Nicole woke up with a dull headache, feeling exhausted. It was too much effort to move, so she simply lay still, staring at the ceiling. It was light green, crisscrossed with an intricate network of pipes that, like the ceiling itself, was coated with thick layers of paint. The pale color made a perfect backdrop for the image that kept replaying in her head—the fireball that had once been the Lowrys’ car.
Then a gray-haired nurse was standing over her, popping a thermometer into her mouth and taking her vital signs. Nicole was handed over to a nurse’s aide, a plump, brown-skinned girl, who guided her to the shower and waited just outside the door while she washed and shampooed. When she was done, she was handed a fresh gown of blue-striped cotton, slightly faded. It was of the same design used by hospitals everywhere, open at the back with two frayed ties — positioned near the neckline — to hold it closed.
At the aide’s suggestion, Nicole’s purse was taken out of a small overhead cupboard where it had been stowed and her makeup retrieved. Carefully, the girl lined up Nicole’s cosmetics and their respective brushes on the tray table. “A little color,” she said in a singsong accent, “and you are looking better already.”
Nicole held still while lipstick and blush were applied, although it was beyond her to take much interest in the process. Not that she was as dizzy as she’d been the day before, nor did she seem injured, at least in any obvious way. Her problem was a deep sense of malaise accompanied by a crippling numbness like nothing she’d ever experienced. It was as if a great part of her emotional core had been obliterated by the explosion.
A little later, the girl who delivered Nicole’s breakfast urged her to eat. Rather than argue, she picked up a triangle of toast and took a tiny bite. Once the girl disappeared along her route, Nicole put the remains back on the plate and lay down again. After a while, she grew tired of watching the fireball dance on the ceiling and closed her eyes.
She had no idea how long she slept, but when she woke up, she was no longer alone. A man was sitting in the chair by the bed. He was nicely dressed in a charcoal suit with a dazzling white shirt and blue striped tie. He was good looking; in fact, this was the most striking thing about him. Beyond that, Nicole had a strong sense of recognition, the feeling that she’d met him somewhere before.
Perhaps thirty seconds passed before she realized who this was— and she was sitting upright with her heart pounding in her ears.
Reinhardt — for it was Reinhardt — was instantly on his feet, taking a few steps backward. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You see, I’m with the police, and I need to ask you a few questions. Here,” he said, pulling his wallet out. “My identification.”
She stared while he flipped the wallet open and held it out for her inspection. The ID bore a police insignia and a photo that identified him as Ronald H. Reinhardt, Detective Inspector, London Metropolitan Police.
Looking from the ID to the man standing before her, she could see that this was definitely the man in the picture.
“Mrs. Graves,” he said, returning the wallet to his pocket, “Do you feel well enough to answer a few questions?”
“I guess—yes—all right.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. Only now, as he sat down and pulled out a notebook, did she decide she wasn’t dreaming. Another realization followed.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I just spoke to the police. Inspector Keaton is investigating the explosion and a break-in that happened just after you stopped by.”
“I’m aware of D.C. Keaton’s involvement. My inquiries involve a separate matter. We’re still looking for Mr. Lowry,” he went on. “We haven’t had any luck finding him, and we urgently need to do so. Perhaps you’ve had word from him and can tell us where he is.”
“That day you came to the house,” she said, “why didn’t you say you were with the police?”
He gave a nod. “Good point. But I didn’t want to cause you or any of Mr. Lowry’s neighbors undue concern. The truth of the matter is that Mr. Lowry wasn’t the object of our investigation. We were simply hoping he could assist us in our inquiry. That being the case, I’m sure you understand why it was simpler for me to introduce myself as Mr. Lowry’s business associate.” He gave a smile — lots of nice, even white teeth — as if he were pleased to have cleared up this matter.
“Okay,” she said. “Now, let’s see if I understand this.” She paused to plump up her pillows, then leaned back. “The fact that you’re here, asking questions about Lowry — does that mean the police now believe there’s a link between Lowry’s disappearance and the car bomb?”
His smile faded. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be willing to make that leap.” For a moment, he gazed across the room, as if carefully considering his next words. Then he cleared his throat. “As I said, our main interest is another case we’ve been working on for some time, the one in which Mr. Lowry might be of help.”
“I see,” Nicole said. What she saw was that Reinhardt was trying to avoid explaining any more than he had to. Yet she had the feeling he knew perfectly well what was going on, that he could explain the whole mess.
“Now,” he said, “Do you have any idea where Mr. Lowry is?”
She explained that the Lowrys had failed to show up in L.A., and she had no idea what had happened to them. She did give him the phone number in Texas, which was now firmly committed to memory. Once he’d entered this in his book, she said, “Can you tell me about the other case you’re working on?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he said. “Believe me, I wish I were. Unfortunately…” He smiled and gave a shrug. “I wonder if you could put that question aside and tell me what you do know about Mr. Lowry. Unless you’re too tired.”
“No, really,” she said, “I’m fine.” In a way, this was true. The conversation had revived her with the hope that she might learn something.
“If you don’t mind then,” he said, “I’d like you to start at the very beginning—how you came to occupy the Lowrys’ house.”
She explained how Brad had found the Lowrys through someone in his company’s London office.
“Can you give me the name of the person who recommended them?” Reinhardt asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “But I’ll ask and get back to you.” She had the feeling that Reinhardt didn’t know that Brad was in police custody, and this was something she wasn’t going to volunteer.
As she told her story, Reinhardt listened attentively. He was a good audience. Perhaps it was the way he sat forward in his chair with his eyes on hers. There were moments, however, when his gaze made her uncomfortable. She found herself omitting certain details, such as Brad’s betrayal.
When she was done recounting the events leading up to the explosion, she mentioned her recent conversation with Detective Keaton and the fact that she’d rejected the theory that the two thugs had planted the car bomb.
Reinhardt nodded. “I’m afraid I would have to agree. It’s unlikely those men could pull off a bombing like that. They’re rank amateurs, acting on impulse. Assaulting a woman in a public place—what a very foolish and risky thing to do.”
“But they got away with it,” she said, wondering at his logic. “No one stopped them, and they haven’t been caught.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m afraid I put that rather badly. I wasn’t discounting the menace of their behavior—the way they assaulted and threatened you. But it takes a great deal of professionalism to plant a bomb and walk away free. I’m talking about planning and advance work, discipline and coordination. I haven’t spoken to D.C. Keaton, but I’m sure she’s putting all the resources she can spare into apprehending them.”
Nicole frowned. “If you haven’t talked to Keaton, how did you know I was here?”
“I read the police report,” he said. Then he regarded her a moment, before adding, “And, of course, your picture appeared in the paper.
“They misidentified me.”
“So I noticed.” He smiled slightly, as if acknowledging what an awful picture it had been. “Now, I just have one final question,” he went on. “The Lowrys’ tenant seems to have disappeared. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
Nicole felt a great weariness. “Alice hasn’t disappeared. She told me she was going away for a few days. She left just before I went to the hotel. It was the day before …” Her words trailed off as she remembered the bareness of Alice’s room, the empty dresser and closet.
“Did she mention where she was going?”
Nicole shook her head.
“According to the police report, this woman represented herself as a nurse. Do you have any idea of her employer?”
“No.” Nicole went cold, and it was an effort to keep her teeth from chattering. “She told me she worked for an agency, but she never said which one. Are you saying she’s not a nurse?”
“There is some question about it,” he said. “We’ve called every nursing agency in London as well as the Royal College of Nursing, but there’s no one of that name.” He put his notebook away and stood up. “I think that’s enough for today. I don’t want to overtire you.”
“Wait,” she said, “I want to ask you something. Do you think those men mistook me for Mrs. Lowry — like the paper did — because I’m staying in her house?”
With a sigh, Reinhardt sat down again. “Anything is possible,” he said. “After fifteen years in police work, I’d be a fool not to admit that. But I’ve also learned not to jump to conclusions before all the evidence is in. At this point we have no idea who those men are or what they’re after.”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the opposite wall. “I will tell you this much,” he finally said. “There are times when a member of the public — a tourist like yourself, for example —becomes inadvertently involved in an ongoing investigation. Perhaps she’s witnessed something strange or disturbing and reports it to the police. If the investigation is very hush-hush, then she might not receive a satisfactory explanation. As you can imagine, she might go away feeling confused.”
Nicole nodded, although she wasn’t sure she understood. “Are you saying I stumbled into an undercover investigation?”
For a long moment, he stared at her, then got to his feet. “I’m afraid I’ve already said more than I should,” he said. “I just want you to know that we’re doing everything in our power to ensure your safety. I don’t think you’ll be hearing from these individuals again.
“Sorry, I almost forgot,” he added. “If you do remember anything or hear from Mr. Lowry or the tenant, please give me a ring.” He pulled his notebook out again and, after jotting something down, tore out the page and handed it to her.
After he was gone, Nicole remained sitting up in bed, studying the sheet of paper he’d given her. The name, “Reinhardt,” was written in a loose, masculine scrawl. Beneath it was a phone number.
Replaying their conversation, she remembered things she hadn’t consciously noticed at the time —the heady musk of his aftershave, the dimple in his chin, a scar over his right eye that made that eyebrow slightly irregular.
He had a nice smile, and there had been moments when she’d felt drawn to him. But there were other points in the conversation when his expression had turned grim and he had all the warmth of a hired killer.
She still rankled at the things he’d said about Alice, hinting that she wasn’t who she said she was, that she had, in fact, lied about everything.
Nicole remembered that Alice was from Northern Ireland, a place called Ballycastle. She strained to recall what else Alice had said. The strife of the IRA, the Protestants, and the British government must have been part of her life when she was growing up. Nicole wondered which side her family had been on and how she felt about the use of violence. These were things they hadn’t discussed.
Not that it made any difference. The trouble in Northern Ireland was history. Of course, there were occasional incidents. If Reinhardt had evidence that Alice was connected with terrorists, he hadn’t mentioned it. Besides, no matter what he thought, Nicole was sure Alice would never engage in a wanton act of violence like booby-trapping a car.
She thought again of the moment Reinhardt had said goodbye, the way he’d lingered over their parting handshake, holding onto her hand until she’d withdrawn it. She found herself wondering if he’d actually come for some other reason than to ask about Lowry. Maybe he wanted to let her know the police were watching out for her. But that didn’t make sense. If she were actually at risk, he would have said so; he’d have a moral obligation to warn her. Yet both Reinhardt and Keaton denied she was in any danger at all.
She thought about Reinhardt again—her initial alarm at seeing him here and the ID he’d been so quick to produce. She wondered about his credentials. Surely such things could be forged.
Thinking about it made her head hurt. The terrible feeling of numbness rendered all questions irrelevant. What did it matter if he was a policeman? What did anything matter?
She grabbed the extra blanket and, getting into bed, pulled it up to her chin. After a while, when her teeth stopped chattering and her feet no longer felt like ice, she drifted off to sleep.