of disquietude. Had she just been blown off? She reassured herself that it was probably her imagination. After all, Holt had probably spent his day dealing with patients, not reading the police blotter.
She phoned the remainder of her clients, finding an excuse to touch base with each of them. No one mentioned Avery’s death. But there was a bump of another kind when she spoke to Barry Kaplan, her fifty-something bachelor. After she told him she was busy fleshing out the concept and would have ideas to him shortly, he responded with impatience, the first time she’d heard that from him.
“I thought there’d be something by now,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” Kit told him. “I fell a little behind, but you’re my top priority now.”
Finished, she propped her elbows on the table and let her chin rest in her hands. Clearly she needed to get her butt into freaking gear. And yet it seemed so pathetic to be shoring up things with clients, protecting her assets, while Avery’s body lay in the New York City morgue.
She glanced at the time on her computer screen: 4:21. By now the person or people who had killed Avery must have heard the press reports and recognized their mistake They would be wondering where she was and how to find her, how to remedy their error. She felt her fear spike. But she knew she couldn’t let herself be undone by it. The only way to stay safe was to keep her wits about her.
And part of keeping her wits had to be a willingness to face facts. She thought of the point Baby had kept pressing on her: that Kelman could be Avery’s killer. She still hadn’t heard from him, and that surely said something.
She’d assured Baby that Kelman knew what she looked like, and wouldn’t have mistaken Avery for her. But the stairwell was dimly lit, and if Kelman had been hiding on the flight of steps to the roof and had pounced on Avery from behind, he might not have realized it was another woman.
There was something else, she realized. Kelman knew all about her stairwell. He’d hidden there last Sunday, waiting for her to return to her apartment.
And then, as she sat there brooding, her phone lit up. Kelman’s number was on the screen.
chapter 17
“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice almost hoarse with alarm. “I was scrambling today and just got your message.”
“Something horrible. A client of mine died in the stairwell of my building last night.”
She let the words just hang there, pressing the phone tight to her ear as she waited for his response.
“How? What happened?”
“I found her there this morning, at the base of the stairs. She had a large gash on her head.”
She wanted to be vague at first, see how he’d respond.
“But what was she doing in your stairwell?”
“She’d stopped by to pick up a package last night and for some reason she took the stairs down.”
“Could she have tripped?”
His tone was natural, authentic seeming. But she knew that was meaningless. He’d once convinced her that his name was Matt Healy.
“No.” She waited a beat to drop the bomb, readying herself to gauge his response. “I heard one of the investigators say she must have been pushed. And there’s something else. This woman looked a little like me, and she’d borrowed my trench coat before she left.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“Please tell me you’re not still in the building.”
“No, I’m with a friend—at her place.”
“Kit, I’m so sorry. This must be awful for you.”
“That’s the understatement of the century. Not only is my life in danger, but I’m also partly responsible for my client’s death—we both are. You need to talk to the police as soon as possible and fill in the gaps for them.”
“What have you told the police? Did you say anything about Ithaka—or about me?”
Of course that would be his big concern. Her frustration was starting to mount, pricking at her.
“I didn’t breathe a word about you or about Ithaka, just about the burglary. But I can’t keep withholding evidence from the cops. How will they find the killer if they don’t have all the facts? They even asked what kind of relationship I had with my client, as if they were suspicious of me. You have to do something.”
“You’re right, Kit. And I will. It’s definitely going to happen by the end of the week.”
“That won’t work anymore,” she exclaimed. “You have to do