Never Alone (10 page)

“Not that I know of, and we were together all day,” Palumbo answered.

“I got a call when I was at the McAllister apartment. It must have been a wrong number or a butt dial or something. The line went dead shortly after I answered. I didn't recognize the number.”

“It wasn't me. Maybe it was an adoring fan from your recent television interview?” Nappa ribbed.

“You're
so
not funny when you try to be, Nappa,” Megan said.

“You're just a tough crowd.”

“Still not funny. I have an errand to run.” She put her jacket on and gathered the case files together.

“Buy him one from me, all right?” Nappa had a soft look in his eyes and offered her a knowing smile.

Megan felt a lump form in her throat. “How did you—”

“You're my partner.”

She stared back at him in gratitude, along with a dash of astonishment he'd remembered. She mouthed a silent
thank you
, and went on her way.

_____

“Hey, Gint. I brought you something.” Megan placed two cans of Guinness beside the freshly covered grave and knelt down. Not that she was waiting for one, but had she received a thank you following her greeting, the Guinness would have been the first thing she'd have gone for.

The air was cold, the ground wet. The mist matted her hair
down, long strands clamped over one cheek, making her look more like a disheveled child than a grieving daughter. She bundled her hands in her coat pocket while glancing at the graves scattered nearby. She realized her duties with funeral arrangements had yet to be completed. The headstone would need to be chosen, and paid for by Brendan, of course. A strong surge of wind blew against her back as if forcing her thoughts forward. She stared down at the wet mound of dirt in awe of the fact her father was merely days away from his sixty-eighth birthday when he died.

“Happy Birthday, Gint. You almost made it. Good thing I didn't get you a gift.” An uncomfortable laugh was followed with the hope that somewhere in the ethers her father would have found that unseemly comment funny; instead her pain shot out in volcanic anger. “You son of a bitch! You weren't supposed to go yet.
You weren't supposed to
leave
!” She grabbed the closest rock in front of her and chucked it, wishing God, disappointment, and pain had physical form so they could feel her wrath.

Her face fell into the palms of her hand as she begged, “Please, God, just bring him back.
Please
. I'll never drink again if you just bring him back. I'll go to church. I'll … I'll
…
please
.”

Megan wanted to slump over and hug the earth where her father had just been laid to rest. She wanted just ten more minutes with him, five if that's all that would be allotted. Instead she conceded, “Fine. Fuck you.” She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and cracked open one of the beers. “I don't have to keep any promises.” Her mind went directly to the promise she'd made earlier to Mrs. McAllister. “At least not to
you
.”

Megan chugged the beer, throwing the empty to the ground. Images of Shannon's body, the disgusting things done to her, raced through her head.

“I'm going to get the bastard, Dad. I'll get him.”

fourteen

When Megan left the
Bronx, it was dusk; it was pitch black when she returned to Manhattan. She sat on the downtown train. It was the local, but it could have been an express for the amount of attention she gave the loud speaker. When she emerged onto Lexington Avenue, she was forty blocks south of her stop. Her miscalculation had nothing to do with her exhaustion or the one Guinness—she'd handled a hell of a lot more on a hell of a lot less. Her focus was on Shannon McAllister, her mother, her father … her murder.

The chill in the night air accompanied by the drizzle wasn't enough for her to venture back to an empty apartment filled with mounting sympathy cards and regrets. She walked the streets, hoping to see the city as tourists do—a beacon of fast-paced excitement and opportunity. But what she saw were murdered people pulled out of buildings in black body bags. The line outside the Empire State Building was long, even for this hour, but Megan's memory was longer. She was called to a crime scene in the building her first year on the job. A security guard was stabbed in the chest.

Sirens wailed down the street as she turned to walk toward Times Square. Empty white noise to her ears. Megan maneuvered through the crowd as umbrellas slammed into her shoulders. A Starbucks was now at the location where a strip club once was. A hooker was found there one night with a needle sticking out of her arm from an overdose. There would be no grande lattes in her future.

Megan found herself in Midtown heading to the Upper East Side. She waited at the crosswalk, staring into the window of a restaurant. People laughing, clanking glasses of wine, enjoying overpriced food. The last time she was in a restaurant like that, a chef had stabbed the owner with a butcher knife. Slashed him right through the gut. That was the extent of Megan's fine dining experience.

Megan crossed at 59th Street on a green light when a yellow cab screeched to a halt. His horn and angry foreign words yanked her back from trolling the list of homicides she'd worked to the fact she was nearly mowed down in front of Bloomingdale's—which was not the way she wanted to go out.

The night's drizzle was now turning into a full-on bitter cold rain. Her own image caught her eye at the corner electronics store. The store was closed, but the televisions for sale in the window remained on. It was the late news. Eight televisions cast the same story: her interview leaving Shannon McAllister's apartment. Between the sound of the rain hitting the pavement and her focus on the muted newscast, she didn't hear her phone right away. She flipped open her cell. No answer, only a dead line. She glanced at the same unknown number she'd seen earlier that day.

“What the hell?”

She rang back and heard Shannon McAllister's voicemail.

Motherfucker.

Megan stared at her own countenance on the screen. Her facial expression was tired, whipped. Now, standing in the storm, saturated through and through, she felt a fire ignited by a killer's simple gesture that no amount of rain could douse.

She stared down at the cell phone, knowing she wouldn't receive a call from that number again.

“I am no one's bitch. I will
not
be fucked with.”

fifteen

Megan had passed drenched
a half hour previously. Her kaleidoscope of moods would not tolerate sitting alone in an empty apartment for long, though. She pressed the outdoor buzzer to the entrance of the Carnegie Hill Swim Club. Glancing up into the security camera, she thought for a brief moment how ironic it was that her gym had a better security system than most apart
ment buildings in Manhattan. Being buzzed in through two
doors and swiping a gym card for admittance made entrance to the Pentagon seem less troublesome than gaining access to the semiposh Upper East Side swim club.

Manny, the attendant on duty, sat at the desk reading an outdated issue of
Sports Illustrated
when Megan walked in. She swiped her membership card through the monitor, and her photo appeared on screen as well as the date and time of her last workout.

Manny was a big guy with dark, curly hair. He had a year-round tan and muscles that Megan was sure were aided by performance-enhancing drugs.

He glanced up at the screen. “Been a while, huh?”

“Yeah, thanks for noticing, Manny.”

He grinned, handed her a towel. “Have a good workout.”

“Could I have two towels, please? I'm swimming tonight.”

“You look like you already have been. Oh, just so you know the lifeguard is on his break, so you'll need to wait until he gets back. Gym policy.”

“Sure. I'm steaming first, anyway,” she lied.
Policy
was not a word she felt a close kinship with, and the local swim club was no exception.

Two women were getting dressed when Megan entered the ladies locker room. The smell of baby powder mixed with an overpowering perfume filled the air. She stripped off her clothes, put on her bathing suit, stuffed her belongings into one of the lockers, and hoped she was able to remember the combination to her lock by the time she returned.

Megan set her swim paraphernalia—towel, goggles, swim cap, and earplugs—on the counter while she showered down. Her flip-flops made slapping noises as she walked into the shower stall. She was one flight down from the pool, but the scent of chlorine already had its calming effect on her. When she made it to pool level, she was surprised and relieved to see she had it all to herself. She walked over to the aerobics room door and glanced in. The lifeguard was busy chatting up a short, young blonde. He was definitely still on his break, and Megan wasn't about to wait for him.

One side of the room had floor-to-ceiling windows with glass doors opening to a landscaped courtyard, now empty with autumn's arrival. Sycamore trees and wooden sculptures lined the fenced-in area. The view from the pool made Megan feel like she was in a wooded backyard rather than a hard city. As daylight began to fade, the underwater pool lights turned on automatically.

As Megan placed her towel on one of the lounge chairs, she realized she'd forgotten to remove her jewelry while in the locker room. She took off her watch and crucifix and placed them underneath the towel. She tugged at the backside of her swimsuit in an attempt to cover more of her ass, then set her goggles, swim cap, and earplugs on the adobe-colored tile and stood at the pool's edge to warm up. She rotated her arms forward and backward, loosening up her shoulders. She twisted her back left and right, all the while listening to popping noises as she moved. She bent forward, touching her palms down on the cold floor to stretch the backs of her legs. Sitting down on the edge of the pool, she dangled her feet in the water and was greeted with a mild shock to her flesh. “Christ, what is this, the Polar Bear Swim Club?”

The pool's glimmering light reflected off her pale face. It would have had a hypnotic effect if not for the last few days she'd experienced. The quiet only offered space in her mind to wander back to the crime scene: remembering Shannon's lifeless stare, the moment in Dr. Sutherland's office when he'd recounted his examination. The mental images weaving through her mind became more uncomfortable than the water temperature. She quickly inserted her earplugs, stuffed her hair into the swim cap, and suctioned the goggles to her face. The dark-shaded lenses made it difficult to see anything outside of the water, so she used the underwater lights as her guide when she plunged in. Using all her lower body strength, she pushed off the wall to begin her first lap. Months ago the first ten laps had been simple, a mere warmup for the following twenty. Today her body was deadweight as she tried to maneuver down the lane. The only noise she heard was the pounding of her heart as she cleared the first lap and wondered if it had been a good idea to start swimming without the lifeguard present. By the fourth, she began to assume a decent pace. Long rhythmic strokes moved her from one end of the pool to the other. She soon found her groove and quickly reverted to her old pattern: front
crawl, backstroke, sidestroke. Repeat.

She stopped after eight laps, grabbed the edge of the pool, and pulled herself up to again stretch the backs of her legs. The pause was more to catch her breath than ease her tight muscles. She drew in a deep breath and continued. If Megan had hoped to find a meditative state during her swim, she would have been better off going to an ashram.

_____

The movement was instantaneous. Megan saw a shadow shift in front of her lane. She stopped mid-length in the pool and yanked her goggles off her head. “Hello?” She turned full circle in the water. In between heavy breaths, she yelled out, “Is anyone there?” The echo of the water slapping against the pool's side paled in comparison with the sound of her heart pounding in her chest. “Is anyone there?”

Behind one of the columns the lifeguard appeared, the sound of the door closing behind him. “Hey, are you okay?”

Megan didn't answer right away. She knew the movement had come from the front of the lane, not from where the lifeguard entered.

“Yeah.” She swam over to the ladder and pulled herself out of the pool, leaving her few moments of relaxation behind her. Cold air attacked her wet body. She beelined herself over to the lounge chair and quickly wrapped herself in the towel. “Did you see anyone else in here?”

The lifeguard shook his head no.

She continued to look around the room as she dried herself off. “Maybe it was my imagination.”

Maybe.

She ran the towel through her soaked hair, shaking her head to one side trying to release water lodged in her ear despite the earplug. She stared down at the chair. Her watch now lay facedown. Megan always placed her watch face up, so the crystal wouldn't get scratched. She cautiously picked it up by the band as if it would snap at her fingers. There was no sign of her necklace. She shook her towel, hoping the piece had gotten tangled and would fall out.
“Hey,” she shouted over to the lifeguard, “did you see a necklace
around here? It's a silver cross with a green stone in the center.”

He said he hadn't but offered to help her in the fruitless search.

“Are you sure you didn't see anyone come in while I was swimming?”

“No, no one. Just you and me.” The lifeguard checked around the chair where Megan had placed her things. “There's a heating duct behind the chair. Maybe it slipped down?”

She moved the chair back. “I hadn't noticed that. Damn it.”

_____

Megan left the gym smelling like chlorine, her wet hair pulled
back into a ponytail. She didn't care. She didn't stick around to take a steam or a shower, she just wanted out. She was oblivious to the chilly air hitting her as she walked up the hill to her apartment. Her thoughts only one hour ago were about Shannon, the murder scene, the thin line of leads. Now her mind sprinted from the recent unidentifiable hang-ups to her missing necklace. She dug deep into her gym bag to find her keys and walked into her apartment to the sound of her cell phone beeping. She knew she'd been preoccupied earlier when she left for the gym, but Megan was never without her cell and was surprised she'd left it behind. The phone's screen read
3 voicemail messages, 1 text message
. The
first message was from the lab. They didn't come up with any
thing on the reed cross she'd sent in for testing.

“Figures,” she muttered.

They said to call back if she had questions.

The second voicemail was from Uncle Mike, checking in.

The third message was from her brother, but she didn't wait to listen to it all the way through. Megan closed the phone, forgetting to check the text message. As soon as she placed it on the kitchen counter, it vibrated, reminding her the text had yet to be opened. When she pressed the button to open the message, her seven-­
hundred-square-foot apartment suddenly felt miles away. She
turned, bent over the counter, and evacuated everything from the pit of her stomach down into the sink.

The message read:
How was your swim?

So much for wanting to feel like your old self for a few hours
, she thought. She knew she didn't need to call the number where the text originated—it had been etched in her mind—but she also knew she had to, just to be sure. And the response: Shannon McAllister's outgoing message.