In the shower she ate the rest of the chocolate bar from one hand while she used the other to soap herself from head to toe before she rinsed off. Just as she was wiping the water from her eyes and reached for the tap, she heard the door open.
Shit, she’d forgotten to lock it. “Almost done,” she called out desperately.
Meriden cast a big shadow on the other side of the curtain. “How did you blow both tires on the bike?”
This was not the conversation she wanted to have while she was standing naked and dripping wet with a paper-thin piece of opaque plastic between them. “I don’t know. Something hit me from behind.”
“They’re fucked.”
So was she. “Okay.”
“I ordered new.” He made it sound as if he’d paid for them in blood.
“Thanks.” Could she reach for her towel without flashing him? Probably not. “Let me get dressed and then we’ll go over—”
“Don’t bother.” His voice sounded odd. “I’m outta here.” And then he was.
Rowan peeked around the edge of the curtain to be sure, then stepped out and dried off with two swipes. Her damp body made it harder to get back into her clothes, but she was nothing if not determined.
Once she’d covered everything she didn’t want him ogling, she stepped out onto the landing. Meriden wasn’t there, so she knocked on his door and waited, rubbing the towel over her wet curls. He didn’t answer.
“Snotty bastard.” She stomped back into the bathroom, collected her stuff and went into her apartment. She had meant to go shopping today for supplies, but she’d blown that. She ate the rest of the chocolate she’d filched from the pantry to quiet her belly and chugged the last of the iced condensed milk, wishing for coffee but not daring to spare the time to make it. By the time her watch read 5:55 p.m., she had made herself presentable and went downstairs.
Lonzo was waiting for her. “You’re late.”
Maybe Dansant hadn’t told him what her working hours were. “I start at six.”
“If you’re not fifteen minutes early,” he told her with a stab of his finger at the wall clock, “you’re late.”
From the depth of his scowl Lonzo was clearly in a bad mood. “I’m sorry, Chef. It won’t happen again.” She glanced around. “Did you see Meriden—uh, the other tenant who lives upstairs—come down and leave?”
“What am I, your fucking doorman?” He made a rude gesture. “We got a truck waiting outside and five meez to restock. Get your ass out there and start unloading.”
Rowan started for the back door.
“Trick.” When she turned, Lonzo tossed an apron at her. “This is your uniform. I see you outta uniform again, you’re cleaning squid for a week.”
She’d probably be cleaning squid for a week anyway. “Understood, Chef.”
The delivery truck’s driver was only slightly less annoyed with her than Lonzo, but Rowan kept her mouth shut, her head down, and unloaded the boxes marked for D’Anges. By the time she stowed the last one inside, another truck rolled up. While she was unloading that one, the line cooks started arriving. No one offered to help, but Rowan knew better than to ask. Vince, the rôtisseur, stayed outside the back door to smoke a cigarette and watch.
Of all the line cooks, Vince was the one Rowan liked least. He was a few inches shorter than her and about a hundred pounds heavier, with wiry strawberry-blond hair and a pudgy face. Rosacea bloomed like heat rash on his chin and cheeks, and a network of broken capillaries around his nostrils attested to a serious drinking problem. He had light brown eyes nested in the puffy bags and deep wrinkles of a much older man. He’d visited the kitchen john several times the night before, and from the used-ashtray smell of his whites she guessed he’d gone in to sneak a smoke.
Vince had a wheezing, high-pitched voice like a washed-up boxer who had gotten punched in the nose and throat too many times, and when he spoke to her it was mainly in the direction of her tits. “You enjoying the new job, baby?”
“Love it.” Rowan counted the boxes before she checked the driver’s invoice and signed off on it. She bent to pick up a box, and straightened into a cloud of smoke. He’d shifted a little so he could blow it in her face, but she’d be damned if she’d let out a single cough. “Those things will kill you.”
“That or the whiskey,” he agreed. He squinted again at her chest, his lips pursed as if he were judging it for a boobs contest. “Danz gave you a place upstairs, I heard.”
She started to carry the box inside, but he barred the door with one beefy arm. The box dragged at her arms, and if she ducked under she’d drop it. “Yeah. He did.”
“You getting lonely up there, by yourself?” He showed her his crooked, nicotine-yellowed teeth. “Maybe you want a little company later?”
Telling him she was a lesbian would probably just turn him on. “I got company, thanks.”
“Oh, yeah? Who? Not Danz,” he said, answering himself. “He don’t exactly go for the ladies, know what I mean?”
“Guy across the hall does.” She leaned into his envelope of smoke. “About six-six, two-fifty, works on bikes and cars. You know him?”
Vince cleared his throat. “The Irishman. Sure, I seen that guy.” He tried to curl his lip. “Not really your type, baby.”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t listen to your girlfriends.” She let her gaze drift down and then back up. “Size does matter.”
He dropped his arm, and she carried the box in. Lonzo was standing just inside, but now he wasn’t glowering. He was looking at her as if she’d just grown another head.
Here we go, Rowan thought, kissing her job good-bye.
“Vince,” he yelled, not looking away from her face. “Drop that butt and start getting them boxes in here.”
All Vince said in return was a remarkably meek “Yes, Chef.”
Meriden stopped at the first pay phone he found and called the number Gerald King had given him to use to make his daily report.
“I went to the coffee shop where Alana was spotted,” he told the old man as soon as he answered. “The girl who served her thought she might be in trouble. From her general description of your daughter it sounds as if she’s living on the street.”
“That girl is not my daughter,” King told him. “She is remembering the wrong person. Go back and question her again.”
“The girl she served matches Alana’s physical description—”
“So does every blond, blue-eyed girl in the city,” the old man snapped. “Alana is not living on the street. Nor would she go out or wander around the streets during the day.”
“Why? Is she a werewolf?”
King produced a dry, hacking laugh. “No, Mr. Meriden, she is most certainly not. Didn’t you read the file I provided for you? Wherever she is, Alana will need constant access to food. Check the grocery stores, the delis, the hot dog stands, and anywhere one can buy food cheaply and quickly.”
He frowned. “You didn’t tell me your daughter has an eating disorder.”
“She doesn’t. Alana has an unusual metabolism combined with a digestive problem,” King said. “She has to eat many times a day or she begins rapidly losing weight.”
This might be the lead he needed. “Is she on any medication for it?”
“No. Her condition is untreatable.” King covered a cough before he added, “Is there anything else?”
“I need to interview the man who called in the sighting,” Meriden told him. “He may have noticed more than he told you.”
“The transcripts from his interview are also in the file,” King said. “He told me everything he remembered.”
“I’d rather interview him again and be sure.”
The old man sighed. “Alas, that is no longer possible. Mr. Sengali is deceased.”
“You killed him?” Meriden’s skin crawled. “Are you crazy? He was the only person who’s seen your daughter in a year.”
“Mr. Sengali neglected to tell me that he had a weak heart. After questioning, he had a heart attack and died of natural causes.” King’s tone hardened. “That needn’t concern you, Mr. Meriden. You have a young, strong heart, and three weeks to ensure that it will keep beating long after our business is concluded.” He hung up.
Meriden slammed the receiver down, cracking the plastic earpiece in the process. “You stupid shit son of a bitch.”
The last rays of the sun filtered through the maze of Manhattan’s skyscrapers and glittered on the icy waters of the Hudson. He should have gone back to his apartment, but Meriden drove instead to a new building, and swiped a plastic security card at the gate to the underground garage. He parked his car in the empty space marked PH-1 and used a key to enter the elevator.
The condominium had been built to provide accommodations for the city’s up-and-coming power brokers, and was as high-tech and sterile as their offices in the financial district. As the lift whisked him up to the top floor, he clenched his keys in his fist, not feeling the sharp edges cutting into his palm.
King was being too open and unguarded; he’d already given him enough information to destroy the old man’s life. At first Meriden thought it was because King was dying, but now he wasn’t so sure. Whatever happened to King in three weeks, whether Meriden found Alana or not, the old man now couldn’t afford to let him live.
Dansant owned the top two floors of the building, but only used the apartment with the best view of the Upper West Side. Meriden used another key to let himself in. Dansant knew Meriden had duped all of his keys and cards without asking, but he had never altered his codes or changed the locks. As he walked into the spacious front room, he felt a surge of envy and hatred that hadn’t diminished since the first time he’d seen the place.
Rather than compartmentalize the three-thousand-square-foot apartment into separate rooms, Dansant’s army of interior designers had knocked down most of the walls and replaced them with floor-to-ceiling panels of clear and translucent glass. The effect allowed anyone standing in any corner of the apartment to see most of the interior simply by turning their head. Enormous sheets of smooth, camel-colored limestone covered the floors, and the twelve- foot exterior walls were painted a matte cream that had been faintly textured to absorb light rather than reflect it. The effect was something like standing in a cloud.
