tugged below his waistline, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He heads east. I watch him vanish.
I retreat from the sill and stand there, washed in dim noonday light. Again I look across the park. Nothing. Empty rooms. But I’m tense, waiting for her to appear, waiting for her to look back at me.
My robe has come loose. Come undone. She’s come undone. That was a book, I believe. I never read it.
God, my mind is swirling. I grasp my skull with both hands, squeeze. Think.
Then, like a jack-in-the-box, it springs at me, with such a pop that I step back: the earring.
That’s what had gnawed at my mind yesterday—the earring, glowing on David’s bedside table, luminous against the dark wood.
Three tiny pearls. I’m sure of it.
I’m almost sure of it.
Did it belong to Jane?
That night, that quicksand night. Gift from an old boyfriend. Touching fingertips to earlobe. I doubt Alistair knows. Red wine ebbing down my throat. Those three tiny pearls.
Didn’t it belong to Jane?
Or is this the stuff of a hothouse brain? It could be another earring. It could be someone else’s. But already I’m shaking my head, my hair scratching at my cheeks: It must be Jane’s.
In which case.
I dip my hand into my robe pocket, feel the rub of paper against my skin. I pull out the card: detective conrad little, nypd.
No. Tuck it away.
I turn, leave the room. Fumble downstairs in the dark, two stories, unsteady on my feet even though I’m sober. In the kitchen I approach the basement door. The bolt whines as I slide it home.
I step back, inspect the door. Then I return to the stairwell. One floor up I open the closet, pull the string beside the lightbulb. I find it leaning against the far wall: a stepladder.
Back in the kitchen, I prop the ladder against the basement door, jam it firmly beneath the knob. Kick its legs with one slippered foot until it won’t budge. Kick it some more. I stub my toe. I kick again.
Once more I step back. The door is barricaded. That’s one less way in.
Of course, it’s also one less way out.
59
My veins are flammably dry. I need a drink.
I pivot from the door and stumble over Punch’s bowl; it skids across the floor, slopping water over the brim. I swear, then catch myself. I need to focus. I need to think. A slug of merlot will help.
It’s velvet in my throat, plush and pure, and I feel it cool my blood as I set the tumbler down. I survey the room, my vision clear, my brain oiled. I’m a machine. A thinking machine. That was the nickname, wasn’t it, of a character in some century-old detective novel by Jacques someone-or-other—a ruthlessly logical PhD who could solve any mystery by application of reason. The author, as I recall, died on the Titanic after ushering his wife into a lifeboat. Witnesses saw him sharing a cigarette with Jack Astor as the ship sank, breathing smoke against the waning moon. I suppose that’s one scenario you can’t think your way out of.
I too am a PhD. I too can be ruthlessly logical.
Next move.
Someone must be able to confirm what happened. Or at least to whom. If I can’t start with Jane, then I’ll start with Alistair. He’s the one with the deepest footprint. He’s the one with a history.
I walk up to the study, the plan evolving in my mind with each step. By the time I slant a glance across the park—there she is again, in the parlor, silver cell pressed to one ear; I flinch before settling myself at my desk—I’ve got a script, I’ve got a strategy. Besides, I’m good on my feet (I tell myself, sitting).
Mouse. Keyboard. Google. Phone. My tools. I throw one more look at the Russell place. Now her back is to me, a cashmere wall. Good. Keep it that way. This is my house; this is my view.
I enter the password on my desktop screen; a minute later, I find what I’m looking for online. But before I tap the code into my phone, I pause: Could they trace the number?
I frown. I set the phone down. I grasp the mouse; the cursor stirs on the desktop screen, then travels down to the Skype icon.
A moment later, a crisp alto greets me. “Atkinson.”
“Hi,” I say, then clear my throat. “Hi. I’m looking for Alistair Russell’s office. Only,” I add, “I’d like to speak to his assistant, not to Alistair.”