do—give the original to the police, a copy to Jimmy
Landi, and keep a copy for herself . Isabelle’s
intention was that Jimmy read the journal; she clearly had felt that he might
see something significant in it. He should be able to read a copy as well as
the original, as could she, since, for whatever reason, Isabelle had made her
promise to read the pages too.
“We
found that page in the bedroom, under the chaise,” Sloane told her. “Maybe
there were other loose pages. Do you think that’s possible?” He didn’t wait for
her to answer. “Let’s get back to the smear of Isabelle Waring’s blood we found
in the downstairs closet. Do you have any idea how that got there?”
“I
had Isabelle’s blood on my hands,” Lacey said. “You know that.”
“Oh,
yes, I know that, but your hands weren’t dripping with blood when you grabbed
that briefcase of yours as you were leaving last night. So what happened? Did
you put something in that briefcase before we got there, something you took
from Isabelle Waring’s bedroom? I think so. Why don’t you tell us what it was?
Were there perhaps more pages like the one you just read scattered around her
room? Is that a good guess?”
“Take
it easy, Eddie. Give Lacey a chance to answer,” Mars urged him.
“Lacey
can have all the time she wants, Nick,” Sloane snapped. “But the truth is going
to be the same. She took something from that room; I’m sure of it. And don’t
you wonder why an innocent bystander would take something like that from the
victim’s home? Can you guess why?” he asked Lacey.
She
wanted desperately to tell them she had the journal, and why she had it. But if
I do, she thought, they’ll demand I turn it over immediately. They won’t let me
make a copy for Heather’s father. And I certainly can’t tell them I’m making a
copy for myself; they’re reacting as though I had something to do with
Isabelle’s death, she thought. I’ll give the original to them tomorrow.
She
stood up. “No, I can’t. Are you finished with me, Detective Sloane?”
“For
today I am, Ms. Farrell, yes. But please keep in mind that being an accessory
after the fact in a murder investigation carries serious penalties. Criminal
penalties,” he added, putting a touch of menace into the words. “And one other
thing: if you did take any of those pages, I have to wonder just how ‘innocent’
a bystander you were. After all, you did happen to be responsible for bringing
the killer into Isabelle Waring’s home.”
Lacey
left without responding. She had to get to the office, but first she was going
to go home to get Heather Landi’s journal. She would stay at her desk this
evening until everyone else had left and make the copies she needed. Tomorrow
she would turn over the original to Sloane. I’ll try to make him understand why
I took it, she thought nervously.
She
started to hail a cab, then decided to walk home. The
mid-afternoon sun felt good. She still had the sensation of being chilled to
the bone. As she crossed Second Avenue, she sensed someone close behind her and
spun around quickly to meet the puzzled eyes of an elderly man.
“Sorry,”
she mumbled as she darted to the curb.
I
expected to see Curtis Caldwell, Lacey thought, upset to realize she was
trembling. If the journal was what he was after, then he didn’t get it. Would
he come back for it? He knows I saw him and can identify him as a murderer.
Until the police caught Caldwell—if they caught him—she was in danger, she was
certain of that. She tried to force the thought out of her mind.
The
lobby of her building felt like a sanctuary, but when Lacey got off at her
floor, the
Landi, and keep a copy for herself . Isabelle’s
intention was that Jimmy read the journal; she clearly had felt that he might
see something significant in it. He should be able to read a copy as well as
the original, as could she, since, for whatever reason, Isabelle had made her
promise to read the pages too.
“We
found that page in the bedroom, under the chaise,” Sloane told her. “Maybe
there were other loose pages. Do you think that’s possible?” He didn’t wait for
her to answer. “Let’s get back to the smear of Isabelle Waring’s blood we found
in the downstairs closet. Do you have any idea how that got there?”
“I
had Isabelle’s blood on my hands,” Lacey said. “You know that.”
“Oh,
yes, I know that, but your hands weren’t dripping with blood when you grabbed
that briefcase of yours as you were leaving last night. So what happened? Did
you put something in that briefcase before we got there, something you took
from Isabelle Waring’s bedroom? I think so. Why don’t you tell us what it was?
Were there perhaps more pages like the one you just read scattered around her
room? Is that a good guess?”
“Take
it easy, Eddie. Give Lacey a chance to answer,” Mars urged him.
“Lacey
can have all the time she wants, Nick,” Sloane snapped. “But the truth is going
to be the same. She took something from that room; I’m sure of it. And don’t
you wonder why an innocent bystander would take something like that from the
victim’s home? Can you guess why?” he asked Lacey.
She
wanted desperately to tell them she had the journal, and why she had it. But if
I do, she thought, they’ll demand I turn it over immediately. They won’t let me
make a copy for Heather’s father. And I certainly can’t tell them I’m making a
copy for myself; they’re reacting as though I had something to do with
Isabelle’s death, she thought. I’ll give the original to them tomorrow.
She
stood up. “No, I can’t. Are you finished with me, Detective Sloane?”
“For
today I am, Ms. Farrell, yes. But please keep in mind that being an accessory
after the fact in a murder investigation carries serious penalties. Criminal
penalties,” he added, putting a touch of menace into the words. “And one other
thing: if you did take any of those pages, I have to wonder just how ‘innocent’
a bystander you were. After all, you did happen to be responsible for bringing
the killer into Isabelle Waring’s home.”
Lacey
left without responding. She had to get to the office, but first she was going
to go home to get Heather Landi’s journal. She would stay at her desk this
evening until everyone else had left and make the copies she needed. Tomorrow
she would turn over the original to Sloane. I’ll try to make him understand why
I took it, she thought nervously.
She
started to hail a cab, then decided to walk home. The
mid-afternoon sun felt good. She still had the sensation of being chilled to
the bone. As she crossed Second Avenue, she sensed someone close behind her and
spun around quickly to meet the puzzled eyes of an elderly man.
“Sorry,”
she mumbled as she darted to the curb.
I
expected to see Curtis Caldwell, Lacey thought, upset to realize she was
trembling. If the journal was what he was after, then he didn’t get it. Would
he come back for it? He knows I saw him and can identify him as a murderer.
Until the police caught Caldwell—if they caught him—she was in danger, she was
certain of that. She tried to force the thought out of her mind.
The
lobby of her building felt like a sanctuary, but when Lacey got off at her
floor, the
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