Nowhere to Run (23 page)

Where was he?

Annabelle listened as the answering machine picked up in their apartment. She hesitated a moment and then hung up without leaving a message. It was probably better not to worry Mike with this right now, leaving him at home, alone, stewing about it all day. She could ask Constance if she knew of a lawyer to contact.

Annabelle gathered the canvas knapsack she had commandeered from the kids’ room to use until she got around to buying a new tote bag and headed out of the newsroom.
You have nothing to hide. It will be all right,
she reassured herself as she walked toward Constance’s office.
Just keep on telling the truth.

The door was open, but there was no one inside. Annabelle sat down at the desk, knowing Constance wouldn’t mind if she used the computer while she waited. She took out her notes on Jerome’s manuscript and began to type. She was almost through her assignment when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

“Oh.” She jumped. “You scared me.”

Russ Parrish stood too close, his eyes sweeping the computer screen. Hastily, Annabelle clicked a button, and the document faded from view.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Annabelle,” he apologized. “I just saw you in here and wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Jerome.”

Annabelle nodded, trying to regain her composure. “Thanks, Russ. I know you and he had some good times together too.”

“That’s right. We sure did. But that was a while ago. We hadn’t partied in a long time.”

Annabelle waited to see if Russ would explain further.

“You know. People grow apart.”

“I guess that’s inevitable,” she offered.

“Yeah, but I was bummed when it happened with Jerome. He got real serious all of a sudden and cut me off.”

Was “getting real serious all of a sudden” code for the fact that Jerome had stopped using cocaine when Russ hadn’t? Or had Jerome, when he decided to expose Russ in his book, separated himself from his party companion? Most of all, Annabelle wondered if Russ had just been able to read his damaging portrayal on the computer screen.

“I’m sorry, Russ,” she responded, feeling uncomfortable.

“Me too, Annabelle. Me too.”

Wayne read the message on the computer screen.

Wayne shook his head and sighed.

That’s what you got after a decade. Three measly paragraphs, only one that was actually about you. You could work long hours, skip days off and miss vacations, put your mind and soul into your work, take to heart every critical comment that a boss or coworker hurled your way and spend nights tossing and turning as a result. At the end of all that, a Yelena Gregory e-mail was what you got.

And life went right on without you around this place.

Reading the e-mail over again, Wayne noticed Yelena’s reference to Jerome’s researching skills. That was certainly true enough. The guy knew how to get information, leaving no stone unturned in finding out things that were really none of his business.

Wayne still smarted from the knowledge that Jerome had dug into the local newspaper accounts of Seth’s accident all those years ago. One day, Wayne had spotted copies of the old clippings on Jerome’s desk.

Jerome should not have been digging into the painful past.

The ladies’ room stall was a private place to have a good cry.

God, forgive me.
She shouldn’t have said what she had to Annabelle. Jerome may have gotten what was coming to him, but it wasn’t Christian of her to malign him as she had. It was wrong to curse the dead.

Beth pulled at the roll of toilet paper and wadded the white tissue to wipe her nose and dry her eyes. She came out of the stall and went to the sink. As she pumped liquid soap from the wall dispenser, she stopped.

The stainless steel shelf over the sinks was dusted with white powder.

Joe took the hysterical phone call, ordered the rest room closed, and called the NYPD. The specially trained “hammer team” would be there right away.

Next, he called Yelena.

“God, what else?” she moaned. “We’re going to have some panic here. The way news travels around this place, we’re going to have a stampede out of the building.”

“Not if
we
don’t panic, Yelena,” Joe answered evenly. “Let’s let the professionals come in and see what’s what.”

Beth lost no time running to the
KTA
newsroom and announcing there could be anthrax in the ladies’ room. Though a few workers barely raised their heads from their computer screens, most dropped what they were doing, and three people screamed.

Linus Nazareth poked his head out of his adjoining office to see what the commotion was about.

“There’s white powder all over the ladies’ room,” Beth said breathlessly.

“Did you call Security?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Linus turned to address the room. “Now, everyone, let’s not panic. I’m going to call Yelena Gregory, and I’ll let you know what’s going on. In the meantime, just continue doing what you were doing,” he commanded, staring pointedly at the people who were going to get their coats.

“You’ve got to put out some sort of official word, Yelena, fast. Otherwise, we are going to have a mutiny on our hands.” Linus held the phone to his ear and stared out his window at the emptying newsroom.

The nurse entered the vital signs readings on the patient’s chart. The middle-aged woman who’d wrapped her car around a telephone pole yesterday still hadn’t regained consciousness. But if she had to bet, the nurse would wager that Evelyn Wilkie was going to come through, in her own time.

She patted the cotton blanket that covered the still body and vowed to herself to be very careful on her own ride home later. That ice was treacherous.