The weekend doorman, Carlos, was on duty when she arrived at her building, and he let her leave her bags in the lobby while she parked the car in the garage. But she kept Smokey with her. When she returned she saw that Carlos had loaded everything onto the brass rolling cart for her. They were alone in the lobby.
“I’ve got a small favor to ask, Carlos,” she said, fumbling for the right words to use.
“Of course, Mrs. Warren,” he said.
“I do consulting work, you know, and one of my clients has had some trouble lately. I mean, one of their partners—a doctor—was murdered.”
“Oh my goodness,” he said, his brow wrinkled. “That’s big trouble.”
“I know—it’s horrible. And I’m kind of on edge about the whole thing. I just want to be really careful.”
He stared at her, waiting for her to continue. She could see he had no clue what she was driving at.
“I mean, I’m being a bit silly but I want to be extra cautious about the apartment. I don’t want to let anyone up until you’ve seen their ID. And will you let me know if anyone comes by and asks for me?”
He lifted his chin slightly and then nodded, catching her drift.
“Do you think you may be in danger, Mrs. Warren?” he asked.
“No, no. I’m just a little paranoid and hoping you’ll humor me.”
“Of course,” he said. “We always take precautions, but I’ll be extra careful, Mrs. Warren. Of course I will.”
“And will you tell the other doormen?”
“Most certainly.”
As soon as she was in her apartment, she turned the dead bolt on the door and put the chain on, too, something she never did during the day. She’d always felt safe in her apartment, but nothing felt safe to her now. After unzipping Smokey’s case and watching him slink sadly into the living room, she checked each room of the apartment to make sure nothing had been disturbed.
It was close to seven, already dark, and she poured a glass of wine and sat with it at the kitchen table. She had to figure out who had taken Smokey and why. An empty envelope lay on the table and she flipped it over. In her work she was a constant note taker, and she found it helped her to not only remember but also make sense of things. With a pen she wrote one word: Jack. And then a question mark. Was it really possible that Jack was trying to spook her so that she was a wreck by the time she met with the court-appointed psychologist—making his custody fight a slam dunk?
Lake scrawled the word clinic next. As Harry had indicated, everyone had been informed as to where she was going to be this weekend, and since they’d been given the afternoon off, any one of the staff could have driven to her house that Friday. And someone from the clinic would have access to a syringe.
But if someone from the clinic killed Keaton—and was now taunting her—what had the motive been? Sexual jealousy? Professional jealousy? In the few short weeks he’d been with the clinic, had he managed to incite something like that? Maybe Keaton’s death was connected to the “snag” he’d mentioned to her. But how would she ever figure out what it was?
And then she wrote an x—for unknown. There was still a chance Keaton’s death was totally unrelated to the clinic. Maybe his gambling problem—if he’d truly had one—was at the root of everything and some horrible thugs had killed him. And now they might have their eye on her. But would they have bothered shaving her cat? Didn’t they just pump a bullet in the back of your head and dump your body in a landfill?
Her purse was on the table and she found her BlackBerry in the pocket and punched in Hayden’s number. There was a chance, she realized, the PR guru had an update on the police investigation.
“I was just this minute gonna call you,” Hayden said. “I thought I’d catch you before you and your cute little husband went out for the night. Or you probably have family stuff to do, right? Like, see one of those Narnia movies or something.”
Lake almost snickered. “My kids are away at camp,” she said. “And that cute little husband no longer lives here.”
“Oh, phooey—I hadn’t heard.”
Lake got right to the point, in part to change topics.