The Key (9 page)

“Oh, what?”

“
Forensic City.
I didn’t see it, but Jake told me there’s an episode where somebody dies from a poisoned toothpick, sort of like how Gallagher died from the poisoned pencil.”

“I saw that episode,” said Hilary. “It was really good. I didn’t figure out what happened until the very end.”

“Was there anything else?” I asked Emma.

“Um, yes. One more thing,” she said reluctantly.

“What?”

“Under the sink. In the kitchen.”

God only knew what was in that cabinet—I’d been surprised simply to find usable dishwasher detergent the other night. It was probably all the same stuff that was there when I moved in. I’d always meant to sort it out, but I never really used the kitchen, so what was the point? I was fairly confident that my housekeeper kept it reasonably neat, but that was about the extent of it. “The woman I bought the apartment from was in her nineties. I have no idea what she might have accumulated,” I said.

“Yes, well, she seems to have accumulated a nice big box of rat poison. With an active ingredient of potassium cyanide.”

I
n the bleak wasteland that was my love life prior to Peter, I’d Googled the various romantic interests I’d had as well as the blind dates people foisted on me, and I’d been amazed by the wealth of information I’d found. For example, a few keystrokes had informed me that the charming venture capitalist I’d met at the Harvard Club was an avid collector of Beanie Babies, bidding them up aggressively on eBay. This knowledge promptly dashed any hopes I might have had for our future together, but better my hopes were dashed before we’d even started dating than after accidentally stumbling upon his Beanie Baby collection while looking for the bathroom in his apartment.

The Internet proved an equally fertile hunting ground for matters less romantic in nature. We were up half the night running searches on the names and topics that Jane had detailed on the easel, including Naomi Gallagher and Annabel Gallagher. We also did some Googling of the victims for good measure. The Web yielded a stockpile of information that we used to shape our plan of attack: everyone—except for me, of course—was out the door by nine on Thursday morning, eager to pursue their designated leads.

The good news was that cyberspace easily yielded recent reports on Dahlia Crenshaw’s condition; the bad news was that while she hadn’t been run over by the E train, she’d struck her head when she hit the tracks and had no memory of who pushed her. I was glad that she hadn’t been seriously hurt, but it would have been nice if she’d been able to clear my name.

Naomi Gallagher turned out to be a relatively high-profile publishing executive—high-profile because she’d acquired and edited a bestseller about chemical and biological weapons of mass destruction. “Maybe she knows about more targeted destruction, too,” Hilary suggested.

We also discovered a picture of Naomi and her daughter at a function at Caldecott Academy, her daughter’s school, on the Caldecott Web site. “I know a woman on the faculty there,” said Jane. “I met her at a continuing education seminar. And teachers at private schools like that always know the dirt on the parents. Why don’t I look her up and see what I can find out?”

Annabel Gallagher had a substantial presence in cyberspace. “Figures,” I said, when I scanned the results Google delivered, unconsciously echoing Naomi’s reaction when she’d encountered her successor.

“What figures?” asked Emma.

“She was a model.”

“Vogue?”
asked Luisa.

“Victoria’s Secret?”
asked Hilary.

“No, she’s not tall enough for that sort of thing—she mostly did catalog work. But still, a model.” I wasn’t sure of the precise origins of the term “modelizer”—many credited Candace Bushnell and
Sex and the City—
but just because it was on TV didn’t mean it wasn’t true. In fact, a whole subculture existed in New York of men who were obsessed with dating models, regardless of whether they themselves were model material.

However, the model in question here had been busily remaking herself as a socialite since she married Gallagher two years ago. Most of the references we found were about Annabel chairing benefits or otherwise attending charity galas. One reference was especially interesting, a gossip column blurb noting Gallagher’s absence from an Annabel-organized function and speculating about “trouble in paradise.” Personally, I didn’t see how domestic arrangements with Gallagher could ever have been described as paradise.

“I’ll take Annabel,” said Emma with confidence. “I know the type, and I know where to find people who will talk about her.” Emma’s mother had been one of New York’s social leaders for decades, so it wasn’t surprising that she knew “the type,” although she herself shied away from the social limelight.

Luisa nominated herself to try and figure out what Dahlia had seen on the news. “There’s a video clips service that my law firm uses to track mentions of their clients on TV. It records all of the main broadcast and cable channels. I can scan the news programs and figure out what Dahlia wanted to tell you—maybe it was something relevant to the buyout.”

“That’s a lot of news,” I warned. “Local and national news on the major networks. And then all of the cable news channels.”

“What time did she leave her message?”

“Sevenish.”

“So, it was probably the six-thirty national news on one of the networks. I’ll start there, and if I don’t find anything, I’ll broaden the search.”

It sounded like a thankless task, but Luisa seemed willing to do it, and I didn’t have any better ideas.

Hilary, meanwhile, volunteered to use her journalist credentials and connections to investigate the investigators. “I can find out more about the case they’re building against Rachel and see if they have any other leads.”

“You just have a thing for police detectives,” Luisa said skeptically.

“Two birds. One stone. Need I say more?” asked Hilary.

There was a flurry of activity as they all prepared to leave, which made the loft seem extra quiet and empty once they’d actually left.

Emma had made sure that the kitchen was well-stocked with essentials. I helped myself to a can of Diet Coke and some salt-and-vinegar potato chips. Usually I ate breakfast at the office, under Jessica’s watchful gaze. She probably wouldn’t have approved of this morning’s menu, but that was the least of my worries.

I wandered around the apartment a couple of times and then stared out the window for a few minutes. I thought about getting back on Emma’s computer to try to do some more research, but I wasn’t sure what else to research. Nor did I have much of an appetite for Web surfing after an entire night spent online, searching every possible lead. Instead I turned on the television and flipped channels, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything that was on, and Emma didn’t even have TiVo.

Thinking about TiVo made me wistful for my own TiVo. I hoped it wasn’t being handled roughly in police custody. I missed the rest of my belongings, too, especially my BlackBerry. It was strange to go so long without checking messages; I’d recognized that I was sort of compulsive about checking in, but I hadn’t realized just how compulsive until I was no longer able to. I felt twitchy and anxious, and while I could chalk that up to being a fugitive from justice, the BlackBerry withdrawal wasn’t helping. It was hard to suppress the sense that the world was moving forward without me.

I’d checked the new e-mail account Peter had set up a couple of times during the night, but it had remained empty. Still, it couldn’t hurt to check again. It was the only thing I
could
check safely, and maybe checking it would stave off my withdrawal for a bit.

I sat myself behind Emma’s desk and logged in to the account. I’d gotten so used to being disappointed that I was already steeling myself for an empty inbox. But instead I was rewarded with a message from Man of the People.

I eagerly clicked it open, hoping he’d been a bit more explicit this time around.

But he hadn’t written anything at all—the e-mail was completely blank.

It was a good thing I was alone, because my yelp of frustration wasn’t very ladylike. I scrolled down in disbelief, and then closed the message and reopened it. But there was still nothing.

Who was this peculiar anonymous correspondent, and why was he bothering to correspond if he wasn’t even going to communicate? It was bad enough that it had taken him days to respond to my response to his initial e-mail, but to respond without actually responding just added insult to injury.

I was about to hit Reply and give him a fairly scathing piece of my mind when I noticed I had missed something.

The e-mail had an attachment.

I was even gladder now that I was alone, because it would have been embarrassing to have to explain to anyone that I’d overlooked the attachment the first time around. I double-clicked on the little paper clip icon and opened the file.

It was a photograph of three men, highballs in hand, standing in front of an orange-and-black banner that read Princeton Class of 1976, 25-Year Reunion. Actually, it looked to be a photograph of a photograph in a magazine, perhaps the Princeton alumni journal, because there was a white border around the picture and a caption underneath.

I didn’t need the caption to recognize two of the men—they were slightly younger versions of Glenn Gallagher and Nicholas Perry. The third man was identified as Flipper Brisbane, apparently also a member of the class of ’76. He looked too old to go by a name like Flipper, but if he let himself be called Flipper in the first place he was probably beyond help.

Man of the People had added his own caption to the photograph of the photograph: “They’re in this together,” it read.

While he at least hadn’t sent me an empty message, and while the visual aid was nice, he still hadn’t told me anything new. He’d said “they” had done it before in his previous e-mail, and I knew that Perry and Gallagher had collaborated on the Tiger buyout, too. I would have preferred more information about what, precisely, they were in together now, and maybe even some input about if it could possibly be related to Gallagher’s death. I wondered if Man of the People even knew that Gallagher was dead.

Then it occurred to me that this Flipper guy might be more than an innocent bystander trapped in the same picture as Gallagher and Perry. I opened up a new browser window and typed “Flipper Brisbane” into the search bar. But the only results were links to sites about dolphins, pinball, and Australia.

I turned back to the e-mail and pressed Reply. I probably wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be attempting persuasive communications, and Man of the People was only partially responsible for my current level of frustration, but I had to do something.

Enough with the cryptic e-mails already. Glenn Gallagher’s dead, and they think I killed him, so unless you actually want to tell me something useful instead of confirming what I already know, stop contacting me. It’s annoying, and I have a murderer to catch.

Rachel

I read over what I wrote. It was, perhaps, a bit terse. I thought for a second and then made a couple of quick edits.

Enough with the cryptic e-mails already. Glenn Gallagher’s dead, and they think I killed him, so unless you actually want to tell me something useful instead of confirming what I already know, please stop contacting me. It’s annoying, and I have a murderer to catch.

Best,

Rachel

The
please
and the
best
definitely helped.

Satisfied, I hit Send.

I
sat in front of the computer for a while longer, waiting to see if my newly aggressive tone would inspire Man of the People to respond in a more timely manner, but no such luck.

By ten-thirty, I’d done several laps around the apartment, flipped the television on and off another three times, and checked for new e-mail repeatedly and fruitlessly. I’d also consumed two additional Diet Cokes, polished off the first bag of chips and started on another.

By eleven, I’d convinced myself that if I didn’t get out of the apartment soon I wouldn’t be able to fit through the doorway and that it would be safe for me to leave if I took the appropriate precautions. These consisted of ransacking Emma’s closet in search of a fresh disguise, on the very off chance somebody had tracked me to Saks and there was security camera footage showing me going into the ladies’ room and an Olsen twin coming out.

Fortunately, Emma was a bit of a pack rat. On a top shelf I found a platinum blond wig I remembered from a college Halloween party, when we’d all gone as different Madonna songs. Emma had been “La Isla Bonita” Madonna, complete with the matador outfit.

I skipped the matador outfit but pulled the wig on over my own hair, straightening it in the bathroom mirror and then taking a step back to survey the effect. It looked okay—like a bad dye job rather than a wig—but my eyebrows now looked strange, their dark red clashing with the platinum. Emma wasn’t much of a makeup wearer, so I knew I wouldn’t find anything useful like an eyebrow pencil in her medicine chest, but I did find a charcoal stick among her art supplies. With careful application, I managed to transform myself into a brunette who hadn’t thought to dye her eyebrows to match her bad dye job.

I put an old pea coat on over the sweater and jeans Emma had already loaned me that morning. It was a good thing we were roughly the same size and that she had simple tastes; if it had been Hilary’s closet, everything would have been either inches too long or far too skimpy, and if it had been Luisa’s, I’d be too scared that I’d rip or spill on one of her precious designer garments to dare borrow anything.

A trip to the window assured me that the street below was quiet and seemingly clear of police surveillance. I stuffed money and my copy of Emma’s key in a pocket, donned my sunglasses, and let myself out of the apartment.

I’d filled my MetroCard a couple of weeks ago, but I was still concerned that there were computers somewhere logging when the card was swiped at a turnstile and connecting the swiping to me via my credit card. But I also didn’t want to be trapped in traffic with a potentially inquisitive or New York 1-watching cab driver. So I paid cash for a new MetroCard and took the subway up to midtown.

Hilary had said something interesting the previous night, but it was right before Emma arrived with food and the news about the rat poison so handily stored in my kitchen. The discussion had veered off in another direction, and Hilary’s question had not received the attention it deserved.

How, she had asked, did Dahlia’s attacker know to impersonate me?

I’d been thinking about this as I roamed Emma’s empty apartment, and I still didn’t have a good answer. Both Naomi and Annabel had seen me, but only in passing—they didn’t know my name or how I fit in. Perhaps Dahlia had told one of them she knew something incriminating and that she intended to tell me, too, and perhaps one of them had thought that framing me while attacking Dahlia would be a nice way to tie up both loose ends, but there were still a lot of dots to be connected to make this line of conjecture work.

The more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to the possibility that Gallagher’s murder and the attempt on Dahlia’s life could have something to do with the Thunderbolt buyout. It still seemed like Naomi and Annabel had the only obvious motives to do away with Gallagher, but if one of them wasn’t responsible, and if the crimes were connected with the deal in some way, then maybe Gallagher and Dahlia weren’t the only possible targets.

That somebody had gone to the trouble to impersonate me while seeking to commit murder had, in effect, made me a target, too.

And if I was a target because it was assumed I knew more than I did about this deal then the same assumption could be made about Jake, or even about Mark Anders. It seemed only fair to warn them they might be in danger.

I recognized that this was a relatively elaborate justification for getting out of the house, but this was about more than just warning Jake. I could use his help, too. He knew the context and the principals involved, so he might have insights that my friends couldn’t have with their secondhand knowledge of the situation. And he’d be able to fill me in on anything that people might be saying around the office. He knew me well enough to know that I would never have done anything to hurt Dahlia. I trusted him not to turn me in to the authorities.

Besides, I would have lost my mind, as well as any ability to fit into my clothes, if I’d stayed cooped up in Emma’s apartment any longer.

When he wasn’t lunching with me at Burger Heaven, Jake favored a Halal vendor on the corner of East 52nd Street and Park Avenue. “You definitely can’t get falafel like that in Chicago,” he had said. I had never tried to get falafel in Chicago, but I agreed anyhow and regularly let him pick some up for me when he ventured out. I’d even trained him to ask for the appropriate amount of hot sauce, which in my case was more than anyone else found appropriate, even the vendor with his presumably spice-tempered palate.

By noon, I was perched on the wall bordering one of the fountains in front of the Seagram’s building, about thirty feet from the vendor’s cart. The food smelled good, but I was still too queasy from my salt-and-vinegared breakfast to think about lunch. I’d picked up a newspaper, and I scanned it while I waited, hopefully, for Jake to show up. Gallagher’s murder and the attack on Dahlia were commanding prominent coverage, but while the articles referenced a missing red-haired suspect, I was relieved to see that neither my name nor photograph had been made public.

I was starting to doubt the wisdom of my plan, and I was also getting cold, when I spotted Jake coming from the direction of the Winslow, Brown offices, on the other side of Park. My distance vision wasn’t necessarily my strongest asset, but the tilt of his blond head and his gait were distinctive. I put down my paper and rose to meet him, but instead of crossing the street he turned and headed north.

I followed him up Park Avenue. He was walking quickly, and with his long legs, I nearly had to run to keep up. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by actually running, much less by calling out his name. I was a block south of him and still on the wrong side of the street when a serendipitous red light afforded me the opportunity to cross to his side. I’d made it to the island in the middle when I realized Jake, too, was crossing the street, but to the side I’d just come from and a block up. I managed to backtrack before the light could turn green, but by the time I was heading north again he’d disappeared around the corner of 57th Street, heading east.

Where was he going? The only location of interest in that direction was Bloomingdale’s, and Jake had always struck me as more of a Brooks Brothers type of guy. Throwing caution to the wind, I upped my pace to a jog, praying that my wig was anchored securely enough not to fly off and taking care not to make eye contact with anyone I passed.

When I turned the corner at 57th Street, I was rewarded with a glimpse of Jake entering a doorway at the far end of the block. I slowed my pace back down to a walk. I knew that doorway—it was to a Starbucks. I didn’t see why Jake would go to a Starbucks on 57th Street when one had conveniently colonized the lobby of the building that housed Winslow, Brown’s headquarters, but maybe he’d wanted the fresh air and the brisk walk.

I checked my reflection in a shop window and assured myself that my wig was still in place before I followed him inside, confident that I remained incognito. After the bright sunlight of the day, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior, made all the more dim by my sunglasses, and at first I wondered if I’d mistaken Jake for someone else entering the store.

But then I saw him.

He was sitting in a corner, in close conversation with a woman whose sunglasses were as large as my own.

But even with the sunglasses I recognized Annabel Gallagher.