The Dead Room (15 page)

“I know. Thanks,” Leslie told her.

Jeff was with a group in the hall, explaining Colonial construction. He got wide-eyed when he saw her, so of course the ten or so people in his group stared at her, too. Jeff just gave her a nod and said, “One of our archaeologists, always busy at work.”

She was grimy enough that she hoped she wouldn't be recognized from any recent articles or newscasts, and she gave a quick wave before hurrying up the stairs. She passed the second tour group in the upper hallway, where they were hearing about the house's history as part of the Underground Railroad.

She paused for a minute. She'd been aware of the history of the house for a very long time, but being reminded that it had been part of the Underground Railroad suddenly seemed to be important.

Why?

She realized she was just standing there, filthy. She hurried to her bedroom—locking the door behind her, as Melissa had warned. Then she leaned against it for a moment, staring at the rocker by the hearth. But it was empty.

Had he really been there this morning? Was he haunting Hastings House? Or had she just wished him there, just as she had wished him into her dreams? And had his comments come to her mind because she had actually been talking to the flesh-and-blood Joe, a man who believed that there had been foul play at the house?

“Matt?” she whispered.

But there was no answer. She showered and dressed, whimsically opting for a black velvet sheath that fit the changing weather. By the time she left her room the tours were over and the guides were gone.

Melissa was still there, though, in the small upstairs office, counting receipts and balancing her books. She whistled when Leslie walked by. “That's a knockout.”

“Thanks.”

“Off to a black-tie event?” Melissa asked.

“No. Dinner with friends.”

“I heard about the crypt you discovered.”

“Fell into.”

Melissa sighed dreamily. “Think I could really volunteer to work with you?”

“You bet. I'll see to it.”

“Thank you so much.” Melissa frowned even as she spoke.

“What's the matter?”

“I…I've lost a twenty, I think.”

“It's got to be there somewhere,” Leslie said.

“Yes, but…oh, it's right here. I swear it wasn't here a minute ago,” Melissa said, still frowning.

“Maybe something was on top of it.”

Melissa grinned at her. “And maybe the ghosts are helping me out. You think?” she asked wistfully.

“Maybe.”

The sound of knocking came from downstairs. “Good night, Melissa, I'll see you in the morning,” Leslie told her.

“Right. Have a good time. Knock 'em dead.” She blushed. “I mean, you look like a million.”

“Thanks.”

Joe was at the door. She forced herself to smile as she greeted him. He wasn't Matt; she knew that. They were different people, different personalities. But tonight, he reminded her so much of Matt as he'd looked last night….

They even used the same aftershave.

But he looked good, dark blond hair newly washed, still damp, hard-cut rugged features, casual suede jacket. Tall and well muscled. His shoulders were a little broader than Matt's; maybe Matt had been a half inch taller.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, frowning.

“Of course. Where's Robert?”

“We're meeting him just down the street. Tonight, a good old American steakhouse.”

She smiled. “Let's go.”

When they reached the sidewalk, she found herself looking back. There sat the house—a picture-perfect Colonial. Around it, present-day Manhattan. Alive, wild, a little bit wicked, and still a place where people were just born, lived and died. The past and the present, interlocking. Countless stories above the ground. Countless stories below it. She closed her eyes. Not far away, the World Trade Towers had stood. So much tragedy. So much destruction. A certain sadness still permeated downtown, despite the fact that so much was up and running again. Somehow, centuries-old churches only blocks away had remained standing. History remembered, history lost.

It was an amazing city, and it was equally amazing the way the house stood where it did, with the modern world all around it. Every decade made a change, she reminded herself.

The house, she thought, was somehow a key to murder.

Matt's murder.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. But it
was
something. Worlds colliding. Stories above the earth, stories below.

 

He tried to follow. Couldn't.

But just this morning, she had seen him. It hadn't lasted long, but she had seen him. Even so…

He had to let go.

No, he couldn't say goodbye. Not yet, not when he'd just learned to say hello. And now, because of Leslie, Joe was coming to the house. Joe had a sense that something wrong had happened there, and he was convinced that the truth needed to be told. Then…

He loved her, really loved her, and she deserved a long life and happiness, so then he would say goodbye.

 

“So…your mysterious sixth sense has struck again,” Robert said, idly rubbing his thumb and forefinger over the beginning stubble of a gray beard.

“It had nothing to do with any sixth sense. I fell. Honest to God, I fell,” Leslie said.

Robert shrugged disbelievingly. “Do you know how long Howard Carter looked for King Tut's tomb without finding it?”

“Robert,” she protested, “it was pure dumb luck. And it's not even a total shock. City records indicated that the church had been there.”

“Why don't you just get to it?” Joe asked Robert, amused. He sipped his beer, watching Leslie. They'd already ordered: steaks, potatoes and salads all around. Even Leslie had opted for a beer.

“Get to it?” Robert asked blandly.

“Come on. You know you want her to give you a hand.”

Robert flushed. “No…no.”

“Liar,” Joe said with a laugh.

Robert's blush deepened. “All right. It's the missing prostitutes. After each disappearance we put men out on the street to ask a zillion questions that never have any answers. Mostly, we scratch our heads. Then the furor dies down and I'm left with a bunch of useless information that does me no good the next time. All in all, if I'm right and the cases are associated, we're talking about twelve missing women. In every case, they've just vanished off the street.” He looked across the table at Joe. “Including the one who wasn't a hooker—Genevieve O'Brien.”

Leslie looked at Joe. “The woman you're searching for,” she said.

“I have to agree with Robert,” he said. “At first, I wasn't sure, but the more I found out about just how involved she was with those women, the more sense it seemed to make. The best lead I have is that she stepped into a dark sedan. On the same street where half those girls worked.”

“Strange,” Leslie murmured awkwardly. “And you haven't found any bodies.”

“No bodies. No blood. No sign of a struggle. Nothing,” Robert said.

“There are a lot of ways for bodies to disappear,” Joe reminded them.

“So,” Leslie said, “you're looking for someone who has learned how to completely hide his crimes. He must be very bright.” She turned to Joe. “Don't the profilers say that the usual age for a serial killer is between twenty-five and thirty-five?”

“Often,” Joe agreed. “But not always.”

Robert shook his head. “I'm glad you two have solved this thing.”

They looked at each other sheepishly. “Sorry,” Joe murmured.

“A dark sedan,” Robert said. “That suggests middle class, probably white-collar. Maybe even someone who goes home after an abduction or murder to a wife and kids. Wouldn't be unusual.”

“No,” Joe agreed. “But let's not talk about murder over dinner, okay?”

The salads came and went. Leslie spoke enthusiastically about her time in Virginia, and Joe made them laugh with a few of the funnier details from his recent case in Las Vegas. But when coffee came, Robert returned to the subject of the disappearances.

“So…you both think our missing women are dead? And our one man, the Mimic, was a tranny. He liked to dress up and walk the streets with the girls. I guess he was good at what he did.”

Leslie hesitated. “I'm afraid I do think they're dead. I assume you've had policewomen dressed up as prostitutes, working the same streets?”

“Nights on end. As soon as we pull them off, our guy knows. Apparently he can smell a policewoman a mile away.”

“Then there's Genevieve. She wasn't a hooker, but she was close to them. Thing is, my witness says she went over to the car because she knew whoever was in it,” Joe said.

“Presumably someone respectable,” Leslie said.

“Great. In a city of millions, I'm now looking for someone respectable who drives a dark sedan,” Robert said with a weary sigh. He frowned, looking at Joe. “So…now that you've spoken with Eileen Brideswell and looked into Genevieve's disapearance, you seem to think that it's connected to my hookers, as well.”

“Yes, I do,” Joe said.

Robert gazed over at Leslie thoughtfully. “Would you be willing to go to the street with me at night and see if…see if you get any hunches or vibes or whatever?”

“All right,” Leslie said after a brief hesitation.

“No,” Joe said flatly.

They both stared at him; Leslie was frowning.

“It would be better if she went with me. You're a nice cop, Robert, but you're still a cop. I'm not.”

“You're a private investigator. Do hookers like investigators any better?” Robert asked.

“Frankly, yes, they do.”

It was Robert's turn to frown.

Leslie leaned forward. “Robert, I'll help in any way I can, even though I honestly don't think I'm going to be able to help.” If only he knew what led her to her discoveries, he wouldn't be so eager for her help, she thought. “But…”

“But?” Robert asked, curious.

“We need help, too.”

“We?”

Robert stared across the table at them. Joe hoped he couldn't tell that he, too, had no idea what she was talking about.

“It was no accident.”

“What are we talking about?” Robert asked.

Liar, she thought. He knew. “Hastings House,” she said.

Robert groaned. “Don't you think I went over all the information we had with a fine-toothed comb?”

“And don't you think that explosion was pretty damn strange?” Leslie demanded.

“Accidents
are
strange. That's why they're accidents,” Robert said testily. “Joe, you've been through the files. Everything points to—”

“It doesn't matter what everything points to. We both know that what's obvious is not necessarily the truth.”

Robert groaned again. “You think some fanatic was trying to blow up the whole house? Why? Because he hates history and wants to see a skyscraper there?”

Leslie shook her head gravely. “No. If someone wanted the whole house blown up, it would have been.”

Robert looked at Joe. “Did you instigate this?”

“Hey,” he said gruffly, “Matt was my cousin. Don't ask me to accept something just because everyone else thinks it's obvious.”

“Sometimes, when the sun is shining, it's daytime,” Robert snapped.

“And sometimes, when it's dark, it's because there's an eclipse,” Leslie snapped back.

“She's right,” Joe said with a shrug.

“You two loved Matt. You don't want to accept that he died because of a stupid accident. I get it. But he's gone, and it
was
an accident. You have to learn to live with it.”

“Matt wasn't the only one who died that night,” Leslie said.

“But the thing is,” Joe added, “I don't think it was an accident, and I can't help but think that Matt was targeted.”

“Targeted?” Robert said. “Oh, come on!”

Joe was surprised when Leslie plunged in more quickly than he could. “Targeted. He was in the back room, and it was the back room that blew up.”

“Because that's where the build-up in the line was,” Robert said.

“You'll let me have the files again?” Joe demanded.

Robert threw up his hands. “I'll get you the files.”