Nightwatcher (32 page)

Ah. If only it were that simple.

“I need help,” Rocky tells him. “Official help. Well, unofficial, because I don’t have time to jump through hoops right now and you guys are all about protocol, I know.”

You guys.
Vic sighs inwardly.
Us
, and
them
.

“What’s going on?”

He listens carefully as Rocky fills him in on the case he’s working, concluding with “And this is where you come in.”

“Where? You lost me.”

“Brandewyne and I are overwhelmed here, Vic, and most of the squad is working the terrorist attack . . .”

Yeah
, Vic thinks,
who isn’t?

“Okay, so what do you need from me? I mean, I’ll help you if I can, but you know—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. First things first—we’ve got to find this guy Jerry.”

So now “you guys” have melded into “we.”

If things weren’t so grim, Vic might have to grin at that.

“I’m headed over to one of the other buildings Dale Reiss owned to see if I can track down Reiss somehow,” Rocky tells him, “but I know you’ve got access to computers that can find anything—and anyone—faster than I can ask a question.”

Vic hesitates. Rocky is right. But—

“Can you see if you can find this guy?”

“Reiss or Jerry?”

“Both. And the other thing I need,” Rocky continues without missing a beat, “is a rush on the DNA results.”

“That, I can’t do,” Vic says promptly. “Not now, of all times, Rock.”

“If it weren’t now, of all times, I wouldn’t have to ask.”

“Listen, I’ll do what I can with the computer records. I’ll make some calls and see what I can turn up. At least that’ll be a starting point for you.”

“Thanks, Vic. I owe you one.”

Vic snorts. “You owe me a lot more than one, pal. But don’t worry—I’ve been keeping count for years.”

“I’ll bet you have.” Rocky’s tone is light, but when he exhales, Vic can hear the weight of the world in his barely audible sigh.

“Listen, I’m on it.”

“Thanks, Vic. I mean that.”

“You’re welcome, Rock. What are friends for?”

J
ust off West Broadway, the only open bar in the immediate neighborhood is jammed with people looking for a reprieve. There are no open tables or bar stools, so Allison and Lynn MacKenna have spent the last hour leaning against the back wall and talking, sipping Amstel Light from cold brown bottles.

When Allison first went downstairs to meet Mack’s sister—an attractive woman with a long brown ponytail and Mack’s light green eyes—at the front door of the building, she fully intended to send her on her way without giving her any information. She had no idea how much Lynn knew, and she didn’t want to be the one to deliver the bad news.

But she took one look at the woman’s tearstained face and realized she must already have heard about Carrie.

She was right; Lynn said Mack had told her over the phone earlier.

“I got my ex-husband over to watch the kids, jumped into my car, and drove into the city,” she said, adding that she’d been forced to leave her car uptown.

“How did you get down past Union Square without a local address?” Allison asked.

“I just showed them my Jersey license and said I was going to help my brother whose wife worked at Cantor Fitzgerald. They let me go.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Why? Do I look like a terrorist to you?”

Allison didn’t respond to that; didn’t tell her that looks can be deceiving.

Lynn was a frazzled wreck by the time she’d walked down to her brother’s apartment, only to find him gone.

“I’m sure he’s all right,” Allison told her with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I was with him when he got the news, and he held up pretty well under the circumstances.”

“You were with him? Are you a friend of his, then?”

Unsure how to answer that, Allison nodded.

“Really? I mean—don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t think my brother had many friends anymore. He and Carrie—well, they kept to themselves. I didn’t really think they were hanging out with the neighbors.”

“They weren’t,” Allison said hastily. “I just got to know him the past few days with . . . everything going on.” She’s definitely not going to mention the murder investigation, which, in light of the MacKennas’ family tragedy, seems almost insignificant.

“All I did was check in on him a few times, and put up some missing persons posters and . . . I made chicken soup,” she adds lamely.

“That’s so sweet of you. Thank you. I’ve been so worried, I kept thinking of him here, all alone—I’m glad he wasn’t. It wasn’t easy for me to get to him, and . . . well, I couldn’t really tell if he wanted me here. We used to be close—he used to have all kinds of friends, and we have a big extended family, too—but Carrie kind of alienated everyone. Oh—I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead,” she added, and crossed herself. “I’m sorry.”

Remembering yet again what Mack had shared about his own feelings for his wife, Allison told her, “That’s okay. I don’t—didn’t—really know your sister-in-law at all.”

“I’m sure that was her choice, not yours. Listen, do you want to go get a drink? I don’t want to drive all the way back to Jersey until I’ve seen my brother, and my nerves are shot. I could use a beer.”

Allison opened her mouth to invite Lynn up to her place, but thought better of it, remembering that Kristina Haines might very well have invited her own murderer to cross the threshold.

It wasn’t that she thought the woman was a cold-blooded killer—but really, how did she even know Lynn was who she said she was?

Are you serious? Look at her. She looks just like her brother!

All right, so maybe she was, quite obviously, related to Mack.

Still . . . how much did Allison really know about him? What if they were a pair of killer siblings and this was all just an elaborate setup concocted by the two of them to lure her into a trap?

You’re crazy
, she told herself.

But better crazy—and perhaps overly cautious—than dead, right?

“I passed a bar that was open a few blocks away,” Lynn went on. “We can go there. I mean, I can go alone, but I’d rather have company. Will you come?”

“Sure,” Allison said impulsively, and here they are.

She’s glad she came, even though she’s certainly not dressed to be out—though in her old jeans and T-shirt, she seems to fit right in with this crowd. The cash she had in her pocket, left over from the grocery store, was enough to buy a round of Amstels, and Lynn bought another.

Allison never realized that ice-cold beer from a tall bottle could taste quite this good. For the first time in days, she feels herself relaxing, relieved of the burden of suspecting that Mack is a potential killer. It’s obvious, from Lynn’s account of their parents and childhood, that they were raised in a close-knit family, the kind of family Allison herself secretly longed to have. Not that she’d admit that to Lynn. She has, however, found herself opening up far more than she typically does when she meets someone new.

Mack’s sister is so easy to talk to, easy to listen to, that Allison keeps forgetting about all the disturbing things that have happened. Somehow, despite the dark circumstances of their meeting, the conversation meanders along from food to fashion to music to Lynn’s children. She has three—two boys and a girl—and tells Allison that she wishes they could see more of their uncle.

“When he’s around the kids, he just lights up, and so do they,” she says, tearing at the label on the neck of her brown bottle. “But he only sees them on birthdays and holidays—and sometimes, not even then. I keep telling the kids that it’s not him—you know, that he’s just too busy to see them more often—but I don’t really believe that myself. If your wife doesn’t want to be a part of things, come alone, you know? Don’t turn your back on your family. It’s like he’s always making excuses for her, protecting her. I don’t get it.” Lynn shrugs. “Do you?”

“I don’t really even know him well enough to get it,” Allison tells her, knowing better than to say a word about what Mack confided in her about the state of his marriage.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Lynn shakes her head. “I can’t believe she’s dead, can you?”

Lynn has a habit of throwing the conversation back into Allison’s court with every comment, making her feel as though she matters when really, she doesn’t. She just met Lynn, and she barely knew Carrie, and Mack . . .

Poor Mack. What is he going to do now?

Allison thinks about dead Carrie . . . and dead Kristina . . .

Suddenly, she feels a little light-headed—and dangerously emotional. Maybe it’s the beer, or her own exhaustion, but she has to get out of here. Right now. Before she starts crying. Or talking.

“I think I should go,” she tells Lynn, looking around for a place to set down her half-full beer. It’s her second—or maybe her third.

“Don’t you want to finish that?”

“No, I can’t. I really need to get home. Do you want to come, or . . . ?”

“Hang on. Let me see if Mack’s there yet.” Lynn pulls a cell phone from her pocket, dials, and holds it to her ear. After a minute, she shakes her head and hangs up. “He’s still not home. I’ll stay here until I reach him.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind if I leave, then?”

What else can Lynn say but “Um, no. Go ahead.”

Allison realizes she probably expects an invitation back to Allison’s apartment, and she’s tempted to extend one. But really, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Not because she fears for her safety, but because in this frame of mind, having company isn’t a good idea.

Out in the cool night air, she immediately feels better. Not well enough to turn back, but at least her head feels clearer.

As she walks toward home, she tells herself that she did the right thing.

But when she turns onto her block and sees her building looming, she isn’t so sure. It would be a lot easier to walk into that empty apartment with company than it will be alone.

Well, get a grip. You are alone, and that’s how you wanted it, remember?

She walks closer, glad that at least she left the lights on when she went downstairs to meet Lynn. She even locked the door behind her.

Now, taking her keys from her pocket, she realizes, belatedly, that she never heard back from Detective Manzillo about whether he’d found her spare key in Kristina’s possession.

It’s all she can do to make herself unlock the door and walk into the building.

Strength is your strength.

She rides the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Strength is your strength.

She considers knocking on Mack’s door to see if he’s there, but Lynn just called him from the bar less than fifteen minutes ago. Either he’s still out, or he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

Just leave him alone
, Allison tells herself, and goes past his door to her own.

Strength is your strength.

Unlocking it, she steps inside.

As always, everything appears to be just as she left it.

See? You’re home, safe and sound. You can relax now.

She locks the door behind her, still feeling a little woozy from the beer. She isn’t used to drinking much, but Lynn ordered more beers without asking her if she wanted another.

Wait—should she have locked herself in before she checked to make sure no one is here, lying in wait for her? Isn’t she supposed to do that part first?

She turns back to unlock the door, then stops. That’s not a good idea, is it? What if she walks away and then forgets to lock it again?

Just do a quick check. I’m sure it’s fine.

She looks into the kitchen. Not a thing out of place, and really, not a single spot where someone could be hiding. In the living room, as she checks behind the curtains, she wonders what she would possibly do if someone jumped out at her.

You’d be helpless, wouldn’t you? So a lot of good this searching does.

With the building empty and the windows closed up tightly, no one would even hear her scream if something happened.

You should have grabbed a knife when you were in the kitchen, like you did before.

Her heart begins to pound. She peeks into the narrow space between the couch arm and the wall, and the shadowy corner near the armoire. So far, so good.

As she walks toward the bedroom, her gaze falls on the answering machine, sitting on the end table beside her art books. The message light is flashing.

She presses play.

“Ms. Taylor, this is Detective Manzillo. Give me a call as soon as you can. We checked Kristina Haines’s apartment for your keys, and they aren’t there. Be careful, and like I said . . . call me as soon as possible. I need to speak to you about . . . a new development in this case.”

Rattled by the news that her keys have apparently gone missing, Allison instinctively reaches for one of the granite bookends on the table. It’s so heavy she can barely lift it with one hand, heavy enough to be a weapon.

All she has to do is check the bedroom and the bathroom. Then she can put down the bookend and breathe easily as she returns the detective’s phone call.

Crossing into the bedroom, she glances around and is caught off guard by the unmade bed. She never—

Oh, that’s right, she’d been just about to—

Suddenly, she remembers: she was standing here with the chef’s knife when the buzzer rang earlier. She tossed it onto the bed and went to answer it.

Allison takes a step closer to the bed, her eyes searching for the knife.

It isn’t there.

But that can’t be right.

She left it there, it
has
to be there . . .

Dear God, where is the knife?

Someone moved it.

Someone took it.

She has to get out of here, before—

Out of the corner of her eye, Allison sees a figure looming.

Chapter Fourteen

A
rush of sound startles Jerry awake. He opens his eyes to darkness.