The Dead Room (18 page)

As she emerged from the crypt, a group of workers backed away in a single body. She smiled and waved. “I'm fine,” she said reassuringly. “Go on back to work—we've got a lot to do.”

With Joe holding her arm and Brad on the other side of her, they walked across the site in the direction of the back exit. Suddenly she stopped, pulling him to a halt with her.

“Wait!” she demanded.

“What?” Joe asked.

She looked around. “Who found me?” she asked quietly.

Brad frowned. “Laymon and I. You were flat on the ground, unconscious. We were really scared, Leslie.”

“You were together?”

“Yes, why?” Brad asked.

“No one else was in there with me, right?”

“No. Why?” Brad asked, looking puzzled.

“Right. Of course.” She forced a smile, said goodbye to Brad as he joined Dryer and started walking again.

Joe and Leslie departed via the rear and in a few minutes they were approaching Hastings House.

The morning rush was on and the sidewalks were full. Odd. Around the site, she couldn't move without someone stopping her. Here—even dirty and tousled—she was barely noticed. Serious, almost grim-faced businessmen and women were headed to their financial district offices. One man looked so depressed that she wanted to tell him to lighten up.

She looked at Joe, who wore a frown, as well. She smiled. “Well, I guess it's a good thing you didn't shower yet,” she told him.

He glanced at her and seemed surprised by her easy grin. “What happened in there?” he asked.

She frowned. “A chunk of ceiling fell. Hey, that place has been buried for a century. Not even the Pyramids have survived without some damage, and this place was nowhere near that well built.” She was trying to make him smile. No dice.

“I wonder if you should be working that dig.”

“What are you talking about? It's what I do.”

He shook his head.

“In fact,” she said thoughtfully, staring at him, “how did
you
happen to be there?”

He stared straight ahead and didn't answer.

“Joe?”

“I don't know,” he said at last, almost unwillingly.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I mean, I don't know. I just…” He stopped speaking, shook his head again. “I just had a feeling I should go find you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Instinct, fluke—I don't know.”

“Well, that was really sweet of you,” she said.

“Sweet?” He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind.

“Yes, it was very nice of you to worry.”

He didn't reply to that, but his strides increased.

“Hey, slow down. I'm a fast walker, but I'm practically running to keep up with you,” she said.

“Sorry.”

Then they were at the house. It wasn't officially open yet, but the door was ajar and Melissa popped out just as they started up the steps.

“Leslie, are you all right?” she cried anxiously, hurrying out to greet her.

“Fine,” Leslie said, frowning. “What—”

“The news announced that there had been an accident,” Melissa said, then gave Joe a strange look. “You went from here to the site?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow,” Melissa said, looking at him in wonder.

“Hey there, is everyone all right?”

Leslie looked toward the entrance. Jeff Green, in complete Colonial grab, was standing in the doorway, his face wearing an expression of concern. Leslie had to smile. He could have been an eighteenth-century gentleman, standing on his porch to survey his domain. He reminded her a little bit of Ichabod Crane at that moment, rather than Washington, because, seen from below, he was so tall and lean.

“Everything's fine,” she said as he, too, stepped outside. He ruined the impression of historical perfection when he reached into his Colonial jacket pocket and produced a pack of Marlboros. He lit up, still frowning. “Melissa and I had the TV in the office on and we heard what happened. That policeman—Dryer—came on to say that everything was all right, but that's what the cops always say. We couldn't help being worried.”

“Thanks for your concern. I'm pretty dirty and I've got a headache, but that's about it,” Leslie said.

“Well—” Joe began.

She stepped on his foot. He looked down at her, brows lowering. She stared at him, and he smiled in understanding. She was grateful, but growing weary of constantly saying that she was fine.

“Where's Tandy?” Leslie asked, changing the subject.

“Unless we have school groups or a major tour scheduled, she takes Wednesdays off and I have Thursdays, and we both take Sunday,” he explained.

“We pull in our biggest crowds on Friday and Saturday,” Melissa explained. “We
should
be open on Sundays, too.”

“The Sabbath?” Jeff protested, sounding convincingly Colonial. Then he grinned. “Hey, I like my Sundays off.”

“I could work them. And we could make big bucks,” Melissa said.

“Well, if you guys don't mind, I'm going to go in and shower,” Leslie said. She looked at Joe. He was dirty and covered in plaster dust, as well.

It occurred to her that, concealed in his strangely tinted shield of grime, he could pass for the ghost of his cousin.

“I'll wait,” Joe said.

“You could go home and shower.”

“I could, but I won't. I'll take you to my buddy, Dr. Granger, first.”

“Doctor! What's wrong?” Melissa demanded, her voice full of concern.

“Joe will explain,” Leslie said. He'd opened his mouth, so he could take care of telling them what had happened, she decided.

She entered the house and rushed up the stairs. In her room, she quickly shed her dirty clothing, turned on the water and stepped into the shower. The heat washed over her deliciously, and she turned up the force of the water. She always tried to conserve resources where she could. At that moment, though, she was grateful that the Historical Association had installed modern plumbing and a really good water heater. She let the steam roll around her and the water beat down. Washing her hair, she felt the bump on the top of her head. Not really all that bad, she told herself.

As she stood there, she began to feel the oddest sensation, as if she were being cradled by the steam and the water. Tenderly held.

She stood dead still. Was it her imagination? Or…?

“Matt?” she said softly, her voice almost lost against the rushing of the water.

There was no reply.

Just the sensation.

So she stood, water and heat cascading all around her, barely breathing. Wondering. It was as if she were being held with such a gentle touch because she had just survived a great danger and returned home. As if she were a soldier who had been off to war and come home at last, despite the danger.

A loud knocking on her bedroom door broke the spell.

She realized that the water—no matter how good the heater was—had grown cold.

She turned it off quickly, wrapped herself in a towel and hurried out.

“Leslie?” Joe. And he sounded worried.

“I'm okay—sorry.”

She heard him swear. “I was about to break the door down! I'd thought you'd passed out in the shower.”

“No…I got carried away enjoying the steam and the heat,” she replied. “I'm sorry, I'll be right out, I swear.”

“Take your time. I was just worried.”

She heard his footsteps recede down the hall.

Shaking, she sat at the foot of the bed.

“Matt?” she said aloud again.

Nothing, no sense that he was there, not even the hint of a breeze from beyond…

She was losing her mind. No. She knew better; she knew that sometimes, something remained after death. She knew that ghosts did exist.

But what about this particular ghost?

Was she inventing him, just because she so desperately wanted to see him?

“Matt?” she repeated softly.

But there was still nothing.

Nothing at all.

She dressed quickly, choosing good walking sandals and a black knit dress, not at all certain what the rest of the day—and the night—would bring.

She dried her hair and applied some makeup.

But when she was ready, she paused again. “Matt. I know you're here. You have to be here. And…I want you to know that Joe and I are going to find out exactly what happened. And, Matt, I know you know this, but…I love you so much.”

Loved,
she reminded herself.
Loved.
Matt was…

Dead.

“I
do
love you,” she whispered aloud. “And I
will
discover the truth.”

She started out the door…and was suddenly certain she felt a gentle touch at the base of her spine. She turned, but once again there was nothing.

She stood in the hallway, entirely alone.

T
he doctor's visit turned out to be a total waste of time, at least in Leslie's opinion. She'd insisted she was fine, and apparently she was right. She had a bump on her head but no concussion. Not unexpectedly, the doctor was concerned that she had blacked out, but she convinced him it had been for no more than a few seconds. He told her that she could check into a hospital for observation if she chose.

She didn't choose.

When they left the the doctor's office, Joe, who'd cleaned up as best he could at Hastings House, decided that lunch would be a good option.

“Hungry?” he asked Leslie.

“Sure. I guess.”

“Remember, any sign of an upset stomach could mean something more serious,” he warned her.

“The skull is the hardest bone in the body,” she told him. “Did you know that?”

“I know that
yours
is hard,” he said.

“I'm willing to bet
yours
is granite,” she returned. “Lunch sounds good. But should you be wasting all this time on me? You have a girl to rescue.”

“Or a body to find,” he said dully.

“You don't believe that Genevieve is still alive?”

“I want to. But usually, in a case like this…”

“I know.”

“We'll pop in here,” he said, opening the door to a pub.

She looked at him. “Are you sure you have time? You really are spending too much time on me.”

“I don't think anyone could ever spend too much time on you,” he told her. He said the words lightly, but he knew he meant every one of them.

“Very gallant,” she told. “Still…”

“Don't worry, I'm working.”

“Oh?”

“We're at O'Malley's.”

“So I see.”

“Eileen Brideswell's favorite place. Not ostentatious, real Irish owners…a family hangout for the O'Briens. I'm sure Genevieve hung around here, too, so I can ask some questions while we're eating.”

“And do you think that will really help you any?”

“I think she disappeared in a dark sedan and she was taken by someone she knew. It sounded as if it was a decent car, so I need to learn who she was hanging around with, and this might be one of the places where they spent time.”

“Aha.”

A pretty woman with a broad Irish accent approached them with a smile of recognition for Joe and led them to a cozy booth.

“Special is Irish bacon and cabbage,” she told them. “And, if I do say so myself, our potato soup is the best in New York.” She grinned and added, “Maybe in all of the New World.” With a wink, she left them.

“A friend?” Leslie asked.

“I've been here now and then,” Joe said. “But I think she saw me with Eileen Brideswell, and that makes all the difference.”

Their waitress approached them. She had dark hair, brilliant green eyes and a definite accent. Her name was Bridget.

“What would you like?” Joe asked Leslie.

“What else? Potato soup and the bacon and cabbage,” she said, with a light in her eyes.

“The same,” Joe told Bridget.

“I'll bring the soup right out,” Bridget promised with a bright smile and flashing eyes.

“Bridget, how long have you worked here?” Joe asked.

“Oh…well, since I came into the country. A bit over six months now, I'll be thinking.”

Joe reached into his jacket and produced a picture of Genevieve O'Brien. “Did you know this girl?”

“Genevieve O'Brien?” A look of deep sorrow entered Bridget's eyes. “That I did,” she said sadly. She stared at Joe. “Ah, you're the fellow looking for her, eh? For Mrs. Brideswell?”

He nodded. “Did she come in frequently?”

“Well, now, I can't say frequently. But you know, she was working sometimes not far from here, so she had the occasional lunch here, yes. A lovely girl, she was. My heart breaks to think what might've happened to her.”

“Did she come in alone?”

A slow grin lifted Bridget's rosy cheeks. “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes she'd be bringing a woman in with her, and they'd be…well, all cleaned up. But I would kind of know when she would bring in a…well, I guess the term here would be ‘working girl.' She tried to make life better for people.”

Joe nodded, noticing the way Leslie was listening to Bridget, her own heart seeming to break for the girl she'd never known.

“You're in her booth, you know,” Bridget said.

“We are?” Leslie asked.

“Oh, aye. She had the same booth—whenever it was free, of course. But Mrs. O'Malley…” She paused and indicated the hostess who had seated them. “She'd often hold it open, thinking Miss O'Brien might come by. The family was very supportive from the time her father-in-law, the elder Mr. O'Malley—he's retired now, left the place to his son—first opened here. So Mrs. O'Malley—”

“Was she dating anyone, do you know?”

“I'm just a waitress here,” Bridget said.

He smiled. “That doesn't mean you might not have noticed if she had someone special. Did she ever come in here with a man?” Joe asked.

Bridget frowned. “Once or twice, I guess.”

“Lunchtime? Cocktail hour? Dinner?”

“I saw her in here with a fellow once or twice. I think the one man was her boss. And the other…well, I guess she worked with him, too.” She offered a quick smile. “The one fellow was quite a looker. The boss…well, he wasn't ugly as sin or anything, but he was a grump. You'll have to excuse me now, please. I've got food that needs serving.”

She smiled and left them.

“You think she was dating someone who turned out to be…bad?” Leslie asked Joe.

He shook his head thoughtfully, sipping the coffee Bridget had poured when she came to take their order. “No. I don't believe she was dating at all.” He cocked his head, smiling ruefully. “I've done this a long time. I've been through all the basics. I've talked to her old friends, old flames. Her heaviest relationship was with a guy in college. He moved to Alaska to be a lumberjack and hasn't come back since. She had a hard time with her father, I know. He was the kind who demanded perfection. I think he spent most of his life trying to fight the ‘lazy Irish' stereotype to show the world that the Irish were hardworking and intelligent, so much so that he never let her be a child.”

Leslie stared back at him, sipping her own coffee.

He went on. “But she loved him anyway. I'm sure, when they had their last blowup and she walked away, she never imagined he would die before they made peace. She had a strong sense of family and really loved her aunt, too.

“So I'm pretty sure she plunged into work instead of taking time for a personal life—and I think she was trying so hard with those prostitutes because she had listened to her father so long. I think she felt that helping women get off the streets was like reaching back into the past.” He met her eyes as he spoke. “A lot of Irish immigrants with nowhere else to turn became prostitutes, and I think Genevieve felt she was helping to make that right by helping these women now.”

“And you think, if she were able to, she would contact her aunt?”

He nodded.

The potato soup arrived.

He'd enjoyed it before and was irrationally glad when Leslie said, “It really
is
the best potato soup ever.”

“You never came here before?” he asked her.

“Never. It's a big city, you know.”

“Yeah, I do know. It's just that…”

“What?”

He shook his head.

“What?” she persisted.

“When we were kids, Matt loved this place.”

“Ah.” She shrugged. “We ate in Brooklyn a lot.”

“I eat in Brooklyn a lot.”

“And there you go—we never ran into each other.”

“I haven't been in New York a lot the past few years.”

Bridget brought their plates, her bright green eyes smiling. “So many people think they're going to get a pack of fatty bacon strips on their plates.” She frowned. “I put the plates down and they say, ‘Oh, goodness, the bacon—it's like pork.' What do they think bacon is?” she asked incredulously.

They both laughed politely.

Joe asked her, “Bridget, if I were to bring in pictures, do you think you'd be able to recognize the men Genevieve came here with?”

“I would, I think. Most probably. The one fellow…it was cocktail hour. Dark and busy in here. I'm not as sure about him, but I could try.”

“Thanks.”

“Delighted to help,” she said.

When she left, Leslie asked him, “What pictures do you have?”

“At the moment, her boss's. A few old friends.”

“So there really is a method to your madness—or at least your dining choices,” Leslie said with a smile. He was glad to see she was eating well and really did seem to feel fine.

“Do you still have a headache?” he asked her.

“Only if I forget and touch my head,” she told him, then stared at him seriously. “It's amazing that you showed up,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe there is such a thing as ESP.”

“You doubt it?”

“Of course. Why—do you believe you have it?”

“ESP? No. But there have been so many documented reports of it. I just read about one really sad situation. A mother woke up, sensing her daughter, who was serving in the army in the Middle East, was in danger. She called all over, trying to reach her daughter or at least find out how she was. It turned out she had been killed, just when her mother woke up, feeling so scared.”

“Hmm,” Joe murmured.

“And there have been dozens of cases involving identical twins. Sometimes one just knew when the other one needed help.”

“Hmm,” he repeated.

“So,” she said, grinning, “you must have ESP.”

He lifted his cup to her, studying her face. “You know, Robert Adair is certain you have some kind of psychic gift.”

“Really?”

“Do you?”

“Who knows?” she said lightly. “Shall we go?”

“I'll get the check,” he said.

It turned out that they didn't have one. Mrs. O'Malley insisted on picking up the lunches, so he left a hefty tip for Bridget and they left.

“I should go back to work,” Leslie said.

“You were told not to. How about coming back out to my place for a while? I want to clean up and check my e-mail, and we can't look for Didi Dancer or any of the other girls until later.”

For a moment she looked undecided. Then she shrugged. “Sure.”

As they drove, Joe caught her looking pensively out the window. “What's so interesting?”

“City above the ground, city below the ground,” she replied.

He frowned. She grinned ruefully.

“I can't get that thought out of my head, for some reason. Take the crypt we've discovered. So much had been built on top of it that no one had any idea it was even there. Look at the city we see from the car, then take the subway and you don't see any of it. You're traveling like a mole.”

“Very true.” He frowned, staring at her hard. “What happened this morning?”

She shrugged. She didn't know him that well yet. She had to keep reminding herself that he wasn't Matt. “A piece of the ceiling fell on me,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“They showed me where it caved in,” she told him.

He lived in an old brownstone, the first floor and basement of which were his. He watched her examine the place as they entered. She looked around, smiling. He thought it was comfortable. He had a huge sofa and several armchairs in the living room, with an entertainment system in a polished oak cabinet facing it. There was an old hearth, and a display of the antique swords and rifles he had collected over the years. He had a surprisingly large kitchen, a nice dining area, a bedroom, an office and even an alcove that could function as a guest room. The basement hosted his pool table and some beat-up chairs.

“Well?” he inquired.

“Well, what?”

“Does it rate okay?”

She laughed. “Great bachelor quarters,” she told him. With an amused grin, she added, “Very manly.”

“Can I get you anything—I just want to check my e-mail and get cleaned up.”

“I'm fine. I'll see if I approve of your music collection,” she told him.

He left her, striding for his office. He'd sent out a number of inquiries to people who might have information on Genevieve, but he had a hunch so strong that he was willing to put money on it that finding Genevieve hinged on finding the right dark sedan—and the man driving it. Still, he had to go through the motions.