Now You See Her (28 page)

What does my mind know? I stand here at the window on this rainy evening and sort the pieces. Start with Faiser, now serving
a twenty-to-life sentence for a murder someone else might have committed. Henry, whose guilt or innocence is as much of a
mystery today as on the morning Devaney showed up here with the leather notebook.

Then there’s Carlo. Do all roads lead to Carlo? The night manager of a condo high-rise is not the food chain’s biggest fish.
Would that be Jeffrey Arnot? I’m betting the truck pulling out of Eldridge at midnight carried something illegal, that the
condo high-rise is a shipping point. And who is Perk? Short for Perkins? If only I’d asked Big Doc. He linked Carlo to the
Inferno, and his pothead ravings on sewers and parts-per-billion poison might have yielded a clue on Perk.

Biscuit whimpers, and the VW goes round again. I refuse to spend the night here at the window frame, so I creep along the
wall back toward the kitchen, startled by the fridge light as I grab yogurt and an orange, then shut the door fast and wolf
down the food. It feels like house arrest. I’m being held hostage.

No, I’m a woman exercising caution for self-preservation, a woman ready to fight another day. Tonight’s low profile guarantees
my tomorrow.

At 6:00 a.m., I’m out inspecting my car. There’s no sign of the circling Beetle. The silk rose blooms in the bud vase. The
Beetle is locked snug at the curb, yet several spaces up from where I’d parked it. Five or six spaces.

Inside the unlocked car, I turn the key and check the odometer but can’t recall my mileage. It’s the Goldilocks feeling that
someone’s been inside. The seat seems to be moved back a notch or two. Biscuit jumps and sniffs a carnival of new odors.

I’m sliding out when I see daylight glint on a strand of hair, which is blond and very long, too long to be mine, and the
wrong color too. I hold it up. It’s over a foot long. From the ponytail of the joyrider? Devaney would now ask, “Who’s been
your passenger in the car these past weeks, Reggie?” Okay, Frank, the answer is the StyleSmart “models.” I pick up the hair
between thumb and forefinger, wrap it in tissue, and drive to StyleSmart.

“So do you think it could be Monique’s?” I’m at the door when Nicole opens up. Her keys jangle on a big brass ring. “Monique’s
hair was the longest of all the models who drove with me.”

“Reggie, let me get the lights turned on and the coffee going. What’s this all about?”

“I want to know whether you think it could be Monique’s. She rode in my VW to the Newton show.”

Nicole holds the single strand to the window’s light. “Monique’s is russet blond, Reggie. This one here is more cornsilk.
You ready to toss out this old hair?”

“Oh no. I need it.”

Nicole’s look is sly. “You find the hair close-up on a man’s collar?”

I force a chuckle, rewrap the hair, and tuck it in my purse. “Let’s just say that this single hair has me going round in circles.
First thing, I want to check on the couture. The storage people are coming?”

“For pickup tomorrow. Everything’s ready.”

“Let me check anyway. Give me a moment.” Actually, I have a plan. In the back room, all by myself, I want to touch Sylvia
Dempsey’s Chanel suit. I’m thankful to hear a customer come in. Nicole will be distracted. Good.

The back room is fragrant with a mixture of scents from the designer clothes in the garment bags—Boucheron, L’Or, Escada.
Moving down the rack, I unzipper each bag and peek until I find the Sylvia collection.

I prepare myself. First, relax the shoulders. Take note of Nicole’s voice in the distance, her lilting words entwined with
the customer’s own. Let their voices fall away. Let the moment be clear and open. Let the mind be receptive. Now reach for
the clothing, which Sylvia once wore. Take hold of the sleeve of the pink suit. Feel the connection. Open both mind and body
and let the moment speak.

My palms dampen against the fabric. In the distance, I hear Nicole say, “Let’s try you in a fourteen.” The fluorescent light
buzzes. The moment empties. Then something stirs. It’s a faint hum, a light flutter on the surface of my skin. Will it crescendo?
Will I next feel turmoil and the violence of her death, the bludgeoning? My legs tense, toes grip. I prepare for this as a
certain sensation rises in my chest…in my breast. My nipples prickle. A great warmth surges, a liquid thickness, then a driving
wink between my thighs. This throbbing…it’s sex. It’s lust. Not fear or murder, but lust. This is Sylvia Dempsey’s message—
hot pink, hot sex. Her lingerie drawer so chaste, but the Chanel suit a pulsating cry of sex. For sex.

I let go of the sleeve. I struggle to contain the pulse and pounding throb. The room whirls. I’m panting. My God…I am flushed
with arousal, weak, my vision blurry. Ground yourself, Reggie. Pull out of this. Breathe deep. Center yourself.

“Reggie, you okay in there?”

“Fine, Nicole. I’m fine. Be right out.”

Lie. My shirt is wet, knees buckling. I stand here for what seems eternity. Sylvia’s partly unzipped garment bag gapes, but
I won’t touch it. Every fiber of the pink suit throbs. I turn away, run a hand through my hair, straighten my collar, freshen
my lipstick. Shoulders back, I exit this back room as though my life depends on it.

Breathless from brisk walking in the darkness, I linger in the shadows at the Eldridge Place entrance until a car clears the
security gate and disappears into the garage. I parked two blocks away and wasn’t followed—not noticeably—but I still feel
exposed. It’s two hours before Carlo begins his shift, a two-hour window of opportunity. High in the night sky, a bird cries.
A crow? A jackal? I press the front door buzzer and hope against hope the night staff is the navy retiree with the thatchy
gray hair and thick glasses.

When he comes, I’ll say, “Good evening. I’m Regina Cutter. I believe we met a few weeks ago.” Through the glass doors, he’ll
face a woman in a black linen pantsuit with pearls. How can he possibly not let me in? I’ll ask certain pointed questions.
I have an agenda.

Here comes someone, squinting, peering. It’s him, but he reaches for his pager to summon help. I flash my brightest smile,
and he pockets the pager and taps a remote. The electronic lock releases, and I open the door. “Hello again. It’s Walt, isn’t
it?”

“Walt Kane.”

“I’m Regina Cutter.” My fib is on the tip of my tongue. “I’m expecting Mr. Albritten from the realty company. He’s showing
me a two-bedroom unit.”

“Nobody told me.”

“It’s a late-night appointment, just like the last time. Mr. Albritten is so nice about my impossible schedule. Surely you
remember me, the night owl? I helped you with your puzzle.” Bat your eyelashes, Reggie, and hold that smile. “I’ll just wait
here in the lobby, okay?”

“Our guests park in the garage.” He stares at me through the yellowish lenses.

“I took a taxi. Mr. Albritten will be here any moment.”

“They’re supposed to notify me.”

“No doubt a tiny slipup.” I saunter toward the desk to appear casual, then lean to see a book of crossword puzzles lying open
on the desktop, and supermarket tabloids too. The eight surveillance monitors glow gray. “Well, I see you’re doing crosswords
once again.” My smile muscles strain. On one monitor, a car is shown parking in a lower-level garage slot on level D, and
a couple gets out and walks to the elevator. A second monitor shows them inside the elevator. Walt Kane sits down at his console.
“Tell me, Mr. Kane, did you work crosswords in the navy?”

“You remember I’m a navy man?”

“Navy chief, right?”

“Right as rain. I started as a bosun’s mate at seventeen and worked up. If my country ever needs me again, I’m ready. Say,
would you happen to know who in ancient history first used the horse in battle? The third and fourth letters are t’s.”

“Try the Hittites.” The couple now exits the elevator. Another screen shows them in a hallway. “I’ve been thinking, Walt,
about how much services matter in a high-rise residence. For instance, window cleaning.”

“Twice a year, spring and fall, like clockwork. They’re pros. Hittites it is!”

“And carpets? How about rugs and carpets? Who cleans them?”

“Well, an outside team does the Orientals here in the lobby. The hallway carpets, though, we take care of that ourselves.”

“And residents can make a request for their own rugs to be cleaned too? If I move in, I can arrange carpet cleaning?”

He puts down the crossword. “If you want to. The night manager sees to it.”

“Carlo Feggiotti. I met him. Actually, a Realtor told me the man to call for carpets is… let’s see, I jotted it down. It’s
Alan Tegier.”

The watery eyes remain opaque, unblinking. “Al, that’s Pompadour Al. Hardworking young guy, a jack-of-all-trades.”

Is it possible Walt Kane does not know that Alan is dead? “So you know him?”

He nods. “Carlo took him under his wing. He was with us for the better part of a year.”

“But he doesn’t work here now?”

“Not now.” Walt shakes his head as if Alan Tegier has simply left the payroll. He’s missed the local news story—by cocooning
himself in national tabloids? “Young Al had some kind of falling-out with Carlo. Believe me, you never want to cross Carlo.
It’s too bad because the kid liked the night shift. He worked the check times too.”

“Check times?”

“Part of our security.” He falls silent and reaches for the puzzle. “You seem to have a marvelous security system.”

“The best. The perimeter, the premises, it’s state-of-the-art. You move in here, you can set your mind at ease.”

“Twenty-four/seven?”

“Yep. Except for check times.”

“And what are those check times?”

“Nothing to worry about. Carlo and the boys cover everything.”

“I don’t believe Mr. Feggiotti or Mr. Albritten told me about them.”

“A Realtor wouldn’t know. A good many of the residents don’t know.”

I lean toward him. “Believe me, Walt, if I’m going to move into Eldridge Place, I want to know everything.”

“How about a talking machine, eleven letters?”

“Try Graphophone. See, if I move in, you can count on me. Carlo’s check time, please explain that.”

“A safety feature. He shuts down the whole system to check it out.”

“The surveillance system?”

“Surveillance and alarms, twice a week between two and three a.m. It takes about an hour. Say, Graphophone works. You’re a
big help.”

“So your monitors go blank?”

“The alarm system too, every Tuesday and Thursday night. But don’t worry, Carlo’s in charge. The security crew on duty, they’re
cream of the crop.”

“Perk too?”

He looks up and squints. “Who’s Perk?”

“Maybe it’s Perkins?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Anyway, it sounds like twice a week you can count on a long break in the wee hours.”

He squares his shoulders as if to salute. “No, ma’am, I man my station here at the door. It’s a drill. If the power ever goes
out, we have a procedure. Carlo’s my commander. I’m under orders to man the front door every minute.”

“Well, that’s impressive. I’ve heard so many good things from Mr. Arnot too. Perhaps you’ve met Mr. Jeffrey Arnot?”

“The African-American gentleman? Yes, he’s here sometimes. He’s like the rear admiral. Say, where’s that real estate man of
yours?”

I look at my watch and pretend surprise. “Golly, it’s twenty after. Perhaps I should call.” Cell phone out, I fake the call
and a message. “He must be on his way. I see you read the National Enquirer and the Star. I do too.”

“I like to follow Lisa Marie and the Kennedys.”

“Anything on Elvis or Princess Di, I can’t resist.”

He licks his lips. “You know, the fact is, we have Enquirer material right here at Eldridge Place.”

“Really?”

“If you move in, you’ll find out.”

“Ooh, interesting.” Bat those lashes, Reggie. “I imagine nothing slips by you, Walt. A navy chief knows the score.”

He sucks in his stomach and puffs out his chest. “Some think I’m the old guy at the night desk. They’d be surprised what I
see. The goings-on, I’m not fooled.”

“I bet you’re not.”

“High-ups, you’d be surprised.”

“Celebrities?”

“TV stars too. From Channel 5.”

“Really?”

“And politicians. Like a certain statehouse official.”

“I see.”

“A certain senator. Up for election this year.”

“You mean reelection.”

“Nope. E-lection.” His eyes twinkle behind the lenses. “Who’s up for lieutenant governor?”

My heart thuds. “You mean Jordan Wald?”

“They think with thick glasses, you can’t see two feet in front of you.”

“Jordan Wald has a condo here?”

“Every guy with gray hair is past it, that’s what they think. But I knew who it was.”

“Wald? Jordan Wald lives here at Eldridge?”

“There’s a crow’s nest and a love nest. A navy man knows the difference.”

“Senator Wald has a love nest?”

“The unit that’s still up for sale. That woman in pink. Pink lady, pink condo.”

“The unit with the Valentine theme? The sixth floor, 603, I saw that unit.”

“You talk about young Al. He cleaned those carpets.”

“The carpets in the Valentine condo?”

“Used the steam machine. He said things were plenty steamy up there with the two of them. Then, too, folks try to sneak by
me. They get in the elevator and forget about the camera and monitor. The pink lady carried on in the elevator. She and him
put on a show.”

“With Jordan Wald? Are you sure?”

He nods. “I understand she’s the one that got herself killed. Careless lady.”

“Sylvia Dempsey.”

“Out by herself by the Charles River at all hours. You say you took a cab?”

“I did.”

“I’ll call one tonight when you’re ready. I called the pink lady a cab lots of times. Middle of the night, whatever. She slipped
me a heck of a holiday bonus last February. Put it in a Valentine card with Cupid shooting arrows. A month later, though,
it was all over. The love nest, it was a tiger cage.”