The Body In The Big Apple (22 page)

Emma nodded. “I really think it's over—at last.”

Faith desperately wanted to believe her—and knew she didn't.

“You can't wear this. You'll have to take one of mine,” Emma said, hanging Faith's coat back in the closet. “You can get it when you're over this way sometime. Here. This will do.” She took out a fur-lined raincoat from Searle. It had a hood and was appropriately scarlet. Emma had worn it to the luncheon the other day.

Faith was about to ask for something simpler, something cheaper, but just as Emma never had to buy an umbrella on the street corner, she wouldn't have a Burlington Coat Factory special, either.

“Thank you. I'll take good care of it and bring it back tomorrow.”

“Don't be silly. I've been wearing it so much lately, I'm tired of it. Keep it as long as you want.”

“Call me?” Faith asked.

“I promise,” Emma replied.

Descending in the elevator, Faith thought about how her hugs with Emma had progressed from swift affection to this last one, a kind of bear hug, each one intent on reassuring the other—reassuring and comforting.

Outside, the rain had let up slightly, but there was enough for Faith to be grateful for the hood on Emma's coat. Damn, she had meant to give Emma back both the key to Fox's apartment and the key to this one, which Emma had given her for the party preparations. She'd do it when she returned the coat.

Halfway down the block, she looked over her shoulder and noticed a dark car pull out from across the street near the intersection, switch on its high beams, and accelerate. Parking on her side was forbidden at this time of day and there weren't any cars.
No one wanted to chance a stiff ticket, or worse—the boot. She walked faster, feeling irrationally nervous at the way the car had now slowed down, slowed down to her speed. Suddenly, it swerved up onto the sidewalk and aimed straight for her. She screamed and tried to run toward the building, but the car cut her off, blinding her with its headlights, chasing her into the street. The surface was slick and shiny from the recent downpour. She ran as fast as she could, but there was no escape. Her heart was pounding and the cold night air stabbed her lungs as she fought for breath. She could feel the heat of the engine. If she reached her arm back, she was sure she'd be able to touch the hood.

I am not going to let this happen, she thought. I am not going to die this way!

She plunged to the right and back up on the sidewalk. The car followed, taking down a small tree girdled with wire mesh. If she could just make it back to the Stansteads', but the car cut off her retreat. All the surrounding buildings were town houses. No doormen. No open doors. It was all happening so fast! She couldn't think. Her heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. She stumbled and her shoe came off. If she fell, she'd be dead. She kicked the other away and splashed on through the icy puddles.

The car bore down upon her. She had only one chance. With a last burst of speed, she raced directly in front of it, crossed the street, and rolled between two parked cars, inching her way under the first one.

Brakes squealed. The car stopped. For a moment, she thought the driver would bash into the parked cars, or worse—come after her on foot. She shut her eyes tight, waiting for the slam of a car door. Waiting for a
hand to reach out and grab her. Waiting for a hand with a gun. Nothing. Then it sped off. The driver. The killer.

She lay in the filthy runoff, eyes still closed, panting. There had been only one person in the car. She'd been able to see that much. It looked like a man, but a man with long hair. A man like Harvey Fuchs.

“I slipped and fell,” she spoke before the bewildered doorman could voice his alarm.

The elevator rose slowly. Emma's coat would never be the same. Nor would Faith.

Emma opened the door in surprise. She was in her slip.

“Faith! What—”

“Someone just tried to kill me with a car. Tried to kill me, thinking I was you.”

Emma in the distinctive Red Riding Hood coat. Emma the real target.

“Me? Kill me?” Emma looked as if she was about to faint. She sank onto the seat of a Thonet chair set against the wall.

“I had the hood of the coat up, so whoever was driving must have assumed it was you. We're about the same size, and I was coming from your building.” The adrenaline that had flooded Faith's body as she had fought for her life still coursed through her body. She was standing in her stocking feet, numb with cold, dripping dirty water onto one of the Stanstead's Oriental rugs, but she felt as if she could take on a tiger or two. She was alive. She had saved herself. Now she had to save Emma, save her from herself, save her from the forces of evil. Faith tossed off the scarlet coat, letting it fall in a heap on the floor.

“Emma.” She tried hard not to shout. “Emma! This is very, very serious now. It's not just Christmas cards
and Dumpster drops. They tried to
kill
me—that is, you! Maybe the idea was just to scare you, but I don't think so. These are not people we should be dealing with alone anymore. All bets are off. Your father was murdered—and they're trying to get his daughter! Yes, it's going to cause some very unpleasant publicity in the short run. But the point is the long run. The point is being around! You
have
to tell Michael—and the police!”

“Michael. Michael will be waiting at the party and wondering where I am. I have to get ready,” Emma jumped up and looked about the hall wildly, as if expecting her husband to emerge from the closet.

“Haven't you heard a word I've said? Emma, I know this isn't something you want to think about, but you
have
to—there are no choices anymore!”

Faith was overwhelmed by depression and fear. The adrenaline began to ebb. She wanted to go home. Get cleaned up and pull her quilt over her head for a long winter's nap. Granted, Emma was crazy in love with her husband, but what use would she be to him dead? She'd told Emma the truth. Faith was positive the driver hadn't meant to inspire fear—though it had succeeded. He meant murder. They must think Emma knew something she didn't—or didn't know she knew.

She followed Emma into the bedroom, leaving little wet marks on the carpet as she padded after her. At the moment, she didn't have the energy to both reason with Emma and think about getting dry.

“Look, if Michael had any idea that you were going through something like this and not telling him, how do you think he'd react? He's your husband, for God's sake! Somebody's not just blackmailing you now! He'd want to protect you, save you! Men are like
this—especially about their wives!” Faith knew she was ranting, but her words seemed to have little effect on Emma, who was zipping up her dress and slipping into her shoes, apparently oblivious of her friend—and the fact that she had put on a Versace white linen shift more suitable for Portofino in July than Manhattan in December. She seemed to be in a dream. Drugged, but Faith was sure it wasn't pharmaceutical. It was Emma's own particular drug. She'd simply shut down.

Faith grabbed her shoulders and sat her down on the end of the bed.

“Emma, you've got to listen to me!”

Emma's eyes—so startling blue, deep blue like a sea of scilla in spring—focused on Faith's desperate expression. “I
have
heard you, but I don't want to. I can't think about all this. It can't be happening.”

Faith sat down next to her. “But it is,” she said softly. “Tell Michael. Start there. Tell him tonight, when you come home. Tell him everything.”

There was a long silence and Faith wasn't sure she'd gotten through; then Emma stood up and walked to her dressing table.

“I'll tell him about the blackmail, about getting pregnant when I was a teenager.” Emma's voice sounded surprisingly resolute. She stood looking in the mirror. Faith could see her face: Her lips were pursed and she was frowning with the intensity of her resolve. She picked up a silver-backed hairbrush with her monogram. “But”—she smoothed her hair back with several swift strokes—“I won't tell him about Nathan Fox. Not about my father. I can't do that to him. If I get another threat, I'll tell them I've told Michael all about it and let them assume it's everything.”

“Are you sure—”

She cut Faith off. “It's a chance I'll have to take.” She put the brush down and faced her friend. “The worst part is thinking that you could have been killed. That's what I can't face. It was supposed to be me, and if anything had happened to you, I could never have lived with myself. Every step of the way since this has started, you've been with me, and maybe I've done a lot of things wrong, but you have to believe that I thought I was doing what was right. What was right to protect my husband. I never thought it would end up like this. End up with you almost—” She gave a short sob. “Oh, Faith, weren't we little girls just yesterday? Doesn't it seem that way to you? If I had known what was going to happen, I'm not sure I would have wanted to grow up.”

“We were and you did—admirably,” Faith said firmly, although she'd been having the same feeling. “But nothing happened. I'm fine. And we'll be fine. We've come this far…”

Emma wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “And we'll see it through.” She looked at Faith's feet. “You don't seem to have any shoes on, and I'm afraid to give you anything that might connect you to me, but shoes are shoes. The coat was different. No one knows you've been involved in all this, and I swear that no one ever will, as long as I live.” Emma
did
look like a little girl now and Faith had a sudden vision of a long-ago secret club, another oath. Yes, they were all grown up, but the rules were the same.

Emma was rummaging in her closet, pulling out shoe boxes. Faith was waiting for the right moment to tell her that she needed to grab another outfit for herself, as well.

“Tonight. This can't go on. There's no question. It's
just drinks—the thing I'm meeting Michael at—and I'll make dinner reservations for us afterward. Michael's been complaining that we haven't had any time alone together for ages, so I'll surprise him.”

Surprise him, yes, Faith thought. Telling Michael part of what was going on was better than nothing—it was a start—and she was sure he wouldn't stand by while his wife was being blackmailed. Maybe Emma was right. Maybe they would assume she'd told him everything, especially after tonight. She'd be frightened enough to do anything.

Emma handed Faith several boxes of shoes. “Try these. We'll go to the Post House. Michael likes it.”

Faith had retrieved Emma's coat from the hall and was holding it up, examining the damage. It had kept her warm and dry, but it needed a dry-cleaning wizard now. Emma snatched it from her on her way to the bathroom. “Juanita knows some super dry cleaner. But I don't think I want to wear it again.” Nor did Faith.

The Post House. A good choice. Faith believed it was always better to reveal potentially explosive or emotional information in a public setting, where presumably good breeding will prevent too crazed a reaction. She'd broken up a number of times this way. The Post House was one of New York's newer temples to beef and already was very popular. Michael would be surrounded by any number of men he knew, all ordering enormous and expensive slabs of meat. It was a place where guys like Michael Stanstead felt at home. Maybe Emma was a better politician's wife than she appeared.

“All set. I made reservations for nine o'clock.” Emma blushed slightly. She was in her slip again and reaching for a simple long-sleeved black jersey dress.
Apparently, the mirrors in the bathroom had reflected dress white, the fairest in the land, but better off in black for now. She was snapping a simple gold cuff bracelet around her slender wrist. “There's a phone in the bathroom. Michael—”

Faith finished for her, “likes it.” They both laughed, but it was nervous laughter. Emma glanced out the window. The rain had stopped. But neither woman really wanted to go outside.

 

The phone was ringing when Faith got out of the shower. She had taken a cab home. Walking into the apartment, she'd shed garments as she made a beeline for the shower, then stood under the hot spray, trying to think of nothing but the warmth seeping into her bones. After a while she began to come to. Had she been in for a half hour, an hour? She'd lost all sense of time. She'd turned the water off, reached for a towel—and the phone rang. For a moment, she considered letting the machine get it, but she flashed on Emma.

In the street, outside Emma's building, Faith had lived the seconds of her attack all over again—and again. She'd seen one of her shoes, but nothing on earth could have made her pick it up. She'd insisted on dropping Emma off at her cocktail party, over Emma's protests that it was only on the next street. Faith had extracted a promise from her that she wouldn't go out alone—anywhere.

She hastily pulled her terry-cloth robe on and lunged for the receiver, hitting her shin on the corner of the bed in the process.

“Hello?”

“Faith, great! I thought you'd be working or out. I just got back, and my agent has sold the book! Please,
please come celebrate tonight. If you have a date, break it!”

It was Richard.

Faith didn't believe in playing games, yet she also didn't believe in appearing too available.

“My plans for tonight aren't definite. I think I might be able to make it.” All of which was true. She was elated. Something good happening to somebody. This alone was cause for celebration. She very much wanted to go out—and, she admitted to herself, she very much wanted to go out with him.

“Fantastic! The sky's the limit. You pick.”

Faith didn't have any trouble choosing.

“Let's go to the Post House.”

 

“You're a quixotic woman, Faith Sibley. I would never have predicted this as your kind of place. Bouley, yes. The Quilted Giraffe, of course. Le Bernardin, absolutely. But a steak house—albeit a very plush one—no.”