Hush (15 page)

“What kind of irregularities?”

“Again, I’d prefer not to get into it over the phone.”

“Well, we’d be happy to hear what you have to say. Can I have my producer give you a call and she can arrange to meet with you?”

Damn, she thought. She had to keep trying.

“But I’d really prefer to talk directly to you—and as soon as possible.”

“Why the rush?”

“There’s a certain urgency. I can explain when I see you.”

“Why don’t you tell me the name of the clinic? Otherwise we’re going to be just pussyfooting around.”

“You won’t be going anywhere with it at this point, right?”

“Nope—we’re just talking.”

“It’s called the Advanced Fertility Center—on Park Avenue.”

There was a pause, and she could almost hear him thinking.

“One of your doctors met a pretty ugly death last week,” he said.

She caught her breath. Of course, she thought. Because of Keaton’s connection to a fertility clinic, Archer would have found the murder particularly noteworthy.

“Yes,” Lake said quietly.

“I’d be willing to talk,” Archer said, “but I’ve got some scheduling problems. I leave town on Wednesday for a story, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Maybe just a couple days, maybe more.”

“Is there any way you could meet today, or tomorrow?”

“Today’s totally out,” he said. “But I could probably meet you tomorrow. I’ve got an event in the early evening but I should be able to steal a few minutes right before then.”

Archer suggested they meet at five-thirty at the Peacock Alley bar in the Waldorf-Astoria, right before his event, which was in the ballroom there. He rattled off his cell phone number; and she offered a brief physical description of herself and gave him her own cell phone number.

This is a start, she told herself as she hung up. Please, please let something come of it.

She made coffee, carried a mug of it into her office, and opened her laptop. No matter how distracted she felt, she knew she had to generate more ideas for her presentation. She emailed both the Web designer she had recruited and the person she had in mind for day-to-day PR, asking them for a few ideas by tomorrow. She’d originally given them a deadline of two weeks from now, thinking she wouldn’t need their input for her initial presentation to Levin and Sherman. But she was desperate now.

Later she sent one fax to both Amy and Will. She’d drawn a
little picture of herself and Smokey looking draggy from the heat. When she first started writing the kids, earlier in the summer, she’d been struck by how dull her life was. Now she would give anything to have all that dullness back.

As she slid into bed that night she thought she might fall asleep instantly from sheer mental exhaustion, but it was clear after thirty minutes of thrashing in the sheets that sleep wasn’t going to arrive. She tossed and turned a little while longer and then finally dragged herself out of bed, leaving Smokey still draped over a pillow. In her white cotton nightgown, she paced the long hall of her apartment like a ghost. The apartment was deadly quiet, except for the drip of a faucet somewhere—in Will’s bathroom, she guessed.

At one point during her lonely, restless prowl, she stopped in the foyer and studied the silver-framed photos on the hall table. There were shots not only of her kids but of friends, too—sitting on the porch in Roxbury, celebrating a birthday, laughing together in Riverside Park. If only she could turn to one of those people now, she thought. But since her split with Jack, she’d let her friendships drift, out of embarrassment, or, in the case of people like Steve’s sister, Sonia, because their coupled-up lives now seemed out of sync with hers.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she registered movement on the ground to her right. She jerked her head in that direction, thinking it was Smokey, but there was no sign of him. As her eyes swept around the foyer, she realized with a jolt what she’d seen. On the parquet floor by the door, the narrow strip of light from the outside corridor had just been broken. There was a shadow in the middle now. Someone was standing on the other side of her door.

It was after two a.m. Who could possibly be there? she wondered anxiously. She stood frozen in place, staring at the slightly ragged strip of shadow. And then the doorbell rang.

THE SOUND MADE
her reel backward. Who would come to her apartment at this hour? And why hadn’t the doorman rung up first?

“Who’s there?” she called out from where she stood.

The doorbell rang again. This time longer, more insistent.

“Who is it?” she called, louder now. After a few seconds she forced herself toward the door and squinted into the peephole. There was no one in view.

Tiptoeing backward, she saw that the shadow was gone now. She put her ear to the door, straining to hear. She thought she could hear the faint sound of footsteps moving away. She waited for the deep purr of the elevator but it never came.

She stabbed at the intercom button. While she waited for a response, she pressed her ear against the door one more time. Silence.

“May I help you?” a sluggish male voice answered.

“This is Lake Warren in 12B. Someone just rang my bell. Did you send someone up here?”

A pause followed, as if he had to think about it.

“No—no, I didn’t. No one has gone up for a while.”

“Well, who do you think it could have been?”

“What did the person look like?”

“I didn’t see,” she said in frustration. “When I looked through the peephole, no one was there.”

“Some people went up a while ago to a party on eleven. Maybe someone got off on the wrong floor. Do you want me to come up?”

“No, that’s okay.”

She wondered if it was like he said, someone just ringing the wrong bell. Or had the doorman fallen asleep at the front desk, allowing a stranger to slip by in the night? Had it been Keaton’s killer standing on the other side of her door? Someone from the clinic, or a person paid to stalk her? Whoever it was, maybe they’d started with her cat and were now proving they could get even closer.

She stared at the door. There was a security chain but it seemed so flimsy now, like popcorn strung on a piece of string for a Christmas tree. After setting the pictures on their side, she dragged the hall table in front of the door. Still, she felt too anxious to go back to bed. She fell onto the couch in the living room and pulled a throw blanket over her. The dull light of dawn was seeping through the windows when she finally drifted off to sleep.

She woke feeling achy, with the back of her throat raw. I can’t get sick right now, she told herself. Scenes from the previous night flooded her brain. For a few moments she wondered if the ringing doorbell had been just a dream. She lifted Smokey from his perch on top of her feet and stumbled toward the front door. The hall table jammed against the front door told her she hadn’t been dreaming.

She dragged the table back to where it belonged and opened the door, with the chain still in place. She could see her
New York Times
lying on the mat. After taking the chain off, she opened the door more fully and checked the hall. It was empty.

As she was scooping up the paper, she heard the locks being unbolted on the door catty-corner from hers, the apartment belonging to the Tammens. From what she knew, the wife and kids were out in the Hamptons for all of August, and the father, Stan, was commuting out on weekends. It was Stan who stepped out in the hallway now, stifling a yawn.

“Morning,” he said. “You guys aren’t on vacation this month?”

“No, not this year. Listen, I’m a little concerned about something that happened last night.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Someone rang my doorbell around two this morning. And when I called out, the person just left. I didn’t see who it was.”

Stan scrunched his mouth and slowly shook his head.

“Can’t help you with that one,” he said. “I mean, I was here, but I didn’t hear or see anything.”

After closing her door, she popped three ibuprofen and gargled with salt water. Then she made coffee and forced herself to eat a bowl of yogurt. She hadn’t eaten right in nearly a week.

Staring out her kitchen window, as the summer air shimmered around the gray and red brick apartment buildings to the north, she thought of the day ahead. Her plan was to stay home and scramble to finish the presentation—until it was time to meet Kit Archer. It was a relief not to have to go into the clinic today—and wonder if the killer was watching her every move. But she needed to call in, at least. Levin was waiting for an answer about when she’d give the presentation. At eight-thirty she picked up the phone, knowing that most people would be in by now.

She asked the receptionist for Steve first, hoping that he’d somehow managed to buy her more time.

“I’m sorry, I tried,” he said when she reached him. “But Tom seems to be on a tear right now and thinks we need to see the plan ASAP.”

“No problem,” she said, not wanting to give even a hint she was agitated. “I’ll set up an appointment for the presentation.”

“I hope you don’t feel like he’s bullying you. I think this murder has him really on edge.”

Because he might have been the one who orchestrated the whole thing, she thought to herself.

“I’m sure he’s worried about all the police scrutiny,” Lake said. She waited, wondering if Steve would mention the keys.

“Of course. We all are,” he said, sounding suddenly distracted. “Wait—before I let you go, I’ve got a proposition for you. Ever since last week, I’ve felt things have been a little awkward between us. I’m really sorry about that situation with the police. Sonia would strangle me if she knew I upset you.”

“Why don’t we let it go, Steve,” she said, bristling at the memory. “It seems the police accepted my explanation.”

“Okay, but here’s my proposition: Hilary and I would love you to come by for a drink tonight. You haven’t seen our place since we redid it—and you haven’t seen Matthew since he was a baby.”

“Tonight’s not good,” she said, almost too quickly.

“How about tomorrow night?”

“Um…okay, sure.” There would be no way to put him off indefinitely without him sensing something was wrong.

He reminded her of his address and suggested she stop by at seven. Then she asked to be transferred to Brie. When Brie picked up her line Lake got right to the point.

“I want to schedule my appointment to present to Dr. Levin and Dr. Sherman,” she said. “Is Thursday afternoon good for them?”

Thursday bought her another two days. She would have liked to stretch it to Friday but she knew Levin would not be pleased.

“Thursdays are usually insane around here,” Brie said. “It’s going to have to be Wednesday. Or even today.”

The woman was clearly a graduate of the Be a Better Bitch Academy, Lake thought.

“Unfortunately, as I mentioned when he suggested moving it up, I have several long-standing appointments with other clients,” Lake lied. “Thursday is the first day I can do it.”

Brie sighed audibly and began tapping into her computer, checking the calendar.

“Six-thirty on Thursday might work,” she said brusquely. “If you don’t hear from me, plan on doing it then.”

Lake wanted to talk to Maggie but rather than ask to be transferred, she hung up and called the main number again so Brie wouldn’t know. She worried Maggie might start to find all her attention odd—but she had to know if there were any new developments. She would express concern for Maggie’s state of mind and hope Maggie would fill her in on everything.

It was Rory who ended up picking up the phone.

“Oh, hi, it’s Lake,” she said. “I was looking for Maggie.”

“Maggie took the day off,” Rory said in a low voice.

“Is everything okay?” Lake asked, her concern piqued.

“From what I hear, she said she needed a day off to de-stress.”

“Oh…well, how are
you
doing?”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m worried about my baby. Last night I thought I was having contractions and I ended up going to the ER. It turned out it was just Braxton-Hicks, but it scared me.”

“Oh, Rory, I’m so sorry. You can’t take some time off?”

“Unfortunately that isn’t possible, especially if Maggie’s going to call in sick. It’s important for us to keep things together here,
even if we’re upset. Emily thought Maggie was being silly for acting so scared, but now that she heard about the keys, even
she’s
wigged out.”

“Do you think someone could have taken those keys and then put them back?”

“That’s what the police were asking. Those detectives were back here yesterday for, like, an hour—after you left. The creepy thing is, I sit right next to Maggie—our desks actually
touch
.”

“And you never saw anyone going into her desk drawer?”

“No, not that I recall. Sometimes people—”

She paused then, as if interrupted or lost in thought. After a moment Lake wondered if she was still on the line.

“Rory?” she asked.

“I better go,” Rory said.

“But what were you going to say?”

“Um, nothing. I need to go. Dr. Levin is waiting.”

Lake hung up reluctantly. She couldn’t tell if Rory had been distracted or had just remembered something and was holding back on it. Lake tried Hayden next, anxious to connect to someone else who could update her, but the call went to voice mail.

After popping one more ibuprofen, Lake glued herself to her desk in her home office, her laptop opened in front of her. Both the PR person and the Web designer had come through for her, emailing their initial ideas. Neither batch was so dazzling that they’d scorch anyone’s corneas, but at least she had a few decent items to add to her list. She tapped away at her computer, shepherding her bullet points into categories so her PowerPoint would be easier to create. Generally this was the part of her work that she loved—organizing all her ideas and in the process tweaking them to be even better—but today she had to constantly force herself to concentrate on her task. Her mind relentlessly found
its way back to a new tangle of worries: Rory’s unfinished comment; the doorbell last night; and the police visit yesterday. Did Hull’s surliness toward her
mean
something? Was she a suspect in the case?

Just once she got up to make tea. Though her throat felt less raw, the achiness all over her body had intensified.

At eleven, Hayden returned her call, though her attention had already been diverted by the time Lake answered.

“I don’t care if he sends the damn
love train
, I’m not attending,” Lake heard her yell to some underling.

“Oh, hi,” she said, turning back to Lake on the line. “You know, I must be getting old. My idea of a good time these days is staying home with an ice-cold bottle of Pinot Grigio and a bag of rosemary-scented potato chips.”

Lake had no time right now for Hayden’s chatter. “Anything up?” she said, trying to move the conversation along.

“We’re in a holding pattern at the moment. Levin called last night to report that the police had been there
again
yesterday. They’re clearly concerned by the fact that Keaton’s keys were sitting in a drawer where anyone could have put their little hands on them. So far that fact hasn’t leaked out, but it’s not an easy nugget to contain. The police may even leak it themselves to see what they flush out. And of course if they do arrest someone from the clinic, all hell is gonna break loose.”

“Do you think Levin has any ideas?”

“About what to do?”

“No, I mean about the keys—who from the clinic might have used them to get into Keaton’s apartment.”

“If he does, he’s sure not telling me. My sense is that his wheels are constantly spinning but I can’t always detect what’s going on in there. Maybe he’s just thinking about ordering a new batch of four-hundred-dollar shirts.”

Lake wondered if it had occurred to Hayden that Levin himself might be the killer. But she wasn’t going to raise that point.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Lake said. “Will you let me know if you hear anything? I just want to be aware of what’s up—you know, as I plot out the marketing.”

They promised to stay in touch and hung up. After forcing herself to eat lunch, Lake began to design the actual PowerPoint. When she worked she often found herself in what people called “the zone,” the experience of being so engrossed in a task that it felt blissful. Today every step seemed like agony. At three she began to check her watch. She needed to allow herself plenty of time to get down to the Waldorf.

As she opened her closet door, mulling over what to wear, she pictured herself in the same exact spot almost a week ago, clothes heaped on her bed as she sought the perfect outfit to intrigue Keaton. If only I could take it all back, she thought. If only I’d never gone out that night.

She chose a lavender cotton suit with three-quarter-length sleeves. It was a little dressy, but she needed Archer to take her seriously.

After the cab dropped her off, she entered the Waldorf from the Park Avenue side. The lobby was cool and quiet and almost empty, like the inside of a medieval church on a hot summer day. A few groups of tourists milled around the concierge desk or made their way sluggishly to the elevators, lugging black suitcases on rollers and shopping bags from the Disney store. Most were dressed down in cutoffs and T-shirts that said things like N
IKE
and V
EGAS
2005 and B
LASTED
P
ARROT
P
UB AND
S
HOT
S
HACK
.

Peacock Alley was a bar and small restaurant in an open area that spilled out to the left of the lobby. Though Lake had been to the Waldorf ballroom for events, she’d set foot in that bar only once—years ago, on a night not long after she’d moved to New
York. She and a girlfriend, both new to the city, had made a list of things they might do for fun, and “Visit famous hotel bars” had been one of them. She had a vague recollection of it being decorated in peacock blue, but now it was all honey-colored wood and black marble.

According to the gilded clock in the lobby, it was only five-twenty and there was no sign yet of Archer. She lifted herself onto a leather bar chair and ordered a sparkling water. The bartender slid a small dish of olives in front of her. She rehearsed in her mind what she intended to say.