Part 22 (2/2)
”If the police will do it, then why are you going to New York?”
”I can do my part, too.” Jill honked the horn. The car in front was going too slowly. ”A friend of William's lives there, and he might know where she is. Now, tell me about this French test. Is it vocab?”
Megan's phone chimed again, another text coming in, but she ignored it. ”Mom, I heard what Sam said last night, that he'd sacrifice for me but not for Abby. Did he say that?”
”Basically, yes.” Jill hit the gas, hiding her dismay.
”I love him.” Megan checked the phone as another text came in, then she thumbed in a response. ”You guys are going to make up, right?”
”I hope so.” Jill looked over, and a frown crossed Megan's downturned face. ”What's going on?”
”Nothing.” Megan pressed her lips over her braces, typing away. ”When William was the dad, Abby was the first choice. But now that Sam's the dad, I'm the first choice. I kinda like being the first choice.”
Jill hid her dismay, wondering if she'd ever be able to navigate the waters of her own family. She could swim in a pool, but they were an ocean, where the currents crossed and collided with each other, flowing too deep to be seen from the surface.
Megan halted her texting and looked over. ”Is that a bad thing to say? That I like being first?”
”No, not if it's true,” Jill answered, eyeing the red light.
Chapter Thirty-four.
Jill looked through the smudgy gla.s.s window of the cab, and a warm day in Manhattan whizzed past. Cars, vans, and bicycle messengers clogged the streets, and filling the sidewalks were Asian tourists, a pierced gaggle of hipsters, and a brace of bright young men, puffing away on acrid cigars, their ties flying. Mostly everyone talked into a cell phone or a Bluetooth, all of them hurrying, smoking, and eating on the fly, their lives lived in fast-forward. A cacophony of honking, shouted epithets, random laughter, and the throbbing ba.s.s from a pa.s.sing radio wafted through the window, though Jill had silenced the news video that played in the cab, hoping to be alone with her thoughts.
I went to the stair, I listened.
Jill checked her BlackBerry for the umpteenth time, for a call from Abby. There were no red asterisks by the phone icon, indicating a missed call, and she put her phone back into her purse. She hadn't heard from Sam, either, though she'd thought about calling him, but didn't. On the train, she'd ended up in the quiet car by accident, but it gave her time to think. She didn't know what she would say to him, nor what she wanted to hear. She was old enough to know that soft words wouldn't smooth over the situation, and a very real disagreement divided them.
That's no way to run a marriage.
Jill shooed Sam's voice from her head, eyeing the sky, where a pale sun hung like an afterthought, nature herself taking a backseat in the city. The cab turned onto the West Side Highway, the six-lane highway that ran along the Hudson, and a helicopter flew over the river, pitched forward like a top-heavy bug. On the New Jersey side, the old-school painted LACKAWANNA sign contrasted with the stylish neon W HOTEL sign, glowing red even in daylight. Air thick with garbage and gas odors blew inside the cab, and the humidity made Jill uncomfortable in her navy linen blazer, khaki pants, and a white s.h.i.+rt, with her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She was dressed to talk her way past the doorman, a mom on a mission. More accurately, an ex-stepmom on a mission.
What if she hurt herself?
Her gut tensed as the cab left the highway, made a few more turns through a fas.h.i.+onable warren of West Village streets, and pulled finally onto West 11th. They b.u.mped over the cobblestones on the street, which was lined with ritzy apartment buildings, many modern, and all gla.s.s. Tall, skinny trees, boxed in by wrought-iron fences, threw scant shadows on sidewalks that had been hosed clean, still drying in spots.
”This is it,” the cabbie said, and Jill grabbed her purse, slid the money from her wallet, and handed it to him through the plastic window.
”Thanks, keep the change.” Jill got out and took stock of the building. It was shorter and smaller than the modern ones, cla.s.sy in an old Knickerbocker way, with art-deco fluting over the entrance. She walked to the door, pushed through, and scanned the lobby, which was long and narrow, with a black and white tile floor. Bra.s.s sconces flanked a black security desk, and the doorman looked to be in his sixties. He was tall and lean, with frizzy gray hair, wire-rimmed bifocals, and a navy blazer that looked unfortunately like Jill's own.
”Nice jacket,” she said, walking over.
”It looks better on you,” the doorman said with a polite grin. His black nametag read MICHAEL, and a New York Post lay on his desk, open to the sports page. ”How can I help you?”
”I'm looking for a man who lives here. Neil Straub.”
”Mr. Straub? He's not in.”
Jill was ready for that. ”When did you see him last?”
”Sorry, but we don't give out that information.”
”I know, but this is an emergency. I'm Jill Farrow, and your name's Michael?”
”Mike Moran, yes.”
”Mike, please help me, if you can. Neil is a good friend of my ex-husband, who just pa.s.sed away last Tuesday, leaving two daughters. One of them is missing, and I'm trying to find her.”
”That's too bad.” Mike frowned, with genuine sympathy.
”Her sister Victoria came here yesterday, looking for her and asking about Neil Straub. Do you remember her?”
”No, I wasn't here. It was my day off.”
”I see.” Jill reached in her purse and withdrew two photos she'd printed. The top one was a recent one of Abby, from William's computer. ”This is my stepdaughter, Abby Skyler. Have you seen her? She could have come to visit Neil.”
”Hmm.” Mike took the photo, eyeing it. ”I haven't seen her. Mind you, I see a lot of people in this job, but I tend to remember.”
”So you don't remember seeing her?”
”No.”
”Who covers the desk on your day off?”
”There's three of us, and we rotate. I'm day s.h.i.+ft, Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we split the night s.h.i.+fts, plus we got the weekends.”
”So when would the night-s.h.i.+ft doorman come on?”
”Leon comes in at five.”
”Do you have his phone, so I can call him?”
”No can do, sorry.”
”How about his address, and I'll look up his phone number?”
”No, sorry.” Mike buckled his lower lip. ”I'd like to help, but I can't give that information out. If you stop back at five o'clock, you can ask him then.”
Jill thought a minute. It made sense that the day-s.h.i.+ft doorman hadn't seen Abby. She'd gone missing on Sat.u.r.day night, and maybe that was when she'd come up. ”Okay, maybe I will. Do you think Neil, Mr. Straub, will be back by then?”
”I doubt it. He travels a lot.”
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