who also seemed a bit inebriated. She knew who the man was, had met him a few times, but she had never paid him much (or any) attention. But no one else was around, and Cassandra was feeling particularly charitable.
When the guests began to leave over an hour later, Cassandra realized that she was still talking with the same man. Talking.
Not flirting, not hitting on, not being hit upon, not fucking. Just talking. And shit, she had to be seriously intoxicated. Under normal, more sober circumstances she would not waste a good spit on this guy.
But the man had been a perfect gentleman. He listened to her, to what she had to say. Oh she had seen men feign interest in order to get in her pants, but somehow she knew that this guy was actually interested in what she had to say.
Strange.
Even stranger, when she finally asked him if he wanted to go upstairs with her, he answered, "Not tonight." "Why not?" she asked.
The man shook his head and smiled.
"Didn't I see this once on the Twilight Zone? The homely man and the gorgeous woman switch places? I can't believe I'm saying this, but here goes I don't want to be just another notch on your belt."
"Excuse me?"
"I know, I know. I don't believe it either. Look, Cassandra, I'd give my right arm to spend an evening with you."
"So?"
He shrugged, holding up his hands helplessly.
"If I go upstairs with you now, that'll be it. But if I refuse, you might be intrigued.
You might want to pursue it though I can't help thinking that once you're sober you ll think this whole conversation was a nightmare." She smiled.
"You're giving away your strategy, Harvey."
"Yeah, well, I never was very good at this stuff and I'm a bit out of practice like twenty-six years out of practice. Do yourself a favor, Cassandra. Stay away from me. I'm trouble." "Now you really have me intrigued," she said.
"Nothing to be intrigued about," Harvey continued.
"I'm just a workaholic who spends every waking and sleeping moment in a hospital in Spanish Harlem. I have no time for a social life.
It was a fun evening, a wonderful distraction, but it's time I returned to Planet Earth." "I wish you'd reconsider," she said.
Harvey pounded the side of his head like he was trying to clear it.
"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" he asked.
"This whole conversation is a dream."
"Maybe. I guess we'll find out tomorrow."
Now it was tomorrow and for some strange reason, Cassandra wanted to see Harvey Riker again. One problem she had spent most of the morning trying to figure out what she should do next and had come up with nothing. Should she wait until Harvey called? Suppose he didn't? And talk about being out of practice it had been years since Cassandra questioned or cared if a man called her or not.
Then a solution had presented itself when her father came home.
"Where were you?" she had asked him.
"At Columbia Presbyterian," John Lowell replied, distracted.
"Michael was rushed there."
"Is he all right?"
"I think so. His friends are taking care of him."
"Harvey Riker?"
Her father nodded.
"They think he has hepatitis."
"I think I'll go visit him."
"Whatever. When are you going to go?"
"In ten minutes," she said.
"Good. I have a meeting in a little while, and I don't want anyone around when my appointment gets here. Understood?"
But that had been over an hour ago, which was why she was tiptoeing.
Her father's private meetings were just that private.
Bathed in secrecy. He would be furious if he found out she was still home. She crept down the hallway toward the garage. As she passed her father's study, she heard his voice come through the thick oak. He sounded very angry.
"Goddamn it, you shouldn't be here," her father shouted.
"Relax," another voice said, a voice Cassandra could not quite place.
"You said no one was home."
"Doesn't matter. I don't want you in my house."
"Stop worrying so much. There's work to be done."
Who the hell...? Cassandra carefully moved away from the door, her mind racing. The voice was so familiar. She had heard it before, she was sure of it. But where? And who did it belong to?
She was at a traffic light about a mile away when the answer came to her.
Chapter 7
"What I found in Dr. Grey's note," handwriting analyst Robert Swinster began, "is pretty rare."
Lieutenant Max Bernstein nodded.
"I know. It might just explain everything."
"Like what?" "Later," Max said.
"I have a million things to do."
"I can take a hint. I'm as good as gone."
Max shook Swinster's hand