You've Been Warned Page 8

  Instead, I feel as if my day is ruined before it even started. The dream, the burning smell, the rash . . .

  Then, out of nowhere, I have an idea.

  Something a little, well, crazy.

  Very unlike me. At least the way I was until a few days ago.

  “Hey, lady, you mind moving along? You’re hurting business.”

  I turn to the stringy-haired guy plucking away on his guitar, every other chord off-key. His ragged guitar case lies open at his feet, and I glance at the torn black velvet lining sprinkled with spare change. And I do mean spare. A quarter or two is the mother lode for this troubadour.

  “I’m serious, lady,” he barks. “Beat it! Get out of here!”

  Before I know it, I’m right in his face too. “Listen, you sorry-assed Kurt Cobain wannabe, did you ever think that maybe it’s your playing that’s hurting business and not me?”

  He’s speechless, songless too, and I’m already halfway down the block.

  I’ve got somewhere to go after all.

  Chapter 37

  WHEN I LEFT BOSTON and traded the Red Sox for the Yankees, I brought three things with me to Manhattan. A suitcase. A boyfriend.

  And Bob.

  There are undoubtedly far more inspired nicknames for a pickup truck than Bob, but I’ve always liked the simplicity of it. Besides, we’re talking about a 1980 Ford F-100 with more than 180,000 miles on it. Even the rust has rust. A fancy name just wouldn’t feel right.

  I hurry over to First Avenue, where I park Bob at an outdoor lot. The indoor garages can cost more than some apartments here — like mine, for instance. Still, I don’t get off cheap. Three hundred and fifty bucks a month, to be exact. That makes broken-down Bob, with his missing hubcaps and leaky engine, my greatest luxury in this city. Crazy, huh?

  But today he’s worth every single penny. Today Bob screams freedom, maybe even salvation.

  The crosstown traffic is its usual bear, and I’m worrying that I might be late. When a Macy’s delivery truck ahead of me doesn’t move the nanosecond a light turns green, I obnoxiously bang on my horn. It doesn’t take much to bring out my inner cabdriver.

  Approaching the building, I know I can’t park too close. Bob doesn’t exactly blend in.

  After circling the block a couple of times, I luck out with a spot that’s a safe distance from the entrance. I reach for my cell and dial the apartment, hitting *67 first to block the caller ID.

  Michael answers.

  Good, they haven’t left yet.

  For the second time this morning, I hang up on him. Then I adjust my sunglasses, sink down in Bob’s front seat, and get busy.

  Waiting.

  Soon I see Michael emerge from the building. I immediately want to rush out and go to him, kick his shins, and call him a nasty name. Then I’ll kiss him so hard he can barely breathe. We’ll escape to the nearest alley and have amazing, passionate makeup sex — no, wait, better yet, we’ll fuck, like rabbits, like minks, or like whatever other furry creatures top the most-horny list.

  “Have a nice day with your in-laws!” I’ll say when we’re done.

  Instead, I stay right here with Bob, watching.

  Michael disappears around the corner. A few minutes later, he returns with the “family car,” a shiny black Mercedes, the G-class.

  Almost on cue, Penley, Dakota, and Sean come bounding out to the sidewalk while Louis, sweating in his doorman uniform, brings up the rear with the kids’ knapsacks and an overstuffed beach bag.

  Michael steps out and straps Sean into his booster seat while Dakota climbs in on her own. Penley meanwhile opens a compact and applies some lipstick, blindly gesturing to Louis to load everything in the back of the wagon.

  It should be me getting in that car, not Penley. That’s all I can think as I stare at them. I should be the fourth in that particular foursome.

  They may look like the picture-perfect family — all smiles as they pull away from the curb, heading for “the country” — but I know better.

  Pictures lie.

  Chapter 38

  MICHAEL DRIVES LIKE a speed demon, hardly a surprise. It dawns on me that I’ve never seen him behind the wheel of a car before. I drove him somewhere once in Bob. Other than that, we’re always either in his limo or taking cabs.

  He’s definitely a little reckless today, especially with the kids in the car. A couple of times I almost lose them, first by the George Washington Bridge and then later on I-95 through Stamford, where one of the lanes is closed for construction.

  I tailgate other cars, trying to stay hidden in Michael’s rearview mirror. For my first time following someone, I think I’m doing a pretty good job.

  Next exit, Westport.

  It’s only an hour’s drive from the city, but it might as well be a million miles away. So many trees, so much space, it’s a whole other world. A very rich one, at that.

  And the closer we get to the water, the richer it gets.

  The homes looking out on Long Island Sound all seem to share this majestic, otherworldly quality. Beyond their manicured front lawns and perfectly aligned shutters, there’s a certain grandness to them that goes beyond size. It’s not mere money, it’s wealth.

  Michael turns into a driveway.

  Fittingly, it belongs to the most impressive home of them all, a cedar shake Nantucket colonial that looks like a page out of Architectural Digest. Actually, make that two pages. The huge house rolls across the property like a wave, seemingly endless.

  So this is where Penley grew up.

  I park by the far end of the house behind a low hedge. I’m mostly shielded while still having a decent view of the grounds, including the large infinity pool and the tennis court. What I expect to see, I don’t know.

  What I’m even doing here is a much better question. We’ll find out, won’t we?

  I watch as Michael and the rest of the Turnbull family spill out of their Mercedes wagon.

  An older couple — Penley’s mother and father, for sure — are quick to greet them with hugs and kisses, the majority going to Dakota and Sean. Penley’s father kind of reminds me of a retired Gordon Gekko.

  Sitting inside Bob and taking it all in, I imagine the conversation. Does Michael begin his ass-kissing right away with the old man or does he wait a bit?

  They all disappear inside, though not for long. Dakota and Sean come racing out the French doors on the side of the house, heading straight for the pool. A woman wearing a uniform that screams “maid” isn’t far behind. It seems that she’s on lifeguard duty. She’s sort of the day-in-the-country me.

  Meanwhile, Michael, Penley, and her parents settle into the whiter-than-white wicker furniture on the porch. Yet another maid appears with a silver tray. The Norman Rockwell image is slightly blown by the martini pitcher taking the place of lemonade.

  Fiendish ideas dance in my head. What if I were to make a grand entrance? The emerging bitch in me imagines what a scene that would be. “What are you doing here?” Penley would ask, as I walk up to the porch.

  “Why don’t you ask Michael,” I’d answer calmly.

  Go on, wiggle your way out of this one, stud.

  But I remain with Bob and instead reach for my camera. I snap shots of the kids splashing around in the pool. It was only last summer that Sean still needed his floaties. Dakota, on the other hand, is very graceful in the water, a baby swan.

  Out of nowhere, Penley marches into frame. She barks at the kids, probably something about eating lunch, because when she turns to leave, Dakota and Sean reluctantly climb out of the pool and towel off. They are adorable! And Penley is just awful.

  As the kids amble back toward the house with the maid in tow, my attention wanders. I’m gazing around, admiring the neighborhood. Everything is so clean, the air blowing in from the water so crisp. A few cars drive by, all but one a convertible. And why not? All this fresh country air to suck in.

  I watch a woman in Nike everything jog by. Then I spot a man in the distance,
walking toward me. He’s wearing a light Windbreaker and a gray baseball cap, his pace nice and slow. No hurry — like everything else around here.

  I’m about to look away when my eyes stop.

  There’s something strange about him.

  Familiar.

  My God, it’s that detective from the Fálcon.

  Frank Delmonico’s here in Connecticut.

  That just isn’t possible, but there he is.

  Chapter 39

  I QUICKLY DUCK BELOW the steering wheel. The detective said he’d find me again. He warned me. But out here?

  How did he know? Did he tail me as I followed Michael out of New York? I guess that’s possible, but I sure can’t have him asking more questions. Not right in front of Penley’s parents’ house.

  I hear his footsteps now, louder and louder. They sound heavy, deliberate. He’s a man with a mission, isn’t he? But I don’t know anything about those four murders. Why would he think otherwise?

  Slowly, I peek over the sun-bleached vinyl of the dash.

  The ball cap is pulled down over his eyes. Maybe it’s not Delmonico. Whoever it is — I should get out of here right now.

  I reach for the keys, snapping my wrist hard to the right. The ignition sounds with a lazy sputter, the engine cranking and cranking. No! It won’t turn over.

  C’mon, old buddy, don’t fail me now! This is important. If Penley sees me —

  I floor the gas pedal, my foot thumping down hard.

  Don’t flood it, Kris. Bob, help me out here. Bob, ole buddy?

  I spot the little chrome knob by the window on the passenger side. The lock. It’s up. The door’s unlocked!

  His footsteps are close.

  I lunge, my fingertips only inches away from the knob.

  But it’s too late!

  I hear him gripping the handle outside. The raw squeak of ancient metal hinges drowns out my scream.

  He’s opening the door!

  Chapter 40

  “WHAT THE HELL are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

  I snap my head up, looking directly into his eyes.

  Not Frank Delmonico’s . . . Michael’s.

  I’ve never been so relieved to see somebody in my whole life. If only the same were true for him. He’s obviously pissed. He’s livid, actually. I’ve never seen Michael like this. He looks as though he might have a stroke, at forty-two.

  I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m still trying to catch my breath, figure out some insane excuse for why I’m here.

  He stands in the open door, shaking his head. “Christ, did you follow us out here?”

  But for me there’s a much more pressing question. “Is he gone?” I ask when I’m able to speak.

  “Is who gone? What the hell are you talking about? There is no one here but you.”

  I sit up, peering around like a periscope. There is no one else, not another soul out on the street. No Frank Delmonico.

  I fall silent, feeling so stupid. And crazy. I don’t know where to start with Michael. The dream? The scene at the hotel? Delmonico? The man with the ponytail? How can I make sense to Michael when none of it makes sense to me?

  Michael’s face is still beet red. “Why are you here?” he asks again. “Answer me, Kristin.”

  I stare blankly at him as he folds his arms. Why am I here? It’s the question I’ve been asking myself all along.

  “I . . . uh . . . I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, it’s complicated, Michael.”

  “What kind of an answer is that?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out this time.

  “Never mind,” he says, nervously glancing over his shoulder at the corner of the porch where Penley and her parents are sipping martinis. “The important thing now is that you get out of here. Fast. This was a big mistake, Kris. Huge.”

  I tend to agree.

  One more thing before I go. “How did you know I was here?” I ask.

  “Even through bushes, Bob’s pretty hard to miss. We’re damn lucky I’m the only one who saw you.”

  And right then we hear —

  “Miss Kristin!”

  My eyes go wide, almost as wide as Michael’s. Dakota’s sweet voice is a dagger through both our hearts.

  I force a smile, and for the first time ever with this little girl, it isn’t genuine. “Hi, honey,” I say.

  Michael turns around. Dakota’s standing by the hedge, wrapped in a red-and-white-striped towel, her blond ringlet curls wet from the pool.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Kristin?” she asks.

  It’s officially the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and I still don’t have an acceptable answer. Not for her father, not for her.

  Michael looks back at me. I know we’re thinking the exact same thing.

  Just how mature for her age is she?

  Does she suspect something? Does she even know what it is to suspect?

  “Honey, come here,” says Michael.

  Dakota shuffles over to him, and he gently puts his arm around her.

  “Can you keep a secret?” he whispers.

  7

  Chapter 41

  I’M IN NO CONDITION to drive back to Manhattan or anywhere else. My eyes should be focused on the road, but all I can see is Dakota’s innocent face as she listens to her father. Can she really keep a secret?

  We can only hope.

  Either way, I’ve got to give Michael some credit. Telling Dakota I was there planning a surprise party for Penley at “Nana and Papa’s” country club was a masterstroke of quick thinking. His voice was totally calm, not a hint of panic. “It’s really, really important that you don’t say anything to Mommy so we don’t ruin the surprise. Okay, sweetheart?”

  Wow. Never has so much faith been put in the nodding head of a little girl.

  And it’s making me incredibly uneasy. Mostly because I hate lying to Dakota and getting her into the middle of this mess. She’s just a little kid.

  With Connecticut at my back, I approach the city and somehow navigate the ever-narrow FDR Drive on the East Side without causing a fifty-car pileup. Once I return Bob to the lot on First Avenue, it’s almost as if I can’t remember being behind the wheel.

  Now what?

  It may be a beautiful day, but I don’t feel like being outside anymore. Nor do I want to go back to my apartment. So I hop a cab downtown to the Angelika Film Center, where there’s a director’s cut playing of Flirting with Disaster. How appropriate.

  All I want is light and funny, and thanks to Ben Stiller, I get it. In fact, as advertised in the lobby poster, I get an additional “six never-before-seen minutes” of it. I’m curious, though. Has a “director’s cut” ever been shorter than the original?

  After the movie I try to do some clothes shopping in SoHo, where most of my favorite stores are. But as I flip through the racks at Jenne Maag, Kirna Zabête, and French Corner — where I once saw Gwen Stefani trying on a pair of jeans — I’m just not in the mood. I keep regretting my very stupid trip out to Westport.

  Even if Dakota hadn’t spotted us, I really goofed. Michael had every right to be angry. Well, maybe not that angry?

  What was I thinking?

  For about the tenth time, I reach for my cell phone to call him. I want to apologize again.

  And for about the tenth time, I put the phone away without dialing. Don’t push it, I warn myself. I know how he is. If I let him be for a day or two, he’ll be fine.

  We’ll be fine.

  Chapter 42

  WITH THE AFTERNOON sun waning, I stop on the corner of Prince Street and Greene, waiting for the “Walk” sign. I gaze around. A little paranoid. Not too bad, though. It’s all relative.

  If there’s a better place to people watch than the heart of SoHo, I’d sure like to know about it. Maybe Paris? Maybe not. Society types, punkers, artists, a few cross-dressers, you name it, they’re all out here sharing the sidewalk.

  Including the nutcase on the corner directly across the stre
et from me.

  He’s an old man wearing sunglasses and a long gray beard practically down to his belt. He’s pacing back and forth, carrying a sign like in the classic cartoons. Only instead of “The End Is Near,” his reads, “The End Is Just the Beginning.” His take on the Resurrection, I guess.

  Yeah, I get it — I’ve been warned.

  As I cross the street and pass him, I can’t help shaking my head. How does a person become so disconnected from the rest of the world?

  “Be afraid, Kristin.”

  Huh?

  I stop dead in my tracks, turning back toward the man. “How do you know my name?”

  “I just know it.”

  I take a few steps closer. I’m about a foot from his face. He’s definitely there. He’s real. “I said, How do you know my name?”

  “It’s not too late, Kristin,” he says. His voice is raspy, raw, a little scary on its own.

  He tries to turn away, and I grab his shoulder. “Wait. What are you talking about?”

  Silence from him now. What — have I offended Mr. ZZ Top?

  “Tell me!” I insist.

  He smiles, flashing a mouth of the most rotted, brown teeth I’ve ever seen. But I don’t back away.

  “Do I know you?” I ask.

  Reaching up, he removes his sunglasses, and I gasp. Now I back up a step. One of his eyes is missing. There’s nothing there but a dark hole that seems to disappear into his head. Is that possible? I almost expect worms or slimy white maggots to crawl out.

  “Not yet,” he answers. “But soon you will. When you figure out your life.”

  He puts his shades back on, nods, and then turns away.

  Chapter 43

  I’M TREMBLING AS the bearded, one-eyed joker walks off down the street. It’s officially a toss-up now. Where is it more surreal? Inside my apartment or out here?