The Last Good Night (31 page)

“Laura?”

“Yes?”

“Alexandra Harrison.
Vanity Fair
.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry, Alexandra, but I have no comment for the press right now.” I turned the tape off.

“I think you might want to reconsider when you hear what I have to say,” Harrison insisted.

I remained still, waiting.

“I'm in Florida,” she continued. “Flagerty, Florida, to be precise.”

I sank into a chair. “I see. What are you doing there?” I asked warily.

“The dailies may have scooped me on your identity, but I thought it might be worthwhile to come down here and read Pierce's trial transcripts myself. Laura, what exactly happened on the night of Frank Xavier's death?”

“You just said yourself, you read the transcripts.”

“There seem to be certain gaps. It's clear you were there. But it's just as clear you disappeared. Now this is what I don't understand: If you had nothing to do with his death, why didn't you testify?”

“I don't have to answer your questions.”

“Of course not. But I'm going to print the story anyway, so you might as well give me your side of it.”

“I don't have a side, as you put it.”

“According to that woman's testimony, what was her name, Alma Patrick?, yes, according to Mrs. Patrick's testimony, you were struggling with Xavier when Pierce ran up the courtyard path. Then you suddenly disappeared. She also said that Pierce was your boyfriend. I don't know, it just makes me kind of, well, suspicious.”

“The jury had another opinion.”

“So it seems. But as we all know, juries are far from infallible.”

“The tabloids already went over most of this,” I said impatiently. “By the time your publication comes out, it will be old news.”

“I have things the dailies don't have.” She paused. “I've just come from talking with Carol Pierce.”

“Jack's wife?”

“Yes.”

I shifted my legs nervously back and forth. “The police already talked to her.”

“Yes, I know. But they didn't ask the right questions.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's a nice woman, Laura. A little lonely, maybe, but as you well know, lonely women can make for very good stories. They want to talk. They
need
to talk.”

“What did she have to say?” I asked despite myself.

“She remembered you very well from high school. She said you had something of a reputation with the boys. Of course, I get the feeling there was a certain amount of tension between you and her over Jack. Was there, Laura?”

“I never even knew her.”

“Is that your on-the-record response?”

“It's my on-the-record and off-the-record response. It happens to be the truth.”

I was about to hang up when Harrison began to speak again.

“Be that as it may, she had some rather interesting ideas about what happened the night Xavier was killed.”

“I'm not going to talk about this right now. Look, Alexandra, my daughter is missing. Do you understand that? Do you have any idea what that means?”

“I'm sorry. I truly am,” Harrison replied.

I took a deep breath. “Did she know where Jack is?”

“I realize you may think that I put the story above all else. And maybe I do. But believe me, I would have told the police if she knew where Jack was. All she said was that he was on a business trip but she was certain that he'd be returning soon.”

“They're separated,” I replied dully.

“Yes, so I understand. But Carol seems pretty sure that they'll work things out as soon as this is over. She's convinced that despite their rough times, he cares too much about their baby to leave for good. To tell you the truth, I have a feeling they've been in touch all this time. Maybe she's protecting him for some reason. What do you think, Laura? Is she?”

I hardly heard her last words. “What baby?” I asked as I clutched the phone in my shaking hand.

“Their little boy.”

“But…” My lungs sputtered to a stop.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” I stammered. “I just didn't know they had a baby. Did you see him?”

“Who, the baby? No. He was napping in the next room. Carol stopped the interview when he began to cry. Why?”

I was standing now, my palms sweating as my mind jagged about in concentric circles. “No reason. Look, Alexandra, I've got to go. Someone's at the door.”

“Wait. Aren't you going to comment on—”

“Not now.”

“But—”

I hung up in the middle of her protestations.

 

I
T WAS
S
OPHIE.

It had to be.

Sophie.

What other baby could it be?

Mine. Ours.

Sophie.

I had been wrong. Dead wrong.

It was just as David had said. Jack hated me after all.

I
WALKED AS
calmly as I could past Dougherty and found David in the kitchen where he was soaking white beans to make a soup.

“Hurry,” I said as I began to pull him by the arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Sshh. I need to talk to you.”

“Give me a minute,” he protested as he tried to dry his wet hands.

“Now,” I insisted.

I dragged him into his study and locked the door.

“She's okay, David,” I whispered. My eyes were blinded by tears as I reached for him. “Sophie's safe.” I was laughing and crying at once.

“What are you talking about?” he asked incredulously.

“That was Alexandra Harrison on the telephone.”

“Who?”

“The reporter from
Vanity Fair
.”

“So?”

“She's in Flagerty. She just interviewed Carol Pierce. Jack's wife.”

“That's nice,” David retorted wryly. “Another full-length feature. That's just what we need.”

“David, she has Sophie.”

“What are you talking about? Who has Sophie?”

“Carol.”

David's eyes widened. “Did Harrison tell you that?”

“No,” I admitted.

I saw him sink with disappointment, another disappointment.

“But Harrison said that when she went to interview Carol, she had a baby. David, don't you see? Carol and Jack couldn't have any children. It's Sophie. It's got to be.” The words were tumbling out, tripping over each other.

“Hold on. Maybe Carol was just watching a neighbor's kid.”

“No. Carol specifically said it was hers and Jack's. And Harrison thinks Carol's been in touch with Jack all this time.”

David slammed his fist onto his desk. “I knew he was behind this.”

My eyes fell. “You were right.” It was a moment before I could look back up at him. “But Sophie's alive, David. She's safe. That's all that matters.”

“What proof do you have it's her?”

“I just know it.”

“Did Harrison actually see her?” David persisted.

“No, but…” I didn't tell David that Harrison had said the baby was a boy. I knew Carol was lying.

“Laura, the police already talked to Carol. Don't you think they would have known if something was wrong?”

“She obviously lied to them,” I replied impatiently. “All she had to do was keep Sophie out of sight. Why would they have suspected her? David, listen. Jack told me that Carol has had emotional problems. Serious ones. I wouldn't put this past her.”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” David muttered bitterly. He began to reach for the phone on his desk. “Okay. Let's call Harraday and have him get some men down there to check it out.”

I grabbed David's arm. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no'?”

“Sophie's safe. I know she is. No matter what, I'm sure Jack would never hurt her. But I think it would be better if we went to get her ourselves.”

“What the hell are you talking about? The Florida police can be there in ten minutes.”

“David, I can't send Jack to jail again. Not after everything I've done to him.”

“Are you fucking serious? If he is behind this, you won't have to send him to jail. I'm going to kill him.” His face was suddenly red, contorted. “Look, aside from everything else, it could be extremely dangerous to take this into our own hands. For Sophie. And for us. Let's at least arrange some backup. They can do it undercover. Nothing to jeopardize Sophie's safety.”

“No.”

“Laura, this is a national case. Even if it is Sophie, do you really think we can simply reappear with our baby, no questions asked? Get serious.”

“I'm completely serious. We can tell the police the truth after we have her safely back.” I took a step closer and grasped David's arms. “Don't you understand?” I asked hoarsely. “I'm scared. I don't know what Jack would do if he saw the police coming for him again. It's the one thing that might make him hurt her.”

David took a deep breath, pausing, not so certain now, not so strong.

“We're not even sure if it is Sophie,” he said quietly.

“I'm sure.”

We both stood completely still.

“Please, David. All I care about is getting Sophie back unharmed. Let's do it my way.”

“What if you're wrong?”

“What if I'm right?”

Our eyes met, held. I saw David's chest moving in and out with each breath.

“Laura, this is crazy. Assuming Pierce took Sophie, what makes you think he'll just give her to us?”

“He will if I talk to him.”

“What makes you so sure? You were wrong about him already. You thought he had nothing to do with this.”

“I know,” I said softly. “I'm sorry. But I still believe if he sees me, if we speak…”

“We can't just go down there and get her even if we wanted to,” David interrupted. “What about Dougherty?”

“I turned the tape off when Harrison introduced herself. I didn't think it would be anything we needed. Dougherty didn't hear the conversation and there's no record of it.”

“We still can't waltz out of here with no one noticing.”

I stopped and, for the first time, began to panic. “What do you mean?”

“Don't you think they're going to be suspicious if we suddenly march out of here together for the first time in days with a suitcase in hand?”

“We won't take a suitcase.”

“Laura.”

“We won't go together,” I added quickly, grabbing at anything.

“What do you mean?”

“I'll tell Dougherty I need to get some air. What can he do? He can't keep me from taking a walk, after all.” The words were coming out only partially formed as I began frantically to think up a plan, any plan.

“This is crazy,” David interrupted.

I didn't hear, didn't stop. “Just listen. There's a phone booth around the corner from the Wayfare Diner on the corner of
Sixth Avenue and Waverly Place. Do you remember? We've had breakfast there.”

“I remember.”

“Okay. I'll go there,” I continued, “and call the house.”

“So?”

“You can pretend to be in the bathroom so Dougherty has to get it,” I said impatiently. “Then while I have him on the phone, you sneak out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just do it, David. Please.”

“What are you going to tell Dougherty on the phone?”

“I'll pretend to be Harraday's secretary, I don't know.”

“Harraday doesn't have a secretary.”

“Jesus, David. I'll think of something.”

“And just what happens when they realize we're gone?”

“I don't know. I don't care.” I was crying now, pulling on his shirt, pleading. “Please.”

David ran his hand through his hair. “Do you really think it might be her?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“Yes.”

I saw the first pale hues of hope wash across his face. “Oh God, I hope so,” he whispered to himself. Tears began to cluster in his eyes. “I hope so.”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” I said. “Then as soon as I call, hurry out. I'll be waiting for you at the phone booth.”

“You realize this is nuts?” he remarked.

“If you're not there, I'll go without you,” I replied harshly. “I mean it.”

David leaned back against his desk. He stood with his face down, completely still. I could not see his eyes. “All right,” he said at last. “All right. But Laura, don't get your hopes up. It might not be Sophie.”

I wasn't listening. I was moving, moving already. “Call the airport and get us on the next flight to West Palm Beach.”

 

I
LEFT
D
AVID
in his study and, trying not to run, went to get Sophie's favorite white blanket from her room, cramming it into my large black leather pocketbook. I stood with my hand on her crib, inhaling the fading remnants of her smell. Soon, soon. I took a deep breath and then I walked carefully into the living room, where Dougherty was flipping disinterestedly through a two-week-old
Time
magazine.

“I'm going out to get some air,” I said casually, fearful that he would hear my heart, thrashing so loudly against the confines of my chest wall.

He put the magazine down immediately and rose. “Wait a minute and I'll arrange an escort.” He began to reach for the telephone.

“I don't want an escort,” I snapped. I relaxed my shoulders and tried to smile reassuringly. “I'm just going to the corner drugstore. I need some…things. Female things.”

Dougherty looked uncomfortably at me. “I'm sure the drugstore delivers. Or we can send someone. Just tell us what you need.”

I took a step closer to him. “I'm going crazy in here,” I said softly.

“Miss Barrett, you can't go out alone. If nothing else, the press is gonna jump down your throat.”

“I'll go out the service entrance. I'll cover my head and keep my face down. You'll see. They'll never even know.” I spoke quietly, conspiratorially.

“It'll take more than that. Miss Barrett, let me just get one of the guys to come down. It will only take five minutes.” Once more, he made a move for the phone.

“No. Please.” I laid my hand on his arm. “You have no idea what it's been like,” I said as tears began to well up in my eyes. “I think I'll lose my mind if I don't get out.”

He stared down at my fingers on his shirtsleeve.

“I'll be okay. Really,” I assured him. “But please. I need a little time alone. This is just so hard.” I let go of his arm, giving it a final squeeze. “It can be our secret. I promise I'll be back in twenty minutes. A half hour, tops. Please. Try to understand.”

Dougherty averted his eyes.

“You're sure?”

“Yes. I'll take full responsibility.”

Finally, he shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

Before he could change his mind I hurried to the front hall closet and yanked on my long coat. I wrapped a scarf high about my neck and pulled my cloche low on my forehead. I did not turn around.

 

T
HE BACK ELEVATOR
was filled with old newspapers corded for recycling. Three bags of bottles and cans were balanced precariously against the far wall, and a discarded dust rag hung from the railing. I pressed the bottom button and prayed no one else would get on as the elevator lurched down eleven floors. Finally, the door opened onto the poorly lit lime green hallway that snaked through the bowels of the otherwise elegant building. The serviceman who usually sat at the tiny booth near the door had left at five o'clock. His perch was empty. I pushed open the heavy metal door and walked out onto the street.

The cold early evening air slapped into my face. I took a deep breath, relieved to be out, to be alone, to be moving. A light flurry was falling and tiny white specks of snow landed on my coat. I walked quickly, my legs cutting across the pavement with nervous energy as I passed Seventh Avenue and continued east. I was going at last, going to her. I glanced at my watch. I had left the apartment exactly six minutes ago. No one looked my way.

When I reached Sixth Avenue, I saw the first Christmas deco
rations beginning to go up in some of the record and book stores. Tinsel and garlands in brilliantly colored foil were strung across the windows, glistening shyly in the growing dark. It was something David and I had been talking about recently, Sophie's first Christmas. David, who had grown up Jewish but not observant, suddenly wanted Sophie to observe Hanukkah and I, who remembered haphazard holidays, Christmas celebrated days after the fact or whenever Astrid found it convenient, craved elaborate Christmas Eve dinners, Christmas mornings with presents and punch. We had agreed to give her both. I pictured it quickly, tasting it, believing it now.

I continued north, thinking of Sophie.

And thinking, too, of Jack. Jack, his head bent as he ducked into the police car on that suddenly lit black-top street all those years ago, Jack, handing me the crumbling picture he had drawn of me in prison, Jack the way I had last left him, sleeping in the Hotel Angelica, alone.

Finally, I reached the side street behind the Wayfare Diner. A shuttered entrance to the subway lay black and forbidding on the corner. Piles of the diner's garbage lay against the wall, and a river of stinking sour milk ran to the gutter. I stepped around a sleeping wino, his hands lost down the waist of his filthy jeans, and reached the graffitied pay phone.

My fingers twitched as I fumbled for a quarter in my pocket. It took two attempts to get it in the slot. But when I brought the receiver to my ear, it was dead. I pressed the coin return and banged the receiver before I tried again.

Nothing.

I grabbed my quarter and, panicking, looked at my watch. Thirteen minutes had gone by since I had left David in his study. I looked up the narrow side street, but there was not another phone in sight.

I had no choice but to run around the corner into the bustle of Sixth Avenue. A block and a half away, I spotted another pay
phone in front of a large discount drugstore. Brilliant white neon poured from its large windows and I paused, looking in both directions, before running to it just as another woman stepped up to use it. “Bitch,” she muttered as I angled past her.

I pressed my forehead to the cold metal box as I slid in my quarter. After a few seconds of static I heard the dial tone. I quickly dialed my home number and listened to it ring as I put a Kleenex over the receiver. Silence. At the second ring, I looked down at my watch. Seventeen minutes. More silence.

After three rings, Dougherty picked up. “Hello?”

“This is Officer Kyler,” I said in a rapid high-pitched voice. “Detective Harraday asked me to call and go over scheduling for the next few days with you.”