dangerous thing.
Not wishing to squander an afternoon driving to Garden City, which she was sure was not a garden anymore, even in clement weather, Faith had called the agency where Hartley was—after working her way down a number of them from the Yellow Pages. He was available and she set up an appointment. She was Karen Brown again, not a lowly graduate student, but Mrs. Karen Brown from Los Angeles. Mr. Brown—
she decided to call him Richard just for the hell of it—
was being transferred east and she was scouting communities for that perfect location. It had to be an easy commute to the city, good schools . . .
“And of course we both love the water, so maybe something closer to the North or South Shore?” Faith was sitting in a comfortable chair, drinking a cup of coffee she really didn’t want and watching the lies slide off her tongue as easily as sap from a sugar maple in a spring thaw.
Todd Hartley was busy filling out her wish list. Faith was waiting for him to ask how she’d been referred to him, and she had an elaborate story involving Saint Paul’s School and a cousin of her husband’s and always hearing about Garden City, then seeing an ad in the Yellow Pages and his name just hitting her, because of Bob Hartley, you know the old
“Contemporary? Center entrance colonial? Ranch?”
“Not ranch.” Faith and Karen were both positive about this. Not on Long Island, anyway. Colorado, Montana, maybe.
He nodded. There was no vestige of the radical Emma had described. No
Mrs. Hartley had big hair—at least on her wedding day—and was a very attractive brunette. She was covering his hand with hers and the camera had picked up the sparkle from the rock she was wearing—something
close to Gibraltar. Faith twisted her own modest wedding band and engagement ring, purchased at Woolworth’s a few hours ago. She was willing to bet that Mrs. Hartley’s rings weren’t from Woolworth’s.
Todd’s, either.
It cost a lot of money to be a well-turned-out Real-tor. Without actually fingering the fabric, which might appear suspect, Faith guessed his suit was Brooks or Paul Stuart. Maybe on sale, but not cheap. In addition, you had to have an expensive, new—or nearly new—
car. No one was going to be persuaded into assuming a monstrous mortgage by someone driving an old Pinto.
“I think the best way to start is by selecting some target communities; then we can go for a drive and you can get a feel for them. What’s your timetable?” Faith was tempted to say she wanted everything cleared up by Christmas, but she answered instead,
“We’ll be moving in the late spring.”
“No problem. As you’ve probably heard, in the East, a lot of houses come on the market then, with the good weather. Things slow down in the winter, but you can pick up some real bargains that way.”
“People are desperate, you mean.” Faith wasn’t sure why she said that. Maybe it was to try to tease out whatever personality he had. It certainly wasn’t being expressed in the artwork on the walls—a framed map of the island and a generic floral still life.
He smiled slightly. “I guess you could put it that way.” There was a slightly awkward pause. “Well, Mrs.
Brown, why don’t we—”
The phone rang.
“Sorry, could you excuse me?”
Faith nodded and sat back in the chair. She’d wanted
to dress for the part. She wasn’t sure what a Californ-ian with no winter clothes would wear on a foray to the Big Apple, but she figured she couldn’t go wrong with a pair of Lauren black trousers and a white man-tailored shirt. She’d added a chunky gold-link bracelet she’d never particularly cared for that a too-serious admirer had given her last Christmas. She wanted to look as if she could afford a house, but not a mansion. She’d made a joke about having to borrow her Kamali coat from a friend and said she supposed she’d be buying things like it herself once they moved to this terrible climate. Chuckle, chuckle.
After picking up the phone and saying hello, Todd hadn’t said anything other than “This isn’t the best time now.” The person on the other end obviously did not agree, and after saying it once more with feeling, Hartley turned toward Faith.
“Would you mind terribly waiting in the reception area? I’m afraid I have to take this.”
“Not at all. My schedule is flexible. I have plenty of time.” Today anyway.
Unfortunately, the receptionist was at her desk. No way to pick up the phone and eavesdrop. Faith was forced to sit down and thumb through a back issue of
The agency wasn’t on the skids, but the carpeting was ever so slightly worn in spots. It wasn’t affiliated with one of the big national firms, just a small family-owned outfit, probably been around forever. Hartley’s family? How had he ended up here? It wasn’t that long ago that he’d been hanging out with the comrades, desperately searching for Nathan. Who or what had changed his mind? The lovely Mrs. Hartley? Or after Poppy Morris’s revelation of Emma’s age, had
young Todd decided to retreat—fearful of statutory rape?
The agency, like much of the rest of the country, had dragged out its box of holiday decorations. A small clear plastic tree with unappetizing fossilized gumdrops skewered to its sharp branches stood on the receptionist’s desk. A row of stockings with names written in glitter pen hung in a line from the mantel of a faux fireplace. Todd’s, like the others, was empty.
What would Santa bring? A lump of coal? A huge pot of pink poinsettias stood in the fireplace opening and tinsel garlands looped about the walls and door frames completed the festive decor.
Faith has just finished her inventory when the receptionist got up, put on her coat, and left. Creeping over to the door to Hartley’s office, Faith could hear Todd’s voice, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She went over to the desk and carefully picked up the phone, pressing the button next to the line that lighted up.
“It’s too soon. That’s all I can tell you. Not yet.
You’ll have to be patient. It worked once. It’ll work again. She’s scared. Leave her alone for now,” said a voice on the other end of the conversation. A voice Faith had never heard before. “Do you catch my drift, Hartley?”
“Yeah, yeah . . .”
“Because if you don’t, you know what will happen, right?” There was no mistaking the menace in the man’s voice.
And she’d been about to get in a car with Todd Hartley, a man who, given what she knew, was up to his ears in something that sounded very much like a partnership in blackmail and murder! He knew who Emma
was. He’d known where Fox lived before. If Fox had trusted him that much, he’d have no qualms about revealing his most recent whereabouts. But knowing Fox was in the city, why hadn’t Todd turned him in? Still Red below the surface, or afraid of being outed to his new wife, his new life? Or afraid of a charge of cor-rupting a minor, and worse? It hadn’t been that long ago.
The man on the phone was telling him to wait. Wait to ask for money again? Wait to ask for more?
