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“I liked him,” she said at last. “It’s very sad.”
“Yes. It is. And I’m sorry I have to make you talk about it, but I need to ask a few more questions. Have you ever been in his apartment?”
“Only once. And just briefly. We stopped by because he had to get something.”
But she had been in it. So those blond hairs the techs bagged might be hers rather than the killer’s.
“Is there anything you can tell me that might help with the case?” he said. “Was Dr. Parker having problems with anyone? Did he ever say something was bothering him? Anything at all?”
Watching her slowly shake her head again, Travis wondered how many dead ends he’d hit since he’d earned his shield. But there was no value in dwelling on that.
* * *
TRAVIS TURNED into the Manhattan North Precinct’s parking garage and began watching for a space. After he found one, he headed inside.
Hank looked up from his desk as he approached and said, “What’s been happening?”
“Jill Flores called me first thing—to tell me she actually did know who Parker’d been seeing lately. So I paid the woman a visit.”
“And?”
“She turned out to be a blonde with a gray trench coat. But she has a solid alibi for the time of the murder. I got the names of the people she claimed she was with and called a few of them on my way here.”
“And aside from that? She have any ideas for us?”
“Nada.”
Hank’s shrug said You can’t win ’em all. “So, what do you want to do now?” he asked.
Show time. Travis didn’t want to tell his partner about going to Celeste’s place, but he had to. “We’ve got to talk to Evan Reese again,” he began.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I had a call from Celeste Langley last night. Just after you headed home.”
Once he’d elaborated, Hank said, “You figure that was a smart move? Going to see her without me?”
“What should I have done? Called and told you to turn around and meet me there?”
“No,” Hank said slowly. “But you could have just gotten the details over the phone.”
“We know Reese is a nut bar. And he scared the devil out of her.”
Hank shrugged again.
“So I stopped by. Her apartment was practically on my way home, anyhow. You’ve got a problem with that?” he added when Hank said nothing.
“How long did we work yesterday? Twelve hours? Thirteen?”
“More or less.”
“Well, if anyone else had called at that point, I doubt you’d have headed right on over just because she was scared.”
“I might have.”
“Travis...man, I could say a lot of things you already know. But only one of them really matters. That woman is our prime suspect.”
“She’s your prime suspect.”
“And who’s yours?”
“I’m not there yet.”
After a moment’s silence, Hank said, “Hey, buddy, you realize you’re not acting like yourself, don’t you? It’s as if you met Celeste Langley and something short-circuited in your brain.”
Ignoring that, he said, “Let’s go.”
Hank shook his head. “There’s no point in both of us wasting our time with Reese.”
He bit his tongue to keep from saying he didn’t consider it a waste of time.
“So why don’t I take care of some other stuff while you go talk to him. We can start in on the rest of the people on our Parker list later.”
“Yeah. Why not. Good idea.”
Travis turned and started away, unable to stop himself from thinking about what Hank had just said—and worrying that he was right.
Scientifically improbable as it might be, maybe meeting Celeste Langley really had short-circuited something in his brain.
What else would explain why he couldn’t stop thinking about her for more than two seconds straight?
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday, October 5, 11:31 a.m.
EVAN REESE LIVED on the Upper East Side, in an apartment not far from Steve Parker’s, which meant that by driving through Central Park Travis made the trip from Reese’s to West Seventy-fourth in only a few minutes.
Even so, by the time he reached Celeste’s block he’d told himself twelve dozen times that he shouldn’t be going to her place. He could keep his promise to “get back to her” simply by phoning.
Of course, the problem with that was he wouldn’t get to see her. And he wanted to—despite knowing it was a bad idea.
He shook his head, thinking how his sister was forever telling him that sooner or later he’d meet a woman who’d knock him off his feet. And that the longer it took, the harder he’d fall.
His response was always just to laugh, yet now he was wondering if she’d been giving him a female version of Hank’s short-circuit theory.
Maybe so. But regardless of anybody’s theory, he knew that if he was smart he wouldn’t go near Celeste again without Hank along. Not until they’d established who killed her brother.
After that, he could see as much of her as he liked. Assuming he was still interested. However, until then...
He almost managed to make himself drive straight past her building. He would have, except for the empty parking space directly across the street. In Manhattan, if that wasn’t an omen he didn’t know what would be.
He wheeled into it, cut the ignition and got out of the car—glancing up at her living room window, half expecting to see her standing there.
She wasn’t, but she was home. And just the sound of her voice, when she responded to his buzz, was enough to make his pulse skip.
Telling himself he was here on police business, he started up the stairs to the third floor.
She was waiting for him in the doorway again, wearing a pale yellow sweater and jeans.
As absurd as it might be, the mere sight of her warmed him. Then she smiled and his temperature rose another couple of degrees.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi. I’ve been to see Evan Reese, so I figured I’d stop by for a minute.”
“I’m glad you did.”
As he passed her on his way into the apartment, he caught the faint scent of her perfume. It put him in mind of a sultry summer night—which did absolutely nothing to cool him down.
“Coffee?” she asked, gesturing him toward the living room.
“No, thanks. I won’t stay long. I just wanted to tell you about Reese face-to-face, because...”
He paused, gathering his thoughts. There was a fine line between warning someone to be careful and scaring the wits out of her.
“Because?” she prompted.
“Because he told me it never even occurred to him that he’d make you nervous by calling. And that since he had, he wouldn’t do it again. But I don’t think you should count on it.”
“Ah. And is he...should I be seriously worried about him?”
“It’s hard to know. He lied when I asked why he’d told you we gave him your number. So we obviously can’t believe anything he says.”
“What was his story?”
“That he didn’t say a word about how he’d gotten it.”
“He did.”
“I know. But that’s not what he said this morning. He claimed he simply got it from Information.”
“Did you tell him it’s unlisted?”
“Uh-huh. He just shrugged and said they must have given it out by mistake.”
“Is that possible?”
“It’s very unlikely. And...look, he didn’t mention anything about why he was seeing a psychiatrist. And I can’t go rummaging through your brother’s medical records without a search warrant, but...”
“Should you get one?” she asked quietly.
He’d love to. But it wasn’t really an option.
“That’s not as easy to do as TV makes it seem,” he told her. “I’d need a good reason. One specifically related to the case, I mean. But even without knowing exactly what his problem is... Well, I think he’s pretty unbalanced.”
“Then I should be seriously worried.”
“You should be seriously careful. If you notice anything suspicious... He’s in his late thirties, short and slightly built, with dark hair and glasses. If anyone who fits that description shows up here or seems to be following you, phone me right away.”
“Following me,” she murmured.
“I’m not saying he will. I’m only saying it’s possible he’ll call again. Or try to see you. With any luck, though, you’ve heard the last of him.”
Celeste slowly pushed her hair back from her face. “What about his saying he’s a writer? Is he? Or was that just part of his cosmic gibberish?”
“It might be true. At least it’s consistent with what he told Hank and me yesterday. He said his work’s published in small, esoteric magazines.”
“They don’t pay much.”
“No, we already thought of that. He probably tips the concierge in his building more at Christmas than that sort of writing would bring in. So whether he actually writes or not he must have another source of income. A trust fund or something was our best guess.”
Celeste said nothing more, and as the silence grew Travis made himself say, “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to bring you up to speed.”
“Thanks,” she said, rising when he did. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. And...I did what you suggested and made the basic arrangements for Steve’s service. But until I can tell them...I guess you still haven’t heard when the autopsy will be?”
“No. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
“Thanks,” she said again. Then she led the way to her door.
“I’ll call you.” He stepped out into the hallway. “Take care.”
“I will,” she promised, giving him a wan smile.
He started away, silently congratulating himself. He’d handled that pretty well for a guy with a short circuit in his brain.
After closing the door, Celeste watched through the peephole while Travis strode down the hall. Then, unable to resist the temptation this time around, she walked over to the living room window and stood waiting for him to appear on the street below.
When he did she felt a funny little flutter in her chest. She liked the man. Really liked him.
As he reached his car, he turned and looked up at her.
Her face suddenly felt warm. Then he raised his hand and smiled, making her a little less embarrassed about being caught watching.
Once he’d driven off she headed for her office, glad she had that deadline looming. It was forcing her to work, and even though she’d been having trouble concentrating, once she finally managed to lose herself in a manuscript she stopped thinking about other things.
Like her mother’s accident. Or Steve’s murder. Or the fact that her husband had been screwing around on her for who knew how long before she’d caught him at it. All in all, this hadn’t been the best year of her life.
Telling herself dwelling on that would be a bad idea, she sat down at her desk. She hadn’t even reached for her pencil when the phone rang.
