Pretend You Don't See Her (5 page)

 
          
Isabelle!

 
          
Dial
911 … Get help!

 
          
She
had stumbled up the winding staircase, then through the ivory-and-peach sitting
room and into the bedroom, where Isabelle was lying across the bed. There was
so much blood, spreading now to the floor.

 
          
Isabelle
was moving, pulling at a sheaf of papers that were under a pillow. The blood
was on them too.

 
          
Lacey
wanted to tell Isabelle that she would get help … that it would be all right, but
Isabelle began to try to speak: “Lacey … give Heather’s … journal … to her
father.” She seemed to be gasping for air. “Only to him
… .
Swear that … only … to him. You … read it … Show … him … where …” Her voice
trailed off. She drew in a shuddering breath, as though trying to stave off
death. Her eyes were becoming unfocused. Lacey knelt next to her. With the last
of her strength, Isabelle squeezed Lacey’s hand. “Swear … please … man …!”

 
          
“I
do, Isabelle, I do,” Lacey said, her voice breaking with a sob.

 
          
Suddenly
the pressure on her hand was gone. She knew that Isabelle was dead.

 
          
“You
all right, Lacey?”

 
          
“I
guess so.” She was in the library of Isabelle’s apartment, seated in a leather
chair facing the desk where Isabelle had been seated just a few hours ago,
reading the contents of the leather loose-leaf binder.

 
          
Curtis
Caldwell had been carrying that binder. When he heard me he must have grabbed
it, not realizing that Isabelle had taken pages out of it. Lacey hadn’t seen it
that closely, but it looked heavy, she thought, and fairly cumbersome.

 
          
The
pages she had picked up in Isabelle’s room were in Lacey’s briefcase now.
Isabelle had made her swear to give them only to Heather’s father. She had
wanted her to show him something that was in them. But show him what?
she
wondered. And shouldn’t she tell the police about them?

 
          
“Lacey,
drink some coffee. You need it.”

 
          
Rick
was crouching beside her, holding a steaming cup out to her. He had already
explained to the detectives that he had no reason to question a phone call from
a man claiming to be an attorney with Keller, Roland, and Smythe, an attorney
transferring to New York from Texas. “We do a lot of business with the firm,”
Rick had explained. “I saw no reason to call and confirm.”

 
          
“And
you’re sure this Caldwell guy is the one you saw running out of here, Ms.
Farrell?”

 
          
The
older of the two detectives was about fifty and heavyset. But he’s light on his
feet, Lacey thought, her mind wandering. He’s like that actor who was Dad’s
friend, the one who played the father in the revival of My Fair Lady. He sang
“Get Me to the Church on Time.” What was his name?

 
          
“Ms.
Farrell?” An edge of impatience had crept into the detective’s voice.

 
          
Lacey
looked back up at him. Detective Ed Sloane, that was this man’s name, she
thought. But she still couldn’t remember the name of the actor. What had Sloane
asked her? Oh, yes. Was Curtis Caldwell the man she’d seen running down the
stairs from Isabelle’s bedroom?

 
          
“I’m
absolutely sure it was the same man
,“
she said. “He
was carrying a pistol and the leather binder.”

 
          
Mentally
she gave herself a hard slap. She hadn’t meant to talk about the journal. She
had to think all this through before talking about it.

 
          
“The leather binder?”
Detective Sloane’s tone became sharp.
“What leather binder? That’s the first you’ve mentioned it.”

 
          
Lacey
sighed. “I really don’t know. It was open on Isabelle’s desk this afternoon.
It’s one of those leather binders that zips closed. Isabelle was reading the
pages in it when we were in here earlier.” She should tell them about the pages
that weren’t inside the leather binder when Caldwell took it. Why wasn’t she
telling them?
she
thought. Because she’d sworn to
Isabelle that she would give them to Heather’s father. Isabelle had struggled
to stay alive until she had heard Lacey’s promise. She couldn’t go back on her
word …

 
          
Suddenly
Lacey felt her legs begin to shake. She tried to hold them still by pressing
her hands on her knees, but they still wouldn’t stop trembling.

 
          
“I
think we’d better get a doctor for you, Ms. Farrell,” Sloane said.

 
          
“I
just want to go home,” Lacey whispered. “Please let me go home.”

 
          
She
knew Rick was saying something to the detective in a low voice, something she
couldn’t hear, didn’t really want to hear. She rubbed her hands together. Her
fingers were sticky. She looked down,
then
gasped. She
hadn’t realized that her hands were sticky with Isabelle’s blood.

 
          
“Mr.
Parker is going to take you home, Ms. Farrell,” Detective Sloane was saying.
“We’ll talk to you more tomorrow.
When you’ve rested.”
His voice was very loud, Lacey thought. Or was it? No. It was just that she was
hearing Isabelle scream Don’t …!

 
          
Was
Isabelle’s body still crumpled on the bed?
she
wondered.

 
          
Lacey
felt hands under her arms, urging her to stand. “Come on, Lacey,” Rick was
saying.

 
          
Obediently
she got up, allowed herself to be guided through the door, then down the foyer.
Curtis Caldwell had stood in the foyer that afternoon. He had heard what
Isabelle said to her about not selling the apartment.

 
          
“He
didn’t wait in the living room,” she said.

 
          
“Who
didn’t?” Rick asked.

 
          
Lacey
didn’t answer. Suddenly she remembered her briefcase. That’s where the pages
from the journal were.

 
          
She
remembered the feel of the pages in her hand, crumpled, blood soaked. That’s
where the blood came from. Detective Sloane had asked her if she had touched
Isabelle.

 
          
She
had told him that she had held Isabelle’s hand as she died.

 
          
He
must have noticed the blood on her fingers. There must be blood on her
briefcase too. Lacey had a sudden moment of total clarity. If she asked Rick to
get it for her from the closet, he would notice the blood on the handle. She
had to get it herself. And keep them from seeing it until she could wipe it
clean.

 
          
There
were so many people milling around.
Flashes of light.
They were taking pictures.
Looking for fingerprints, dusting
powder on tables.
Isabelle wouldn’t have liked that, Lacey thought. She
was so neat.

 
          
Lacey
paused at the staircase and looked up toward the second floor. Was Isabelle
still lying there?
she
wondered. Had they covered her
body?

 
          
Rick’s
arm was firmly around her. “Come on, Lacey,” he said, urging her toward the
door.

 
          
They
were passing the closet where she had put her briefcase.

 
          
I
can’t ask him to get it for me, Lacey reminded herself. Breaking away, she
opened the closet door and grabbed her briefcase in her left hand.

 
          
“I’ll
carry it,” Rick told her.

 
          
Deliberately
she sagged against him, weighing down his arm with her right hand, making him
support her, tightening her grip on the handle of her briefcase.

 
          
“Lacey,
I’ll get you home,” Rick promised.

 
          
She
felt as though everyone’s eyes were staring at her, staring at the bloody
briefcase. Was this the way a thief felt?
she
wondered. Go back. Give them the journal; it’s not yours to take, a voice
inside her insisted.

 
          
Isabelle’s
blood was on those pages. It’s not mine to give, either, she thought
hopelessly.

 
          
When they reached the lobby, a young police officer came up to
them.
“I’ll drive you, Miss Farrell. Detective Sloane wants to make sure
you get home okay.”

 
          
Lacey’s
apartment was on East End Avenue at Seventy-Ninth Street. When they arrived
there, Rick wanted to come upstairs with her, but she demurred. “I just want to
go to bed,” she said, and kept shaking her head at his protests that she
shouldn’t be alone.

 
          
“Then
I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” he promised.

 
          
She
lived on the eighth floor and was alone in the elevator as it made what seemed
to be an interminably long ascent before stopping. The corridor reminded her of
the one outside Isabelle’s front door, and Lacey looked around fearfully as she
ran down it.

 
          
Once
inside her apartment, the first thing she did was to shove the briefcase under
the couch. The living room windows overlooked the East River. For long minutes
Lacey stood at one of the windows, watching the lights as they flickered across
the water. Finally, even though she was shivering, she opened the window and
gulped in the fresh, cool night air. The sense of unreality that had
overwhelmed her for the past several hours was beginning to dissipate, but in
its place was an aching awareness of being as tired as she had ever felt in her
life. Turning, she looked at the clock.

 
          
Ten-thirty.
Only a little over twenty-four hours ago, she
had refused to pick up the phone and talk to Isabelle. Now Isabelle would never
call her again …

 
          
Lacey
froze. The door! Had she double-locked the door? She ran to check it.

 
          
Yes,
she had, but now she threw the dead bolt and wedged a chair under the handle.
She realized suddenly that she was shaking again. I’m afraid, she thought, and
my hands are sticky—sticky with Isabelle Waring’s blood.

 
          
Her
bathroom was large for a New York apartment. Two years ago, when she had
modernized the whole space, she had added the wide, deep Jacuzzi. She had never
been as happy she had gone to the expense as she was tonight, she thought, as
steaming water clouded the mirror.

 
          
She
stripped, dropping her clothes on the floor. Stepping into the tub, she sighed
with relief as she sank into the warmth,
then
held her
hands under the faucet, scrubbing them deliberately. Finally she pushed the
button that sent the water swirling around her body.

 
          
It
was only later, when she was snugly wrapped in a terry-cloth robe, that Lacey
allowed herself to think about the bloodied pages in her briefcase.

 
          
Not
now, she thought, not now.

 
          
Still
unable to shake the chilling sensation that had haunted her all
evening,
she remembered there was a bottle of scotch in the
liquor cabinet. She got it out, poured a little into a cup, filled the cup with
water, and
microwaved
it. Dad used to say there was
nothing like a hot toddy to help shake off a chill, she thought. Only his
version was elaborate, with cloves and sugar and a cinnamon stick.

 
          
Even
without the trimmings, however, it did the trick. As she sipped the drink in
bed, she felt
a calmness
begin to settle over her and
fell asleep as soon as she turned off the light.