Claire Gillespie could sleep through shrieking sirens, cats in heat, domestic donnybrooks, the unearthly 3:00 a.m. clangor of garbage trucks, and the occasional eruption of gunfire in back alleys near her New York apartment. After half a decade of chasing stories cross-country for the weekly newsmagazine that issued her paycheck, napping when she could, her Kansas-bred sleep patterns were pretty much invulnerable to assault. With one exception. A ringing telephone was Kryptonite to her super-human powers of repose.
So, inevitably, the phone's first ring woke her that Saturday morning-more or less. At the second, she flung her right arm out from under the covers and fumbled blindly toward the side table.
"Damn!" she muttered as her hand found the portable phone and its on button, then dragged it back under the blankets to her ear. "What?"
"Well, a cheery good morning to you, too!"
Claire replied with a two-step grunt. "Oh-Serge." Sergio Scolari, national editor for Newsworld. "What time is it?" Her voice rasped like gargled gravel, and her tongue felt as if it had licked an ashtray. "Did you foist one of your smelly cigars off on me last night?"
"It's nine-thirty, and they're not smelly, they're Davidoff. What's more, you swiped, I did not foist. Not at ten-fifty a pop."
Claire heard the sulk in his tone. Typical. Scolari would never have parted willingly with a Davidoff, but pride required that she plead not guilty. "Baloney. I don't smoke. I quit."
"Tell it to the silk blouse you burned a hole in."
Claire forced open one gritty eye and raised her aching head an inch or two above the pillow. She cast a bleary glance around. Various items of clothing marked a wayward trail across the dusty hardwood floor-gloves, coat, scarf, heels, black skirt, hose-all abandoned en route from the front door to the sofa bed she vaguely recalled wrestling open last night.
She peered nervously at the door, but all four locks and bolts were securely fastened. She breathed a sigh of relief. Despite her less-than-optimal state last night, her instincts had obviously remained on full alert against the ominous presence she'd felt dogging her footsteps for weeks.
The red silk blouse she'd worn to the Christmas party at Scolari's East Central Park penthouse had been tossed at about the halfway point between front door and sofa bed, landing on her desk. Even from her skewed perspective, Claire could see the stippled brown edges of a dime-size burn hole in one sleeve. The blouse was draped across her open laptop computer like some funereal banner on a tombstone. Fitting, she thought, since the notes on her hard drive were the only memorial she could give Michael Kazarian-a maddeningly incomplete testament to a slain hero whose image haunted her, day and night. At the thought of him, Claire felt the ache return with a vengeance-a dull, hollow throb deep inside her that alcohol briefly numbed, but obviously couldn't cure.
She dropped her head back to the pillow. "So waking me at this ungodly hour is payback for swiping one of your cruddy cigars, Serge? You think a ruined eighty-dollar blouse and fertilizer breath aren't punishment enough?"
"I wanted to make sure you got in okay last night," Scolari said.
"No problem-but I don't believe for a minute that's why you called."
Scolari assumed an aggrieved tone. "You doubt my sincerity?"
"I know how your mind works," she said. "You think you're going to catch me at a weak moment, convince me to reconsider and go out to L.A. to cover that baby-snatcher story."
Over the past few weeks, three southern California babies had vanished, boldly kidnapped in broad daylight from crowded public places, the most recent abduction having occurred just last night. In the absence of ransom notes or bodies, police and FBI officials suspected an underground adoption ring. The entire state was seized by panic.
"That's partly why I called. I really was concerned, though."
"Yeah, right."
"I booked a flight for you," he added helpfully. "Delta 176 out of La Guardia. Departs at noon, but the weather's lousy, so you'll have to hustle."
"I told you last night, Serge, I'm up to my eyeballs on the Kazarian project. I've got an interview set up for later today with Ivankov that it took me weeks to wangle. By the way, if I should happen to disappear, could you make sure the authorities trawl for my poor, battered body off Brighton Beach?"
"That's not funny, Claire. Look what happened to Kazarian."
"I know, but I'm not getting anywhere talking to the cops or the FBI. I want to see what Ivankov has to say for himself. Don't worry, I'll be careful."
"I'd rather see you out in L.A."
"Serge, you promised me some downtime to work on the Kazarian project."
"Doesn't sound like there's a story there any time soon, though. And you really do look like hell, Claire. What's with you? I've never seen you like this-tense, avoiding people-"
"I came last night, didn't I?"
"You were here in body, but the spirit never did put in an appearance. Don't try to kid a kidder, bub. I spent too much of my life living a lie not to recognize the symptoms in someone else. You've lost weight, got tension lines in your face-"
"Oh, well, lines. That's just middle age creeping up. After thirty-five, it's all downhill-isn't that what you told me on my last birthday?"
"Is this about Kazarian?" Scolari hesitated, as if torn between discretion and curiosity, but curiosity finally own out. "Were you involved with him, Claire?"
She closed her eyes, feeling sick.
Fight it!
"He was a source. A terrific source, Serge, but that's it. Besides which, he was married."
Not that he told me. I had to find out at his funeral. Dammit, Michael!
"You haven't been right since he was murdered."
Claire passed the back of her hand across her eyes, brushing away tears that had no business being there, cursing Scolari's nosy probing. She didn't need him in her private affairs, digging at raw wounds. But he was a friend, she reminded herself, trying to help. "It hit me, I guess."
But why so hard? Because Michael came to trust me, against his every instinct? Because he lived on the edge, and died alone? Because I violated my own rules by getting involved with him?
Or because I was the cause of his death?