CHAPTER 1


 
"Miss Kendall, can you hear me? I'm Dr. Metcalf, and you're at Good Samaritan Hospital in Mountainside. We're going to take you out of the ambulance now and into the emergency room."
Shivering uncontrollably, Leigh Kendall reacted to the insistent male voice that was calling her back to consciousness, but she couldn't seem to summon the strength to open her eyelids.
"Can you hear me, Miss Kendall?"
With an effort, she finally managed to force her eyes open. The doctor who had spoken was bending over her, examining her head, and beside him, a nurse was holding a clear plastic bag of IV fluid.
"We're going to take you out of the ambulance now," he repeated as he beamed a tiny light at each of her pupils.
"Need… to tell… husband I'm here," Leigh managed in a feeble whisper.
He nodded and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "The state police will take care of that. In the meantime, you have some very big fans at Good Samaritan, including me, and we're going to take excellent care of you."
Voices and images began to fly at Leigh from every direction as the gurney was lifted from the ambulance. Red and blue lights pulsed frantically against a gray dawn sky. People in uniforms flashed past her line of vision—New York State troopers, paramedics, doctors, nurses. Doors swung open, the hallway flew by, faces crowded around her, firing urgent questions at her.
Leigh tried to concentrate, but their voices were collapsing into an incomprehensible babble, and their features were sliding off their faces, dissolving into the same blackness that had already devoured the rest of the room.
When Leigh awoke again, it was dark outside and a light snow was falling. Struggling to free herself from the effects of whatever drugs were dripping into her arm from the IV bag above her, she gazed dazedly at what appeared to be a hospital room filled with a riotous display of flowers.
Seated on a chair near the foot of the bed, flanked by a huge basket of white orchids and a large vase of bright yellow roses, a gray-haired nurse was reading a copy of the New York Post with Leigh's picture on the front page.
Leigh turned her head as much as the brace on her neck would allow, searching for some sign of Logan, but for the time being, she was alone with the nurse. Experimentally, she moved her legs and wiggled her toes, and was relieved to find them still attached to the rest of her and in reasonably good working order. Her arms were bandaged and her head was wrapped in something tight, but as long as she didn't move, her discomfort seemed to be limited to a generalized ache throughout her body, a sharper ache in her ribs, and a throat so dry it felt as if it were stuffed with sawdust.
She was alive, and that in itself was a miracle! The fact that she was also whole and relatively unharmed filled Leigh with a sense of gratitude and joy that was almost euphoric. She swallowed and forced a croaking whisper from her parched throat. "May I have some water?"
The nurse looked up, a professional smile instantly brightening her face. "You're awake!" she said as she quickly closed the newspaper, folded it in half, and laid it facedown beneath her chair.
The name tag on the nurse's uniform identified her as "Ann Mackey, RN. Private Duty," Leigh noted as she watched the nurse pouring water from a pink plastic pitcher on the tray beside the bed.
"You should have a straw. I'll go get one."
"Please don't bother. I'm terribly thirsty."
When the nurse started to hold the glass to Leigh's mouth, Leigh took it from her. "I can hold it," Leigh assured her, and then was amazed by how much effort it took just to lift her bandaged arm and hold it steady. By the time she handed the glass back to Nurse Mackey, her arm was trembling and her chest hurt terribly. Wondering if perhaps there was more wrong with her than she'd thought, Leigh let her head sink back into the pillows while she gathered the strength to talk. "What sort of condition am I in?"
Nurse Mackey looked eager to share her knowledge, but she hesitated. "You really should ask Dr. Metcalf about that."
"I will, but I'd like to hear it now, from my private duty nurse. I won't tell him you told me anything."
It was all the encouragement she needed. "You were in shock when you were brought in," she confided. "You had a concussion, hypothermia, cracked ribs, and suspected injuries to the cervical vertebrae and adjacent tissue—that's whiplash in layman's terms. You have several deep scalp wounds, as well as lacerations on your arms, legs, and torso, but only a few of them are on your face, and they aren't deep, which is a blessing. You also have contusions and abrasions all over your—"
Smiling as much as her swollen lip would allow, Leigh lifted her hand to stop the litany of injuries. "Is there anything wrong with me that will need surgery?"
The nurse looked taken aback by Leigh's upbeat attitude, and then she looked impressed. "No surgery," she said with an approving little pat on Leigh's shoulder.
"Any physical therapy?"
"I wouldn't think so. But you should expect to be very sore for a few weeks, and your ribs will hurt. Your burns and cuts will require close attention, healing and scarring could be a concern—"
Leigh interrupted this new deluge of depressing medical minutiae with a grin. "I'll be very careful," she said, and then she switched to the only other topic on her mind. "Where is my husband?"
Nurse Mackey faltered and then patted Leigh's shoulder again. "I'll go and see about that," she promised, and hurried off, leaving Leigh with the impression that Logan was nearby.
Exhausted from the simple acts of drinking and speaking, Leigh closed her eyes and tried to piece together what had happened to her since yesterday, when Logan had kissed her good-bye in the morning…
He'd been so excited when he left their Upper East Side apartment, so eager for her to join him in the mountains and spend the night with him there. For over a year, he'd been looking for just the right site for their mountain retreat, a secluded setting that would complement the sprawling stone house he'd designed for the two of them. Finding the right site was complicated by the fact that Logan had already completed the drawings, so the site needed to be adaptable to the plans. On Thursday, he'd finally found a piece of property that met all his exacting qualifications, and he'd been so eager for her to see it that he insisted they should spend Sunday night—their first available night—in the existing cabin on the land.
"The cabin hasn't been used in years, but I'll clean it up while I'm waiting for you to get there," he promised, displaying an endearing enthusiasm for a task he'd always avoided. "There isn't any electricity or heat, but I'll build a roaring fire in the fireplace, and we'll sleep in front of it in sleeping bags. We'll have dinner by candlelight. In the morning, we'll watch the sun rise over the tops of the trees. Our trees. It will be very romantic, you'll see."
His entire plan filled Leigh with amused dread. She was starring in a new play that had opened on Broadway the night before, and she'd only had four hours of sleep. Before she could leave for the mountains, she had a Sunday matinee performance to give, and that would be followed by a three-hour drive to a cold, uninhabitable stone cabin, so that she could sleep on the floor… and then get up at dawn the next day.
"I can't wait," she lied convincingly, but what she really wanted to do was go back to sleep. It was only eight o'clock. She could sleep until ten.
Logan hadn't had any more sleep than she, but he was already dressed and eager to leave for the cabin. "The place isn't easy to find, so I drew you a detailed map with plenty of landmarks," he said, laying a piece of paper on her nightstand. "I've already loaded the car. I think I have everything I need—" he continued, leaning over her in bed and pressing a quick kiss on her cheek, "—house plans, stakes, string, a transom, sleeping bags. I still feel like I'm forgetting something…"
"A broom, a mop, and a bucket?" Leigh joked sleepily as she rolled over onto her stomach. "Scrub brushes? Detergent?"
"Killjoy," he teased, nuzzling her neck where he knew she was ticklish.
Leigh giggled, pulled the pillow over the back of her head, and continued dictating his shopping list. "Disinfectant… mousetraps…"
"You sound like a spoiled, pampered Broadway star," he chuckled, pressing down on the pillow to prevent her from adding more items to the list. "Where is your sense of adventure?"
"It stops at a Holiday Inn," she said with a muffled giggle.
"You used to love to go camping. You were the one who taught me how. You even suggested we go camping on our honeymoon! "
"Because we couldn't afford a Holiday Inn."
With a laugh, he pulled the pillow away from her head and rumpled her hair. "Leave straight from the theater. Don't be late." He stood up and headed for the door to their bedroom suite. "I know I'm forgetting something—"
"Drinking water, candles, a tin coffeepot?" Leigh helpfully chanted. "Food for dinner? A pear for my breakfast?"
"No more pears. You're addicted," he teased over his shoulder. "From now on, it's Cream of Wheat and prunes for you."
"Sadist," Leigh mumbled into the pillows. A moment later she heard the door close behind him, and she rolled onto her back, smiling to herself as she gazed out the bedroom windows overlooking Central Park. Logan's enthusiasm for the mountain property was contagious, but his lighthearted mood was what mattered most to her. They'd both been so young, and so poor, when they got married thirteen years ago that hard work had been a necessity, and then it had become a habit. On their wedding day, their total combined assets were eight hundred dollars in cash, plus Logan's new architectural degree, his mother's social connections, and Leigh's unproven acting talent—that, and their unflagging faith in each other. With only those tools, they'd built a wonderful life together, but during the last few months, they'd both been so busy that their sex life had been almost nonexistent. She'd been immersed in the preopening craziness of a new play, and Logan had been consumed with the endless complexities of his latest, and biggest, business venture.
As Leigh lay in bed, gazing out at the clouds gathering in the November sky, she decided she definitely liked the prospect of spending the night in front of a roaring fire with nothing to do but make love with her husband. They wanted a baby, and she suddenly realized that even the timing was right for conception tonight. She was dreamily imagining the evening that lay ahead when Hilda walked into the bedroom wearing her coat and carrying Leigh's breakfast tray. "Mr. Manning said you were awake, so I brought you breakfast before I leave," Hilda explained. She waited while Leigh struggled into a sitting position; then she handed her the tray containing Leigh's ritual breakfast fare—cottage cheese, a pear, and coffee. "I've tidied up after the party. Is there anything else you'd like me to do before I go?"
"Not a thing. Enjoy your day off. Are you planning to stay in New Jersey at your sister's tonight?"
Hilda nodded. "My sister said she's had very good luck at Harrah's lately. I thought we might go there."
Leigh suppressed a grin because, as far as she'd been able to tell, Hilda had absolutely no human weaknesses—except one for the nickel slot machines in Atlantic City. "We won't be back here until late tomorrow afternoon," Leigh said as a thought occurred to her. "I'll have to go straight to the theater, and Mr. Manning has a dinner meeting that will last until late in the evening. There's really no need for you to be here tomorrow night. Why don't you spend two days with your sister, and check out some of the slot machines at the other casinos?"
The suggestion of two consecutive days off threw the housekeeper into a total state of inner conflict that reflected itself on Hilda's plain face and made Leigh stifle another grin. In the War Against Dirt and Disorder, Hilda Brunner was a militant, tireless general who marched into daily battle armed with a vacuum cleaner and cleaning supplies, her foreboding expression warning of an impending assault on all foreign particles. To Hilda, taking two days off in a row was tantamount to a voluntary retreat, and that was virtually unthinkable. On the other hand, if she did as Leigh suggested, she would be able to spend two full days with her sister at the nickel slot machines. She cast a glance around the immaculate bedroom that was her personal battlefield, trying to assess in advance the extent of damage likely to occur if she were absent for two entire days. "I would like to think about it."
"Of course," Leigh said, struggling to keep her face straight. "Hilda," she called as the German woman bustled toward the door.
Hilda turned in the act of belting her brown coat around her waist. "Yes, Mrs. Manning?"
"You're a treasure."
 
Leigh had hoped to leave the theater by four o'clock that afternoon, but the play's director and the writer wanted to make some minor changes in two of her scenes after watching the matinee performance, and then they argued endlessly over which changes to make, trying out first one variation, then another. As a result, it was after six when she was finally on her way.
Patchy fog mixed with light snow slowed her progress out of the city. Leigh tried to call Logan twice on his cellular phone to tell him she was going to be late, but either he'd left his phone somewhere out of hearing or the cabin was beyond range of his cellular service. She left voice mail messages for him instead.
By the time she reached the mountains, the snow was falling hard and fast, and the wind had picked up dramatically. Leigh's Mercedes sedan was heavy and handled well, but the driving was treacherous, the visibility so poor that she could only see fifteen feet in front of her car. At times it was impossible to see large road signs, let alone spot the little landmarks Logan had noted on his map. Roadside restaurants and gas stations that would normally have been open at ten p.m. were closed, their parking lots deserted. Twice, she doubled back, certain she'd missed a landmark or a road. With nowhere to stop or ask for directions, Leigh had little choice except to keep driving and searching.
When she should have been within a few miles of the cabin, she turned into an unmarked driveway with a fence across it and switched on the car's map light to study Logan's directions again. She was almost positive she'd missed a turnoff two miles back, the one Logan had described as being "200 feet south of a sharp curve in the road, just beyond a little red barn." With at least six inches of snow blanketing everything, what had seemed like a little barn to her could just as easily have been a large black shed, a short silo, or a pile of frozen cows, but Leigh decided she should go back and find out.
She put the Mercedes into gear and made a cautious U-turn. As she rounded the sharp curve she was looking for, she slowed down even more, searching for a gravel drive, but the drop-off was much too steep, the terrain far too rugged, for anyone to have put a driveway there. She'd just taken her foot off the brake and started to accelerate when a pair of headlights on high beam leapt out of the darkness behind her, rounding the curve, closing the distance with terrifying speed. On the snow-covered roads, Leigh couldn't speed up quickly and the other driver couldn't seem to slow down. He swerved into the left lane to avoid plowing into her from the rear, lost control, and smashed into the Mercedes just behind Leigh's door.
The memory of what followed was horrifyingly vivid—the explosion of air bags, the scream of tortured metal and shattering glass as the Mercedes plowed through the guardrail and began cartwheeling down the steep embankment. The car slammed against several tree trunks, then hurtled into boulders in a long series of deafening crashes that ended in one, sudden, explosive jolt as five thousand pounds of mangled steel came to a bone-jarring stop.
Suspended from her seat belt, Leigh hung there, upside down, like a dazed bat in a cave, while light began exploding around her. Bright light. Colorful light. Yellow and orange and red. Fire!
Stark terror sharpened her senses. She found the seat belt release, landed hard on the roof of the overturned car and, whimpering, tried to crawl through the hole that had once been the passenger window. Blood, sticky and wet, spread down her arms and legs and dripped into her eyes. Her coat was too bulky for the opening, and she was yanking it off when whatever had stopped the car's descent suddenly gave way. Leigh heard herself screaming as the burning car pitched forward, rolled, and then seemed to fly out over thin air, before it began a downward plunge that ended in a deafening splash and a freezing deluge of icy water.
Lying in her hospital bed with her eyes closed, Leigh relived that plunge into the water, and her heart began to race. Moments after hitting the water, the car had begun a fast nosedive for the bottom, and in a frenzy of terror, she started pounding on everything she could reach. She located a hole above her, a large one, and with her lungs bursting, she pushed through it and fought with her remaining strength to reach the surface. It seemed an eternity before a blast of frigid wind hit her face and she gulped in air.
She tried to swim, but pain knifed through her chest with every breath, and her strokes were too feeble and uncoordinated to propel her forward more than a little bit. Leigh kept thrashing about in the freezing water, but her body was going numb, and neither her panic nor her determination could give her enough strength and coordination to swim. Her head was sliding under the surface when her flailing hand struck something hard and rough—the limb of a partially submerged fallen tree. She grabbed at it with all her might, trying to use it as a raft, until she realized that the "raft" was stationary. She pulled herself along it, hand over hand, as the water receded to her shoulders, then her waist, and finally her knees.
Shivering and weeping with relief, she peered through the dense curtain of blowing snow, searching for the path the Mercedes would have carved through the trees after it plunged off the ridge. There was no path in sight. There was no ridge in sight either. There was only bone-numbing cold, and sharp branches that slapped and scratched her as she clawed her way up a steep embankment she couldn't see, toward a road she wasn't sure was there.
Leigh had a vague recollection of finally reaching the top of the ridge and curling her body into a ball on something flat and wet, but everything after that was a total blur. Everything, except a strange, blinding light and a man—an angry man who cursed at her.
 
Leigh was abruptly jolted into the present by an insistent male voice originating from the side of her hospital bed. "Miss Kendall? Miss Kendall, I'm sorry to wake you, but we've been waiting to talk to you."
Leigh opened her eyes and gazed blankly at a man and woman who were holding thick winter jackets over their arms. The man was in his early forties, short and heavyset, with black hair and a swarthy complexion. The woman was considerably younger, slightly taller, and very pretty, with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.
"I'm Detective Shrader with the New York City Police Department," the man said, "and this is Detective Littleton. We have some questions we need to ask you."
Leigh assumed they wanted to ask about her accident, but she felt too weak to describe it twice, once for them and again for Logan. "Could you wait until my husband gets back?"
"Gets back from where?" Detective Shrader asked.
"From wherever he is right now."
"Do you know where he is?"
"No, but the nurse went to get him."
Detectives Shrader and Littleton exchanged a glance. "Your nurse was instructed to come straight to us as soon as you were conscious," Shrader explained; then he said bluntly, "Miss Kendall, when did you last see your husband?"
An uneasy premonition filled Leigh with dread. "Yesterday, in the morning, before he left for the mountains. I planned to join him there right after my Sunday matinee performance, but I didn't get there," she added needlessly.
"Yesterday was Monday. This is Tuesday night," Shrader said carefully. "You've been here since six a.m. yesterday."
Fear made Leigh forget about her injured body. "Where is my husband?" she demanded, levering herself up on her elbows and gasping at the stabbing pain in her ribs. "Why isn't he here? What's wrong? What's happened?"
"Probably nothing," Detective Littleton said quickly. "In fact, he's probably worried sick, wondering where you are. The problem is, we haven't been able to contact him to tell him what happened to you."
"How long have you been trying?"
"Since early yesterday morning, when the New York State Highway Patrol requested our assistance," Shrader replied. "One of our police officers was dispatched immediately to your apartment on the Upper East Side, but no one was home."
He paused for a moment, as if to make certain she was following his explanation; then he continued, "The officer spoke with your doorman and learned that you have a housekeeper named Hilda Brunner, so he asked the doorman to notify him as soon as she arrived."
Leigh felt as if the room were starting to rock back and forth. "Has anyone spoken to Hilda yet?"
"Yes." From the pocket of his flannel shirt, Shrader removed a notepad and consulted his notes. "Your doorman saw Miss Brunner enter your building at two-twenty that afternoon. He notified Officer Perkins, who then returned to your building at two-forty p.m. and spoke with Miss Brunner. Unfortunately, Miss Brunner didn't know exactly where you and your husband had planned to spend Sunday evening. Officer Perkins then asked Miss Brunner to check the messages on your answering machine, which she did. Seventeen messages had accumulated on your answering machine between Sunday at one-fourteen p.m. and Monday at two-forty-five p.m., but none of them were from your husband."
He closed his notebook. "Until now, I'm afraid we haven't been able to do much more than that. However," he added quickly, "the mayor and Captain Holland both want you to know that the NYPD is going to assist you in every way we can. That's why we're here."
Leigh eased back "against the pillows, her mind falling over itself as she tried to grasp what seemed to be a terrifyingly bizarre situation. "You don't know my husband. If he thought I was missing, he wouldn't stop at calling our apartment. He'd call the state police, the governor, and every police department within a hundred fifty miles. He'd go out searching for me himself. Something has happened to him, something terrible enough to—"
"You're making too many assumptions," Detective Littleton interrupted firmly. "He might not have been able to use a telephone or go out looking for you. The blizzard knocked out telephone and electrical service in a one-hundred-mile radius, and in many areas, it still hasn't been restored. Almost a foot and a half of snow fell, and none of it is melting. Snowdrifts are eight feet high in places, and the plows have only been able to clear the main roads. The side roads and private roads up here are mostly impassable."
"The cabin doesn't have any electricity or phone service, but Logan would have had his cell phone with him," Leigh told her, growing more frantic with each moment. "He always has it with him, but he didn't try to call me, or warn me to stay home, even though he must have known I was driving into a bad storm. That isn't like him. He would have tried to call me! "
"He probably couldn't use his cell phone," Detective Littleton argued with a reassuring smile. "Mine doesn't work very well up here. You said the cabin doesn't have electricity, so even if your husband's cell phone was working, it's possible he decided to leave it on a charger in his vehicle, rather than take it inside. The blizzard came on very suddenly. If your husband was taking a nap, or doing something else, when it started snowing, it might have been too late to get to his car and his phone when he finally realized there was a problem. The snowdrifts are unbelievable."
"You could be right," Leigh said, clinging fiercely to the fairly plausible theory that Logan was safe but unable to use his phone or dig his Jeep out of the snow.
Shrader removed a pen from his pocket and opened his notebook again. "If you'll tell us where this cabin is, we'll go out there and look around."
Leigh gazed at both detectives in renewed alarm. "I don't know where it is. Logan drew a map so I could find it. It doesn't have an address."
"Okay, where is the map?"
"In my car."
"Where is your car?"
"At the bottom of a lake or a quarry, near wherever I was found. Wait—I can draw you another map," she added quickly, reaching for Detective Shrader's notebook.
Weakness and tension made Leigh's hand shake as she drew first one map and then another. "I think that second one is right," she said. "Logan wrote notes on the map he drew for me," she added as she turned to a fresh page and tried to write the same notes for the detectives.
"What sort of notes?"
"Landmarks to help me know I was getting close to the turnoffs."
When she was finished, Leigh handed the notebook to Shrader, but she spoke to Littleton. "I might have gotten the distances a little wrong. I mean, I'm not sure whether my husband's map said to go eight-tenths of a mile past an old filling station and then turn right, or whether it was six-tenths of a mile. You see, it was snowing," Leigh said as tears choked her voice, "and I couldn't—couldn't find some of the landmarks;"
"We'll find them, Miss Kendall," Shrader said automatically as he closed his notebook and shrugged into his jacket. "In the meantime, the mayor, the police commissioner, and our captain, all send you their regards."
Leigh turned her face away to hide the tears beginning to stream from her eyes. "Detective Shrader, I would appreciate it very much if you would call me Mrs. Manning. Kendall is my stage name."
 
Neither Shrader nor Littleton spoke until they were in the elevator and the doors had closed. "I'll bet Manning went out looking for her in that blizzard," Shrader said. "If he did, he's already a Popsicle."
Privately, Samantha Littleton thought there were several, less dire possible explanations for Logan Manning's absence, but it wasn't worth arguing about. Shrader had been in a foul mood for two days, ever since Holland pulled him off the homicide cases he was working, and sent Sam and him to Mountainside. She couldn't blame Shrader for feeling angry and insulted at being turned into what he regarded as "a celebrity babysitter." Shrader was a dedicated, tenacious, overworked homicide detective with an outstanding record for clearing his cases. She, on the other hand, was new to Homicide and, in fact, had only transferred to the Eighteenth Precinct two weeks before, when she'd been temporarily assigned to Shrader until his regular partner returned from sick leave. Sam understood and even shared Shrader's frustrated urgency about the cases piling up at the Eighteenth, but she prided herself on her ability to deal with frustrations without inflicting them on others. Masculine displays of irritability and outrage, like the ones Shrader had been indulging in for two days, struck her as being amusing, adolescent, or mildly annoying—and, occasionally, all three.
She'd chosen a career in a field dominated by macho men, many of whom still resented the encroachment of women into what had been their domain. But unlike some other women in law enforcement, Sam felt no compulsion to make her male colleagues accept her, and absolutely no desire to prove she could compete with them on their own level. She already knew she could.
She'd grown up with six rowdy older brothers, and she'd realized as a ten-year-old that when one of them shoved her, it was futile to try to shove him back harder. It was far easier, and far more satisfying, to simply step aside. And then stick out her foot.
As an adult, she'd converted that tactic to a mental one, and it was even easier to execute because most men were so disarmed by her pretty face and soft voice that they foolishly mistook her for a sweet, ornamental pushover. The fact that men underestimated her, particularly at first, didn't faze Sam in the least. It amused her and it gave her an edge.
Despite all that, she genuinely liked and respected most men. But she also understood them, and because she did, she was serenely unperturbed by their foibles and antics. There was little they could say to shock or anger her. She'd survived life with six older brothers. She'd already heard and seen it all.
"God dammit!" Shrader swore suddenly, slapping his hand on the elevator wall for emphasis.
Sam continued fastening her jacket. She did not ask him what was wrong. He was a man who'd just cursed and then hit an inanimate object. It followed that he would now feel compelled to explain the unexplainable. Which, of course, he did.
"We'll have to go back upstairs. I forgot to ask her for a description of her husband's vehicle."
"It's a white Jeep Cherokee, brand-new, registered to Manning Development," Sam told him, digging her gloves out of her pockets. "I called DMV a little while ago, just in case Mrs. Manning couldn't talk much when she finally came around."
"You called DMV on your cell phone?" Shrader mocked. "The phone that doesn't work up here in the mountains?"
"The very same one," Sam admitted with a smile as the elevator doors opened. "Mrs. Manning needed some sort of explanation for her husband's absence, and that was the most reassuring one I could think of at the moment."
The lobby of Good Samaritan Hospital was deserted except for two maintenance men who were polishing the terrazzo floor. Shrader raised his voice to be heard above the noisy machines. "If you're going to get all soft and gooey every time you talk to a victim's family, you won't last two months in Homicide, Littleton."
"I've made it two weeks already," she replied brightly.
"If you hadn't transferred to Homicide, I'd be back at the Eighteen, doing my job instead of sitting on my ass up here."
"Maybe, but if I hadn't transferred, I would never have had the chance to work with someone like you."
Shrader shot her a suspicious glance, searching for signs of sarcasm, but her smile was perfectly pleasant. "Logan Manning doesn't even qualify as a missing-person case. He's a misplaced person."
"And you think it's my fault that Captain Holland sent us up here?"
"You're damned right." He pushed his shoulder against the exit door, and the blast of arctic wind nearly blew both of them back a step. "The Mannings are VIPs. The mayor and Commissioner Trumanti are both personal friends of theirs, so Holland decided he'd better send someone 'with social polish' to deal with Mrs. Manning."
Sam treated that like a joke. "And he thinks I have it?"
"That's what he said."
"So, why did he send you along?"
"Just in case there was any actual work that needed to be done." Shrader waited for her to return his insult, and when she didn't, he began to feel like a bad-tempered jerk. To even out the score, he poked fun at himself. "And also because he thinks I have a great ass."
"Did he say that, too?"
"No, but I saw him checking me out."
Sam couldn't help laughing. Shrader knew his appearance was anything but attractive; in fact, it was downright daunting to strangers. Although he was only five feet six, he had massive shoulders that were disproportionately large for his short body and that complemented his thick neck, square head with wide jowls, and piercing deep-set brown-black eyes. When he scowled, he reminded Sam of an angry rottweiler. When he wasn't scowling, he still reminded Sam of a rottweiler. Privately, she'd nicknamed him "Shredder."
Back upstairs, on the third floor of the hospital, a young doctor was standing at the foot of Leigh's bed, reading her chart. He left quietly, closing the door behind him. The additional morphine he'd ordered was already seeping through Leigh's veins, dulling the physical ache that suffused her body. She sought refuge from the torment in her mind by thinking about the last night she'd spent with Logan, when everything had seemed so perfect and the future had seemed so bright. Saturday night. Her birthday. And the opening night of Jason Solomon's new play.
Logan had given a huge party afterward to celebrate both occasions…

CHAPTER 2


 
"Bravo! Bravo!" Six curtain calls and the applause was still at a deafening roar. The cast was lined up onstage, taking their bows one at a time, but when Leigh stepped forward, the cheers rose to a wild crescendo. The houselights were up, and Leigh could see Logan in the front row, on his feet, clapping and cheering with enthusiastic pride. She smiled at him, and he gave her a thumbs-up.
When the curtains closed, she walked to the wings where Jason was standing, his face beaming with triumph. "We're a smash hit, Jason!" she said, giving him a hug.
"Let's take another bow, just you and me this time," he said.
Jason would have taken curtain calls all night until the last theatergoer left his seat. "Nope," Leigh said with a grin. "We've both taken enough bows."
He tugged on her hand, a happy thirty-five-year-old child—brilliant, insecure, sensitive, selfish, loyal, temperamental, kind. "C'mon, Leigh," he cajoled. "Just one more little bow. We deserve it." The crowd began chanting, "Author! Author!" and his grin widened. "They really want to see me again."
He was in an ecstatic mood, and Leigh looked at him with a mixture of maternal understanding and awe. Jason Solomon could dazzle her at times with his intellect, hurt her with his insensitivity, and warm her with his gentleness. Those who didn't know him thought of him as a glamorous eccentric. Those who knew him better generally regarded Jason as a brilliant, irritating egocentric. To Leigh, who knew him, and loved him, he was a complete dichotomy.
"Listen to that applause," he said, tugging on her hand. "Let's go out there…"
Helpless to resist him in this mood, Leigh relented, but stepped back. "Go for it," she said. "I'll stay here."
Instead of releasing her hand, he tightened his grip and dragged her with him. She was off balance when they emerged from the wings, and her surprised resistance was plain to see. The moment of unplanned confusion struck the crowd as wonderful. It made the two biggest names on Broadway seem endearingly human, and the riotous applause was joined with shouts of laughter.
Jason would have tried to coax her into taking yet another bow after that one, but Leigh freed her hand this time and turned away, laughing. "Don't forget the old adage—" she reminded him over her shoulder, "Always leave them wanting more."
"That's a cliché," he retorted indignantly.
"But true, nonetheless."
He hesitated a moment, then followed her backstage, down a hallway crowded with elated cast and busy crew members, who were all trying to congratulate and thank each other. Jason and Leigh stopped several times to participate in the congratulatory hugging.
"I told you the twenty-eighth was always my lucky day."
"You were right," Leigh agreed. Jason insisted on opening all his plays on the twenty-eighth including Blind Spot, even though as a general rule, Broadway plays did not open on Saturdays.
"I feel like champagne," Jason announced as they finally neared Leigh's dressing room.
"So do I, but I need to change clothes and get this makeup off right away. We have a party to attend, and I'd like to get there before midnight."
A theater critic was congratulating the play's director, and Jason watched him closely for a moment. "No one will mind if we're late."
"Jason," Leigh reminded him with amused patience, "I'm the guest of honor. I should make an effort to get there before the party is over."
"I suppose so," he agreed, dragging his gaze from the critic. He followed her into her flower-filled dressing room, where the dresser was waiting to help Leigh out of the cheap cotton skirt and blouse she'd been wearing in the last act.
"Who are these from?" Jason asked, strolling over to a gigantic basket of huge white orchids. "They must have cost a fortune."
Leigh glanced at the immense bouquet. "I don't know."
"There's a card attached," Jason said, already reaching for the florist's envelope. "Shall I read it?"
"Could I stop you?" Leigh joked. Jason's nosiness was legendary. Behind the folding screen, Leigh stepped out of her clothes and into a robe; then she hurried over to her dressing table and sat down in front of the big lighted mirror.
With the open envelope in his hand, Jason caught her gaze in the mirror and gave her a sly smile. "You've evidently acquired a serious suitor with big bucks. Come clean, darling, who is he? You know you can trust me with your sordid secrets."
His last sentence made Leigh laugh. "You've never kept a secret in your life, sordid or otherwise," she told his reflection in the mirror.
"True, but tell me who he is, anyway."
"What does the card say?"
Instead of telling her, Jason handed it to her so she could read it herself. "LOVE ME," it said. Leigh's brief frown of confusion gave way to a smile as she put down the card and began removing her stage makeup. "It's from Logan," she told him.
"Why would your husband send you one thousand dollars' worth of orchids with a card asking you to love him?"
Before replying, Leigh finished spreading cream over her face and began wiping off her makeup with tissues. "When Logan told the florist what to write on the card, the florist obviously misunderstood and forgot to put a comma after the word 'love.' It should have read, 'Love comma Me.' "
A bottle of Dom Pérignon was chilling in a bucket, and Jason spotted it. "Why would Logan call himself 'me' instead of calling himself 'Logan'?" he asked as he lifted the bottle from its icy nest and began unpeeling the black foil from the bottle's neck.
"That's probably my fault," she admitted with a quick, rueful glance at him. "The Crescent Plaza project has been consuming Logan for months, and I asked him to relax a little. He's trying to be more playful and spontaneous for my sake."
Jason gaped at her in laughing derision. "Logan? Spontaneous and playful? You can't be serious." He poured champagne into two flutes and put one on the dressing table for her; then he settled himself onto the little sofa at her left, propped his legs on the coffee table, and crossed his feet at the ankles. "In case you haven't noticed, your husband thinks a five-star restaurant is just a badly lit conference room with forks. He thinks a briefcase is an indispensable fashion accessory, and he depreciates his golf clubs."
"Stop picking on Logan," she told him. "He's a brilliant businessman."
"He's a brilliant bore," Jason retorted, clearly enjoying the rare opportunity to joke about someone he actually admired and even envied. "If you wanted playfulness and spontaneity in a man, you should have had an affair with me instead of turning to this orchid guy for those traits."
She flashed him an amused, affectionate look and ignored his reference to the orchids. "You're gay, Jason."
"Well, yes," he agreed with a grin. "I suppose that could have been an impediment to our affair."
"How's Eric?" Leigh asked, deliberately changing the subject. Eric had been Jason's "significant other" for over six months—which almost set a longevity record where Jason was concerned. "I didn't see him out front tonight."
"He was there," Jason said indifferently. He shifted his foot from side to side, studying his shiny black tuxedo loafers. "Eric is becoming a bit of a bore, too, to tell you the truth."
"You are very easily bored," Leigh said with a knowing look.
"You're right."
"If you want my opinion—"
"Which, of course, I don't," Jason interrupted.
"And which, of course, I'm going to give anyway—If you want my opinion, maybe you should try to find someone who isn't so much like you that he seems predictable and boring. Try going with someone who depreciates his golf clubs for a change."
"Someone who is so gorgeous that I could overlook his boring traits? As a matter of fact, I do know someone like that!"
He was being so agreeable that Leigh shot him a suspicious look before she tossed a tissue into the wastebasket and began putting on her regular makeup. "You do?"
"Yes, indeed," Jason said with a wicked grin. "He has thick light brown hair streaked blond from the summer sun, beautiful eyes, and a great physique. He's a little too preppy-looking for my tastes, but he's thirty-five, and that's a good age for me. He's from an old aristocratic New York family that ran out of money long before he was born, so it was up to him to restore the family fortune, which he's managed to do single-handedly…"
Leigh finally realized he was describing Logan, and her shoulders began to shake with laughter. "You're a lunatic."
Jason's short attention span led him from romance to business without a pause between. "What a night!" he sighed, leaning his head back against the sofa. "I was right to change your lines in the last scene of the second act. Did you notice how strongly the audience reacted? One minute everyone was laughing; then they realized what you were actually going to do and they ended up crying. In the space of a few lines, they went from mirth to tears. Now that, my darling, is brilliant writing—and brilliant acting, of course." He paused for a sip of champagne and, after a moment of thoughtful silence, added, "After I see the matinee tomorrow, I may want to change a little of the dialogue between you and Jane in the third act. I haven't decided."
Leigh said nothing as she quickly applied the rest of her makeup, brushed her hair, and then disappeared behind the screen to change into the dress she'd brought to the theater. Outside the dressing room, the noise level had risen dramatically as actors, crew members, and people with enough influence to obtain backstage passes all began leaving the theater by the rear door, laughing and talking as they headed off to celebrate the night's triumph with friends and families. Ordinarily, Jason and she would be doing the same thing, but today was Leigh's thirty-fifth birthday, and Logan was determined that it not take second place to the play's opening night.
She emerged from behind the screen wearing a deceptively simple red silk sheath with tiny beaded straps at the shoulders, matching high heels, and a jeweled Judith Leiber evening bag that dangled from her fingers by a narrow chain.
"Red?" Jason said, grinning as he slowly stood up. "I've never seen you wear red before."
"Logan specifically asked me to wear something fed to the party tonight."
"Really, why?"
"Probably because he's being playful," Leigh said smugly; then uncertainty replaced her jaunty expression. "Do I look all right in this?"
Jason passed a slow, appraising glance over her gleaming, shoulder-length auburn hair, large aquamarine eyes, and high cheekbones; then he let it drop to her narrow waist, and down her long legs. She was pretty, but certainly not gorgeous, and not even beautiful, he observed. And yet in a roomful of women who were, Leigh Kendall would have drawn notice and attracted attention the moment she moved or spoke. In an attempt to define her powerful presence onstage, critics likened her to a young Katharine Hepburn or a young Ethel Barrymore, but Jason knew they were wrong. Onstage, she had Hepburn's incomparable glow and she had Barrymore's legendary depth, but she had something else, too, something infinitely more appealing and uniquely her own—a mesmerizing charisma that was as potent when she was standing in her dressing room, waiting for his opinion about her attire, as when she was onstage. She was the most even-tempered, cooperative actress he'd ever known; and yet there was a mystery about her, a barrier, that no one was allowed to cross. She took her work seriously, but she did not take herself seriously, and at times her humility and sense of humor made him feel like a towering, temperamental egotist.
"I'm starting to wish I had a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt on," she joked, reminding him that she was waiting for an opinion.
"Okay," he said, "here it is—the unvarnished truth: Although you aren't nearly as gorgeous as your husband, you are remarkably attractive for a woman."
"In the unlikely event that that was meant to be a big compliment," Leigh said, laughing as she opened the closet door and removed her coat, "thanks a lot."
Jason was truly stunned by her lack of perspective. "Of course it was a compliment, Leigh, but why would you care how you look right now? What matters is that an hour ago, you convinced four hundred people that you are actually a thirty-year-old blind woman who unknowingly holds the key to solving an unspeakable murder. You had every member of that audience squirming in his seat with terror!" Jason threw up his hands in bewildered disgust. "My God, why would a woman who can do all that give a damn how she looks in a cocktail dress?"
Leigh opened her mouth to reply; then she smiled and shook her head. "It's a girl thing," she said dryly, glancing at her watch.
"I see." He swept the dressing room door open and stepped aside in an exaggerated gesture of gallantry. "After you," he said; then he offered her his arm and she took it, but as they started down the back hall, he sobered. "When we get to the party, I'm going to ask Logan if he sent you those orchids."
"I'd rather you didn't worry yourself or Logan about that tonight," Leigh said, keeping her tone light. "Even if Logan didn't send them, it doesn't really matter. We've taken precautions—I have a chauffeur-bodyguard now. Matt and Meredith Farrell lent him to me for six months while they're away. He's like a member of their family when they're home in Chicago. I'm very well protected."
Despite Leigh's reassuring words, she couldn't completely suppress a tremor of anxiety about the orchids. Recently, she'd received some anonymous gifts, all of them expensive and several with blatant sexual overtones, like a black lace garter belt and bra from Neiman Marcus and a sheer, extremely seductive nightgown from Bergdorf Goodman. The small, white cards that accompanied the gifts bore short, cryptic messages like, "Wear this for me" and "I want to see you in this."
She'd received a phone call at home the day after the first gift was delivered to the theater. "Are you wearing your present, Leigh?" a man's soft, cajoling voice had asked on the answering machine.
Last week, Leigh had visited Saks, where she'd purchased a robe for Logan and a little enamel pin for herself, which she'd tucked into her coat pocket. She had been about to step off the curb at Fifth and Fifty-first Street with a crowd of other pedestrians when a man's hand reached forward from behind her, holding a small Saks bag. "You dropped this," he said politely. Startled, Leigh automatically took the bag and dropped it into the larger one containing Logan's robe, but when she looked around to thank him, either he'd retreated farther back into the crowd of pedestrians or he was the man she saw walking swiftly down the street, his overcoat turned up to his ears, head bent against the wind.
When she got home with her purchases, Leigh realized her own small bag from Saks was still in her coat pocket, where she'd originally put it. The bag the man had handed her on the street contained a narrow silver band, like a wedding ring. The card said "You're mine."
Despite all that, she was certain the orchids in her dressing room were from Logan. He knew they were her favorite flower.
 
In the alley behind the theater, Leigh's new chauffeur-bodyguard was standing beside the open door of a limousine. "The show was a big hit, Mrs. Manning, and you were terrific!"
"Thank you, Joe."
Jason settled into the luxurious automobile and nodded with satisfaction. "Everyone should have his very own bodyguard-chauffeur."
"You may not think so a moment from now," Leigh warned him with a rueful smile as the chauffeur slid behind the steering wheel and put the car into gear. "He drives like a—" The car suddenly rocketed forward, throwing them back against their seats and barging into heavy oncoming traffic.
"Maniac!" Jason swore, grabbing for the armrest with one hand and Leigh's wrist with the other.

CHAPTER 3


 
Leigh and Logan's apartment occupied the entire twenty-fourth floor. It had a private elevator lobby that functioned as an exterior "foyer" for their apartment, and Leigh inserted her key into the elevator lock so that the doors would open on her floor. As soon as the elevator opened, the sounds of a large party in full swing greeted them from beyond her apartment's front door. "Sounds like a good party," Jason remarked, helping her out of her coat and handing it to Leigh's housekeeper, who materialized in the outer foyer to take their coats. "Happy birthday, Mrs. Manning," Hilda said.
"Thank you, Hilda."
Together, Jason and Leigh stepped into the apartment onto a raised marble foyer that offered a clear view of rooms overflowing with animated, elegantly dressed, beautiful people who were laughing, drinking, and nibbling canapés from trays being passed around by a battalion of waiters in dinner jackets. Jason instantly spotted people he knew and headed down the steps, but Leigh remained where she was, struck suddenly by the beauty of the setting, its portrayal of the success and prosperity that Logan and she had achieved together in their individual careers. Someone spotted her then and started a loud chorus of "Happy Birthday to You!"
Logan arrived at her side with a drink that he placed in her hand and a kiss that he placed on her mouth. "You were fantastic tonight. Happy birthday, darling," he said. While their guests watched, he reached into his tuxedo jacket pocket and produced a Tiffany box tied with silk ribbon. "Go ahead and open it," he prodded.
Leigh looked at him uncertainly. "Now?" Normally Logan preferred privacy for sentimental moments, but he was in a boyishly carefree mood tonight.
"Now," he agreed, his eyes smiling into hers. "Absolutely, now."
It was either a ring or earrings, Leigh guessed, judging from the size and shape of the cream leather box that slid out of the robin's egg blue outer box. Inside was a spectacular ruby-and-diamond pendant in the shape of a heart. Now she understood why he'd wanted her to wear something red. "It's magnificent," she said, incredibly touched that he had spent so much money on her. No matter how much money Logan made, he felt almost guilty about spending it on anything that wasn't likely to become a profit-making asset or at least a tax deduction.
"I'll help you fasten the chain," he said, lifting the glittering pendant from its case. "Turn around." When he finished, he turned her back around so that their guests could see the magnificent pendant, lying just below her throat. The gift earned a round of applause and cries of approval.
"Thank you," Leigh said softly, her eyes shining.
He looped his arm around her shoulders and laughingly said, "I'll expect a more appropriate thank-you later, when we're alone. That bauble cost two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
Stunned and amused, Leigh whispered back, "I'm not sure I know how to express a quarter of a million dollars' worth of gratitude."
"It won't be easy, but I'll make some helpful suggestions and recommendations, later tonight."
"I'd appreciate that," she teased, watching his gaze turn warm and sexy.
He sighed and put his hand under her elbow, guiding her down the marble steps to the living room. "Unfortunately, before we can take care of that very important matter, we have a few hours of obligatory socializing to perform." On the bottom step, he paused and looked around. "There's someone here I want you to meet."
As they wended their way slowly through the noisy, crowded rooms, greeting their guests, Leigh was struck anew by the almost comic contrast between Logan's friends and business acquaintances and her own. Most of Logan's friends were members of New York's oldest and most influential families; they were bankers and philanthropists, judges and senators, all of them with "old" money. Quiet money. They were expensively but conservatively attired and impeccably behaved, with wives who matched them perfectly.
In comparison to them, Leigh's friends seemed absolutely flamboyant; they were artists, actors, musicians, and writers—people who equated "fitting in" with being overlooked, and that was anathema to them. The two groups didn't avoid each other, but neither did they mingle. While Leigh's friend Theta Berenson expounded on the merits of a new art exhibit to her group, the huge yellow feathers on her hat continually brushed against the ear of the investment banker behind her. The banker, who was a friend of Logan's, irritably brushed the feathers aside while he continued discussing a new strategy for portfolio reallocations with Sheila Winters, a highly respected therapist. Leigh and Logan had met with Sheila a few times to smooth out conflicts in their relationship a couple of years earlier; in the intervening time she had become a dear friend. When she looked over for a moment and saw Leigh, she blew a kiss and waved.
Although Logan and Leigh stopped frequently to chat with their guests, Logan didn't allow his wife to linger long. He was searching for whoever it was that he wanted her to meet. "There he is, over there," Logan said finally, and immediately began guiding Leigh toward a tall, dark-haired man who was standing completely by himself at the far end of the living room, looking at an oil painting that was hanging on the wall. His bored expression and aloof stance made it very obvious he wasn't interested in the artwork, or in the party, for that matter.
Leigh recognized him at once, but his presence in her home was so unlikely that she couldn't believe her eyes. She stopped short, staring at Logan in horrified disbelief. "That can't be who I think it is!"
"Who do you think it is? "
"I think it's Michael Valente."
"You're right." He urged her forward, but Leigh was rooted to the floor, staring at Valente, aghast. "He wants to meet you, Leigh. He's a big fan of yours."
"Who let him in here?"
"I invited him," Logan explained patiently. "I haven't mentioned him to you before, because the deal isn't finalized, but Valente is considering putting up all the venture capital for the entire Crescent Plaza project. I've had several meetings with him. He has a genius for putting together highly lucrative business deals."
"And for avoiding prosecution afterward," Leigh retorted darkly. "Logan, he's a criminal!"
"He's only been convicted of wrongdoing once," Logan said, chuckling at her indignant reaction. "Now he's a respectable billionaire with an incredible track record for turning risky commercial projects, like Crescent Plaza, into wildly successful ones that make a fortune for everyone."
"He's a felon!"
"That was a long time ago, and it was probably a bum rap."
"No it wasn't! I read that he pleaded guilty."
Instead of being annoyed, Logan gazed at her mutinous expression with amused admiration. "How have you done it?"
"Done what?"
"Maintained the same rigid, wonderful values you had when we first met?"
" 'Rigid' doesn't sound like a good thing to me."
"On you," he said softly, " 'rigid' is a wonderful thing."
Leigh scarcely heard that as she looked around the room. She spotted Judge Maxwell and Senator Hollenbeck, who were standing against the wall behind the buffet—as far as they could physically get from where Valente was standing. "Logan, there isn't a man in this house with a reputation to safeguard who is anywhere near Michael Valente. They've gotten as far away from him as they can."
"Maxwell is no saint, and Hollenbeck's closets have barely enough room for all his skeletons," Logan said emphatically, but as he looked around, he reached the same conclusion that Leigh had reached. "It probably wasn't wise to invite Valente."
"What made you do it?"
"It was an impulse. I phoned him this afternoon to discuss some contractual details for Crescent Plaza, and I mentioned that your play was opening tonight and we were having a party afterward. He mentioned the play, and he said he was a big fan of yours. I knew there wasn't a seat to be had in the theater tonight, so I compromised and invited him to the party instead. I had so many things going on I didn't stop to consider that his being here might be awkward, particularly for Sanders and Murray. Will you do me a favor, darling?"
"Yes, of course," Leigh replied, relieved that Logan was at least acknowledging the problem.
"I've already spoken with Valente tonight. If you don't mind introducing yourself to him, I'll go over and soothe Sanders's and Murray's offended sensibilities. Valente drinks Glenlivet—no ice, no water. See that he gets a fresh drink, and play hostess for a few minutes. That's all you have to do."
"And then what? Leave him there by himself? Who can I possibly introduce him to?"
Logan's dry sense of humor made his eyes gleam as he glanced around the room, looking for possible candidates. "That's easy. Introduce your friend Claire Straight to him; she'll tell anyone who'll listen about her divorce. Jason and Eric already look ready to strangle her." At that moment, Claire, Jason, and Eric all looked up, and Logan and Leigh waved to them. "Claire—" Logan called, "don't forget to tell Jason and Eric all about your lawyer and how he sold you out. Ask them if you should sue him for malpractice."
"You are an evil man," Leigh said with a giggle.
"That's why you love me," Logan replied. "It's too bad that Valente isn't gay," he joked. "If he was, you could fix him up with Jason. That way, Jason would end up with a lover and a permanent backer for all his plays. Of course, that would make Eric jealous and even more suicidal than usual, so that's probably not a good idea." He resumed his thoughtful surveillance of their guests until Theta's yellow-feathered hat captured his notice. "I suppose we could introduce him to Theta. She's ugly as sin, but Valente has a fabulous art collection, and she's an artist—allegedly."
"Her last canvas just sold for one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. There's nothing 'alleged' about that."
"Leigh, she painted that thing with her elbows and a floor mop."
"She did not."
Logan was laughing in earnest, and he covered it by lifting his glass to his mouth. "Yes, she did, darling. She told me so." Suddenly his delighted gaze shifted to an attractive blonde standing with the same group. "The Valente problem is solved. Let's introduce him to your friend Sybil Haywood. She can tell his fortune—"
"Sybil is an astrologer, not a fortune-teller," Leigh put in firmly.
"What's the difference?"
"That depends on whom you ask," Leigh said, feeling a little put out with Logan's blanket joking dismissal of her friends, and Sybil in particular. Leigh paused to nod and smile graciously at two couples nearby; then she added, "Sybil has many famous clients, including Nancy Reagan. Regardless of whether you believe in astrology, Sybil is as committed to her field and her clients as you are to yours."
Logan was instantly contrite. "I'm sure she is. And thank you for not pointing out that my friends and I are as boring as dust, and our conversations are predictable and tedious. Now, do you think Sybil would take Valente off our hands as a favor and spend a little time with him tonight?"
"She will if I ask her to," Leigh said, already deciding that the plan was a viable one.
Satisfied that a compromise had been worked out, Logan gave her shoulders a light hug. "Don't stay away from me too long. This is your big night, but I'd like to be as much a part of it as I can."
It was such an openly sentimental thing to say that Leigh instantly forgave him for joking about her friends and even for inviting Valente. As Logan brushed a kiss on her cheek and left, Leigh glanced in Valente's direction and discovered he was no longer looking at the painting. He had turned and had been staring directly at them. She wondered uneasily how much of their debate he had witnessed and if he'd guessed that he was the cause of it. It wouldn't have taken much imagination on his part, Leigh decided. She suspected that whenever Valente managed to intrude on respectable social gatherings, most hostesses probably reacted with the same resentment and reluctance that Leigh felt right now.

CHAPTER 4


 
Hastily smoothing the expression of distaste from her face, Leigh moved sideways through the crush of guests until she reached Sybil Haywood's group. "Sybil, I need a favor," she said, drawing the astrologer aside. "I have an awkward social problem—"
"You certainly do," Sybil agreed with a knowing grin. "Virgos can be very difficult to deal with, especially when Pluto and Mars are—"
"No, no. It's not an astrological problem. I need someone I can trust who can deal with a particular man—"
"Who happens to be a Virgo—" Sybil stated positively.
Leigh adored Sybil, but at the moment, the astrologer's fixation on astrology was driving her crazy. "Sybil, please. I have no idea what his astrological sign is. If you'll take him off my hands and chat with him for a few minutes, you can ask him your—"
"Valente is a Virgo," Sybil interjected patiently.
Leigh blinked at her. "How did you know?"
"I know, because when the Senate was investigating him last September Valente was asked to give his full name and date of birth. The Times reported on his testimony, and the reporter noted that Valente was actually testifying on his forty-third birthday. That told me he was a Virgo."
"No, I mean how did you know that Valente is my 'awkward social problem'?"
"Oh, that," Sybil said with a laugh as she passed a slow, meaningful glance over all the other guests within view. "He does stand out in this crowd of politicians, bankers, and business leaders. There's not another criminal in the entire place for him to socialize with—Actually there are probably a lot of criminals here, but they haven't been caught and sent to prison like he was."
"You could be right," Leigh said absently. "I'm going to introduce myself to him. Would you get him a drink and bring it over in a couple of minutes so I can escape gracefully?"
Sybil grinned. "You want me to socialize with a tall, antisocial, semihandsome man who happens to have a murky past, a questionable present, and fifteen billion dollars in assets, probably all from ill-gotten gains? Is that it?"
"Pretty much," Leigh admitted ruefully.
"What shall I bring him to drink? Blood?"
"Glenlivet," Leigh said, giving her a quick hug. "No ice, no water, no blood."
She watched Sybil begin working her way toward one of the bars, and with reluctant resignation, Leigh pasted a smile on her face and wended her way toward Valente. He studied her with detached curiosity as she approached, his expression so uninviting that Leigh doubted he was actually "a fan" of hers or even that he particularly wanted to meet her. By the time she was close enough to hold out her hand to him, she'd noted that he was at least six feet three inches tall with extremely wide, muscular shoulders, thick, black hair, and hard, piercing amber eyes.
Leigh held out her hand. "Mr. Valente?"
"Yes."
"I'm Leigh Manning."
He smiled a little at that—a strange, speculative smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. With his gaze locked onto hers, he took her hand in a clasp that was a little too tight and lasted a little too long. "How do you do, Mrs. Manning—" he said in a rich baritone voice that was more cultured than Leigh had expected it to be.
Leigh exerted enough pressure to indicate she wanted her hand released and he let it go, but his unnerving gaze remained locked on hers as he said, "I enjoyed your performance very much tonight."
"I'm surprised you were there," Leigh said without thinking. Based on what she knew of him, he didn't seem the type to enjoy a sensitive theatrical drama with a lot of subtleties.
"Perhaps you thought I'd be knocking off a liquor store, instead?"
That was close enough to the truth to make Leigh feel exposed, and she didn't like it. "I meant that opening night tickets were virtually impossible to get."
His smile suddenly reached his eyes, warming them a little. "That's not what you meant, but it's charming of you to say so."
Leigh clutched at the first topic of common interest that came to mind. With an overbright smile, she said, "I understand you're thinking of going into some sort of business venture with my husband."
"You don't approve, of course," he said dryly.
Leigh felt as if she were being maneuvered into a series of uncomfortable corners. "Why would you think that?"
"I was watching you a few minutes ago when Logan told you I was here, and why I'm here."
Despite the man's unsavory background, he was a guest in her home, and Leigh was a little mortified that she'd let her negative feelings about him show so openly. Relying on the old adage that the best defense is a good offense, she said very firmly and politely, "You're a guest in my home, and I'm an actress, Mr. Valente. If I had any negative feelings about any guest, including you, you would never know it because I would never let them show."
"That's very reassuring," he said mildly.
"Yes, you were completely mistaken," Leigh added, pleased with her strategy.
"Does that mean you don't disapprove of my business involvement with your husband?"
"I didn't say that."
To her shock, he smiled at her evasive reply, a slow, strangely seductive, secretive smile that made his eyes gleam beneath their heavy lids. Others might not have noticed the nuances of it, but Leigh's career was based on subtleties of expression, and she instantly sensed peril lurking behind that come-hither smile of his. It was the dangerously beguiling smile of a ruthless predator, a predator who wanted her to sense his power, his defiance of the social order, and to be seduced by what he represented. Instead, Leigh was repelled. She jerked her gaze from his, and gestured to the painting on the wall, a painting that Logan wouldn't have let hang even in a closet under ordinary circumstances. "I noticed that you were admiring this painting earlier."
"Actually, I was admiring the frame, not the painting."
"It's early seventeenth century. It used to hang in Logan's grandfather's study."
"You can't be referring to that painting," he said scornfully.
"I was referring to the frame. The painting," she advised him with a twinge of amused vengeance, "was actually done by my husband's grandmother."
His gaze shifted sideways, from the painting to her face. "You could have spared me that knowledge."
He was right, but Sybil's arrival saved Leigh from having to reply. "Here's someone I'd like you to meet," she said a little too eagerly, and introduced the couple. "Sybil is a famous astrologer," Leigh added, and immediately resented his look of derision.
Undaunted by his reaction, Sybil smiled and held out her right hand, but he couldn't shake it because she was holding a drink in it. "I've been looking forward to meeting you," she said.
"Really, why?"
"I'm not sure yet," Sybil replied, extending her hand farther toward him. "This drink is for you. Scotch. No ice. No water. It's what you drink."
Eyeing her with cynical suspicion, he reluctantly took the drink. "Am I supposed to believe you know what I drink because you're an astrologer?"
"Would you believe that if I said it was true?"
"No."
"In that case, the truth is that I know what you drink because our hostess told me what you drink and asked me to get this for you."
His gaze lost some of its chill as it transferred to Leigh. "That was very thoughtful of you."
"Not at all," Leigh said, glancing over her shoulder, wishing she could leave. Sybil gave her the excuse she needed. "Logan asked me to tell you he needs you to settle some sort of debate about the play tonight."
"In that case, I'd better go and see about it." She smiled at Sybil, avoided shaking Valente's hand, and gave him a polite nod instead. "I'm glad to have met you," she lied. As she walked away, she heard Sybil say, "Let's find somewhere to sit down, Mr. Valente. You .can tell me all about yourself. Or, if you prefer, I can tell you all about yourself."
 
It was after 4 a.m. when the last guest departed. Leigh turned out the lights, and they walked across the darkened living room together, Logan's arm around her waist. "How does it feel to be called 'the most gifted, multitalented actress to grace a Broadway stage in the last fifty years'?" he asked softly.
"Wonderful." Leigh had been running on excitement until they walked into their bedroom, but at the sight of the big four-poster bed with its fluffy duvet, her body seemed to lose all its strength. She started yawning before she made it into her dressing room, and she was in bed before Logan was out of the shower.

She felt the mattress shift slightly as he got into bed, and all she managed to muster was a smile when he kissed her cheek and jokingly whispered, "Is this how you thank a man for a fabulous ruby-and-diamond pendant?"
Leigh snuggled closer and smiled, already half asleep. "Yes," she whispered.
He chuckled. "I guess I'll have to wait until tonight in the mountains for you to properly express your gratitude."
It seemed like only five minutes later when Leigh awoke to find Logan already dressed and eager to leave for the mountains.
That had been Sunday morning.
This was Tuesday night.
Logan was lost somewhere out in the snow… probably waiting for Leigh to do something to rescue him.

CHAPTER 5

 
By ten-thirty Wednesday morning, Leigh's anxiety was almost beyond bearing. Detective Littleton had phoned three hours earlier to say that although the map Leigh had drawn hadn't been of much help the night before, she and Detective Shrader were already on the road again, following it through the mountains. She promised to call again as soon as they had anything to report.
All other incoming telephone calls were obviously being held by the hospital switchboard, because sometime during the night, someone had put a pile of phone messages on her nightstand. With nothing else to do to occupy her time, Leigh reread the phone messages that she'd only scanned earlier.
Jason had phoned six times; his next-to-last message had been frantic and curt: "The hospital switchboard is holding your damned calls, and you can't have visitors. Tell your doctors to let me up to see you and I can be there in three hours. Call me, Leigh. Call me first. Call me. Call me." He'd evidently called again, immediately after he'd hung up, because the time on the next message was only two minutes later. This time he wanted to reassure her about the play: "Jane is holding her own in your role, but she's not you. Try not to worry too much about the play." Leigh hadn't given a thought to the play or to her understudy, and her only reaction to Jason's message was a sense of amazement that he could imagine she'd care what happened to the damned play right now.
In addition to Jason's messages, there were dozens of telegrams and phone calls from business and personal acquaintances of Logan's and hers. Hilda had called, but the housekeeper had left no message except "Get well." Leigh's publicist and her secretary had both called, asking for instructions as soon as Leigh felt up to calling them.
Leigh continued leafing through the messages, finding a little bit of comfort in everyone's genuine concern—until she came to the message from Michael Valente. It read, "My thoughts are with you. Call me at this number if I can be of help in any way." His message instantly struck her as being too personal, very presumptuous, and completely inappropriate, but she realized her reaction was based more on her negative reaction to the man himself, than on what he'd said.
Unable to endure inactivity any longer, Leigh put the messages down, shoved the table with her untouched breakfast tray aside, and reached for the telephone. The hospital switchboard operator seemed startled and awed when she identified herself. "I'm sorry if you've been overloaded with phone calls," Leigh began.
"We don't mind, Mrs. Manning. That's what we're here for."
"Thank you. The reason I was calling," Leigh explained, "is that I wanted to be certain you aren't holding any calls that might come from the police department or from my husband."
"No, no, of course not. We would let the police through at once, and we all know your husband is missing. We'd never hold his call. Your doctor and the two police detectives from New York City gave us complete instructions about handling your calls. We're to put through any caller who says they have any information whatsoever about your husband, but we're to take messages from all other callers, except reporters. Calls from reporters are to be transferred to our administrator's office, so he can handle them."
"Thank you," Leigh said, weak with disappointment. "I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble."
"I've been praying for you and your husband," the operator said.
The sincerity and simplicity of that almost made Leigh cry. "Don't stop," she said, her voice strangled with fear and gratitude.
"I won't, I promise."
"I need to make some long distance calls," Leigh said shakily. "How can I do it from this phone?"
"Do you have a telephone credit card?"
Leigh's credit cards, wallet, and electronic phone book had all been in her purse in her car, but she knew her telephone credit card number by heart because she used it often. "Yes, I have one."
"Then all you have to do is dial nine for an outside line and use your card in the usual way." Despite what the detectives had said, Leigh tried" to call Logan on his cell phone. When he didn't answer, she called Hilda to see if she'd heard anything, but the worried housekeeper could only repeat what she'd told the detectives.
Leigh was in the process of calling Jason when a hospital staff nurse bustled into her room and interrupted her. "How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Manning?"
"Fine," Leigh lied as the nurse checked the tubes and containers attached to Leigh's body.
"Haven't you been using your morphine drip?" she asked, her expression puzzled and accusing.
"I don't need it. I feel fine." In truth, every inch of her body, from her toes to her hair, either ached or throbbed, and the nurse undoubtedly knew that. She stared at Leigh in frowning disbelief until Leigh finally relented and added, "I don't want the morphine because I need to be alert and sensible this morning."
"You need to be free of pain and resting comfortably so that your body can heal," the nurse argued.
"I'll use it later," Leigh promised.
"You also need to eat," she commanded, pushing the table with Leigh's breakfast tray up close to the bed.
As soon as she left, Leigh moved the breakfast tray out of the way and reached for the telephone. She woke Jason up.
"Leigh?" he mumbled sleepily. "Leigh! Jesus Christ!" he sputtered coming awake. "What the hell is going on? How are you? Have you heard from Logan? Is he all right?"
"There's been no word from Logan," Leigh said. "I'm okay. A little sore and banged up, that's all." She could feel Jason's conscience warring with his self-interest as he fought against his urge to demand to know when she could return to the play. "I need a favor," she said.
"Anything."
"I may want to hire my own people to help search for Logan. Who should I call to arrange it? Private detectives? Do you know anyone like that?"
"Darling, I can't believe you have the slightest doubt. How do you think I caught Jeremy cheating on me? How do you think I avoided paying off that charlatan who claimed—"
"Could you give me the name of the firm and the phone number?" Leigh interrupted.
By the time Leigh got a pen out of the drawer beside her bed and wrote down the phone number on the back of a telegram, she was hurting so badly she could scarcely think. She hung up and lay back against the pillows, concentrating on breathing without intensifying the pain in her ribs. She was still doing that when the nurse who'd been in the last time returned to her bedside and saw the untouched breakfast tray. "You really must eat, Mrs. Manning. You haven't eaten anything in days."
Leigh's private duty nurse had been much easier to ignore, but she'd gone home to sleep and wasn't due to return until evening. "I will, but not now—"
"I insist," the nurse countered as she moved the portable table over Leigh's lap. She whisked the plastic covers off the dishes. "What would you like first?" she inquired pleasantly. "The applesauce, the wheat germ with skim milk, or the poached egg?"
"I don't think I could swallow any of those things."
Frowning, the nurse glanced at the little list beside the tray. "This is what you ordered last night."
"I must have been delirious."
Evidently the nurse agreed, but she would not be deterred from achieving her goal. "I can send someone down to the cafeteria. What do you normally like to eat for breakfast?"
The simple question filled Leigh with such longing for her old life, her safe, lovely routine, that she felt the sting of tears. "I usually have fruit. A pear—and coffee."
"I can handle that," the nurse said cheerfully, "and I won't have to send someone down to the cafeteria, either."
She'd barely left the room when Detectives Shrader and Littleton walked into it. Leigh shoved herself upright. "Did you find the cabin?"
"No, ma'am. I'm sorry. We have no news to report, just some more questions to ask you." He nodded toward the breakfast tray. "If you were about to eat, go ahead. We can wait."
"The nurse is getting me something else," Leigh said.
As if on cue, the nurse arrived, pushing a cart that bore a gigantic basket of pears nestled in gold satin and entwined with gold ribbon. "This basket was out at the nurses' station. A volunteer brought it up and said it was for you. These aren't just pears, they're works of art!" she enthused, removing a huge, glossy pear from its golden nest and holding it up to admire. She peered at the basket from all sides. "There doesn't seem to be a card. It must have fallen off. I'll look around for it," she said as she gave the pear to Leigh. "I'll leave you alone with your visitors now."
The pear in her hand reminded Leigh of her last conversation about breakfast with Logan, and her eyes filled with sentimental tears. She cupped it in her hands, brushing her fingertips over its smooth skin while she thought of Logan's skin, his smile; then she held it to her heart, where all her other memories of Logan were stored, safe and alive. Two tears slipped between her lashes.
"Mrs. Manning?"
Embarrassed, Leigh brushed the tears away. "I'm sorry—It's just that my husband always teases me about being addicted to pears. I've had one for breakfast almost every day for years."
"I imagine a lot of people know about that?" Detective Littleton asked casually.
"It's not a secret," Leigh said, laying the pear aside. "He's joked about it from time to time in front of people. These pears were probably sent by my housekeeper, or my secretary, or even more likely, by the market that gets them for me when I'm home." She nodded toward two brown vinyl chairs. "Please—sit down."
Littleton pulled the chairs over to Leigh's bed while Shrader explained the situation. "Your map wasn't as helpful as we'd hoped it would be. The directions were a little contradictory, the landmarks missing or obscured by snowbanks. We're checking with all the realtors in the area, but so far, none of them know anything about the house and property you've described."
A thought suddenly occurred to Leigh—a solution so obvious that she was dumbfounded they hadn't thought of it themselves. "I know I was close to the cabin when I had the accident. Whoever found me on the road will know exactly where that was! Have you spoken to him?"
"No, we haven't spoken to him yet—" Shrader admitted.
"Why not?" Leigh burst out. "Why are you wandering all over the mountains, trying to follow my map, when all you have to do is talk to whoever rescued me?"
"We can't talk to him, because we don't know who he is."
Leigh's head was beginning to pound with angry frustration. "He can't be very hard to locate. Please ask the ambulance drivers who brought me here. They must have seen him and talked to him."
"Try to be calm," Shrader said. "I understand why you're upset. Just let me bring you up to date on the situation with your rescuer."
Sensing that the situation was more complex than she'd thought a few moments before, Leigh tried to do as he asked. "All right, I'm calm. Please bring me up to date."
"The man who found you Sunday night brought you down the mountain to a little motel on the outskirts of Hapsburg called the Venture Inn. He woke up the motel's night manager and told him to call nine-one-one. Then he convinced the manager that you'd be better off in a room with a heater and blankets until help arrived. After the two men carried you into a room, your rescuer told the manager that he was going back to his vehicle for your belongings. He never returned. When the night manager went looking for him a few minutes later, his vehicle was gone."
Leigh's anger drained out of her body, leaving her limp and despondent. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the pillows. "That's crazy. Why would anyone do something like that?"
"There are several possible explanations. The most likely one is that he was the same guy who ran you off the road. Afterward, he felt guilty, so he went back to see if he could find you. Once he found you, he started worrying about being blamed for the accident, so he made sure you were in good hands at the motel, then split before the police and ambulance arrived. Whether he was actually the guy who ran you off the road or not, he definitely had some reason for not wanting to talk to the police.
"The motel manager told us the guy was driving a black or dark brown four-door sedan—a Lincoln, he thought—an old one, and pretty battered up. The manager is in his seventies, and he didn't notice much else, because he had his hands full trying to help get you out of the vehicle. His recollection of the driver is a little better, and he's agreed to work with one of our sketch artists in the city tomorrow. Hopefully, they'll come up with a decent likeness that we can use if your husband still hasn't turned up."
"I see," Leigh whispered, turning her face away. But all she could really see was Logan's happy expression as he kissed her good-bye Sunday morning. He was out there somewhere—hurt or snowbound, or both. Those were the only alternatives Leigh was willing to consider. The possibility that Logan might already be beyond help or rescue was too shattering to contemplate.
Detective Littleton spoke for the first time, her tone hesitant. "There's one more thing we wanted to ask you about—" Leigh blinked back the tears burning her eyes and forced herself to look at the brunette. "This morning, Officer Borowski came back on duty after his regular days off, and he notified us that you reported a stalker in September. It was Officer Borowski who took down the information, and he thought we ought to know. Has the problem continued?"
Leigh's heart began to thud in deep, terrified beats that resounded up and down her body, and fear made her voice shake so badly it was nearly inaudible. "Are you thinking that a stalker ran me off the road, or that he might have done something to my husband?"
"No, no, not at all," Detective Littleton said with a warm and reassuring smile. "We're only trying to be helpful. The main roads are clear now, and the side roads are being cleared. Phone and electric service has been reinstated except in a very few isolated areas where they're still working on the lines. Your husband is bound to turn up any minute now. We thought you might like us to see what we can find out about the identity of your stalker while we're still working with you. If you don't want us to—"
"I'd appreciate it if you would," Leigh said, clinging to Detective Littleton's explanation because she wanted to believe it.
"What can you tell us about your stalker?"
Leigh described the events that had worried her.
"You said he sent you orchids," Littleton said when Leigh finished. "Have you looked at any of the cards on these flowers?"
"No."
Littleton stood up and went to the white orchids first. "They're from Stephen Rosenberg," she said, reading the card.
"He's one of the backers of the play," Leigh told her.
One by one, Littleton began reading Leigh the messages and names on the other cards. When she was halfway through, she nodded toward the stacks of phone messages and telegrams on Leigh's nightstand. "Have you looked those over carefully?"
"Most of them," Leigh said.
"Would it be all right if Detective Shrader goes through them while I'm doing this?"
It was fine with Leigh, but Shrader didn't look very enthusiastic as he began going through the stack. When the name on the last bouquet was also one Leigh recognized, Littleton picked up her jacket and Shrader stood up, too, trying to finish his own task on his feet. He was reading one of the last messages when his entire attitude underwent a sudden, unpleasant transformation. He stared at Leigh, studying her as if seeing her in an entirely new, and unflattering, light. "So, I guess Michael Valente is a good pal of yours?"
The expression on his face, and even on Littleton's, made Leigh feel soiled by association.
"No, he is not," Leigh stated emphatically. "I met him for the first time at a party celebrating the play's opening Saturday night." She didn't want to say more, didn't want to mention that the party had been at her home, and she especially didn't want them to know that Logan had been discussing a business deal with Valente. She didn't want to say anything to make these detectives think Logan was anything but a thoroughly upright businessman and loving husband who was missing. Which he was.
Both detectives seemed to accept her explanation. "I imagine you attract a lot of creeps and kooks when you're a big star," Shrader said.
"It goes with the job," Leigh said, trying to joke and failing miserably.
"We'll let you get some rest now," he said. "You have our cell phone numbers if you need to reach us. We're going to try following your map again. Normally, it's easy to locate the site of an accident like yours, but there's so much snow piled up along the sides of the road that it's difficult to spot the indications we're looking for."
"Call me if you find out anything—anything at all," Leigh pleaded.
"We will," Shrader promised. He held his temper in check while Littleton stopped at the nurses' station and asked about the card that was missing from the basket of pears. He held his temper while the nurse looked for it and couldn't find it, but when he reached the bank of elevators, he unleashed it on Sam. "What you did in there was completely senseless! You scared the shit out of her with that stalker crap. She didn't buy your reasons for asking. She knew exactly what you were thinking."
"She's not stupid. Pretty soon she'd have remembered him, and then she'd have been terrified that he could be responsible for what's happened," Sam retorted. "It's better that she knows we've already thought of it and are following up."
"Following up what?" he scoffed. "Her stalker is still in the romantic, gift-giving stage, which is probably where he'll stay until someone else catches his eye. Secondly, stalkers aren't spontaneous—they fantasize about the moment they'll come out in the open. They plan and they fantasize, and they don't like deviating. They don't decide to make their move in the middle of an unexpected, unpredictable blizzard, unless they could plan for that, too—which is not possible."
The arrival of the elevator distracted him, and when Sam saw that it was empty, she tried to explain her reasoning. "Don't you find it odd that her husband vanished on the same night that she was nearly killed—and then mysteriously rescued? That's just too many coincidences."
"Are you suggesting one stalker is behind all that? How many stalkers do you think she has?"
Sam ignored his sarcasm. "I think it's possible he could have been following her when he saw her car go over the embankment, and he stayed there to rescue her." Once she said it aloud, Sam wished she hadn't, because even to her it sounded ludicrous.
"That's your theory?" he mocked. "A stalker who turns into a knight in shining armor?" Without waiting for a reply, he said, "Now, let me give you my theory: Manning got stuck in the blizzard and for one reason or another, he can't get out. Mrs. Manning lost control of her car in the same blinding snowstorm and went off the road. Here's why I like that theory: The same thing happened to hundreds of people in that blizzard on Sunday! Here's why I don't like your theory: It's improbable. In fact, it's outlandish. In short, it sucks."
Instead of resenting his accurate summation, Sam looked at him for a moment, and then she laughed. "You're right, but please don't soften your opinions for my sake."
Shrader was a man, therefore being "right" was both a compliment—which immediately improved his mood—and also a very high priority. "You should have discussed your theory with me before you inflicted it on Mrs. Manning," he pointed out, but in a more pleasant voice.
"I didn't develop it until after we got here," Sam admitted as the elevator doors opened on the first floor. "It was the pears that finally sent me in that direction. They represent a personal knowledge of her habits—'insider' information—and there wasn't a card with them. Then, when I saw how strongly Mrs. Manning reacted to them…"
"She told you why she reacted that way."
They were already partway across the lobby when Sam decided to make a detour, which Shrader incorrectly assumed was to the ladies' room. "I'll meet you at the car," she told him.
"Prostate trouble?" he joked. "You already stopped on the way upstairs."
Sam walked over to the reception desk, where several new floral arrangements were waiting to be delivered to patients' rooms. She showed her badge to an elderly volunteer with blue tinted hair and a name tag that said she was Mrs. Novotny. "Was a big basket of pears delivered here this morning?" Sam asked her.
"Oh, yes," the volunteer said. "We were all marveling at the size of those beautiful pears."
"Did you happen to notice the truck or car that delivered them?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. It was a black car—the kind movie stars drive—I know, because two teenagers were sitting right over there at the time, and they were admiring it. One boy said it cost at least three hundred thousand dollars!"
"Did they mention what kind of car it was?"
"Yes. They said it was a…" She paused, deep in thought, and then she brightened. "They said it was a Bentley! I can describe the man driving it, too: He was wearing a black suit and a black hat with a visor on it. He carried the pears in here and put them on my desk. He said they were for Mrs. Leigh Manning, and he asked me to please see that she gets them as soon as possible. I told him I would."
Sam felt completely foolish for obsessing over what was obviously an innocuous basket of expensive fruit delivered in a chauffeur-driven Bentley. Shrader had been totally right. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Novotny, you've been very helpful," Sam assured her automatically, because she thought it was important to make every cooperative citizen feel as if they'd been valuable. It was a way of saying "thank you for being willing to get involved."
Mrs. Novotny was so flattered that she tried to be even more helpful. "If you want to know anything else about the man driving that car, you could ask the person who sent the pears, Detective."
"We don't know who sent them," Sam said over her shoulder. "There was no card with them."
"The envelope fell off."
Something about the way she said that made Sam stop and turn.
Mrs. Novotny was holding a square envelope in her hand. "I was planning to send this upstairs to Mrs. Manning with a volunteer, but they've been busy all morning. Almost all the beds here are filled because of the blizzard. Lots of folks fell, or got in car wrecks, or had heart attacks from shoveling snow."
Sam thanked her profusely, took the envelope, and continued across the lobby. She opened the envelope, not because she expected to discover anything meaningful inside it, but because she'd already embarrassed herself with Shrader and upset Mrs. Manning over the basket of fruit that it should have been attached to. She removed a small folded sheet of engraved stationery from the envelope and read the handwritten message on it. Then she stopped in midstride. And read it twice more.
Shrader had gotten their car out of the lot and it was at the curb just outside the main doors. Puffs of exhaust were pumping out of the tailpipe and a hard, thin coat of frost had already built up on the windshield. He was scraping it off with his credit card—an entertaining procedure with the windshield wipers running at top speed and his knuckles bare. She waited in the car until he got in and began blowing on his cold hands and rubbing them together; then she offered him the folded note. "What's that?" he asked between puffs on his fingers.
"The note that came with Mrs. Manning's pears."
"Why are you giving it to me?"
"Because you're cold," she said, "and I think this will… electrify you."
Shrader clearly thought that was unlikely, and he demonstrated that opinion by ignoring the note and continuing to rub his hands together. When he finished, he put the Ford into gear, looked in the rearview mirror, and pulled away from the curb. Finally, he reached for the note, casually flipped it open with his thumb, and as they neared a stop sign at the pedestrian crosswalk, Shrader finally allotted it a sideways glance.
"Holy shit!" He slammed down on the brake so hard that Sam's seat belt locked and the rear end of the car fish-tailed on the icy drive. He read it again, then he slowly lifted his big dark head and gazed at her, his brown eyes bright with wonder and anticipation—a very happy rottweiler who'd just been given a juicy sirloin. He shook his head as if to clear it. "We've got to call Captain Holland," he said, pulling the Ford over to the curb. Chuckling silently, he punched numbers on his cellular phone. "What a coup, Littleton! If Logan Manning doesn't show up soon—healthy and hale—you've just handed NYPD a case that's going to make you a heroine and Holland the next police commissioner. Commissioner Trumanti will be able to die a happy man." Into the phone he barked, "This is Shrader. I need to talk to the captain." He listened for a moment, then said, "Tell him it's an emergency. I'll hold on."
He took the phone away from his ear long enough to press the mute button; then he announced, "If you weren't already Holland's fair-haired angel, you'd be that from now on."
Sam suppressed a jolt of alarm. "What do you mean, I'm his 'angel'?"
Shrader gave her an abject, hangdog look. "Forget I said that. Whatever is between you and Holland is none of my business. It's real clear now, though, that you've got more going for you than just your looks. You've got tremendous instincts, you've got tenacity, you've got ability! That's what matters."
"What matters to me at this moment is that you implied Captain Holland has some sort of partiality for me, and I want to know why you think that."
"Hell, everybody at the Eighteen thinks that!"
"Oh, gee, that makes me feel much better," she said sarcastically. "Now answer my question or I'll show you 'tenacity' like you have never—"
The person on the other end of the phone said something, and Shrader held up his hand to silence Sam's outburst. "I'll hold on," he said; then he looked at Sam, gauging the degree of determination in her facial expression, and decided he believed her threat. "Consider the evidence," he said, after pressing the mute button again. "You're a rookie detective, but you wanted Homicide at the Eighteen and you got Homicide. We've got cases coming out the wazoo, but Holland doesn't want to give you any of those cases; he wants a nice clean case to start you out on. You need a permanent partner, but Holland won't assign you to just anybody. He wants to pick your partner personally—"
Sam grasped at the only lame explanation she could come up with at the moment. "Holland is handling assignments for everyone right now, since Lieutenant Unger's position is still open."
"Yeah, but Holland hasn't assigned you to a partner, because he wants to make sure your partner is someone real nice, someone you're 'compatible' with."
"Then how could he have picked you?"
Shrader grinned at her gibe. "Because he knows I'll 'look out for you.' "
"He told you to look out for me?" Sam gaped at him in shocked disgust.
"In exactly those words."
She digested that for a moment; then she shrugged in pretended disinterest. "Well, if that's all it takes to make everyone think there's something odd going on, then you're all a bunch of gossipy old women."
"Give us a break, Littleton. Take a look at yourself—you're not exactly the typical female cop. You don't swear, you don't get mad, you're too proper and ladylike, and you don't look like a cop."
"You haven't heard me swear," Sam corrected him, "and you haven't seen me get angry yet, and what's wrong with the way I look?"
"Nothing. Just ask Holland and some of the other guys at the Eighteen—they think you look real fine. Of course, the only other female detectives at the Eighteen are a lot older than you and fifty pounds heavier, so they don't have a lot to compare you with."
Sam shook her head in disgust and hid her relief, but his next statement jarred her and ended that momentary respite. "Since you want to know the whole truth," he said, "according to the grapevine over at headquarters, you've got some sort of clout—friends in high places—something like that."
"That's just typical," Sam said, managing to look scornfully amused. "Whenever a woman starts succeeding in a male-dominated profession, you guys would rather attribute her success to anything, anything, except ability."
"Well, you got plenty of that," Shrader shocked her by saying; then he broke off abruptly as Holland finally took his call and evidently began by chewing Shrader out for holding on and running up his cellular phone bill.
"Yes, sir, Captain, I know—probably five minutes. Yes, sir, Captain, but Detective Littleton discovered something I felt you'd want to know about immediately."
Since Shrader was the senior detective on the case, and also "in charge of her," Sam expected him to take some sort of credit for her discovery, or at least to claim the satisfaction of telling Holland about it himself, but to Sam's surprise, Shrader handed the phone to her with a wink. "Holland says this had better be good."
By the time Sam disconnected the call, she had no doubt that Captain Thomas Holland thought her information justified an expensive phone call.
In fact, he thought it warranted the full and immediate use of all of the NYPD's available personnel and resources.
"Well?" Shrader said with a knowing grin. "What did Holland say?"
Sam handed his phone back to him and summarized the conversation. "Basically, he said that Mrs. Manning is going to get more help from the NYPD in the search for her husband than she ever imagined."
"Or wanted," Shrader said flatly. He glanced up at the hospital in the general direction of the third floor and shook his head. "That woman is one hell of an actress! She fooled me completely."
Sam automatically followed his gaze. "Me, too," she admitted, frowning.
"Cheer up," he advised her as they pulled away from the curb. "You've made Holland a happy man, and by now, he's on the phone with Trumanti, making the Commissioner a happy man. By tonight, Trumanti will make the mayor a happy man. The biggest problem for all of us," he said as he put the car into gear, "will be keeping what we've got a secret. If the Feds get wind of it, they'll try to find some way to muscle in on the case. They've been trying to nail Valente on a dozen charges for years, but they can never make them stick. They aren't going to be happy when the NYPD succeeds where they've failed."
"Isn't it a little too early for all this ecstasy?" Sam said. "If Logan Manning turns up alive and well, there is no 'case.'"
"True, but something tells me that isn't going to happen. It's time for lunch," he added after a glance at the clock on the dashboard. "I owe you an apology for shooting holes in your theory earlier. I'll buy you a hamburger for lunch."
His extraordinary offer made Sam do a double take. Shrader was so cheap that everyone at the Eighteenth joked about it. In the few days they'd been in the mountains together, he'd already stuck her for several cups of coffee and vending machine snacks at the hospital. In view of that, and his earlier attitude about her "theory," Sam decided on a revenge she knew would torture him: "You owe me a steak for dinner."
"Not a chance."
"I know just the place. But first, Captain Holland wants us to make some phone calls to the local authorities."

Cảm ơn bạn đã post truyện này lên, mình rất thích những truyện của bà này. Mong bạn mau post nhanh. Mà cho cherry hỏi bạn kiếm những truyện tiếng ANh của bà này ở đâu vậy? Mình tìm mãi mà không thấy >.<