Read Online Pretend You Don't See Her by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online Page A

earlier, Isabelle Waring had called her to offer an exclusive
on the apartment? How often had she seen Waring in the last weeks? For lunches? dinners ? end-of-the-day visits?
                 “She
called early evening ‘sober light,’” Lacey heard herself saying, searching her
mind to try to find anything she could tell them that they might not have heard
before. “She said that was what the Pilgrims called it; she said she found it a
very lonely time.”
                 “And
she had no old friends to call?”
                 “I
only know that she called me. Maybe she thought that because I was a single
woman in Manhattan, I might be able to help her get some insight into her
daughter’s life,” Lacey said. “And death,” she added as an afterthought. She
could visualize Isabelle’s sad face, the high cheekbones and wide-set eyes
hinting at the beauty she must have been as a young woman. “I think it was
almost the way one might talk to a cabdriver or a bartender. You find a
sympathetic ear, knowing that you don’t have to worry about that person
reminding you of what you said when you get over the difficult time.”
                 Do
I make sense? she wondered.
                 Sloane’s
demeanor didn’t give any indication of his reaction. Instead he said, “Let’s
talk about how Curtis Caldwell got back into the Waring apartment. There was no
sign of forced entry. Isabelle Waring clearly didn’t let him in, then go back
and prop herself up on the bed with him there. Did you give him a key?”
                 “No,
of course not,” Lacey protested. “But wait a minute! Isabelle always left a key
in a bowl on the table in the foyer. She told me she did it so that if she ran
downstairs for her mail she didn’t have to bother with her key ring. Caldwell
could have seen it there and taken it. But what about my apartment?” she
protested. “How did someone get in there? I have a doorman.”
                 “And
an active garage in the building and a delivery entrance. These so-called
secured buildings are a joke, Ms. Farrell. You’re in the realty business. You
know that.”
                 Lacey thought of Curtis Caldwell, pistol in hand, rushing to find
her, wanting to kill her. “Not a very good joke.” She realized she was
fighting tears. “Please, I want to go home,” she said.
                 For
a moment she thought that they might keep her there longer, but then Sloane got
up. “Okay. You can go now, Ms. Farrell, but I must warn you that formal charges
may be pending against you for removing and concealing evidence from a crime
scene.”
                 I
should have talked to a lawyer, Lacey thought. How could I have been such a
fool?
                 Ramon
Garcia, the building superintendent, and his wife, Sonya, were in the process
of straightening up Lacey’s apartment when she arrived. “We couldn’t let you
come back to this mess,” Sonya told her, running a dust cloth over the top of
the bureau in the bedroom. “We put things back in the drawers for you, not your
way, I’m sure, but at least things are not still on the floor.”
                 “I
don’t know how to thank you,” Lacey said. The apartment had been full of police
when she left, and she was dreading what she would find when she returned.
                 Ramon
had just completed replacing the lock. “This was taken apart by an expert,” he
said. “And he had the right tools. How come he didn’t pick up your jewelry
box?”
                 That
was the first thing the police had told her to check. Her several gold
bracelets, her diamond stud earrings, and her grandmother’s pearls were there,
undisturbed.
                 “I
guess that wasn’t what he was after,” Lacey said. To her own ears her voice
sounded low and tired.
                 Sonya
looked at her