right in front of the Sutton Theatre. Suddenly, Tom had been holding her, and then Markus, and Clemson, while troubled Xavier had stood a little back. Group hug, they’d all cried, and then, feeling foolish, laughed. A minute or two after that, they’d let go. They went back to the apartment, feeling daunted by such gaudy emotion, but also less bereft.
A few times during the morning and afternoon, she’d called Audrey’s cell phone and office phone. Finally, she’d called Bethy in reception and learned that Audrey hadn’t been to work in over a week.
That was when she’d told Tom to hold dinner and hailed a taxi. It was after six on Tuesday by the time she got to Vesuvius, and she’d caught Collier just as he’d been putting on his coat. Perhaps even more alarming than Audrey’s disappearance, he’d also carried two small denim jackets as gifts for his poodles. Before he’d looked up Audrey’s address, he’d made her admire their fine embroidery. “Stunning,” she’d told him, and she’d meant it.
Now, Collier flipped through Audrey’s file. “No other addresses. Emergency contact is…Betty Lucas, at the Nebraska State Psychiatric Hospital.”
Jill rubbed her temples. “Psychiatric hospital? That explains a lot.”
Collier pressed his head back into his neck like a turtle, and she got the feeling she’d insulted him. “Audrey? She’s fabulous. Only one of your team who doesn’t fudge her overtime.”
Jill nodded. “She’s a lovely woman. It still explains some things. Her mother’s in a coma, though. I doubt she’ll be very helpful.”
Collier rapped his pen against Audrey’s file. “I don’t know what else to do, then.”
Jill sighed. “Something’s wrong. I’m sure of it. You should have heard her voice. She sounded so frightened. And when I saw her last week, she wasn’t herself. You know how she’s always alert, paying attention—you never have to tell her anything twice? Well, last Monday, she was a zombie. Don’t repeat this to anyone else in the office, please, but I thought she might be stoned.”
Collier looked down at the file for a long while, and Jill considered thanking him for his time, washing her hands of this strange business, and heading home, where her life had its own worries. Only, she’d failed Julian not long ago. If she lived another hundred years, she’d never forgive herself for not holding his hand as he took his last breath. If she could help it, she didn’t plan on failing anyone else.
Just then, Collier dialed the hospital in Nebraska. “I have an idea,” he said, then into the phone when the line connected, “Can I speak with the billing department?”
Jill waited, stunned by Collier’s hitherto unimagined deviousness. “Yes. Hello,” he said. “I’m Ms. Audrey Lucas’ accountant, your patient Betty Lucas’ legal guardian. I wanted to make sure you’ve got her proper address. She’ll of course pay what she owes, but she hasn’t received any bills.” He shrugged at Jill as they both waited. Then picked up a pen. “Yes, 510 West 110th Street. #14B. That’s right, just a cell phone. No landline. Exactly correct. Thanks for your time.”
What surprised Jill most after he hung up the phone was what he did next. He put his hand over hers, like he was prepared to miss the dress rehearsal for his play, prepared not to feed the dogs for another few hours, all for a woman he knew tangentially, between the hours of nine and seven. Sometimes people surprise you in good ways. “What should we do?” he asked.
She toyed with the idea. It seemed excessive. And yet.
“Call the police, yes?” Collier asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
40
Old Scars Protect Against New Ones
Tuesday afternoon. Eight days trapped in 14B. Nobody had come to find her. Not her office, not her boss, not even Saraub. That kind of neglect leaves a girl feeling less than swell.
Schermerhorn played the piano while Audrey rested. Cocktail-hour entertainment! She’d had a long morning. Her back ached. Arms, too. She’d worked fast since they’d killed Marty. Often, her fingers had moved without her knowledge.
The tune Schermerhorn played was familiar: “Heart and Soul. I beg to be Adored…And Tumbled Overboard!” It reminded her of a Harold Arlen song, and now she remembered why his voice seemed so familiar. The accent wasn’t British—just rich WASP Connecticut, like his jaw couldn’t move more than half an inch in either direction. It was the same man who’d answered the line when she’d called to view the apartment. She’d spoken directly to the building itself.
“Build the door, Audrey!” Schermerhorn cheered. She looked over