The Dead Room

Leslie moved slightly away from him, and Joe could have sworn that her smile was false. “Hopefully, we’re doing the city a favor.”

“And our stockholders, too,” Hank said.

The trailer door opened. “Police escort,” a voice said cheerfully. A known voice.

“Robert!” Leslie said with pleasure.

Robert Adair came up the steps. Leslie gave him a hug, then apologized quickly. “I’ve just smudged you big time,” she said.

“I can live with being smudged by you anytime,” Robert said. “Hey there, Joe. So you two have—”

“Smudged each other already,” Joe interrupted quickly. He didn’t want Hank Smith knowing they had just met, though he wasn’t sure why. Let them all think that he and Leslie had a past history as friends. He could protect her better that way.

Protect her? From what? Where had that thought come from? What implication had there ever been that Leslie might be in danger?

“Let’s get going. There’s a gate in the fence in the back where I can get you out,” Robert told them.

They followed him, and a few minutes later they emerged on the far side of the site. “You both need baths, you know. Otherwise, people will be stopping you in the street and offering you money.”

“You think?” Leslie said. She laughed. “I’ve seen much worse on the streets of New York.”

Robert studied her and rolled his eyes. “Okay, you’ve got a point. But you sure do look like you just climbed out of a hole in the mud.”

“Okay, bath,” Leslie agreed.

“Then dinner,” Robert said.

“Dinner?” Joe cut in.

“Leslie promised to have dinner with me tonight. Want to come along? You can tell me where you’re getting looking for the O’Brien girl.”

Joe shrugged and looked at Leslie. “Deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” she agreed.

She arrived home in time to see Hastings House in action. Melissa was handling tickets. Her smile was radiant when she saw Leslie. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself. How’s it going?”

“Great. There are two tours going on now. Just wave to the guides on your way up to your room. Oh, and lock your door. We keep an eye on the tourists, but you never know when someone will go wandering off. By the way…you’re really, uh, dirty.”

“I know. Thanks,” Leslie told her.

Jeff was with a group in the hall, explaining Colonial construction. He got wide-eyed when he saw her, so of course the ten or so people in his group stared at her, too. Jeff just gave her a nod and said, “One of our archaeologists, always busy at work.”

She was grimy enough that she hoped she wouldn’t be recognized from any recent articles or newscasts, and she gave a quick wave before hurrying up the stairs. She passed the second tour group in the upper hallway, where they were hearing about the house’s history as part of the Underground Railroad.

She paused for a minute. She’d been aware of the history of the house for a very long time, but being reminded that it had been part of the Underground Railroad suddenly seemed to be important.

Why?

She realized she was just standing there, filthy. She hurried to her bedroom—locking the door behind her, as Melissa had warned. Then she leaned against it for a moment, staring at the rocker by the hearth. But it was empty.

Had he really been there this morning? Was he haunting Hastings House? Or had she just wished him there, just as she had wished him into her dreams? And had his comments come to her mind because she had actually been talking to the flesh-and-blood Joe, a man who believed that there had been foul play at the house?

“Matt?” she whispered.

But there was no answer. She showered and dressed, whimsically opting for a black velvet sheath that fit the changing weather. By the time she left her room the tours were over and the guides were gone.

Melissa was still there, though, in the small upstairs office, counting receipts and balancing her books. She whistled when Leslie walked by. “That’s a knockout.”

“Thanks.”

“Off to a black-tie event?” Melissa asked.

“No. Dinner with friends.”

“I heard about the crypt you discovered.”

“Fell into.”

Melissa sighed dreamily. “Think I could really volunteer to work with you?”

“You bet. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you so much.” Melissa frowned even as she spoke.

“What’s the matter?”

“I…I’ve lost a twenty, I think.”

“It’s got to be there somewhere,” Leslie said.

“Yes, but…oh, it’s right here. I swear it wasn’t here a minute ago,” Melissa said, still frowning.

“Maybe something was on top of it.”

Melissa grinned at her. “And maybe the ghosts are helping me out. You think?” she asked wistfully.

“Maybe.”

The sound of knocking came from downstairs. “Good night, Melissa, I’ll see you in the morning,” Leslie told her.

“Right. Have a good time. Knock ’em dead.” She blushed. “I mean, you look like a million.”

“Thanks.”

Joe was at the door. She forced herself to smile as she greeted him. He wasn’t Matt; she knew that. They were different people, different personalities. But tonight, he reminded her so much of Matt as he’d looked last night….

They even used the same aftershave.

But he looked good, dark blond hair newly washed, still damp, hard-cut rugged features, casual suede jacket. Tall and well muscled. His shoulders were a little broader than Matt’s; maybe Matt had been a half inch taller.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, frowning.

“Of course. Where’s Robert?”

“We’re meeting him just down the street. Tonight, a good old American steakhouse.”

She smiled. “Let’s go.”

When they reached the sidewalk, she found herself looking back. There sat the house—a picture-perfect Colonial. Around it, present-day Manhattan. Alive, wild, a little bit wicked, and still a place where people were just born, lived and died. The past and the present, interlocking. Countless stories above the ground. Countless stories below it. She closed her eyes. Not far away, the World Trade Towers had stood. So much tragedy. So much destruction. A certain sadness still permeated downtown, despite the fact that so much was up and running again. Somehow, centuries-old churches only blocks away had remained standing. History remembered, history lost.

It was an amazing city, and it was equally amazing the way the house stood where it did, with the modern world all around it. Every decade made a change, she reminded herself.

The house, she thought, was somehow a key to murder.

Matt’s murder.

“What is it?” Joe asked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. But it was something. Worlds colliding. Stories above the earth, stories below.

He tried to follow. Couldn’t.

But just this morning, she had seen him. It hadn’t lasted long, but she had seen him. Even so…

He had to let go.

No, he couldn’t say goodbye. Not yet, not when he’d just learned to say hello. And now, because of Leslie, Joe was coming to the house. Joe had a sense that something wrong had happened there, and he was convinced that the truth needed to be told. Then…

He loved her, really loved her, and she deserved a long life and happiness, so then he would say goodbye.

“So…your mysterious sixth sense has struck again,” Robert said, idly rubbing his thumb and forefinger over the beginning stubble of a gray beard.

“It had nothing to do with any sixth sense. I fell. Honest to God, I fell,” Leslie said.

Robert shrugged disbelievingly. “Do you know how long Howard Carter looked for King Tut’s tomb without finding it?”

“Robert,” she protested, “it was pure dumb luck. And it’s not even a total shock. City records indicated that the church had been there.”

“Why don’t you just get to it?” Joe asked Robert, amused. He sipped his beer, watching Leslie. They’d already ordered: steaks, potatoes and salads all around. Even Leslie had opted for a beer.

“Get to it?” Robert asked blandly.

“Come on. You know you want her to give you a hand.”

Robert flushed. “No…no.”

“Liar,” Joe said with a laugh.

Robert’s blush deepened. “All right. It’s the missing prostitutes. After each disappearance we put men out on the street to ask a zillion questions that never have any answers. Mostly, we scratch our heads. Then the furor dies down and I’m left with a bunch of useless information that does me no good the next time. All in all, if I’m right and the cases are associated, we’re talking about twelve missing women. In every case, they’ve just vanished off the street.” He looked across the table at Joe. “Including the one who wasn’t a hooker—Genevieve O’Brien.”

Leslie looked at Joe. “The woman you’re searching for,” she said.

“I have to agree with Robert,” he said. “At first, I wasn’t sure, but the more I found out about just how involved she was with those women, the more sense it seemed to make. The best lead I have is that she stepped into a dark sedan. On the same street where half those girls worked.”

“Strange,” Leslie murmured awkwardly. “And you haven’t found any bodies.”

“No bodies. No blood. No sign of a struggle. Nothing,” Robert said.

“There are a lot of ways for bodies to disappear,” Joe reminded them.

“So,” Leslie said, “you’re looking for someone who has learned how to completely hide his crimes. He must be very bright.” She turned to Joe. “Don’t the profilers say that the usual age for a serial killer is between twenty-five and thirty-five?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">