Thyme to Live: A We Sisters Three Mystery (7 page)

T
he place
he knew turned out to be the main branch of the New York Public Library—the one in Manhattan with the famous, majestic lions Patience and Fortitude guarding the steps. We didn’t stop to admire the statues, though. He was in a hurry.

He led me to the mixed-use research rooms on the first floor and poked his head into one room after another, looking for a vacant one. They were all buzzing with activity, except for the periodical research room where one dark-skinned girl with a pile of long, heavy braids coiled into a tall bun on the top of her head was poring over a stack of magazines. It would do. She glanced up when we walked in, then immediately returned to her reading.

Victor picked the table furthest from her and pulled out a chair for me. I sat down and waited while he carried over a chair from the other side of the table. He placed it beside mine with the softest of thuds. The woman didn’t look up.

He removed Helena’s phone from his pocket and sat down. We both leaned in to see the screen, so close that our foreheads touched. I pulled back slightly, startled by the contact.

“Here.” He handed me the phone and pulled out his notebook. I scrolled through the calls slowly while he jotted down the numbers and provided occasional commentary in a low voice. We started with her outgoing calls, beginning with her last call and working our way back. She’d made a call Friday evening just before eight p.m. to a number with a 215 area code. The call had lasted three minutes.

“That’s a Philadelphia number,” he breathed near my ear. “I don’t know who she knows in Philly.”

“It could be a mobile number that the person just never changed,” I cautioned. Even though Rosemary was now in Los Angeles and Sage was in South Carolina, they’d kept their Boston and Washington, DC cell phone numbers.

He frowned but nodded his agreement. “Could be. Let’s move on.”

He recognized the next call as being to Lynn’s number, a brief call placed just before Helena and Lynn met at the nail salon. Probably a call to let her friend know she was on her way.

The call before that was to a New York number that neither of us could place. He jotted it in his notebook and made a notation of the time and length.

That was it for Friday. Three outgoing calls, one to her girlfriend. Not much to go on. I scrolled further.

Thursday night she’d called Victor’s number. He said they’d confirmed their brunch plans. There were no other Thursday calls on her log. I wasn’t particularly surprised. I spoke on the phone with my sisters pretty regularly, but I mainly texted everyone else unless I had a specific reason to call instead. I was about to share this thought with Victor, when the woman with the braids suddenly pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.

My entire body tensed, expecting her to shout for Gabriel, who would then emerge from the stacks. He’d crash into us, grab the phone, and take off—maybe leaving his henchmen behind to rough us up. The woman raised her arms over her head, and I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but she rolled her neck from side to side, then cracked her back. Her stretch completed, she returned to her seat and picked up where she’d left off reading.

I exhaled in relief. Victor gave me a concerned look.

“Sorry. I’m just a little on edge, I guess,” I whispered.

“I noticed.” He smiled and placed his hand on the middle of my back in a gesture I’m sure was intended to soothe me. But his skin was warm, even through my tee shirt I could feel his hand heating my back. The gentle pressure of his touch was distracting.

I wriggled a bit and he pulled his hand back.

“I’m okay. Let’s stay focused.”

“Sure thing.”

“Does your sister text?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. She’ll probably have more text messages than calls, but let’s just check out the incoming calls first. We know whoever spooked her called Friday evening and left her a voicemail.”

I pulled up her incoming log. We skimmed dozens of missed calls from the past four days—several from the nannying service, one placed Monday morning that I recognized as coming from Cate’s assistant’s number, and then call after call from Victor, trying to track her down after she didn’t show up for brunch on Sunday. I scrolled further. She had six missed calls on Saturday, all from the same number.

I glanced up at him. I didn’t even need to ask the question. I could tell from the furrow creasing his forehead that he didn’t recognize the number. Without realizing what I was doing, I reached out and smoothed my fingertips over the worry lines.

He blinked and I pulled my hand back. “Sorry.”

He shook his head and fixed me with a look I couldn’t quite read. “Don’t be.”

We stared at each for a long moment. The silence stretched from normal to socially acceptable to downright weird. I cleared my throat and turned my attention back to the call log.

“Your skin’s soft.” He said it in a low whisper, almost as if he didn’t want me to hear him. So I pretended not to.

I gnawed on my lower lip and pointed at the screen. “Look at this.” The same number that had called six times on Saturday also placed multiple calls to Helena’s number on Friday evening and well into the night. I tallied them softly. “Eight missed calls. Plus six the next day. Someone tried to get a hold of her fourteen times in two days and then just ... stopped? That’s crazy.”

“It’s only crazy if the caller didn’t eventually get in touch with her,” he said.

Good point.

“Do you know the area code?” I asked.

“No, but this one moves to the top of the list for my friend at the mobile company.”

“Or we could, you know, Google it. Or just call the number.”

He stared at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “Call it?”

“It’s just an idea,” I said defensively.

“It’s a great one. Let’s finish this up and then go do that.”

In his excitement he nearly shouted, which earned us a really nasty glare from the woman at the table. ‘Sorry,’ I mouthed.

“The only other entry is a voicemail that came in about ten minutes before the first call from that number.” He leaned over my shoulder and pointed. “And look at the time. That’s the call she got when she was in Target.”

Before I had a chance to respond he was dragging me toward the staircase and out of the library. As soon as we stepped out onto the wide marble stairs, he gestured to a sheltered spot behind a column.

“Let me have the phone.”

I handed it over. “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting it on speaker so we can listen to her voicemail messages. We’ve got the bastard now.” He fumbled with the phone for a moment.

I realized I was holding my breath and exhaled. The automated voice announced, “You have no new messages. You have no saved messages.”

“She deleted it.” My voice sounded flat and heavy to my own ears. I couldn’t believe she deleted the message that had set off whatever events had followed.

“She deleted it,” he echoed in an equally dull voice. His shoulders slumped toward the ground as if he were melting.

I didn’t know what to say. I wrapped my arms around him in a gentle hug.

W
e walked
to the car in silence. Victor pocketed the parking ticket tucked under the windshield wipers in silence. And we drove for several long blocks in silence. Our timing was apparently as bad as our luck, because we caught every red light on our route. It was like the reverse of riding an urban wave. It was a jerky, slow, no-fun urban lazy river.

As we sat (in silence) at what must have been the forty-seventh traffic light, my stomach suddenly filled the conversational void with a horrible, deafening growl. It sounded like a pissed-off bobcat.

He turned to me wide-eyed. “Was that you?”

I swallowed a giggle and shrugged. “I guess I’m hungry.”

“You guess? Hang in there. I know a good Cuban joint not too far from here—over in Hell’s Kitchen. I’ll buy you a sandwich so long as you promise not eat my arm on the way.”

I put on my best serious face. “I make no promises. Especially if you’re going to take the scenic route.”

“Careful what you wish for, Thyme.” And with that, he flashed a grin and peeled left, cutting off a Prius in the process. I closed my eyes and visualized a pork sandwich and a cold beer. Maybe I could distract myself from his reckless driving with thoughts of food. If not, at least I’d die happy when we crashed.

I opened my eyes when we screeched to a stop in a city parking lot and I pitched forward. He extended his arm to prevent me from smashing into the dashboard.

“You drive like a lunatic,” I mumbled as I unbuckled my seat belt and gathered up all the crap that had spilled out of my purse all over the floor during our joyride.

“Here, let me help you.” He leaned across the front seat and reached for my wallet.

“Thanks.”

I took it and shoved it in my bag then started to sit up. Suddenly, he was pushing my head down, forcing me into a folded-over position.

“Hey!” I yelped.

He covered my back with his body, hunching over me.

“Shhh.” His mouth was right beside my ear.

I wriggled underneath him and tried to push him off. “What the hell?”

“Be still. And be quiet, would you? Those two guys from Helena’s apartment are walking through the lot, headed toward us.”

I stopped moving. “Are you sure it’s them?” I hissed in a whisper.

“Pretty sure. The taller one has his hand in his jacket pocket, like he has a weapon maybe.”

“A gun?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t intend to find out.”

I turned my head to try to face him. “What are you going to do?”

“Drive like a lunatic. Can you get down on the floor all the way?”

“Sure.”

He eased his weight off me and fumbled with the keys. I slid down to the passenger side floor and rolled myself into a tight child’s pose with my head down. The car rocketed to life and lurched into motion. I squeezed my eyes shut.

As the sedan careened out of the parking lot, I heard male voices shouting. Suddenly, a
crack
filled the air. In the same instant, the sedan’s back window shattered. Glass shards rained down into the passenger compartment. My heart leaped into my throat and I peeked up at Victor. He ducked his head below the level of the now-broken window and gunned the engine.
Great
. Now we were speeding along a New York City street without even looking. I braced myself for the inevitable impact, but it never came.

After a moment, he raised his head and returned to a normal seated position. I watched him check the rearview mirror.

“We lost them,” he assured me.

I pulled myself up to the passenger seat and buckled in. “For now.”

“For now,” he agreed.

As if it understood that the pulled pork sandwich was off the table, my stomach chimed in with a half-hearted rumble.

I
gnawed unenthusiastically
on the stick of spiced turkey jerky. Victor chewed his peanuts glumly. We huddled side by side on the metal park bench, eating our bodega snacks and drinking our overpriced bottled waters.

“I will have to take you to Cuba Libra some time. When this is all over,” he mused.

I blinked at the notion that we’d be in one another’s lives after
this
and tore off another piece of cured meat with my teeth. After I swallowed, I took another sip of water and said, “Hey, don’t worry. This isn’t even close to the worst lunch date I’ve ever had.”

He turned to face me. “I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

“If only. One of my clients set me up with her co-worker’s brother.”

“How bad was it?”

“He took me to a free lunch buffet at a strip club.”

He grimaced. “Oooff.”

“Yeah. I guess people don’t go there for the food? I still don’t know if I was eating chicken or fish.”

He snorted and nearly choked on his peanuts. “You ate the food?” he wheezed between coughs.

I pounded his back with my fist until he raised his hand to stop.

“I’m okay.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and gulped his water. “I can’t believe you ate the food.”

“Let’s move on. What’s our next step?” I asked, mainly to change the subject to something, anything, less embarrassing.

Afraid that Gabriel or his minions had put a tracking device on the Lincoln, we’d ditched the town car on a side street. Victor had called the car’s owner to explain and apologize—or at least, I assume that had been the gist of the conversation. He’d spoken in rapid-fire Spanish (or Portuguese, for all I knew) and I’d only picked up a handful of words. We’d put at least a dozen city blocks between us and the car before he finally gave into my whining about my hunger pangs and had stopped at the little bodega where we’d bought the first foodstuffs we’d seen and hurried out of the store.

He shrugged. “Aside from the part where we have no vehicle and you’re enjoying your second-worst lunch date, the plan hasn’t changed.” He pulled Helena’s phone from his pocket and powered it on. “Let’s run down these phone numbers.” I reached into my tote bag and took out his reporter’s notebook, which had ended up mixed in with my stuff in the chaos of being shot at.

I handed him the notebook. “What about the police?”

We’d already fought this battle once, right after we’d abandoned the car. But I was hoping that, once adrenaline and abject terror were no longer coursing through his veins, he’d come around to see the wisdom of leaving the search for his sister in the hands of professionals. Armed professionals. With handcuffs, even. I mean, we couldn’t just continue to traipse around the city being trailed by gunmen.

He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. “Look, I’ll understand if you want to leave. The situation has clearly gone from risky to extremely dangerous. And, if you want to go to the cops, I won’t stop you. But I’m not giving up. I’m going to keep looking for Helena. I don’t have time to waste cooling my heels in a police station and repeating the story for a parade of uniforms.”

I studied his face but didn’t respond. His dark brown eyes looked tired and scared but resolved.

He went on, “I’ll never be able to thank you for helping me as much as you have. But I can’t guarantee your safety going forward. You should walk away from me right now.”

I pictured myself standing up, pitching my water bottle in the nearby recycling bin, and finding my way to the nearest subway station. It would be the safest thing to do. Understandable. Smart, even.

Instead, I leaned across the park bench and pressed my mouth against his. He froze for a moment then kissed me back—an urgent, searching kiss. My hands found his head and I laced my fingers together in his thick, curly hair.