Reckless Games Page 10

  I was starting my late set at Le Bungalow, adjusting the levers on the soundboard to accommodate the club’s cavernous acoustics, when the idea came to me. It was risky. It could very well backfire. And that was assuming I could pull it off. But if I could….

  It might just work.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At a quarter to four the next day I was slipping the Vespa between two parked cars on Vanderbilt Avenue, across from Grand Central’s elegant Beaux-Arts façade. A brilliant blue sky hung overhead, and Christmas shoppers streamed from the terminal to crowd the sidewalks, heading for the luxury boutiques on Fifth Avenue or across town to the enormous Macy’s at Herald Square.

  I should put up the Christmas lights, I thought, and surprise Dad when he—

  I froze in the middle of the pavement, eliciting grumbles from passersby forced to walk around me, but I barely noticed them. I was stunned with the sudden rush of grief. For a moment, for one happy perfect moment, I’d forgotten my father was dead.

  I moved aside, leaning against the cold stone of a nearby building, astonished by how fresh the grief felt, how sharply it pierced. It had been almost two months. Forever and yet no time at all. God I missed him.

  And the best way to honor his memory is to find his killer, the voice in my head reminded me. I straightened up and rejoined the throngs on the sidewalks, crossing Vanderbilt Avenue and pushing through the terminal’s doors.

  Grand Central had been built to rival the great stations of Europe, and its planners spent lavishly on the interior. Intricately carved marble framed the windows and passageways, and a vast turquoise ceiling soared above the main concourse. Commuters hurried around the tourists who’d stopped to gawk at the constellations etched in gold above.

  Even though it was one of New York’s most famous landmarks, Grand Central had its secrets. Like the fact that the constellations were backward (“It’s God’s view of the universe,” the artist had claimed). And the tennis court tucked into the terminal annex, and a mysterious track that appeared on no map and had only been used by presidents.

  And then there was the secret I was counting on today, the Divine Corners.

  I remembered my delight when my parents had first let me in on it. I’d just turned eight, and we’d celebrated my birthday with a children’s concert – Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf at Carnegie Hall – followed by Frozen Hot Chocolate at Serendipity. After, we’d ducked into Grand Central, and my father had carefully positioned my mother and I under an arch. “Wait here,” he’d said, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with my mother.

  We watched as he crossed the vast space of the main concourse and disappeared beneath an arch on the opposite side. And then, out of nowhere, I heard him singing, slightly off-key but as clearly as if he was standing next to us: “Happy birthday, dear Lulu, happy birthday to you!”

  It was a whispering arch, he explained on the way home, one of many at Grand Central, called Divine Corners because they gave the illusion of God himself speaking to you. What seemed like magic was actually physics: The way the stone curved let sound travel, so a person standing in just the right place could be heard whispering hundreds of yards away.

  That was what I’d remembered during my set the night before. That long-ago lesson of my father’s, which might now be the key to finding out how he’d died, and why. I just had to be sure I could get the angles right.

  I threaded my way through the crush of people to the information booth at the center of the concourse and surveyed the balcony level. At the east end of the concourse, the Apple Store was hectic with customers. Facing it on the opposite side was Cipriani Dolci, its tables filled with shoppers enjoying a late lunch or coffee. I felt a glimmer of hope as I saw that the table farthest from the entrance was perfectly positioned, right up against the base of one of the ornately carved arches. This might work after all.

  I took out my phone and dialed the number I’d looked up when I’d returned home from Le Bungalow. I watched as the hostess, a tall brunette in a black dress, moved to the podium at the restaurant’s entrance to answer the call.

  “Cipriani Dolci,” she said.

  I cupped my phone in my hand to drown out the station noise and tried to sound anxious. It wasn’t much of a stretch. “This is Candice Leaner, Rhys Carlyle’s assistant?”

  “Mr. Carlyle’s reservation has already been confirmed for four p.m.,” the hostess told me coolly.

  “I know, it’s just – and this is so embarrassing – I forgot to request his favorite table when I made the reservation, and he’ll be furious with me. Is it too late to make sure he and his guest are seated at the corner table, the one under the arch?”

  From my vantage point I saw the hostess cover the receiver with her hand and turn to the table I’d just picked out. An elderly couple seemed to be finishing up – I thought I could make out the folder with their check waiting on the linen cloth. The hostess flagged a white-coated waiter over and bent her head to his ear. He glanced at the couple, shrugged, and made his way toward their table. She took her hand off the receiver. “That can be arranged,” she told me.

  “Wow, thank you,” I said, pumping gratitude into my voice. “You’ve saved my life. Or at least my job.”

  The hostess’s only response was a frosty “Good day” and a click as she hung up.

  I glanced at the clock on top of the information booth. I had less than ten minutes before Rhys and Dr. Eriksson were due to arrive. I hurried to the opposite end of the concourse and climbed the marble staircase to the Apple Store, positioning myself behind a pillar by the store entrance.

  I pretended to be busy on my phone as I surreptitiously watched Cipriani across the way, feeling a twinge of guilt as I saw the older couple being helped from their seats by the hovering waiter. A team of busboys immediately descended on the table to replace the linens and place settings.

  Rhys Carlyle, punctual as always, arrived right as the elderly couple I’d evicted reached the entrance. He stepped aside to let them pass, and as he did I caught a glimpse of his companion, who’d been standing next to him.

  It was hard to make out the details from a distance, but one thing was clear: Dr. J. Eriksson was neither blond nor voluptuous. Instead, he was a reedy silver-haired man in a brown overcoat and brown felt fedora.

  The relief I felt was so intense it made me practically giddy. Only because it increased the chances that this was Rhys’s expert and I might learn something useful, I told myself.

  The hostess greeted Rhys with far more warmth than she’d shown me – or rather Candice – and began leading him and Dr. Eriksson to the freshly set table. I rushed to my next position, the far corner within the Apple Store that corresponded to the corner on the opposite balcony. I couldn’t see them, but unless I was mistaken the arch above my head would bring their voices to me.

  I feigned deep interest in the display of Mac accessories lining the wall and settled in to listen. I heard chatter from the nearby Genius Bar and the gravelly baritone of Ray Charles singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” over the speakers.

  But no Rhys.

  I stepped a few feet to the left. Nothing. I moved to the right. More nothing. I felt a cold knot of disappointment in the pit of my stomach.

  I closed my eyes and tried to remember that day with my parents. My father had cut across the concourse floor—

  My eyes flew open and I slid through the tangle of people ogling the new iPhones to the other end of the store and the corner diagonally across from Rhys’s table.

  I stopped in front of a bank of iPads. My heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear Ray Charles, but as I looked up to gauge my position along the arch, I suddenly heard Rhys. His voice was astoundingly clear, as though he was whispering in my ear. Instantly, I flashed back to Veniero’s, to his breath on my neck as he demanded I meet his eyes in the mirror, the exquisite heat of his touch—

  Concentrate, Lucy, I told myself sternly. Focus.

  “—If there’s eve
n a chance it will work, why wouldn’t we pursue it?” he was saying.

  The doctor’s accent was thick and foreign, but his diction was precise. “The investment would be substantial, and the science is still unproven—”

  Rhys interrupted him. “I don’t care about the size of the investment, and we’re just going to have to prove the science.” He paused. “I’m sorry, doctor. But you must understand. I can’t emphasize enough how important this is.”

  “I do understand,” said the doctor. “And that’s why I wanted to discuss this in person. I know how much it means to you, but you need to understand the stakes. Not only is success not guaranteed, the possibility of failure is quite real, and that would create a new set of problems. I need more time, to run additional tests and analyze the results.”

  “Time is a scarce resource,” said Rhys.

  “I’m well aware that the time table is…precarious. But in my opinion, which is what you are paying me for, rushing things at this point would be a grave mistake.”

  A silence fell, long enough for me to wonder if somehow the magic arch had failed me. But then I heard Rhys’s voice again. “All right,” he said with reluctance. “Take the time you need.”

  A waiter broke in, offering more espresso and biscotti, but they both demurred. “I should get back to the Institute,” said Dr. Eriksson.

  “The check, please,” said Rhys.

  I heard a rustling – Rhys, I imagined, placing money on the table, and the two men rising from their seats.

  Was the “unproven science” Dr. Eriksson mentioned CF-64? My mind raced even as my heart sank at yet another hint that Rhys really might have something to do with my father’s death.

  I fought my way through the shoppers to return to my first position, behind the pillar at the Apple Store’s entrance. Across the concourse, I could make out Rhys and Dr. Eriksson. I felt a thrill of satisfied anticipation as they shook hands – that must mean they were going in different directions, and I could put the next part of my plan in motion. I might not be able to follow Rhys, but there was no reason I couldn’t follow Dr. Eriksson.

  Rhys turned toward the doors to Vanderbilt Avenue, while Dr. Eriksson took the stairs leading down to the concourse.

  I darted out from behind my pillar, my eyes on the brown fedora. I’d made it only a few feet, though, when a lightning flash of white fur wrapped itself and its leash around my leg. I just barely managed to keep from tripping over the tiny fat Pomeranian grinning up at me.

  “What have I told you, Lady Di, about the people in this place?” cooed a small balding man in a forest green wool coat, bending and trying to untangle the dog from my leg. He scowled at me. “Everyone’s in a rush, too important to mind who they might be trampling underfoot, a poor dog hardly stands a chance—”

  “Allow me,” a voice suddenly said from behind me. A moment later I was free, and after another scowl, the man in green and Lady Di were gone. Unfortunately, so was Dr. Eriksson. My eyes scanned the concourse in vain – he’d disappeared into the crowd completely.

  So much for the next part of my plan. Resigned, I turned to thank whoever had come to my rescue.

  “You,” I blurted. It was the Texan from the Plaza. He was still wearing his cowboy boots, but instead of a tailored overcoat he wore a down vest and a black watch cap.

  “I’m going to have to insist you stop following me,” he drawled. His expression was serious but there was a smile in his voice. “It’s just not healthy. Don’t get me wrong, I get it. You’re not the first woman to become obsessed with me. I’m hard to resist.”

  He gave me an exaggerated look of sympathetic concern. In spite of my frustration at having lost Dr. Eriksson, I had to struggle to keep a straight face. “What a curse to bear.”

  He nodded emphatically. “It’s rare to find someone who understands. Let me buy you a coffee and we can discuss it at length.”

  “However could I trust myself with you?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  He sighed. “That’s a fair point. But I did just save your life from that rapacious beast.”

  “You mean the Pomeranian?”

  “I mean her owner. He looked like he might cook you and feed you to Lady Di.”

  Now I had to laugh. “You’re right. But—”

  “Yes, that will work.”

  I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You were going to say that coffee is no way to properly show your appreciation and we should have dinner instead.”

  “I—”

  He nodded again. “I can see you’re overwhelmed. It’s only natural, I have that effect on the ladies.” He pulled a scratched silver card case from a pocket and thumbed out a business card. “When you regain your senses, call this number and my assistant will set it up. You might think my assistant sounds a lot like me, but that’s because I’m his idol.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t wait too long to call. Too much pining away for me isn’t healthy, either.” He pulled off his cap, bowed, and loped into the crowd.

  I glanced down at the card. It just gave his name, Adam Navarro, and a phone number. I smiled as I slipped it into my pocket. After all, it wasn’t Adam Navarro’s fault I’d lost Dr. Eriksson. It was Lady Di’s. I turned to head toward the exit, to where I’d left my Vespa.

  And out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a brown fedora vanishing through the portal marked Track 12.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I dashed across the concourse, reaching the track with only seconds to spare. The doors closed behind me and the train jerked into motion an instant after I leapt into the first car.

  I moved down the aisle, scanning the rows of seats. Dimly, I heard the conductor announce that the first stop on this New Haven-bound commuter train would be Mt. Vernon. For all I knew, I hadn’t even been following the right brown fedora and was on my way to Connecticut for no good reason.

  It was with relief that I spotted the brown fedora on the luggage rack in the third car, with Dr. Ericksson seated beneath, immersed in the contents of a file folder lying open on his lap. As I passed I tried to see what he was reading but caught only a glimpse of a plain printed page, dense with words and numbers.

  There was an empty seat a couple of rows behind him, and I slid into it. A mother and her young daughter were across the aisle, the daughter already asleep, snuggled in the crook of her mother’s arm and still clutching the program for the New York City Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker. The mother was nodding off, too. They must have come into the city for the matinee performance.

  I’d already been sideswiped once by grief that afternoon, and now I swallowed back memories of my own mother. I couldn’t afford to be emotional, not now.

  The ticket collector made his way down the aisle, but he wordlessly punched Dr. Eriksson’s ticket instead of conveniently announcing his destination. I had no choice but to purchase a one-way fare to the end of the line. The train stopped at Mt. Vernon, and then at Pelham and New Rochelle. The mother roused herself and her daughter and got off at Larchmont. I was beginning to despair that Dr. Eriksson and I really would be going all the way to New Haven when I saw him stand and reach for his fedora as we pulled into the station at Mamaroneck.

  Only a handful of people got off with us, so I maintained a discreet distance while I tried to figure out what to do next. With any luck Dr. Eriksson would go to the commuter parking lot, giving me enough time to find a taxi and follow him.

  But apparently I’d already used up all of the day’s luck. There was a blue Audi sedan idling at the curb, and it pulled away with Dr. Eriksson inside before I could even locate the taxi stand. I swore to myself as the car disappeared from sight. I didn’t have the chance to catch the Audi’s license plate, either, not that I’d have known what to do with it if I had.

  After the excitement of the whispering arch working and my mad dash to the train, to be suddenly left with nothing was like being doused with ice water. Not to ment
ion that I was miles from the city, alone in the cold and gathering dusk.

  Dejected, I turned to check the schedule for the next train back. I felt like an idiot. I could almost hear Val’s voice in my head, telling me I was crazy, teasing that she should have me committed, I belonged in an institution—

  Institute. Dr. Eriksson had said he should get back to the “Institute.” Now I pulled out my phone and Googled “Mamaroneck + Institute + Dr. J. Eriksson.”

  The first hit told me exactly what I needed to know. A Dr. Johan Eriksson was the Founder and Executive Director of the Mamaroneck Eriksson Institute.

  But the Institute didn’t specialize in the development of rare polymers, not at all. According to its Web site, it was “established by Dr. Eriksson as the country’s foremost center for the study and rehabilitation of neurological and spinal injuries.”

  I had no idea what to make of that. Maybe medical research was simply another one of Rhys’s philanthropic activities, just like Mozart’s Muses?

  But he’d sounded so intent, so urgent, in his conversation with the doctor. And I’d come this far – I had to find out what it was about, even if it did turn out to be a dead end.

  I found the taxi stand then, a yellow-painted pole with a lone cab parked next to it, the driver dozing inside. He started when I knocked on the window, but ten minutes later he was dropping me off at the address on the Institute’s Web site, a long and low red-brick building surrounded by well-manicured lawns.

  I stopped at the entrance, fished my phone out of my bag again, and pressed it to my ear. Val always said the key to getting in anywhere was to act like you belonged there, and props definitely helped.

  I pretended to be deep in conversation on my imaginary phone call as I passed through the front door and into a lobby painted a soothing pale blue. Somebody had made an effort to give the place a homey feel – there were potted plants and Shaker-style furniture and decorative quilts on the wall – but the fluorescent lights and faint odor of antiseptic could only belong to a medical facility. I gave a casual wave to a woman sitting behind a glass-fronted reception desk, but she didn’t even look up from her computer screen as she called out, “Visiting hours end in forty-five minutes.”