Killer Heels (30 page)

Gretchen had finally given in to everyone’s advice that she go home, so I stuck my head in Brady’s office, having put on the most casual expression I could manage at this point. “Hey, Brady?”

He was hunched over an overflowing desk, our own Bob Cratchit. He looked up and seemed relieved that I wasn’t bringing him work. “Hey, Molly.”

“Did you ever get that Nachtmusik situation worked out?”

He jerked upright in his chair and his eyes widened in panic. “Damn. Gretchen was taking care of that and I let her go home.”

“Which was the right thing to do. With everything that’s happened, I’m sure Monday will be plenty of time to get it resolved. I was just being nosy anyway.”

Brady wasn’t convinced, but he nodded and returned to his work. I went further down the hall to Accounting, to be nosy with Wendy, Sophie’s assistant. I’m fascinated by Wendy’s presence in Accounting; she seems to have difficulty getting her breasts to balance in the demi-cup bras and baby tees she favors, so I can’t imagine she can balance a spreadsheet. But the rumor is she spreads other things for a friend of The Publisher, so we all have to live with it.

I asked her about Nachtmusik and the missing payment and she stared at me blankly for a moment. I repeated the question and she cut me off halfway through. “Gimme a minute to think.”

I refrained from pointing out that a minute probably wasn’t going to help and did my best to be patient.

“That’s the one Brady’s all worked up about, right?”

I nodded, not wanting to editorialize about Brady and his capacity for getting worked up and thereby run the risk of nudging Wendy from the slender thread of thought she was spinning.

“Yeah, I got it, but so what?”

“So the problem’s solved,” I suggested, surprised to find myself disappointed by this turn of events. The check showing up didn’t fit with my theory.

“No, ’cause it was a bad check.”

“It was?” Okay now. That could fit.

“Gretchen found the stupid thing yesterday, in the wrong file in Teddy’s office or something. I had to call the bank and make sure on the spot it was good ’cause we’re so close to the issue closing.”

“And it wasn’t.”

“No way. I got more money in the bank than that silly little company, whoever they are. Anyway, Gretchen was pretty bummed and asked me not to tell Brady.”

“Why not tell Brady?”

“Something about Teddy being a man of his word and if his word lost value, everything lost value, some crap like that.” It was apparently a concept that baffled Wendy, so I didn’t waste my time trying to explain it. I just thanked her and left.

Teddy was a man of his word. That meant Teddy had promised someone—either Will or Will’s friend—that the ad would run. More than that, he’d apparently promised that the ad would be paid for by a third party. But the third party clearly hadn’t ponied up. So how to find that third party? I was going to have to get Gretchen to stop playing gatekeeper to Teddy’s sacred memory and start dishing some dirt.

I went back to my desk and called Gretchen’s apartment, but I got the answering machine. For her sake, I hoped she was doped up and snoring. I hated bothering her, but I had to. “Gretchen, it’s Molly. I’m sorry to do this, but we have got to talk. Soon.” I left her my cell and home numbers and hoped that she’d wake up before tomorrow.

After a couple of hours of staring at letters, I went home to get ready for dinner. I took a long, hot shower because I usually get really good ideas in the shower, but brilliance eluded me tonight.

I really wanted to bury myself in a big cowl sweater and flannel slacks, but it wasn’t quite that cold yet and Tricia would make me change anyway, so I moderated to my black leather skirt and matching cropped jacket with a silk tee. It actually cheered me up in a vain, superficial sort of way, but I was willing to take what I could get at this point.

Cassady and Tricia buzzed from the lobby and I told them to save their strength and wait for me down there. As I joined them in the lobby, I congratulated myself for my clothing choice: They were both pretty swanked up. Cassady was the one in D&G now—sleek black pants with a tuxedo-esque jacket—and Tricia had traded to a Prada confection with a fitted jacket and a flighty skirt. We were all trying to cheer ourselves up.

The thing is, all I really need for cheering up is the two of them. I haven’t been pulled down into a hole yet that the sight of the two of them or even the sound of them on the phone hasn’t been able to pull me out of. New York can be a brutal city or it can be immense fun. You just have to share it with the right people.

And you have to be lucky enough that when someone shoots at you on a beautiful fall night in the Big Apple, you raise your arm to hail a cab at just the right moment so that the bullet hits your shoulder, ruining your leather jacket but missing your heart.

17

At least that’s what Cassady and Tricia told me when I woke up in the St. Clare’s ER. That was too many saints, too many ER’s, in too short a time for me. I vaguely recalled a freight train crashing into my shoulder, and falling to the sidewalk. I sort of remembered Cassady screaming and Tricia screaming, but everything got pretty fuzzy after that. It also went black and white. What fragments of memory I could assemble of paramedics and policemen, but mostly of Cassady and Tricia, were all in black and white. It was weird, but it was comforting, too. I don’t think I wanted to confront it all in living color quite yet.

The bullet wrecked my jacket and tore up my arm pretty good, too, but there was no arterial damage. Tricia paged a plastic surgeon she knew from her parents’ social circle and made him come do the stitches. I’ve never been happy with my upper arms, but now I was going to have a good reason to keep them covered.

Two detectives came to talk to me, but I couldn’t tell them much. I had secretly hoped it would be Edwards and Lipscomb, but it was a very severe female detective named Andrews and a fireplug of a guy named Ortiz. Cassady told them the “incident” was related to the Teddy Reynolds and Yvonne Hamilton homicides and that they needed to get Detectives Edwards and Lipscomb on the phone immediately. They said they’d consult with Edwards and Lipscomb and be in touch. They gave me their cards and asked me to call if I remembered anything else, but I told them I hoped I wouldn’t, no offense.

The detectives left and that’s when the real questioning started.

“What do you mean, you want to go home?” Tricia began.

“You want her to stay here, with God knows who coming and going at all hours of the night?” Cassady asked.

“You don’t think whoever did this would come into the hospital, do you?”

“If they want her dead, you think they care where it happens?”

“Can you guys stop?” I managed. Cassady’s question made me feel faint, but I didn’t want to pass out in front of the doctors. No way they’d let me go home if I did that. And I had to go home. I needed the security of my own place. My own bed. With my own covers pulled up over my own head while quick, clever police officers stood watch outside. “I want to go home.”

I’m not sure if I conveyed sincerity or desperation, but it persuaded Tricia and Cassady to end their debate and use their powers for good to try to convince the doctors to spring me. Okay, so maybe badgering and intimidating don’t really qualify as noble, but they got me released. I’d lost all sense of time, but Tricia said we’d been there about four hours.

“You guys need dinner,” I told them as they walked me gingerly out to the sidewalk.

“Are you kidding? I need sedatives,” Tricia said.

Cassady shook the pharmacy bag the doctor had given me. “What kind of candy does Molly have and is she going to share?”

“I think he said it was Vicodin. I’m not sure I like how it makes you feel.” I had to concentrate to get the words to come out straight and that was the feeling I liked least of all.

“Honey, it’s being shot you don’t like, not being drugged,” Cassady corrected.

“I think she has every right in the world to not like either,” Tricia countered.

They eased me into a cab. I let my head drop back onto the seat and licked my lips to make sure they were there. They felt puffy and tingly, but present. The drive was oddly relaxing, but maybe that was the Vicodin. I thought it would be so nice to drift off to sleep in the back seat, then have someone carry me upstairs and tuck me in like when I was little. But the image of Cassady and Tricia trying to lift me out of the cab, much less carry me anywhere, was amusing enough to keep me awake.

The questioning resumed as we got out of the cab. Were they both going to spend the night? If so, who was going to sleep where? Were we all going to pile into my bed or were they going to jury-rig the couch and chairs or what?

“Tricia, you need to get a good night’s sleep. You have an event tomorrow,” Cassady reminded her.

“Oh, Teddy’s service,” Tricia gasped.

“You can help me get her upstairs, but then you can go home and I’ll stay with her,” Cassady suggested. She held open the lobby door and Tricia guided me inside, like a child easing a helium balloon into the house.

Danny, our sweet little bald doorman, came rushing forward to assist. “Ms. Forrester, it’s so good to know you’re okay.”

I had to force myself not to reach out and pat his shiny head. The Vicodin buzz was shifting from sleepy to giddy. “Sorry for all the excitement, Danny.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I’m just glad you’re fine, you have a visitor.”

He ran it together like it was all one thought, so it took me a minute to register what he’d said. He pointed and we looked to see Detective Edwards sitting on the lobby couch, his jacket open and his tie undone. Did that mean he was off duty? He was on his cell, which he now hung up and pocketed. He stood up, straightening his tie and buttoning his jacket. Maybe not.

“Ms. Forrester, Ms. Lynch,” he said, but he was only looking at me. Or was that the Vicodin?

“Ms. Vincent,” Tricia supplied for herself. He nodded, but still without looking away from me.

“Detective Edwards,” Cassady replied for us all. “I’m glad to see you. I told the detectives at the hospital—”

“Yes, I know,” he said with that same quiet authority that had so befuddled Peter the other night. It didn’t befuddle Cassady, but she did stop talking. “Let’s get her upstairs.”

He stepped forward and took my healthy arm, walking me to the elevator. Cassady and Tricia followed. There was an awkward silence as we went up to my apartment. Detective Edwards seemed to have a plan, but none of us could figure out what it was. Was he going to stand guard over us all night? Did he have more questions? There was no way he could still have suspicions about me unless he’d decided that I’d had a falling out with my fellow felons and they were willing to rub me out to keep things neat and tidy, which is what I had figured had happened to Yvonne anyway, so it wasn’t really all that much of a stretch, but the guy had to realize that I was an innocent in all this, didn’t he? Or was that the Vicodin?

Once inside my apartment, Cassady helped me change into a sweater and jeans while Tricia bustled around, fluffing pillows, brewing a pot of tea, and generally fretting. I could hear her trying to get some information, some response out of Edwards, but she wasn’t having much luck.

Cassady asked me, “Why do you think he’s here?”

“He’s got questions. He’s just biding his time.”

Cassady shook her head. “He’s worried about you.”

“Good. I’m worried about me, too.”

Cassady kissed me on the cheek and gave me half a hug, carefully avoiding my wounded arm. “We’re going to take good care of you.”

Not according to Detective Edwards. Cassady brought me out and she and Tricia ensconced me on the couch with pillows and a comforter, everything but a pipe and slippers. Detective Edwards stood by and watched without comment. But when they were done and about to sit down next to me themselves, Edwards said, “Thank you very much.”

Cassady frowned at him. “That sounds like a dismissal.”

“I’ll watch over Ms. Forrester tonight. Thank you very much.”

I don’t know which of the three of us was more shocked. Was he saying he was spending the night? Whose idea was this? Was it a good idea? Was it an official idea? Was I ready for this? Where was my Vicodin?

Cassady wasn’t sold on this either, but Tricia almost bounded to her feet. “I think it’s wonderful. I for one will sleep much better knowing that you’re here with Molly, Detective. Come on, Cassady.”

I could tell from Tricia’s smile, which was struggling not to become a grin, that as our resident romantic, she’d decided Edwards was here for personal reasons and that she and Cassady needed to get out of the way. Cassady still wasn’t convinced, still suspicious of Edwards’ motives, which made sense since she’d rescued me from his interrogation room so recently. I had no idea what was in store, but I did want to find out. Much as I loved the notion of my friends keeping watch over me, I was excited by the prospect of Edwards taking over those duties.

“I’ll be fine, Cassady,” I assured her. “I’ll see you in the morning for the service.”

Cassady shook her head, not sold but giving in. “If you need us—”

“I know.”

They each kissed me good night, nodded their farewell to Detective Edwards, and left. Cassady hesitated at the door, but Tricia pulled her out. Edwards walked over and locked the door behind them. Then he turned and stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.

I wanted to come up with the perfect Myrna Loy line for the moment, but I was suddenly wrestling with the desire to cry. Maybe this was Vicodin Phase III. What had I done? How much of this was my fault? Had I done something wrong? What was going to happen now?

“Why’d you send my lawyer away? Is this legal?” I said, having lost control of my mind and my mouth all at the same time.

“Are you medicated?”

“Of course I am. Which means I have to be very careful about what I say because I seem to be saying what I’m thinking and around you, that could be a not very good idea.” I was trying to keep calm, maintain focus, but I was distracted by my inability to feel the tip of my nose.