F Paul Wilson - Secret History 02 (8 page)

           
"It's not even
six o'clock
, for Christ sake! What are you going to be
like in a couple of hours?"

           
"Asleep, if I'm lucky."

           
"What the hell's that supposed
to mean?"

           
Ed looked around his five-room
Upper West Side
apartment. It was empty, as usual, but
never had felt so alone. He had hundreds of acquaintances, people he hung out
with at night and on weekends, women he dated and occasionally slept with, men
he had lunch with, played squash with. He couldn't turn to any one of them. He
almost wished he'd stayed active in the Church. At least then he might be able
to talk to a priest.

           
But there was no one for him now
except Phil. And Phil didn't want to talk about it.

           
He sat at the kitchen table.
Newspapers from Wednesday, the
Times,
Post, News, Newsday, USA Today
, early and late editions, all arrayed before
him. A beautiful blonde, clad only in garter belt and stockings, crashing
through a window in the Plaza Hotel to end up dead on the street below—the
tabloids had eaten it up, and even the
Times
had given the story considerable space. The tv news shows had reviewed the
victim's life but reported that the police could come up with no answers. The
victim's family refused to comment, and her tearful co-workers at
St. Vincent
's in
Greenwich Village
had nothing to say except how shocked they
were.

           
And that was it. By Thursday she
wasn't even mentioned. Twenty-four hours after her dramatic death, the papers
and tv news both had forgotten about Kelly Wade.

           
But the police hadn't—Ed was sure of
that.

           
And neither had Ed Bannion.

           
"I can't sleep, Phil. Every
time I close my eyes I see her going through that window. I hear her—"

           
"Knock it off, will you? I
never knew you were such a goddam wimp!"

           
Images flashed before Ed's eyes—the
two of them, panicked, shaking, stumbling half-dressed out into the hallway,
adjusting their clothing in the stairwell, hurrying down a random number of
flights and then waiting for the elevator on another floor, taking it down to
the lobby and then strolling out as casually as they could amid the uproar over
the "jumper" who had landed on the pavement only moments before.

           
It would have been funny, a scene
out of a
Hollywood
comedy, something to laugh about later… if
only it hadn't ended so horribly.

           
"Doesn't it bother you at
all?"

           
Phil's voice softened. "Yeah,
it bothers me. It was a hell of a thing. But we're not to blame, Ed. We didn't
do anything to that Ingrid—"

           
"Kelly. The papers say her real
name was Kelly Wade."

           
"Whatever. The fact remains
that she went out that window on her own. Nothing we did in that room had
anything to do with her taking that leap."

           
"I know, but—"

           
"But nothing!" The anger
was back in Phil's voice. "What really bothers me is that I might get
hauled in for questioning and have my marriage and career and reputation ruined
because my brother can't stop whining about a whore with a snootful of coke who
threw herself out a window!"

           
"You didn't see her face,
Phil."

           
"Of course, I did!"

           
"Not right before she went out the
window. It was—"

           
"Gotta go, Ed. Julie and Kim
are back. Just hang in there and keep your shit together and don't do anything
stupid, okay?
I'll
call
you
tomorrow."

           
"Phil—?"

           
The line was dead.

           
Ed hung up and reached for the vodka
bottle. He poured some more over the ice in his glass. Absolut Citron. He'd
never been more than a beer or wine drinker but he'd heard that the best way to
get drunk without getting sick was with vodka. The slight lemony flavor of this
one made it easier to swallow.

           
He sipped, grimacing as it went
down.

           
But not
that
much easier.

           
He walked through the great room of
his spacious condo, past the entertainment center with the stereo and giant
screen tv, past the leather furniture groups. He didn't want to hear anything
or watch anything, and he couldn't sit still. He stood at the picture window
and looked down on
Sheridan Square
. How he'd reveled in owning this chic,
expensive pied a terre in the
Coronado
, the corner of Broadway and 70th, in the
heart of yuppidom. Tonight it left him cold.

           
"You didn't see her face,
Phil," he said aloud as he watched the traffic below. "You didn't see
her face."

           
If only he could forget how she'd
looked as her head swung back and forth, staring in turn at him and his brother
in those silent seconds before she ran blindly for the window; if only he could
get her last expression out of his mind, maybe then he could sleep. He had only
seen her face for a few seconds then, but it had differed so from the woman who
had accosted them down in the bar. The face that had hovered over him for that
instant had been shocked, repulsed, anguished, tortured… lost. But worst of
all, utterly hopeless.

           
Why?
Why
, damn it!

           
The question clung to him like a
whining child, following him from room to room. And it led to other questions.

           
Who was this woman who had called herself
Ingrid but was really named Kelly who had turned in a matter of seconds from a
male fantasy sex kitten to a frightened doe? Who or what had made her that way?
Why had she jumped?

           
And most importantly: Was Ed in any
way responsible?

           
He wouldn't sleep until he knew.

           
Which was why he had spent most of
the past four days trying to track down Kelly Wade, R.N. He had called in sick
on Wednesday—and truly he had been sick the whole day after the incident—and
had extended his illness through the rest of the week, spending his time
calling the increasingly short-tempered Phil and trying to learn more about the
dead woman. He had used a number of ruses, calling the personnel office at her
hospital in various guises, trying to learn more about her. All he had managed
to glean from them was that she had lived in the East Sixties and that the
funeral was scheduled for Saturday in
Lancaster
,
Pennsylvania
. The police had been even less helpful.

           
He had found a
Wade K
in the
Manhattan
directory, listed at 335 East 63rd. He had called the number at least
forty times now and there was still no answer. That had to be her place.

           
When he got the chance, he was going
to go over there and take a look around. Nothing overt, nothing conspicuous,
just get the lay of the land and see if maybe he could learn something about
her.

           
Yes, he realized it was an absurdly
stupid and risky thing to do, and he knew Phil would probably strangle him if
he learned what he planned, but he had to do this. He had to learn something
about this woman, something—he was almost ashamed to be thinking this—
bad
. All he wanted was for someone to
let him know, just
hint
, that Kelly
Wade had a long history of being a flake and a floozy and everybody had known
that she was bound to come to a bad end someday.

           
That might not help him sleep at
night. It might not make him forget that last look she had on her face, but it
was a start.

           
And it didn't have to be all that
risky. Not if he concocted a neat little story to explain his interest in Kelly
Wade should anyone ask.

           
Ed leaned back in the chair and
began inventing.

 
 

           
Rob Harris lit a cigarette and
stared out at the Sunday morning sky. With his head propped up against the
headboard he lay stretched out in his bed, thinking about where he'd been the
past few years and where he might be headed—and not too crazy about either.

           
He looked around at the faded
wallpaper which had been here since he'd moved all his second-hand furniture
from his old west side digs after Tony had gone and got himself married. To the
best of his knowledge, this was the first time he had looked—really
looked
—at the room.

           
Who
lives here
? he wondered.

           
There wasn't a picture on the walls,
not a photo on the dresser. A motel room had more personality.

           
Where
have I been?

           
He'd been to work and back, and that
was about it. He'd put so much into the Job that he hadn't left much of a mark
anywhere else. The only thing he had changed here was the kitchen, and that had
been minimal, making space for some of the specialized utensils he'd picked up
over the years. But the rest of the apartment? He'd seen flop houses with more
character.

           
Marking time, that was what he
seemed to be doing. Why? Waiting for what? For Kara to come back?