Third Strike (2 page)
“I’m in a hurry, so I’m willing to forget what just happened here,” I said, my voice entirely reasonable. “But if you ever lay a hand on me again,
you’re
the one who’s going to need half a year of physio, okay?”
you’re
the one who’s going to need half a year of physio, okay?”
Driving a car in Manhattan is madness, but reliably parking one there is worse. So, one of my first actions when we’d arrived was to buy another motorcycle. I’d left my Honda Fire-Blade in storage when I’d left the UK and missed it every day.
As soon as I’d felt physically capable of riding it, I’d succumbed and, in deference to my new adopted homeland, had bought a midnight black Buell XB12R Firebolt. It didn’t have the outright speed of the’Blade, but it was skinny and nimble enough to slice through the midtown crush. Most of the time, at any rate.
Usually, I can slip relatively unimpeded through the vast sea of yellow cabs that seem to outnumber the private cars on Manhattan Island by at least two to one. But today, because I was under pressure, because I was in a hurry, nobody wanted to give me mirror-width gaps. I’d cracked the left-hand mirror less than a month after I’d bought the bike, and I didn’t want to add to the bad luck.
So I sat, feeling the nagging pulse in my left leg, hemmed in by hot steel boxes vibrating gently as they scattered heat and fumes into the surrounding air, listening to the symphony of the city. Going nowhere. Ahead, Lexington Avenue ran arrow-straight south almost to vanishing point, like a taunt.
Around me, the monumental buildings of New York hummed and breathed. It was early September, balmy after the brutal summer just past, the temperature shedding its way gently into the time of year I still thought of as autumn rather than fall.
And all the while, I was running through scenarios of how on earth a man as coldly disciplined as my father could possibly have caused a patient to die under his hands through sheer bloody carelessness.
“Until that problem is resolved,”
he’d said, like being a possible alcoholic was a temporary, minor inconvenience.
he’d said, like being a possible alcoholic was a temporary, minor inconvenience.
I cast back through the empty rooms that held my childhood memories, but nothing clicked into place. There had been no unexplained clinking from the wastepaper basket in his study, no long periods he’d spent in the garden nursing a furtive hip flask, no telltale smear of peppermint across his breath. He liked the occasional single malt and drank it like a connoisseur, with due reverence and ceremony. No more than that.
But every time I thought I’d come up with some plausible excuse, his own words damned him all over again.
A long time ago, when I’d been up to my ears in scandal not entirely of my own making, I’d officially shortened my name from Foxcroft to Fox. At the time I’d explained my decision away to my half-offended, half-relieved parents by telling them I didn’t want to drag their name through the mire along with my own.
I’d never considered for a moment that one day it might also work in reverse.
The hotel where I suspected my father was staying was Italian owned and run. Elevated in status more by its location than its own merits. Shabby chic. I took one look at the haughty doorman outside and knew I wasn’t going to be able to charm or bribe my way through this one.
I found an alleyway where I could ditch the bike, and legged it two blocks south to the nearest booze store, where I bought a bottle of twenty-one-year-old Dalmore Scotch. I had to show my driver’s licence in order to prove I was older than the whisky, even though I was six years past that milestone birthday. Way I’d felt lately, it could have been sixty.
Outside, I flagged down a cab, my heart sinking a little when I saw the Pakistani driver. I worried that he might have an ethical problem with carrying alcohol, but as soon as I started explaining what I wanted, his face split into a toothy grin.
“No problem, love,” he said.
I smiled back. “You don’t sound like you’re from the Bronx.”
He laughed. “Just a bit further east, love,” he said. His accent was Birmingham, West Midlands, rather than Birmingham, Alabama. “Us Brits should stick together, i’nt that right?”
I gave him the whisky, still in its embossed tube, with a hastily scrawled card stuck into the top, a twenty-dollar bill, and the delivery address. He took off into traffic and I jogged back to the hotel, loitering at a store window on the other side of the street. It took the cab a few minutes to circle back and I admit all kinds of thoughts passed through my mind about whether I’d just been conned.
A few moments later, I watched the reflection in the glass as the cabdriver pulled up sharply by the curb. The hotel doorman reached automatically for the rear door handle until he saw the backseat was empty. By that time the driver was out, clutching my gift. A few explanatory words were exchanged. The doorman took the whisky, nodding, pursing his lips as he eyed the exclusive label.
The driver regained his seat just as a couple came out of the hotel, dragging luggage. I smiled. At least he’d picked up a genuine fare for his trouble.
I hurried across towards the entrance and walked inside without any hesitation. Look like you belong and most people don’t question it. The lobby was dimly lit by comparison, all cracked tile floors and air-con chill. I went slowly across towards the elevators, digging in my rucksack, distracted, as though I was looking for my room key.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the doorman hand the whisky to the concierge, who glanced at the card, tapped on his computer keyboard, then picked up the phone. From the way he peered at the box as he spoke, the brand was the deciding factor and I knew then that the Dalmore was worth the outrageous price I’d just paid for it. Despite the recent revelations, experience still told me that my father was a moderate drinker who went only for the good stuff when he did.
The concierge put the phone down and curtly flicked his fingers to a teenage bellhop, who took possession of my Trojan horse. I picked up my pace, timing it so the bellhop and I both arrived at a set of opening elevator doors together.
The elevator had mirrored walls. As I stepped in I made sure I moved to the side away from the control panel, forcing the bellhop to select his floor first. He pressed the button for twelve and glanced at me inquiringly.
“Oh,” I said, feigning surprise, smiling. “Me, too.”
According to the brass plaque on the control panel, the elevator was made by a company called Schindler, as they often were. Even after all this time the name still tickled me, but I’d soon learned that my amusement was not shared by anyone who didn’t refer to an elevator as a lift.
We clanked upwards in silence, avoiding eye contact. The bellhop had dark hair and sallow skin and a pierced ear with the stud removed for work, I guessed. He fiddled with the whisky tube, smoothing out a crumpled area of the cardboard, like any damage might affect his tip.
At the twelfth floor I was hoping I could tag along unobtrusively, but he insisted that I get off the elevator first.
Damn these kids with manners.
Damn these kids with manners.
I took a couple of steps, then turned with a smile.
“Excuse me,” I said, apologetic, playing up my British accent when I’d spent the last half a year toning it down. “I wonder, do you know anything about the times of the city tour buses that leave from the stop over the road?”
He was helpful, if not exactly chatty. I managed to fall into step alongside him and keep up the stream of brainless questions as we moved along the creaking corridor. The overhead lighting was just bright enough to make out the dusty pattern on the ancient custom-made carpet.
At last, just when I’m sure he thought I was trying to pick him up, the bellhop paused outside a room, giving me an apologetic shrug to indicate this was the end of his line.
I flicked my eyes over the number as I thanked him for his trouble and kept walking, making sure that when the door opened I was out of sight. There came the murmur of a familiar voice, then the sound of the door closing again. I gave it another ten seconds or so before I stuck my head back round the corner, just in time to see the bellhop disappearing. A moment later, I was knocking on the door to my father’s room.
I was hoping that he wouldn’t check the Judas glass again before he answered the door a second time, but I saw by the change in light behind it that he did. There was a long pause and I knocked again, hammered with my fist, staring straight at the little glass eye.
“You can have me thrown out if you want,” I said, loud enough to be heard inside, “but you know I won’t go quietly.”
In my imagination, I heard an exasperated sigh. The locks were disengaged and the door opened to reveal my father standing square in the gap.
“Charlotte,” he greeted me without warmth or enthusiasm. I tried briefly to remember if he’d ever smiled at me, his only child, for no better reason than because that’s who I was. Maybe my memory didn’t stretch back that far.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” I asked, matching my tone to his. “Or are you … otherwise engaged?”
He stilled at the deliberate insult in my voice but didn’t rise to it.
“Come in,” he said calmly, stepping back with an imperious jerk of his head.
Once inside I discovered that the room was more of a suite. Not that it was surprisingly generous with its floor space, just divided up more. The narrow two-pace hallway had a bathroom off to the left, then opened up into a small sitting area, hung with dull prints, where a stunted sofa vied for supremacy with a spindly looking desk.
Another door led from there into what I assumed was the bedroom, but it was firmly closed to my inquisitive eyes. The room décor, like the rest of the place, had once been quality but was now in dire need of a refurb.
I turned back just in time to see my father’s eyes slide to the bottle of whisky sitting on the low table in front of the sofa, then back to me. “Your doing, I assume?”
I shrugged. “What good is knowing someone’s weakness, if you don’t exploit it?”
I hadn’t intended to taunt him, but now I was here my anger rose up and roared in my ears.
“Ah, is that why you’re here?” he asked. “To exploit my weakness?”
“Actually, no. I saw the news this morning,” I said, and when he did no more than lift an eyebrow slightly, I added, “I was hoping for some kind of an explanation.”
He was still wearing the suit I’d seen him in on the TV, the knot of his tie sitting up perfectly into the vee of the starched collar. God forbid he should ever loosen it in the presence of anyone except his wife of thirty-something years. And probably not even then.
“Ah,” he said, the barest of smiles crossing his lips. He strolled over to the low table and picked up the Dalmore, studied the box with a vaguely disdainful air and put it down again. “And you think a bottle of cheap single malt buys you the right to one, hm?”
The “cheap” jibe surprised me. “For myself, no,” I said coolly. “For my mother, I think it probably wasn’t worth the price.”
I didn’t need to imagine his sigh this time. He made a show of pushing back a rigid shirt cuff to check the antique gold watch beneath it.
“Was there something specific you wanted to say?” he asked, sounding bored now. “I do have an appointment.”
“Who with? Another reporter? The police?” I nodded to the bottle. “Or perhaps you just can’t wait to open that?”
For the first time, I saw a flash of anger, quickly veiled, followed by something else. Something darker. Pain? He took a breath and was calm again.
“You’ve clearly made up your own mind without any input from me,” he said. “But then, you always were a spoilt and willful child. Hardly surprising that you’ve made such a mess of your life.”
The gasp rose like a bubble. I only just managed to smother it before it could break the surface.
“‘A mess’?” I repeated, the outrage setting up harmonic vibrations that rattled at the heart of me.
“I’ve
made a mess of
my
life? Oh, that’s rich.”
“I’ve
made a mess of
my
life? Oh, that’s rich.”
He made an annoyed gesture with those long surgeon’s fingers of his, staring at me over the thin frames of his glasses. “Please don’t go blaming anyone else for your mistakes, Charlotte. We both know you’re over here solely because the people who have laughably employed you wanted the services of your semi-Neanderthal boyfriend enough to offer you some sinecure. And because he was too sentimental to leave you behind.”
“They offered me a job alongside him,” I managed. I was disappointed to note that gritting my teeth did nothing, it seemed, to prevent the slight tremor that had crept into my voice. “On my own merits.”
“Ah, yes of course.” He glanced upwards for a moment, as if seeking heavenly intervention. When he looked back at me, his face was mocking. “Face it, my dear, you’re little better than a cripple. A liability to those around you. You’ve already proved you can’t be trusted to do a job without injuring yourself and others. What possible use could they have for you?”
“For your information, I’ve just been passed fit,” I said, ignoring the fibrous tension burning up through the long muscles of my left thigh that made a lie of my words. I tried not to think of my abandoned fitness test, of what Nick was likely to put in his report. “I’ll be back on—”
“Credit me with some experience in these matters, Charlotte, if nothing else,” he interrupted, glacial now. “You may not approve of my ethics, but my surgical abilities are quite beyond question, and I’ve seen your records. You may be walking without that limp any longer, but your health will never be exactly what one might describe as robust again. A little light office work is about all you’re fit for. You know as well as I do that they’ll never quite trust you again.”
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