Look Again (17 page)

Chapter Forty-nine

The late-day sun was even hotter, and Ellen was trailing Carol back through the luxurious suburbs when her BlackBerry started ringing. She plucked it from her purse and glanced at the display, which showed the newspaper's main telephone number.

Marcelo!

"Hello?" she said, picking up, but it wasn't him, it was Sarah.

"Marcelo told us you're taking a few days off. Listen, I won't keep you, but I wanted to apologize."

"That's okay," Ellen said, surprised. Sarah sounded genuinely contrite.

"I'm sorry I got so hyper about the story. When you fainted, I felt awful."

"Thanks. It's just this bug, I feel dizzy."

"Okay, so, we cool?"

"Sure." Ellen took a right turn, keeping up with Carol in rush-hour traffic. They were driving back through the congested part of the city, but she switched lanes, staying with Carol.

"I assume you heard, we got bumped for the Yerkes fire." Sarah snorted. "One man's ceiling is another man's floor."

"Listen, I gotta go back to bed."

"Feel better. Take care."

"Thanks. See you." Ellen hung up and accelerated to make a green light as they wound left and right through traffic and finally traveled over the causeway to Surfside Lane.

Carol turned right onto Surfside, and Ellen drove down the main drag and took a U-turn, coming back to park in her position across the street, so that she could see if Carol went out again. She lowered the windows and twisted off the ignition, craning her neck to see down Surfside. If she tilted her head, she had a partial view of the Bravermans' house and driveway. More people were walking on Coral Ridge than before, but no one seemed to notice her. A man who looked like a model jogged past, and behind him, two Rollerbladers skated toward the causeway, their thighs pumping away.

Ring Ring! Ellen reached for her BlackBerry, checking the screen. HOME. It had to be Connie. "Hey, Con, how's it going?"

"Another day, another macaroni picture."

"Art you can eat, right?" Ellen smiled. Her thoughts traveled back to her snug little house though her gaze remained on the Bravermans'.

"I don't know if this matters, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. I think somebody just called here. Her name was Sarah. Is that someone from the newspaper or a story?"

"The paper." Ellen tensed. "When was this?"

"About half an hour ago. Will answered the phone and told her that you weren't home."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. He got to the phone before I did. He thought it might be you. He talked to her and hung up. I heard him say Sarah. I didn't even get to talk to her."

"Will said I wasn't there?" Ellen couldn't process it fast enough. "Tell me exactly what he said."

"He told her you went on the airplane for work."

"Oh no!" It was exactly what Ellen had told him yesterday. She rubbed her forehead and came away with flop sweat. "This isn't good, Connie."

"Why doesn't she know what you're doing for work, anyway?"

The proverbial tangled web. "My editor wanted to keep it on the QT We generally share our assignments, but Sarah is getting a little competitive lately, between you and me."

"Oh. Oops."

Ellen was trying to figure what to do. Sarah had caught her in a lie, then called her to confirm it. It was great journalistic technique, and it would get her fired for sure.

"Will wants to talk to you, okay?"

"Of course." Ellen could hear Will calling for her, so close he was probably reaching for the phone.

"Mommy, Mommy! When are you coming home?"

"Soon, sweetie." Ellen felt a pang at the sound of his voice, even as she slumped in the driver's seat, keeping an eye on the Bravermans' house. "Tell me about your macaroni picture."

"Come home soon. I have to go."

"Love you," Ellen called after him, and Connie got back on the line.

"We're about to have dinner. So how bad is it?"

"Don't worry. Just don't let him tell any more state secrets, okay?"

"Gotcha. Sorry."

"See you soon." Ellen hung up and called Marcelo for damage control, waiting nervously for the call to connect. Another runner darted by on the sidewalk, glancing back at her. His shoulder cap bore a MOM tattoo, but she was pretty sure it was a coincidence.

"How are you?" Marcelo asked, his voice unusually cool, which took Ellen aback.

"Long story short, Sarah called my house and Will told her that I went away on business."

"I know. She just left my office. She came in to tell me that you lied to me."

Oh no. "What did you say?"

"What could I say? I couldn't admit that we confessed our mutual admiration in your kitchen, before we fabricated a story."

Ellen reddened. "I'm so sorry, Marcelo."

"I shouldn't have told them you were sick. So, in theory, you lied to me, and I lied to the staff, and Sarah came in to let me know. If I had just said that it wasn't their business, we'd be fine."

Ellen had undermined Marcelo's authority. A reporter couldn't lie to an editor without consequences. The entire newsroom would be talking about it and waiting to see what he would do. "So what did you say to her?"

"I told her I'd talk to you about it when you got back." Marcelo shook his head. "For an intelligent man, I act so stupid sometimes."

"No, you don't," Ellen rushed to say, hearing the subtext: I never should have crossed the line with you.

"I can't show you any favoritism, and I don't want to have to let you go." Regret freighted his tone, but Ellen straightened up, determined.

"There's no reason to do that, not yet. I'm still away, and that buys us a few days. I have to get clear of this situation."

"What situation?" Marcelo asked, a new urgency in his voice, but all of a sudden the white Jaguar was pulling out of the Bravermans' driveway and turning left toward the main drag.

"Uh, hold on." Ellen tucked the BlackBerry in her neck, twisted on the car's ignition, and hit the gas. She launched herself into rush-hour traffic, an overheated lineup of blaring music, cigarette smoke, and cellphone conversations. She couldn't afford to let too much space get between her and Carol.

"Ellen? Are you there?"

"Marcelo, hang on a sec."

"Please tell me what is going on. I can help you."

"Sorry, but this isn't the best time for me and—" She lost her train of thought because Carol took an unexpected right turn before the causeway. Ellen steered her car into the right lane but the movement dislodged her BlackBerry, which slid off her lap and fell near the gas pedal.

"Good-bye, Marcelo!" she called out, then she hit the gas and swerved around the corner, in pursuit. She had to stay on track. She couldn't worry about her job now, or even Marcelo's. Sooner or later she had to catch a break. She ran the light, staying on Carol's tail.

Chapter Fifty

Ellen followed Carol through the carnation-and-canary-hued buildings of South Beach, where traffic on Collins Avenue was a sizzling stop-and-go. Between them was a white Hummer, like a giant bar of Ivory on wheels. Ahead, the Jag turned left, followed by the Hummer and Ellen. They traveled up a skinny back street lined with delivery entrances to a cigar store, boutiques, and restaurants. Dumpsters alternated with flashy cars parked so haphazardly that they looked strewn there. Carol pulled up behind a parked convertible, and the Hummer powered ahead, leaving Ellen no choice but to keep going or risk being recognized from the grocery store.

She cruised slowly ahead and watched Carol in her rearview mirror. The driver-side door opened, and Carol emerged, stepping out in a tight-fitting tomato red dress, her long dark blond hair loose to her shoulders. She chirped the car locked and walked around to its back fender, heading for the cross street on the far side.

Go, go, go!

Ellen parked illegally, turned off the ignition, grabbed her purse, jumped out of the car, and hustled down the street. Her clogs clopped along, and she made a mental note not to wear Danskos the next time she stalked somebody, unless it was a Clydesdale.

Carol took a left at the cross street, with Ellen tailing her on foot at a safe distance. They reached a street that was closed to traffic, Lincoln Road, and Carol plunged into the crowd of gorgeous models, crazies with face paint, gay men with matching mustaches, and European tourists speaking an array of languages. Pomeranians shared the packed sidewalk with a boa constrictor worn around the neck of a woman who had forgotten the feather part of her feather boa. Kiehl's, Banana Republic, and Victoria's Secret stores were interspersed with boutique and gift shops, and Ellen walked along, marveling. It looked like a street party, with merchandise.

She never lost sight of Carol, helped by the bright red dress. They threaded their way past Cuban, Chinese, and Italian restaurants, their tables spilling out onto large cafe areas for outdoor dining. Carol paused at a sushi restaurant and talked with a camera-ready maitre do", so Ellen slowed her step, watching them. In the next minute, a tall, dark-haired man slipped from the crowd and stopped beside Carol, kissing her on the cheek and encircling her slim waist in a proprietary way.

Bill Braverman.

She recognized him instantly from the online photos. He was slim, in a light gray sport jacket with jeans, but was too covered up to show the wiriness she'd seen online. Nor could she see his features clearly at this distance. She fake-read a menu posted in front of one of the restaurants, letting the crowd flow around her and waiting to see what the Bravermans would do. The crowd chattered away, and the sun vanished behind the palm trees, their spiked fronds waving. She glanced back at the Bravermans, and hidden by the crowd, edged closer to their table.

They were seated in the center of the outdoor dining area, and she got a good look at Bill's face. He was handsome, with his spray of black bangs over dark round eyes and a nose that looked like an older version of Will's. From time to time, he leaned back in his bistro chair, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers, and he spoke animatedly, laughing frequently.

Time to rock.

Ellen slipped her purse onto her shoulder, walked toward the maitre do" of their restaurant, and asked, "Is there a ladies' room inside?"

"In the back, to the right."

"Thanks." Ellen went inside the restaurant, and it smelled like Thai curry, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in ages. She found the ladies' room, went inside, and slipped off her sunglasses. She headed into one of the stalls, closed the door, and went into her purse. On the bottom was a white plastic bag, her DNA kit.

She took it out and checked the contents. Directions she'd downloaded, two pairs of blue plastic gloves she'd had under the sink, and two brown paper bags, which she used to pack Will's snack for school. She opened the directions and read them again, because she didn't want to screw up:

Our paternity test is the most accurate in the country! We analyze your samples at our state-of-the-art laboratory, using a 16-marker DNA test! Be thorough and collect all samples possible! Results are ready in 3 business days, but can be expedited for a small RUSH charge!

Ellen skipped the blah blah blah, which she'd read online. There had been plenty of DNA-TESTING companies on the web, including the one she was using. Her research had taught her that there were two testing options: the first was a standard paternity kit, which was admissible in court and required collection of the DNA by a cheek, or bucal, swab. She didn't need that one, and she doubted the Bravermans would offer up a sample. The second test was the one she was using, a nonstandard DNA test for paternity. Her gaze returned to the form:

For times when the bucal swab method just isn't possible, simply obtain one of the following items, place it in a brown paper bag, store it at room temperature, and send it to us. Follow precautions below!

Ellen read the precautions:

Must wear gloves so as not to get your DNA on the sample. Store at room temperature and do not get the sample wet. Must be put in a paper bag, not plastic.

She scanned the list of permissible collection items, just to make sure she remembered it correctly:

No need for silly collection kits! You can get DNA from a licked envelope, chewed gum, a soda can or any kind of can, including beer, glass, toothbrush, semen, dried blood stains (including menstrual blood), a strand of hair with the follicle attached, or a cigarette butt!

Ellen folded the papers up and put them in her purse, then slipped the plastic gloves into her jeans pocket. She used the bathroom and left the stall, washing her face and freshening her makeup, which made her feel almost civilized, then took a last look at herself in the mirror, letting her eyes meet their reflection. She had her mother's eyes, a fact that secretly made them both happy, as if it were confirmation of their closeness. Even now, looking at herself, she could still see her mother, within.

Follow your heart.

It was show time.

Chapter Fifty-one

Ellen got a table in the outdoor dining area of the restaurant next door to the one with the Bravermans, with a clear view of their table. While the couple ate dinner, she checked her email on the BlackBerry, but there was nothing from Amy Martin. Then she'd called home and said good night to Will while she'd devoured a delicious seviche appetizer, a red-lacquered model boat of sushi, and a frothy cappuccino with almond biscotti.

She watched the Bravermans finish their coffee and share a tiramisu. Bill smoked a final cigarette, his third of the evening, but Carol didn't smoke, so Ellen would have to take her glass to get a DNA sample from her. The couple had laughed and talked throughout the entire dinner, cementing their qualifications as a happily married couple.

Which doesn't mean they're better parents than me.

Bill signaled for the check, so Ellen did the same, catching her waiter's eye. They paid at about the same time, and she rose right after the Bravermans, ready to swoop down on their table.

Now!

They left and threaded their way to the aisle, and Ellen made a bee-line for their table. Suddenly a group of tourists shoved in front of her, blocking her way, and she didn't reach the table until after the busboy had gathered the glasses.

Damn!

"Table no is clean," the busboy said in an indeterminate accent, picking up the plates and setting them with a clatter in a large brown tub.

"I'll just sit a minute." Ellen plopped into Bill Braverman's chair. "I only want dessert."

"No is clean." The busboy reached for the full ashtray, but Ellen grabbed it from his hands.

"Thanks." She checked it for gum, in case Carol had chewed some, but it only contained three cigarette butts, all Bill's. "I'll need this. I smoke."

The busboy walked away, but the maitre do" was craning his neck and peering at the table, along with a foursome of hungry patrons. She had to act fast. Her heart pounded. She slid the gloves from her pocket and shoved her right hand in one. The maitre do" was making his way over, with the foursome. She gathered the three cigarette butts from the ashtray, opened the paper bag under the table, tossed the butts inside, then closed it up and shoved it back into her purse.

"Miss, do you have a reservation?" the maitre do" asked, reaching the table just as Ellen rose, shaking her head.

"Sorry, I was just resting a minute, thanks." She headed out of the dining area to the sidewalk, crowded with dogs, skateboarders, Rollerbladers, and a tattooed man on a silver unicycle.

She melted into the crowd, exhilarated. Bill's DNA sample was safe in her purse. She wondered if she could get Carol's tonight, too.

One down, two to go.