Darkroom (9 page)

But how could I sleep knowing I kept silent, while even the tiniest possibility exists that there was truth in that image I saw.

It’s probably best to forget it and get back to work. Ordinarily, I’d go to the park for inspiration, but considering what today’s foray yielded, I’ll seek an alternative.

Though I’m loathe to take on the responsibilities of a couch potato, I succumb to the lure of channel surfing with the occasional break for
The Price Is Right, Dr. Phil, Channel 9 News.
By the time I get to
Oprah,
I’ve had enough. I must get out of the apartment. Starbucks sounds good right about now.

On my way out of the elevator, Frank smiles and tips his hat. “Better bring an umbrella, Ms. Carrick. Looks like rain.”

He’s a saint. Kind of reminds me of an old uncle who pinches your cheeks and smiles all the time. “Frank, I’m sorry about this morning. I’d gotten a bad email and … well, then I got some even worse news after that, and …” He’s smiling at me the way Dad used to when I was in elementary school and had a bad habit of thinking out loud. Nonstop.

“You got an umbrella, Ms. Carrick?”

“I’ll have to go back up to get one.”

He reaches behind the desk. “Here. People leave ’em around and never come back for ’em. I got dozens.” He hands me a bright yellow number with a rubber-duckie-shaped handle. Perfect.

“Thanks.” I marvel at the blinding hue. “No chance of my getting lost in a crowd with this.”

“Why would you want to get lost?”

“I don’t know, sometimes … Anyway, thanks again.”

“You got it, Ms. Carrick.”

“Could you please just call me Xandra? ‘Ms. Carrick’ makes me feel old.”

He stoops down with a smile and gently pinches my cheek. “You got it, Ms. Xandra.” Anyone else but Frank the doorman and he’d be on the floor, holding his privates and reeling in pain, having gotten the point of my boots. I return the smile and thank him again for the yellow-rubber-ducky ’brella.

As I step through the revolving door, that tingling feeling running from my scalp to my fingertips returns. With greater intensity. A flash of crimson and blue assaults my eyes. What I see across the street arrests my breath.

16

It never occurred to me that the police might take my tip seriously. Or that they’d respond this quickly. Parked over on the northbound side of Central Park West is a pair of squad cars, presumably from the 20th Precinct, and two black Crown Victorias.

I cross the street and shoulder through the growing crowd. An ambulance pulls up to the curb. The first person whose attention I can get is the Pakistani lady who runs the corner Hebrew National hotdog stand. “What’s going on?”

“They got here an hour ago,” she says. “Started talking on their walkie-talkies and then the black cars came. Now the ambulance.”

Yellow crime-scene tape seals off the entrance to the park. A uniformed officer finishes speaking on his wireless and stands in front of us with his back turned. I reach out to tap his shoulder, but he’s too far away. Instead, I lift the yellow tape, step under it, and call out so he can hear me above all the chatter. “Excuse me, officer.”

He turns around, scanning the crowd for my voice. Cold drops of rain begin to fall, but I’m too focused to open my duck ’brella. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to keep behind the tape.”

“
New York Times.
” I pull out my press badge, which I won’t return until they ask me for it. “Can I ask you a question or two?”

“Wait for the press conference.”

“I don’t need a detailed statement.”

“Where’s your camera?”

I hadn’t planned on taking any pictures, so I find myself coming up short on excuses. Thankfully, I always carry my digital point-and-shoot in my pocket. “Here.”

“Ah, you ain’t on the job.”

“Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

“It don’t take a freakin’ rocket scientist.” He points his chin to the park entrance where a pair of officers wheel a black body bag on a gurney.

It’s her. Without even seeing, I know. “Is that … Do you know who—?”

“Lady, you gonna take some pictures or what? ’Cause if you ain’t, I need you to get behind the tape.”

“Yeah … okay.” I snap off a few, even after the news vans arrive. It’s pouring now. Flashes from my Nikon Coolpix are answered by those in the sky. He’s right. It
don’t
take a freakin’ rocket scientist to know what’s happened, or who that is zipped inside the body bag.

Chilled to the marrow, I carefully open my duck ’brella and cross the street to return to my apartment. As I leave the scene, I faintly hear one of the police officers calling out to me.

17

RICHARD COLSON

The image of Suzie curled up under her sheets, pale and spectral, shrouds my thoughts like a burlap hood. I can’t shake it, it’s almost prophetic. And yet, despite the guilt, it’s the thought of the security project unraveling that most afflicts me.

I ring for the flight attendant.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Colson?”

“Another coffee, please.”

“Black?”

“Absolutely.”

I’ve never enjoyed the East Coast in the fall, when the air turns cold and the days short. Right now, none of my enthusiasm for public office seems to matter. As the clouds roll under the wings of this 727, I’m tempted to assess how I arrived at this incredibly tense juncture.

No. I promised her I wouldn’t look back and second-guess things.

Instead, hoping to extricate myself from the dread that grips my heart, I stare out the window and drift. Daylight drains from the sky. Even before the sun falls to the moon’s insurgence, white clouds turn gray.
Many shades of gray.
Like the many issues I’ve confronted in my troubled life. And yet, the pinnacle is in sight.
With each passing day, the polls favor me more and more. Shouldn’t I be excited?

Not with all these complications.

As if waiting for just the right moment to spring, the flight attendant returns with not only my coffee but an in-flight phone. “You have a call on six.”

“I left specific instructions.”

“Yes, sir. But it’s Mark Collinsworth.”

“I see. Thank you, I’ll take this in private, please.” Which she understands to mean that she should wait outside the first-class cabin, with the rest of my staff.

A call from Mark can only mean further complications. He never calls outside of the scheduled intervals. “What is it now?”

“We definitely have a breach in section 3b of the execution phase.”

“Are you sure?”

“Come on, sir.”

I peel the tinfoil off the half-and-half container. “He was your mentor. You know better than anyone how unlikely that is.”

“I’d like to remind you that I objected to hiring him for this project.”

“Okay, what are we talking about here?”

“It’s still several levels out of range, but there’s been level two exposure.”

“Then it’s still containable.”

“In theory. Our best bet is to terminate his contract, and let me handle his segment.”

“No, I need you in the project manager role.”

“With all due respect, the sub’s become a major liability. I say we cut our losses. If not me, then I have a roster of suitable replacements.”

“It hasn’t come to that.”

“You don’t want to wait until it does.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“How am I supposed to get my work done when you keep letting sentimental issues cloud your judgment at every—”

“I said, not yet! You were hired to implement and oversee this project, not to second-guess me!” My fingers are wet. I glance down to find half-and-half splashed all over my hands and tray. Barely any of it made its way into my cup.

“Sir, I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, Mark. Look, I’ve been more than patient with your sophomoric attitude. You’re every bit as replaceable as any of the subcontractors you’ve been appointed to manage, is that clear?”

Silence.

Which I take as a yes. For all his swagger, Collinsworth does have a point. But it’s not his call. “Your next contact had better be of the utmost importance. I haven’t the time or patience to deal with anything less.”

Even as I hang up, my hand continues to tremble.

18

XANDRA CARRICK

Getting drenched twice in one day, along with a gruesome discovery through what I still refuse to recognize as a precognitive vision, puts a damper on any hopes for photographic inspiration. Seeing the body bag was enough to curtail my Starbucks run, and that’s a significant commentary as to its effect.

Already, the phone has rung and stopped twice. But I’m so shaken I didn’t even consider picking up.

Ringing again.

If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.

Sitting with another cup of hot coffee and wrapped in a wool throw blanket, I’m watching the live footage on
Channel 7 News.
Brenda Woodward holds a microphone in one hand and a large red doorman’s umbrella in the other as she speaks into the camera. Why isn’t anyone holding the umbrella for her? On the screen, the superimposed image of a pretty blond girl in her early twenties appears next to Brenda.

“… still needs to make a definitive forensic ID of the body, but according to the police who noted the clothing the victim was wearing—a white sweatshirt with a large Beta symbol on the back—we’re fairly certain that this is Stacy Dellafina, the Juilliard Dance student reported missing since—”

Click.

The remote shakes in my hand and remains suspended along with my open mouth. It’s enough to send me running to the bathroom to fully express my nausea. The chill, the tingling, it seems as though time has become irrelevant.

Until a knock on the door jolts me from my stupor.

Muffled through the door: “Ms. Carrick?”

“What in the world?” Who is that, and how did she get up here without Frank’s announcing her?

“NYPD. We know you’re in there, Ms. Carrick. We just need to speak with you.”

I go to open the door without undoing the security chain. A woman in an ebony raincoat holds up a badge confirming her identity. Beside her stands a man with a different badge. This one displays three bold letters: FBI. The female detective steps forward. “A moment of your time, please?”

Within a few seconds, I’m back on my sofa, the television is muted, and I’ve offered two complete strangers coffee. The police investigator introduces herself as Lieutenant Margaret Nuñez. She stands quite still, looking around my apartment for God knows what. Though she speaks with a calm voice, her tone is as cold as the rain outside. “This is Special Agent Kyle Matthews with the Bureau.”

“Ms. Carrick.” Agent Matthews extends a hand. It’s so warm to the touch that I pull away, my cheeks burning. “I’m with the FBI. Nice to meet you.” There’s a kindness in his deep-set hazel eyes. But the rest of his slightly worn features suggest a life of rugged experience beyond his thirty-something years. I’ve seen the same look on soldiers in Iraq—young officers who’ve seen so much death during their first deployment. They try not to let it affect them emotionally, but you can always see it. The eyes don’t lie.

Still standing at the outskirts of my living room, Detective Nuñez turns her gaze toward me. “It’s come to my attention that you called in the tip that led us to the victim.”

Crap. I knew this would happen. “Guilty as charged.”

“Did you know that the victim was found at the bottom of the pond, weighed down with bags of rice tied to her limbs?”

“No. I … That’s horrible.” I want to appear shocked. But I’m failing miserably.

“So.” Nuñez takes one step closer to the sofa on which I’m sitting. “How did you know?”

“I don’t know; I just had a hunch.” My hands grow cold and damp.

“Oh, come on.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

This is where Agent Matthews finally says something. “Try us.”

I’m trying not to shake. Is it because of the rain or the sheer absurdity of it all? “So is this a federal investigation? I thought it was a local missing-persons case.”

“Once again,” Nuñez says, impatience brimming, “how did you know?”

If I tell them the truth, they’ll start profiling me as some kind of psycho. But if I don’t come up with a plausible lie … I hate lying. I’m a terrible liar.

“Ms. Carrick,” Nuñez says, “the truth. It can only help.”

“All right.” I stand and step over to the table where the Graflex sits haughtily. Apparently, it
did
know something when it winked at me this morning. About to rest my hand on it, I refrain. It was all just a coincidence. A bizarre coincidence. There must be a scientific explanation. But I’m not going to risk it. “This morning, I went down to the park to clear my head and get some inspiration for my photography. As I was taking pictures, I thought I saw something in the water.” All right, a partial lie.

“Can you describe what you thought you saw?” Nuñez asks, scribbling in a notepad.

“I don’t really remember, it was so brief. Maybe it was the way the light hit the water.” I clear my throat. “Whatever it was, it made me think of that dance student. A long shot, but I had to try.”

Nuñez’s eyebrows knit tightly. “Three days, and no one saw a thing.”

“Lucky I guess.”

“You guess.”

Matthews comes between us and hands me a business card. “Thank you, Ms. Carrick. If you can think of anything else that might be helpful.”

“I hope not.” I take the card. His fingertips brush against my hand. Again, the blood rushes to my face. Oh my, did he notice?

As Matthews and Nuñez leave, she mutters something to the effect of this being her case and that he’s only here as a consultant. Before I can hear anything else, the elevator doors slide shut and they’re gone.

This wasn’t the way I envisioned my first day of freedom.

I’m going to have to have a word with Frank.

Thunderstorms make for the kind of day you just want to curl up in bed and sleep. After the bizarre events of this day, I wouldn’t mind doing just that for another few weeks.