hopeless. Alexis had said all she was going to say. When they reached the front door, Alexis swung it open.
“Have a nice evening,” Alexis said flatly as Lake stepped into the hall.
“Thank you for seeing me. I just wish I knew—”
Alexis flashed the tight fake smile again.
“As the French say, ‘Cherchez la femme.’”
And then she shut the door in Lake’s face.
17
CHERCHEZ LA FEMME.
Translation: Look for the woman. What had Alexis meant by that? In old detective novels the phrase was uttered to suggest that a woman was the root of the trouble, but Lake doubted Alexis had used the cliché literally. Rather, the remark seemed to be her cryptic way of saying there was something else, a secret she hadn’t been willing to divulge. As Lake rode down in the elevator, she let her body sag against one of the walls. She’d been within arm’s reach of that secret but Alexis hadn’t trusted her enough to share it. Lake would have to look at Alexis’s file for a clue.
It was nearly dusk when the cab let her off in front of her apartment building, the time of day she’d always loved best in summer. Tonight, though, it filled her with dread. She’d have to go to bed soon, and potentially face the mystery doorbell ringer again. Before stepping into her building, she looked quickly up and down the block. The only people in sight were two preteen boys whipping a wiffle ball back and forth in front of the building next door.
“Is everything okay, Mrs. Warren?” Bob the doorman asked her as she stepped into the lobby. He must have seen her glance furtively down the street.
“Yes, thanks, Bob,” she said. “I’m just a little nervous about what’s happening. You know, the murder of the doctor I worked with.”
“But is everything okay with the police?” he said.
Great, she thought. All she needed was for Bob to mention the police visit to Jack.
“Oh, they were just interviewing everyone who works at the clinic. For background. It’s all very routine.”
Bob stared at her, his face pinched. He drew a small business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
“They were here again today,” he said solemnly.
Lake forced a smile as she reached for the card.
“Oh, it’s just a follow-up visit,” she said. “They just need to learn everything they can about the doctor…. Well, have a good night.”
Hurrying to the elevator, she stole a look at the card. It was McCarty’s business card, with a cell phone number listed. In ballpoint pen he had scribbled, “Please give me a call.”
Is this how they get you to confess? she thought as she rode to her floor. They show up at your home again and again, asking bewildering questions that leave you feeling as if you’re about to blow. Or, she wondered, was there some new development—something linking her to Keaton? Suddenly she could barely breathe.
As soon as she had locked the door to her apartment and dragged the hall table back against it, she poured a large glass of white wine. She took two huge swigs before punching McCarty’s number into her BlackBerry.
She got his voice mail. Natch, she thought, part of the torture. Let her simmer in her own terror until he finally called her back.
She wanted more wine but she didn’t dare—it was critical to keep her wits about her. After microwaving one of the frozen mac-and-cheese dinners she kept around for the kids, she carried it to her office and opened her laptop to the PowerPoint presentation. It needed more work and she was running out of time. But after skimming the first page a few times, she realized she was too frazzled to concentrate.
By the time McCarty called back, twenty minutes later, Lake was walking in circles around her office.
“Lake Warren?” he asked. Her name sounded foreign when he said it, as if he were inquiring about a complete stranger.
“Yes,” she answered nervously.
“This is Detective McCarty. I take it your doorman told you we dropped by?” There was a sudden surge of traffic sounds behind him. He might actually be in her neighborhood, she realized, coiled and waiting for the chance to come by.
“Yes. He did. I’m sorry I missed you.”
He said nothing back.
“Um, how can I help you?” she asked.
“We were wondering if you thought about what we discussed.”
What the hell was he talking about? Was he implying that they were waiting for her to come clean about something?