I’m about to look away when my eyes stop.
There’s something strange about him.
Familiar.
My God, it’s that detective from the Fálcon.
Frank Delmonico’s here in Connecticut.
That just isn’t possible, but there he is.
Chapter 39
I QUICKLY DUCK BELOW the steering wheel. The detective said he’d find me again. He warned me. But out here?
How did he know? Did he tail me as I followed Michael out of New York? I guess that’s possible, but I sure can’t have him asking more questions. Not right in front of Penley’s parents’ house.
I hear his footsteps now, louder and louder. They sound heavy, deliberate. He’s a man with a mission, isn’t he? But I don’t know anything about those four murders. Why would he think otherwise?
Slowly, I peek over the sun-bleached vinyl of the dash.
The ball cap is pulled down over his eyes. Maybe it’s not Delmonico. Whoever it is – I should get out of here right now.
I reach for the keys, snapping my wrist hard to the right. The ignition sounds with a lazy sputter, the engine cranking and cranking. No! It won’t turn over.
C’mon, old buddy, don’t fail me now! This is important. If Penley sees me -
I floor the gas pedal, my foot thumping down hard.
Don’t flood it, Kris. Bob, help me out here. Bob, ole buddy?
I spot the little chrome knob by the window on the passenger side. The lock. It’s up. The door’s unlocked!
His footsteps are close.
I lunge, my fingertips only inches away from the knob.
But it’s too late!
I hear him gripping the handle outside. The raw squeak of ancient metal hinges drowns out my scream.
He’s opening the door!
Chapter 40
“WHAT THE HELL are you doing here? Are you crazy?”
I snap my head up, looking directly into his eyes.
Not Frank Delmonico’s… Michael’s.
I’ve never been so relieved to see somebody in my whole life. If only the same were true for him. He’s obviously pissed. He’s livid, actually. I’ve never seen Michael like this. He looks as though he might have a stroke, at forty-two.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m still trying to catch my breath, figure out some insane excuse for why I’m here.
He stands in the open door, shaking his head. “Christ, did you follow us out here?”
But for me there’s a much more pressing question. “Is he gone?” I ask when I’m able to speak.
“Is who gone? What the hell are you talking about? There is no one here but you.”
I sit up, peering around like a periscope. There is no one else, not another soul out on the street. No Frank Delmonico.
I fall silent, feeling so stupid. And crazy. I don’t know where to start with Michael. The dream? The scene at the hotel? Delmonico? The man with the ponytail? How can I make sense to Michael when none of it makes sense to me?
Michael’s face is still beet red. “Why are you here?” he asks again. “Answer me, Kristin.”
I stare blankly at him as he folds his arms. Why am I here? It’s the question I’ve been asking myself all along.
“I… uh… I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, it’s complicated, Michael.”
“What kind of an answer is that?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out this time.
“Never mind,” he says, nervously glancing over his shoulder at the corner of the porch where Penley and her parents are sipping martinis. “The important thing now is that you get out of here. Fast. This was a big mistake, Kris. Huge.”
I tend to agree.
One more thing before I go. “How did you know I was here?” I ask.
“Even through bushes, Bob’s pretty hard to miss. We’re damn lucky I’m the only one who saw you.”
And right then we hear -
“Miss Kristin!”
My eyes go wide, almost as wide as Michael’s. Dakota’s sweet voice is a dagger through both our hearts.
I force a smile, and for the first time ever with this little girl, it isn’t genuine. “Hi, honey,” I say.
Michael turns around. Dakota’s standing by the hedge, wrapped in a red-and-white-striped towel, her blond ringlet curls wet from the pool.
“What are you doing here, Miss Kristin?” she asks.
It’s officially the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and I still don’t have an acceptable answer. Not for her father, not for her.
Michael looks back at me. I know we’re thinking the exact same thing.
Just how mature for her age is she?
Does she suspect something? Does she even know what it is to suspect?
“Honey, come here,” says Michael.
Dakota shuffles over to him, and he gently puts his arm around her.
“Can you keep a secret?” he whispers.
7
Chapter 41
I’M IN NO CONDITION to drive back to Manhattan or anywhere else. My eyes should be focused on the road, but all I can see is Dakota’s innocent face as she listens to her father. Can she really keep a secret?
We can only hope.
Either way, I’ve got to give Michael some credit. Telling Dakota I was there planning a surprise party for Penley at “Nana and Papa’s” country club was a masterstroke of quick thinking. His voice was totally calm, not a hint of panic. “It’s really, really important that you don’t say anything to Mommy so we don’t ruin the surprise. Okay, sweetheart?”
Wow. Never has so much faith been put in the nodding head of a little girl.
And it’s making me incredibly uneasy. Mostly because I hate lying to Dakota and getting her into the middle of this mess. She’s just a little kid.
With Connecticut at my back, I approach the city and somehow navigate the ever-narrow FDR Drive on the East Side without causing a fifty-car pileup. Once I return Bob to the lot on First Avenue, it’s almost as if I can’t remember being behind the wheel.
Now what?
It may be a beautiful day, but I don’t feel like being outside anymore. Nor do I want to go back to my apartment. So I hop a cab downtown to the Angelika Film Center, where there’s a director’s cut playing of Flirting with Disaster. How appropriate.
All I want is light and funny, and thanks to Ben Stiller, I get it. In fact, as advertised in the lobby poster, I get an additional “six never-before-seen minutes” of it. I’m curious, though. Has a “director’s cut” ever been shorter than the original?
After the movie I try to do some clothes shopping in SoHo, where most of my favorite stores are. But as I flip through the racks at Jenne Maag, Kirna Zabête, and French Corner – where I once saw Gwen Stefani trying on a pair of jeans – I’m just not in the mood. I keep regretting my very stupid trip out to Westport.
Even if Dakota hadn’t spotted us, I really goofed. Michael had every right to be angry. Well, maybe notthat angry?
What was I thinking?
For about the tenth time, I reach for my cell phone to call him. I want to apologize again.
And for about the tenth time, I put the phone away without dialing. Don’t push it, I warn myself. I know how he is. If I let him be for a day or two, he’ll be fine.
We’ll be fine.
Chapter 42
WITH THE AFTERNOON sun waning, I stop on the corner of Prince Street and Greene, waiting for the “Walk” sign. I gaze around. A little paranoid. Not too bad, though. It’s all relative.
If there’s a better place to people watch than the heart of SoHo, I’d sure like to know about it. Maybe Paris? Maybe not. Society types, punkers, artists, a few cross-dressers, you name it, they’re all out here sharing the sidewalk.
Including the nutcase on the corner directly across the street from me.
He’s an old man wearing sunglasses and a long gray beard practically down to his belt. He’s pacing back and forth, carrying a sign like in the classic cartoons. Only instead of “The End Is Near,” his reads, “The End Is Just the Beginning.” His take on the Resurrection, I guess.