Part 67 (1/2)

As he pulled himself out of bed and shakily made his way

into the kitchen to start the coffee, he was trying to decide where to begin. As it happened he now had all the time in the world

He didn't mind all that much losing his position at the Sentinel--come on, that was writ across the sky--but he particularly regretted being denied the pleasure of quitting on his own terms, complete with a flamboyant f.u.c.k-you- very-much farewell speech to the managing editor, Jay. He'd actually been rehearsing it for weeks.

The dream of just showing up at the Dorian Inst.i.tute and walking in was no longer even a fantasy. There was a special ”not welcome” mat out for him. Even more than the first time, he'd need a calling card.

That had to be Kristen Starr. She clearly held the key to whatever it was Winston Bartlett and Karl Van de Vliet were trying to cover up. But how to find her? The only real lead he had was the apartment she'd come back to, apparently returning like a genetically programmed salmon going back upstream but not really knowing why.

Okay, why not go back down there and look around again, only do it thoroughly? He and Ally hadn't had time to do much more than a cursory look-around. The specter of the knives in the walls still haunted him.

But how to get in?

Then he remembered that Ally had been given the key by Kristen's s.p.a.cey subtenant, Cindy, the one who was renting the ground-floor apartment.

Did she leave that key at her Citis.p.a.ce office or did she put it on her key ring?

Her car keys were lying on the table by the door, where he'd tossed them last night. He walked over and checked them out. There were several house keys on the ring in addition to her Toyota keys. Could she have put Kristen's key on the ring too? Or did she stash it in her desk at Citis.p.a.ce?

Swing by the apartment and try these, he decided Maybe I'll get lucky.

As he headed for the shower, a cup of black Jamaican coffee in hand, he thought again about the last thing Alexa's good-for-nothing brother, Grant, had said, something about how Alexa was their ”best shot.”

Whatever that meant, it couldn't be good.

By nine o'clock he had showered, shaved, and was in Ally's Toyota headed for West Eleventh Street. As he turned right on Fourteenth, he had a fresh idea.

Kristen's phone was still working, at least as of yesterday. So did she have speed dial, a memory bank of numbers? That could be a gold mine of the people closest to her. But if not, there were other tricks, ways of getting phone information. There might even be information in the phone itself: who do you get on ”redial” and who do you get with *69, the last number that dialed in?

The last number that dialed in would probably be the j.a.panese guy who left a message and then kidnapped her. But the last call out could be interesting.

He had a nagging feeling that this wasn't the best way to be spending his morning, but he couldn't immediately think of anything else.

West Eleventh Street was comparatively empty, so he had no trouble securing a parking s.p.a.ce. After he'd turned off the engine, he looked at Ally's key set again. Well, there were four other keys on it besides the Toyota keys. Give it a shot.

He got out and locked the car and walked up the steps. It was a perfect spring morning, cool and crisp, and this part of the Village was quiet and residential. He found himself envying the owners of these beautiful nineteenth-century town houses. There was something so dignified and secure about them.

Then he saw a man emerge from the apartment below the stoop, just a few feet from where he was standing.

”Hi. How's Cindy?” he called down, hoping the social gesture would let the guy know he wasn't about to do a second- story number on Kristen's town house.

The man, who looked to be in his late twenties, was dressed in a black suit, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and carried a shoulder bag that appeared to be serving as a briefcase. He stared at Stone with a puzzled look.

”Who?”

”I was here yesterday and ... a woman named Cindy, friend of Kristen's, said she was leasing the garden apartment. I was just wondering--”

”I'm sorry. Maybe you have the wrong address. I've had this place for almost a year and a half now.” He was moving on down the street as he called back over his shoulder. ”Good luck.”

What the h.e.l.l is going on?