The Dead Room (Harrison Investigation #4)

The Dead Room (Harrison Investigation #4) Page 10

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.

4

A t 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.”