Shivers (12 page)

Tonight’s weather was to be the same as yesterday’s. There was no mention of snow anywhere in the report—not even a
chance
of it. So where
was
this unseasonably warm weather, this “heat wave” they were supposed to be having? At least Harry could take comfort in the fact that every other weather service had been wrong about the weather. The temperature was dropping steadily. And no matter how many air currents floated over Manhattan, it seemed to make no difference. It was downright unnatural. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if the city had a blizzard.

He combed his hair carefully, was made up, and went out to take his place on the set. He would give the audience a “teaser” at the beginning of the program, and then sit down out of sight until he was given his cue to stand in front of the weather map. It was too late for him to get anything about Joey Everson on the show tonight, but as soon as it was over he’d talk to one of the reporters. Maybe he’d even get to do the story himself if he applied a little pressure.

As he walked toward the hot, bright lights, a few of the people around waved and smiled and said, “Great party last night!” or, “Boy, what a hangover!”

The producer of the news, a heavy-set man named Jerry Withers, came over to Harry and slapped him merrily on the back. “Had a ball last night, kiddo. A real ball.”

“Glad to hear it,” Harry said.

“Say,” Jerry whispered, “we all must have been seeing things last night. It wasn’t really snowing, was it?”

“I guess not,” Harry said. What he really wanted to say was, “Yes, it was, and why the hell don’t we get some meteorologists who know what the hell they’re doing?!”

But he didn’t.

Andrea Martin answered the doorbell and saw Steven Everson standing outside in the hallway.

“Steven!”

“Hi. I was at a restaurant around the corner. Thought I’d give you a call, but the line was busy. I knew you had to be home then, so I thought I might just as well walk over.”

She stepped back to let him in. “Am I . . . intruding?” he asked. “When did you get back?”

“Uh, earlier today.” She was lying. “I’m . . . expecting someone, a business associate, in a minute. But you can stay a while.”

Steven noticed how she’d done herself up. Bright auburn hair freshly combed, sweeping down to her shoulders. Eye shadow, lipstick, the works. And that terrific dress. He sensed she didn’t want him to kiss her. What was
happening
to them? They had been so
close
once.

The party dip and crackers were laid out on the table. A shaker of martinis. He
was
intruding. He wasn’t jealous, though. She bought books for a major chain in New York and often entertained other people in the business; it was part of her job. Still . . .

“Steven, you look
awful.
Haven’t you been getting any sleep?”

“Not much. Andrea—my brother’s missing.”

“What?” That look of concern came over her face, that look that he
cherished.
He knew she would care, that she wouldn’t let him down.

“He’s been gone for two days now, and I’m scared.”

She softened toward him a bit, led him over to the couch. “Tell me about it.”

When he was through she was nearly as upset as he was.

“The poor kid. What could have happened to him, Steven? I agree with you. I didn’t know Joey very well, but he didn’t seem suicidal to me. What are the police doing?”

“Not much. They’ve got so many other cases. Joey’s
officially
a missing person, but so are a thousand other people. It looks pretty hopeless.”

“Well,” Andrea shrugged, “the cops don’t put much effort into finding people unless they’re relatives of VIPs or little children. Have you ever thought of hiring a private detective?”

“Yes. Yes, I have. Albright mentioned that. I guess that’s what most people have to do if they want a thorough job done. You can’t count on the cops, that’s for sure.”

“Can you afford one? They’re not cheap.”

“I know. But I haven’t any choice. I could go into my savings—my father left me a lot of money, thank goodness. But where do I find a good private eye?”

“My cousin,” Andrea said. “Ralph.”

“You never told me about
him.”

“Yes. He’s a big, burly, lovable guy and a good detective. His wife died about two years ago, and he’s really thrown himself into his work to get over it. I think he’s got a pretty good practice going. He doesn’t work alone anymore, either. It’s a regular
agency.”

“What’s it called?” Steven asked.

“The Andrews Detective Agency. Wait a minute and I’ll get you the number.” She got up and grabbed her purse from the kitchen. “Here it is. Why don’t I give him a call now? I have his home number too, in case he’s not in his office.”

“Okay. Find out how much he charges.”

“All right. When I tell him it’s a friend of mine —” She stopped. “He’s always been crazy about me.” She picked up the phone and dialed.

Steven knew the end was coming. He was just a “friend” now, not her boyfriend any longer. Why did she torture him this way, why didn’t she come right out and say that it was over?

Minutes later, Andrea came back into the living room looking very self-satisfied.

“$125 a day, plus expenses. I don’t think you got a discount, but you can’t win ‘em all. Anyway, he
specializes
in missing-persons cases, and will give you ‘preferential treatment’ if you decide to drop by tomorrow morning. Any time will do. He can’t see you before then. I asked.”

“Thanks. $125 plus expenses? Well, I do have a few thousand in the bank. And it’s worth it. The longer I delay the more I’ll regret it. Yeah, I’ll do it!”

Andrea leaned over and patted Steven’s hand. He was a German shepherd now. “If anything can be done, Ralph can do it. He’s always been a very steady, meticulous sort of guy. His agency wouldn’t have grown so much if he wasn’t doing something right. And he’ll handle your case personally. No more nonsense. He’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“I’m glad I talked to you about it,” Steven said. “It’s better than picking a name out of the phone book.”

His spirits had risen, knowing that something positive was going to be done about Joey, knowing that someone was going to care, even if he was paid to care. It was better than nothing. Better than waiting and waiting for phone calls that might never come.

The doorbell rang. An impatient look came over Andrea’s face. He was an intrusion.

Steven stood up awkwardly. “Uh, I’d better get going. Thanks.”

She handed him a slip of paper as she went to answer the door. Ralph Andrew’s card with address and phone number.

“Hi, Donald!”

Donald didn’t look like a “business associate.” He was tall and handsome. He was carrying flowers and a bottle of wine.

“I’ll be in touch,” Steven said, brushing past the startled man in the hallway. He really did feel alone now.

Out of the corner of his eye he could swear he saw them kissing.

FIVE

E
RIC
T
HORNE STEPPED
out of the taxi and walked over to the entrance of the Cafe Roja Casa. The big red awning of the restaurant stretched out to the curb, and a crimson rug covered the sidewalk. Eric straightened his tie, patted his hair, and nodded to the doorman. Eric was wearing a stylish blue outfit that made him look like a business executive—a business executive who was trying to look half his age. He had bought it on impulse a while ago, figuring it might come in handy. He didn’t wear it often enough to wonder how he looked in it.

He stepped inside the outer lounge and approached the maître d’, a bald, saturnine fellow whose eyelids seemed caught in a permanent yawn. Eric gave the man his name and was escorted to a table in the corner where his friends, the Elians, were waiting. The place was half-filled: this was the in-between time, not as crowded as six or seven, when the cultural crowd ate hurriedly before departing for the theater, or ten or eleven, when the late-nighters decided to dine. Eight-thirty was the perfect time for relaxing with a good meal and nice conversation.

The Cafe Roja Casa had been open for five years and become a New York restaurant success story. Once you secured a reservation— no easy feat—you could sit and watch the “beautiful people” watch one another. Even they, however, had to work hard to compete with the sumptuous decor of the room. Long satin drapes, thick carpeting, pink and cerise paper on the walls. The tables were elegantly set, and even the menus looked as if someone had spent a fortune on them.

Eric said hello to his friends and ordered a cocktail. He had known the Elians since his married days, when they’d all been part of two close couples who shared everything from card parties to week-long vacations. They were two of his very favorite people. Beauford Elian was a good-looking forty-two year-old with neatly combed, slightly greased, greying black hair and a warm, tanned, and open face. His wife Sylvia was a very attractive and sophisticated blonde about her husband’s age, but smaller and thinner. Tonight she wore her hair up and pulled into a small bun in the back of her head. She wore a low-cut blue evening gown and very little makeup. Together the Elians ran a successful travel agency. But what Eric really found interesting about them was that they were low-level psychics.

During the first two drinks, they spoke of business and work and other mundane matters. But it wasn’t really small talk in the usual sense, since the three participants were absolutely comfortable with each other and genuinely interested in what each had to say.

The Elians had long since made their peace with the possibility that Eric might at times pick up thoughts from their minds. Since there were few secrets between them anyway, they had nothing to fear.

Finishing her daiquiri, Sylvia opened the menu and studied the contents. “Hmm. The duck sounds delicious. We were here after it first opened and I had the swordfish. I was disappointed then.”

“I think I’ll try the pork chops this time,” Beau said with some finality.

“Pork chops? Darling, that’s so unimaginative. Have something a little more daring.”

“At these prices, who wants to be daring? What about you, Eric?”

“It’s a tossup between the Chicken Cordon Bleu and the stuffed shrimp. I could eat just about anything and everything on this menu.”

After ten minutes the waiter came by. They passed up another drink and ordered. While they waited for the food, Eric decided to tell them about the previous evening’s ordeal.

When he had finished, Beau looked worried, and Sylvia, like Emily, tried to make light of it, for Eric’s sake. “I wish something exciting like that would happen to me. All I can do is tell what playing card a person in another room is looking at.”

“I guess it
is
silly of me to worry about it,” Eric said.

“No, no,” Beau disagreed. “You sounded very upset these past few minutes. I could tell that what happened really bothered you.”

“But there’s no guarantee that it will happen again,” Sylvia said. “Anyway, can’t you take any precautions?”

“There’s no defense against something like that. Perhaps a strong sedative, I don’t know. Whatever the case, I certainly can’t afford to lose any more sleep.”

“Yes, I thought you looked a bit peaked when you came in. But of course it could be all these damn red lights.”

Sylvia giggled. “Do you suppose they’re trying to remind us we’re in the red-light district?”

The men laughed. The food came then, and they dug in hungrily.

Eric’s chicken was juicy and succulent, and the sauce that covered it exceptional. Beau’s perfectly grilled pork chops were thick and tender. Sylvia had the delicious Duck L’Orange with rice and breadcrumbs stuffed inside.

As they were finishing their dishes, the conversation came back to Eric’s unusual psychic experience. Beau suggested that he might have determined the cause of Eric’s harrowing nightmare.

“Big-city paranoia, Eric,” he said grinding away what was left of the meat on a bone in his hand. “That’s all it was. You felt claustrophobic. You felt lonely. You felt isolated. Who doesn’t now and then? You were just a victim of the same disease that afflicts everyone else in this city. Especially when they live alone. And the reason it hit you so hard was because you are admittedly extra-sensitive to external stimuli.”

The thought of it chilled Eric. He’d assumed he’d experienced something grotesque and unnatural. Could it really have been just the collective pain of this vibrant, terrible city? All that loneliness.
So much
loneliness.

“But it was like I tapped into someone else’s
mind!”
he argued. “Someone who was experiencing the symptoms of the ‘disease’ you’ve described,” he added.

“Maybe. Or maybe it was your
own
mind. Maybe the pressures have just gotten to be too much for you. Temporarily, I’m sure. It may not have been any kind of psychic monstrosity at all. But it’s over and done with, so let’s all just have a nice, big, fattening dessert—and I
insist
that you stop worrying.”

“All right, I promise.” His
own
mind? Was it possible? Was he more lonely than he realized?
That
lonely?

While the chocolate mousse melted on his tongue and went down into his stomach, it was all he could do to keep from asking the Elians if he could spend the night with them at their townhouse.

Lina Hobler woke up at 7:45 and threw the alarm clock on the floor. At least she hadn’t overslept. Nervous, she was so damn nervous. Tonight—
tonight
she would find out what had happened to Brock.

She went into the bathroom and washed under her arms, too impatient to take a shower. She brushed her teeth and slipped into a warm blue dress. Then she did a sloppy job of applying her makeup. Her hair was such a mess she wrapped a scarf around her head and didn’t even bother with the brush. She opened up the window to see how cold it was outside. Hard to tell with all the steam heat in her room—not that she was complaining. Didn’t seem too bad. She put on a light coat, took the piece of paper out of her handbag just to check the address the man had given her on the phone the night before, and went hurriedly out the door.