Читать книгу The Dead Room - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

At three in the morning, Joe was trolling the streets, driving slowly, looking for his one hooker in a veritable sea of them.

He’d started doing the basics immediately. Checking and double-checking the information Eileen had given him, making appointments, sending e-mails…

He’d read the magazine article several times over but had found nothing but an allusion to a long-ago rumor of an extramarital affair—not enough to make an intelligent grown woman go berserk, surely. The reporter was currently on assignment overseas, so there was no way to get hold of him to see how much he really knew.

Joe didn’t think he was going to get much help from that quarter, anyway.

The secret to Genevieve’s whereabouts was out here somewhere on the streets.

One of the notes Eileen had given him referred to a hooker Genevieve had tried to help in the course of her job and had actually spoken about to her aunt. Didi Dancer. Probably not the girl’s real name, but…

Five foot four, huge breasts, tiny waist, liked to wear a skin-tight red skirt and leather jacket when she worked. Spiked heels. Her vanity was her hair, long and a rich, vibrant brown; she wouldn’t be hard to spot.

He saw the woman and pulled over to the curb. She noticed that he was driving a Lexus, and he noted the hard smile that curved her lips as she walked over to the car. She leaned against it, arching her body suggestively as she did so.

“Hey,” she said. Then her hard smile eased a bit. “So, good-looking, what are you up to tonight?”

“I’d like to talk to you,” he said.

She had pretty features. Her skin was dry and taut, though. Too many cigarettes. Maybe—probably—too many less legal substances, as well. “Talk? Sure, honey, everyone wants to talk.”

He smiled; her own grin deepened. “Hey,” she said again, her voice growing husky. “You really are good-looking, sugar. Maybe we can work out a good deal—for talking.”

“Honestly, I really do just want to talk, but I’ll make it worth your while.”

She tensed suddenly, started to straighten. “You’re fucking vice, aren’t you? I haven’t said a thing. You can’t run me in.”

She started to walk away, heels clicking sharply on the pavement.

He hopped quickly out of the car. “I swear to God, I’m not vice. And I will make it worth your while. You’re, uh, Didi Dancer, right?” Man, what a ridiculous name.

She paused, then turned back, staring at him across the sidewalk.

“Who are you? What are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m a private investigator. And I just need some help. I’m looking for a missing girl. Genevieve O’Brien.”

A strange look washed over her face. Something containing caring and humanity.

Her voice still husky, she asked, “That pretty social worker?”

“Yes.”

“I talked to the cops, you know.”

“Will you talk to me?”

She hesitated. “All right,” she said at last. “If you’ll take me for a ride. That’s a cool car.”

“Thanks.”

She crawled into the passenger seat, ran her hands over the soft leather, then looked at him.

“Where did you want to go?” he asked her.

“Just drive. Hey, let’s take the FDR.”

“All right.”

He drove for several minutes, navigating the city streets to reach the highway, before she started to talk. “The police quizzed a lot of us about the missing hookers, you know. Strange. Well, not so strange. It was like it was all by rote. Questions they had to ask. They think we chose this life, that we deserve whatever happens to us.” She shook her head, staring out the window. Then she looked back at him. “Can I smoke in here?” she asked him.

“If you can help me, you can light up a cigar,” he told her.

She smiled, staring at him. “You are one handsome dude, you know? I should have known right off you weren’t looking for a fuck. No, that’s not true. You’d be amazed at the really good-looking young guys who just want sex without any emotional bullshit. Or kinky things, or sometimes not even all that kinky. Just things their wives won’t do.” She frowned. “You really aren’t vice, right?”

“I swear, I’m not vice. I’ll show you my ID.”

“Oh, honey, anyone can fake ID,” she said with a laugh. Then she sobered. “I wish I could help you.”

“Try.”

“Okay.” She opened her window and lit a cigarette. Exhaling, she began. “Genevieve. The cops asked about her, too. Such a pretty name for such a pretty girl.” She inhaled deeply, just air. At that moment she didn’t even seem to realize she had a lit cigarette. “I have a daughter. They took her away. She’s in foster care. Genevieve came to see me. I gave her a hard time at first. The girl looks like she ought to be posing for Vogue or something like that. And I heard from some of the other girls that she’s really rich, too…but she was the real deal. She really wanted to help me. Us. I even got her together with some of the other girls one time. She was so sweet. She wanted to know about our dreams, can you imagine that? Like, did we plan on doing what we’re doing forever? Was it just to pull in some money? She wanted to help us get real jobs that paid enough to survive here. Enough to get legit. To get our kids back,” she said softly.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Joe asked.

“About a month ago.”

Right around when she disappeared?

“Did she visit you? Were you at a restaurant…on the street, what and where?” Joe pursued quietly.

“We were right where you picked me up tonight,” she told him. “She knew where to find me.”

“Why was she looking for you?”

“She thought she might have a job for me.” Didi inhaled on her cigarette, exhaled the smoke, then flicked the butt out the window and looked at him. “She wanted to know if I was seriously—really seriously—ready to change my lifestyle. If I wanted my daughter back bad enough to stay clean. Squeaky clean.”

“And what did you tell her?”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “I said yes.”

He nodded. “But she never came back?”

“No.”

“When and how did she leave you?”

“A car pulled up, and I could tell she knew the driver. She walked over to it, and it looked like she and the guy—I think it was a guy—it looked like they were kinda arguing. I couldn’t hear what they said, but she looked pissed, you know? Then she waved at me and said she’d get back with me about the job.”

“And then she got in the car?”

“Yes.”

“What can you tell me about the car?”

“It was a dark sedan. Black, blue, something like that.”

“By any wild chance, did you get the plate number?”

Didi shook her head. “I wasn’t looking. I…I didn’t notice anything more.”

“You didn’t watch her go, maybe wave as she drove off?”

“No,” Didi said softly, then looked at him. “Another car showed up. A regular of mine. I knew the guy; knew he was worth money. I forgot all about Genevieve then. I had to. I mean, I seriously would have taken her offer, and I would have stayed clean. But…well, I needed to eat in the meantime.”

“Right,” he murmured.

He drove her back to the curb where he had found her. After he slid the car into neutral, he pulled out a wad of bills.

“You don’t owe me,” she said.

“I told you I’d pay you to talk.”

“It was about Genevieve. You don’t owe me. I really hope that you find her. I pray sometimes that she’s okay.”

“Take the money, have some dinner. Give yourself a break.”

She paused, looked into eyes, then took the money. “What makes you think I’m not just gonna buy some coke with it?”

“You might. I hope you don’t.”

She started to get out of the car. “You know, you’re the only one who asked me that.”

“Asked you what?”

“What I said to Genevieve. No one else cared if I meant to clean up or not. That was really nice of you.”

“You could probably get yourself a real job, with or without Genevieve,” he said.

“Yeah? I have great references. ‘John Q. says I’m a great lay,’” she said dryly. She flushed, then dug into her small handbag. She produced a scrap of paper, a receipt from a coffee house, and scratched down a number. “If you think I can help you again, call me.”

He accepted the paper. “Thank you. Are you sure you don’t remember anything else about the car? Can you take a guess on the color?”

“Black. I think it was black,” she said. Then she sighed. “I’m just not sure.”

“Okay. Thank you. Really.”

She touched his face, her eyes soft. “No, thank you, sweetie. You treated me nice. Real nice. And I’m serious. You call me.” She gave him her dry smile once again. “And that wasn’t a come-on. Good night.”

She hopped out of the car.

He drove on down the street, past the site of the new dig. At night, it seemed huge, protected behind quickly rigged barbed wire. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he slid into a spot along the curb, stepped out of the car and started walking, making mental notes as he went.

Eileen Brideswell might just be right. Her niece had been working with prostitutes in the same area where a number of hookers had gone missing. She had been picked up by a dark, probably black, sedan off the street—in that same area. He needed Robert Adair’s notes; he needed to know if any friends of the other missing girls had seen them getting into a dark sedan.

He kept walking, using the time as he often did to make sense of what he had learned.

He found himself standing in front of Hastings House once again, as if brought there by instinct.

Well, that was crazy as hell. What could Hastings House have to do with the disappearance of Genevieve O’Brien?

The place just bugged him, that was all. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the blast had been intentional and Matt had been the intended target.

And that someone was getting away with murder.

He stood beneath the streetlight, staring at the house. It seemed to live and breathe; the old colonial windows were like eyes, the door like a mouth.

Unease filled him. Eileen Brideswell was right, he thought. Her niece had been the victim of foul play. Just as the prostitutes had been.

Someone was getting away with murder.

Just like at Hastings House.

At first Leslie slept deeply. Then, suddenly, she discovered that she was wide awake.

She glanced at her travel alarm on the Duncan Fife reproduction by her bed. Four in the morning. Much too early to get out of bed.

She plumped her pillow, but sleep wouldn’t come. After half an hour she sighed and gave up. She slipped on a robe and went quietly downstairs.

So far, she hadn’t gone into the room where the explosion had taken place. Was she ready for that?

Did she want to reach Matt?

In the entryway, she hesitated, then went into the first room off the entryway, now set up as a Colonial parlor. There was a love seat beneath the window, a table in the center of the room, a pianoforte to one side, and various chairs, along with a tea table. She stood there in the shadows and the diffuse glow cast by the the security lights. “Hello?” she said softly.

But the room was just a room, an image of a past that might or might not have been exactly as it was represented now.

She walked through the connecting door to the dining room, thinking that last night was now just a moment in history, like everything else.

Then she walked through the kitchen and back to the servants’ pantry.

The hearth had been rebuilt. She could almost imagine Matt standing by it the way he had that night. She could almost see herself nearby, held captive in a different conversation. In her mind’s eye, she could almost see…

But the room was silent. Just a room.

“Not even a Colonial gentleman here, huh? The lady of the house?” she said aloud.

Just an empty room.

She walked back into the kitchen, found the coffeepot and the coffee, and thought that if the supplies belonged to Melissa, the ticket-seller, she would make a point of replacing them. She set a pot of coffee on to brew. Upstairs, in her room, which wasn’t part of any tour, she had a television. She could sip coffee and watch an early-morning news show soon.

That settled, she hummed while she made coffee, thinking that she might turn and see a ghost at any time. But the coffee brewed, and she saw nothing. She found a large cup, filled it, added cream that she found in the artfully disguised refrigerator and headed back up the stairs.

She set her coffee down and turned on the television, then walked to the window and looked idly down at the street. Her heart stopped.

There was a man on the sidewalk, standing under the streetlight.

Matt.

She blinked. He was still there. As tall as Matt, standing the exact way that Matt stood. It had to be Matt.

The man looked up.

Good God, it was Matt!

She forgot that she was wearing nothing but a robe over a short nightgown. She almost forgot about the alarm as she raced downstairs toward the front door, but at the last minute she suddenly realized that a siren would go off and the police would be alerted if she didn’t punch in the code. She hit the numbers hastily, then threw open the door and ran down the walk.

At the picket fence, she slowed and swore softly. The man was gone.

She wrapped her robe more tightly around her body. The street was so quiet now.

Dead, actually.

She opened the gate and looked anxiously down the street. Nothing in either direction. The man under the streetlight must have been a trick of her imagination.

But if it had been Matt…. A ghost didn’t have to run off down the street, so foolishly running around barefoot wouldn’t do any good. But it probably hadn’t been Matt; she had just wanted so badly to see him….

She let out a soft sigh. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

She felt a soft breeze touch her face, heard the sound of a distant horn and someone shouting “Taxi!”

The city never really slept. Not even down here, in the financial district.

“Hello?” she murmured again.

“Hi, yourself, lady.”

She spun around. A filthy, toothless, long-haired bum was grinning as he stood behind her. “I mean, hello, honey,” he added.

She looked him up and down, trying not to wrinkle her nose in distaste or scream in shock.

“Uh, hi,” she said. “Bye.”

With a wave, she fled back through the gate, taking a minute to latch it behind herself, and up the steps. Inside the house, she locked the door and keyed in the alarm, making a mental note to herself to start being really careful or people really would start thinking she was crazy.

At nine o’clock on the nose, Joe Connolly was in the office of social services, speaking with the man who had been Genevieve’s boss, a harried, irritable curmudgeon named Manny Yarborough who didn’t seem inclined to be helpful.

“I’ve already had an officer in here, and I can’t tell you anything else. The girl quit. Cleared out her desk and quit. That’s it.”

“No, that’s not it. Did she say where she was going? Did she leave an address for her last check? Did she say that she’d be in to get it? May I see her desk, her work area, please?”

“You know what, mister? I’m a really busy man. We’re always shorthanded around here, and Genevieve left us shorter. She didn’t say anything. When I asked her not to leave that way, told her she had to work with the system and give notice, that she couldn’t just quit, she just said, ‘Watch me.’ Then she grabbed her stuff and she walked. And you’re crazy if you think I didn’t put that desk right back to work the second she was out of this place. We need space, and we need help. This is New York!”

“I’ll need whatever address you have on file, and I’d like to look at the desk anyway,” Joe said firmly.

“You got a search warrant?”

“Why—do you think this is going to turn into a homicide investigation? I told you. I’m not a cop, I’m working for the family, a family that helps support the city charities, and I’m sure you know that. How about you give me a hand, please?”

The man looked at him in exasperation. “I’ll get you what I had for a phone and an address, and you can ask Alice over there if she minds if you look at her desk.”

Alice was young and looked uneasy. She seemed exceptionally kind, though, the type of person who was meant for her line of work. She was still idealistic. Her eyes were big and blue, and she must have heard the conversation, because she jumped out of her chair when Joe approached, eager to be of assistance. “I can go get some coffee or something if you want. I mean, I can get out of your way.” She was thin, and a little like a nervous terrier.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could stay and tell me what I’m looking at,” he told her, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Sure.”

Manny walked away, as if disgusted with the whole thing.

Joe sat at the desk.

“The bottom drawer is files,” Alice offered. “I’ll go through them with you.”

He quickly discovered that Genevieve’s work with the prostitutes seemed to have consumed her caseload, though, interestingly, she hadn’t labeled them as prostitutes. She had listed the women as “Working temporary jobs” or “Seeking better opportunities.” She had notes on all the children—babies, mostly—court documents listing when they had been taken by Children’s Services and where they’d been placed, and little notes everywhere. He found the file for Didi Dancer. Her baby girl had been taken six months ago. Maybe Dancer was her real name after all, because the child was listed as Dianna Dancer. There was one note in Didi’s file that wasn’t clipped to the others. It read, She has a chance. Go for the big guns.

A second later, he heard a cough. He and Alice both looked up. Manny was back, scowling fiercely. “Mr. Connolly, here is the information I promised you. Now, I believe I’ve offered you every courtesy. We are an under-paid service here, and time is valuable.”

“I haven’t minded helping Mr. Connolly at all,” Alice assured him, her eyes still innocently wide.

“Yes, but you are due in court on the Blalock case in thirty minutes.”

“In thirty minutes?” Alice said with dismay. She jumped up again. Joe decided she was more like a nervous hamster than a terrier. He stood, as well. As he rose, he palmed the scrap of paper with Genevieve’s note. Later, he could always say he hadn’t taken it on purpose.

He managed to whisper to Alice, “Can you copy the files for me?” he asked.

She looked delighted to be involved in a secret conspiracy against her boss. She nodded, eyes shining, a smile playing at her lips.

“Alice, time is passing here,” Manny said.

“Thank you both,” Joe said politely, adding, “I may be back.”

Manny scowled.

Joe decided to retreat and fight another day. He extended a hand to Manny. “Thanks. I’m praying I’ll find Miss O’Brien alive, and if I do, it will be in large part thanks to your help.” What a load of bullshit. Still, he’d learned over the years. He was never obsequious—that would be too much; he would have to vomit on the spot. But being cordial to guys like this one usually made them feel awkward and sometimes even more willing to help in the future.

He extended a hand to Alice, as well, thanking her sincerely. She flushed and stuttered. “Y-you’re very welcome. I loved Genevieve. We all did. Do, I mean.”

“Yes, and now we all need to get back to work,” Manny said.

Joe gave Alice a wink, and she smiled broadly. He left.

He had his cell phone out and was calling Robert Adair before he even left the building. Luck was with him. He didn’t lose his signal in the elevator, and Robert answered immediately.

“I need to talk to you about Genevieve O’Brien and the missing prostitutes,” he said.

“What?” Robert said.

“I said—”

“No, I heard you. But…Genevieve wasn’t a prostitute.”

“I know. Humor me,” Joe said, quite sure that Robert had made the same connection he had but wasn’t about to give anything away.

“All right. I’m at the site. Can you meet me here?”

“What site?”

“What do you mean, what site? The new dig site. The Big New York Dig, they’re calling it.” Robert was silent for a second, then added, “Down by Hastings House.”

“I’ll be there in a few,” Joe said, and hung up.

Leslie was filthy, but she barely noticed and certainly didn’t care. She was alive with the thrill of discovery that had been part of her chosen vocation from the very beginning. This place was an archaeological gold mine.

In a matter of hours they had laid out their grid, and Laymon had taken on a number of professionals, using all the people from the museum who were already involved and twenty grad students from local universities. People were down on their knees with small trowels and delicate brushes, while heavy machinery stood silently by. Thus far, they had found shoe buckles, belt buckles and fragments of jewelry.

Leslie was sure there would be lots more.

At first she hadn’t known why she was drawn to a particular section of the grid. But then, as she dug and then dusted, she had looked up…

And seen the child.

She must have been about seven. She was hugging a handmade, unbleached muslin doll. Her hair was in a single braid. She was very thin, and her legs were slightly bowed. Rickets, Leslie thought. She had stared at the child for several seconds before she realized she was seeing someone none of the others could.

A ghost child.

She smiled, hoping no one noticed as she whispered, “Hello.”

The little girl had huge brown eyes. She was dressed in a calico print dress and a spotless apron. She hugged the doll more tightly and mouthed back, “Hello. You can see me?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say, Leslie?” Brad, just a few feet away but luckily with his back to her, asked.

“Uh, nothing. How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he replied, then turned back to his work.

Leslie smiled at the child again. “What’s your name?”

“Mary.”

“Beautiful name,” Leslie said.

“What did you say?” Brad demanded again.

“Nothing.”

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Brad said with a sigh, staring at her.

“I’m just singing. It passes the time.”

“Oh. Well…you can’t carry a tune, you know.”

“Thanks. I’ll avoid karaoke clubs, then.”

He made a grunting sound of irritation, rolled his eyes and went back to work.

She was afraid that Mary would be gone, but the ghostly child had remained. She was grinning. “I’m sure you sing just fine, miss.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated. “Are you lost?”

“I don’t know where my mother is.”

“Was she…sick?”

The little girl nodded gravely.

“And were you sick, too?”

She nodded and looked troubled. “I think my mother died. I think I came here with my father when she died. But I can’t find her now.”

“Do you think that her grave was here…right here, where I am now?”

The girl pointed a few feet away.

“I’ll find her. When I do, Mary, they’ll take her away for a bit. But…I’ll find you, too. And I’ll make sure, in the end, that they keep you together.” She took a deep breath. “Mary…you know that you’re…”

“I’m dead. Yes, I know. I just want my mother.”

Despite herself and everything she knew, Leslie felt a terrible chill. The sun was bright. It was a beautiful day. She was glad she was surrounded by people. Real live people.

Brad was standing, dusting his hands on his khakis.

She made a face at him. “I think I’m going to move right over there. Want to give me a hand? We’ll need to dig a bit.”

“How do you know?”

“A hunch. Instinct. I don’t know. But I want to try over there.”

He looked both skeptical and annoyed, but he joined her nonetheless.

They began to work in silence. Leslie looked up, intending to smile and reassure the child again, but the little girl was gone.

She didn’t know how long she worked, she was so absorbed in what she was doing. And then, at last, she hit a fragment of wood.

“Brad.”

“What?”

“Look.” She dusted the piece and handed it to him. “Coffin?” she asked softly.

“Let’s keep going.”

A minute later he let out a hoarse cry. He’d come across a piece so big it could actually be termed a board.

“We’re on it,” Leslie murmured.

“Delicately, delicately now…just the brushes, no matter how long it takes.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. How long have we worked together?”

He didn’t even look up.

She found the first bone. A breastbone. They both stopped and looked at each other.

“Let’s go a little farther,” he whispered.

She nodded. They went back to work, meticulously, slowly. Her back ached, but she scarcely noticed the discomfort. Minutes passed. Eventually they revealed the skeletal remains of a woman. Bits and pieces of fabric had also survived the ravages of time and the worms of the grave. And a cross. A simple gold cross. Very tiny, a poor woman’s treasure.

About to get up and summon the others, Leslie realized that they were already surrounded. Silently, and one by one, about twenty people, including Professor Laymon, Robert Adair and Hank Smith, had circled carefully around their position.

“Um, well, it’s definitely a graveyard,” Leslie said.

“We knew there was a church here. It’s a churchyard. There will be lots of graves, and, with luck, they’ll reveal volumes of new understanding about the area,” Professor Laymon said, pleased.

Leslie wondered if Hank Smith felt happy. He shouldn’t. This would put his project on hold for some time.

But Hank Smith was smooth, a man who had apparently learned never to give his true emotions away. His face revealed absolutely nothing of whatever he was feeling.

Laymon, however, looked as if he were about to have an orgasm.

“Oh. My. God,” he breathed. He sounded like a Valley girl, Leslie thought with a smile. “All right, we’ll need to get the photographers over here…and the news crews.” He frowned. He didn’t want anyone trampling on what he now considered to be his territory, but they could always use the publicity, and, anyway, there was no way not to allow the press at least some access, especially since it was the good PR that kept the developers happy. “Sergeant Adair, will you post a guard, please? And when we bring her up, I want her in situ…the dirt around her and beneath her.”

Laymon definitely looked as if he belonged in a laboratory somewhere—or filming a mad scientist movie—Leslie thought. He was in a smudged white lab coat, his glasses were sitting halfway down his nose, and his hair was dusty and sticking out at odd angles. She smiled. The man certainly got into his work.

Hank Smith reached down to help her up the little incline from where she’d been digging. She hesitated, worrying about leaving Mary’s mother alone.

“Leslie, come on up. I promise, you’ll get to oversee as soon as the photographers are done,” Laymon said.