Читать книгу The Dead Room - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8

It was evening when they arrived at Hastings House. To the left there was a large pit, along with the partially demolished miniskyscraper that was being torn down to be replaced by a megabuilding. Downtown was coming back in a big way.

To the right—beyond a narrow expanse of grass, the only evidence that there had once been many residences in the area—stood an office building/apartment complex built in the 1940s. The sun was falling, and, if Leslie narrowed her vision, she could almost imagine what this very small spot in the world might have looked like in the past.

But then she began to hear the angry beeping of horns, the sudden blare of rap music, a shout, the click of heels on pavement…this was, after all, New York. Even on a lazy Sunday afternoon, this was the piece of granite where so many people had decided they had to live. The center of the universe, in the minds of so many. She smiled. With all its sins and dirt and mixture of good and evil, she loved the city. Rebel she might be, but she loved New York.

And it was good to be back.

“Hey!” the cabbie interjected, breaking her thoughts. With an accent only on the single syllable, she wasn’t sure just what part of the world his speech denoted. “Somebody gonna pay me?”

“Oh, yes, right,” Professor Laymon said. Leslie didn’t even turn around. She felt Brad at her shoulder as she stared at Hastings House. What would it offer up to her now? Now that she was who she was—now that she was changed?

She felt Brad’s hand on her shoulder. “It’s a house,” he said softly. “But if you’re the least bit uneasy, there’s no reason on earth for you to stay here.”

She turned, smiling at him. “I want to stay here.”

“It won’t bring Matt back to life.”

“I know,” she said, looking back toward Hastings House.

The house was beautiful. Two stories high, and all the outer over-the-centuries additions had been ripped away and its facade had been restored to the Colonial-era style in which it had been originally built. Even downtown, there were few buildings to compare with it, other than St. Paul’s Cathedral and Fraunces Tavern. It had been given a white-picket fence—higher than it would have been when the house was built, and even as the sun set, the alarm wires around it were visible. A sign on the gate advertised the house’s historical importance, and announced visiting times and admission prices.

It looked just as it had the last time she had come here.

The damage from the blast and fire had been repaired.

And since it was Sunday, after five, there were no lingering tourists. The horn blasts and other street sounds seemed to come from far away. The house was quiet, as if it were resting.

As if it were expecting something.

Then the front door burst open, and Greta Peterson came hurrying down the walk to the gate. “Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting for you. Watching.”

We?

Who the heck else was here? Leslie had hoped for a quiet night. No one would have understood, so she hadn’t said anything, but she really wanted the house to herself.

Before she knew it, Greta, with all her warmth and enthusiasm, had reached her, hugged her, rested an arm around her shoulders and called out a greeting to Professor Laymon and Brad. Then Greta dragged her up the walk, saying, “Oh, Leslie, I’m so happy to see you. You look wonderful, dear. A bit too thin, but wonderful. I know that thin is in…but don’t go losing your shape, young lady.”

That from a rail-thin, hyper matron, Leslie thought dryly.

But Greta’s warmth and enthusiasm were endearing. Then, as they neared the house, Leslie’s heart sank.

Greta had apparently planned a welcome party. Thankfully, it appeared to be a small one. Sergeant Robert Adair—okay, she liked Robert and was delighted to see him—peeked out the doorway as they approached. Behind him, Hank Smith, from the development company, stepped into view, and then Ken Dryer, the attractive and articulate police spokesman, made an appearance.

“Leslie!” Robert called, smiling affectionately.

“Robert,” she said with a smile, accepting a hug as the other men stood back.

“Hey, Les,” Hank said, offering her a handshake.

Ken Dryer gave her a very proper hug before moving on to shake Brad’s hand and ask about the weather in D.C. Then he started down the path to welcome the professor and collect Leslie’s rolling suitcase from the sidewalk.

“Gorgeous as ever,” Robert Adair whispered softly. “You okay?” he asked, taking her hands and looking at her with concern in his eyes.

“Fine,” she assured him.

He kissed her cheek quickly. Robert was around fifty, she thought, a twenty-year veteran of the force. He worked out of One Police Plaza and wasn’t assigned to a particular precinct. He was called a liaison officer and became involved with crimes that crossed precinct boundaries to affect multiple areas of the city—like the missing prostitutes—or that started garnering more than a mention in the newspapers.

Greta bustled past him to stand face-to-face with Leslie.

“We are delighted to see you, my dear. If you’d refused to come, everyone would have understood,” she said. There was real concern in her soft gray eyes, the kind that made Leslie feel the ache inside again, but she needed to get past all that. And really, it had been sweet of Greta to find a special way to welcome her, Brad and Professor Layman on their arrival. Greta had been blessed to be born with not just the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth, but with a whole array of cutlery. Her ancestors had been fur traders on a par with the Astors. She was a born-and-bred New Yorker who truly loved her city and its history, and because of that ardent love, she was acknowledged as a major—if not the major—power in the field of restoration and archaeology.

“I love this city, and I’m privileged to be invited to work this new find,” Leslie told her cheerfully.

“We all are,” Brad said quickly, then flushed. “Well, the professor is history, but Leslie and I are both very pleased to be respected enough to be asked back.”

“Well, you’re both not just talented,” Ken Dryer said, “you love the city. You know the city.”

“And it’s so kind of you all to be here,” Leslie said, smiling. “I thought the professor and Brad would be helping me settle in quietly, but it looks like we have a dinner party to attend.” She tried to sound enthusiastic.

“Oh, just us and the caterers,” Greta said. “I had to do something.” Then she cut to the chase. “Oh, Leslie…do you really want to stay in the house? Sleep in it?”

Leslie smiled dryly. “I’m dying to stay here,” she assured Greta.

“But you won’t stay?” Greta asked Brad, sounding disapproving.

Brad shrugged, opting to answer lightly. “Sadly, Leslie has made it clear that she would prefer not to sleep with me.”

Greta wasn’t amused. She frowned.

“Sorry, just teasing,” Brad said quickly. “I have an apartment in Manhattan. Leslie’s place is out in Brooklyn, so it’s more convenient for her to stay here,” Brad said.

“I can walk right over to the dig,” Leslie explained. She smiled, trying to put Greta at ease. “Honestly, Greta, I love this place. I don’t blame what happened on a house. I want to be here.”

Greta stared at Professor Laymon. “And you’re not staying, either?” she demanded tartly.

Layman looked acutely uncomfortable. “Greta, we’ve talked, and this is Leslie’s choice. I have a home here, too,” he explained. He lifted his hands, the very image of brilliant but helpless.

Greta shook her head, her soft, short silver hair bobbing around her attractive face. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, still unhappy. “There’s no guard on duty, you know, except for when the house is open to the public. There’s an alarm system, of course. State-of-the-art. But the Historical Society can’t afford full-time security.”

“A state-of-the-art alarm system is much better than what I have in Brooklyn,” Leslie assured her. As Greta looked back at her, trying to smile, Leslie realized that the woman had set up the whole party just to keep her from being alone for as long as possible. She had to lower her head and smile. Then she lifted her eyes. “This place is fantastic. I loved it from the beginning. And I understand that the damage has been completely repaired, that you can’t even tell that…that anything happened. So…how is the tourism thing going? Do a lot of people come see the place?”

“We actually had to have crowd control when it first reopened,” Ken Dryer said. He smiled as he spoke. He always smiled. Wheaten-haired and handsome, like the boy next door all grown-up, with an ability to spin any situation, he was perfectly suited to his position, but Leslie always felt, despite how nice he had always been to her, that he was just a bit oily, as well. What his real thoughts were, she seldom knew. She had heard that he had political ambitions, and she was sure that on the political trail, he would charm an audience without ever really saying anything substantive about the issues.

“Crowd control?” Brad marveled.

Robert cleared his throat uneasily. “There’s nothing like an…event to draw crowds.”

Hank Smith groaned, taking Leslie by the arm. “What our good sergeant is trying to explain without words is that not only is this house a historical masterpiece, it has a modern-day tragedy to go with it. Unfortunately, tragedy brings people in droves. In the beginning, we had cops every day. The lines were around the block. That’s slacked off some, but even so, eventually this place is going to pay for itself. Look, you’ve chosen to stay here, and I, for one, am not going to tiptoe around. You know that we were all affected by what happened, that we all felt a terrible loss—not as great as yours, but a terrible loss all the same—and if you want to be here, I say good for you. And that’s not sucking up, that’s God’s honest truth. So, hey, can we eat now, Greta?”

“Of course, of course,” Greta stuttered. “Come along to the dining room. Leslie, I’ve put you in the best bedroom. We’ll get your bag up in a bit. One of these brawny fellows will be willing to serve as a…well, as a brawny fellow and take it up there for you.”

“Hey, I can handle a suitcase,” Leslie said.

“Yeah, and one of us can be a gentleman and take care of it, too,” Brad told her. “Let’s eat.” He looked at his watch. She had a feeling that Brad had other plans for the evening and that a welcome-back dinner party hadn’t been on his agenda.

Leslie…

She was thinner. She looked almost ethereal. He had never known such pain, such longing, as he felt seeing her there that night. He wanted to touch her so badly. He wanted to tell her that it was all right.

He wanted to tell her that Hank Smith was a dickhead. He laughed at himself. He hadn’t known he disliked the developer so much. On the surface, the guy was a decent sort. Maybe he was too perfect. Tall, dark and slimy. His Armani suits were pressed to a T. Even his shoes were designer. He was a big man in town. Went to the right clubs. Ate at all the right places. Shook hands with the mayor. Hell, the guy even kissed babies’ cheeks. He was a partner in Tyson, Smith, and Tryon, and he was the perfect representative whenever the firm had to deal with permits, public opinion and the laws of the state. But he just wasn’t the kind of man other men liked. His lines were too smooth. He didn’t kick back at a local bar to enjoy a good football game. Did that make him bad? No, just…a dickhead.

And there was Robert Adair, good old Robert, still looking like a bloodhound. Working tirelessly, always concerned, always in the middle of something tragic, criminal, sad…

Ken Dryer. He didn’t like him any better than he liked Hank Smith. He never wore Armani. Instead, he was spotless in his police dress best. But then, Dryer had a tough job, speaking to the media, trying to assure New Yorkers that even under the worst circumstances, they were going to be all right. He supposed he should have more sympathy for the man, but he didn’t. Dryer liked his job too much. Liked finding a way to put a spin on things that always made himself look good.

Greta…well, she loved history more than life itself. She was a good old broad, caring, genuine, which was hard, when you came from that much money.

Professor Laymon…he should get to know Greta better. They would make one hell of a couple.

Brad Verdun. He almost smiled. Would have smiled, if he’d had substance and could have. Once upon a time, he’d been jealous of Brad. Like Ken Dryer and Hank Smith, Brad loved the limelight. He was a good-looking dude, too. But he’d never had any cause to be jealous. To Leslie, Brad was a friend and colleague, someone with whom she worked well. They’d laughed about a few of his romantic fiascos together. But now…

His heart ached. Funny, he had no heart, but he could feel the pain. That was then, and this was now. He himself was gone.

He loved Leslie. Wanted her to have a life. Wanted her to find something as great as what they had shared. Really…

He just didn’t want her falling for some asshole.

All right, so he’d gotten bitter. How the hell not?

Don’t touch her, don’t you dare touch her, he thought.

Then he amended that.

Don’t hurt her, don’t you dare hurt her. If you do, I’ll…

He’d what? He couldn’t even appear at will, could barely communicate with the others haunting the same space.

Don’t hurt her, he prayed.

Hastings House wasn’t huge. The entry was handsome, with the staircase off to the side to allow for a breeze to make its way all the way through the house. Leslie imagined that once those breezes had been plentiful; now, with the house surrounded by skyscrapers, the possibility was highly unlikely. There were two rooms to the right, two rooms to the left, and six bedrooms upstairs. The dining room was the second door on the left, and behind it was the one accommodation to the twenty-first century; the kitchen and huge back pantry were attached to the house by an arched passageway.

“Are you really all right?” Robert asked, coming alongside Leslie as they headed toward the dining room.

She squeezed his arm. “Really,” she assured him.

Really, she repeated in her mind. I just want you all to get out of my house.

Her house?

It wasn’t her house at all.

It was simply the house where Matt had died.

“So, Hank,” Brad said as they filed into the dining room. “Your company made another historical discovery, huh? Must be hard. All that time and money invested—and now you have to stop work and wait for us to prowl around.”

“Thankfully,” Professor Laymon said, before Hank could reply, “the company doesn’t try to hide what it comes across, Brad.”

But Hank was grinning. “Do I mind losing money, Brad? Sure. But we get more promotional bucks out of this than you could begin to imagine.”

As she took a chair at the period reproduction dining table, Leslie ignored the men and flashed a smile at Greta. They were eating on reproduction Dutch porcelain dishes, and fresh flowers graced the table. The minute she’d entered the house, she’d smelled the aroma of beef cooking, so she assumed they would be having a traditional old English pub roast.

“So, Hank, tell us more about the find,” Brad said.

Hank looked a little surprised. “Professor Laymon has been given all the specifics.”

“He’s told us what he knows, but I’m curious. Why do you think you’ve discovered a working-class burial?”

Hank shrugged, taking his seat just as the caterers made their appearance, bringing the meal from the kitchen. A roast, whipped potatoes, greens, a tomato salad. Red wine. A very nice and very traditional meal.

“No one has turned vegetarian on me lately, have they?” Greta asked worriedly.

They all shook their heads as Hank started to answer Brad’s question.

“Well, we haven’t come across any coffins or bones—we’re leaving that to you,” he said, helping himself to the potatoes. “Gravy?” he asked. Ken Dryer passed over the gravy boat.

“What our first worker came across was a set of wooden teeth,” Hank explained.

“Wooden teeth?” Leslie echoed.

“Just like the pair of George Washington’s in the Smithsonian,” Hank said.

“Poor people didn’t generally have false teeth,” Leslie said.

“They’re very rough, and only preserved because they happened to have been wrapped in a scrap of tarp, like something a soldier might have had,” Hank said. “I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but that’s what the first guy on the site, someone from the museum, said. Anyway, there was more. A few pieces of jewelry, costume stuff, and poor costume stuff at that. And a couple of tiny crosses—those were actually real silver. We stopped work right away, of course.”

“Of course,” Brad agreed. Leslie thought he sounded skeptical, but Brad de facto disliked anyone who worked for a development company.

“Then,” Greta reminded Hank, “there were the records we found at the Morgan Library. Records that indicated a church had stood on the spot before it burned to the ground. At the time, this area was heavily populated with immigrant families, struggling to get by. Up the street, there was once a Catholic church. Down this way, there was another Episcopal church, not to mention Trinity and St. Paul’s. Remember, everyone went to church in those days.”

“Right, Greta. Anyway,” Hank said, flashing a grin at Professor Laymon, “the decision was made that our good friend here should head the project, and all work has been stopped, the areas where the finds were made have been cordoned off, and you’re all set to go. And—” he offered another of his broad smiles to Leslie “—we have two of the city’s most esteemed archaeologists on the case, along with whatever hordes the professor cares to hire.” He turned to Brad. “So do speak highly of us to the press, please.”

Greta laughed softly; Leslie smiled. It seemed to her that Hank was honest enough, even if she didn’t always trust developers herself.

“You know, construction workers need to make a living, too,” Robert piped in.

“Right. Some of us poor slobs are just worker bees,” Ken said.

“Yeah, poor Ken. You’re just the average worker bee, right?” Leslie teased.

He laughed. “Okay, so, I’m a lucky, well-educated worker bee. Talk to Robert, here, though, if you’re looking for a guy who has worked his ass off—sorry, Greta—to get somewhere, and despite all he’s done, he’s got a tough job, nowhere near enough respect and a lousy paycheck.”

“Hey!” Robert protested.

“Oh, we cops are suddenly well paid?” Ken said.

“Could be worse,” Robert told him.

Ken groaned.

“Besides, I doubt you intend to be a cop forever,” Robert said.

“Do you have political aspirations?” Leslie asked, sipping her wine.

“Not this year, I assure you,” Ken said. “Greta, this is absolutely delicious. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“Well,” Greta said, waving a hand in the air, “we want Leslie to feel that the police are with her if she ever needs them, right?”

“Greta is really worried about you staying at the house alone,” Robert told Leslie. He didn’t add and so am I. He didn’t need to. She could see it in his eyes.

“Hey, I know New York City. I’m street smart,” Leslie assured them both.

“Anyone can need help,” Robert said.

“Should I be afraid for some reason?” Leslie asked. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“No,” Robert said.

“Well, we still haven’t gotten to the bottom of those local disappearances,” Ken said.

“Leslie doesn’t need to worry. She doesn’t exactly fit the profile,” Robert said.

“There’s still been no break in the prostitute case?” Leslie asked. “Is that what you’re talking about?”

“No, no break,” Ken said. He hesitated. “Matt had people concerned, but no one has picked up where he left off.”

“Since Leslie is hardly likely to start walking the streets soliciting, I don’t think she needs to worry too much about that,” Greta announced. “I mean, personally. Of course we all need to worry in the larger sense.”

“Maybe there’s a modern-day Jack the Ripper out there,” Brad offered.

“Jack the Ripper got his kicks by letting others discover the butchered bodies of his victims,” Robert said sharply, then flushed, hearing his own tone. “Sorry, this is a real sore spot with me. We’re just not getting anywhere. And whenever we think it might have stopped, we get another distant relative, hooker friend or embarrassed john down at the station, talking about a girl who’s just vanished.”

“Maybe they’re just moving on,” Brad suggested.

“I wish that were the case,” Robert said. “I just don’t believe it.”

“Why aren’t we finding any bodies, then?” Ken asked him.

“I don’t know,” Robert said. “I didn’t mean to make you uneasy, Leslie,” he added, turning to her.

“You didn’t. I have a state-of-the-art alarm here, remember?” she asked, smiling.

But Robert still seemed disturbed as he stared at her.

Shortly afterward, their dishes were removed and coffee was served, along with a delicious apple cobbler. As dessert was set down, Leslie decided that she was going to lighten the mood. “So…anything new and exciting going on in anyone’s social life?” she asked.

Apparently it wasn’t the right light question.

“What social life?” Ken asked. “Do you have one of those, Robert?”

“Sure, I’m here for dinner tonight,” Robert said. “Thanks to this gracious lady,” he added, reaching across the table and squeezing Greta’s hand.

“Greta’s whole life is social, but since she works so hard at it, she doesn’t have an actual social life, either,” Hank teased.

“Nonsense,” Greta said. “I’m a happy woman. I love working for my causes, especially history. And you, Ken. You’re at every social event.”

“Ah, but is that a social life?” Ken asked.

“Sorry I asked,” Leslie said.

Finally the coffee was cleared, the dining room and kitchen were immaculately cleaned, and all that was left was the aroma of the dinner that had been. Since everyone seemed reluctant to leave, Leslie decided that it was time to ask them to go.

She feigned a yawn. “Oh, sorry. Hey, we do start tomorrow morning, right, Professor?”

“Are you trying to kick us out?” Brad asked.

“I can’t really kick you out. It isn’t my house. But, yes, please leave. I need to go to bed,” she told him, grinning.

Robert Adair looked at Brad. “I guess she’s serious.”

“Looks like,” Brad agreed with a shrug.

There were a lot of goodbyes, with everyone making sure she had their numbers programmed into her cell phone and forcing her to promise that she would call right away if she needed anything.

Greta insisted on walking through the downstairs and making sure the caterers had cleaned up to her satisfaction and turned off all the appliances, and that the doors and windows were all locked. She explained the alarm and gave the code to Leslie, while the others hovered in the entryway. At last, even Greta was willing to admit that all was well.

“Now, tomorrow is Monday. The house opens at ten, so Melissa Turner arrives at around eight-thirty—she’s in charge of ticket sales—and Tandy Goren and Jeff Green—the historical guides—usually get here a bit after. Melissa comes in and makes her coffee early. She’s one of those people who likes to get to work ahead of schedule so she can take her time. She’s a sweetheart—you’ll love her. Just don’t be startled when you hear voices early.”

“I may already be gone,” Leslie said. She looked at Laymon. “What time are we meeting at the site, Professor?”

“Take your time tomorrow. Ten will be fine,” Professor Laymon said. “You know where it is?”

“Down the street. I don’t think I can miss it.” She smiled.

“Yes, well, just dial my cell if you don’t see where we are. I want to make my general assessment, then I’ll get you and Brad going while I take care of hiring some grad students and start with the other what-have-yous.”

She nodded, waiting anxiously for them to leave.

Ken Dryer brushed sandy hair from his forehead and took her hand. “I’m still a cop,” he said huskily. “You know you can count on me if you need anything.”

Let go of her hand, dickhead!

Ken frowned suddenly, then shrugged. “Call me.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Hank stepped forward. “Okay, I’m not a cop, but I’m always around if you need me, anyway.” He kissed her cheek.

You are the dickhead of all dickheads!

Hank suddenly seemed to stumble. “Just let me know if you need me,” he said.

Robert hugged her easily; Brad bussed her cheek. “See you tomorrow, kid.”

Greta hugged her fiercely. Leslie felt as if she were about to leave on a safari into the deepest jungle. They were all so worried. And she couldn’t possibly explain why she so badly wanted to stay in the house.

Alone.

At last the good-nights were ending. Robert Adair continued to look troubled. She kissed his cheek. “We’ll have dinner soon, how’s that?” she whispered to him.

That seemed to brighten him. He nodded.

“It’s really good to see you back, Leslie,” he said gravely.

“Back in New York. Back with us all,” Ken Dryer added.

She smiled. “This is home,” she murmured.

Finally they left and she was alone in the house.

She stood in the entry. She could still hear the street noises, muffled by the fence and the thick walls of the house. The sound of a horn, a shout, a car alarm. The usual.

She forced those noises into the background and tried to hear the house itself.

Nothing. Everything was quiet. Not even an old board creaked.

Hastings House had stood for more than two centuries. It had seen war, peace, life, love…and death. It had to be filled with a few spirits. It had been witness to a revolution, to a civil war that had torn a country apart. It had been there in 1812 when a fledgling nation had faced its first major confrontation following its independence. It had witnessed riots, the teeming disturbance of a world gone crazy in the caste war pitting old immigrants against new. World wars had come and gone, and the Cold War after them. It had survived the tragedy and trials of the twenty-first century.

There had to be spirits here….

But she heard, sensed, nothing. The house was silent.

“Matt?” she whispered hopefully.

But there was no reply.

She closed her eyes, prayed, hoped, waited.

Nothing.

At last she went up to bed.

There are no rules, Nikki had told her once. No one really knew what lay beyond this world.

She lay awake as long as she could, still and expectant.

But nothing happened, and without even noticing the transition from wakefulness, she finally fell asleep.