Both detectives looked at her without saying a word. She could feel that the entire back of her cotton blouse was soaked now-and there was perspiration above her lips, too. She had to resist the urge to wipe it away.
“That’s gotta be tough,” McCarty said finally.
“Yes. It is.”
Just then a long meow emanated from her bedroom. Followed by another. And then the sound of claws scratching at the door. In unison the two men jerked their heads in that direction.
“Someone doesn’t sound very happy back there,” McCarty said.
“Oh, it’s…my cat. I put him back there when I heard you were coming up.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” McCarty said. “We aren’t allergic, are we, Scott?”
“No. In fact, we’re real kitty lovers,” Hull said with a smirk.
She held her breath. Were they just going to stand there and wait until she let the cat out?
“Maybe you could put the AC on for him at least,” Hull said, shrugging and turning toward the door. “I bet he’s hot as hell.”
A minute later they were gone. She watched through the peephole to make sure they boarded the elevator and then she let Smokey out of the bedroom. He shot down the hall as if his tail had been set on fire.
Lake felt completely spent, and yet frantic, too. She tore off her wet blouse and let it drop in a heap on the bedroom floor. After flicking on the AC, she hurried to the kitchen and rifled through a drawer for a pad and pen. Then she began to scribble down notes. She didn’t want to forget a word the cops had said.
It was clear from the questions that they were seriously focusing on the clinic-obviously in light of Maggie’s revelation about the keys. But they’d also asked about Keaton’s work at the clinic in L.A. That seemed to mean that they were pursuing other theories simultaneously. And surely by now Levin must have told them about the gambling issue. As she scratched down these notes, Lake recalled their question about Dr. Hoss. What had that meant? she wondered. Did Hoss have a short fling of her own with Keaton-and was it possible she murdered him because he’d dumped her? She didn’t look like the type to accept rejection easily.
But the most disturbing thing had been what they’d said at the end: that someone had reported that Lake had seemed upset since the murder, not herself. The only person who had appeared to pick up on that was Harry. She couldn’t understand why he would have betrayed her. Did he really suspect her? Had he just been pumping her on Sunday, not really concerned about her well-being? She wondered if the cops had bought her explanation for her display of nerves. Or did they already suspect her of having been the one in Keaton’s bed that night? They’d seemed intent on rattling her, going in circles with their questions.
She had to reach Kit Archer. If there was something going on at the clinic, there was a chance he knew what it was. And who else could she ask? She reached for the phone but this time she knew she had to leave a message and pray he called back. So it was a total shock when after three rings, a smooth, deep voice said, “Archer.”
“Mr. Archer,” she said, caught off guard. “My name is Lake Warren. I read the piece you wrote on fertility clinics. Do you have a minute?”
There was a pause as he digested what she’d said.
“Okay,” he replied. “What can I do for you?” He sounded mildly receptive, like a reporter who knew that sometimes leads came from cold calls like this one.
“I was hoping to speak to you-about the same topic.”
“Are you a patient at a clinic?”
“No, I work at one-as a marketing consultant.”
As soon as she said the words, it hit her. She was violating the trust of her employer. But she had no choice, not if she wanted to learn the truth.
“Which one?”
“I-I’d rather not say over the phone. I was hoping we could meet in person.”
“But what exactly do you want to talk about? You’ve got to give me a little more to go on here.”
She hadn’t thought this far ahead. What
“You brought up some interesting points in your article,” she said, scrambling. “I’m just worried that there could be irregularities at the clinic I’m working at.”
“What kind of irregularities?”
“Again, I’d prefer not to get into it over the phone.”
“Well, we’d be happy to hear what you have to say. Can I have my producer give you a call and she can arrange to meet with you?”
Damn, she thought. She had to keep trying.
“But I’d really prefer to talk directly to you-and as soon as possible.”
“Why the rush?”
“There’s a certain urgency. I can explain when I see you.”
“Why don’t you tell me the name of the clinic? Otherwise we’re going to be just pussyfooting around.”
“You won’t be going anywhere with it at this point, right?”
“Nope-we’re just talking.”
“It’s called the Advanced Fertility Center-on Park Avenue.”
There was a pause, and she could almost hear him thinking.
“One of your doctors met a pretty ugly death last week,” he said.
She caught her breath. Of course, she thought. Because of Keaton’s connection to a fertility clinic, Archer would have found the murder particularly noteworthy.
“Yes,” Lake said quietly.
“I’d be willing to talk,” Archer said, “but I’ve got some scheduling problems. I leave town on Wednesday for a story, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Maybe just a couple days, maybe more.”
“Is there any way you could meet today, or tomorrow?”
“Today’s totally out,” he said. “But I could probably meet you tomorrow. I’ve got an event in the early evening but I should be able to steal a few minutes right before then.”
Archer suggested they meet at five-thirty at the Peacock Alley bar in the Waldorf-Astoria, right before his event, which was in the ballroom there. He rattled off his cell phone number; and she offered a brief physical description of herself and gave him her own cell phone number.
This is a start, she told herself as she hung up. Please, please let something come of it.
She made coffee, carried a mug of it into her office, and opened her laptop. No matter how distracted she felt, she knew she had to generate more ideas for her presentation. She emailed both the Web designer she had recruited and the person she had in mind for day-to-day PR, asking them for a few ideas by tomorrow. She’d originally given them a deadline of two weeks from now, thinking she wouldn’t need their input for her initial presentation to Levin and Sherman. But she was desperate now.
Later she sent one fax to both Amy and Will. She’d drawn a little picture of herself and Smokey looking draggy from the heat. When she first started writing the kids, earlier in the summer, she’d been struck by how dull her life was. Now she would give anything to have all that dullness back.
As she slid into bed that night she thought she might fall asleep instantly from sheer mental exhaustion, but it was clear after thirty minutes of thrashing in the sheets that sleep wasn’t going to arrive. She tossed and turned a little while longer and then finally dragged herself out of bed, leaving Smokey still draped over a pillow. In her white cotton nightgown, she paced the long hall of her apartment like a ghost. The apartment was deadly quiet, except for the drip of a faucet somewhere-in Will’s bathroom, she guessed.
At one point during her lonely, restless prowl, she stopped in the foyer and studied the silver-framed photos on the hall table. There were shots not only of her kids but of friends, too-sitting on the porch in Roxbury, celebrating a birthday, laughing together in Riverside Park. If only she could turn to one of those people now, she thought. But since her split with Jack, she’d let her friendships drift, out of embarrassment, or, in the case of people like Steve’s sister, Sonia, because their coupled-up lives now seemed out of sync with hers.
Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she registered movement on the ground to her right. She jerked her head in that direction, thinking it was Smokey, but there was no sign of him. As her eyes swept around the foyer, she realized with a jolt what she’d seen. On the parquet floor by the door, the narrow strip of light from the outside corridor had just been broken. There was a shadow in the middle now. Someone was standing on the other side of her door.
