By the time she reached the upstairs bedroom, the phone was ringing again. It was Brad. “I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he said.
“I wondered where you’d gone,” she said, “that required making up a story about taking me to the doctor.”
“Oh, yeah, well …” He gave a quick, frustrated laugh. “Look, I just got back to the office, and it’s a mad house. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”
She was silent.
“Nick?”
“Why can’t you just give me a straight answer?”
“I’ve got people in my office, waiting to talk to me.” He lowered his voice again. “Come on, honey, it’s something good. You know — for us, for our future. Have some faith. It’s not what you think.”
She sighed, wondering if he could possibly imagine what she was thinking. “Alright.”
“Look, I’ll be a little late. Seven thirtyish. Maybe quarter to eight.”
“Whatever.”
“Come on, Nick. Don’t be like that…”
Before he could finish, she hung up. She went over to the window and stared out, recalling the events of the afternoon, the fact that Brad had been missing when Alice disappeared from the restaurant.
For the first time, it struck her that Chazz and Kevin might have had a third partner, someone to drive them from Canary Wharf to where they intercepted her. The driver would have then raced ahead to a prearranged stop where the two men planned to take her off the train. It was crazy to think Brad was part of this. Whatever his failings, he’d never associate with criminal types like Chazz and Kevin, much less drive their getaway car. Yet the events of the last few days had created a new reality where anything seemed possible.
She was still standing at the window when the phone went off again. She picked it up on the second ring.
“Oh, Nicole, thank God!” It was her sister’s voice. “I couldn’t reach you, and I was getting really worried. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Nicole said. “I hope you’re calling to say you heard from the Lowrys.”
“No such luck,” Stephanie said glumly. “Listen, I have a bit of bad news. But there’s no real harm done, so don’t get upset, all right?”
“Just say it.”
“Right,” Stephanie said. “Someone broke into your condo last night. When I got here a little while ago, the place was a mess. Some of the drawers were dumped out in the bedroom and study. Fortunately, nothing seems to be missing, so maybe they were scared off before they had a chance to take anything. I checked your jewelry, Mom’s silver service, the TV, and speakers. It’s all here.” Then she added, “Oh, except for Brad’s laptop, but he took that with him, didn’t he?”
“Of course,” Nicole said. “Well, everything’s all right then.” She did her best to sound calm.
“I’m not sure,” Stephanie said. “Something weird is going on with your phone. Like, when I’m here watering your plants and it rings? As soon as I say hello, they hang up. Just now, while I was checking around to see what was missing, it happened again.”
“My God, Steph,” Nicole said. “Are you telling me you’re alone there? Didn’t you call the police?”
“Of course I did. They’ll be here any minute. Look, Nicole, after all that’s happened, don’t you think you should come home? We can’t leave this place unoccupied. It’s an invitation for the burglar to come back and finish the job.”
Nicole was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I’m afraid I can’t leave London just yet.” Bracing herself for her sister’s reaction, she described her troubles with Brad, including a somewhat amended account of his strange secretiveness.
There was a long silence. Then Stephanie said, “I’m really sorry, but I can’t say I’m surprised or that I didn’t already have a pretty good suspicion …” The phone crackled, and Stephanie’s voice cut out, a reminder of the thousands of miles of ocean and land that separated them. The link was reestablished in time for Stephanie’s summation: “… they’re all alike, every one of them.”
It wasn’t necessary to ask Stephanie to repeat herself. Instead, Nicole said, “So I’m sure you understand how important it is for me to stay here long enough to straighten things out.”
“I can’t imagine why you think you can straighten it out,” Stephanie sighed. “Or why you want to stay in a city with terrorists planting car bombs. I mean, did they ever catch those guys?”
“Listen, Steph, getting involved in a random act of terrorism is like being struck by lightning. It isn’t going to happen again — at least not to me. Really. That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.”
“I’d feel better if you were home,” Stephanie said. “And what are we going to do about the condo?” She was quiet a moment, then, “Hey, I know! I’ll close up my place and stay here until you get back.”
“That’s not necessary,” Nicole said quickly. “Just let the police know we’re out of town and leave a note for the Goodmans. They have the unit next to ours. They can keep an eye on things.”
“But if we leave it empty, you’ll get ripped off.”
“I don’t care about the condo. I care about you,” Nicole said. “Promise me you won’t stay there, okay?
“Fine,” Stephanie said. “It’s a free country. If you want to support the criminal underclass by donating your household valuables, that’s your right.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I think I’ll keep Arnold at my place. I feel better with him around.”
After they hung up, Nicole felt shaken, unable to take in this new development; the situation was spinning out of control, involving more and more of the people around her. It was possible, of course, that this new break-in was a coincidence, but her instincts told her that the people hunting for Lowry were behind it.
She wondered if Stephanie might be in danger. Half a world away, it was impossible to assess the situation. Yet she had the feeling Stephanie would be all right — as long as she didn’t take it into her head to stay at the condo.
She walked back to the window and stood gazing out at the quiet street, her mind abuzz. She remembered something Reinhardt had said about Lowry— that the police wanted to talk to him because someone he knew was under investigation. Now that she thought about it, this seemed odd. The law firm she worked for rarely handled criminal cases. But in cases she’d read about, the police never went to this much trouble to track down anyone who wasn’t party to the crime under investigation. Sure, they made an effort to find key witnesses, but these were usually people who needed immunity to testify, as well as protection from their former associates.
This raised new questions about Lowry. She decided it might be worthwhile taking another look around the house. Maybe there was something she hadn’t noticed before, a clue about what was going on.
The bedroom closet, where Freddy and Muriel’s clothes were jammed in around the safe, seemed a good place to start. When she opened the closet door, she was hit by the musty smell of mothballs, cigarette smoke, and stale perfume. She pushed her way past the safe and tried to part the wall of hanging garments, but they were jammed in too tightly. So she began pulling armloads of clothing out of the closet and tossing them on the bed.
She found only a few items that belonged to Freddy — a worn navy blazer with dull brass buttons, a pair of mustard-colored pants with a sprung elastic waistband, and a plastic bag containing a dated-looking pin-striped suit with wide lapels. The pockets held nothing but a sprinkling of tobacco crumbs.
Most of the clothes seemed to be Muriel’s—sweaters and dresses, a few pairs of shoes lined up neatly in a built-in shoe rack. On the shelf was a box holding a hat and some handbags.
When it was all in a big pile on the bed, she began sorting through it, item by item, shaking out each piece before she put it back in the closet. At the top of the stack was a beige wool knit vest, apparently belonging to Muriel. It was in bad shape, stretched almost to dress length, its texture shaggy with pilling; next came a navy suit, baggy and covered with lint, but otherwise resembling a policewoman’s uniform. The suit, she noted, was about her own size, the vest large enough to accommodate two of her. No pockets in either.
Next came four shapeless rayon dresses, all in a similar granny-dress style. They ranged in sizes, she noticed, from one that would fit her to one that was size eighteen. Other than a few petrified Kleenexes, the pockets yielded nothing. She quickly made her way through the rest, an endless stack of separates — blouses, skirts, slacks — none of them matching. At the bottom of the pile was an oversized gray jogging suit that might have belonged to either Lowry.
The shoes were ancient and lifeless — a pair of cracked white plastic high-heeled boots, several pairs of caved-in black pumps. The purses were not only old, but covered with dust, as if they hadn’t been used in years. They were empty. She unfolded a black knit cap, and a small winged insect flew out. Sure enough, when she held the cap up to the light, it was dotted with tiny holes.
When the clothes had been inspected and returned to the closet, she felt more puzzled than before. True, Mrs. Lowry might be a thrift shop addict. But the items hanging in the closet didn’t appear to be a functioning wardrobe.
She went over to the bedroom’s second bureau, the one still filled with the Lowrys’ things, and started going through it. In the bottom drawer, she found a moth-eaten sweater vest, a faded blue nylon nightgown, and a couple of pairs of mismatched men’s socks. In the next drawer were two pairs of women’s underpants of the pre-bikini variety, and a hopelessly tangled ball of leggings and pantyhose. Another drawer contained a cache of junk jewelry — cheap beads, tarnished bangles, and snap-together pearls — all tangled together.
As she closed the last drawer, she realized she hadn’t yet come across any winter coats or jackets in the Lowrys’ wardrobe. This was strange, given London’s harsh winters. Except for a single pink poplin raincoat — lightweight and unlined — there were no coats at all, no boots, mufflers, or mittens. But surely they wouldn’t take their winter things to L.A., not in June. She dragged a stool into the hallway and poked her head through a trap door in the ceiling. The light shone through the side vents of the attic, revealing bare rafters but no provision for storing clothes. She pulled the door shut and climbed down.
Next, she worked her way through the rest of the closets and even braved a quick foray into the basement, but she found no winter attire.
Back in the Lowrys’ bedroom, she began to rummage through the drawers of the night table. Here, she found a pair of sunglasses with cream-colored plastic frames, a key ring, assorted small change, a packet of embroidery needles, and a plastic bag filled with a rainbow assortment of sewing thread. In a side storage compartment sat a phonebook. When she lifted it out, she discovered a stack of magazines, notable in being the first and only reading material she’d encountered among the Lowrys’ possessions. She set them down on the night table and flipped through them. They were travel magazines, well-worn and dog-eared.
She sat down on the bed to take a closer look. The top magazine was folded open to an article entitled, “Off the Beaten Track in South America.” The piece talked about the lonely beauty of the Guyanan highlands, the pristine beaches of French Guiana, the remote villages of the Peruvian Andes. Below that, several other magazines were dog-eared on articles about exotic and isolated places: Australia’s great outback, the New Zealand Bush, the vast savannas of South Africa, lost ashrams in the Himalayas, the stark landscape of India’s Malabar Coast, the surprising beauty of springtime in Siberia.
Next came some pamphlets offering real estate, in some cases whole islands, in Uruguay, Chile, Venezuela. A more elaborate brochure contained color photos of plantations for sale in Colombia, Honduras, and Nicaragua, although no specific crops were mentioned. At the bottom of the stack was a booklet with full-color spreads of estates in Ecuador. A paragraph in the introduction described Ecuador as a popular spot for foreign settlers because of the country’s very low taxes and “even more importantly, the privacy Ecuador offers as a nation beyond the reach of most extradition laws.” This passage was underlined in pen.
Nicole studied the page for a long time, digesting its implications. Clearly, this wasn’t describing a vacation spot, but a hideout for people with enough money to make sure they weren’t found by those who could launch a worldwide search — the law or the mob.
This suggested the Lowrys never intended to occupy her condo at all. Perhaps they planned the house swap as a diversion, a way to keep their house occupied so they could buy a few days’ time and disappear. “Gone to ground” was a phrase that occurred to her, like a spy who’s blown his cover or someone in the witness protection program.
A sudden banging on the front door brought her to her feet. Then the mailbox cover rattled and Brad’s voice called, “Hey, Nick, I forgot the key. Let me in!”
She glanced at her watch. It was 7:30 p.m. She hurried down to the front door and, after peeking out, opened it. Brad was standing there. The expression on his face infuriated her. After everything that had happened, he actually looked pleased with himself.
“My God,” he said, “do you realize how ferocious you look? Like some babe in one of those old comic strips, ready to hit the old man on the head with a rolling pin.”
At that moment, she came close to truly hating him. It was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, getting a glimpse of the real Brad.
In response to her stare, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to come clean about everything. I’m working on a special project for Coop.” His smile broadened, as if he thought she’d be happy to receive the news. “This is something really big, my first real chance to show what I can do.”
He took her hand, and before she could pull it free, steered her into the living room. “I was planning to tell you, but first I wanted to make sure things were working out.”
She took a seat on the couch and, against all reason, willed herself to keep an open mind. What if he was going to tell her the whole truth, she asked herself. What if he had dumped Brenda and was determined to be a better person? At the same time, she feared that nothing could save their marriage.
He sank into the blue wing chair opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “It’s a new venture,” he said. “A firm that uses electronic trading to invest in currency futures. You know, of Third World countries.”
“I don’t get it,” she said. “How could you be working on something for Bill Cooper if you were out of the office all afternoon?”
He was silent, as if gathering his thoughts. “Look, this project I’m involved with — it’s top secret. Nobody at SoftPac is supposed to know. Coop doesn’t want me working on it down there. We’re, like, doing the whole thing through another company, out of their offices.” He paused and gave a smile, earnest and imploring. “Nick, I need to ask a favor.”
“A favor,” she repeated.
“Right,” he said. “I have to go back there tomorrow morning, so I told Bren’ I was bringing you in for more medical tests. And, well, I want to be sure you don’t call the office looking for me. You know, like you did this afternoon. If anyone calls here before noon, just don’t answer the phone. Got it?”
She stared at him, thinking what a liar he was. SoftPac had sent him to England to solve a serious management crisis at Britcomp, which was their first big investment abroad. While he was on this assignment, they’d never saddle him with a huge task like setting up a new business. Yet she knew how useless it was to confront him. He’d only embellish the lie, trying to make it sound more plausible, and she couldn’t bear to listen.
“Nick?” he said. “Can I count on you?”
“All right. I won’t answer the phone. That’s easy enough.” This said, she quickly moved on to tell him about the call from Stephanie, the news of the condo break-in, and the fact that the Lowrys still hadn’t showed up.
“Jesus,” he said. “What about our new sound system?”
“Stephanie checked. She says nothing’s missing.”
He put his hands over his face and was silent for a long moment before he looked at her again. “You know something?” he said, shaking his head. “This house swap was the stupidest idea …”
“Right,” she said crisply, cutting him off. “One more question. What exactly did you tell Brenda?”
“Pardon me?”
“How did you explain what happened this afternoon? You know, you’re supposed to be taking me to the doctor, and then I call the office, looking for you.”
He flushed slightly. “Promise you won’t be mad?”
She waited.
“I told her it was because you got knocked on the head when that car blew up,” he said. “You know, it sort of blitzed your short-term memory. I explained that I really had taken you in for your medical appointment. I brought you home and had just gone over to the pharmacy to get your prescriptions.”
As she stared at him, her anger — already simmering — erupted into a boiling rage closely resembling the fireball that had consumed the Lowrys’ car. “You told her I forgot that you’d just been here?” Her words came out in a low shout.
“Come on, Nick. You promised you wouldn’t get mad,” he said. “I mean, I told her it was temporary; the doc said you’d get over it.”
“How could you imagine I wouldn’t get mad,” she ranted, “when you portray me as some kind of amnesia case who loses hours at a time?”
“I swore her to secrecy,” he said. “Don’t worry. She’s good at keeping her mouth shut.”
“I’ll bet she is.” She gave him one last angry look and began leafing through the newspaper, pretending to read.
Brad was determined to finish describing his new project. As he launched into the details, she realized there was something familiar about the idea. Then she remembered. Brad had mentioned it before. It wasn’t Bill Cooper’s brainchild, but Brad’s own, one of the get-rich-quick schemes he was always hatching. At the time, Nicole had pointed out to him that Third World countries had laws against foreigners messing around with their currency. And to flaunt such laws was to risk being tossed into a filthy, toiletless cell in Africa or Central America.
“What a Cassandra you are!” Brad had scoffed. “Our government never allows foreign countries to extradite Americans for chicken shit like that.” He hadn’t denied that the scheme was illegal, she noticed, nor had he brought it up again, until now.
Rumor had it that Cooper was planning to make SoftPac a publicly traded corporation. If that were true, he couldn’t afford to be involved in anything even remotely shady. No, she decided, this was exactly the kind of thing Brad was always daydreaming about — the fortune that could be made if only he had the guts to take a few risks. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that this scheme had Brad’s name written all over it.