The Dead Room (21 page)

“Honestly, I don't think so. But…who knows?”

The kid hesitated again. “Do you care if I print the picture? I won't write anything horrible about you and your friends, honestly. I just saw Miss MacIntyre at the table, and she's been on television lately, so I took the shot. I'll just say she had a nice night out with friends, including her partner and her deceased fiancé's…brother?”

“Cousin,” Joe said flatly.

“Nothing bad, honest,” Phil insisted. “Hey, do you think I'd be working where I am if I didn't have to get experience somewhere?”

“Print it. But I'd better like it. Let me put it this way—you'd better not say anything negative about Leslie MacIntyre, Brad or me—or Matt. I mean it.”

“We still have freedom of the press, you know,” Phil muttered a little resentfully. “Sorry, just kidding, I swear. I'm not out to hurt people.”

“Right.”

“Honestly. Come on, I have to write something titillating now and then. And I'd seen Genevieve O'Brien on the news, talking about society's lack of concern for the down and out. There she was, a socialite, gorgeous, and she was so passionate about working with the poor. Next thing I knew, I was delving into her past and—”

“Were you ever overseas?” Joe cut in irritably.

“Well…I was over in Staten Island. Sounds better to say overseas. Sounds far more exciting—and it is over water.”

Joe shook his head in disgust, angry with himself for not having forced the issue with the man's rag magazine office. “All right,” he said.

“All right?”

“You can go.”

“You know where to find me.”

“You bet.”

Phil grinned, then cradled his camera to his chest and started at a leisurely pace down the street. A few seconds later, he started running.

Joe watched him go, then reentered the bar.

 

“So?” Leslie said, when they'd left the bar. “Spill the details.”

He'd explained to her and Brad that he had seen an article the kid had written that interested him and assured Brad that his picture would make the paper, but he hadn't explained any further.

They'd wound up eating supper with Brad and Ken, though she'd been surprised when Ken had come by to suggest it, having figured he was having fun at the bar and would probably be going home with one of the women surrounding him. But he had assured her that he had an image to maintain. “I keep my
real
women a secret,” he'd told her with a wink. She wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but she was glad she'd never fallen for the man. Not that there was anything really bad about him, but no way was she going to stand for being someone's secret.

She was glad when they spent the dinner arguing about the next election—something different, for a change, she thought. Then Ken had talked about a new costume exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and she found herself fascinated and anxious to see it. Then, at last, they left, ostensibly heading home.

“Details?” Joe asked her as he showed her into his car. “There are no details.”

“Have it your way,” she said, not seeing any point in trying to force him to talk if he didn't want to. “So we're going to see your prostitute, right?”

His brow furrowed. “She's not
my
prostitute,” he said lightly.

“Sorry, I didn't mean it that way.”

“I think you'll like her. There's something about her…”

“Don't worry. I have no intention of judging her,” Leslie said.

They drove slowly along the street.

“There she is,” Joe said. “I'm going to park.”

“Let me out first, will you? I want to get a feel for the street.”

He looked at her gravely. “Don't get into any trouble. I'll be right there.”

“What trouble can I get into?” she asked.

He pulled over to the curb and she hopped out. She looked up and down the street. They were very near Hastings House. In fact, she could see the subway station she would have used if she'd needed to.

She was surprised by the number of women working the area. She never would have suspected it. By day, this was a business area. There were only a few hotels, and those median-range—
business range
—in price. Maybe not such a bad place to turn tricks after all, now that she thought about it.

She didn't look for Didi Dancer. She just stood on the street and closed her eyes, trying to get a feel for something.

“Honey, are you all right?”

She looked up at the tall woman in the very short skirt who had stopped to talk to her.
Definitely dressed for business.

“Fine, thanks.”

“I thought you were going to pass out there, for a minute. Well, if you're all right…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Honey, you look as innocent as a lamb. Are you lost? You really shouldn't be out here alone at night. I mean…crime is down big time in the City, but still…”

“Are you Didi Dancer?” Leslie asked.

The woman stepped back, looking suspicious.

Just then Joe got out of the car and started walking in their direction. Didi took another step back.

“Didi,” Joe said.

She just waited, keeping her distance, a frown furrowing her features.

Joe reached them. “I got you that job interview,” he reminded her softly.

Didi looked at him. “And it's not till next week. Gotta eat till then,” she murmured. “This the girlfriend? Looking for a three-way or something?” she demanded.

Leslie had the feeling the woman was just trying to be harsh. “I'm trying to help Joe find the women who've disappeared.”

“You mean you're trying to find the rich girl,” Didi said.

“Hey, what's the matter, Didi?” Joe asked. “You said you wanted to help.”

Didi let out a sigh, but her eyes were still suspicious when she looked at Leslie. “There's something about her….” she murmured.

“Will you show me where the car was—the dark sedan—when Genevieve O'Brien got into it? Please?” Leslie said.

“Right there.” Didi pointed ten feet down the block. “I remember because of the fire hydrant. I knew when the guy pulled over that any idiot would know not to even pretend to park there.”

Leslie walked over to the spot as Didi and Joe just watched her.

At first she felt nothing but the night air, heard nothing but the normal sounds of the city.

A cat meowed.

A dog barked.

A car backfired, and a horn blared.

Rap music shook the pavement as someone drove by with the radio cranked up.

What am I doing?
she asked herself.
It's not like I have ESP.

But she closed her eyes anyway, saw the picture of Genevieve O'Brien in her mind's eye.

The sounds of night faded. She imagined the street as it must have been that night. She could see Genevieve, passionate, urgent, trying to convince Didi that she had to get out of this life and help herself. And then…

She heard the car horn.

Genevieve turned….

And recognized the person in the car.

Not a friend!

That sensation swept through Leslie fiercely.
Not a friend, but still someone she knew. Someone who bugged her, who compounded the headaches of the system, who didn't care about the work that needed to be done.

Genevieve was irritated as she walked over to the car.

Leslie could almost hear the man's voice.

Get in and we'll talk about it. I'll even give you a ride home.

So Genevieve got in. She had no inkling of danger.

Not until they had been driving for several minutes. Then, with one hand on the wheel, he had turned to her while she was talking about the issue and snapped something with his free hand. She frowned, still not alarmed, until he pressed his hand over her mouth and a sickeningly sweet smell filled her nostrils….

No! She struggled, tried to fight, tried to push away his hand. He was still driving, and there were people around, if she could just scream, fight, bang on the window….

But she couldn't. She was losing consciousness. And she knew…

“Leslie!”

Leslie heard her own name and the spell was broken. The feelings, the vision, faded away.

The next thing she knew, Joe's arms were around her as she realized she had been about to crash to the pavement.

“I knew there was more to that bump on the head,” he announced. “I'm getting you home.”

“No, no. Please,” she protested, somehow finding the strength to stand. “My head is fine.”

What on earth had just happened? She'd never experienced anything like that before. And she'd thought talking to ghosts was weird?

Didi was staring at her as if she were an alien.

Leslie gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sorry.”

“You a psychic or something?”

“No,” Leslie demurred, but the woman was still staring at her, as was Joe. “Well, kind of,” she admitted uneasily. “Sometimes I get…sensations. You know, when someone is…”

“Dead?” Didi asked flatly.

Leslie shrugged. “I…I hope not. Genevieve did know whoever picked her up,” she said with conviction, looking at Joe.

Didi sniffed. “I could have told you that. He had to be a friend.”

“No, that's just it. He was someone she knew, but not a friend. Someone she did business with, worked with somehow. She was annoyed when she saw him.”

“She got right into the car,” Didi said.

“Right—because she knew him. Because even though she didn't like him, he was respectable, someone people trusted, but she wanted something from him that she wasn't getting.”

“Ain't that life,” Didi murmured.

“Any chance you can tell where they went?” Joe asked.

Leslie hesitated, then shook her head. “All I know is that they drove for a while before he drugged her. That's what he did, he drugged her.”

“Drugged her or killed her?” Joe asked quietly.

Leslie frowned then. “I…”

“What?” Joe asked anxiously.

“Listen, I'm not a psychic. I really—” She broke off. No way was she ready to explain that her real talent lay in talking to ghosts.

“What were you going to say?” Joe demanded.

Leslie stared at him, letting out a long sigh. “I…don't think she's dead. She was abducted, she was drugged…but I don't think she's dead.”

Joe stared back at her. He didn't seem to doubt her, didn't question her. He looked thoughtful.

“I mean…I don't know anything,” she said. “I just…I don't know. I can't help but think I would have…felt it if she'd died. I think she might be alive.”

Joe folded his arms over his chest. “Then it's imperative that we find her. Quickly.”

I
am with you. All is well….

Leslie didn't fall asleep easily that night, despite her desire to dream. She lay awake for hours, certain that the answer was there, but seeing it was like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, the haystack being New York with its millions of denizens, and the needle being a single woman who was there somewhere.

So she had lain awake with the television on, keeping her company. Joe had somehow been loathe to leave her, despite the alarm system, and though she had absolutely insisted that he go home, she had the feeling he was sleeping in his car again. She should have suggested that he at least sleep in one of the other bedrooms, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to make the offer.

She wasn't afraid of her dreams. Quite the opposite: she welcomed them. She argued with herself that she had to be alone, that Matt was trying to reach her, and the presence of any other human being might keep him away.

That was true.

But equally true was the fact that she couldn't let go. Not yet…

And then, when she finally slept, he was there.

First, the tenderness.

The sensation that she wasn't alone, that the past hadn't been lost to tragedy, that what should have been forever hadn't been ripped away from her. The sweetness of lying down on a soft mattress after a long day, of being held, the comfort of another human being, loved and cherished, at her side. Then…

Flesh against flesh. The feathery brush of his lips on hers, the weight of him on top of her. Light, teasing kisses that quickly filled with passion. Blankets tossed and discarded. The slide of cotton against her body as the nightgown was tossed aside. The whisper of his breath against her skin, moving from the valley between her breasts, over her abdomen and down to her thighs.

I knew you would come,
she said.

And his very simple answer.

I love you so much…

In her dreams she stroked his flesh, was seduced and aroused by the fire of his lips and tongue moving intimately and along the length of her. She looked into his eyes, blue like the sky. She saw his smile, the single dimple in his cheek. Caressed his jaw, hard and squared, almost as if it had been formed by the determination and sense of justice with which he had lived his life, rather than the lottery of genetics. She reached out and, with both hands, she cupped his face and drew his mouth to hers again. She initiated the ferocity of the kiss, so rapt herself that she needed to return each stroke and caress, needed to seduce as she was seduced, needed to tease and arouse.

She stroked the muscles of his shoulders and then, with the whisper-light touch of her fingertips, caressed the length of his chest to the quickening muscles of his belly. In a fever she followed that touch with taunting kisses, pushing him back, straddling him, looking down at him until, smiling, she bent, her hair wickedly teasing his flesh as she played and stroked, lower and lower. At last his hoarse cry sounded, and she herself writhed and twisted and arced, desperate and hungry, almost wild, savagely in need of him, body and soul. Sensation coursed through her, and despite the volatile thunder and erotic friction of their lovemaking, beneath it flowed a subtle tenderness, a swell of emotion that elevated what was so simply human and physical and made of it something so much more.

She found herself beneath him, her breath frenzied, her heart in an uproar, and she lost the sense of being in her own body as he moved within her. All the while, his kisses fell on her breasts, her shoulders and then her lips. At last, locked to him by the joining of their flesh, she was rocked by the explosion of climax. Her limbs locked around him as she reveled in the cocoon of his embrace. Wonder filled her as she drifted back to earth, trembling in the aftermath of passion, her hot skin cooling, bathed in a fine sheen of sweat. He was damp at her side, their hair slick and tangled together on the pillow, and she marveled at how incredible it was to be so loved, so happy.

In dreams.

Because she knew she was dreaming, but she would not let the dream go. She entwined her fingers with his as she lay spooned against him, his hand resting on her belly. She felt the muscles of his chest where she rested her head.

This closeness was so familiar; they lay together just as they had so often when he'd come home late and slipped into bed. First had come lovemaking, then a few lazy words about the day, or their plans for the future.

I'm afraid for you,
he whispered now.

Afraid for me? Matt, you were a reporter. You know what it feels like to see something wrong and feel obligated to set it right, and you know I have to discover the truth about what happened here.

He listened, considered her words, carefully formed his own answer before whispering it into the lush silk of the hair against her ear.

Yes, I know that, but I can't help it—I'm afraid for you.
He was silent for a minute, almost as if it were painful to continue.
I can't be with you. Trust Joe.

She started to tell him that she was constantly surrounded by people—including cops—so how could she be in danger, but then she stopped as she remembered the dig. As the day had passed, she'd convinced herself that the roof had caved in on her, but was that true? She had been focused on the niche in the wall where the record book had been, but she'd been sure she'd heard…something. Sensed…something. But she was certain no one else had entered after her, and she was sure no one had already been there when she came in. So…

I felt it this morning, a sense of fear for you, but there was nothing I could do. But Joe was here, and it was all right. Don't trust anyone else, do you hear me? Only Joe.

All right,
she said slowly.
But why?

“The basement.”

Leslie woke with a start, certain someone had spoken the words aloud. She bolted up to a sitting position, the covers clutched to her chest. Her hair was a tangled, damp mess. Sometime in the night she had torn off her nightgown, and the sheets were hopelessly rumpled.

She groaned, feeling almost as if she had a hangover. She touched the top of her head, but the lump was almost gone.

“The basement?” she said aloud.

If she'd expected a reply, she didn't get one.

She rose and showered, then dressed in a T-shirt and khakis with a half-dozen pockets, three on each leg, and hurried downstairs. She was still early enough to have the place to herself. She put the coffee on, then went through to the servants' pantry.

She pulled back the braided rug and found the trapdoor leading to the basement beneath. She'd been in the basement before, of course, long before the night of the gala. They'd hoped to find all kinds of treasures down there, especially because the simple cellar had changed very little since the house's early days, but in the end it wasn't a treasure trove as some basements and attics could be. Over the years, the owners of the house had cleaned out their own belongings, along with anything that had come before.

Now the hole in the floor gaped wide and dark, like the entrance to an abyss.

She left the trapdoor open and went back to the kitchen. The coffee was ready, so she poured herself a cup and sipped while rifling through the drawers, certain she would find a flashlight in one of them. Then she paused.

The spectral woman was back at the hearth, stirring her spectral pot. Finally she paused, turned and looked straight at Leslie.

“He wants you to help me,” she said, a note of such poignant gratitude in her voice that empathy swept through Leslie with so much force that she nearly dropped her coffee cup.

“I would love to help you. Who are you?”

“Elizabeth Martin. Please. I never left my child.”

Leslie stared back at her, noting that she could see right through the woman's spectral body.

“They're…all gone now, you know.”

The woman looked agitated. “They have to know the truth. I never left my baby.”

“Elizabeth Martin,” Leslie said. “I'll do my very best.”

The woman smiled. “The basement,” she said.

Leslie
did
drop the cup then. It shattered on the floor just as Elizabeth Martin faded from view.

 

“She's gone crazy, but am I going to stop her? Not in this lifetime,” Melissa said.

Joe stared at her blankly. She'd thrown open the door when he'd rung the bell, and those were the first words out of her mouth at the sight of him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Leslie. She's down in the basement with a pickax!”

“Did you ask her why?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“She says that there's a body in the wall.”

Joe frowned and hurried inside, along the hallway and straight to the back. When he entered the servants' pantry, he immediately shivered and realized he'd entered
the dead room,
then wondered where that thought had come from.

The braided rug that usually covered the floor had been pulled away, and the trapdoor to the basement was open. He could see light from a work lantern rising up the stairs going down to the basement, strong wooden steps added recently to cover the dangerous brick stairway that had been there originally.

He hurried down.

The vertical line of fireplaces throughout the house was in evidence here, as well. A brick fireplace and hearth were set into one wall, and Leslie was standing to the left. She had apparently finished with the pickax and was digging away at the brick with her hands. She scared him a little. Her beautiful face was intent, her movements almost frantic.

“Leslie?”

“Joe. Hey. Come help me.”

“Leslie, what are you doing?”

“I…uh…found some old records. I think there's a body back here. Well, a skeleton, anyway. Come on.”

He went to her side. One of the bricks was stuck. He had a Swiss Army knife in his pocket, so he pulled it out and chipped at the mortar to free the brick. She stepped back and took a deep breath.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Leslie, this property is owned by the Historical Society.”

“If anyone is angry, I'll pay for repairs,” she said. “Please, Joe?”

The brick fell away in his hand. He stepped back, stunned. Even in the weak light and through the grime and dust of the ages, he could see bone.

Shit!

He almost swore aloud.

Leslie didn't look surprised in any way.

“Well, there…all right. We can stop now. They're still shoring up the crypt at the site, I imagine. Laymon will be there, but Brad can come over and help me. Except,” she said thoughtfully, “I'll have to get into the crypt…no, St. Paul's has been there since 1766, and the crypt we just discovered wouldn't have been completed then. Hmm. I need to find more records. Maybe the library…Hey.” She stared at him with a sudden smile. “Did you check your basement wall yet?”

“Am I going to find bones, too?” he asked.

“I told you, you'll find music.”

“And I guess I will,” he murmured.

“I'd better start looking for those records,” she said, suddenly decisive. She walked over to him and gave him a fierce hug and big kiss on the cheek. “Drop me off at the main library. I'm going to start there.”

“Sure,” he said, and then he couldn't help himself: He yawned.

She frowned. “You didn't go home last night, did you? I bet you just made sure you had a clean shirt in the car.” She smiled. “You can't keep worrying about me, you know.”

“Apparently, it's not a matter of can or can't. I simply do.”

She started toward the stairs, then turned around, her eyes carefully assessing the basement. It correlated in size exactly to the servants' pantry—
the dead room,
he thought again—above it.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“Everything is uneven down here, have you noticed?”

“It's hundreds of years old. What would you expect?”

She was still studying the walls. Then she shivered suddenly, hugging her arms around herself. “The subway runs near here, right?”

He shrugged. “I guess. Probably much deeper, though.”

“Right. But still, there are all kinds of shafts and tunnels.”

“Want me to find an old subway map?” he teased.

“That would be great,” she told him, completely serious. “Okay, I really have to get to work. What's your plan for the day?”

“I'm going to go back over the last-known movements of every prostitute who disappeared and see if I can find any connection to Genevieve O'Brien,” he told her.