just too chicken.”
Kate shook her head. “You came, didn’t you? That said everything.” She waved goodbye and headed back to the subway to get a train to Manhattan. Partway, she realized she was dying for a cold drink and recalled a terrific coffee shop on the edge of Little Italy, just a few stops from her flat. An ice-cold latte was definitely in order, after her encounter with Toni and friends.
Exiting the shop, chilled drink in hand, she strolled along to the next subway station, thinking she might find a store on the way that sold sleeping bags. Good for Carla for thinking of it. She herself had blithely assumed there’d be clean, pressed sheets on the beds. If the camp had deteriorated as much as Greg Collier had implied, she’d be lucky to have cobwebs and spiders swept away. Kate shivered. God, I hope so.
Luck was with her and she came upon an outfitter store just a block from the subway. By the time she’d made her purchase, she realized it was almost three. She wanted to make sure she had an answer from Kim before the woman left work for the day. Clutching the bag under her arm, she jogged the remaining distance. Later that day, she realized that if she’d been looking where she was going and hadn’t bumped into the woman pushing the stroller out of a grocery store, she might have run right past Lance Marchant.
Swearing under her breath as she stooped to pick up the sleeping bag after her collision with the stroller, Kate paused to rub her scraped shin. When she straightened, she noticed a bright red convertible pull out from the curb. There couldn’t be too many cars like that, she thought, even in New York. She walked briskly toward it, reaching the edge of the curb just as the car arrowed out of the space.
When the driver turned to check oncoming traffic, she saw a shock of white hair and realized that he was definitely Lance Marchant. She almost waved, except that he was looking to his left and not in his rearview mirror. Kate glanced back to the store in front of the parking space. It was one of those all-male sports bars. A dingy-looking one at that. Not some place a man like Lance Marchant would hang out.
She’d just stepped off the curb onto the empty parking space to jaywalk to the other side of the street when a sleek black limousine shot toward her. Kate jumped back onto the sidewalk. There was a flurry of Italian spoken behind her, and as she turned to look, a trio of dark-suited men in sunglasses hustled another man out of the bar and into the rear door of the limousine.
The door slammed and the car, having barely come to a halt, snaked out onto the path of traffic exactly as Marchant had. Must be some kind of celebrity, Kate guessed. Maybe the bar was one of those exclusive places that only the very wealthy knew about. She smiled at the idea, stepped off the curb again and, for the second time in two minutes, was almost run over. This time a battered white van roared into the lane of cars just as Kate was about to take advantage of a break in the traffic.
She swore aloud and would have run alongside the van as it chugged forward into the traffic. But she stopped in her tracks, recognizing one of the two men sitting in front on the passenger side, his finger pointing ahead as he talked to the driver. It was the police officer who’d spoken to her after Joanna’s funeral.
Kate watched the van merge into the mass of cars until it disappeared. What was his name? Anderson? Anders? Andrews? Yes, that was it. Somebody Andrews. She was certain it was him. What was he doing here? And Marchant, too. Seeing two men from Joanna’s funeral in the same neighborhood and virtually at the same time was a little too coincidental.
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