The Dead Room (14 page)

She was filled with the sweetest ache at the sheer intimacy that raged between them, at his natural physical grace. Together they strained, rocked, writhed together. She reveled in the hardness of his body, the shudder of his desire, the sudden explosion of his climax….

And basked in his arms, eternally around her.

His breath was soft against her ear as he sighed in complete sexual satisfaction. She could still feel his body, molded to hers.

She moved in his arms, as she had done so many times before. When they'd lived together they had often kept different hours. He would come in once she was asleep, and slowly, seductively, awaken her by making love to her.

And they would sometimes whisper about their days afterward, lying replete in each other's arms, so it seemed the most natural thing in the world to talk to him now, even knowing it was only in her dreams.

“I met Joe today.”

“Joe, huh? Good guy. Sad history, though.”

“Oh?”

“He was madly in love with his high-school sweetheart.”

“And?”

“She died. Cancer.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't think he's ever given up the ghost.”

The ghost.

“He's an interesting guy,” she said.

“He is. He's great. Listen to him.”

He nuzzled her neck, holding her more tightly.

“I thought he was you for a minute.”

“Yeah? I guess we did look alike.”

Then his lips found hers, and it started all over again.

It was her turn to whisper to him. “Matt, I love you so much. And I miss you so much, need you so much….”

He drew back slightly, looking down at her. “You can't let yourself need me, Leslie.”

“I always will.”

“No,” he whispered, and then his touch took over. “Forgive me, but I just need a little more time.”

“Time?” she repeated.

He didn't reply. Not with words.

 

She awoke, the dream still so real in her mind, and found herself naked, her bed a rumpled disaster.

She swore softly, deeply embarrassed, even though she was alone.

She closed her eyes, shook her head, then opened her eyes and looked across the room. A soft gasp escaped her.

Matt was there.

Sitting in the wing chair by the fireplace.

“Here I am…but it's wrong. I shouldn't be here,” he said.

“What?” Leslie murmured, so stunned that she could barely form the word.

“Sorry. Never mind. He's right, you know.”

“What?”

“It wasn't an accident.”

“Matt, talk to me, tell me what you know.”

“I don't know anything. That's the problem.”

She started to rise, tripped on the sheet, and by the time she untangled herself and looked toward the chair, he was gone as if he had never been.

As if their conversation had been nothing more than part of a desperate and wistful dream.

T
here was dust everywhere; Joe wasn't at all certain that he could have ascertained anything in the gray and vile-smelling room he entered. But he was pleased to be here, doubly pleased because Leslie had called him with such excitement and insisted that he come.

The police presence around the dig was larger than ever, and the press swell had grown to monstrous proportions. But Robert Adair had cut his way through the crowd to reach him, then created a path for the two of them to reach the site and climb down into the strange gaping hole. Despite the work lights, he had been totally disoriented when he'd first entered the underground room. It wasn't exactly the smell of death that had assailed his nostrils when he'd first managed to straighten up in the subterranean room, but more like something stale, the overwhelming odor of simple decay that had been closed up for too long.

“There you are!”

He was startled when Leslie rushed over and hugged him. She was barely recognizable, she was so covered in the dust of the past, but her eyes were bright in her smudged face. “Well?”

“You found a room,” he said, feeling foolish for stating the obvious.

She laughed. He saw that Professor Laymon, Brad Verdun and a number of other workers were clustered at the far side of the room. They clearly understood the significance of the find far more that he did. They were talking excitedly and dusting at a wall.

“It's a crypt,” she told him.

“A crypt?”

“There was a church here at one time, built in 1817, to be exact,” she told him. “A few years later, it burned to the ground in the fire that destroyed much of old New York. Other buildings went up on the site and were razed over the next century, and then, in the late 1930s, what we'd now call a miniskyscraper went up. That's what was just torn down. But this is it, the proof that we've made an amazing find. Look! This is where the priests and the wealthy were buried, not mixed with the poorer people buried in the churchyard. We've already found gold crucifixes and other High Episcopalian paraphernalia, and even a storeroom of old books and documents. Isn't it great?” she demanded.

“Amazing,” he told her. “And your…” He found himself lowering his voice. “Your
instinct
led you to it?”

She started laughing again, delighted, elated. “No, I leaned against what I thought was an embankment, and I fell through.”

He had to appreciate the rueful humor in her eyes.

Professor Laymon let out an excited cry. “I can't believe it! It's a cache of sermons. There's a protected niche here…watch the bones,” he warned, as eager workers surged forward.

“Congratulations,” Joe said. “And thanks for getting me in here.”

She was holding his hands, he realized, as if they were old friends. But then again, they did have a bond.

They had both loved Matt.

She pulled him closer, rising slightly on her toes to whisper, “You had to see what I was talking about.”

“I did?”

“The city under the city.”

“And,” he said softly, “you think that there might be a psycho kidnapping and killing prostitutes and then hiding the bodies in hidden crypts?” He didn't mean to sound as skeptical as he did, but she merely stared at him, amused.

“Maybe not crypts, but somewhere in the abandoned places under New York. Do you have any better answers?” she inquired.

“No. So let's start exploring underground.”

She nodded, smiling. “I'm just about done here, anyway. So how was your day?”

He started to answer, and then decided not to bother. He'd spent the day retracing his steps. He'd gone back to Genevieve's apartment. He'd studied every little scrap of paper she'd left lying around, every note. He'd checked out her last doctor's appointment and her last dentist appointment. He'd visited the bars where she'd partied with friends, and all he'd found anywhere were people who spoke of her wistfully and with affection. He'd checked again for any evidence of her credit cards being used. Then he'd headed back to the street where Didi continued to ply her trade. She hadn't remembered anything else, and none of the other prostitutes she'd introduced him to had anything helpful to add, either, though they had all spoken admiringly of Genevieve. In the end, it still seemed he had hit his best stroke of luck when he first met Didi—the last time anyone had seen Genevieve O'Brien had been when she had gotten into the dark sedan.

The highlight of the day, of course, had been telling Didi about the waitressing job he had arranged.

“Your friend would hire me?” she asked skeptically.

“Yes. Cut the makeup by half, wear something that covers you…you know the drill.”

“You're taking a risk.”

“Life is a risk.”

“I owe you. I'll be there. And I won't let you down. Except now I won't have Genevieve to help me get my daughter back.”

“Start with legitimate employment, huh?”

“Absolutely.” She'd hugged him.

The low point of the day had been talking to Eileen Brideswell and telling her that, so far, he'd traced Genevieve to a street corner and a dark sedan, and no further.

 

“Leslie,” Brad Verdun called excitedly. “Come look at these.”

She turned at the sound of her name and was looking at him when he first noticed Joe. For a minute he went dead still. Maybe it was the light, but he seemed to turn parchment white. His lips formed a single word.
Matt.

“Sorry, no. Joe Connolly, Matt's cousin,” Joe said, walking carefully across the uneven floor and offering his hand.

“Wow.” Verdun stared at him, openmouthed.

Laymon turned around then and gasped.

“Joseph Connolly,” Joe repeated. “Matt's cousin.” Did they all believe in ghosts? Hell, these people spent their lives working with the past and the dead.

“You're a dead ringer for him,” Brad said, then winced. “Sorry.”

“It's all right. Leslie asked me down here.”

“Cool,” Brad said. “She just never mentioned you, that's all.”

Joe didn't reply. No need to say that they had just met.

Leslie came up behind him then. “I'm going to take off, let you guys deal with all this,” she said.

Brad frowned. “Leslie, you must realize the significance—”

“Yes, and we'll be working in here for weeks,” she said cheerfully. “And for the love of God, Brad, you deal with the reporters, huh?”

“You know I will.”

“Come on,” she said to Joe, taking his arm.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, letting her drag him away. The other men just stared. Neither one replied.

Joe climbed out of the hole first, then reached back to help her. They were both covered in grime, but as he helped her out, he was surprised by the sound of applause coming from the street.

Beneath the dirt on her face, he saw her blanch. “It's all right. We'll get away,” he said.

When she was standing, he turned to see Ken Dryer, whom he knew from his own days on the force, coming toward them.

Despite the dirt everywhere, Dryer still managed to look impeccable in his dress uniform. He was the perfect spokesman—tall, dark and handsome, with a voice that would have done the old crooners proud. “Leslie, the reporters are all clamoring to talk to you.”

“I fell into a hole. You tell them about it,” she said.

“I can, but—” He broke off, staring at Joe. “Hey, Joe. What are you doing here?”

“Leslie called me.”

“You two—oh, yeah…the Matt connection,” he said.

Joe shrugged. “Right, the Matt connection.”

“Ken, please help me get out of here today.”

Ken stared at her, then shrugged and smiled. “I guess the rest of us are exhibitionists, huh? Brad and the professor love to talk. Even Hank has been giving them an earful, though his heart must be sinking. I'd say you're looking at a good year here, holding up the building process. Oh, well, they're going for public appeal, and this time, they'll be paying a price. Head for the trailer. I'll send an officer to lead you out the back gate in the fence.”

“Thanks, Ken,” she said, then took Joe's arm. “This way,” she told him.

They headed for the trailer. He could hear the protest of the crowd, but then Dryer's smooth tones rose above it, followed a moment later by laughter.

They reached the trailer in safety. “Want water? A soda?” she asked him as soon as they were inside.

“Water would be great.”

She had barely supplied him with a plastic bottle before the door opened. In Joe's opinion, the man who entered could only be described as oily. “Hey, Leslie. I heard you needed some help escaping,” he said.

Joe wasn't sure why, but he hated the guy the minute he heard those simple words. The man was talking as if it were his job to protect Leslie. His voice had a proprietorial tone, and he just didn't like it.

When the guy noticed him—how it had taken him so long, Joe didn't know, since he was a good six-three—he went dead still, gaping. Joe found himself enjoying it.

“Joseph Connolly,” he said, offering a hand.

For a second the fellow looked horrified, as if he were about to collapse. “Hello, sorry…I…uh…”

“You didn't see a ghost. I'm Matt's cousin, and I'm just starting to realize how much he and I resembled each other.”

“A lot.” Hank looked at Leslie. In fact, he looked as if he'd like to come between the two of them.

“What do you think of the new discovery?” Joe asked politely.

“Incredible. Seems Leslie's luck is still holding.”

“Just lack of coordination, I'm afraid,” she said. “I fell through a wall.”

“This will hold up building for a long time,” Joe said easily. “How is the company going to deal with that?”

“We're going to go with the flow, celebrate history,” Hank said. He grinned, and it seemed like an honest grin. “Every time those cameras roll, they're picking up the company logo.”

“Still, you must be talking millions.”

“And millions. Doesn't matter. Have you ever tried to buy an ad during the Superbowl?” Hank asked.

“Can't say I have.”

“Good press is expensive.” Hank touched Leslie's cheek. A little too familiarly, Joe thought, then told himself to shut up. What right did he have, after all? “When you can't beat trouble, you just have to deal,” he said.

Leslie moved slightly away from him, and Joe could have sworn that her smile was false. “Hopefully, we're doing the city a favor.”

“And our stockholders, too,” Hank said.

The trailer door opened. “Police escort,” a voice said cheerfully. A known voice.

“Robert!” Leslie said with pleasure.

Robert Adair came up the steps. Leslie gave him a hug, then apologized quickly. “I've just smudged you big time,” she said.

“I can live with being smudged by you anytime,” Robert said. “Hey there, Joe. So you two have—”

“Smudged each other already,” Joe interrupted quickly. He didn't want Hank Smith knowing they had just met, though he wasn't sure why. Let them all think that he and Leslie had a past history as friends. He could protect her better that way.

Protect her?
From what? Where had that thought come from? What implication had there ever been that Leslie might be in danger?

“Let's get going. There's a gate in the fence in the back where I can get you out,” Robert told them.

They followed him, and a few minutes later they emerged on the far side of the site. “You both need baths, you know. Otherwise, people will be stopping you in the street and offering you money.”

“You think?” Leslie said. She laughed. “I've seen much worse on the streets of New York.”

Robert studied her and rolled his eyes. “Okay, you've got a point. But you sure do look like you just climbed out of a hole in the mud.”

“Okay, bath,” Leslie agreed.

“Then dinner,” Robert said.

“Dinner?” Joe cut in.

“Leslie promised to have dinner with me tonight. Want to come along? You can tell me where you're getting looking for the O'Brien girl.”

Joe shrugged and looked at Leslie. “Deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” she agreed.

 

She arrived home in time to see Hastings House in action. Melissa was handling tickets. Her smile was radiant when she saw Leslie. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself. How's it going?”

“Great. There are two tours going on now. Just wave to the guides on your way up to your room. Oh, and lock your door. We keep an eye on the tourists, but you never know when someone will go wandering off. By the way…you're really, uh, dirty.”