You've Been Warned

CALM DOWN, I tell myself. There’s a simple explanation. It happened again, that’s all. The hot water was out this morning and the morning Mrs. Rosencrantz came banging on my door. Two different days. As far as what the nasty old bat claims, she’s clearly going senile.

I hop on the elevator, my head a jumbled mess. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I have a feeling that could change tonight.

Barely inside my apartment, I pour myself a Stoli. A vodka tonic minus the tonic. Then I gulp it like a shot. The only thing I want to feel right now is numb.

I wish Michael could be with me. Better yet, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Why didn’t he want to tell me? I worry about that temper of his too.

I pour another Stoli and page him while I clench the diamond-and-sapphire bracelet he gave me. I bet he wouldn’t mind now if I wore it to work.

A few minutes pass. The waiting is excruciating.

I picture him in a late meeting at Baer Stevens, or on an overseas call, unable to break away. Maybe he’s with his lawyer, planning an exit strategy. There’s a lot of money at stake in divorcing Penley.

A few minutes turn into a half hour, and the anger begins to kick in. I can’t take this. Why isn’t Michael calling me back? He has to know we need to talk.

I page him again.

Only now it’s not anger driving me, it’s fear. Has he done something? What might he do?

I hit *67 and dial him at home. I know Penley never gets the phone, but maybe he will.

It rings and rings. Damn it.

The answering machine comes on, and I’m about to hang up when I hear “Hello?” I recognize her accent immediately. It’s Maria. Only today’s not one of the days she cleans. In fact, it’s not even “day” anymore; it’s night.

“Maria, it’s me, Kristin,” I say, trying not to sound anxious. “What are you doing there?”

“I’m babysitting,” she answers. “Mrs. Turnbull call me last minute to come over.”

“Where’s Mr. Turnbull?”

“With Mrs. Turnbull. They go out to dinner.”

That stops me cold. Dinner? Together? “You don’t know where they went, do you?”

“No. They give me cell phone numbers in case of emergency. I call them, you want.”

“No, no, that’s okay.”

“When they come home later, I say you call.”

“No! Don’t—” I catch myself and settle down. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’ll talk to Mrs. Turnbull tomorrow.”

I thank Maria and hang up, not knowing whether to be relieved or even more worried. Probably the latter. After the way Michael reacted to seeing Penley this morning, the last thing I’d expect would be their having dinner together.

Unless of course there’s more to it. As in, what Michael’s not telling me.

I page Michael again. If he’s really having dinner with Penley, why can’t he simply excuse himself and return my call?

I start to cry and hate that I do. I can’t help myself, though. The more I dwell on this, the harder it gets to take.

I’m about to pour myself another drink when I realize it’s not alcohol that I need.

I need my darkroom.

A minute later, under the faint red glow of my safety light, I get busy developing the film I snapped of Penley and Stephen outside the Fálcon. I still can’t believe they walked out of there together. Maybe it’s true what they say: people having affairs secretly want to get caught.

Whether that’s really the case with Penley and Stephen isn’t clear.

But soon, as I stare at the first shot of them, I see what is. No!

Stephen’s image is transparent.

Just like Penley’s.

Just like the body bags.

But it still doesn’t make sense.

My dream is more than a dream. It’s real. It happened. Past tense. I know because I was there.

And it’s not only me, is it? Someone else knows I was at the Fálcon.

Of course, he’s about the last person on Earth I want to see again. Am I so nuts that I’d seek him out?

No, just very, very desperate.

Chapter 87

I DIG THE CARD he gave me out of my shoulder bag, bold black lettering printed on thick white stock. Detective Frank Delmonico, 19th Precinct, 153 E. 67th Street.

Just the sight of his name makes me uneasy. The phone number is crossed out and another is written above it in pen. A couple of the digits I can’t make out, not that it matters. I have no intention of letting him know I’m coming, of course. I’m banking on the element of surprise. That, and something else.

Only a complete idiot would physically assault me in a building filled with cops.

Taking deep breaths most of the way, I cab it over to the East Side, the precinct mere blocks from the Fálcon. Amid the streetlamps and multiple floodlights, the stone building seems to glow under the night sky. It’s actually quite beautiful, albeit in a foreboding kind of way.