Part 53 (2/2)

After I redid it, it was a knockout, of course, but she'd already moved down here by then.”

The building dated from the middle of the nineteenth century and the entryway, painted white, was a slight nod to the fas.h.i.+on for the Greek Revival style that made its way into the New York town houses of that period.

She shoved the key into the new lock, a Medico, and pushed open the door. Stone moved past her and switched on the light.

What awaited them was a minimally furnished but elegant living room, with a small couch and table. The downstairs ”parlor floor” had been ”opened up”; a lot of walls had been taken out and a staircase was on one side of the front room. It felt like a modern loft.

Memorabilia from E! was all over, the logo on throw pillows and two empty mugs on the table. The main decoration, however, consisted of publicity photos of Kristen around the walls, a smiling blonde with flowing tresses down over her shoulders. In all of them she was wearing heavy makeup and the photos appeared to have been airbrushed.

They were both trying to absorb what they were actually seeing. Each photo, and there were at least sixteen, was pinned to the walls with a steak knife, all with matching white bone handles.

”Jesus, who do you think did this?” Stone asked. ”Could it be that ditzy girl downstairs?”

”I'd say she did it herself. Supposedly the reason she went to the Dorian Inst.i.tute was because she was having some kind of personal crisis over starting to look older. She was consumed with terminal self-hate. That's what this has to be about.”

”I've never caught her on TV,” Stone said, walking over to study one of the photos, ”but from what little I saw of her on the street just now, she sure seemed different from these head shots.”

”Well, this is exactly how she looked on the tube.” She told him the alleged story of how Kristen had ended up at the Dorian Inst.i.tute. Then she gazed around the room, still having trouble taking it in. ”Jesus, this is really sick.”

”Ally, I'm absolutely convinced that whatever happened or didn't happen--keep that possibility in mind--to Kristen is connected somehow to the reason Gerex's clinical trials have been put under ironclad security.”

”Which is why, no matter what, they've got to get her back on the reservation.” Ally thought a moment. ”Van de Vliet told me she'd left the clinic of her own accord. Which clearly was BS. Winston Bartlett has her stashed somewhere. Probably in an apartment in one of the buildings he owns.” She looked over. ”What do you think it all means?”

”How's this for a guess? Kristen is experiencing some kind of side effect that's truly horrendous. Losing your memory is bad enough, but there's probably something more too. I can't imagine what it is, but if the truth about it ever gets out, their entire program of stem cell research would be jeopardized.”

”Well, I don't see much here to help us find her,” she declared, looking around. ”The knives in the walls don't speak well for her grip on sanity. Who knows? Maybe nothing's physically wrong with her. Maybe it's just all in her crazy head. Look at this place, for goodness'

sake. Except for the knives, it looks pretty normal. Maybe she's just a nutcase and imagining that her memory is going.”

As she gazed around the room one last time, she noticed an answering machine on the floor next to the couch. The message light on it was blinking, and she walked over and pushed the play b.u.t.ton. She remembered that Stone had said he hadn't left a message, and Kristen had picked up when she called her, short-circuiting the voice mail.

The phone machine announced in an electronic voice, ”You have one message, at two-eleven P.M.”

Then an unctuous male voice came on. ”Kirby, we know you're there.

You're still in treatment. You shouldn't be wandering around unsupervised. It's a lot better, a lot safer, for you to stay with us now. This is Ken. I'm coming with Delores to pick you up. I know you're upset, but you shouldn't be. We're going to take care of you and help you.”

Then the phone machine clicked off.

”My G.o.d” Stone said glancing at his watch, ”that's almost exactly when I got here. That's why she thought I was with them.”

”That's the guy who slugged you. I recognize his voice. Guess they suspected she was here and that phone call was intended to flush her out. It worked.”

”And I ended up right in the middle of it. d.a.m.n.”

She walked around the empty room, checking it out. Except for the head shots stabbed to the wall, there was not a sc.r.a.p of paper to be seen.

So how do we find Kristen without a clue? she wondered. Should the kidnapping, if that's what it was, be reported to the police? But what proof do we have that any of it actually happened? They're not going to third-degree Winston Bartlett.

”You know,” Stone said staring closely at one of the photos, ”I didn't actually get a really good look at the woman running down the street.

She glanced back at me when I called out her name, but the truth is, I'm not a hundred percent sure this is her.”

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