell’s apartment into her jacket pocket as she turned and headed rapidly for the emergency stairs. She knew that waiting for the elevator would require a patience she no longer owned.
Hope lurched down the stairs, moving as quickly as she could, the pit of her stomach still clenched with tension. She barreled ahead, shoulders hunched forward, needing desperately to get outside. When she looked up, she suddenly saw a form in the lobby doorway, looming in the darkness ahead of her. She nearly froze with crushing fear, until she saw that it was only two other tenants entering. One of them snorted, “Hey!” as she pushed past them, out into the night cold, welcoming the darkness that surrounded her. She nearly jumped down the last stairs to the sidewalk and, without a look back, cut across the small street toward her car, fumbling with her keys, before thrusting herself into the driver’s seat. Inwardly, she could hear a voice insisting, Escape! Get away now! She was about to pull out when she looked up and once again froze.
The Wrong Man Page 36