someone track down information about Melissa Williams, but that would lead only to the real Melissa Williams, not Christina. Mrs. Sanders, the landlady, would be able to identify Christina's picture, perhaps, but who would show it to her? Nobody who knew Christina's name knew that she'd lived there for a few weeks.
The stories in the Post and Daily News about Charlie mentioned the container load of cameras, but the transferred bill of lading had apparently been wiped clean of fingerprints. The container itself had been picked up in Port Newark the next day by a day-trucker who knew no one. Or said he knew no one. Probably someone Tony hired. He'd taken the trailer to a truck stop as directed, left the keys in the ignition as he went into the diner, and not been surprised when the truck was gone when he came out.
There remained the phone call from the hotel room made by Charlie to Christina's mother. But that went back to the secretary; if she didn't mention the liaison, then the police would not trace the call. But what if they did? She'd say that she and Charlie had spent the night together and she'd called her mother. Not a big deal. From the papers, it seemed that Charlie's death hadn't been linked to any of the other deaths. Someone smart, someone like Tony Verducci, had made sure of that. The one detective who knew her face was Peck, and he'd disappeared, never been found. Neither had Morris or Paul Bocca. Gone forever. Now, ironically, Tony was protecting her. What else am I missing? Christina thought. She'd used Rahul the Freak's phone that last day, then thrown it away. But the police didn't know who he was, and it seemed probable that he wasn't going to step forward and complain about some phone charges made by a woman whom he'd tried to molest in his house.
She shuffled along the sidewalk feeling tired, arguing to herself that she'd committed no actual crime. What was to be gained by presenting herself to the police? With her record, they would be all over her, asking about Tony Verducci as well. She had no money for a lawyer-back to Bedford Hills she'd go, maybe as an accomplice to murder. If she fingered Tony, they could get her mother. She found herself feeling ill thinking about it. But she felt ill a lot of the time now, especially when she woke up or, as now, when she smelled food.
She entered a Korean deli and inspected the green apples, again aware of the odd tenderness in her breasts. Maybe her mother would be excited for her. I never expected this, she thought. She dropped a few apples into her basket. Next, she needed a box of crackers. Some milk. She'd stopped smoking, forced herself, and was taking the vitamins. After food and rent, she had a few dollars left over each week. Somehow I'll manage, she decided. Maybe he or she will have blue eyes.
She finished picking out her bag of groceries, paid for them, then headed home. She wasn't making enough money to get her own phone, so she slipped a quarter into a pay phone on the street, called collect. If Tony was smart, which he was, he'd long since lost interest in her mother's phone line.
'Christina?' came her mother's voice after she accepted the charges.
'It's me,' she replied, setting the groceries at her feet, 'in all my glory.'
'How are you?'
'Actually I'm-' She stopped. She watched a businesswoman march past. 'I'm fine, I guess.'
'I was hoping you'd call,' her mother began. 'I've been busy. The weather's been perfect. I've been-Let me just light this… So, oh, I said I was busy, yes. I'll be taking a little trip next week, and I've been trying to sort out all the stuff in the house before I go. Just try to make progress.'
'Yes,' Christina said, feeling discouraged and chewing her hair a bit.
'All those boxes from the garage that I put in storage last year have to be gone through, and the basement-'
She frowned. 'What boxes?'
'I put everything I could find in one of those little rooms, those storage spaces you pay for, when the storm came last year.' Her mother drew wheezily on her cigarette. 'The garage is just about-Well, you'll see it, it's falling down, sweetie. Like the rest of this place,' she sighed.
'What's in the boxes?' Christina asked.
'I have no idea. Your father's stuff.'
She said nothing as her mother babbled on, though for a moment she braced herself against the phone booth, feeling a wave of nausea go through her, nausea or dizziness, but also fear and guilt. I never expected this, she told herself again, but then most of what had happened recently she hadn't expected, and she did not resist the knowledge of what was inside of her, for unexpected arrivals sometimes were for the good, even-yes-a matter of startled joy.
