The Eternal Ones (35 page)

After the paparazzi gave up and returned to their posts, Haven toured the house with a garbage bag, dumping the contents of the vases inside it. Yet the horrible stench still lingered. Upstairs she opened the windows and collapsed on the unmade bed. She could hear the men chatting below in the lane as they waited for her to emerge. The paparazzi would figure out that she wasn’t a maid when she didn’t leave before dark. But they’d never be able to catch her when she exited via the roof in the morning. The trick wouldn’t work twice, but Haven hoped she’d only need to spend a single night at the mews house before she returned to Snope City. She prayed she’d find the proof she needed to send Iain to jail the very next morning—at his breakfast meeting with the corrupt president of the Ouroboros Society.

Exhausted, Haven let her head roll to the side, and her eyes landed on the print from Rome that was sitting on the bedside table. Once it had meant so much. Now, like everything else in the little house, it seemed like an artifact from another life.

Her cell phone rang, and Iain’s number flashed on the screen. Haven let the call go to voice mail. She sensed Iain would start searching for her soon. But he’d never think to look at the mews house. As long as the paparazzi were standing guard outside, it was the safest place in all of Manhattan. With that one thought to comfort her, Haven closed her eyes.

 

“Keep your voice down. There are people outside. We need to get out of New York. I’ve booked passage on the
St. Michele
. It leaves for Italy in a week.”

The ringing of her cell phone dragged Haven out of the vision. It was quiet by the time she found it hidden among the sheets. There were ten missed calls from Iain. But there was no time to check messages. It was seven thirty in the morning, and Haven had half an hour to make it to breakfast with Padma and Iain. Thankfully, she’d fallen asleep with her clothes and shoes on. All there was left to do was splash her face, brush her teeth, and take the stairs to the roof.

 

SET IN A CORNER building one block south of Gramercy Park, Café Marat featured a wall of tall windows along Nineteenth Street. They all stood open, letting the cool morning air flow through the premises. Outside on the sidewalk, little tables hugged the wall of the building, their white tablecloths fluttering like giant moths. Haven watched from across the street as Padma arrived and chose a seat near the open windows. A few minutes later, Iain showed up. Padma greeted him a little too fondly with kisses on both cheeks. Haven wished she could strangle them both.

She scurried across to the café and slid into a chair at a sidewalk table just to the left of Iain and Padma’s window. With her back to the building’s wall, she was all but invisible to them. And as long as the streets remained clear of traffic, she could listen to every word they uttered.

“You don’t look very well,” she heard Padma remark. “Is all the attention beginning to get to you?”

“Have you seen the paparazzi camped outside my house?” Iain replied. “It’s like they expect me to show up with Marta in a body bag. But they’re just a nuisance. It’s the police that are really giving me trouble. They’re hounding me about Jeremy Johns.”

“Still?” Padma was surprised. “I thought we made all that go away. I saw to it myself.”

“I was called in for more questioning yesterday. There’s an eyewitness now. Though I can’t imagine what she could have seen. Are you sure the Society didn’t have a hand in her coming forward?”

“Why would we do something like that? I’ll call our contact in the LAPD. Don’t worry, we’ll be able to fix this.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to the woman,” Iain insisted. “I just want her to stop making things up.”

“Oh, she’ll stop,” Padma assured him. “I’m sorry this Jeremy issue has dragged on for so long—particularly since you had nothing to do with it. But how are you feeling otherwise? I know you were close to Marta. These last few days must have been terribly difficult for you.” Padma’s voice almost sounded sincere.

“It wasn’t easy,” Iain admitted. “But now you know how far I’m willing to go for the Society.”

“Your efforts have been appreciated,” Padma replied. “You’ll be promoted into our upper ranks soon. That’s quite an impressive feat for someone who brought only the most basic skills from his previous lives.”

“And I know I have you to thank,” Iain said with a laugh. “Without your recommendation, I would never have gotten the job.”

“We can discuss how you plan to repay me later.” Padma was flirting shamelessly. “What did you do with her, anyway?”

“Are you sure you want me to tell you?” Iain asked. “I was under the impression you guys like to know as little as possible.”

“You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t let my curiosity get the best of me. . .”

The sound of footsteps pulled Haven’s attention away from the conversation. Nineteenth Street’s sidewalk was empty but for a single young man wearing a crisp white shirt and black pants. His eyes were blank and his posture robotic. A black briefcase hung from his right hand. It was the receptionist from the Ouroboros Society on his way to work. Haven spun around and planted her face in the café’s menu, praying she hadn’t been spotted. She was certain he couldn’t have missed her, but his footsteps never missed a beat, and he passed by without pausing. As soon as the Society drone turned the corner, Haven returned to eavesdropping.

“ . . . appreciate it if you would set up a meeting with him,” Iain said.

“Is that what this is all about?” Padma pouted. “I was
hoping
you’d asked me to breakfast for the pleasure of my company.”

“I did,” Iain assured her. “But I didn’t think you’d mind a
little
business mixed in with our pleasure.”

“As long as it’s just a
little
business and a lot of pleasure. Why do you need a meeting?”

“I want more work. I think I’ve proved that I’m dependable.”

“Not to mention ambitious. We like that. But I’m in charge of these things,” Padma insisted. “And there’s not much to do at the moment now that Marta’s gone. Except—”

“Except what?”

“I have a private matter to deal with. I would need someone discreet—and I’d have to pay in points from my personal account. . . .”

As a tattooed waitress approached her table, Haven was pounded by a wave of panic. If she spoke, Iain might hear her. But she wouldn’t be allowed to sit at the café without placing an order. Digging through her handbag, she found a slip of paper.

Before the girl could speak, Haven scribbled,
Coffee and the bill, thanks.

“No problem,” chirped the waitress, who was obviously accustomed to dealing with eccentric New Yorkers.

Crisis averted, but her nerves still jangling, Haven picked back up on the conversation.

“ . . . who is she?”

“Just a little problem from the past,” Padma said dismissively. “I knew she’d turn up someday, but I didn’t expect her so soon.”

“And you want me take care of her?”

“Eventually. For the moment I’m waiting to see if she might prove useful.”

“Useful?” Iain asked.

“There’s someone else I need to find. She might know where he is. . . .”

A shadow darkened Haven’s table, and she jumped, almost ready to shriek. The two men standing over her table wore gray suits and sunglasses.

“Come with us,” one said, reaching for her arm.

“Quietly,” said the other.

“Keep your hands off me!” Haven snarled.

“We’re here to protect you,” the first man insisted.

“Don’t make a scene,” said the second.

“Let go of me!” Haven wrenched her arm free, knocking over a water glass, which shattered on the concrete.

“What’s going on?” Padma was standing at the open window, watching the confusion outside on the sidewalk.

“Too late,” the first man murmured.

“That’s the girl I was talking about!” Padma looked as if she’d been caught red-handed.

“Nothing to worry about, Ms. Singh,” said one of the OS men with an unctuous smile. “You just enjoy your breakfast. We’ll take care of this.”

Iain pushed Padma out of the way. “Get away from her!” he shouted at the men as he prepared to leap from the window.

Before Iain could reach the sidewalk, the waitress arrived with the coffee, and Haven sprang from her chair and shoved the girl’s tray at the gray men. They were still wiping the scalding hot liquid from their faces when Haven tore off down the sidewalk toward a cab that was stopped on the corner of Eighteenth Street. She dove inside just as the two men began closing in on her.

“Drive, drive, drive!” she screamed. The taxi jolted forward through a red light, and Haven was soon making her escape down Second Avenue.

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God!”

“Haven?” Beau answered his phone. “Is that you?”

“Beau! I got it! I can’t believe I really got it!”

“Got
what
, Haven?”

“Proof! I just followed Iain to a café, and I overheard him talking to Padma. They murdered Marta Vega.”

“Slow down!” Beau ordered. “Who did what?”

“Iain really did kill Marta Vega! He did it just for Society points. I heard him say so himself. Then they started talking about me. I’m next on their list. Padma wants me dead!”

“This isn’t good, Haven. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call the police and tell them what I know. Hopefully they’ll send that bastard to jail for the rest of his life!”

“Yeah, but what are you going to do when you get off the phone?”

Haven hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’ll need to hide for a while. They’ll have gray men looking everywhere for me,” she said, feeling her adrenaline high fading and her nerve slowly draining away. “Now that I think of it, I guess I’m in some serious trouble.”

“I figured as much. What you gotta do is find Dr. Tidmore. I’ve got his number right—”

“What? That’s your answer? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Okay, then find somewhere safe to hide out. A library or a church, maybe. I’m getting in my truck right now. I’ll be there before dawn.”

Haven was squatting next to an overflowing restaurant trash can, listening to Muzak, and wondering if she’d ever hear the sound of a human voice. She’d been on hold for at least ten minutes when the classical rendition of “I Want a New Drug” cut off mid chorus.

“Detective Flynn.”

“Are you the detective in charge of the Marta Vega case?”

“I am. Who’s this?”

“A concerned citizen.”

The man laughed. “Never heard that one before.”

“Marta Vega is dead. I know who killed her.”

“Let me guess,” Flynn said, his voice swimming in sarcasm. “Iain Morrow.”

“You know?”

“Everybody in New York knows that Iain Morrow killed Marta Vega. You’re the twenty-third person to call today. Too bad nobody seems to have any proof. What about you, miss? You got any proof?”

“I overheard him talking to a woman named Padma Singh. He—”

“Who is this?” Detective Flynn demanded as if he suddenly suspected he was the butt of a practical joke.

Haven ignored the question. “Iain and Padma are both members of an organization called the Ouroboros Society. So was Marta Vega. I don’t know exactly how, but Iain is responsible for her death.”

“Who
is
this?” Flynn was angry now.

“Why do you keep asking that? I’m
trying
to help you.”

“Listen, whoever you are—you’ve got your facts wrong.”

“I don’t! I swear! Iain Morrow and Padma Singh are dangerous.”

“You can’t go around accusing innocent people of murder. If you call again, I will personally hunt you down and arrest you.”

“But Marta—”

“The Ouroboros Society is a respected institution in this town. So stay away from Padma Singh and stop wasting my time.”

The line went dead. Haven stared at the phone in her hand, shocked by the conversation that had just transpired. For the first time since she’d escaped from Iain, she began to register just how dire her situation had become. She’d spent the day skulking through the stacks of the Jefferson Market Library, trying to get through to Detective Flynn on the phone. Now it was getting dark, and the library had closed. Haven was hiding in a filthy, rat-infested alley, and she had nowhere left to go. Even the police had turned against her.