The Body In The Big Apple (14 page)

Todd Hartley was busy filling out her wish list. Faith was waiting for him to ask how she'd been referred to him, and she had an elaborate story involving Saint Paul's School and a cousin of her husband's and always hearing about Garden City, then seeing an ad in the Yellow Pages and his name just hitting her, because of Bob Hartley, you know the old
Bob Newhart Show
—except Todd Hartley didn't ask, not yet.

“Contemporary? Center entrance colonial? Ranch?”

“Not ranch.” Faith and Karen were both positive about this. Not on Long Island, anyway. Colorado, Montana, maybe.

He nodded. There was no vestige of the radical Emma had described. No
Little Red Book
sticking out of his handkerchief pocket, no Marx and Engels tie tack. He wasn't bad-looking, although he'd be over-weight soon. She'd noticed the buttons on his suit jacket straining at the midriff. His forehead was rising, too. Bald and fat someday. Not a pretty thought. She'd also noticed a fancy watch and heavy gold wedding band. Todd had apparently given in to the bourgeois institution of marriage. His wedding picture was on his desk, and from the setting, Faith surmised that Todd had been indulging in the opiate of the masses, as well. Mrs. Hartley had big hair—at least on her wedding day—and was a very attractive brunette. She was covering his hand with hers and the camera had picked up the sparkle from the rock she was wearing—something
close to Gibraltar. Faith twisted her own modest wedding band and engagement ring, purchased at Woolworth's a few hours ago. She was willing to bet that Mrs. Hartley's rings weren't from Woolworth's. Todd's, either.

It cost a lot of money to be a well-turned-out Realtor. Without actually fingering the fabric, which might appear suspect, Faith guessed his suit was Brooks or Paul Stuart. Maybe on sale, but not cheap. In addition, you had to have an expensive, new—or nearly new—car. No one was going to be persuaded into assuming a monstrous mortgage by someone driving an old Pinto.

“I think the best way to start is by selecting some target communities; then we can go for a drive and you can get a feel for them. What's your timetable?”

Faith was tempted to say she wanted everything cleared up by Christmas, but she answered instead, “We'll be moving in the late spring.”

“No problem. As you've probably heard, in the East, a lot of houses come on the market then, with the good weather. Things slow down in the winter, but you can pick up some real bargains that way.”

“People are desperate, you mean.” Faith wasn't sure why she said that. Maybe it was to try to tease out whatever personality he had. It certainly wasn't being expressed in the artwork on the walls—a framed map of the island and a generic floral still life.

He smiled slightly. “I guess you could put it that way.” There was a slightly awkward pause. “Well, Mrs. Brown, why don't we—”

The phone rang.

“Sorry, could you excuse me?”

Faith nodded and sat back in the chair. She'd wanted
to dress for the part. She wasn't sure what a Californian with no winter clothes would wear on a foray to the Big Apple, but she figured she couldn't go wrong with a pair of Lauren black trousers and a white mantailored shirt. She'd added a chunky gold-link bracelet she'd never particularly cared for that a too-serious admirer had given her last Christmas. She wanted to look as if she could afford a house, but not a mansion. She'd made a joke about having to borrow her Kamali coat from a friend and said she supposed she'd be buying things like it herself once they moved to this terrible climate. Chuckle, chuckle.

After picking up the phone and saying hello, Todd hadn't said anything other than “This isn't the best time now.” The person on the other end obviously did not agree, and after saying it once more with feeling, Hartley turned toward Faith.

“Would you mind terribly waiting in the reception area? I'm afraid I have to take this.”

“Not at all. My schedule is flexible. I have plenty of time.” Today anyway.

Unfortunately, the receptionist was at her desk. No way to pick up the phone and eavesdrop. Faith was forced to sit down and thumb through a back issue of
People
magazine—more Donald and Ivana.

The agency wasn't on the skids, but the carpeting was ever so slightly worn in spots. It wasn't affiliated with one of the big national firms, just a small family-owned outfit, probably been around forever. Hartley's family? How had he ended up here? It wasn't that long ago that he'd been hanging out with the comrades, desperately searching for Nathan. Who or what had changed his mind? The lovely Mrs. Hartley? Or after Poppy Morris's revelation of Emma's age, had
young Todd decided to retreat—fearful of statutory rape?

The agency, like much of the rest of the country, had dragged out its box of holiday decorations. A small clear plastic tree with unappetizing fossilized gum-drops skewered to its sharp branches stood on the receptionist's desk. A row of stockings with names written in glitter pen hung in a line from the mantel of a faux fireplace. Todd's, like the others, was empty. What would Santa bring? A lump of coal? A huge pot of pink poinsettias stood in the fireplace opening and tinsel garlands looped about the walls and door frames completed the festive decor.

Faith has just finished her inventory when the receptionist got up, put on her coat, and left. Creeping over to the door to Hartley's office, Faith could hear Todd's voice, but she couldn't hear what he was saying. She went over to the desk and carefully picked up the phone, pressing the button next to the line that lighted up.

“It's too soon. That's all I can tell you. Not yet. You'll have to be patient. It worked once. It'll work again. She's scared. Leave her alone for now,” said a voice on the other end of the conversation. A voice Faith had never heard before. “Do you catch my drift, Hartley?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Because if you don't, you know what will happen, right?” There was no mistaking the menace in the man's voice.

And she'd been about to get in a car with Todd Hartley, a man who, given what she knew, was up to his ears in something that sounded very much like a partnership in blackmail and murder! He knew who Emma
was. He'd known where Fox lived before. If Fox had trusted him that much, he'd have no qualms about revealing his most recent whereabouts. But knowing Fox was in the city, why hadn't Todd turned him in? Still Red below the surface, or afraid of being outed to his new wife, his new life? Or afraid of a charge of corrupting a minor, and worse? It hadn't been that long ago.

The man on the phone was telling him to wait. Wait to ask for money again? Wait to ask for more?

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” His hand came down hard on her shoulder and she dropped the phone. “Get into my office!” he barked. She grabbed the plastic gumdrop tree—none of them moved—and shoved it in his face. Startled, he relaxed his grasp. “What the hell!” And she took off for the door. She had it partway open when he threw himself against it, overturning the coatrack. She started screaming. It was the only thing to do.

“Shut up! Shut up!” he yelled at her, reaching toward her to cover her mouth. She shut up. The notion of that big sweaty palm on her lips made her gag.

“Who are you and what are you doing here? Who sent you?”

She was trapped. Please, please let it be that the receptionist was just going out for a sandwich.

She wanted to say nobody had sent her, but she also wanted him to think all five boroughs knew where she was. She concentrated on thinking how to get away. Yet she had to be sure. “Nathan. You could say Nathan sent me,” she said in a firm voice.

“Nathan?” He looked shocked. “How do you know…Jesus,
you
want money. That's it, isn't it?” He exploded again. Her coat was at their feet. He thrust it
at her, opened the door, and pushed her out. “Just get out of here—and don't come back.”

She was at the parking lot, light-headed with relief, when he came running after her, red-faced, panting. He still looked sweaty, even in the cold. There was a pad of paper and a pencil in one hand. Damn. Her license plate—or rather, Mother and Dad's. All she could think of to do was to keep going so he wouldn't know which car was hers. It was a municipal lot and almost full. He couldn't stand outside in these temperatures without a coat for long. She kept walking. At the corner, she looked over her shoulder. He was taking down the numbers of every car in the lot. “Don't worry, Mrs. Brown,” he yelled after her. “I'll find out who you are. Don't worry, you bitch! I'll get you!”

She ducked around the corner and into a card shop. Thirty minutes later, with several packages of Christmas cards she doubted she'd get time to send, she went back to the lot. He was gone. She drove off in the opposite direction from the real estate agency and, as she'd been doing since she was so unceremoniously shown the door, ran through what had just happened. Of course he must have heard her pick up the phone. She'd have to get better at “overhearing” conversations if she was going to be good at this. Or maybe he hadn't bought the whole act. She doubted this, though. She hadn't done anything to raise his suspicions that she was anything other than what she appeared—a lady looking for a house.

Absentmindedly, she put on the tape again, but she wasn't in the mood for medieval merriment. She decided to check her messages. She had to bring the car back, but the evening was free. She supposed things would even out, yet so far the business had been mad
rushes followed by enervating doldrums. Still, she reflected, if she was busy all the time, either Emma's major problem or Faith's fledgling business would suffer. Every silver lining has a cloud. Since when had she begun to think in clichés? Especially such tired ones. Tired. That was it. She hadn't had much sleep lately.

She reached for the car phone she was sure her father didn't know existed and called her machine at home first.

“Faith, darling. This is absolutely the last message I'm going to leave. Altman's will be an office building or whatever horrendous thing they're planning to do with it before we get there for lunch. I'll see you and Hope at Chat's party and we'll make a date then. I positively refuse to talk to this machine again.” Faith could picture her grandmother's face. Amused indignation or indignant amusement. Added to tolerant bemusement and bemused tolerance, these made up the major portions of Mrs. Lennox's emotional repertoire.

“Got a gig tonight yourself, or can we catch Connick? Call me?”

It was Richard. Faith felt happy. That was unusual lately. Worried, fatigued, frightened, yes—but happy was in short supply. What was going on? It had been a while since a man's voice had caused this kind of reaction. She knew she was interested in him, but was she getting
interested?
She had a fleeting fantasy of pouring the entire tale out to him at the Algonquin tonight. They'd be drinking Manhattans while Harry Connick Jr., the boy wonder, played Gershwin and Cole Porter on the piano. It would be such a help to get another opinion. Was Todd Hartley, former radical, on the phone with an accomplice? Being advised, say, to wait before telling Emma when to make the latest
drop? Or was he talking to a disgruntled home owner who was getting close to putting a contract out on Todd himself—or switching brokers—because Todd wanted him to drop the price of his house to move it? Wanted to push someone, a woman, into making an offer?

Yet Faith couldn't try to get things clearer in her own mind by picking Richard's brains. She was back at the Midtown Tunnel and plunged down the ramp. Yes, she'd go out with Richard, but she wouldn't be able to tell him a thing. Any hint of what was going on in her life and it would be “soon to be a major motion picture” time. Any reporter worth his or her salt would react the same way. It was in their genes. But yes, she'd see him tonight. Yes.

 

Richard couldn't meet her until nine, which was fine with Faith. Garden City had left her feeling drained, more relieved than frightened now. She was at the stage where she was imagining all the things that could have happened to her and hadn't. She wanted to take a long, hot bath and a long, warm nap—under the quilt Emma had left on the couch.

The phone rang. It was her sister. She sounded upset. A highly unusual state for her. Faith remembered with a pang that she had never called Hope to arrange a time to have dinner with Phelps. Maybe she should ask if they were free tonight? They could come to the Algonquin afterward. No, scratch that thought.

“It's about Phelps—”

“I know. I'm really sorry I didn't get back to you about dinner, but it's been crazy.”

“No—or rather, I mean yes. Let's have dinner together sometime. But he just called, and I'm in a
quandary about what to do. This kind of thing has never happened to me before.”

It sounded like she needed more than simple advice to the lovelorn.

“What's wrong?”

“Probably nothing. It's just that Phelps has the chance to invest in—”

Faith interrupted again. It was getting to be a habit.

“He wants to borrow money?”

“Yes, rather a lot of money.”

“This is an easy one. A no-brainer. You know the golden rule. Never loan money to men, especially the ones you're dating.”

“I know, I know. But it's a short-term loan. With interest. His lawyer will draw up the papers.”

“This sounds like more than ‘rather a lot' of dough! What does he need it for?”

“He has the chance to get in on the ground floor of a terrific new software company. It all makes sense, except—”

“Except he doesn't have the money and wants to borrow it from his girlfriend.”

There was silence on the other end. Faith didn't know whether Hope was enjoying the appellation or pondering her decision.