The Nanny Murders Part 14

"How do you know?" He took the sprinkles from her.

Karen put down her spatula and touched my arm, eavesdropping along with me. She still hoped Tamara was alive. She didn't know about the finger I'd found or the bag of limbs that had been discovered a few blocks away.

"I've seen him. He sneaks around and watches her." Molly knocked over the bottle of cinnamon candies. "Oops-uh-oh." They began stuffing the spilled pieces into their mouths, giggling.

Karen whispered, "What's she saying?"

"It's anxiety," I whispered back. "She's imagining stuff." She had to be. There was no other explanation.

Karen nodded and went back to taking cookies from the tray. "I love these." Nicholas's mouth was stuffed with candy. "Me, too."

Karen's eyes began to relax. "I guess it's her way of coping," she whispered. But we continued to eavesdrop on the children. "Where'd you see him?" "By my house." "For real?" "Uh-huh."

"Then what's he look like?" "Like-just-scary." "You're making it up-" "I am not-I've seen him-"

"Nicholas," Karen interrupted. Her eyes were disapproving. Alarmed. "Here's a batch of stars. You haven't done any stars yet."

The conversation was halted, the topic changed. The rest of the afternoon, n.o.body mentioned Angela or a scary man or any of the missing nannies. But when we said good-bye and left with arms loaded with cookie tins, I knew what would linger there, so I avoided Karen's eyes.

TWENTY-FOUR.

MONDAY MORNING, ANGELA ARRIVED WITH AN ATt.i.tUDE. SHE SHE was miffed, wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't even look at me. was miffed, wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't even look at me.

I tried to deal with her. "You got your nails done," I said. They were about three inches of crimson acrylic, a pattern of rhinestones glittering on her ring fingers. Molly craned her neck over the kitchen counter to see.

"Yeah." Her word pierced the air like a shot.

"Your hair looks nice, too." It had a few extra layers of spray, tough to break through.

She didn't answer.

"Can we paint my nails, too, Mom? Can we?"

"Sure. If Angela wants to. Go get the nail kit." The nail kit was an old shoe box where we kept polish and clippers; Molly scampered off to get it. As soon as she was out of the room, I asked, "Okay. You want to tell me what's up?"

"Nothing's up."

"Angela. Either tell me or don't, but either way, deal with it."

She turned to me, hand on hip. "Okay, you wanna know? You got no business setting me up with that guy."

It took me a second to figure out what she was talking about. Then I remembered: Jake. The ride home.

"I got you a ride home so you wouldn't have to walk alone-"

Angela wheeled around. "Look, there's just somethin' about that guy."

"He was probably flirting. Don't take it so seriously."

"No, no. I don't like him and I don't want his d.a.m.n rides. I can take care of myself." Her fingers flew, nails carving the air. "I don't need no personal bodyguard. I take kickboxing. Don't worry about me. I know what to do, anybody messes with me."

"You take kickboxing?"

"I do. I'll teach you, too, if you want. I'm teaching Molly." "You're teaching Molly?"

"Sure. Why not? She's gotta know how to defend herself, same as the rest of us."

"Angela, look. Those cla.s.ses are great, but a real killer might not approach you the way the instructor demonstrates-"

"What do you know about it? They show us all kinds of ways. They come at us from every direction." Then she softened a little. "Look, Joe'd have a fit, me getting rides home from work with some guy. I know you got my interests at heart, Zoe. But I got it covered. n.o.body's gonna bother me."

She took two eggs out of the fridge and cracked them into a bowl for Molly's breakfast. She beat the eggs a little too enthusiastically.

I understood about Joe, though. Her longtime boyfriend, a car mechanic with perpetually dirty fingernails, was known for his fragile ego and a hot temper. He was possessive and s.h.i.+fty-eyed, and I'd often wondered what Angela saw in him. "You know, with all those nannies missing, Joe should be glad someone drove you home and kept his eye on you."

"Yeah? Well, anybody keeps his eye on me, Joe's gonna punch it out."

"I don't think he'll mess with Jake."

"What's that supposed to mean? You think Joe's not as buffed as Jake? He lifts every day. Joe can lift one-sixty."

"I didn't mean that." Well, I did, actually. Joe was probably six inches shorter than Jake; he'd get clobbered. "I meant he had too much sense to mess with a guy who's only trying to help us out. If there were more people like Jake in the neighborhood, maybe some of those women would still be around."

"What? Are you inferring that it's Joe's fault that women are disappearing?"

"Implying," I said. "Not inferring."

She sputtered, defending her boyfriend, and I considered what she'd just said. Even if Angela didn't consciously suspect him, did she sense that Joe had something to do with the missing nannies? Joe wasn't local, but he was in and out of the neighborhood because of Angela. Besides, he had a nasty temper, insecurities about women. Should I mention him to Nick? What was happening to me? Because of Nick and his d.a.m.ned profile, I was beginning to suspect everyone. Joe wasn't capable of kidnapping and murder. He couldn't be.

Something out the window caught Angela's attention. She stopped scolding and stood on her tiptoes to see better.

Beyond the pa.s.sing cars, Phillip Woods stood on his porch, b.u.t.toning his coat. A construction crew huddled with thermoses of coffee.

"There's Jake now." Angela's long nails arranged her hair. "I gotta go deal with this."

"Are you sure? With the whole crew around, you might not want to-"

But she was already out the door, a pet.i.te, busty woman without a coat, in skin-tight jeans, high-heeled boots, and fancy fingernails, headed smack into a cl.u.s.ter of bulky construction workers. I expected hoots and fireworks, but as she strutted up to them, they nodded cordially or tipped their hats. She and Jake stepped aside. Talking, gesturing. If her body language meant anything, it wasn't a fight.

"Here-I got it." Molly returned with the nail kit. "Where's Angela?"

Angela was standing in front of Jake, pointing her finger into his chest. Was she threatening him or flirting? Her clawlike nail rested on his jacket, provocative, either way.

"She'll be right back," I said. "Let's pick a color. I have to go to work soon."

"I want the same as Angela."

"Red, then."

"I know. Which red?" She searched the bottles, lining reds along the counter.

"Molly," I said, "has Angela taught you kickboxing?"

She grinned. "Yeah. It's like karate. Wanna see? Somebody comes at you from the front, you smash their nose like this and kick like that." She demonstrated on the air. "Or you go like this behind their knee and they fall."

She jabbed her foot into empty s.p.a.ce, buckling an imaginary leg, an unfamiliar viciousness in her eyes. Who was this child? "I think this is the red Angela has."

She came running over to look.

Outside, Angela tossed her head and sashayed back to our house. Jake stood watching her, head tilted, bemused. If she'd wanted him to leave her alone, she might not have made her point.

TWENTY-FIVE.

AS ARRANGED WITH N NICK, WHEN I I GOT TO THE INSt.i.tUTE, GOT TO THE INSt.i.tUTE, I set out to find Dr. Beverly Gardener's office to pick up the profile. Her office was listed in the lobby as Room 37, in the bas.e.m.e.nt, where most staff psychiatrists had their offices. My work almost never took me down there; in fact, I'd been in the bas.e.m.e.nt only twice and hadn't enjoyed either visit. The air there was tomblike and musty, the halls intricate and poorly lit. A catacomb. I set out to find Dr. Beverly Gardener's office to pick up the profile. Her office was listed in the lobby as Room 37, in the bas.e.m.e.nt, where most staff psychiatrists had their offices. My work almost never took me down there; in fact, I'd been in the bas.e.m.e.nt only twice and hadn't enjoyed either visit. The air there was tomblike and musty, the halls intricate and poorly lit. A catacomb.

But I was supposed to meet her there at nine to pick up a copy of her report. So, bracing myself, I walked past Agnes to the elevator at the end of the corridor and pushed the down b.u.t.ton. Tired metal rattled and creaked, and slowly the dial indicated that the car was groaning its way to the first floor.

Finally, the elevator doors slid open. I was uneasy about the meeting. Dr. Gardener might think I wasn't qualified to work with her-after all, I wasn't headline material. But I didn't have to justify my role was here at the request of the police. Nick had said he'd discussed my involvement with her.

The doors opened, and I entered the dimly lit labyrinth of marble floors and drafty corridors. A maze of gray walls lined with frosted gla.s.s doors. What was behind all those doors? Private offices? Patients' rooms? Closets? Pa.s.sing an open one, I peeked in. A huge expanse of white tiles surrounded a four-legged bathtub in the center of the floor. Nothing else was in there. Not a sink. Not a cabinet. Not a towel rack. Creepy. I kept walking.

I saw n.o.body, heard only my own footsteps echoing along the walls. I followed the numbers. 77, 75. At 59, I encountered a pungent smell. Pipe tobacco? At 53, shrill laughter rolled under the door. When I got to 47, a door slammed behind me; I looked around. No one was there. The click of high-heeled shoes echoed from an intersecting corridor. Somewhere a door opened and closed. Then silence. Just the padding of my own shoes. I looked behind me. The hallway extended emptily back to the elevator. I walked on. Now the door said 92. d.a.m.n. I was lost. I turned back and retraced my steps. At 84, harsh laughing erupted, then abruptly ended, emphasizing the silence that followed. At 43, the hallway veered left. 42. 41. I was back on track.

From somewhere came a dull, rhythmic thumping. Maybe from an alcove up ahead, a waiting area. Was it footsteps? Yes, maybe someone pacing. Maybe in the alcove. I slowed, listening, watching. A lone shadow emerged from the alcove and slid along the hallway floor. Back and forth. Then it stopped, lay still, a dark stripe among shadows. Had it heard my footsteps? Why was it so still? Who was there?

A clammy draft tickled my neck; I wheeled around, saw no one. The hallway was deserted, except for me and the shadow in the alcove. No stalkers. No ghosts. No reason to be nervous. Besides, Dr. Gardener's office was just a few doors ahead, within easy reach. I pictured myself breathlessly bursting through her door, panicking. No. I wasn't going to do that. The shadow began to pace again.

Okay, I told myself. Enough. The hall is dim and creepy, and every sound makes eerie echoes, but that doesn't mean that there's a serial killer in the alcove. Just keep walking and mind your own business. I made myself continue, step by step. I was fine. Even so, the hairs on my neck stiffened as I approached the waiting area. Pa.s.sing the opening, I braced myself, ready to bolt.

I didn't bolt, though. I did a double take, not registering the face at first. I recognized it but needed a minute to place it; the face didn't belong at the Inst.i.tute. Gradually, though, I recognized the spectacles, the pale face, the cashmere coat. The man in the alcove was my neighbor Phillip Woods.

Phillip Woods? I was so relieved, I almost hugged him and laughed out loud. But we were in a psychiatric hospital. I wasn't sure he'd want to be recognized, let alone to be embraced with laughter by his neighbor. What was he doing here? Was he a patient? Or visiting one? He gaped at me, wide-eyed, apparently as nervous as I'd been. I nodded and kept walking, trying to be discreet, trying to absorb the oddity of finding Phillip Woods pacing the bowels of the Inst.i.tute's bas.e.m.e.nt.

Finally, number 37 was just across the hall. The door featured large block letters announcing the doctor's name. I knocked but got no answer. Knocked again. Finally, I tried the doork.n.o.b. The door was locked, the office dark. What was going on? Beverly Gardener knew I was coming; Nick had set up our appointment. I didn't notice the envelope until I stepped back to leave. It was taped inconspicuously to the wood below the k.n.o.b, and my name was on it.

"Zoe," I read. We'd never formally met, but she used my first name. Establis.h.i.+ng her dominance? "Urgent police consult called me away. Call to reschedule." It was signed "BG." Not "Beverly."

Damp breath tickled my ear. "Are you-I beg your pardon, Ms. Hayes." I wheeled around and found myself nose to nose with Phillip Woods. I hadn't heard him approach. "Is that note perhaps-so sorry to intrude-but is that possibly a message from Dr. Gardener?"

I tried to back away but b.u.mped into the door.

"Oh, excuse me," he exclaimed without moving away. "I didn't mean to startle you. I mean to say, I didn't realize you were acquainted with Beverly-oh my. Small world, isn't it?" He stopped to clear his throat, as if realizing the awkwardness of our situation. His eyes s.h.i.+fted, flitting to the wall, back to me. "Well. I didn't expect to see you. Certainly not here. Where's your little girl?"

I swallowed. "She's home. I work here, Mr. Woods. I'm an art therapist."

"Oh? Oh my. How fascinating. Yes. Well, then. You and Beverly must be colleagues." Mr. Woods peered at me through thick lenses, blinking rapidly. I tried to smile, but my mouth twisted, must have resembled a grimace. "So, your little daughter's at home. I don't have children myself, of course. Not yet. Although I may finally have found the right woman." He giggled briefly. "Well, maybe. Time will tell. But you seem a devoted mother. Lucky for your child. I was sent away to school when I was just a boy. To Europe. Switzerland, actually. You see, Mother traveled with Father. Diplomatic service. But it wasn't all bad. I met Charles, Andrew. Stephanie. All sorts of royals."

"Interesting," I said. "How many of you were there?"

"How many?"

"Children."

"Oh, well. Just myself. Just the one." He cleared his throat, eyes darting away. Changing topics. "I'm puzzled about Beverly- Dr. Gardener. I don't understand where she can be. She should have known I was coming by. I called the station first, of course. But they, well, they put me on hold. Can you imagine?"

"You called her radio show?" I'd often wondered what kind of people called in and aired their problems for others' entertainment. How could they seek serious help in three minutes between commercial breaks? But here was cashmere-coasted Phillip Woods, admitting that he'd made a call.

"Yes, I called. I told them I was a close friend of Beverly's, but they still didn't put me through."

"Dr. Gardener's your friend?" Prominent Beverly Gardener and mousy Phillip Woods? It was hard to imagine them in a room together, much less in a personal relations.h.i.+p.

"Oh yes. Of course. We're very close. Believe me, heads will roll when she finds out they put me on hold. I waited a half hour, and then they disconnected me-can you believe it? I called again, and the line was busy. So I called here and found out she was expected, and I left the message that I'd be dropping by. I should have done that to begin with. But I thought I'd give her a kick, you know, a dear friend popping up on the air."

"I see." His story seemed far-fetched. Probably he was making it up, creating a cover story, embarra.s.sed to be found seeing a shrink. I began to move away, but he stepped into my path.

"The receptionist confirmed that Beverly was expected in her office today. I can't imagine where she is." Had Agnes sent him down here? She should have known better.

"Well, Dr. Gardener's a busy woman; you'd probably be wise to make an appointment."

"An appointment? Me? Oh, I don't think so. She'll make the time."

"Like I said, she's very busy." I looked him in the eye.

"Besides, she owes me half an hour. After all, I waited on hold all that time." He chuckled, as if at a joke. If there was one, I didn't get it.

"I don't know what to tell you. I don't know when she'll be in." I took a sideways step and began to walk away.

He nodded, staring at the floor. "Yes, all right."

"But I doubt it'll be soon." I walked a few steps and turned back.

He stood still, bereft. A lost man in need of help.

"Maybe Agnes, the receptionist in the lobby, can phone her beeper for you."

"No, no. I don't want to alarm her. It's no real emergency."