Three o'clock sharp." Thus spake Miss P.
Kenzie arrived at First Avenue and Fifty-second Street a full twelve minutes early. She had the eeriest sense of deja vu, of repeating something she'd done the exact same way before.
Which, of course, she had.
On her last visit.
The doorway on First Avenue into which she ducked to change from her Reeboks into her best heels (now repaired and no longer flats), was the same one where she'd changed shoes the last time. Ditto the shoulder bag into which the Reeboks were relegated.
The sun, beginning its descent behind the Jersey Palisades, sent a tunnel of light straight across Fifty-second Street and on over the East River, where it glinted on the mullioned windows of a thousand factories and warehouses.
As Kenzie approached River House, she was aware of the doorman inspecting her carefully through the thick glass door.
That she passed the first test was apparent when he held it open and let her in, not that she got far. The sign proclaimed that ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED, and it was a house rule which undoubtedly extended to the President of the United States. This was, after all, River House, undeniably one of the premier residences in the entire world.
"May I help you, ma'am?"
The doorman's creaky voice was an instant replay of Kenzie's previous visit, and again, she had that jarring sense of deja vu. For not only were his words the very same, hut so was he!
She recognized him at once. The same shuffling geezer who chased her off the last time.
Tossing her head, Kenzie tried to dazzle him with her thousand-watt smile.
He stared back at her: silent, unimpressed, and expressionless.
Breezily she said, "I have an appointment with Miss P.," thinking: There! At least that's different! The last time, I called her "Miss Pons." Maybe this'll cut the mustard.
It didn't.
"What makes you think we have a Miss P. living here?" His voice was flat and blank, just like his face.
Kenzie turned up the wattage of her smile.
"Because," she said smugly, "she called me yesterday. I spoke to her personally."
"That so?"
"Yes, that's so." God, what a doubting Thomas. "Perhaps you remember me? I was here once before. I represent Burghley's? The auction house? Here's my card ..."
Her voice trailed off as she began to unbuckle her shoulder bag.
"Not necessary." He waved a hand and picked up the house phone. "Ma'am? What you say your name was?"
"Turner. MacKenzie Turner." She looked around the lobby while he dialed, pretending to inspect the decor. Then: "Yeah. This is Artie downstairs? There's a Ms. Turner here. From Burghley's. Claims to have an appointment with Miss P. Yeah ... uh-huh ... right."
Kenzie watched him surreptitiously, but his face gave nothing away.
"Well?" she joked brightly as he hung up. "Am I cleared by the KGB?"
"Nope." He shook his head. "Sorry."
'"What?" she demanded, staring at him in disbelief.
He coughed discreetly, but wouldn't meet her eyes. "Housekeeper says Ms. P.'s in Klosters. That's over there in France or somewhere."
"Switzerland," Kenzie corrected automatically. "When did she leave?"
"Dunno, ma'am," he said. "Musta been on someone else's shift."
"But I just spoke to her yesterday!"
"I wouldn't know about that, ma'am. Perhaps if you tried some other time—"
"Other time? What other time? I was summoned here, dammit!"
"Then perhaps if you telephoned ahead—"
"But that's just it! Don't you see? I don't have her phone number. She's the one who calls me!"
"Then I'm afraid I can't help you." Stony-faced, he went to open the front door to show her out. "Ma'am?"
Kenzie refused to budge. "Look, this is important," she stressed. "Maybe ... maybe there's been a mix-up. What if I used the house phone—"
He looked shocked. "Absolutely not!" he snapped, letting go of the door and striding to the house phone in his determination to intercept her, and guard it with his life, if necessary.
"Then could you please call upstairs once more?"
He shook his head regretfully. "No can do, ma'am."
"But why not?" she demanded incredulously, hands poised on her hips.
"Because we have strict orders," he replied. "The resident of that apartment allows only one call per visitor. No exceptions." He paused. "Ever."
"But surely, when there are extenuating circumstances—"
"No such thing, ma'am." He smiled tightly. "I assure you, not with apartment 5C."
5C. Kenzie mentally filed the number. You never know, she thought. It might come in handy sometime.
"So," she asked broodingly of him, "what do I do now?"
"Ya got me," he said.
"Shit," she swore, under her breath.
"Sorry, ma'am. I don't make the rules."
"Damn and blast it all to hell!" Kenzie muttered. "What I won't do for Burghley's!"
Talk about Kafkaesque! she thought. This is what I'd expect down at Motor Vehicles, not in the most distinguished building in town.
Whirling around, she pushed on the heavy door and let herself out, so quickly that the doorman didn't stand a chance to jump to. She was out before he knew it.
Marching away from the building, Kenzie tried to contain her frustration when—
—she felt it again!
That powerful frisson.
That eerie, spine-tingling sensation of being watched!
Slowing her pace, she felt herself twisting her head, eyes involuntarily drawn to the fifth floor, automatically seeking that same window which had caught her attention the last time.
The breath caught in her throat. There! Invisible unless you knew where to look, the haunting pale image of—
—her!
"Klosters, my ass ... !" Kenzie exclaimed softly.
Lila Pons. It had to be. Cinematically posed behind the squares of casement, head in a turban, she stood with one forearm across her stomach, her hand cupping an elbow as she smoked a cigarette.
For a split second, distance contracted and their eyes seemed to meet.
Then, before Kenzie could react, the ethereal figure drew back into the shadows.
The curtain swung shut.
The window went blank.
Show's over, she thought sardonically, and got a move on. She'd wasted too much time already.
"Final fade-out for Ms. Turner," Kenzie muttered darkly. "Cut and ... print!"