Let Me Whisper in Your Ear (24 page)

“Actually,” said Francheska, plopping herself on the bed, “it could be pretty cool to do it in here. Think Matthew will like it?” she asked with a devilish gleam in her eye.

Laura grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and flung it at her friend.

“You know, Francheska,” began Laura, taking a seat in a tufted armchair beneath yet another window that opened onto Central Park, “this place is huge. There's another bedroom—in fact, three other bedrooms—any one of which could have your name on it.”

Francheska stared at her.

“Come on, Francheska. Now that you've finally given the long-overdue dump to the doctor, why don't you come back and be my roommate again? You'd be doing me a favor. I don't want to live in this place all by myself.”

“I don't know, Laura,” Francheska answered uncertainly. “This place gives me the creeps after what happened here.” She pulled nervously at the pillow's braiding.

“Look. I don't know if I'm going to keep this place or not. It's not really my style, but then again, maybe I'll become accustomed to it,” said Laura, grinning. “But in the meantime, you need a new place to live and I need some company. The building security is good. We'll be here together. There isn't anything to worry about.”

“That's what Gwyneth thought, too.”

Laura persevered. “Will you at least think about it?” she implored.

“I will, Laura. And thanks for asking me. You're a real friend.”

Later, as they took the elevator down on their way to find somewhere to go for Sunday brunch, Francheska turned to her friend.

“You're going to need help with this place, Laura. Are you going to keep that maid on?”

“I suppose so, but I haven't been able to get Delia on the phone all week.”

87

Monday, January 17

T
HE
H
OURGLASS
OFFICES
were even tenser than usual on Monday morning. With the broadcast scheduled to air the next evening, everyone on the staff knew that Joel Malcolm was desperate for something new to report on the Gwyneth Gilpatric murder. Laura holed up in her office, trying to stay out of the executive producer's line of vision.

Alone at her desk, she tried to psyche herself up before placing the phone call she knew she had to make. Emmett's harsh words haunted her because she knew there was some truth to them. She wanted to figure out what had happened to Tommy Cruz at least as much to further her professional reputation as to set the poor kid's parents' minds to rest. She wasn't proud of it, but that was the selfish fact of the matter.

Ambition was such a complicated thing. It propelled you forward, making you push and accomplish. But the repercussions were not always positive. Sometimes you could not foresee how others would be affected, for better or worse.

Laura didn't want to hurt anyone, but even if she wanted to turn back now, she couldn't.

A tap on the door signaled Matthew's arrival. The smile on his face disappeared as he caught sight of Laura's.

“Why so glum?” he asked.

“I'm about to call the Cruzes and harangue them for an interview. I hate this.” Laura sighed and buried her face in her arms on top of her desk.

“I'll do it if you want,” he offered.

Laura looked up, sorely tempted to take him up on it. No, that would be the coward's way out.

“Thanks, Matthew, but I have to do this myself.”

88

M
ARTA
C
RUZ HUNG
the telephone receiver back on the wall and gently eased herself into a chair at the kitchen table.

Would this nightmare never end?

She could tell Laura Walsh had been uncomfortable during their conversation, but not uncomfortable enough to put off their interview.

Laura said she realized how painful it would be for them, but how could she truly know? Only another parent who had lost a child could know their pain. One could learn to live with it, but it never, ever went away.

Rousing herself, Marta went to the refrigerator and pulled out the peppers to stuff for Felipe's dinner. As she scooped the seeds from the green shells, she wondered what, if anything, was to be gained from talking to Laura Walsh.

Felipe and she had promised one another that, now that they had found Tommy, they would really try to put it all behind them. They must go on with the rest of their lives as best they could. Why bring it all up again, why rip off the thin scab? They needed to heal.

But what if, as Laura had suggested, their recollections could finally help to solve the mystery of what had happened to their son? What if there was some animal out there who could still be hurting children? Didn't she and Felipe have a responsibility to do anything they could to bring a monster like that to justice and keep him from harming another child?

Marta peeled a yellow onion and, as she sliced it, she began to cry. A good excuse for tears.

89

T
HE BASKETBALL SCORES
were being given at the end of the eleven o'clock news and Kitzi couldn't care less. As Kitzi pulled her fur coat from the hallway closet, Missy eagerly scampered to the front door. Kitzi hooked the leather leash to the dog's collar.

As she rode down the elevator, Kitzi wondered how late Joel would be tonight.

His secretary, Claire, had called to say that tomorrow night's broadcast was far from ready and that Joel didn't know when he'd be home.

Kitzi doubted Joel had even bothered telling Claire to call her. The sweet woman had been privy to the way Joel treated his wife. Knowing that her boss was not always considerate, Claire may have taken it upon herself to let Kitzi know that her husband would be quite late.

Missy's short legs trotted across the sparkling lobby. The doorman called out a greeting.

“It's cold and icy out there, Mrs. Malcolm. Be careful, ma'am.”

Kitzi nodded and went out into the frosty night.

90

T
HAT SHOULD DO IT
.

Thank God people were creatures of habit. Though Kitzi had lied on national television when she said she always walked the poodle herself. The last three nights she
hadn't
walked her dog. Her killer had the cold and hacking cough to prove it.

Of course, the cigarettes didn't help any.

Waiting in the bitter January night, watching for Kitzi to come out with Missy, the little gray poodle that had sat on her mistress's lap on
Hourglass.
Watching as Kitzi's mink-swathed figure carefully picked its way over the patches of ice on the Fifth Avenue sidewalk and turned down the quiet side street, the poodle straining on the leash.

Crossing over the broad avenue and following the target, gripping the box cutter hidden, smooth and warm, at the bottom of the deep pocket of the camel hair coat. Walking briskly to catch up with the prey.

Kitzi's panicked eyes as she realized what was happening to her.

But now it was done. The eyewitness could give testimony no more.

There was no reason to kill the tiny, fluffy dog.

91

Tuesday, January 18

T
HE SHRILL RING
of the telephone pierced the darkness, awakening Joel from a fitful sleep. He flipped on the lamp on the bedside table. Three
A.M.
He'd only gotten to bed an hour ago.

There was no sign of Kitzi beside him. But that didn't trip any warning signals in his mind. His wife had been sleeping in the other room for months. Tonight, when he got home from the Broadcast Center, he had left the firmly closed guest room door unopened. He hadn't wanted to sleep with her, either.

The phone continued its insistent bray.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Malcolm, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you,” said the overnight doorman nervously.

“Who the hell is this?” Joel asked irritably.

“It's Toby, Mr. Malcolm. Toby, the doorman.”

“This better be good, Toby,” growled Joel.

“Mr. Malcolm, I think you better come down here, sir. There's been a…” the doorman's voice trailed off, as the sound of a small dog's barking drowned out Toby's tentative explanation.

“Speak up, man, what is it?”

“An accident, Mr. Malcolm. There's been an accident. Please come downstairs right away.”

92

I
T WAS THE
talk of
KEY News.

Kitzi Malcolm's body had been found in an alley around the corner from her Fifth Avenue apartment by a passerby who had responded to the incessant yapping of Kitzi's poodle.

But even more dumbfounding to the news staffers was the word that spread through the Broadcast Center: Joel Malcolm was ensconced in his
Hourglass
office, masterminding tonight's broadcast. Even the most driven of the newshounds were astounded that Joel was at work only hours after his wife had been killed.

Somehow, Joel had had the presence of mind to call the
KEY News
assignment desk and order them to send a camera crew right away. In the
Hourglass
editing rooms, videotape of the crime scene was scrutinized shot by shot. Laura and Matthew were pulled from working on their Palisades Park story to help.

The tape that rolled on the monitor before them was mesmerizing to Laura. Obviously, it was still dark when the crew had arrived, because she recognized that the narrow alleyway was illuminated with the crew's bright, battery-powered lights. A yellow police crime-scene tape cordoned off the area. On the videotape, Laura could hear a voice she recognized barking commands.

“What do you mean, the cameras aren't allowed in there? It's my goddamned wife. I have the right to document this. I demand it.”

Obviously the police weren't budging, because next she heard Joel instruct the cameraman to try to zoom in as best he could, down to the back of the alley. Laura watched as the camera shot went in closer.

Police officers and detectives were gathered near a heavy green Dumpster parked deep in the passageway. The camera panned down. There at the bottom edge of the Dumpster, a few feet of bright yellow plastic sheeting protruded, covering Kitzi's body.

Laura heard Joel's voice again.

“They can't keep me from going in there. I'm her husband.”

The camera changed focus again, pulling back to follow Joel as he strutted up the alleyway. He went directly toward the waterproof covering and, before the police realized what was happening, he pulled back the sheet.

Laura heard the cameraman utter, “Holy Christ!” even as he zoomed in his lens to capture a shot of Kitzi Malcolm's head.

Laura felt sick to her stomach. “Stop the tape,” she whispered to the editor. Kitzi's bloody neck was freeze-framed on the monitor screen.

“That man is an animal!” hissed Matthew, and he patted at his jacket pocket to reassure himself that what he needed was there.

93

L
OCKING HER OFFICE
door behind her, Laura headed for the telephone and automatically checked her voice mail.

“Laura? It's me, Francheska. I've been thinking about your offer to come live with you, honey. And if the invitation still stands, I accept. I want to be out of here by the end of the month and I could never find my own place by then. Thanks, sweetie. Call me when you can.
Adiós, amiga.
”

Laura punched the numbers of the telephone pad. Finally, some good news.

Francheska picked up on the second ring.

“
Mi casa es su casa, mi amiga.
”

“
Gracias, gracias, gracias,
” her friend said with a laugh. “The time you're spending up in East Harlem is really helping your Spanish, I see.”

“Don't laugh. After what's going on around here today, I might get out of this perverse business altogether and go get a teaching job up there.”

“Honey, you have so much money now, you can do whatever your little heart desires.”

“True enough,” Laura admitted. “You won't believe the latest lunacy here.” She groaned, describing for Francheska the videotape she had just watched and Joel's role in getting it.

“What a twisted guy. But I know I'll be sure to watch the show tonight.”

“That's the problem, Francheska. You'll watch and so will millions of other Americans. The ratings will be through the roof. And the beat goes on.”

94

“Y
OU SHOULDN'T BE
alone tonight,” Matthew had insisted. “Why don't you come over to my place and we can watch the show together? I'll order in a pizza, we'll drink a few beers and we can commiserate about how we make our sordid living.”

Laura agreed with little hesitation.

She stopped at her apartment to shower and change. She felt dirty, tired and scared.

Gwyneth's murder, followed by the murder of Kitzi Malcolm, the eyewitness.
Laura's body felt cold beneath the hot shower spray. Thank God Francheska had agreed to come live with her. After all that was happening, she didn't know if she could move into that apartment alone. Her tiny place here in the Oliver Cromwell suddenly seemed so safe, the Pilsners such comforting, if unknowing, neighbors.

She toweled off and pulled on a navy turtleneck, her favorite pair of jeans and a pair of thick white cotton socks. She was too tired to bother with makeup. Matthew would just have to take her or leave her, au natural.

Hailing a cab in front of her building, she instructed the Hispanic driver to take her to Matthew's East Side address. As they drove through Central Park, she noted the driver's name on the taxi license affixed to the back of the front seat.

José Rios.
Joe Rivers,
mused Laura, smiling to herself, as she thought of Jade and their informal Spanish lessons. She was grateful that she had Jade in her life, something outside of her work on which to focus her attention. She needed more balance in her life.