Shadowkiller (9 page)

Finding her keys, Allison quickly unlocked the door. As she stepped into the vestibule of her building, she heard someone call her name from the street behind her.

“Hold the door!” Her upstairs neighbor, Kristina Haines, came hurrying along the shiny wet sidewalk,
sans
umbrella. Her dark, wet curls were wind-blown and her cheeks were bright red from the chill. Her coat was open, as usual, and she was wearing her waitressing uniform: white blouse, black slacks, and black sneakers.

“Thanks!” Kristina took the steps two at a time as Allison stood waiting for her. “I forgot my key!”

It wasn't the first time for that, either. “Is Ray home?”

“He's supposed to be—when I left for work he said he was staying in all night—but I've been calling and no one's picking up.”

That didn't surprise Allison. Kristina's live-in boyfriend didn't strike her as the most trustworthy guy in the world—not that she'd offer that opinion to Kristina. They were friends, but not the kind that shared deep, dark secrets. Allison had never really had—or wanted—a friend like that. Luis was becoming one, but she even held him at arm's length most of the time.

“What are you doing home from work already?”

“Slow night,” Kristina told her, huffing a little as she reached the top step, “and Maury—he's the manager—asked if anyone wanted to leave. I volunteered because I figured Ray was home, but who the hell knows where he went? He's not picking up his cell, either.”

“You can come hang out with me until he gets back, if you want,” Allison told her. “I've got lo mein and a movie.”

“Sounds fascinating. Which movie?”

Allison held up the video in its blue and white Blockbuster box.

“
Runaway Bride
?” Kristina read off the label. “It was okay. Not great. I saw it in the theater last summer on my first date with Ray. I knew that night he was The One.”

Yeah, well, you might want to rethink that
, Allison wanted to tell her. Hopefully, Kristina would figure that out for herself.

“But I'll watch it again,” she went on, “because it beats sitting here on the steps for God knows how long, waiting for Ray to come home and let me into the apartment.”

“Maybe you should give me a spare set of keys,” Allison suggested. “In case this happens again.”

“That's probably a good idea. And you can give me your keys, too, in case it happens to you.”

“Sure,” Allison agreed, though she knew it wouldn't happen to her. Growing up, she'd learned to be responsible at an early age. Her mother was the one who frequently forgot her keys—although there was one night when she was so high that Allison had actually deliberately locked her out.

That was early on, after her father left, when she still thought that anything she said or did could make a difference in her mother's behavior. Eventually, she realized that there was no reasoning with an addict, and, ultimately, resigned herself to the fact that her mother wasn't long for this world.

Things would have been different if her father hadn't left. Mom wasn't straight, by any means, before that—in fact, Allison assumed her drug use was the reason her father had walked away.

What about me, Daddy? I didn't do anything wrong. How could you just leave me?

Because he was obviously a coldhearted SOB. She'd just somehow never grasped that while he was around. Which, even when he lived with them, wasn't much. He worked as a long-haul trucker and was gone for weeks at a time. Sometimes when he came back, he'd bring little gifts for Allison and her mother: salt water taffy from the East Coast, tiny vials of gold flakes from a river out West . . .

Allison was torn between longing to see him and dreading his homecomings, because when her parents were together, they often fought. About what, she couldn't even remember. Everything, probably. Shouting, tears, slaps, slammed doors. A couple of times, one or the other would take off in the car, tires squealing, then come crawling back in the morning to beg forgiveness. Not from Allison—from each other. Nobody ever apologized to her.

Once her father was gone for good, her mother's habit spiraled out of control, devouring every shred of normalcy in their lives. Allison was angry at her some of the time—how could she not be?—but mostly, she just felt sorry for her. For both of them, her mother and herself; they were victims.

It was her father who infuriated her, more and more as time went on. She'd channeled her anger toward him, while every ounce of compassion she possessed went to her mom.

For her brother, Brett, she had only indifference.

He was so much older than Allison. Far too old to be a playmate, but not old enough to become, or perhaps just not interested in becoming, a father figure to his little sister. By the time she was in high school, he was married with children of his own, living on his in-laws' farm way out in Hayes Township. When Mom died, he'd offered to have Allison come live with him and his wife, Cindy-Lou, but she had no interest in doing that. She only wanted to finish high school in Centerfield, then leave Nebraska behind and never look back.

That was exactly what she did. It meant leaving her brother behind as well, but even now, she didn't miss him. She just missed the idea of having a family somewhere.

Luis—who came from a large, close-knit family here in New York—was convinced that one day, when she married and had children of her own, she'd want to reconnect with her brother. “You know, for old times' sake.”

When Allison explained that there were no shared fond memories to speak of, he said, “For your future children's sake, then. Just so they'll know that you came from somewhere. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, but . . . I'm not proud of where I come from.”

“Nebraska? Come on, it couldn't have been
that
bad.”

“It's not about
where
I grew up. It's about
how
.”

“We all have skeletons in our closets.”

Maybe. But it was much easier to just try to forget.

“You'll change your mind someday,” Luis predicted. “You'll see.”

Maybe. But in the here and now, it was hard enough to fathom ever wanting to go back there—let alone to even imagine being married, with children.

If that ever does happen
, Allison thought,
if I ever am lucky enough to have a family of my own, I'll never make the mistakes my parents made. I'll never take my husband and children for granted. I'll be there for them, and I'll hold on tight, no matter what, because nothing in this world is more precious than family.

B
ack home alone at her apartment, Carrie paced well into the wee hours.

Not because her date with Mack hadn't gone well. It had gone very well, actually, from the moment he'd complimented her on her appearance to the moment he'd kissed her good night as she got into a cab.

In between, he'd done most of the talking over a couple of beers—well, maybe more than a couple for him, but just one for her, and a shared platter of fries. He talked about his big, close-knit Irish family, mostly. But about his last girlfriend as well. The one who, Carrie gathered, hadn't been a very good listener.

Chelsea. Chelsea Kamm. That was her name.

She was blond, he mentioned—and attractive, Carrie imagined, though he didn't come right out and say it. Oh, and she worked in the fashion industry.

He revealed that detail, like the others, in passing.

Carrie's heart skipped a beat. “What does she do?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “In fashion?”

“She's a merchandise assistant for a showroom.”

“Really? Which one?”

He had to think about it, and though she didn't press him, it was all she could do not to give away just how important it was to her that he remember. When he did come up with the information, the designer's name was slightly off—though close enough for Carrie to figure out which one he was talking about. It was one of the showrooms she'd called looking for Allison.

Allison, who was also blond and attractive and worked in the fashion industry.

Carrie couldn't help but be struck by the coincidence. They weren't talking about Allison, but somehow, as the conversation went on, the two women began to mesh in her head: Mack's pushy, selfish ex-girlfriend, and Allison, who, she became certain, possessed the same unpleasant characteristics.

Now, as she paced the length of her living room—which took all of four steps—and back again, she clenched her hands and her jaw, resenting the woman. Both women.

Allison. Chelsea. She muttered their names to herself, between counting steps: across—“One, two, three, four . . .”—and back—“one, two, three, four. Allison . . . Chelsea . . . Chelsea . . . Allison . . .”

“Do you miss her?” she had asked Mack.

“Chelsea?”

Chelsea . . . ? Yes. Of course, Chelsea.
That was whom they were talking about. Chelsea, not Allison.

“Not anymore,” Mack said. “It was one of those things where we had nothing in common at all, no mutual friends. I have no problem with the fact that I'm never going to see her again.”

“What if you run into her?”

“I won't,” Mack said with a firm nod.

No
, Carrie thought now, her eyes narrowed
. Probably not. But I might . . .

Chapter Six

“S
o I had this date Saturday night,” Mack told Ben, as he used his chopsticks to scoop up a dab of green wasabi paste and deposited it into his rectangular little bowl of soy sauce.

Ben looked up from his own sushi with interest. “You had this date with . . . ?”

“That woman I met last week, in the park.”

“
What
woman you met last week in the park?”

“The one I told you about. She wasn't my type . . .”

“Right. The mousy brunette. So you asked her out?”

“I told you. This is my new MO. I want someone who likes me for me.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right. You want a mousy brunette. So was she?”

“Not all that mousy.” Mack stirred the wasabi into the soy sauce. “She was kind of cute.”

“And did she?”

“What?”

“Like you for you?”

“She seemed to.”

“So you're seeing her again, then?” Ben asked, and popped a piece of maki into his mouth.

“I called her yesterday and invited her to the Knicks-Lakers game with us.”

He and Ben had scored four courtside tickets, courtesy of a grateful client. Ben's wife, Randi, was coming, and Mack figured Carrie would be happy to join them.

Wrong.

“That's cool,” Ben said. “Randi will like having another girl around.”

“She said no.”

“What? Is she nuts? Did she not get the part about the seats being courtside?”

“I guess she doesn't like basketball.”

“Tell her Randi doesn't, either. She just likes to hire a sitter and get out of the house.”

Ben and Randi had a toddler daughter, Lexi, who was quite a handful now that she'd reached the Terrible Twos.

“I don't know . . . I really don't think Carrie wants to come.” Mack hesitated, wondering if he should confess to Ben that she'd seemed somewhat interested until he mentioned that his friend and his wife would be there, too.

“Maybe we can just go out to dinner instead,” Carrie had suggested.

“The four of us?” he asked dubiously, knowing there was no way Ben would give up the chance to see the Knicks-Lakers courtside. It would have to be a different night.

“No—the two of us. I mean . . . I don't know your friends, so . . .”

And she didn't want to know them. He could hear it in her voice.

Maybe it was just too soon to double date. But at least she did want to see him again.

It would still have to be a different night. Mack—who also wasn't willing to give up the courtside opportunity—arranged to see Carrie on Friday instead. She seemed okay with that.

But was Mack okay with it? After he hung up, he wasn't so sure.

Ben wasn't, either, when Mack explained the situation. “She doesn't want to meet me and Randi? What's up with that?”

“Maybe she's heard about you guys,” Mack cracked halfheartedly.

Ben didn't smile.

“Maybe she just wants me all to herself. What woman wouldn't?”

Still not playing into the quip, Ben said, “Just watch yourself, Mack. Don't go latching on to some girl just because . . . well, you know. You're vulnerable right now.” Mack had told Ben about his mother just now, as they walked from a sales call to the restaurant. He couldn't avoid it: his sister, Lynn, had called his cell phone, upset because of something one of the hospice nurses had said about getting Mom's affairs in order.

Lynn was in denial.

Maybe Mack was, too, on some level.

“You're going through a rough time,” Ben went on, chopsticks poised above his sushi. “Maybe you shouldn't get involved with anyone right now. Maybe you should take a break from dating, you know, until . . .”

He knew his friend was just worried about him, but Mack found himself bristling at the implication that he wasn't fully in control.

“You and your breaks,” he told Ben, who was always giving up something or other. Last year, he'd taken an entire week off from eating Italian food, and just the other day he'd announced that he was giving up reading newspapers for at least a month because the headlines only depressed him.

“Sometimes taking a break from something is a good idea, Mack.”

He moodily dunked a hunk of raw yellowtail, sending soy sauce splashing over the edge of the bowl.

“Mack.”

“Yeah.” He didn't look at Ben.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

It was the same thing his mother had said yesterday afternoon, when he'd caught her just before she fell while trying to get from the couch to the bathroom.

“Just tripped on that old rug again. I'm fine,” she said with a grin.

She hadn't meant it any more than he did now, but in his family, that was what you did. You showed your brave face to the rest of the world, and you carried on, no matter what. Even in the face of death, you had to live and laugh and love.

Love.

Someone to love, someone who loved you—a spouse, children . . .

In the end, that was what everyone wanted, wasn't it? That was what mattered most in life.

No, now was not the time for Mack to put his love life on hold. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Yes, he was going out with Carrie again. The sooner, the better.

C
helsea Kamm wasn't particularly superstitious, but today had been a lousy day—the worst she'd had in a long time. It started when she got out of bed with a raging migraine, and things went downhill from there, right through the end of the workday, when she got an ink smudge on her white silk blouse while changing the toner on the copy machine.

“It's no coincidence,” she told her friend Tiffany, the showroom's receptionist, as they waited for the elevator to carry them down two floors to the lobby, “that it's the thirteenth.”

“But it's not Friday.”

“It's Monday. That's worse. I hate Mondays.”

Let's face it
, she thought, impatiently punching the lit down button again,
I'm not a big fan of
any
weekday
.

Weekdays, unfortunately, meant work. And work was no fun at all. She had no interest in a career of any sort, not even in fashion. But at least this job came with perks—the samples were divine—and besides, a girl had to support herself until the right guy came along and whisked her off to enjoy the good life.

Which reminded her . . .

“I was wondering,” she said to Tiffany, “if I could borrow your new green Dior on Friday for a date.”

They were the same size—two—and build, although Tiffany, at five-seven, was a couple of inches shorter and her blond hair was a brighter, brassier shade. Chelsea often wondered why she didn't ask her colorist to tone it down, but of course, Chelsea wasn't about to suggest it. She and Tiffany often went out on the town together, and Chelsea obviously had the edge as the more attractive of the two.

“You want to
borrow
my
Dior
?” Tiffany shook her brassy blond head. “You're kidding, right?”

“Please?”

“I've only worn it once!”

“But Andrew is taking me out and I want to wear something special—and it's Saint Patrick's Day, and the dress is green, and it would be perfect. Please?”

“Who's Andrew? Wait—is he the guy from the other night who asked us if we were sisters?”

“Yeah.” Of course, lots of guys asked them that. Sometimes—if they thought it would get them free drinks or entry to the VIP room—they said yes. But only if they were sure they never wanted to see the guy again.

Saturday night, Chelsea had quickly said no, she and Tiffany weren't sisters. Andrew was a class act, and she knew from the moment she heard his last name—one she'd encountered before, carved into granite high above the entrance of a century-old building—that she definitely wanted to see him again.

Now she had a date with him, and she really wanted to wear that green Dior. It would look better on her than it did on Tiffany, anyway, because it was so short, and she had longer legs.

But Tiffany shook her head vehemently. “I don't think so.”

Before Chelsea could protest, a dinging bell signaled the elevator's arrival. They curtailed the conversation, wedging themselves into the tiny space filled with office workers from the three floors above.

The elevator resumed its halting descent. Too jammed up against the door and the person next to her to even bend her head to look down, Chelsea felt around in her purse for her pack of Salems.

Craving nicotine had contributed to her lousy day—and to every lousy day ever since smoking had been forbidden in the office. She wondered what it would be like to make all the rules, like you would if you owned the building—well, if your husband's family owned it. Not this dingy, damp old place in the garment district, either, but a sweeping, historic skyscraper on Park Avenue—or was it Fifth? She couldn't remember. She only knew that she'd walked past the building that bore Andrew's last name plenty of times, and that it meant his family had the big bucks and Manhattan pedigree she sought in a man. Marrying him would mean happily-ever-after, for sure.

To think she'd wasted any time on someone like James MacKenna. The guy misled her from the start, letting her think that he had money to burn. She should have known better. She knew his suits were off the rack, not custom, from the first time she saw him that day in Saks. But he was cute, and funny, and nice to her—and by the time she figured out that he was just some Irish guy from New Jersey, she'd fallen for him.

To be fair, she was from Jersey, too—not that she went around admitting it to anyone. As she told Mack, she'd sooner jump off the George Washington Bridge than she would cross it to get home. The same went for the Brooklyn and Queensboro bridges, and all the rest. She'd never live in a borough, either. She'd never live anyplace other than Manhattan. But never with a guy who'd grown up in Jersey.

She was glad she'd never mentioned to anyone—not even Tiffany—that she was seeing Mack. It was that much easier—and oh, so satisfying—to delete him completely from her life. She did it right in front of him—erasing every trace of him from her Palm Pilot, and telling him never to call her again.

He hadn't. Good riddance.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped out into the small lobby and headed toward the door to the street.

“Night, ladies,” called the young security guard, Ralph, predictably. He was always checking out Chelsea and Tiffany, acting all friendly, as if they'd ever give him the time of day. He looked like he'd stepped off the set of a seventies porn movie, with that thick dark mustache and sideburns and a pair of slightly tinted aviator glasses.

Ignoring Ralph as usual, Chelsea said, “Tiff, please, if you lend me the dress, I'll—”

“No way,” Tiffany said. “I'm wearing it to my cousin's wedding.”

“When is that?”

“May.”

“May? I'll give it back to you Sunday.”

“It would have to be cleaned, and—”

“So I'll have it cleaned. It'll be back next week. Plenty of time for May.”

“No. Stop asking.”

They stepped through the revolving doors, and Chelsea pulled a cigarette from her pack. Tiffany, who'd quit smoking when the building outlawed it, kept on walking.

Bitch
, Chelsea thought, giving up on the dress conversation. For now.

As she lit her cigarette, she noticed that a woman on the sidewalk had stopped Tiffany to ask her something. Her friend shook her head, turned, and pointed in Chelsea's direction. Then she gave a quick wave at Chelsea and walked on.

Chelsea didn't wave back, still pissed about the Dior.

The woman approached as Chelsea tucked her lighter back into her bag. “Excuse me . . .”

She was frumpy-looking, in a sensible winter coat that could have used a dry cleaning, tan pantyhose, and pumps. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a dime store clip and she wasn't wearing a hint of makeup.

“Are you Chelsea?”

“Why?”

“I heard you worked in this building, and I work right across the street, and I just wanted to say hi.”

“Do I know you?” Chelsea coolly regarded the stranger through a satisfying, menthol-flavored fog.

“A long time ago. We went to school together.”

“Really? What's your name?” she asked, not really caring. School had been a long time ago, and on the wrong side of the Hudson River, and was not something she liked to look back on. She remembered very few people from that era—and not many were females.

“Sue.”

There had been a lot of girls named Sue. Chelsea didn't know which one this was, and she wasn't interested in asking.

“Well,” she said, and glanced west, down the block, toward the subway, “it was good to see you again.”

“You too.”

“I've got to run.”

“Where are you living these days?” Sue asked, and something in her tone made Chelsea suddenly wary. She looked more closely at the woman and noted that she seemed oddly edgy—and then it hit her.

This woman was supposedly from her school days—yet she was calling her
Chelsea
?

She hadn't started using the name Chelsea Kamm until after graduation, when she moved out on her own. Before that, she was Janice Kaminsky. Granted, she'd never officially changed her name, but if someone from the old days somehow recognized her, they wouldn't call her Chelsea. Just as no one from her new life would know she'd once been Janice.

“Sue . . . which Sue did you say you were?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Sue Calvert.” The name that rolled readily off her tongue didn't ring a bell. No surprise there.

Was Sue one of the girls Chelsea had made fun of back in the day? Had she somehow tracked her down, figured out who she was now? Or . . . was she just making that up about school?