“Oh, no…Oh, my God…!”
Sam let the blankets drop and ran to look out. Before he got there his fears were confirmed by a screech of brakes and the sound of vehicles colliding in the street below. People screamed. He looked out.
Ward Riley's body lay spread-eagled on Central Park West.
She had crossed the road quickly, dodging traffic, and was hurrying now in the direction of Columbus Avenue. At the corner she stopped and looked back. There was no sign of him. She debated whether to return to the Dakota, but some instinct warned her otherwise. As though in confirmation of its rightness, she suddenly spotted his light raincoat on the far side of the street. He was strolling casually as ever, but looking in her direction, watching her. She turned left, heading south, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run.
Sam, she knew, would be worried, wondering what had happened to her. She must talk to him, tell him how she had been tricked, ask him what she should do now. It was absurd that they had been separated in this way. Had that been the purpose of this whole thing?
But why? And was she now running from something, or being driven toward something?
She stopped and reached into her coat pocket. To her relief her cellular phone was still there. She didn't have Ward's number in her head, but the phone would automatically redial the last number called, which had been Ward's. She stepped into the recessed doorway of a building and tried it.
Nothing happened. She tried again and held the phone to her ear. There was a faint crackle of static, but nothing more. When she looked at the tiny display panel it bore the words “CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.”
What the hell did that mean? She tried again, with the same result. “CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.”
She experienced the surge of impotent fury she always felt whenever some dumb machine refused to function the way it was supposed to. Resisting an urge to shake it or bang it on the wall next to her, she tried again.
“CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.”
If the damn thing wasn't working, she would have to use a pay phone. It was only then she realized that her purse, with all her credit cards and money, was in Ward's apartment. She didn't have a cent with her. That meant she had no choice: she would have to go back.
Or perhaps not. She became aware that the building she was standing in front of was a bank-the same bank, though not the branch, that she used. But they could check out her name and account number and give her some money.
A minute later she was seated before the desk of a pleasant young woman who said she would see what she could do, although it was unfortunate that Joanna was carrying no identification whatsoever. But when Joanna mentioned the names of two people with whom she dealt regularly at her bank and who she was sure would be willing to identify her over the phone, the young woman made the call.
One of the people Joanna had mentioned was, it appeared, out sick. The other was called to the phone, and Joanna waited patiently while the young woman before her explained the problem. Joanna watched as her face clouded with concern.
“I'm sorry,” the young woman said, covering the phone with her hand, “he says he doesn't recognize your name.”
“That's impossible. Can I speak to him, please?”
She held out her hand for the phone. “Hello? Is this Ray? Ray, it's Joanna Cross.”
His voice was hesitant. “Joanna…Cross?”
“Is this Ray Myerson?”
“This is he.”
“Well, for heaven's sake, Ray-it's me! I need some cash.”
“Could you give me your account number, Miss Cross?”
She supposed that his formality was part of some kind of security procedure. Luckily she knew her account number by heart and gave it to him without hesitation. There was a pause.
“I'm sorry, Miss Cross, but none of this appears on my computer. Are you sure you have the right bank?”
“Of course I'm sure. Look, Ray, I don't know what's going on here, but I need you to help me out.”
He asked to be handed back to the young woman who had called him. Joanna gave her the phone, then watched with growing unease as the young woman listened for several moments, nodding her head and saying “Yes” and “Mm-hm” while carefully avoiding eye contact with Joanna.
She began to have a hollow, guilty feeling, as though she had attempted something improper and had been found out. At the same time she was angry at Ray Myerson's and the bank's obtuseness in making such heavy weather out of such a simple request.
The young woman finally hung up and turned to her with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion in her face. “I'm sorry, Miss Cross, there seems to be some mistake. There's no record of any account in that name in the bank, nor in fact any account of that number.”
“That's impossible.”
The young woman gave a nervous shrug, as though half afraid that Joanna might turn out to be some kind of dangerous lunatic despite her respectable appearance and apparent normality.
Whatever the reasons for this farce, Joanna realized there was nothing to be done. “Okay,” she said, “forget it. Thank you for trying, I appreciate your help. Would you mind if I ask one more favor? I need to make a phone call. I've left my purse and everything in a friend's apartment, and I need to talk to them.”
“Please-go ahead.”
“I'll have to call four-one-one for the number.” She did so, praying that Ward was listed. He was. A moment later she was listening to the phone ring unanswered. She hung up. “They must have left. Thanks anyway for your help.”
She got up and started out, half fearing now that she would be stopped before she reached the door and accused of some kind of attempted fraud. She felt the young woman's eyes on her back all the way, but nothing happened.
On the street she looked both ways in search of Ralph.
There was no sign of him. She debated returning to the Dakota, but quickly decided against it. If, as seemed likely, Sam and the Chinese manservant had accompanied Ward to the hospital, she wouldn't even be able to get into the apartment. And above all she didn't want to risk running into Ralph Cazaubon again.
She had decided to walk to the Around Town office, which would take about half an hour, when her fingers closed on something that felt like coins in the bottom of her coat pocket. She pulled out a couple of subway tokens.
For the first time in a while, she felt lucky.
47
She emerged from the elevator and turned right, toward the glass double doors with Around Town engraved on them in the same lettering as on the cover of the magazine. She passed through them and headed diagonally across the lobby, passing the reception desk and giving a somewhat abstracted nod of greeting to Bobbie and Jane behind it. She was about to go through the pale wooden door that led back to the part of the floor where her office was situated, when she heard, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
The words were spoken in the officious and slightly indignant tone of someone whose presence has just been deliberately and insultingly ignored. She turned to see Bobbie, a slim and efficient woman around forty whom she'd known for several years, glaring at her.
“I'm going to my office.”
Bobbie continued to glare, and now rose to her feet.
“You're going where…?” She narrowed her eyes and tipped her head to one side as she asked the question. It was a challenge that demanded a response.
“Bobbie, what's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I don't know how you know my name, but I'm afraid I don't know yours. If you don't mind, it's customary for visitors to come to the desk when they enter this office, and not just go barging on through. Who are you here to
