Shadow Account (8 page)

Then a door opened and Conner veered right, directly at an elderly woman pulling a shopping cart. He tumbled to the sidewalk to avoid her, but was back up on his feet quickly. His eyes darted around, searching for the baseball cap and the blond hair, but they were gone. He sprinted ahead. She couldn’t have gone far.

The woman lay on the backseat of a taxi, chest heaving, staring up into the brown eyes of the driver. He was looking down at her through the Plexiglas as if she were insane. She’d hurled open the cab’s door without any warning, then tumbled inside and slammed the door shut, flattening herself on the seat.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, one hand holding a steaming cup of coffee, the other on the steering wheel.

“This weirdo was stalking me.” Her heart was racing—and she loved it. “I’m just lucky you were here.” It had gone so perfectly. Conner had seen her and chased her, but she’d gotten away. They would be very satisfied when she reported back to them. “You’re my savior.”

“What I am is off duty,” the man replied angrily. “Get out of my cab.”

She propped herself up on one elbow and slowly removed the baseball cap and sunglasses. Then ran her fingers seductively through her long blond hair. “Really? I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping you would help me.”

The cabdriver’s irritation faded as he got a better look at her. “Well, I guess I could take one more fare this evening. Where are you going?”

The elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor, and Conner headed quickly down the hall toward his apartment. Gavin had warned him in the limousine not to come back here. That it could be very dangerous. That whoever had broken in might be watching, hoping he’d show up. Gavin was probably right, too. It probably was dangerous. But he had to search the apartment one more time for anything that might help him figure out what had happened to Liz.

As he hurried along the corridor, Conner spotted a few scuffs on the tiles in front of several doors. And a couple of black marks on the walls. The guy next door had moved out recently and probably hadn’t put down mats like he was supposed to. But that wasn’t surprising. For the Upper East Side it was a cheap building, and the place wasn’t maintained very well. So people didn’t care if they damaged things here.

He noticed that the bulb above his door was burned out, and he had to squint as he slid the key in the lock. He shook his head as he moved into the apartment and locked the door behind him. If he and Gavin won the Pharmaco deal tomorrow, he was going to move into a better building. It was time.

The place was in perfect order. Like it had been when he’d left for Penn Station at one o’clock this morning. The bookcase was back against the wall—his Phenix binders replaced on the shelves—and the television was intact. His clothes were back in the dresser drawers, and the computer was on his desk. He glanced toward the corner of the bedroom. And no sign of Liz’s body.

Over lunch Gavin had asked a question that now haunted him: Was he absolutely certain Liz was dead? Conner knelt down beside the spot where Liz’s body had been and ran his fingers slowly across the smooth wooden floor. No remnants of blood. He leaned down and peered carefully at the tiny cracks between the boards, searching for residue. Nothing. He took a deep breath. He thought he was certain, but now—

The sound of a key sliding into the apartment door. Maintenance? He wasn’t going to chance it. He glanced at the window over the fire escape. No time. He hurried to the bathroom, slipping behind the door so he could see into the bedroom. Just as the hall door opened and closed.

A moment later a man Conner recognized moved into the bedroom. The man who’d shot him last night.

The intruder moved to the far side of the bed and past the desk, then knelt down, disappearing from view for a moment. Conner could hear his loud breathing, then a groan as he stood up. The man retraced his steps past the desk and around the bed and headed for the bathroom.

As the man entered the bathroom, Conner slammed the heavy wooden door into him, catching him on the left side of his head. He tumbled backward into the bed, then crumpled to the floor. Conner raced out of the bathroom, grabbed the man by his collar, and landed a swift blow to his chin, then another to his stomach. The intruder clutched his belly, and Conner pulled back the man’s sport jacket and reached for a revolver jutting from his shoulder holster. But, as Conner’s fingers closed around the gun, the intruder coiled his leg and kicked.

Conner stumbled back and his head slammed into the wall beside the dresser. For a split second he was out on his feet, images blurring before him. He was vaguely aware of the revolver slipping from his fingers and the room spinning.

He shook his head, and his vision cleared just as the intruder came at him. In one smooth motion, Conner grabbed a dresser drawer and swung it, clipping the attacker on the head just as the huge man’s hands closed around his neck. The man tumbled to the floor and Conner delivered another blow to the back of his head. The man’s left hand trembled for a moment, then went still.

Conner shook his head again, still trying to clear the cobwebs. Then reached down and rolled the man onto his back. His eyes were open but glassy. Blood was dripping down his face. And he was mumbling incoherently. He tried to sit up but fell on his side after lifting his upper body just a few inches off the floor.

Conner glanced around and spotted the revolver lying beside the dresser. He hustled to it, then sprinted for the apartment door, thinking that the intruder might have an accomplice in the hallway. He slid the door’s dead bolt into place, then raced back to the bedroom and, from the doorway, leveled the gun at the intruder, who had managed to pull himself to a sitting position.

“Who are you?” Conner demanded. The guy was coming around. “Talk to me!”

“Screw you,” the guy mumbled, reaching unsteadily for the bed and trying to pull himself to his feet.

Conner took three quick strides forward and kicked him in the ribs.

The man collapsed to the floor again and curled into a fetal position.

“Come on!” Conner yelled. “Tell me everything. What happened to the woman who was here last night?”

No reply.

Conner grabbed the man by his hair and pressed the black barrel to his bleeding temple. “I’ll kill you!” he yelled. A fury he’d felt only once before grabbing him. “I swear to Christ.” The fury he’d felt watching Frank Turner and his slick-haired attorney laugh in the parking garage.
“What happened to her?”

“Fuck off.”

Conner slammed the man’s head to the floor and stood up, adrenaline coursing through him. He opened the revolver, then pointed the barrel toward the ceiling and shook the gun, causing all six bullets to fall out. The shells clattered loudly on the floor around the man. Conner reached down quickly and retrieved one of them, then closed the gun, and spun the chambers. Holding the gun down beside the man’s ear so he could hear them rotate.

“Five empty chambers,” Conner hissed, pulling the intruder to a sitting position against the side of the bed. “One loaded.” He placed the barrel of the gun firmly against the man’s upper lip just beneath his nose. “Now, what happened to her?”

The man stared down the black barrel at Conner’s finger curled around the trigger. “You don’t understand, kid,” he mumbled. “It’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I think?”

“Don’t be a hero. Stay out of this.”

“What is
this
?”

“I can’t, I can’t.”

“What happened to her?” Conner yelled, cocking the gun.

“I don’t know. I swear. I wasn’t responsible for that.”

Conner pulled the trigger, and the hammer descended.

“Jesus!” The man wrenched his head to one side.

Metal clicked against metal—but there was no explosion.

Conner wrestled the man’s face back into position, then forced the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The chambers rotated once more—but again, no explosion. “Four chambers left!” Conner shouted. “Start talking.”

“Stop, please stop!” the man begged frantically, his words garbled by the barrel.

“What happened to the woman?” Conner demanded. “Tell me!”

“She didn’t have a choice.” The intruder gasped, gagging on the barrel. “She was just a pawn.”

Conner’s grip on the gun relaxed for a moment and the barrel slipped from the man’s mouth. “What do you mean, ‘a pawn’?”

“I can’t tell you any more than that.”

This time Conner pressed the barrel flush against the side of the man’s head. “Come on, you bastard!”

“You’re making a big mistake, kid. You shoot me and you’re in a lot of trouble. I’m a federal agent.”

Conner’s finger slipped from the trigger. Federal agent?

In that second the man brought both of his huge arms straight up, catching Conner beneath the chin with a powerful blow. Conner tumbled backward and the gun flew from his grip, clattering across the floor toward a corner of the room.

But the intruder didn’t go for it. Instead, he pulled himself to his feet, raced to the bedroom window, threw it open, and scrambled out onto the fire escape.

Conner struggled to stand, then stumbled groggily to the window. Just in time to see the man trip as he reached the sixth floor landing and tumble over the thin black railing. Arms and legs flailing desperately as he plummeted headfirst to the alley.

Conner stopped on the corner of Lexington and Seventy-second Street and leaned against a mailbox. The image of the man falling over the railing was still vivid. He was dead on impact. No doubt.

“Sir?”

Conner’s head snapped toward the voice. Standing beside him was a short, stout man with a round face and small eyes. “What?”

“You Conner Ashby?”

Conner’s eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”

“Oh, sorry,” the man apologized, holding out his hand. “Didn’t mean to be rude. My name’s Art Meeks. I work for a man named Charles Shaw.”

Meeks’s face blurred in front of Conner as they shook hands. Charles Shaw.

“I believe you know Mr. Shaw’s daughter,” Meeks continued. “Her name’s Elizabeth.”

“I know her,” Conner said quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. “So, what?”

Meeks shrugged. “I just want to ask you a few questions. That okay?”

Blood pounded in Conner’s brain. “I suppose,” he agreed hesitantly. Meeks seemed friendly enough. And Conner didn’t want to arouse his suspicion.

“Good. Thanks.” Meeks removed a small notepad from his pocket and flipped through it. “The thing is, Mr. Shaw was supposed to meet with Elizabeth at ten o’clock this morning. At his attorney’s office to go through several issues related to her upcoming marriage. The prenup, I think it was,” Meeks explained, checking his notes. “But she didn’t show. And she hasn’t answered calls to her apartment or her cell phone. Mr. Shaw is very worried. As is her fiancé, who cut short a business trip to Europe to fly back to the States. I’ve been hired to find her. I thought you might know something.”

Conner had begun to believe that Liz might still be alive. That Gavin was right. That the lies he’d uncovered this afternoon might mean she was somehow involved in what had happened last night. As he’d thought back on their first encounter at the West Side bar last May, he remembered that Liz had approached him right after they’d made eye contact. That she had suggested they leave together after half a drink. That in the weeks following that first encounter she’d been the one to make certain their relationship intensified. That having a fiancé made it seem reasonable for her not to want him to call her at work or be seen in public with her. Now this little man standing in front of him was blowing all that out of the water. Maybe she’d been honest with him after all.

“Why would I know anything?” Conner asked, glancing around the intersection warily.

“Because your name shows up in a datebook I found in her apartment. A couple of times recently, too,” Meeks added.

That was odd, Conner thought to himself. Why would she write his name down somewhere if she was so worried about their affair being discovered? “How do I know you’re who you say you are, Mr. Meeks?”

“Look, I—”

“What’s the address of Liz’s apartment?” Conner cut in.

Meeks checked his notepad. “Four-forty-seven East Fifty-first Street,” he answered. “Apartment K-Five.”

Conner made a quick mental note of the address. He had no idea if it was right, because Liz had never told him where she lived. He’d asked a couple of times, but she wouldn’t say. She was too afraid he’d come by when Todd was there.

“Satisfied?” Meeks asked with a friendly smile.

“I suppose,” Conner agreed, reaching into his pants pocket. Feeling the bullet the intruder had thought was in the revolver.

“Were you having an affair with Elizabeth, Mr. Ashby?” Meeks asked hesitantly.

“What?”

The investigator held his hands up. “Look, I’m not here to judge anybody. Me, I don’t care what you and Elizabeth might have done. And I don’t intend to tell anybody either. I just want to find her. That’s all I’ve been hired to do.”

Conner gazed down at the little man, wondering what in the hell was going on. Wondering how this guy had found him.

“When did you last see Elizabeth, Mr. Ashby?”

“Last night,” Conner confessed.

“Where?”

“She was at my apartment.”

“Did she stay the night?”

“No.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Around eleven thirty. That was the last time I saw or spoke to her.”

“Uh huh. Anything else you want to tell me about last night?”

“No.”

Meeks scribbled a few notes, then closed his pad and glanced up. “All right, that’s all for now. Thanks. I’ll be in touch if I need to talk to you again.”

Conner watched the investigator walk away down Lexington Avenue. If Meeks went to the cops with what he knew, Gavin’s warning about Conner becoming a suspect in Liz’s death would come true. The police would be all over him.

Conner strained his neck as the small man disappeared around the corner. Now he
had
to find out what had happened to Liz.