212: A Novel Part 16

"You sure?"

"Yep. Why are you asking me this s.h.i.+t?"

"Have you been on the Web site at all since then?"

"Nope. The event was a bust anyway. I got about thirty people there to see me take over the theater, but only about twenty people showed up for the movie. And no press. Sort of defeats the purpose of going guerrilla. Again, why are you asking me this s.h.i.+t?"

"Where were you this morning between eight and nine o'clock?" She had an approximate time of death from the ME.

"At home."

"Anyone with you?"

"My mom was home."

"You live with your mom?"

"Surprised Megan didn't tell you that, too. She didn't believe me that I could afford to pay rent. So instead she gets that Heather b.i.t.c.h to move in. Said it would be nice to have a girlfriend around. And what did it get her? Nothing. Heather's not her friend. She goes out with some mystery boyfriend she didn't even tell Megan about. She even tried to come on to me one night, telling me all about how she started having s.e.x real young and all this other crazy s.h.i.+t. What kind of friend is that?"

"Keith, enough about the roommate and what could've been if you lived with Megan. If I take your laptop in, are my a.n.a.lysts going to back up what you say about not going to that Web site in the last six months?"

"You're not taking anything anywhere. That laptop's my f.u.c.king livelihood. That's my art. Let me talk to Megan and sort this s.h.i.+t out. She knows I wouldn't say a bad word about her to anyone."

He pulled out his phone and hit the b.u.t.ton for his contact list. Megan had deleted all evidence of their relations.h.i.+p from her electronic world, but apparently Keith had not. Ellie grabbed the phone from Guzman's hand and hit the end b.u.t.ton. He jerked his hand away.

"First you talk s.h.i.+t about taking my computer. Now you're messing with my phone. You better step back."

"Or what, Keith?"

He stared at her.

"Or what? You gonna stab me? Cut me up?"

"b.i.t.c.h, you're crazy," he muttered. "Just call Megan, a'ight?"

"Megan's dead."

She watched as a look of confusion on his face turned to realization. He began shaking his head. "No, no. No. No." He spoke that same word over and over again until he bent forward and began to cry.

The front door of the bar swung open, nearly smacking Guzman. He stepped out of the way and tried to regain his composure. Ellie recognized the woman who walked out of Gaslight as one of the attractive group of three from inside. Just behind her came Jess, hands in pockets, guilty smile on his face.

Jess was not the only one leaving with more than he'd hoped for. She headed back into the bar for Guzman's laptop.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

6:30 P.M.

Katie Battle made certain to keep her knees together beneath the short hemline of her dress as she s.h.i.+fted her weight from the cab. A uniformed bellman opened one side of a set of double red doors for her.

"Welcome to the Royalton, ma'am."

She bypa.s.sed the hotel lobby's suede sofas, leather-covered walls, and steel tables and headed directly for the wood-paneled Bar 44.

It was six thirty, a bit early for New York City happy-hour standards, but the s.p.a.ce had already started to fill. She'd learned that this time of day was popular for married men who could fit in an after-work diversion and still make it home in time to claim a late night at the office.

Taking the last remaining seat at the bar, she ordered a Manhattan from a light-haired bartender, who gave her a knowing look. "You want some bar mix to snack on, or will this be a quick visit?"

The comment was obviously a dig. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was all in her imagination.

"I'm fine, thank you."

The bartender nodded politely and made his way to the other end of the counter, where a barrel-chested man tapped a credit card on the sleek bra.s.s bar top.

She had taken two ladylike sips of her cherry red c.o.c.ktail when the man approached.

"Are you Miranda?"

She gave him her warmest and most welcoming smile. "Very nice to meet you."

"Stuart," he said. "Uh, Stuart-"

"That's okay," she said, with a rea.s.suring nod. "You can be anyone you want tonight."

She gave Stuart a quick but subtle once-over. He was probably just past fifty, but he was still in decent shape. A full head of dark hair, but she suspected the a.s.sistance of a toupee. t.i.tanium wedding band. Decent suit and tie. A little shy. Clean.

Pretty routine.

Stuart eyed the bartender nervously. "Um, the bar's a little tight. You want to move over-" He gestured toward an empty brown leather sofa toward the front of the bar, not far from the entrance to the hotel lobby. She led the way while Stuart ordered himself a Maker's Mark neat and dropped cash on the counter for the two drinks.

Once he was seated next to her on the couch, Miranda noticed his left thumb fiddling with his wedding band.

"Are you going to be okay?" She placed her hand gently on him, only at his knee, no higher. The last thing she needed was this guy to succ.u.mb to a sudden attack of piousness.

Stuart held his highball gla.s.s with both hands and stared at the swirling brown liquid.

"Sorry. Last night was my twentieth anniversary."

She reminded herself she was Miranda and forced herself to keep her hand planted exactly where it was. As if she were comfortable.

"Charlotte was in an accident three years ago. Spinal damage." He wiped at his eyes. "G.o.d, I'm sorry. It's, well, this isn't the first time or anything. And I suspect she even sort of knows. But, you know, last night-"

"Sure," she said, giving his knee a reaffirming squeeze. "Maybe another night," she offered, confident that he would decline the offer of a rain check, just like the reluctant buyers who argued with her if she suggested that an apartment might still be available down the road.

He shook his head and downed a sip of his bourbon. "No, I'm good. I'll be fine once we're upstairs." He gave her a sad smile. "Is that okay? If we go upstairs?"

"No problem," she said, rising from her place on the sofa. "And, remember, tonight you're anyone you want. You can be Derek Jeter as far as I'm concerned."

He laughed.

"Go ahead. Lie to me."

He looked at her reluctantly but rose from the couch to face her.

"Really," she repeated softly, almost in a whisper, "go ahead. Lie to me."

He placed his hand on her elbow. "I'm Mike. I'm in town for a convention."

"Yeah?"

"And I'm single."

"Well, nice to meet you, Mike. And I'll be anyone you want in return."

"I do have a favor to ask." He continued to hold her elbow. "Is it possible for you to book the room in your name?"

"I don't usually-"

"It's my...well, my wife," he said, looking down at his feet. "It's one thing to do this to her under the circ.u.mstances. It's another to flaunt it. A charge on the credit card would-"

"Sure, I understand. It's just I carry a balance, and so with interest-"

"I'll make up for it."

He'd obviously made this arrangement before, as had she. It was a common practice, a way for girls to get some extra cash to themselves on the side. She'd never been ratted on yet.

"All right. Mike."

"Mike's gonna go outside for a smoke. I'll meet you by the elevators?"

She nodded and watched him walk outside.

At the registration desk, she asked the clerk for a single room. While the clerk ran her credit card through the system, Miranda dug her cell phone from her purse, pulled up a number in her list of contacts, and hit the dial key.

"It's Miranda. I just wanted you to know I already sent flowers to Mom, so you don't need to worry about it."

The substance of what she said was irrelevant. What mattered was her use of the word flowers. Stuart pa.s.sed the no-freaks-allowed test, and Miranda was fine.

The word tight was another story. One utterance of the word tight and help would be on its way. Or at least that's how it had been explained to her.

She understood the need for a check-in system, but she'd been doing this now for six months and still didn't see why they had to be so James Bond about it. She supposed it played into the myth that what she was doing was acting. Role-playing. Fantasy. A "hobby," as some of the so-called providers dubbed it. Something other than what it obviously was.

Stuart (or Mike) was already walking toward her when she approached the elevator, the fading smell of cigarette smoke still on him. She pressed the up b.u.t.ton. They waited alone.

"They explained to you I only do what's safe?" she asked. Even some of the tamest men would pressure her to avoid condoms.

He nodded, but his embarra.s.sment about the subject showed in his flushed cheeks. "That's...well, of course, that's my preference. I'm...I'm definitely safe."

When the elevator doors opened, Miranda stepped inside and Stuart followed. Only minutes later, the fantasy had fallen away, and Miranda was back to being Katie Battle.

And that night, Katie was definitely not safe.

PART III.

IT WAS ALL ABOUT MAY 27.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

8:45 P.M.

With more than a decade pa.s.sed since the move from Wichita to New York, Ellie was still struck by random reminders of how much her life had changed as a result of that geographic switch. She had grown up in a place where arguments about pizza revolved around the choice between Pizza Hut and Domino's. Now a craving for pizza could spark a thirty-minute debate about the relative virtues of the crispy, charred crusts of John's in the West Village compared to the white pies at Lombardi's. And then there were those who swore that real New York pizza could only be found in Brooklyn.

Fortunately, Ellie had been spared any such discussion. When she'd called Max Donovan to say she was finally ready for a break and could use some pizza, they both knew precisely the place she had in mind.

Ellie pushed her way through Otto's narrow revolving door. The name was Italian for the number eight, reflecting the restaurant's location on Eighth Street, just north of Was.h.i.+ngton Square Park. If Ellie had been told a dozen years earlier that a craving for pizza would lead her to a crowded Mario Batali wine bar just a block from the famous park arches where Harry had dropped off Sally, she never would have believed it.

But now Otto was Max and Ellie's "place." They didn't have a song or an anniversary or cutesy nicknames for each other, but in the rituals of their relations.h.i.+p, they had developed a well-practiced habit of sitting at the Otto bar, drinking wine and nibbling on small plates of antipasti, pizza, and pasta.

"There she is."

The head bartender, Dennis, wore his usual white oxford s.h.i.+rt, blue jeans, and Buddha-like smile. He was already pouring two fingers of Johnnie Walker Black into a lowball gla.s.s, which he set before the awaiting empty stool next to Max Donovan.

"I was just telling the DA here that you must be working harder than him these days. Am I ordering for you, or do you want menus?"

"Your choice tonight," Ellie said.